Darcia Helle's Blog, page 34
October 13, 2021
New Release Spotlight — TEXAS BABY CONSPIRACY by Barb Han
She’s fighting for her and her baby’s lives
But she can’t remember why…
Injured and locked up in a decrepit trailer, Alyssa Hazel wakes to only fragments of memory. She knows she’s pregnant, her life is in danger—and there’s one man she can trust once she escapes. But police officer Blake O’Connor hasn’t forgiven Alyssa for walking away from their marriage. Can he protect her and their unborn child…even when this conspiracy hits too close to home?
Add Texas Baby Conspiracy to your Goodreads!
Buy Texas Baby Conspiracy by Barb Han
Harlequin.com: https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781335555359_texas-baby-conspiracy.html
When Alyssa Hazel stirred and felt nothing but walls on all four sides of her, shock robbed her voice. Panic caused her pulse to pound and the extra blood thumped against her skull. Her head threatened to split open as she tried to recall where she was and why she was here.
She pushed her hands out, trying to see if the walls would give. The material was pliable but solid enough to hold form. She felt for cracks or anything she could grip. Movement hurt. She attempted to stretch out her legs and couldn’t get very far.
Where was she? What happened? Why was she enclosed in such a tight space? A haze pressed down on her brain and the pressure was the equivalent of a thunderstorm rolling in.
It was pitch black and she couldn’t remember a thing about where she’d been or what she’d been doing before ending up in this…whatever this was. Forcing recall only made her brain hurt more. A stomach cramp drew her legs tighter to her belly.
Wouldn’t there be a door if she was in some kind of compartment? There would have to be a crack around a door or hatch. She reached up and couldn’t find a ceiling. That seemed like the first good sign so far. It meant that she might be in a small closet or storage room.
She felt around, trying to get her bearings because right now she was at a loss as to where she was and what she was doing there. Bringing her hands to cradle her stomach, she knew one thing was certain, she was pregnant. Very pregnant. Her belly was huge.
Again, her mind drew a blank to a question that was so basic she felt like she should have an answer. What on earth was she doing there? She brought her hand up to her head and looked for a reason for the memory loss and headache. She touched a tender spot and felt dried blood.
At least she thought it was. Seeing was impossible despite her eyes adjusting to the dark.
Logic said if she’d gotten inside this structure, there had to be a way out. Bracing her hands against thin walls, she maneuvered up to a sitting position.
Next, she instinctively checked to make sure she had on clothes and then immediately checked for her wedding ring. The band was gone. Thank heavens she had on a cotton shirt and jeans. No shoes but she did have on socks. She remembered wearing her favorite boots. The random memory seemed to float around with no context to ground it. Where had she been going? What had she been doing?
A noise startled her. She froze, unable to make out what it was or exactly where it came from other than out there.
About the AuthorUSA TODAY Bestselling Author Barb Han lives in Texas with her adventurous family and beloved dogs. Reviewers have called her books “heartfelt” and “exciting.” When not writing or reading, she can be found exploring Manhattan, on a mountain, or swimming in her backyard.
Connect with the Author
Website: https://www.barbhan.com/
The post New Release Spotlight — TEXAS BABY CONSPIRACY by Barb Han appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 12, 2021
Police Procedural with a Twist! DEATH RANG THE BELL: A Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mystery by Carol Pouliot
21st-century journalist Olivia Watson thinks traveling back in time to 1934 to attend a Halloween party with her friend Detective Steven Blackwell will be a lot of fun. And it is…until she witnesses the head of the Shipley Five-and-Dime empire murdered, and fears the killer saw her face.
The smart move is to return to the safety of the present, but Olivia possesses a secret and is about to defy the unwritten rules of time-travel. She convinces Steven to let her stay in his time and help unravel the motives behind the murder, even if it means risking her own life to save another.
When Steven delves into the investigation, he discovers how a bitter relationship, a chance encounter, and a fateful decision converged to set the stage for murder. In a maze full of unreliable clues and misdirection, dark secrets refuse to stay buried and forgotten ghosts won’t fade away. Steven is reminded that old sins cast long shadows.
Can Steven catch the killer before time runs out for Olivia?
“This highly inventive series serves up a real treat–a perfect combination of mystery, time travel, and romance.”
~~ Deborah Crombie, New York Times Bestselling author of the Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James novels
“Pouliot has the period details mastered, adding realism and depth to this wholly satisfying read.”
~~ Marni Graff, author of The Nora Tierney English Mysteries
“With engaging characters, a murder mystery, and a trip back in time, Carol Pouliot’s Death Rang the Bell will keep you turning the pages all night!”
~~ Nancy Allen, New York Times Bestselling Author
“A Halloween setting, a house where time folds back on itself, and a crime with deep roots in the past make Carol Pouliot’s Death Rang the Bell a joy for fans of crisp writing and twisty, character-driven plots.”
~~ Connie Berry, Agatha-nominated author of the Kate Hamilton Mysteries
“A delightfully immersive story, filled with surprising twists and turns, a touch of romance — plus a heroine you will happily follow as she jumps between decades, Death Rang the Bell is a truly great escape.”
~~ Alison Gaylin, USA Today and international bestselling author
“This intriguing and beautifully written series will draw you in and make you feel right at home in a time period you’ll wish you could visit.”
~~ Grace Topping, USA Today bestselling author of the Laura Bishop Mystery Series.
Book Details:Read an excerpt:NOVEMBER 1916 − SYRACUSE, NEW YORKChapter 1Genre: Mystery (Traditional Police Procedural with a Time-Travel Twist)
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 21, 2021
Number of Pages: 311
ISBN: 978-1-68512-000-9
Series: The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries, #3 || Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery
Purchase Links: Amazon | BN.com | Goodreads
Hot coffee spilled over the rim and burned her hand. Lillian wanted to cry. At nine in the morning, she’d been on her feet since six and had seven long hours to go. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to keep it up. She was constantly exhausted and the struggle to breathe was worsening; some days it was nearly unbearable. She knew the disease was going to overpower her, and that moment was coming soon.
Lillian slid around some tables and set a heaping plate of eggs and bacon, potatoes, and toast in front of Arnie McCormack, then topped off his cup from the pot in her other hand. McCormack lowered his newspaper and leered, pinching her behind as she stepped away. Rude bastard. She’d like to pour the scalding coffee over his head and dump his breakfast right in his lap.
The only thing that kept her going every day was the thought of her beautiful little boy. Well, not so little anymore. He was growing up fast, nine years old in January. She managed a smile and wiped away a tear before it became a flood. Best not to think too much about things. Especially money. Lillian knew if she didn’t get the money somehow, she’d never see her son grow into a man.
And what about her letter? It had been four weeks since she’d mailed it. Surely he should have written back by now. She hadn’t been unreasonable, hadn’t asked for much, only enough to pay for treatment at the Little Red Cottage in Saranac Lake.
Dr. Trudeau’s Little Red Cottage. It sounded like heaven. Lillian had heard wonderful things about people being cured there. Imagine, cured! The thought made her dizzy.
Lillian returned to the lunch counter, using the backs of chairs for support. When she arrived at the griddle, she was breathing hard.
Tomorrow, she thought, if I don’t get an answer tomorrow, I’ll send another letter.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1934Chapter 2The Three Witches of Macbeth were doing a swell job. Annie, Molly, and Lilly led the parade of pirates, sailors, and fairy princesses through Knightsbridge, picking up ghosts, goblins, and a mummy along the way. Crowds of families followed the costumed children down Victoria Avenue to the entrance of The Elks Club, where, from the top of the staircase, The Three Witches hissed, “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and caldron bubble.”
