Darcia Helle's Blog, page 21
February 11, 2022
New Nonfiction — SHIP OF BLOOD: Mutiny and Slaughter Aboard the Harry A. Berwind, and the Quest for Justice by Charles Oldham
North Carolina native and lawyer Charles Oldham brings the incredible and unpredictable tale of the Harry A. Berwind to life for the first time.
In October 1905, North Carolina and much of the nation was captivated by the mass murder found aboard the Harry A. Berwind as it sailed the coast of Cape Fear. All four of the ship’s officers had been shot and tossed overboard, one crewman lay dead on the deck, and another was chained hand and foot. The three survivors, Henry Scott, Arthur Adams, and Robert Sawyer, had different stories. Scott claimed other sailors conspired together and restrained him when he would not cooperate; Adams and Sawyer claimed Scott pulled a gun and acted alone until they tackled and restrained him.
The most inflammatory factor that captured the nation: all the murdered officers were white, and the survivors Black.
Just seven years earlier, Wilmington, North Carolina witnessed a brutal white supremacist insurrection that killed dozens of Black citizens in the streets, and by 1905, Jim Crow laws were firmly in place. Predictably, all three survivors were found guilty and sentenced to hang. Yet the legal drama went on, defying all other predictions. Lasting seven years, the case reached the Supreme Court and even presidents Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft. Adams and Sawyer were eventually found innocent and freed.
SHIP OF BLOOD
Author: Charles Oldham
Pub date: February 1, 2022
Publisher: Beach Glass Books
Genre: Nonfiction: True Crime/History
Price: $28.00
ISBN: Hard Cover: 9781736132142
Page count: 272
Amazon
Why Ship of Blood Is an Important Story For Our Time
While working on my second true crime book, Ship of Blood, I had two major themes that kept recurring for me: hope and fear. I introduced the story with fear, and tried to conclude it with hope. My best hope is that the point came across in my writing.
As for fear, it’s part of the geography. The crime is a mutiny and multiplemurder that occurred in 1905 aboard a wooden merchant vessel, the Harry A. Berwind, off the coast of Cape Fear, North Carolina. That name alone gave me a fine lead-in to describe the setting: the bleak, unpredictable, often treacherous sea, beset with storms and other dangers. Then there was the crime itself: five men brutally shot to death by at least one of the ship’s sailors, blood staining the decks. Then add in the fact that all three of the sailors charged with murder were Black, and four of the five victims were white. The specter of race makes the story all the more frightening.
Yet, the story gives us reason for hope. There’s the certain knowledge that we live in better times today, compared with the post-Reconstruction South. And even in the early 1900s, the darkest days of the white supremacist era, this confounding, unpredictable murder trial proves that hope was alive, because justice could and did prevail.
Fear is all too prevalent in our daily lives today. The Covid-19 pandemic is only the most obvious, and most justified, source of it. After the January 6, 2021 riot on Capitol Hill, fears for the survival of constitutional democracy also are very real. Our political discourse is rife with distrust, as it is guided by online algorithms that bring attention to the most extreme, provocative voices.
That is the reason why I look for hope wherever I can, and especially today, it can be found in a surprising number of places. The world is getting better in many ways, as much as our newsfeeds try to convince us otherwise. Health and longevity are on the rise. Racism clearly is not, because people by-and-large are more educated, better informed, and more acculturated than ever before. If you have a job, then you work with, or at least interact with, people of different races every day. Interracial dating and marriage have become so commonplace as to be nearly uncontroversial.
And lynchings certainly do not occur in the United States any longer. That alone is an improvement over the way things were in North Carolina, and especially Wilmington, at the turn of the Twentieth Century.
When those three Black sailors were tried for murder in Wilmington in 1905, it was not long since the infamous Insurrection of 1898 left dozens of Black people lying dead in the city streets. A deviously calculating group of white supremacists led an armed overthrow of the city’s democratically elected biracial government. The Insurrection was intended not only to install a white government, but to terrorize and kill, which it did.
The Wilmington Insurrection is a long-neglected chapter of North Carolina history, and it is only in the past couple of decades that writers have given it the attention that it deserves. It is a disheartening tale of how depravity, violence, race hatred, and most of all fear can lurk in people’s hearts. The more I have learned about it, I have made a point to look for more positive stories from that time period, flickers of hope to assuage the legacy of fear.
I was very pleased, yet completely surprised, to find such a story in the case of the Berwind sailors.
At first blush, the case has all the makings of a judicial lynching. In a city where white supremacists ruled with rifles and hangmen’s nooses, three Black men were put on trial for murdering four whites. The prosecutor himself was a noted white supremacist, and even the attorneys appointed to defend the sailors were part of the oligarchy that led the Insurrection. The jurors, all white, were drawn from the most prejudiced depths of North Carolina’s population.
And yet, the case played out in the most unexpected ways. Reporters for the local newspapers, which had supported the Insurrection not long before, actually listened to the testimony in court. They realized that while one of the sailors really was a psychopathic killer, the other two likely were not, and so they reported. The defense attorneys actually did their jobs, and eventually even some of the leaders of the Insurrection were calling for the two innocent sailors to be set free. They took the case all the way to the Supreme Court, and convinced Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft — two politicians who had never shown much sympathy towards Black people — to grant them clemency.
Why did the case turn out that way, when it could so easily have ended with a triple hanging? It might seem naïve to think at first, but perhaps because so many people ultimately were moved to do the right thing, just because it was the right thing.
That’s enough to give anyone hope.
About the Author
Charles Oldham always felt compelled to write a good story, especially about true crime or North Carolina, where his roots stretch back more than two centuries. Raised by a community college professor and a math teacher, Charles developed a special interest in history and politics early as well as a keen eye for mysteries and details waiting to be explored. This interest led him to a career as an attorney. After graduating from Davidson College and then law school at the University of Georgia, he practiced law in Sanford, North Carolina and served a term as President of the Lee County Bar Association. Charles now resides in Charlotte, where, for ten years, he operated a solo legal practice focused on criminal defense and civil litigation.
In his spare time, Charles can be found outdoors—he’s hiked mountains all over the US, from Alaska to Samoa—or spending time with family. Ship of Blood is his second book. His first, The Senator’s Son, was published in 2018. It received several awards, including a Gold Medal from the eLit Book Awards in the true crime category and the North Carolina Society of Historians Book Award, and was a finalist of the International Book Awards’ true crime category and the Book Pipeline Nonfiction Contest.
The post New Nonfiction — SHIP OF BLOOD: Mutiny and Slaughter Aboard the Harry A. Berwind, and the Quest for Justice by Charles Oldham appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
New Interactive Novel — MOONRISE by Natalie Cannon
You’ve been bitten into a brand new supernatural underground. Congratulations! It’s terrifying and heartwarming all at once. In a game made by a queer woman and for queer women and sapphic folk, this supernatural celebration of queer femininity takes you into the darkness and lets you own it. Use your compassion and sense of responsibility to make connections and fall in love. Or use your newfound fangs and claws to rip, shred, and tear through your problems. Is this the start of a satisfying, shape-shifting life full of romance, or the blood-soaked birth of a new deity of the forest? You decide!
Moonrise is a 49,000-word urban fantasy interactive novel by Natalie Cannon, where your choices control the story. It’s entirely text-based—without graphics or sound effects—and fueled by the vast, unstoppable power of your imagination.
General Store | Google Play | Amazon
ExcerptThe forests fade like the sun’s light, and leaf mold secedes to sidewalk. There’s less hiding places, more trash and gutter water than birdsong and streams. Alice seems an expert at the urban, digging through cans and scraps with relish. She teaches you.
The smells in suburbia are…disconcertingly familiar. The faint slime of the air, the exhaust fumes of cars, the nicotine from the elderly sucking on cigarettes: are they important? Is it true you once belonged here? When your spirit was born, someone screamed, and you get the distinct impression that they live here. That sound came out of a nearby mouth. It makes your hair raise, and your skin prickle.
The moon rises, and Alice leads you to parkland caged by buildings. The soft grass grows silver green. She transforms to her second self and asks, “All right, what’s your name?”
You don’t know how to respond. You can only howl, bark, whine, and growl.
Alice sighs and sucks in air through her teeth. “Don’t you remember something of being human? Your parents? Do you got a partner? Remember their face? Faces always help me. We can’t stay in the country forever. I want to graduate secondary school. It’s—it’s only right.” Alice leans down to scratch behind your ear. “You know, I think this is why humanity hasn’t figured out about werewolves. I mean, the lore is there, for all to see, right? Read it in school. But I suppose so many wolf bites turn into missing person reports. People get lost in the wolf’s mind and end up wild dogs. Like you. This would be perfect if Cassandra would let me have a pet. Would you like that? Kibble? Walks? On the street, like, ‘cause there’s lots of scents there. Enough to mask mine.”
You want to ask.
“Ah,” Alice says. She is all smiles and excitement. “I saw that! You wanted to speak! Wolves don’t speak, you know. You’ve got to be human for that. Come on. Give us a try.”
Do you want to know what she means? Humans have to think, have to be responsible, have first-year residencies to complete and student loans to pay. Wolves have to catch rabbits.
“You won’t live as long,” Alice says. “Wolves don’t live too long in the wild. Unless you get stuck in a zoo. I think that one wolf in the zoo pack is a wer. Explains the good behavior.”
Alice sits down and gathers your face to her, looks deep in your eyes. “There’s something…” she mutters. “Something I can say.”
You try to back up and pull away, don’t want to meet Alice’s gaze, but her hands hold your hair tight. It makes you uncomfortable, reminds you too much of challenge, of humans expecting things of you that you’re too unraveled to do.
Alice’s dark brown eyes bore into you. “You…” she begins. “You left someone behind. Someone you promised. Who are…they?”
Your ears perk. They—the screams—they!