Molly cried out, “Beware, all ye who enter here.” Then she thumped a tall gnarled staff on the stone step, and Annie and Lilly grasped the thick iron rings with both hands and heaved. As the massive oak doors creaked open, the masquerading children flew up the stairs and into the community room, awash with the scents of apples and cinnamon.
Carved pumpkins flickered in the semi-darkened room, revealing white cobweb-filled corners and big black spiders and bats hanging so low that adults had to duck. Seeing colorful bags piled on black-draped tables, one little boy jumped up and down, clapping his hands in glee. A girl grabbed her friend’s hand, and they did a little dance, and three teenagers slapped each other on the back. A Halloween treat awaited each of them. Eager to explore, the kids fanned out.
“Ooh! I feel like I’m ten again,” said Olivia, shaking the black-and-orange tin noise maker. “Why didn’t we wear costumes?”
Steven gave her a look. “What if I had to rush out for an emergency?” he asked.
“You could’ve dressed like a cop.” She smirked.
“Hi, Steven.” Decked out in an eye patch and pirate gear, Jimmy Bourgogne appeared from behind Olivia, swept off his hat, and gave a courtly bow, bending low to the floor. “Miss Watson.”
“Jimmy, you look fantastic,” exclaimed Olivia. “I didn’t recognize you with that mustache and goatee.”
“Congratulations, Jimmy. You fellas did a swell job,” Steven said.
“Thanks, but the credit really goes to Leon here.”
A slender young man with light brown hair joined them. He sported a plaid shirt with a tin sheriff’s badge pinned over his heart, red kerchief around his neck, and holster holding a toy gun attached to a leather belt.
“Hi, Leon.” Steven extended his hand. “This is my friend Olivia Watson. Olivia, Leon Quigg is my mailman.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Watson.” Leon said, nodding as he doffed his cowboy hat.
“I’m glad to meet you, too. This is a wonderful party.”
Jean Bigelow sidled up to Olivia, yelling amidst the racket. “You made it!”
“Jean! Isn’t this swell?” Olivia chuckled to herself. Liz and Sophie would crack up hearing her talk like a real 1934 person.
After several months, acting like she belonged here had become second nature, but Olivia Watson didn’t belong here. She lived in 2014 and only visited 1934 from time to time.
This week Olivia was spending several days in Steven’s time. No passport, no suitcase, no plane ticket required. All it took was a simple step across the threshold of her bedroom door into Steven’s Depression-era house−simple but the key to her recently discovered ability to time travel.
“What are you reading tonight?” Olivia asked the librarian.
“Edgar Allan Poe. ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”
“That’s the one where the guy gets walled up, isn’t it?”
Jean nodded. “I’ve been practicing creepy voices for days.”
“Well, you look the part. I love your cape, very 19th-century.” Olivia touched a fold of Jean’s costume. “Ooh, velvet. I wish I’d worn that.”
The organizers had packed the evening full of entertainment. Steven and Olivia watched a magician pull pennies out of children’s ears and a rabbit out of his top hat, and wondered how he made the mayor’s watch disappear. The kids bobbed for apples, the water sloshing out of the metal washtub soaking the floor. The younger children played Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey and Drop-the-Handkerchief, while the older ones played charades and told ghost stories.
At seven thirty, the kids crowded along the row of tables where members of the Elks handed out treats. Noses in their black-and-orange bags exploring the treasures within, they moved to the far end to select their favorite soda, handing the tall glass bottles of Hires Root Beer, Orange Crush, and Coca-Cola to Jimmy Bou and Leon Quigg, who were armed with metal bottle openers.
The evening culminated with story telling. The village librarian led the young children into a side room, spooky picture books in hand. The older ones gathered behind the curtain on the shadow-filled stage where Jean Bigelow waited in flickering candlelight. When they’d settled in a circle on the floor, Olivia among them, the librarian cleared her throat and began.
“The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge….”
***
Excerpt from Death Rang the Bell by Carol Pouliot. Copyright 2021 by Carol Pouliot. Reproduced with permission from Carol Pouliot. All rights reserved.
Guest PostFor the Love of Books
by Carol Pouliot
I’ve always loved books, even before I could read. Growing up, we were surrounded by books. My parents read voraciously and they read to us—all the classic fairy tales and picture books. To this day, I treasure the memory of climbing up on my father’s lap in his rocking chair and listening to him read me a story. I remember the excitement of going shopping with my mother and being allowed to choose a Little Golden Book from the revolving wire rack. What a treat! I couldn’t wait to get home, hurry to my room, and throw myself on the bed with my new book.
The first non-picture book I checked out of the library was called The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet. It was summer, and I spent the entire week on a blanket under a huge birch tree in the backyard lost in another world. I was hooked forever. From then on, it was frequent trips to the library, where I would borrow as many books as I could carry.I read about The Bobbsey Twins, Pippi Longstocking, The Boxcar Children, and Ramona and Beezus. I imagined what it would be like to live alone and not have any rules or routine, only freedom and fantastic adventures like Pippi Longstocking. I closed my eyes and pictured furnishing the railroad car with discarded paint-by-numbers, tarnished silver spoons, and cracked teacups like the ones the Boxcar Children found. And, although I thoroughly enjoyed the antics of Ramona, I was really glad that I had my little sister instead.
Soon, I discovered Nancy Drew. Intrigue, suspense, cleverness, and an independent young girl. I couldn’t read them fast enough— The Secret of the Old Clock, The Hidden Staircase, The Bungalow Mystery, The Clue in the Diary. The titles shouted “Pick me! Pick me!” How could I resist? I read them all and was inspired.
I spent hours wandering through the towering stacks in our old village library, hearing the creaks and groans of the aged oak flooring, listening to the shuffle of pages as patrons searched for the perfect book to borrow. As I grew older, I chose timeless classics and modern bestsellers, discovered theater and biographies, and learned about the world. I fell in love with Steinbeck’s gritty realism and admired the complexity in Ibsen’s heroines. I read about famous ballerinas and explored far-away lands in over-sized photo books. Then one day, I discovered Agatha Christie. Need I say more? Since then, it’s been a lifelong love affair with mysteries, especially British mysteries.
Over the years, books have continued to be an important part of my life. I still find the smell of new books intoxicating, and I love the feel of an old worn leather binding. I have not outgrown the anticipation of meeting new characters or the thrill of turning to Page 1. My dad built floor-to-ceiling shelves that reach across an entire wall for the library in my house. Books of every kind stand vertically and are squeezed in sideways. Here and there unread tomes are tucked away for a rainy day. And I have to confess that there is nothing I welcome more than a rainy day or a snowstorm, when I curl up with a steaming cup of tea (or maybe a glass of wine) and lose myself in a good story.
I love books—for the way they magically transport us to another time, place, or dimension; the way they grab our imagination and ignite our creativity; the solace they can bring to troubled times; for all the ways that they move us and impact our lives.
About the Author
Carol Pouliot holds a BA in French and Spanish and an MA in French. She has taught French, Spanish, German, and English. She owned and operated a translating agency for 20 years. Her work has been published in Victoria magazine.
Carol is the author of The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries, which includes Doorway to Murder (book 1), Threshold of Deceit (book 2), and Death Rang the Bell (book 3).
Carol is passionate about the world and other cultures. She has visited 5 continents thus far and always has her passport and suitcase at the ready.
www.CarolPouliot.com
SleuthsAndSidekicks.com
BookBub – @cpouliot13
Goodreads
Instagram – @carolpouliotmysterywriter
Facebook – @WriterCarolPouliot
Tour Participants:
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!
Don’t Miss Out on This Giveaway:This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Carol Pouliot. There will be Four (4) winners for this tour. Two (2) winners will each receive a $15 Amazon.com gift card; Two (2) winners will each receive 1 print edition of Death Rang The Bell by Carol Pouliot (US Only). The giveaway begins on October 1 and ends November 2, 2021. Void where prohibited.
Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours
The post Police Procedural with a Twist! DEATH RANG THE BELL: A Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mystery by Carol Pouliot appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 11, 2021
Book Review — MALICE by Heather Walter
Once upon a time, there was a wicked fairy who, in an act of vengeance, cursed a line of princesses to die. A curse that could only be broken by true love’s kiss.
You’ve heard this before, haven’t you? The handsome prince. The happily-ever-after.
Utter nonsense.
Let me tell you, no one in Briar actually cares about what happens to its princesses. Not the way they care about their jewels and elaborate parties and charm-granting elixirs. I thought I didn’t care, either.
Until I met her.
Princess Aurora. The last heir to Briar’s throne. Kind. Gracious. The future queen her realm needs. One who isn’t bothered that I am Alyce, the Dark Grace, abhorred and feared for the mysterious dark magic that runs in my veins. Humiliated and shamed by the same nobles who pay me to bottle hexes and then brand me a monster. Aurora says I should be proud of my gifts. That she . . . cares for me. Even though it was a power like mine that was responsible for her curse.
But with less than a year until that curse will kill her, any future I might see with Aurora is swiftly disintegrating—and she can’t stand to kiss yet another insipid prince. I want to help her. If my power began her curse, perhaps it’s what can lift it. Perhaps, together, we could forge a new world.
Nonsense again.
Because we all know how this story ends, don’t we? Aurora is the beautiful princess. And I—
I am the villain.
Published: April 2021
My ThoughtsMany readers will love this book. I’m simply not the right reader.
The beginning hooked me. The magic system fascinated me, and I loved Alyce’s character.
But the story drags. The 469 pages could’ve easily been cut down to 350.
The plot meanders, never really committing to something specific. What we have is hints at lots of themes telling us we should feel outraged or enchanted or whatever else, while showing us none of it.
The romance doesn’t feel like a romance at all until we’re suddenly rushing into a sex scene. We don’t see the buildup leading into this proclamation of intense love. Instead, it feels almost like a business relationship turning to a cautious friendship, then bam, they’re burning for each other as if the fire had been there all along.
None of the characters are well developed. We’re told a lot about them, but we don’t see most of it in play.
The last 20% of the book explodes with action, some of which didn’t ring true to the characters for me. We have the major cliffhanger, as well, so if those bother you, then wait for the second book to be released before reading this one.
*I received an eARC from the publisher, via NetGalley.*
The post Book Review — MALICE by Heather Walter appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
New Release Spotlight — THE LIGHTS ON KNOCKBRIDGE LANE by Roan Parrish
Can one man’s crowded, messy life fill another man’s empty heart?
Raising a family was always Adam Mills’ dream, although solo parenting and moving back to tiny Garnet Run certainly were not. After a messy breakup, Adam is doing his best to give his young daughter the life she deserves—including accepting help from their new, reclusive neighbor to fulfill her Christmas wish.
Though the little house may not have “the most lights ever,” the Mills home begins to brighten as handsome Wes Mobray spends more time there and slowly sheds his protective layers. But when the eye-catching house ends up in the news, Wes has to make a choice: hide from the darkness of his unusual past or embrace the light of a future—and a family—with Adam.
Add The Lights on Knockbridge Lane to your Goodreads!
Buy The Lights on Knockbridge Lane by Roan Parrish Harlequin.com.
Excerpt of The Lights on Knockbridge Lane by Roan Parrish (Sept 28)
Harlequin Special Edition
Add The Lights on Knockbridge Lane to your Goodreads!
Everyone on Knockbridge Lane had a different theory about Westley Mobray. It was the first thing Adam Mills heard about as he introduced himself around last week, when he and August moved in.
The eight-year-old McKinnon twins next door said he was a vampire. Their parents, Darren and Rose McKinnon, scoffed at that, but said he could be a witch. Marisol Gutierrez three doors down insisted she’d seen him skulking around the neighborhood at night, hunting for animals to sacrifice to the devil. A teenager at the end of the street reported that anyone who looked him in the eyes would be hypnotized, and anyone who touched him would turn to stone. Mr. Montgomery on the corner just said freak.
Westley Mobray was never seen before sunset, though mysterious packages arrived on his doorstep often. He never spoke to anyone and never waved hello. And late at night, the windows of his run-down house glowed an eerie green.
At least, that’s what they told Adam.
So when he saw the man in question through the twilit haze of his own front window—with his daughter in tow—he was understandably startled. Especially since he’d thought she was playing quietly in her room.
He’d slammed two coffees to prevent it, but he’d been asleep. The kind of light, unsatisfying sleep he often fell into when he had a moment of quiet. Which was something that didn’t happen that often as the newly single parent of an eight-year-old.
His insomnia had been pretty bad since the divorce, and worse since they moved back to Garnet Run, where he was the only one responsible for Gus.
The knock at the door jerked him out of that strange sleep, and he scrambled for the door, stubbing his toe in the process, so that when he yanked it open he was biting back the kind of words that he tried with varying degrees of success not to say in front of Gus.
He focused on Gus first. She was all in one piece and was even smiling. It was her I did something bad and delightful smile, but a smile was good—at least when on a child who seemed to have been forcibly dragged home by an irate stranger.
“Where is your coat?” is what came out of Adam’s mouth.
Sometimes he tried to remember what it was like when he talked about things like the composition of his next shot, which restaurant’s tiramisu he preferred, or the latest cozy mystery he was reading.
Now he said things like “Where is your coat” and “Don’t take that apart” and “If you don’t stop making that sound I might have to throttle you.” Okay, he didn’t say the last one so much as think it. Often.
“It’s not that cold,” his wonderful, brilliant daughter said, her lips only vaguely blue.
Adam counseled himself to breathe.
Once he’d determined that Gus was all in one piece and frostbite wasn’t imminent, he turned his attention to the man who’d brought her home.
“Um,” he said intelligently.
Westley Mobray was tall and severe, with shaved dark hair and strong dark eyebrows over piercing blue eyes. Those eyes were narrowed slightly, either in anger or—if the neighborhood rumors were to be believed—because he never went outside when there was the slightest bit of light still in the sky, as it would, of course, burn him to ash.
“She broke into my house,” he said. His voice was low and rough with disuse.
“She’s eight.”
About the AuthorRoan Parrish lives in Philadelphia, where she’s gradually attempting to write love stories in every genre. When not writing, she can be found cutting her friends’ hair, meandering through the city while listening to torch songs and melodic death metal, or cooking overly elaborate meals. She loves bonfires, winter beaches, minor chord harmonies, and self-tattooing. One time she may or may not have baked a six-layer chocolate cake and then thrown it out the window in a fit of pique.
Connect with the Author
Website: https://www.roanparrish.com/
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/roanparrish/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/RoanParrish
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/roanparrish/
The post New Release Spotlight — THE LIGHTS ON KNOCKBRIDGE LANE by Roan Parrish appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 9, 2021
New Release Spotlight — THE LIGHTHOUSE WITCHES by C.J. Cooke
When single mother Liv is commissioned to paint a mural in a 100-year-old lighthouse on a remote Scottish island, it’s an opportunity to start over with her three daughters–Luna, Sapphire, and Clover. When two of her daughters go missing, she’s frantic. She learns that the cave beneath the lighthouse was once a prison for women accused of witchcraft. The locals warn her about wildlings, supernatural beings who mimic human children, created by witches for revenge. Liv is told wildlings are dangerous and must be killed.
Twenty-two years later, Luna has been searching for her missing sisters and mother. When she receives a call about her youngest sister, Clover, she’s initially ecstatic. Clover is the sister she remembers–except she’s still seven years old, the age she was when she vanished. Luna is worried Clover is a wildling. Luna has few memories of her time on the island, but she’ll have to return to find the truth of what happened to her family. But she doesn’t realize just how much the truth will change her.
Published: October 5, 2021
ExcerptLUNA, 2021
I
Luna swims to the surface of sleep and lurches upright with a gasp.
She had the dream again. The one about her mother killing her. This time her mother made her sit in the lantern room of the Longing, the sky outside dark and sequined with stars. On the ground, a silky plum-dark liquid swirled around her feet.
“Hold still,” her mother said, and she squeezed her knees to- gether as she had a hundred times before, when her mother braided her hair and ordered her to sit still. Only this time, her mother wasn’t braiding her hair. She was smashing Luna’s head with a hammer. The liquid on the ground was her blood.
The tapping sound of the hammer continues, seeping into her conscious thoughts. She realizes she didn’t dream that part at all— it’s coming from the front door.
She gets up awkwardly, cradling her stomach with a hand as she moves one leg at a time over the side of the bed, the roundness of it fitting neatly into her palm. Up until twenty weeks she’d had no bump at all, no proof of her cargo. She fretted about it, mostly because her pregnancy app depicted a cartoon of a woman with a neat round melon and all she’d developed was a kind of spare tire around her waistline that sagged over her jeans. Somewhere around week twenty-four her belly had seemed to erupt. Now she can’t go an hour without peeing and could eat beefsteak tomatoes until the cows come home. She eats them like apples, letting the sweet red juice run down the sides of her mouth, seeds corralling in her cleavage.
The knocking continues. She pulls the door open to find Mar- garet standing there, their neighbor from the flat upstairs. Marga- ret’s in her seventies and generally aggrieved about something or other. Today is no exception.
“I really do think I’m a very patient neighbor, but this really takes both the cake and the biscuit!”
“I’m sorry, what?” Luna’s eyes fall on the object that Margaret is holding in front of her like evidence of some sort. It’s a limpet shell.
“I have no objection to you running a business from home,” Margaret says, “and when Ethan said he wanted to clean his tools in the front garden, did I quibble? Not a word did you hear from me. But when youdecide to fill your bin until it explodes all over the street, I really must speak out. I could have twisted my ankle!” “I don’t know what you’re . . .” Luna steps forward, following the sweep of Margaret’s hand to the wheelie bin left out on the curb. Someone has dumped another two bags of rubbish inside, leaving the lid flipped open. The top bag has ripped, revealing hundreds of shells that spew over the garden path: cockles, whelks, periwinkles, barnacles, and even what she used to call smacked lugs, the purple and black ear-shape of mussel shells. Someone’s shell collection, perhaps, or a homeschool project.
Margaret follows her to the bin, where she stoops down, trying to pick up one of the burst bags to stuff it back into the bin.
“I can’t for the life of me work out why you’d gather so many shells,” Margaret says, aggrieved. “Nor why you’d put them in the general waste.”
“I didn’t.” Luna says it with a sigh. Her head throbs and it’s suddenly difficult to breathe.
“Ethan must have done it,” Margaret decides, folding her arms. “Ethan’s not here.”
“Not here? Well, where is he?”
Luna turns and places her hands on the old woman’s shoulders. “I’ll clean it up,” she says with a forced smile.
“But . . . but . . .”
Before Margaret can think of another stream of questions Luna has headed back inside, locking the door behind her.
IILight from the window washes the surfaces of Luna’s flat: a Pilates reformer, her sewing table, the life-sized orthopedic skeleton she bought Ethan as a gift when he started his physiology course, her handmade necklaces of leather and driftwood hanging from an ironing board. The plan was to sell the necklaces on Etsy and buy baby things with the extra cash, but the orders haven’t exactly been flooding in. Ethan has taken on extra Pilates classes to cover their rent, but he failed his last physiology exams. On the coffee table—an old milk crate they plucked out of a Dumpster—there’s a stack of textbooks borrowed from the library for Monday’s re-sit.
She sinks down on the sofa, anger crackling in her ears, fizzing in her wrists. The dream of her mother dances around her head like shards of glass. Every time she thinks or dreams of her mother, it happens. Ethan calls the days after such dreams a rage hangover— the massive comedown from some intense buildup of fury—and as usual she’s drained and weepy. Her memories of Lòn Haven are still so fragmented, little more than shattered slivers of a mirror.
The psychiatrist said trauma can cause memory loss. What- ever happened was so terrible it caused her to dissociate, effec- tively checking out of the horror. But the memories will be in there somewhere, buried deep in theearth of her mind. It makes her angry, the forgetting. What she does know—or what her social services file states—is that her mother, Liv, abandoned her there when she was nine. No explanation. No apparent motivation. Just dumped her in the woods and vanished into thin air.
She’s never been back to Lòn Haven, never so much as googled it. The very thought of that place triggers a panic attack.
She cradles the small gray triangle of a limpet shell in her hand. A limpet will wear away a patch of rock to fit its shell exactly. A home scar, it’s called, sealing it to the rock. Creating a tight fit to its home. Limpets move around at night to feed, but they always return to the home scar.
Where did she learn that? A few images begin to coalesce in her mind: her mother at a garden gate, bending down to pick up a limpet shell. There’s a raging sea behind her. And a lighthouse.
It’s Lòn Haven.
Luna gives a shudder and sets the shell down as though it’s white hot. She doesn’t dare touch it. Ethan is coming to pick her up shortly for the hospital scan. She’ll ask him to sweep up the shells when he arrives.
About the Author
C J Cooke (Carolyn Jess-Cooke) lives in Glasgow with her husband and four children. C J Cooke’s works have been published in 23 languages and have won many awards. She holds a PhD in Literature from the Queen’s University of Belfast and is currently Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow, where she researches creative writing interventions for mental health. Two of her books are currently optioned for film. Visit www.CJCookeAuthor.com
The post New Release Spotlight — THE LIGHTHOUSE WITCHES by C.J. Cooke appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
New Release Spotlight — THE THIEF CATCHER: A Delia Frost Novel by Jonette Blake
A holiday in this tropical resort could be her last.
Delia Frost is ready to quit her job and take a holiday. But she wants a relaxing holiday, not the one her husband dreams of; traveling in a motorhome. Sending airfare money to her two children who are holidaying abroad so they can all meet up for this family holiday, she packs her and her husband’s bags for seven glorious days in a tropical island resort.
But even thieves need to take a holiday, and once more Delia finds herself caught in a web of thievery and murder. And this time it is not only her life in danger, it is the lives of her children.
Can she catch this murderous thief before it’s too late?
Book Details:Genre: Murder Mystery
Published by: Self-Published
Publication Date: August 13th 2021
Number of Pages: 270
ISBN: 978-1922694003
Series: A Delia Frost Novel
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:Chapter 1 Room 101
ONE DAY AGO
A door slammed, startling the cleaner who had left the balcony door open to air out the smell of bleach. The wind liked to whip across the ocean straight into the rooms on this side of the resort. Josephine pulled the glass door closed, slipped a mask over her face to block out the acrid stench of cleaning products, and popped her headphones onto her head.
Cleaning the hotel rooms with headphones was against hotel policy. It was written on the board in the staff room: PLEASE DON’T WEAR HEADPHONES WHILE CLEANING THE ROOMS. It had something to do with a cleaner once surprising a male guest who had left a sign on the door handle to make up the room, but had forgotten something and returned. The cleaner, a young woman from the Pacific Islands named Roxy, had not heard him return. The way Josephine had heard the story; Roxy claimed the guest had groped her, and the guest claimed he’d busted Roxy rummaging through his suitcase. Roxy had a habit of stealing items, so Josephine had believed the guest’s story. But Roxy was also stunningly beautiful, and often international guests would offer her money to come live with them, so Josephine had also believed Roxy’s story. Both were probably right.