Alice says, “Transform. I need you to transform.” She growls, finally frustrated. “You’re not meant to stay like this!” she shouts. “You want to help people instead of destroy them and I need help!”
You tear yourself away in shock. That…that was your promise. You promised not to destroy, like your family did, but to…heal.
Skin traps fur; teeth dull; ears migrate to the sides of your head. Fingers stretch from your wrists; feet and knees bend in their proper places. Your voice comes last: “Rosario.”
About the Author
Natalie Cannon is a historical fiction and urban fantasy writer. A graduate of Scripps College and Fairleigh Dickinson University’s MFA program, Natalie lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her wife and books. Her short fiction has appeared in Ink & Locket’s Press’ Warrior, Serving House Books’ Reaching Beyond the Saguaros, and JayHenge Publishing’s Whigmaleeries & Wives’ Tales. She tries to convince people she’s not a bunch of cuttlefish stacked atop one another. Moonrise is her debut game.
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Twitter: @NMCannon
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The post New Interactive Novel — MOONRISE by Natalie Cannon appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
February 10, 2022
New Thriller to Give You Chills — FOOL HER ONCE by Joanna Elm
Some killers are born. Others are made.
As a rookie tabloid reporter, Jenna Sinclair made a tragic mistake when she outed Denny Dennison, the illegitimate son of an executed serial killer. So she hid behind her marriage and motherhood. Now, decades later, betrayed by her husband and resented by her teenage daughter, Jenna decides to resurrect her career—and returns to the city she loves.
When her former lover is brutally assaulted outside Jenna’s NYC apartment building, Jenna suspects that Denny has inherited his father’s psychopath gene and is out for revenge. She knows she must track him down before he can harm his next target, her daughter.
Meanwhile, her estranged husband, Zack, fears that her investigative reporting skills will unearth his own devastating secret he’d kept buried in the past.
From New York City to the remote North Fork of Long Island and the murky waters surrounding it, Jenna rushes to uncover the terrible truth about a psychopath and realizes her own investigation may save or destroy her family.
Book Details:Read an excerpt:Chapter FourWeek One: Friday MorningGenre: Thriller (Domestic)
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: March 1st 2022
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 0744304938 (ISBN13: 9780744304930)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookShop.org | CamCat Books
The buzzing of the intercom startled Jenna as she waited for the Bialetti to stop gurgling. Her head felt heavy, but her Fitbit told her she’d gotten almost six hours’ sleep since Ryan had left the apartment. She moved the moka pot off the flames and walked into the hallway to the intercom.
It was Oscar, the day doorman. “Miss Sinclair, police here to see you. Coming up now.”
She sat down abruptly on the narrow hallway bench. Dollie. Something had happened to Dollie. She felt ice cold as she opened the door to wait for the elevator to discharge the cops, who turned out to be plainclothes detectives. She tried to recall what someone—probably Lola, her best friend who knew all about law enforcement—had once told her about cops always going in threes, not twos, to inform next of kin when there was a fatality. Was that still true? Maybe they’d downsized because of budget cuts. Or maybe the “three” rule did not apply in New York City.
Her heart was pounding, thudding against her chest, the blood roaring in her ears, as she beckoned them into the apartment. She barely heard as the taller, younger one said: “Miss Sinclair, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we’re wondering if you could answer some questions about yesterday evening? We’re looking into an incident involving Mr. Ryan McAllister.”
It took her more than a moment to refocus, and for the pounding of her heart to slow a little. They weren’t here about Dollie.
“Incident?” She repeated the word, frowning.
They looked at each other. The taller, younger one was black with a shaved head and soft brown eyes. He introduced himself as Detective Jim Martins. His partner was older and shorter, with thinning hair. His face was slicked with perspiration, as if he’d walked up the three flights to her apartment rather than taking the elevator. Jenna immediately forgot his name.
Martins took a notebook out of his hip pocket but didn’t look at it when he replied: “Mr. McAllister was found in the street, early this morning.”
“What do you mean ‘found’?” Her voice rose shrilly. “Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Where was he found?” Jenna’s heart was pounding again even as the memory from just a few hours ago flashed through her mind.
They had strolled back from Neary’s; had stopped on the corner of her street while Ryan fished around for a loose bill to hand over to the homeless guy who hung out there.
She’d linked her arm through his as they walked into her building and to the elevator. They’d barely crossed the threshold into her apartment when Ryan had nudged her back against the door and brought his mouth to her lips, working down to the hollow of her throat, his fingers tugging at the straps of her cami. All thoughts of waiting, doing the right thing had evaporated in a millisecond. Instead, she had responded, clinging to him, thrilling to the thought that he wanted her.
They had moved as one into the living room, onto the couch, then down onto the hand-knotted wool Jaipur rug, Ryan pushing down her jeans and panties and flinging them over the couch.
“No. Wait.” Jenna had sat up abruptly. “I can’t.”
—
The detective’s reply jolted her back into the conversation. “Just a couple of hundred yards down the street from this building. You had dinner with him last night.”
Jenna focused on Martins. He didn’t sound as if he was asking. “Did Ryan tell you that?” She paused and repeated her first question. “What do you mean ‘found’?” Jenna wished she could take a long gulp of espresso to get her brain working again.
“Let us ask the questions, Miss Sinclair, okay? We’re just trying to figure out what happened.”
Jenna didn’t like the abrupt change in tone, and suddenly the detective’s eyes didn’t look so soft either. Did he think she’d done something wrong? She realized she sounded a little defensive. That was stupid.
There was nothing to hide.
“Yes, we had dinner,” she said.
The other detective nodded, and she followed his gaze across the floor into the living area to where her white jeans lay crumpled under the chair. “We’re just trying to establish a timeline,” he said. “We’d appreciate it if you could help us out. Give us some idea of what time he left here?”
“I don’t remember when he left.”
“He couldn’t help us with the timing either.”
Not hard to believe. The events of the night were wrapped in a mist floating around her head, but she remembered Ryan guiding her to the bed, sliding in beside her and holding her. “We don’t have to rush,” he’d said. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. It’s okay. We have all the time in the world.”
“We don’t know how long he was lying in the street,” Martins mentioned casually. “He couldn’t tell the paramedics what happened.”
“Oh my God.” The words came out as a whisper. The image of Ryan swaying drunkenly flashed before her eyes. “What happened? Did he fall? Did he pass out?”
“We don’t know exactly.”
“Is he injured?”
“We don’t know the full extent of his injuries. They’re checking him out now. He’s at Lenox Hill Hospital.”
Jenna had the feeling they weren’t telling her everything. Why would detectives be investigating someone falling down drunk in the street?
Had he been hit by a car?
“Miss Sinclair? Can you give us an approximate time when you last saw him?”
She nodded quickly. “Sure, I’ll try.” She knew they could get a time from Nando, the night doorman, and she didn’t want to appear uncooperative. “We had dinner at Neary’s, round the corner,” she said. “We came back here for a nightcap. We were discussing some writing projects I’m working on. I just finished one for his magazine.”
“His magazine?”
Jenna nodded. “He’s the publisher of CityMagazine. He bought the exposé I just wrote on restaurants in the Hamptons. We planned on working on some others together . . . I mean there were a couple of projects we discussed. We were talking, we lost track of time.” She knew she was babbling. God only knew why she felt so guilty. She and Ryan had done nothing wrong. “It was probably around three.” She paused. “I’m sorry. Yes, around three, maybe three thirty. That’s when I saw him out.”
“Did you part on friendly terms?”
Jenna stared at Martins. Had they already spoken to Nando? Had he told them he’d seen Jenna following Ryan down the street?
Just before leaving, Ryan had told her Teddi was returning, flying into La Guardia, and he had to go home, shower and change before picking her up. Jenna had been furious as she listened to the elevator carry Ryan down to the lobby.
She’d grabbed a T-shirt and sweatpants and headed for the stairs, arriving in the lobby in time to see Ryan walking out of the building, a little unsteady on his feet. She’d let him get to the corner before calling after him to stop.
“Miss Sinclair, did you have a fight?” Martins persisted.
“God, no!” Jenna’s reply burst from her lips. No, Nando could not have seen her push Ryan. She was surely already out of the doorman’s line of vision when she’d caught up with him.
“Okay.” The detective gave her a curt nod and handed her his business card. “If you remember anything else, please call me.” His partner opened the front door out into the hallway.
“You said he’s at Lenox Hill?“
Martins looked over her shoulder and appeared to be staring at something in her living room. She hoped it was not at her discarded white jeans. “Yes. Lenox Hill.” He nodded. “His wife is probably with him by now.” He paused in the open doorway. “They have Mr. McAllister in the ICU,” he added as he followed his partner to the front door.
The intensive care unit? It had to be serious.
“Did you say ICU?” She aimed the question at their backs, but the door had already closed.
Jenna returned to the kitchen. She was so parched it was making her dizzy. She stood at the faucet, cold water running into the sink as she cupped her hands and swigged from them, not caring that half of it was landing on the kitchen floor.
She poured herself a double espresso, carried the mug into the living room and sank into an armchair, looking around for her cell phone. Her eyes flickered round the room, noticing the mess the way the detectives would have seen it from the hallway. Through the door into the bedroom, she saw the empty glasses, the empty bottle of Jameson’s on the nightstand. Blood rose to her face, she felt hot and cold and then hot again as she caught sight of her scrunched-up, bright white panties hanging off the middle shelf of her bookcase, where Ryan had tossed them.
She took a couple of deep breaths. The cops probably thought they had the whole picture: cheating husband, wife returning from a trip, girlfriend gets jealous, doesn’t want to let him go. They’d questioned her as if they thought she was the one who’d hurt him badly enough to put him into intensive care in the hospital.
She closed her eyes and tried to recall exactly what had happened when she’d finally caught up with Ryan.
***
Excerpt from Fool Her Once by Joanna Elm. Copyright 2021 by Joanna Elm. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.
Interview with Joanna ElmWhat was the inspiration behind this story?
My own experiences as an investigative reporter in London, England. Our small investigative bureau exposed some major scandals involving prominent people and organizations. For example, one of the exposés involved the leader of the British Liberal Party who was eventually charged with conspiring to murder his homosexual lover as a result of our investigation. There were three others who were charged in the conspiracy. (BTW: This exposé was eventually turned into a TV movie, A Very English Scandal on Amazon Prime.) So, as a reporter you know that exposés are going to ruin some people’s lives—and so you sometimes wonder how far those people would go to ruin yours. That’s one of the ideas that drives Fool Her Once.
Which is your favorite minor character and why?
Lola Quintana, the best friend of Jenna Sinclair, the investigative reporter who is the main character and who is determined to track down the man she thinks is still out for revenge because she outed him as a serial killer’s son.
Lola is a Criminal Court judge in Lower Manhattan. She is as smart as Jenna, and the two have been besties since college. Lola used to be a defense attorney and while she gives the appearance of being a no-nonsense judge, she is a compassionate friend. She is always going to be there for Jenna as she proves during the course of the story. If Fool Her Once was the sort of book that became a TV series, then Lola (like attorney Saul in Breaking Bad) would become the main character of a spin-off series.
How long did it take you to write the book?
Six years, give or take a year. I wrote my first two novels (published by Tor/Forge in 1996 and 1997) much faster than this one. But back then, I was a stay-at-home mom and I knew I only had a limited number of hours in the morning to write while my son was in preschool. This time, I started writing book three after retiring as a lawyer/judicial clerk so I felt I had all day to write—which often meant I kept putting off writing until it was too late in the evening. Also, I really wanted to get this thriller as near to perfect as I could, so I attended workshops, seminars, writer bootcamps, book festivals, and writers’ group events—and spent time learning how to use social media. This time I didn’t feel any pressure to get published so I really enjoyed all those “writer” activities, and didn’t feel I was procrastinating or wasting my time.
How much research goes into your writing life?
A lot. For Fool Her Once, I researched everything. For example, residential blocks in Midtown Manhattan and which supermarkets and stores would be open on these blocks at a certain time of evening; restaurants in NYC and on the North Fork of Long Island, NY and their menus; scientific/medical facts like how long before DNA degrades in the water; when doctors put someone into an induced coma; what kind of debilitating injuries would a victim sustain from being kicked in the head; and facts like, how long does a boat ride take across the Peconic Bay on the East End of Long Island; which law enforcement agency investigates homicides on the North Fork of Long Island.
The only facts I didn’t research were the job of a tabloid reporter in New York City (I was one for years!), and how long it takes to get from New York City to the North Fork on the Long Island Expressway. LOL! (I know that from bitter experience!!!)
Describe your writing environment.
I’m very, very lucky because I have two offices which provide great environments in which to write. Both are very close to water. One is in a rustic setting where I can sit under the shade of trees by a pool. The other is on the Intracoastal Waterway which is always bustling with boat activity. Somehow, however, I never use my actual offices or desks, and I usually end up spreading out my files and notes across the couches and coffee tables in our TV and family rooms.
I am very messy, but when it comes to putting my fingers on a specific file, I always know where it is. I also don’t mind working with background noise—when the TV is on, or if people around me are talking. That comes from years spent in noisy newsrooms. BUT I cannot multitask. When I’m writing, I focus 100% on the scene or chapter I’m working on.
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
A world—oh, okay let’s focus on this country . . . So, living in a United States of America free of illness and poverty and racial injustice. Maybe it sounds corny, but there’s no reason in a country like the U.S.A.—where so many billionaires live—why children should be going to bed hungry; why families cannot afford basic healthcare; why families are being evicted onto streets; or why the poorest minorities are targeted for minor infractions like a broken taillight on a car and then are hounded with fines and penalties and court appearances which lead to losing jobs until eventually they land in jail which just propagates the cycle of poverty and despair. Well, you did ask about “perfect” happiness!
Are you spontaneous or are you a planner?
Just as I am a plotter in my fiction writing (I plot out every chapter meticulously down to the cliffhanger line at the end) I also carefully plan my work and every “relaxing” event or activity for me and my husband. I like to know at the beginning of each week what needs to be accomplished in writing or marketing my book; I need to organize all my tennis games at the beginning of the week; I have to know where we are going for lunch if we are going out, or what exactly I’ll be cooking if we’re staying home.
I make “to-do” lists for all the tasks around the house, and for the subjects I’ll be writing about on my blog. I also allocate time for reading and streaming TV shows. And, of course, that doesn’t stop me from losing myself in a book or TV show—and then transferring all the to-do tasks to the following week LOL!
Do you prefer cats or dogs?
About the AuthorI used to think of myself as a “dog” person. When I lived in England, I owned a couple of Afghan hounds. They were glorious, beautiful dogs. It made my heart soar just to see them run in a field. Just recently, however, I got to know the two cats owned by my son and his girlfriend when they moved in with us two summers ago during the pandemic. I fell in love with Max and Leo, and I was distraught when Max had to be put to sleep last year. Looking at their photos— even though Max is gone—is a joy that I never thought I’d feel about cats.
Joanna Elm is an author, journalist, blogger and an attorney. Before publication of her first two suspense novels (Scandal, Tor/Forge 1996); (Delusion, Tor/Forge/1997), she was an investigative journalist on the London Evening News on Fleet Street in the U.K. She also wrote for British magazines like Woman’s Own.
Then, she moved to New York where she worked as a writer/producer for television news and tabloid TV programs like A Current Affair. She was also the researcher/writer for WNEW-TV’s Emmy-award winning documentary Irish Eyes. In 1980, she joined the Star as a reporter, eventually becoming the magazine’s news editor and managing editor before moving to Philadelphia as editor of the news/features section of TV Guide.
After completing her first two novels while living in South Florida, (Nelson DeMille described Scandal as “fresh, original and unpredictable”) Joanna returned to New York, enrolled in law school, graduated summa cum laude, passed the NY Bar exam and worked as principal law clerk for an appellate division justice in the prestigious First Department. She has been married to husband Joe for 35 years, and has one son.
www.JoannaElm.com
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February 9, 2022
New Release Spotlight — BLOOD BOUND: Youkai Bloodlines by Courtney Maguire
Two hundred years can strain even the seemingly eternal love of the youkai.
When Hideyoshi’s coldness drives them apart, Hiro finds comfort in his friendship with Takanori, a vociferous human man he met at a ramen shop and can’t seem to keep away from.. Everything Hiro had to fight for from Hideyoshi, Takanori gives freely, making it all too easy to turn away from his responsibilities–and Hideyoshi–in favor of something sweeter.
But while Hiro is off playing human, danger is brewing among the Youkai. Hideyoshi, still reeling from his breakup with Hiro, struggles to uphold the promise they made to the Hunter leader, Kyo, but the Youkai’s loyalty has been challenged by Hiro’s abrupt disappearance. With Hunters literally banging at the door, Hide must find a way to bring Hiro home or risk igniting the war they’ve spent the last two hundred years trying to prevent.
BLOOD BOUND
Author: Courtney Maguire
Series Title: Youkai Bloodlines
Publishing Company: City Owl Press
Release Date: Tuesday, February 1 2022
ISBN: 978-1-64898-133-3
Cover Artist: Miblart
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QueeRomance Ink
Spring 2004
You can live a hundred lifetimes and the world will still surprise you, hit you like a high-speed train and drag you along the rails before dumping you off a thousand miles from where you started. Sometimes, the ride isn’t as violent as all that. Sometimes, it feels like a vacation, an escape, like falling in love. But, the end of the line is always the same—a broken, bloody mess far from home.
Sitting on a hard cobblestone path in my two-day-old funeral suit, I stared at a pillar of granite with his name on it, a fifth of Jack in my gut and my soul shattered into a million pieces. Aikawa Takanori—the name of the train that hit me.
A broad shadow fell over me and I closed my eyes against it. I knew who it was, knew the sound of his steps, the way the air trembled in his presence. Sakurai Hideyoshi. He sat down beside me on the stone path without a word, so close our shoulders touched. Over two hundred years had passed since the day we met, and his nearness still made my skin prickle. His fingers brushed against mine as he slipped the nearly empty bottle of whiskey out of my hands and raised it to his own lips.
“You knew it would end this way,” he said, his voice low and cold. Not a judgement or an accusation, just a statement of fact.
“If you’re here to lecture me, you can save it,” I said, snatching the bottle back out of his hand.
There was something shocking about seeing him again, sitting there like an inkblot on my vision. The same solid frame, the same dark features, sharp as cut granite and just as immovable. How much time had I spent pounding myself against that hardness, like the ocean against a rocky cliff, trying to break it away? Now I observed him as if from a distance. Something bitter pushed up against my grief, but there was no room for it, so it settled back into my gut. He had been my home before Takanori, but now he was almost unrecognizable. He hadn’t changed, of course. I was the one who was different.
“How long since you’ve drank something besides whiskey?”
“Not since—” I broke off, my eyes darting to the gravestone. My hands trembled as I took a long pull off the whiskey bottle. It could have been hours or years, every second since that day stretched into an eternity.
“Come with me,” he said, pulling himself gracefully to his feet. I didn’t move. “Hiro.”
“I can’t,” I choked. I struggled to breathe around the ball of grief wedged in my throat. He was here for a reason. He wanted something and I couldn’t give it to him. “I’m not…ready…”
“He’s dead. It doesn’t matter if you’re ready,” he barked. The words were sharp, the edge of a blade iced over, and they cut deep.