Bottom line: the cleaners always got blamed.
Deep in her thoughts, Josephine hadn’t heard the door to the bathroom open. And she hadn’t heard someone creeping across the tiled floor. But the song on her music list ended and she heard a noise coming from within the closet.
This room was empty. Guests weren’t due to arrive until tomorrow.
Glancing at the balcony door, she saw it was closed.
Her mother believed in ghosts. Josephine did not.
She switched off the music. There. Something was inside the closet.
Probably a possum, she thought. Or a stupid bird. The resort was swarming with wild animals that liked to break into rooms and steal food or other items. Once, a magpie had flown in and stolen a woman’s bikini and used it in its nest.
Josephine crept towards the closet door. She was deathly afraid of animals. But she had to get it out of the room before it caused the worst kind of mess to clean.
Halfway across the room, the closet door opened.
Someone stepped out.
They wore a white billowing top and pants and a large straw hat, as if they were a ghost, and her breath caught in her throat. She slipped off her mask, suddenly unable to breathe.
“You can’t be in here,” Josephine said. “This room isn’t supposed to be occupied till tomorrow. How did you get in?”
The intruder held up a hand and pointed a finger at the balcony door. This room was on the second floor. The intruder would have to have climbed thin air to get inside.
She still couldn’t see the intruder’s face: the hat was pulled down low. They were a small build, nothing discernible, and she was too startled to pull her gaze away to check for features that might tell her more about this person’s identity and intention.
It could have been a man beneath the loose-fitting clothes, but it could also have been a woman. And until she saw the face, she had no idea if they were young or old.
“I have to call the manager,” Josephine said.
The intruder’s finger wiggled in the universal sign of ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you’.
Suddenly loud music blasted out of the small stereo – each room had a DVD player, a TV, a small stereo, and a selection of CDs. This was loud, noisy, angry music.
Josephine’s insides chilled. This was just how Roxy had described her attack.
At last the intruder lifted their head. She stared into a set of dark eyes that brimmed with anger.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, shouting to be heard.
The intruder stood there, blocking her exit through the front door. The balcony door wasn’t an option because it was a sheer drop to the pool area below.
“Okay,” Josephine said. “You can leave now. I won’t report you. I can keep my mouth shut. You ask my cousin if I’ve told anyone about the money she stole from her in-laws’ restaurant.”
Angry, dark eyes stared back at her.
“Okay. I’ll leave and you stay.”
Josephine took a step toward the door.
The intruder took a step forward.
She quickly backed up.
A knife appeared in the intruder’s hand.
Her weapon of defence was a spray bottle containing bleach, which she threw at the intruder before spinning to bolt for the balcony door.
She felt a hand grab her long hair, which hotel rules stated had to be tied back, only now her ponytail was being used like a rope to drag her into the room.
She started kicking and screaming. Realised that nobody would hear her screams over the music, but she screamed anyway.
A hand landed on her mouth.
She bit it.
She bit harder, so hard that she was flung across the room. She scrambled up, hissing like a cat, curling her fingers into claws, her long nails now her only defence.
The glint of the steel knife stopped her. And then the intruder surprised her by tossing the knife onto the lounge.
Her gaze was fixated on the knife as it swung through the air, and she followed its trajectory to the lounge. Her reflexes sprung into action. She lunged for the knife, but the intruder lunged at her, barrelling into her and knocking her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her.
“What’s the combination to the safe?” a gruff voice asked.
“I. Don’t. Know.”
“Liar.”
“I…”
The hands around her throat were squeezing tight.
“Tell me.”
“I…”
Tears coursed down her cheeks, blinding her.
Play dead, her brain commanded.
And so she did. She let her body go limp, her mind go free, and she closed her eyes and took herself to a quiet place, a special place, one reserved for moments of enlightenment.
And then the tight feeling around her throat was gone.
She lay there, too afraid to move, and equally afraid not to leap up and run for her life.
And the music stopped.
In the distance, she heard seagulls squawking. A warm breeze blew into the room. Laughter billowed up from the pool. The balcony door must have been open for her to hear the sounds of activity down below.
How long should I lie here, she wondered? Five minutes. Ten? An hour?
She finally opened her eyes.
And realised that she couldn’t move. Her body was numb. Her mouth wouldn’t open. None of her limbs worked.
And then loud music blasted again.
Chapter 2SUNDAY
Twilight reflected on the water like millions of fireflies, casting a shimmery haze to reflect off the surface. The white hulls of the luxurious cruisers in the harbour captured the remaining afternoon sun. Smaller boats bobbed gently up and down. Seagulls flew overhead. Pelicans settled to roost on the streetlights. A gentle breeze blew in as if it also sought a place to settle for the night.
A perfect balmy evening. Just the way I liked it. Not too hot. Not too cold. Moments like this were called Goldilocks moments, where everything was ‘not too this’ or ‘not too that’. I stood motionless, gazing out across the marina, soaking up the perfect moment, wishing for a glass of champagne to toast this magnificent sight. I could see why this placed was called Majestic Island.
I tore my gaze away from the marina and pulled it toward the mainland, eight kilometres away and yet still visible from the island. At least for another few hours until night closed its curtains. A moving light on the water’s surface caught my eye. It belonged to a small dinghy. The white anchor light moved up and down, as if it was drifting along the current. Darkness had not yet fallen so I could see that the dinghy was without its master.
“What are you looking at, Mrs Frost?”
I flinched. Richard had startled me. And why was my husband suddenly referring to me as Mrs? He knew I hated the reference, it made me feel old. Worse, it made me feel like his mother, who insisted on everyone calling her Mrs Frost. I liked his mother, and she liked me, but I wasn’t interested in becoming her.
His lips lifted in a smile; he was teasing me.
“Just watching the harbour, Old Man,” I replied, using the term he disliked the most. His silvery hair was the only indication that he was almost fifty-five, but his hair had been silver for so long, strangers had difficulty guessing his age.
He stopped beside me and joined me in gazing out over the bay. “Gorgeous view.”
“Yes, but that boat is floating in the water without a master.” I pointed a finger; it took Richard a few seconds to locate the slow-moving anchor light.
“Are you sure it’s adrift?”
“I’ve been watching it for a while. It’s moved with the current, but there isn’t anyone on board. It’s out there, floating aimlessly, alone, lost.”
“Delia, you make it sound like it’s in the depths of despair.”
“It could be dangerous when the ferry arrives.”
“You’re right. I’ll tell the restaurant manager about the boat. He can call the marina manager to check it out.”
The ferry had dropped us on Majestic Island an hour ago. I’d hardly had time to unpack: Richard had made dinner reservations at the marina restaurant. We’d been on our way there when Richard had told me to wait while he went on ahead to check on our booking. I hadn’t questioned his reasoning: this might have led to a long discussion about something I was too tired from the ten-hour drive today to feign interest in. So I’d let him go on ahead while I stopped to soak up the sunset.
“Our table is ready,” Richard said. “We can go in now.”
I nodded, too distracted to give him my full attention. The dinghy was keeping me mesmerised. To wish to be in that boat as it floated out to sea was an irrational desire to escape, and yet I couldn’t stop the idea from settling in.
At last, I pulled my attention away from the boat and headed inside the restaurant, a place named The Shack, with wooden walls and floors, and marina paraphernalia strung about. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling. A large aquarium with colourful fish inside sat behind the main desk. There was a large metal artwork with the four cardinal directions hanging behind the bar. A massive blue marlin fish was mounted to a wooden beam.
The waiter smiled at me and held out his arm like he was directing traffic. I’d lost sight of Richard, so I had no idea where our table was located.