He grabbed the collar of my jacket and yanked me to my feet. Without even waiting for me to catch my balance, he turned and stomped off down the path. It had been this way since the day we met, Hideyoshi plodding ahead without looking back, so confident I would follow. I found it comforting somehow, like nothing had ever broken between us. We would always be Hideyoshi and Hiro. The shape of his back would never change. He would never get sick and die.
I ran my hand over Taka’s name on the granite and felt my heart tugged in two different directions. Another train had come, this one promising to take me back to somewhere familiar, but part of me was afraid. What if I got there and found it wasn’t my home at all anymore, but just another strange place that would leave me even more broken?
But, Hideyoshi was right. Taka was dead, the home I could have had here reduced to ashes. I had nowhere else to go.
My chest constricted and I cursed under my breath as I ran to catch up to Hideyoshi, falling in step just a few paces behind. The sun was setting as we exited the cemetery and darkness fell quickly over the narrow streets of Tokyo. Neon signs lit up one by one with an electric pop as we passed, the early evening crowds already taking their places in the izakayas that lined the street and disappearing into basement bars. Hideyoshi led me all the way to Ikebukuro and the busy streets surrounding Sunshine City. Wires hung like spider webs overhead, feeding power to the garish artificial light. Loud music and cigarette smoke filled the streets and the smell of sweaty bodies started a scratching under my skin that had me gritting my teeth.
He stopped in the most crowded part of the busy street and looked over his shoulder at me for the first time. My gut clenched. I knew what he wanted. I scowled and shook my head, but he simply pinned me with those needle-sharp eyes that didn’t take no for an answer until I relented.
His silent command: Sing.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The scratching under my skin intensified and the sounds of the city died away as something else rose to the surface, something dark and dangerous. When my eyes opened again, the electric lights paled behind the glare of human life, every movement leaving a streaky after image in blue and white. My pulse sped and my mouth watered. I pulled in a deep breath and my voice rose from the depths with an old song, something traditional that took me back to a different Tokyo, and despite its terrible purpose, it warmed me. My heart swam in it, cleansed its wounds in it.
About the Author
Courtney Maguire is a University of Texas graduate from Corpus Christi, Texas. Drawn to Austin by a voracious appetite for music, she spent most of her young adult life in dark, divey venues nursing a love for the sublimely weird. A self-proclaimed fangirl with a press pass, she combined her love of music and writing as the primary contributor for Japanese music and culture blog, Project: Lixx, interviewing Japanese rock and roll icons and providing live event coverage for appearances across the country.
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mailto:courtneymaguirewrites@gmail.com
The post New Release Spotlight — BLOOD BOUND: Youkai Bloodlines by Courtney Maguire appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
February 8, 2022
Book Review — MINDWANDERING: How Your Constant Mental Drift Can Improve and Boost Your Creativity by Moshe Bar
Our brains are noisy; certain regions are always grinding away at involuntary activities like daydreaming, worrying about the future, and self-chatter, taking up to forty-seven percent of our waking time. This is mindwandering—and while it can tug your attention away from the present and contribute to anxiety and depression, cognitive neuroscientist Moshe Bar is here to tell you about the method behind this apparent madness.
Mindwandering is the first popular book to explore this multi-faceted phenomenon of your wandering mind and introduces you to the new, exciting research behind it. Bar combines his decades of research to explain the benefits and the possible cost of mindwandering within the broader context of psychology, neuroscience, psychiatry and philosophy, providing you with practical knowledge that can help you:
Published: February 8, 2022
My ThoughtsMindwandering is an interesting look at the neuroscience and psychology behind our brain’s insistence on constantly wandering away, seemingly of its own accord.
Stylistically, the writing is more pop culture than in-depth exploration, with a good mix of personal anecdotes and neuroscience research. It’s an easy read, perfect for people who want the basics.
I was disappointed in Bar’s brief paragraph on the issue of the mind and pain perception. Bar acknowledges that being fully immersed in a single activity could, theoretically, help us cope with pain. He says that, while this “could be true,” he’s not aware of scientific findings and personally believes that pain always takes priority. I’m surprised that a neuroscientist would be so uninformed on this topic in regards to chronic pain conditions. Anyone like myself who lives with autoimmune disease and/or chronic illness (for me: late-stage Lyme disease, fibromyalgia, neuropathy, and the list goes on) knows that losing ourselves in an activity is often the only time we forget the pain.
Aside from this, I found Mindwandering an entertaining reminder to live in the moment, and not worry so much about where my mind takes me.
*I received an ARC from Hachette Go.*
The post Book Review — MINDWANDERING: How Your Constant Mental Drift Can Improve and Boost Your Creativity by Moshe Bar appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
New Release Spotlight — HIDDEN AGENDAS: A Dr. Kyle Chandler Thriller by D. Marshall Craig, M.D.
Prior to departing for a medical symposium in London, trauma surgeon Dr. Kyle Chandler is contacted by Ian Griffin, who runs a private investigation firm. Because of Dr. Chandler’s involvement in a previous antiques investigation case, Ian asks him to look into a new case while in London. In addition, Dr. Chandler is asked a favor by a friend to inquire about bulk wine shipments from Europe to the United States while he’s in London. The busy surgeon reluctantly agrees to both requests.
During his time in England, Dr. Chandler stumbles on a mysterious system of product smuggling to the United States. As Dr .Chandler continues his investigation in New York, then back in Kansas City, he realizes that he faces a powerful, complex network involving organized crime.
Meanwhile, Dr. Chandler tries to determine where he stands with his girlfriend, Caroline Martinelli, an attractive and successful antiques dealer whose intelligence and quick wit fuel his interest in her. As he pursues this web of illegal product distribution, escalating threats to him (and the beautiful Caroline) reveal the truth – and the truth nearly costs him his life.
In a climactic ending, Kyle’s inquiry leads him to a showdown with the organized crime don. Using his persistence to expose the smuggling scheme while protecting himself and his girlfriend, will the proverbial David overcome Goliath in this thriller?
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Praise for D. Marshall Craig:
“With surgical precision, Craig develops a mystery that will engulf not only Chandler, but his profession, the conglomerate medical force he works for, the black market world of high-end antiques and the ultimate secret that all of this is leading to.” — The Watauga Democrat
“An enjoyable read with well-developed characters and a good pace. I look forward to further adventures of Dr. Kyle Chandler.” — Full Circle Books
“A compelling high drama novel. A treat to the avid reader of action, humor, crime and deceit.” — OKCFriday
1
Kansas City, Missouri
Hurry up and wait—the ever present, yet often the raw reality of my job.
Being a trauma surgeon by profession, I guess you could say I chose this life as well as the headaches and back pain that went with it. Over the years, I somehow got used to being pulled in all directions at once and tried to deal as calmly as I could with the situation at hand. But then again, easier said than done.
It was a routine Tuesday evening in early October in the midwestern utopia of Kansas City, my adopted hometown. As expected of any larger US city, Kansas City had its own local chapters of the Nighttime Knife & Gun Club as well as the Drunk Drivers’ Bumper Car Club. They practiced their expertise on a regular basis.
Kansas City possessed a unique dichotomy. The city, divided between Missouri’s liberal liquor laws, and Kansas’s liquor laws likely handed down from the Puritans, with the trauma center right down the middle on Stateline Boulevard.
I moved here after finishing my surgical training in Boston in the fall of 1988. Seven years zoomed by with me spending late hours usually two nights a week at St. Jude Hospital putting automobile accident and gunshot wound victims back together. Over time, I thought I had seen just about everything crazy people try.
I mean, most people think that folks are usually home by 11:00 p.m., maybe even midnight during the week. After all, they need to get up the next morning and go to work. Right?
Wrong.
Seems that one of the veteran members of the Knife & Gun Club decided to exercise his joint membership rights with the Drunk Drivers’ Bumper Car Club that very Tuesday evening. According to the triage nurse who called me sometime after 10:15 p.m., a particular gentleman, after multiple cocktails at a local lounge, got into a heated argument with another patron at the bar. That led to each man pulling a 22-caliber handgun and the “Shootout at the OK Corral” ensued.
The prospective duel club member then fled the scene on foot and by chance encountered a fire truck backing into its station after a routine outing for a false alarm. I must admit that this guy was pretty resourceful. He brandished his handgun at the fire truck driver, got all the firemen to back away, and then took off wounded, while driving an almost forty-foot-long ladder fire truck at a high rate of speed. He made it ten blocks before crashing into the corner of a brick warehouse. Duel club membership accomplished.
After his arrival at our trauma institution, proper evaluation was completed in Trauma Room #1. What we had was a twenty-eight-year-old male, BP of 90/50, pulse 132 with obvious multiple gunshot wounds of the abdomen, closed spiral fracture of the right humerus, multiple abrasions and superficial lacerations of the face and chest, and possible laceration of the left lobe of the liver by CT Scan. Just another Tuesday night.
“Dr. Kyle Chandler,” one of the trauma nurses I worked with regularly, Bill, said as he arrived in the trauma room at shift change. “Imagine that, you here on what is usually a slow Tuesday night.”
“Just the luck of the draw,” I said cautiously.
“Anything special you need?” he asked.
“The work up is about done here,” I said. “Let’s make sure the CT scan hard copies get to the OR. Call the blood bank and have them get those two units here ASAP. And tell ’em to make sure four more units of packed cells are typed and crossed so they’re available for later.”
“Roger that El Grande Jefe,” he said quickly.
After stabilizing the patient with the two initial units of packed red blood cells, this was followed by a lengthy conversation with two anxious members of the KC Police Department to convince them that this nice gentleman was not going anywhere on his own, not with the extent of his injuries. All the necessary arrangements were then made with the OR to proceed to surgery for exploration of this gentleman’s abdomen. Finally, I slogged up to the surgeon’s lounge to get changed into surgical scrubs.
While I was waiting to get this dog-and-pony-show on the road at this late hour, my cell phone buzzed on my hip. Looking down at the caller’s number brought a smile to my face.
“Kyle, my boy, how’s life treating you?” the voice on the line blurted out his question in a thick Scottish accent.
I immediately recognized the voice as Ian Griffin, the head of a private investigation firm in Kansas City. I had worked with him on a case for the first time earlier in the year. He was a friend of Sydney Alfred, my deceased wife’s uncle who took me under his wing when I moved to Kansas City seven years ago.
It was Sydney who forced me to do something other than work all the time by getting me interested in, of all things, French period antiques. I gained knowledge over time by going to auctions, occasionally buying a few pieces. I would have them touched up by my special refinishing guy Dan, and then auction them off again for a small, but still worthwhile profit. It was Ian who got me involved in a stolen antiques for an illegal stock acquisition case with my employer Columbus HealthCare System last April. This event led me to start a new on-the-side venture of private investigation. Well, it turned out to be more than that, but whatever.
“I’m hanging in there Ian. How about you?”
“So, I guess I haven’t convinced you to give up the all-night repair shop putting car crash victims back together then, have I?”
“No Ian, not yet. What can I do for you at this lovely time of the evening?” I said sarcastically. Considering the hour, it seemed to me that Ian probably never slept.
“I’ve got a situation I want to discuss with you. This morning I received a call from a gentleman in London. It seems this gentleman, a Mr. Clanton Rogers, is some type of wealthy investor and prides himself in discovering rare finds of antique furniture. .He was referred to me by Nigel Whittenberg, the antiques dealer in the West End of London who had originally called me in April about the stolen antiques case that you broke open. You know—the one that led to the downfall of your beloved Columbus Healthcare System management team.”
My caution antennae started to rise.
“Yes, Ian, I haven’t forgotten the case. The one where I almost got permanently sidelined after being beaten to a pulp if not for a heroic ex-Marine who saved my skin from those CHS goons,” I said, staring at the ceiling and shaking my head. As if I could forget that fiasco.
“Anyway,” he said, avoiding the obvious. “This Mr. Rogers told me that some notable French antique furniture from a private estate in New York was set to be sold by Sotheby’s at auction in London. All the pieces from this particular lot were thought to be French originals from the late 1700s. Sotheby’s completed the two standard independent appraiser evaluations prior to the auction to certify their authenticity. Mr. Rogers insisted on his own third-party appraiser to evaluate a certain piece of interest to him. His appraiser found the piece to be a reproduction just before it was set to go up for auction. He said his appraiser mentioned it was an incredible copy, too. Sotheby’s was terribly embarrassed to say the least. They have their legal department looking into it, but the authenticity of the whole lot has now come into question prior to the scheduled sale.”
“Yeah… So, what does that have to do with you calling me?”
“Mr. Rogers wants my firm to look into the matter. He’s an American chap and is close friends with the family in New York who put up those pieces for auction in London. Sotheby’s won’t give him any information about their investigation, but it’s looking like they’ll be shifting the blame of furniture authenticity to the family in New York who put it up for auction.”
“Is that possible?”.
“Kyle, you know more about antiques than I do. As you know, in the world of fine art and antiques, anything is possible.”
“So, what are you trying to find out here?”.
“The family in New York has quietly told Mr. Rogers that they would put out a reward of quite a substantial sum to finding out if the original antiques had been switched for some ultra-premium quality reproductions somewhere in transit from New York to London.”
“And you are calling me because…?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Sydney called me this week and said that you were going to a trauma surgery symposium in London next week as part of your work. Something utterly perplexing; something about abdominal tapping?” He sounded unsure of himself.
“My dubious employer CHS is sending me to a conference over there as a reward for exposing their crooked CEO a few months back. It’s a symposium about studying better ways to diagnose abdominal and chest trauma, but that’s neither here nor there,” I said. “What does my trip to London have to do with anything with this?”
“Well, I believe my Scottish frugality has gotten the best of me in this case. While you are in London, could you by chance meet with this gentleman briefly to see what the particulars of the case are? And then could you meet with someone from the Port of London Authority about the possible switching of the original pieces for some highly crafted reproductions?” His tentative words hung in the air.
“Whoa there, partner.” I jerked to my feet. “I just got through this last episode of investigation drama where I got the bejesus beat out of me when I tried to find out the truth about missing stock certificates. And now you want me to jump right back into the ring and go straight to another twelve-round bout?” I knew my voice grew louder with each word, but…
“I understand you might be a tad gun shy after some of the rough stuff on the previous case. But not only did everything turn out fine, you’ll have to admit that you were very good at it. I might go as far to say that you actually enjoyed it.”
I refused to respond. Especially since he was for the most part right on the mark.
For some reason, I didn’t want to admit that the private investigation work I did for Ian last April was really stimulating to me. I tried to convince myself that I already did my own type of investigation work on finding out what needed to be fixed on the trauma victims I encountered every day at my occupation. But the work that I did for Ian was completely different. It grabbed my attention, and I had been thinking about it off and on since April.
Still, I was hesitant to say yes to Ian because I did get smacked around by some goons on the last case. That situation could have turned out bad for me. It left me with some lower back pain that showed up with long surgical cases in the OR. Or at least I attributed that to the source of the pain.
“It’ll be just a couple of short meetings. Just a routine fact-finding mission. Send me a copy of your schedule in London, and I’ll work around it to make all the necessary arrangements.”
“And no gorillas at my front door trying to turn me into Silly Putty like last time?”
“No reason to worry at all.”
I couldn’t come up with a reason to say no. And there was that deep-seeded notion of curiosity that would not go away.
“Okay, you win. I’ll have my secretary fax you a copy of where I’m staying and the schedule of the symposium. See if they are available to meet in the late afternoons when I can break away.”
“Splendid. I’ll fax you the info about both meetings. Report back to me as soon as you have a chance when you get home. Same billing as before, and you’ll get a cut from the reward the family is offering if you find out anything. Gotta run. Have a good trip.”.
As I punched off my cell phone, I tried to reason with myself. It’ll be just a couple of innocent meetings. What could be dangerous about that? Yeah, but then again, I didn’t know any gypsies who could look into their crystal ball to tell me the truth of what was really going to happen.
After the phone call, the surgery front desk called me over the intercom to head on to OR #7. After insuring everything was in place to get started and that the patient was stable, I spent the next three and one-half hours trying to put Humpty Dumpty’s abdomen back together again. Even though Hollywood likes to portray that every trauma case is a matter of immediate life and death, that’s not usually the case. Just because the patient is not on the edge of life or death, that doesn’t make fixing everything in surgery any easier. The truth is that it’s a lot of plain, hard work.
No pain, no gain.
After finally finishing the surgery, I headed to the ER waiting area to speak with this gentleman’s family about what I found. Not a soul in sight. That definitely lodged a disappointing rating on my “appreciate the doctor” scale. Not to mention the aching back I felt right about now. With the long evening coming to a close, I changed into my streetclothes and trudged home to catch some much-needed shuteye. Maybe better luck next time in the gratitude department.
#
I awoke Wednesday morning somewhat disoriented. No surprise there. Six hours sleep after getting home at 4:00 a.m. puts the meter for mental sharpness at about a two on a scale of ten. Wednesday was the day that I usually made rounds at the hospital, and then if it was the first or third Wednesday of the month, I met my deceased wife’s uncle Sydney Alfred at his sacred golf club. He had kind of taken a liking to me since I moved here seven years ago. Probably because he had been so fond of his niece Molly. Investments and golf were his passions, and I really learned to cherish our Wednesday get-togethers. We would play golf in the afternoon and then have an early dinner in the board members’ private dining room. Today was a third Wednesday of the month, so I decided to touch base with Sydney and tell him that golf and dinner wasn’t likely after getting pounded on call last night.
I dialed Sydney’s office phone number, getting his ever-efficient secretary on the line on the second ring.
“Good morning, Alfred Investments. How may I help you?’
“Hi, Beverly. This is Kyle Chandler. May I speak with Sydney, please?”
“Oh, hello, Dr. Chandler, so good to hear from you again,” she said in a much slower and now more personally attentive tone.
Beverly was one of Sydney’s office assistants. Tall, attractive, divorced, late-thirties. Lots of cleavage. And big-time aggressive.
When I first started playing golf with Sydney seven years ago, she was somewhat standoffish when I called. But when she found out I was single and worked as a physician as my day job, it was like someone blew the horn for the foxhunt. And for her, the chase was on.
From then on, she went out of her way to be nice to me and did her best to suggest that we should get together sometime. Sometime meant just us two alone. Thing about it, she just wasn’t my type. I always managed to be polite to her, all the while keeping the foxhound at bay.
“How have you been Beverly?”
“Busy. And yourself?”
“I’ve been busy also,” I said, not knowing what else to say without adding fuel to the fire.
“Well, you know what they say Dr. Chandler,” she said as she kept pulling the conversation to her advantage. “All work and no play will make you a dull boy. You wouldn’t like that, would you Dr. Chandler?”
I felt like I was on the end of a fishing line slowly being reeled in by Mae West.
“No, I guess not Beverly. Uh, can I speak with Sydney please?”
“I’ll get him on the line for you. Come by and see me when you get a chance.”
I purposefully didn’t say another word for fear she’d take it as a definite yes.
“Hello, this is Sydney Alfred.”
His formality always amused me. A real proper gentleman in all regards.
“Hi, Sydney. It’s me, Kyle.”
“Kyle, my boy. How are you today? Are you ready to take a beating on the links with me this afternoon?”
“That’s why I called you, Sydney. I spent last night on trauma call, and it got the best of me. I don’t think I could swing the clubs very well today. I’m running on fumes right now. I do look forward to our twice a month golf outings, but I have to pass on today’s round.”