“Where are we sitting?” I asked the waiter.
He turned and headed for the table against the window.
I caught a glimpse of myself in a porthole-shaped mirror: white Capri pants with a red and black off-the-shoulder top. I could take no credit for the top – it had belonged to my twenty-two-year-old daughter Georgia, and I’d inherited it after she’d left for her overseas trip. I hadn’t had the chance to wear it until now; summer wouldn’t reach our hometown of Batemans Cove for another few months. My suitcase was filled with whatever of my daughter’s tops and summer shoes were suitable for a fifty-three-year-old woman, and whatever I could fit into.
The waiter stopped at the table.
Richard sat on the left, and there were two other people seated around the table.
“Mum.” Georgia leapt up, hugged me and planted a kiss on my cheek. I noticed that she’d cut her dark hair so that it fell in curls just below her shoulders. Her skin was golden brown, that I almost hadn’t recognised her.
My son stood up next. Tristan was two years older than Georgia. I had last seen him a few months ago, and yet I was taken aback at how much he’d changed. He had a neatly-trimmed beard and he seemed to have grown another two inches taller. I had to stand on my toes to accept his kiss on the cheek.
“What are you doing here?” I said to them both. “You weren’t supposed to be arriving until tomorrow.”
Georgia grinned. “Dad wanted to surprise you. Surprise.”
I spun to find Richard grinning like a man with the winning lottery ticket.
“If I’d known you were coming,” I said feigning annoyance, “I’d have had my hair done and worn make up.”
Georgia laughed. “Oh, mum you look great. Hey, isn’t that my top?”
I grabbed them both and pulled them close. They were my rocks and I felt anchored by their presence. All thoughts of drifting out to sea were instantly forgotten.
The waiter arrived, his presence breaking apart our huddle. Standing beside him was a gorgeous woman with long dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale yet not sickly complexion. She wore an off-the-shoulder yellow top and a denim skirt. I suddenly wondered if we had been seated at her table and the waiter was here to move us.
Tristan brushed past me to stand beside the woman. “Mum. I’d like to introduce you to Mary Ramirez. She’s my fiancé.”
My hand reached for the back of the chair for support. Three months ago, Richard had suffered a heart attack. I finally knew how it felt to have one’s heart just stop.
“Way to go, big brother,” Georgia said, hugging Tristan tightly then throwing her arms around Mary.
“Congratulations,” I said, finding my voice. “This is a bit of a shock. A nice shock, but still a shock.”
“I’m sorry to spring this on you,” Tristan said with an apologetic smile. “But there’s no easy way to announce something like this.”
I supposed there wasn’t.
“Tristan stressed about how to tell you on the plane ride over,” Mary said. Even her voice was gorgeous, throaty and melodic.
She flashed her finger at me; it was as if a star had exploded and one bright shard had fallen to earth and landed on her finger. How could Tristan have afforded such a ring?
While Georgia gushed over the diamond, I sought out Richard’s hand. From the corner of my mouth, I said, “Did you know about this?”
“As if I’d keep something this big a secret from you,” he stage-whispered back.
It was my turn to admire the ring. All those years of wondering if my son would find true love drifted away.
I glanced up to see that Mary was staring at something happening in another part of the restaurant. She finally turned back to face us; her smile seemed forced.
“I thought you were in Africa on holidays,” I said to Tristan.
He grinned. “I was on holidays. That’s where I met Mary.”
“Let’s all sit down,” Richard said. He turned to the waiter. “We’d like a bottle of sparkling wine please.”
“Make it two bottles,” I said.
My nerves were in overdrive. I could literally have drained one of them on my own.
The waiter nodded and left. He returned with two bottles of sparkling wine and two buckets with ice, fussing over opening the first bottle, making so much noise with the ice bucket it was like listening to a cat at a litter box. I grabbed the other bottle and handed it to Richard to open.
I felt Tristan’s gaze on me.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” he asked.
“Of course I’m happy. I’m just a little shocked.”
“It’s still a bit of a shock to me too. I mean, who’d have thought I’d ever land a woman like Mary.”
He began to move his cutlery around on the table. That was when I suspected that Tristan was nervous about something.
Georgia blurted out what had been on my mind a few minutes ago. “So did you pay for the ring or did Mary?”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said.
Georgia address Mary next. “Well, if you take it off to go swimming, my advice is to leave it in the hotel main safe. The safes in the rooms are like toys. They’re too easy to break into.”
Chapter 3Georgia nudged me. “What are you having to eat?”
We were both hiding behind our menus to whisper between ourselves. It used to infuriate Richard and Tristan that we’d deliberate over the menu items with the precision of generals heading to war. What if you ordered ‘this’ and I ordered ‘that’ and then we shared? What else have you eaten today? What if we shared ‘this’ or ‘that’ meal and then each got a dessert? What dessert would we order? What if you ordered ‘this’ dessert and I ordered ‘that’ dessert and then we each got a taste? Should we have the creamy dessert knowing we are having the creamy main meal? Perhaps we should rethink our main meal selections? All the while deflecting the looks of exasperation from Richard and Tristan because they knew what meals they were having, because for them it could only ever be the most calorie-laden foods on offer.
But I wasn’t studying the menu. I was clutching it like a lifeline, using it as a shield, and as a means to study Mary. I had known that Tristan was bringing his girlfriend with him on this holiday – I had learned that he was serious about a girl, via my sister Madison, so I’d insisted that Tristan’s new girlfriend accompany him on this trip. If they were serious, I wanted to meet her. I hadn’t expected her to turn up waving an engagement ring around.
Though, I ought not to have been surprised. This was Tristan, the boy who fell in love with whoever smiled at him.
Lowering my menu, I snuck a glance in Georgia’s direction, and she wasn’t the slightest bit subtle about studying Tristan’s fiancé.
Tristan swatted her with his napkin. “Cut it out.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Georgia was unable to keep the grin off her face. “So are you two having an engagement party?”
Tristan’s gaze flickered to Mary who was placing her napkin in her lap. She looked up and gave Tristan a polite smile.
“It all happened rather quickly,” Tristan stammered. “We haven’t thought about it yet.”
“How did it happen, exactly?” Georgia sat with her arms folded over themselves, leaning in close. With one hand she lazily grabbed for the wine glass and took a sip. “I want all the details. How did you two meet?”
Tristan shot her a cautionary look. “We met at work.”
“I thought you weren’t working. That was the last email I received from you. ‘Still haven’t found a job’. I wondered how you were paying for your travels. Unless mum and dad loaned you money.”
Richard scowled. “We didn’t loan him money.”
“You got an email?” I asked, feeling left out.
Georgia flicked her curly hair. “So, big brother, how can you afford such a lovely ring? Can I look at it again? It’s so big and shiny, it’s like it needs planets orbiting it.”
She didn’t wait for Mary to offer her finger. Georgia grabbed Mary’s hand and stroked the ring.
There were times when my daughter’s boldness could grate my nerves as thinly as dust, and then there were moments like this when her boldness was inspiring. The ring must have cost thousands of dollars. Tristan didn’t have thousands of dollars.
At last, Georgia let go of Mary’s hand. Mary returned to calmly sitting at the table, as if she had trained for this inquisition. Precisely what had Tristan told her about our family?
I topped up my glass. “How about we go around the table and catch up on what we’ve been up to. Who wants to start?”
“Well, Tristan’s already caught everyone up,” Georgia said. “So it must be my turn. I’ve been having a ball in Europe.” She took the bottle off me and topped up her glass. “It’s amazing how cheaply you can travel if the right people tell you where the non-touristy places are. I’ve tasted so much new food. I’ve picked grapes at vineyards and berries at orchards.” She set down the bottle and took a drink from her glass. “Not bad. I stayed at a villa in France recently where I learned to distinguish good wine from bad. This is not bad.”