“Kyle, are you sure about that? I just read a golf article about how to increase the swing speed of your driver and get the same distance as John Daly got at the British Open this year. I’m all set to spring it on you today.”
“Maybe so Sydney. To be honest, I’d rather putt like Ben Crenshaw did at the Masters than swing as hard as John Daly. Anyway, I hope to see your big driver swing the next time we play.”
“If you’re sure you can’t make it, then so be it,” he said, sounding slightly dejected.
“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that Ian Griffin called me last night. I haven’t heard from him since back in April. He told me that you had spoken to him about me heading to that trauma symposium in London next week.”
“Oh yes. Ian said he needed you to look into a matter for him while you were over there in England. I thought it would be a marvelous idea to kill two birds with one stone while you were in London.”
“Sydney, I gotta admit that I’m more than a little gun-shy about the investigation thing because of last time.”
“You’ll be fine. Ian assured me that it will just be a couple of innocent meetings and that’s all.”
“Well, if you say so. I’ll be gone all next week, so I might have to work extra the week I get back. It might bump our golf outing that week.”
“I doubt it. You’ll find a way to make it work. You always do.”
“Gotta go, Sydney. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Safe travels. Goodbye now,” he said as he rang off as proper as ever.
After showering, followed by the requisite amount of necessary caffeine, I decided to call my on-again-off-again-on-again girlfriend Caroline Martinelli. Unfortunately, she currently had me totally perplexed.
Caroline was an unbelievable woman who ran one of the premier antique stores down in the Plaza District. A one-of-a-kind. We met in April when I got involved in the case of stolen French antiques. She saved my backside in a big way at the conclusion of the case during the annual CHS shareholders’ meeting.
Since then, we started seeing more and more of each other. We met for dinner a couple of times a week and that led to doing new things together on weekends. I was starting to get to know this dynamic, witty woman better and better, and I really felt like she enjoyed getting to know me. As the weeks went by, I thought things were beginning to sail smoothly between us.
Towards the end of June, the nights I was on trauma call got longer and longer. It was beginning to be summer and that meant more trauma victims. In addition, we were temporarily one man short on the on-call schedule, so that made it harder on all of the trauma surgeons employed by St. Jude Hospital. That meant me being more tired after work and with less time to spend with Caroline.
About that time things got busy for me at work, she had to travel more for her business. A couple of weeks went by and before you know it, we totally resented each other’s schedule. Previously, we had gotten to where we were in touch with each other several times a day. Now it was just a passing call here and there during the week. I decided to see if I could break the impasse.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said loudly after the loud beep of her phone message machine. “I gotta talk to you soon, so give me a call.”
Less than ten seconds after I hung up, she called me back. “Sorry, I was just finishing another call. What’s up?” she asked, her tone slightly perplexed.
“Well, as I told you last week, CHS in their continued confusion is trying to make everything kosher with me over the case with the missing stock certificates earlier this year. I leave for the trauma symposium in London this Sunday. I was wondering if we could spend some time together before I leave.”
“Well, uh, sure.”
“Look Caroline, I know you are kinda weirded out with me right now. Especially since that Friday night a couple of weeks ago where I came to your place for dinner, and we ended up spending the weekend together.”
Still a silent pause.
“I don’t blame you for feeling that way, really,” I said. “It’s not like something we planned on happening. It just…happened. But you’ll have to admit, it was very special. I know it was for me.”
Saying that out loud was kind of big for me. I was not good at expressing my feelings, especially to a member of the opposite sex. Part of that must have been the whole surgeon tough-guy mentality. I do think that I had opened up to her emotionally more before we both got busy, but there was a definite wall of tension that had somehow come between us. I was still interested in extending our relationship together, but I had to find a way to break down that barrier so we could operate on the same page.
After another short pause she blurted, “That’s the problem. I thought it was very special. And it scared the living daylights out of me. I already told you that years ago I found out my previous fiancé had been fooling around behind my back right before we were to be married. And I know you’re not him. But since then, I’ve had a big problem completely trusting anyone of the opposite gender on anything more than a superficial level. And that was ten years ago.” Her voice rose ten decibels, and I pulled the phone away from my ear.
“Back then, I compensated by throwing myself full steam ahead into my training in antiques in London,” she continued. “Then it was the opening of my initial antiques shop here in town. After that, it was moving to my larger store down in the Plaza. All of the sudden you pop into my life and getting to know you caught me by total surprise. We were getting to know each other, share more, slowly, and I really enjoyed that. And then, getting intimate with you…it has me reeling as to where to go from here. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed being with you. I think about it all the time. I don’t know what to do. And there’s your insane schedule and my hectic schedule, and I just don’t know anything about anything now.”
“Caroline, it’s okay to be confused. I’m confused. But as Sydney once told me when I moved here, ‘you got take whatever pitches they throw at you and keep on swinging.’ You are never going to get a hit unless you swing. So, let’s try to keep on swinging at the pitches…together. Who knows if it’ll work out between us, but we got to give it a fair chance, and that takes time. Fair enough?” I asked.
Another pause.
“You’re probably right. And be sure you understand that I stress the word probably. Just give me some time to figure out how I feel about all this. What time do you leave Sunday?”
“Sort of early.”
“Well, I’m headed to New York tomorrow to meet with potential clients and won’t be back until Saturday afternoon. Looks like our schedule conflicts win out again.”
“Well, maybe just this time. We’ll see,” I said. “One other thing I need to tell you. Ian Griffin rang me last night and wants me to look into a small matter in London while I’m there. Some kind of switch of valuable antiques for high priced replications. Do you still have any contacts in the antique world? I need to talk to someone that has the inside scoop.”
“Kyle, didn’t we talk about this after your case just a few months ago? You were beaten up quite badly, don’t you remember? Did you forget telling me how they could have mangled both of your hands and put you out of your real profession for good?”
“Well, I might have said that, but this is going to be just a couple harmless meetings in London. What’s wrong with that?”
“I believe that’s exactly how it started off last time. Why the sudden amnesia?”
“Look Caroline, I told Ian that I would try to help him as long as it didn’t involve any rough stuff. And it’s just a couple of meetings. Do you still have any contacts in London who may help me on this one?”
“Well, Dr. Chandler sir, I do speak with my former mentor Sebastian Clarke at Christie’s every couple of months. He’s still head of Appraisals & Evaluations there and is much in the know of what goes on in that market. If you want, I’ll reach out to see if he can meet with you if he’s in London next week.”
“See if he’s available in the late afternoons since I’ll be at the symposium in the mornings and after lunch.”
“You’ll probably have to take whenever he’s free. He maintains an unbelievably busy schedule. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Yes, oh gracious kind soul.”
“And don’t you forget it.” She gave a small snicker.
“Call me before your flight leaves from New York? Maybe I can pick you up at the airport if it doesn’t get in too late.”
“Roger that, Captain. Talk to you then,” she said and hung up.
Well, not a perfect resolution. Not great, but it was a start.
Guest Post by Author D. Marshall Craig, M.D.
My Writing Process
Every writer has his or her own personal way to create a story that will interest the reader. Some writers are very methodical in their approach to writing, some are completely random. I believe there is no one correct method to successfully complete the process of writing on what content you want to convey to the reader.
With that said, I would say that my methods of writing have evolved from a combination of some structure and occasional randomness. I usually have some ideas about what the progression of the plot is going to be, so I start by trying to put them down in a general outline. I then figure out the beginning of the story that will hook the reader’s attention. Next, I jump forward to creating an ending that will be surprising and not at all expected. As the process of the flow of the story is formulated, I will add thoughts and different situations to the plot to grab the reader’s interest as the story’s suspense builds. There are times as I progress with the story that I will switch around the order of events to make the story more climactic.
For my first novel, I used all my experiences with the crazy individuals and hard-to-believe situations I experienced or heard about as a surgeon during my career of over thirty years. I knew from the beginning that this initial story was going to expand into a series of books about my protagonist in the future. For each successive novel, I again make a rough outline of the plot and where I want to go with story in relation to my main protagonist in order to keep the reader interested.
I strongly think that the development of characters in the story is key to keeping the reader turning the pages with interest. I try to make the characters seem believable but still somewhat unique in their own way. For my Dr. Kyle Chandler Thriller Series, I like to use fast-paced, snappy dialogue between characters to create a kind of tension, especially when there is a potential love interest. The trick for me with each new novel is expanding the personalities of the principal characters forward with each story while introducing new characters at the same time to make the story full.
With that in mind, I have to admit that it’s not an easy process. Face it, there are times for any writer when it is difficult to produce anything of value on your computer screen looming before you. Like anyone else, I have periods when I don’t feel inspired to write at all. I have come to accept that those periods are part of the process. I have learned to just walk away from the keyboard if ideas are not flowing in my brain. I’ll go focus on something else leaving whatever I was stuck on totally behind. Then for whatever reason, I’ll come back to my keyboard later to look at things with a fresh point of view. This usually works to get new ideas going in my brain. I really can’t explain it, but the same thing happens to me when I work crossword puzzles. Just a new sense of confidence, I guess.
With a fresh start, these new ideas lead to the evolution of the plot. At those times, I feel compelled to get my ideas down on my computer as soon as I can almost in a frantic sense of desperation. It’s during those times that new ideas with plot progression just seem to flow out of my brain to my fingertips on the keyboard.
I’ve been asked before if there a central message or theme in my current novel series that I want readers to grasp. I guess you could say that as my protagonist progresses in each novel, he is like David facing overwhelming odds against a Goliath opponent. In each situation, it leads to the theme of “never give up.”
If I was asked for one of the best pieces of writing advice that I have ever received, it would be to write about what you know. Despite what some people might think, you’re not going to know about everything. So, if there’s something you don’t know, become an expert on the subject with exhaustive research. Put the effort in to make your story interesting enough to grab the attention of the reader.
I’ve listed a few ideas about how I try to get an interesting suspense/thriller story written that may or may not help other writers go through the process more easily. Everyone has their own process to conquer. If you can figure out that the key is to enjoy the process as much as the result, then the writing itself will fulfill you that much more.
About the Author
D. Marshall Craig, M.D. draws upon his knowledge of medicine gained from over 30 years as a trauma, plastic, and reconstructive surgeon to continue the story of hard-working hero Dr. Kyle Chandler. Craig’s series of medical suspense thrillers are inspired by some of his wildest stories and most colorful characters from his previous medical career. He now enjoys his second career as a winemaker and vineyard manager for a small boutique winery. He lives with his wife in the mountains of western North Carolina. The first book in the Dr. Kyle Chandler series is Cut to the Chase (White Bird Publications).
CONNECT:
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The post New Release Spotlight — HIDDEN AGENDAS: A Dr. Kyle Chandler Thriller by D. Marshall Craig, M.D. appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
February 7, 2022
New Release Spotlight and Review — DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller by Valerie Webster
Ex-investigative journalist, Rita Mars loses an old friend to what looks like suicide. She’s convinced he was murdered to cover unethical maneuvers and save reputations in the abyss that is Congress. Back stabbings inside the beltway sometimes extend beyond metaphorical. She’s going to butt heads with the local good ole boy authorities and navigate the deliberately stoked smoke screens of the duly elected, but she is never going to give up.
Book Details:Read an excerpt:Chapter 1Genre: Thriller
Published by: Ignited Ink Writing
Publication Date: May 25th 2021
Number of Pages: 396
ISBN: 1952347033 (ISBN13: 978-1952347030)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads
“Rita Mars, this is a voice from your past.”
“Who the hell is this?” Rita demanded.
It was eleven o’clock, and the dreary end of a long day. A miserable October rain tapped on the office windows. Through the water slashed glass, Baltimore’s Mitchell Court House next door was a smear of grey and black.
“I first met you devouring Hershey bars in the newsroom at midnight.” The man was gleeful.
“That narrows it down.”
Great clue. Hell, she’d been a reporter for seventeen years before she started the agency. Rita cradled her chin. The police department snitch who gave up the narcs ripping off drug dealers? The accountant with the guilty conscience who squealed on the HUD housing contracts?
“We were a pair and then again we were not.”
“Look, pal, I don’t know –”
“I was the snow king and you were the fire breather.”
Rita started to hang up, but there was something eerily familiar about that line.
“You never know when you’ve had your last chance,” the man said.
“Bobby Ellis.” Instinctively, Rita touched the worn chrome Zippo in her pocket that bore those very words. Chills ran along her arms and the hair bristled at her neck.
“Bingo,” Ellis said.
“God, I’m so glad to hear from you. Where are you? When can I see you?
“Sunday.”
“Halloween?”
“The Overlook Inn in Harper’s Ferry. Breakfast at ten. I’ll have a lot to tell you. A story for above the fold.”
Rita scribbled his instructions on a blank notepad. “Tell me now.” Above the fold on a newspaper’s front page was reserved for big time news.
“Just be there.”
Rita thought he was hanging up.
“By the way—ever think you’d see me alive again?” Ellis asked softly.
“No,” Rita said. “I never thought I would.”
Chapter 2Rita Mars sang along with the Shirelles. She glanced at the Jeep’s speedometer and then at the rearview mirror to check for approaching troopers.
The West Virginia countryside blazed with yellow and scarlet. Sunlight sprinkled the rock-strewn pastures with brilliance and made the car’s white hood shimmer like a snowfield. Even the black and white Holsteins seemed brighter than usual as they ripped up the last shreds of yellowed pasture grass.
Though it was late October, Rita had the top down on the Jeep. It was good to ride on this open road alone with the sun and wind. She couldn’t really be forty-five this year. She ran thirty miles a week and could still get into jeans the size she’d worn in college. Rita peered over the top of her Raybans and took another look in the mirror. Ok, so her dark hair was shot through with silver.
She smiled. It made her look more interesting. After all, how many older women had she fallen madly in love with in her younger years?
Rita flipped the radio off and concentrated on her meeting with Bobby Ellis. She hadn’t seen him in forever. Yes, she had thought he might be dead. A superior journalist, he’d thrown it all away with a coke habit that he paid for with a career and a marriage. No one had seen or heard of him now for more than two years.
After he disappeared, a malaise had set. Rita abandoned investigative reporting and spend her time working on a detective’s license. She was going to right wrongs instead of writing about wrongs as she described her abrupt life change.
She sighed. She wanted to return to the happier thoughts that had so recently danced in her head.
A red truck with a rainbow sticker on the front bumper appeared the in oncoming lane. Rita’s smile came back and she waved as they raced each other.
“We’re everywhere. We’re everywhere,” she hummed to herself.
She returned to her former mood of excited anticipation. She was seeing Bobby again.
They had been reporters together on the Washington Star. More like brother and sister than co-workers, they had fought over editorial recognition, wept on each other’s shoulders, and held each other’s hand during their respective long, dark nights of the soul.
Rita tried sweet talk at first when his habit began to devour him. Then she got tough. They fought bitterly. In the end, he surrendered everything to the white powder.
She’d been as angry with herself as with him. She couldn’t make him stop. Like a flashback, the feelings were the same when she thought about her childhood. She hadn’t been able to stop the runaway train her father rode either. Alcohol carried him far and fast. In the end, he stuck his police revolver into his mouth and killed his pain.
Bad memories again. Rita shook her head and switched the radio back on.
“There she was, just a walkin’ down the street . . . “ Rita sang along at the top of her lungs and pushed the accelerator just a little farther with her docksider.
Five miles and three oldies but goodies later, she slowed as the road narrowed to the twisting mountainside lanes that led to Harper’s Ferry. Down the sheer embankment on the passenger’s side, she could see canoes below on this rocky segment of the Potomac. She took a deep breath. The cobwebs of leftover memory cleared. It was a gorgeous day. At the top of a steep winding hill, Rita spied the flagpole that stood in the center of the Overlook Inn’s circular drive. Old Glory ruffled its red stripes in a soft October breeze that seemed more spring than autumn.
The parking areas along the drive were jammed with American made pickups and SUVs. Lots of military bumper stickers and window decals. Families just out of church hopped out of cars and headed for the Inn’s dining room and Sunday brunch buffet.
As she reached the crest, she had to slam on the brakes. The drive was blocked by two Harper’s Ferry sheriffs’ cars, a West Virginia trooper vehicle—blue gumball lights twirling—an ambulance from nearby Ransom, a fire truck and a dented beige Crown Vic with county plates.
Guests and townies milled around the west annex. A tall, grim-faced sheriff’s deputy held them at bay.
“What the heck is this?” Rita jumped out of the Jeep.
Inside, the interior of the Overlook lobby was cool and dark. The desk clerk was a woman with long red nails and a plunging neckline to her sundress. Her blue eye shadow made her look like an alien. Oblivious to Rita, she leaned across the far end of the registration counter to stare out the front door toward the commotion outside. Rita pulled off her Raybans.
“What happened?” Rita asked.
“Man killed hisself.” The woman continued to lean and stare over the counter.
The taste of metal rose in Rita’s throat. “Killed himself?”
“Room 107. Maid found him.” The clerk’s sense of duty returned and she walked toward the center of the counter where Rita stood. “Can I help you with something?”
Rita felt icy from the inside out. She dug her hand into her pocket to touch that Zippo talisman she always carried.
“I came here to meet someone.” The words jumbled in her mouth.
“Name?” The clerk absently flipped the registration book behind the counter.
Rita said nothing.
The clerk looked up then and said once more. “Name?”
“Bobby Ellis,” Rita whispered.
The two women stared at one another.
***
Excerpt from Driven: A Rita Mars Thriller by Valerie Webster. Copyright 2021 by Valerie Webster. Reproduced with permission from Valerie Webster. All rights reserved.
My ThoughtsDriven, the first Rita Mars Thriller, gives us a complex plot with two mysteries to solve.
Rita’s character is indeed “driven” in her quest to solve the two cases she’s working, one of which is personal. She’s intelligent and persistent, but she’s also brash, often taking assertiveness a step too far, into the pushy and rude zone.
While labeled a thriller, this felt much more like a mystery to me as far as content and pacing. We follow along with Rita as she investigates, uncovering clues and sidestepping danger, until we solve the whodunit. Rita connects with and gets help from some interesting characters along the way, giving the story lots of depth.
Driven has a solid ending, no cliffhangers.
Valerie Webster spent a career developing law enforcement applications for surveillance, security and forensics. She has also been a triathlete and a crime reporter. She honed her writing skills through “Sisters in Crime” and “Mystery Writers of America’s” mentoring program. In DRIVEN: A RITA MARS THRILLER, she weaves professional experiences into a high tension plot that sweeps the reader into the action from Page 1 to the breath-taking conclusion.
Valerie makes her home near Boulder, CO.
ValerieWebster.com
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February 6, 2022
New Historical Fiction — THE LAST GRAND DUCHESS: A Novel of Olga Romanov, Imperial Russia, and Revolution by Bryn Turnbull
This sweeping new novel from the internationally bestselling author of The Woman Before Wallis takes readers behind palace walls to see the end of Imperial Russia through the eyes of Olga Romanov, the first daughter of the last Tsar.
Grand Duchess Olga Romanov comes of age amid a shifting tide for the great dynasties of Europe. But even as unrest simmers in the capital, Olga is content to live within the confines of the sheltered life her parents have built for and her three sisters: hiding from the world on account of their mother’s ill health, their brother Alexei’s secret affliction, and rising controversy over Father Grigori Rasputin, the priest on whom the Tsarina has come to rely. Olga’s only escape from the seclusion of Alexander Palace comes from her aunt, who takes pity on her and her sister Tatiana, inviting them to grand tea parties amid the shadow court of Saint Petersburg. Finally, she glimpses a world beyond her mother’s Victorian sensibilities—a world of opulent ballrooms, scandalous flirtation, and whispered conversation.