“I thought you were in Finland,” I said.
“I’ve been all over Europe. You can get to most places by train. Or you can hitch a ride.”
“Who are you running away from this time?” Tristan said, giving her a wry smile.
Mary sat up. “Why would she run away?”
Tristan shrugged. “The moment a guy gets interested in my sister, she’s suddenly not interested in him.”
Richard tossed his napkin onto the empty plate. “Georgia, you will not hitch rides in foreign countries. We’ve taught you better than that.” He turned to me. “Haven’t we? We’ve told her not to hitch rides.”
“Of course we’ve told her not to.”
Georgia was giggling. “Relax, Dad. I was joking. Just waiting to see how long before you got all fired up.”
“You are so immature,” Tristan said. “And you should know better than to rile Dad up in his condition.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Richard snapped.
Tristan spoke to Mary: “Dad had a heart attack a few months ago.”
“A mild heart attack.” Richard leaned in close to Mary. “I’m as fit as I was when I was twenty-four.”
Good lord, was he flirting with her?
“He’s supposed to take things easy,” Tristan added.
Georgia groaned. “Can’t you take a hint, big brother? I’m trying to deflect the attention off you by lightening the mood. You’ve sprung this engagement on Mum and Dad, but fine, you still want the limelight. You’re up. Tell us everything.”
All heads swivelled to stare at Tristan, whose face was turning bright red. Obviously Georgia had hit a nerve.
Mary stood up and swept her polite smile around the table. “Perhaps I’ll go to the bathroom to freshen up. Excuse me.”
Tristan and Georgia glared at one another.
“That’s enough out of you two,” I said. “We are here for a holiday and I will not have you ruin it with your constant bickering.”
“Sorry,” they both said in unison.
Then Tristan lowered his voice and snuck a furtive look over his shoulder. “The thing is, Mary comes from a very wealthy family and her parents don’t approve of her job.”
“And what job is that?” I asked.
“She works with a large security firm. Her parents want her to return to the family business.”
“Which is?”
Honestly, this holiday would be over by the time Tristan finished connecting the dots of this story, which was his way of saying he didn’t want to tell me anything; this had been his way of avoiding telling me about a bad grade or a fight he’d gotten into at school. Give only vague answers. Better than Georgia though, who had, between the age of fourteen and fifteen, chosen to grunt as her method of communication.
“They own a chain of jewellery stores,” he said.
“In Africa?”
“No, in Argentina.”
“What’s the issue about not wanting to work there?”
“She lives in Africa. The stores are in Argentina.”
“Tristan!”
“I don’t know exactly what the issue is. I haven’t met her family. Please don’t make a big deal out of this. We’re planning on visiting them after this holiday.”
My insides warmed that Tristan had wanted Mary to meet us before he met her family.
“What about siblings?” Georgia asked. “How many?”
“I don’t know. Shut up, will you. It’s not like you know anything about the men you date.”
Georgia’s sly grin deepened. “I’m not marrying any of the men I’ve dated.”
The conversation around the table halted abruptly when Mary appeared. She wore a confused look on her face.
“I didn’t get a chance to explain,” Tristan said with a sigh.
“Oh.” Mary looked back toward the toilets. “Perhaps I should…”
“Our apologies, Mary,” Richard said. “It appears as if our children have returned to Australia without their manners. I’d have thought holidaying abroad would have matured them.”
“We’re not cheese,” Georgia said, slugging back the wine.
I’d lost count if this was her third or fourth glass. Not that I could criticise. I’d almost finished my bottle: it had done nothing to settle the shock of learning that my son was getting married and I wasn’t getting his emails.
As Mary took her seat, she appeared to be sending Tristan a silent message that I couldn’t interpret. Then the waiter arrived with a basket of warmed rolls and none of us got to hear any more about how Tristan and Mary met.
During the lulls in conversation, Tristan refused to fill in the gaps. Mary was polite, charming, she spoke of her life in a vague way, never giving specific details. She lived ‘near the coast’. She worked ‘in security’. Her family was ‘just like any other family’. How would the two of them even be able to open a joint bank account if neither of them could provide any real information?
Georgia tried her best to pry the finer points out of the two of them, but Tristan wasn’t talking and Mary wasn’t offering anything, and I realised it wasn’t them being vague. It was as if the two of them had an arrangement in place: no spoilers. Which meant there was something better to come.
My hand shook as I tore my bread roll in half. Good lord she was pregnant. It was the only explanation for this sudden engagement. Because now that a little of the shock had worn off, they didn’t look like a young couple in love. They looked like two scared teenagers.
***
To get things back on track, I tapped my glass with my fork and waited until all eyes were on me.
“I too have an announcement,” I said. “I’ve quit my job and your father and I are travelling for the next nine months.”
“It was meant to be twelve,” Richard said. “But we’ve spent the last three months getting things organised.”
“Anyway, I think we should have a birthday party for your father while we are here.”
“That’s a great idea,” Tristan said.
Richard’s eyes lit up. “I do like a party in my honour.”
“Mum and I can organise it,” Georgia said. “It’ll be fun, like old times.”
“Mum is on holidays,” I told her. “The resort must have an event planner. At the very least we can have a fancy dinner.”
“We could have a combined birthday and engagement party.” Georgia was giggling, so I knew it was a joke. Richard, however, could not see the funny side.
“I’m not having a combined party,” he said. “No offense to the happy couple, but I spent my childhood having a combined birthday with your Uncle Reggie. It’s not fun.”
All heads swung in the happy couples’ direction, and once again I was struck by how much they looked like frightened children.
They were a happy couple, weren’t they?
***
Excerpt from The Thief Catcher by Jonette Blake. Copyright 2021 by Jonette Blake. Reproduced with permission from Jonette Blake. All rights reserved.
About the Author
Jonette Blake writes supernatural thrillers and suspense thrillers. She is the author of over ten books and dozens of short stories, writing as D L Richardson. She was born in Ireland and grew up in Australia. She lived through the 80s and music is still a big part of her life. When she is not writing, she plays her piano and guitar, listens to music, reads, and enjoys the beach. She has held jobs in administration, sales and marketing, has worked in HR, payroll, and as a bank teller. Her latest novel The Widow Catcher is based on the coastal town she lives in and her own bank teller experience.
www.JonetteBlake.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @iandebr
Instagram – @debbielrichardson
Twitter – @DLRichardson1
Facebook – @JonetteBlake
Tour Participants:
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, & guest posts!
Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours
The post New Release Spotlight — THE THIEF CATCHER: A Delia Frost Novel by Jonette Blake appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 8, 2021
New YA Contemporary Romance — PAPER BUTTERFLIES by Michelle Chamberland
Neil Summers is a preacher’s son.
Religious, pure, off-limits.
Especially for Olivia—who only wants to defile and corrupt him.
On the first day back to school after summer break, seventeen-year-old Olivia Davis finds herself gawking at Neil—yes, gawking. Ugh. Wholesome, kind, and holy Neil; the son of a preacher, Neil. But she can’t put her finger on what it is, exactly, that’s different about him. Broader shoulders, suddenly more chiseled features, and a new haircut, sure, but it’s something else. Maybe it’s the way he now carries himself, full of calm and confidence. Maybe it’s the memories they share of being childhood best friends.
Or maybe…it’s the look in his eyes that screams he might not be so wholesome after all.
Published: August 2021
Ever wonder why an author writes within a particular genre? Does the author choose it, or does it choose the author?
Here’s Michelle Chamberland’s answer to: Why do you write romance?
Because I love love. The way it shapes us, defines us. Give me any story—one of heartache, tragedy, laughter, comedy, darker themes, lighter themes, science fiction, fantasy, contemporary, whatever—if there is a good love story at its core, I will almost always fall in love with it.