But as war approaches, the palaces of Russia are transformed. Olga and her sisters trade their gowns for nursing habits, assisting in surgeries and tending to the wounded bodies and minds of Russia’s military officers. As troubling rumors about her parents trickle in from the Front, Olga dares to hope that a budding romance might survive whatever the future may hold. But when tensions run high and supplies run low, the controversy over Rasputin grows into fiery protest, and calls for revolution threaten to end 300 years of Romanov rule.
THE LAST GRAND DUCHESS: A Novel of Olga Romanov, Imperial Russia, and Revolution
Author: Bryn Turnbull
ISBN: 9780778311706
Publication Date: February 8, 2022
Publisher: MIRA Books
Buy Links:
BookShop.org
Harlequin
Barnes & Noble
Amazon
Books-A-Million
Powell’s
1
March 1917
Tsarskoe Selo
Shots rang out across the twilit grounds of Alexander Park. Sit-ting on the window ledge in her father’s study, Olga turned her head toward the sound. She’d heard gunfire in the days and weeks since the riots had broken out in Petrograd, though they’d never sounded so close, so final. Incongruously, she thought not of advancing troops, but of her brother Alexei and his cap-gun, firing at imagined enemies in the grounds where, at this very moment, true monsters stalked between the trees.
Across the room, shrouded in the darkness that had cloaked the palace since the electricity lines were cut days before, Olga’s mother pulled a shawl across her shoulders. Candlelight sent dark flames up the cavernous bookshelves that lined the walls, illuminating her weary face.
“Abdicated?” she whispered.
Panic gripped her by the throat, and Olga turned to face the window once more. In the deepening gloom, she fancied she could see the orange glow of bonfires. “I don’t understand. In favor of Alexei?” She glanced at Mamma: Alexei’s chronic poor health had always made him seem older than his age, but at twelve, he was still very much a child, and far too young to take on the heavy burden of ruling.
Standing in front of the tsarina, Major General Resin, the commander who’d taken charge of the garrison of troops that protected Olga’s family, cleared his throat. “No, Your Majesty. It’s more complicated than that. We’re still receiving information from the front, but it seems His Imperial Highness was most insistent on the matter. He offered the crown to his brother, Grand Duke Mikhail, but the grand duke refused it. The Duma has formed a provisional government to determine what will happen next, but as I said, we will learn more once His Majesty returns.”
Olga turned her attention back to Mamma, shutting out the continued rattle of gunfire—no closer to the palace walls, but no further away, either. Having spent the last several weeks nursing her siblings through a fierce bout of German measles, Olga had not had the time nor the energy to keep abreast of political developments, but she’d heard enough to know that unrest had been boiling in the capital. Protests in the coal plants; riots in bread lines. Rolling blackouts, hitting tenements and palaces alike; rallies and calls for change, growing ever louder as the war against the Central Powers continued to leech provisions from households and businesses.
But abdication?
From within the white folds of the Red Cross veil she’d worn since the start of the war, Mamma’s face fell, her pale eyes darting around the room. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I simply don’t understand.”
She reached out a thin hand, waving her fingers insistently; recognizing the movement, Olga stepped forward and took it, searching for a logical route through her own confusion. She could hear a buzzing in her head: an insistent roar, the sound of surf crashing against the hull of a ship. With Papa’s abdication, the situation had become everything she’d feared, the sickening finality in the word itself enough to keep it from passing her lips: revolution.
She squeezed Mamma’s hand, watching as Resin’s fingers tightened on the flat brim of his cap. “Where is Papa?”
“He’s coming here, Grand Duchess,” replied Resin, “but in the opinion of the Provisional Government, the palace is not the safest place—not for His Imperial Majesty, and not for you, either. I’m afraid they can no longer guarantee your welfare.”
Mamma looked up sharply. “We have three hundred loyal Cossacks at the gate—the finest soldiers this country has ever produced,” she said, sounding for a moment like her old, fierce self. “They’re loyal to my husband. I fail to see the danger.”
Resin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, Minister Rodzianko disagrees. The barracks in Tsarskoe Selo have begun to riot; they’re singing the ‘Marseillaise’ as we speak.”
Mamma paled. Olga recalled visiting the garrison less than a year earlier, trotting on horseback past 40,000 troops all sworn to protect the tsar and his family. How could 40,000 minds be so easily turned?
“And what of my children?” Mamma persisted. “Tatiana can hardly walk. Maria and Anastasia are delirious, and the tsarevich is in a very delicate state—”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty.” Resin met Mamma’s gaze directly. “When the house is in flames, one carries out the children.”
The room fell silent. Despite her attempt at composure, Olga began to shake, a thin, uncontrollable trembling, which, given the darkness of the study, she hoped Resin couldn’t see.
Mamma gripped Olga’s fingers in a silent plea to keep calm. Though her poor health would make it appear otherwise, Mam-ma’s Victorian upbringing had given her a stiff upper lip which Olga and her sisters lacked. She’d been instrumental in running the government since Papa went to command the front, overseeing the distribution of relief aid to soldiers’ families, orchestrating shipments of food and provisions, reining in the government ministers whose political agendas risked the country’s success at the front. Despite what people said about her—despite her Ger-man roots—Mamma had led Russia through the worst of the war years, relying on her faith in God and in Papa to make the decisions others would not.
How had things gone so wrong?
Mamma stood. “We will stay,” she said finally, lifting her chin. “I won’t leave the palace without my husband.”
Excerpted from The Last Grand Duchess by Bryn Turnbull, Copyright © 2022 by Bryn Turnbull. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
Bryn Turnbull is the bestselling author of The Woman Before Wallis. Equipped with a master’s of letters in creative writing from the University of St. Andrews, a master’s of professional communication from Ryerson University and a bachelor’s degree in English literature from McGill University, Bryn focuses on finding stories of women lost within the cracks of the historical record. She lives in Toronto.
Social Links:
Author Website
Instagram: @brynturnbullwrites
Twitter: @brynturnbull
Facebook: @brynturnbullwrites
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The post New Historical Fiction — THE LAST GRAND DUCHESS: A Novel of Olga Romanov, Imperial Russia, and Revolution by Bryn Turnbull appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
February 5, 2022
Book Review — THE BOY FROM THE WOODS: Wilde #1 by Harlan Coben
Thirty years ago, Wilde was found as a boy living feral in the woods, with no memory of his past. Now an adult, he still doesn’t know where he comes from, and another child has gone missing.
No one seems to take Naomi Pine’s disappearance seriously, not even her father—with one exception. Hester Crimstein, a television criminal attorney, knows through her grandson that Naomi was relentlessly bullied at school. Hester asks Wilde—with whom she shares a tragic connection—to use his unique skills to help find Naomi.
Wilde can’t ignore an outcast in trouble, but in order to find Naomi he must venture back into the community where he has never fit in, a place where the powerful are protected even when they harbor secrets that could destroy the lives of millions . . . secrets that Wilde must uncover before it’s too late.
Released: March 2020
My ThoughtsI’ve been a Harlan Coben fan since the mid ‘90s, when Myron Bolitar was born, and I’ll happily read anything he writes.
The Boy from the Woods, the first in the Wilde series, brings us an intriguing main character. Wilde reminds me a bit of Jack Reacher, one of my favorite characters ever. He’s smart, tough, a loner, and lives in a morally gray zone.
The plot gives us spoiled rich people who bend the law at will, along with some profound content regarding today’s political and social climate.
My one quibble is Hester, a middle-aged, intelligent lawyer, constantly mimicking Win from Coben’s Myron Bolitar—and now his own—series by answering the phone with, “Articulate.” That’s signature Win, and it works exceptionally well for him, but it doesn’t at all fit Hester’s character. It felt too much like a deliberate tie-in to the other series.
I listened to this on audio, via Scribd. The narration is excellent and kept me fully engaged.
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February 3, 2022
Book Review — THE SPIRIT OF ANIMAL HEALING by Dr. Marty Goldstein
The Spirit of Animal Healing is the follow up to Dr. Marty Goldstein’s bestselling book on holistic veterinary medicine, The Nature of Animal Healing.
It is chock full of the very latest integrative medical knowledge (which combines conventional therapies with complementary and alternative medicine). Coupled with the vast amount of specialized expertise and learning Dr. Marty has gained from his own practice over the past 45 years, the book takes readers on a journey to the leading edge of integrative veterinary understanding to achieve greater insight into the minds and bodies of their animal companions.
However, this book is not simply a new edition of Dr. Marty’s first book with some refreshed content. It is a completely new book in which Dr. Marty turns the traditional approach to animal care upside down. The Spirit of Animal Healing provides readers with the most up to-date tools and knowledge they need to keep their dogs and cats healthy and prevent disease from occurring in the first place, instead of just treating their animal companions when they are sick.
Topics covered include:
*Nutrition and supplements
*Integrative remedies and harmful treatments
*Cutting edge therapies
*The truth about vaccinations
*The latest in cancer treatments
*The spiritual nature of animals
*True, mind-blowing cases from over the years
-And much more!
This book is fascinating, informative, and a little disturbing, as Dr. Marty Goldstein shares the reasons why our furbabies are dealing with more debilitating health issues than ever before. More importantly, he tells us what we can do to keep them healthy.
Lots of great information here, from the basics of food choice, which is far more significant than many people realize, to treatment options for disease and the controversy of vaccines.
Goldstein’s writing style is conversational. He shares anecdotes from his personal life and practice, along with various facts and data, keeping readers engaged throughout.
*I received an eARC from St. Martin’s Press, via NetGalley.*
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