It’s magical, and universal, and it fascinates me.
I actually wrote a small piece about love a few weeks ago, and I’d love to share it.
“I love the way we, as humans, love. Hearts racing, breaths catching. Hands trembling. Eyes glittering. As if the feeling is too much for only our souls to bear.”
It’s a simple, four-lettered word… and yet every facet of it is completely out of our control.
I kind of love that for us. That we don’t get to choose how, or when, or who. It just happens. In an infinite number of ways, to an infinite number of people, and I’ve always found myself consumed with the idea of it.
When I started writing, it wasn’t even a thought. I just knew, at the heart of my every story, there was going to be two people falling in love.
And because I fell in love when I was young (I was fourteen when I met my future husband), I’m kind of obsessed with the fact that I get to fall again and again through my characters, within the pages of my books.
You know, when I’m not falling for him all over again, too. 
Michelle Chamberland is a moon-loving, manifesting, daydreaming author, wifey, and mama to two rad kiddos, living in sunny Southern California. She is an absolute lover of losing herself between the pages of new worlds and clawing her way out on the other side with the worst (in the best way) book hangovers. You can find her on Instagram and TikTok @iamtheauthormc
The post New YA Contemporary Romance — PAPER BUTTERFLIES by Michelle Chamberland appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 7, 2021
New Release Spotlight — MOUNTAIN FUGITIVE by Lynette Eason
Their search for a fugitive
makes them both targets.
Out horseback riding, Dr. Katherine Gilroy accidentally stumbles into a deadly shoot-out and comes to US marshal Dominic O’Ryan’s aid. Now with Dominic injured and under her care, she’s determined to help him find her brother—the fugitive he believes murdered his partner. While Katherine’s sure her brother isn’t guilty, someone’s dead set on killing her and Dominic…and finding the truth is their one shot at survival.
Add Mountain Fugitive to your Goodreads!
Buy Mountain Fugitive by Lynette Eason
Harlequin.com: https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781335735850_mountain-fugitive.html
Heart pounding a rapid beat, Katherine pulled Hotshot to a stop between the men and the direction the bullets had come from, praying the person wouldn’t shoot the horse. She slid from the saddle, leaving the reins trailing the ground, then snagged the first-aid kit from the saddlebag. US marshals according to the vests the men wore.
Looked like their prisoner or fugitive had turned the tables on them. Which meant the person was either gone now that he’d taken care of the threat—or she was now a target because she planned to try to help the men. A quick scan of the area didn’t reveal anything unusual or worrisome, but the trees could easily be hiding the sniper.
Still using the horse as a shield, she hurried to the man closest to her. The bullet had hit him just above his left ear and he’d landed on his side. His brown, sightless eyes stared up at her and she knew he was beyond help. She checked his pulse anyway and got what she expected. Nothing.
She closed the dead man’s eyes then turned her attention to the other one. A pulse. She focused on his head. A gash just below his hairline bled freely. A low groan rumbled from him and Katherine placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move,” she said.
He blinked and she caught a glimpse of sapphire-blue eyes. He let out another groan. “Carl…”
“Just stay still and let me look at your head.”
“I’m fine.” He rolled to his side and he squinted up at her. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Dr. Katherine Gilroy so I think I’m the better judge of whether or not you’re fine. You have a head wound which means possible concussion.” She reached for him. “What’s your name?”
He pushed her hand away. “Dominic O’Ryan. A branch caught me. Knocked me loopy for a few seconds, but not out. We were running from the shooter.” His eyes sharpened. “He’s still out there.” His hand went to his right hip, gripping the empty holster next to the badge on his belt. A star within a circle.
“Where’s my gun? Where’s Carl? My partner, Carl Manning. We need to get out of here.”
“I’m sorry,” Katherine said, her voice soft. “He didn’t make it.”
He froze. Then horror sent his eyes wide—and searching. They found the man behind her and Dominic shuddered. “No. No, no, no. Carl! Carl!” He army crawled to his partner and sucked in a gasping breath, cupped Carl’s face and felt for a pulse.
Katherine didn’t bother to tell him she’d already done the same—or what he’d find. After a few seconds, he let out a low cry then sucked in another deep breath and composed his features. The intense moment has lasted only a few seconds, but Katherine knew he was compartmentalizing, stuffing his emotions into a place he could hold them and deal with them later.
She knew because she’d often done the same thing. Still did on occasion.
In spite of that, his grief was palpable, and Katherine’s heart thudded with sympathy for him. She moved back to give him some privacy, her eyes sweeping the hills around them once more. Again, she saw nothing, but the hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight up. Hotshot had done well, standing still, being a buffer between them and a possible sniper, but Katherine’s nerves were twitching—much like when she’d worked with the police department. “I think we need to find some better cover.”
As if to prove her point, another crack sounded, and Hotshot reared. His whinnying scream echoed around them. Then he bolted for home. Katherine grabbed the first-aid kit with one hand and pulled Dominic to his feet with the other. “Run!”
About the AuthorLynette Eason lives in Simpsonville, SC with her husband and two children. She is an award-winning, best-selling author who spends her days writing when she’s not traveling around the country teaching at writing conferences. Lynette enjoys visits to the mountains, hanging out with family and brainstorming stories with her fellow writers. You can visit Lynette’s website to find out more at www.lynetteeason.com or like her Facebook page at www.facebook.com/lynette.eason
SOCIAL LINKS
Website: https://lynetteeason.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lynette.eason
Twitter: https://twitter.com/lynetteeason
The post New Release Spotlight — MOUNTAIN FUGITIVE by Lynette Eason appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 6, 2021
New Domestic Suspense — THE MOTHER NEXT DOOR by Tara Laskowski
For fans of Lisa Jewell, Aimee Molloy, and Joshilyn Jackson, an upmarket suspense novel from a multi-award-winning author about a tightknit group of suburban mothers who invite a new neighborhood mom into their fold, and the fallout the night of the annual block party, when secrets from the past come back to haunt them…
The annual block party is the pinnacle of the year on idyllic suburban cul de sac Ivy Woods Drive. An influential group of neighborhood moms—known as the Ivy Five—plan the event for months.
Except the Ivy Five have been four for a long time.
When a new mother moves to town, eager to fit in, the moms see it as an opportunity to make the group whole again. This year’s block party should be the best yet… until the women start receiving anonymous messages threatening to expose the quiet neighborhood’s dark past—and the lengths they’ve gone to hide it.
As secrets seep out and the threats intensify, the Ivy Five must sort the loyal from the disloyal, the good from the bad. They’ll do anything to protect their families. But when a twisted plot is revealed, with dangerous consequences, their steady foundation begins to crumble, leaving only one certainty: after this year’s block party, Ivy Woods Drive will never be the same.
From award-winning author Tara Laskowski, The Mother Next Door is an atmospheric novel of domestic suspense in which the strive for perfection ends in murder…
The Mother Next Door : A Novel of Suspense
Tara Laskowski
On Sale Date: October 12, 2021
9781525804700
Trade Paperback
Graydon House
$16.99 USD
352 pages
PURCHASE LINKS:
Bookshop.org
Politics & Prose
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Target
Apple Books
One More Page
Kobo
Indiebound
Google Play
HALLOWEEN
Ladies and gentlemen, skulls and boys: by the time our Halloween block party is over tonight, one of us will be dead.
And I don’t mean dead as in dull, or dead as in zombified. I mean dead as in gone. Dead as in expired. Killed.
Murdered.
You may be feeling distressed about this, knowing what you know about Ivy Woods—the great neighborhood it is, the sweet, loving families that live there. How could such a tragedy happen in such a wonderful place? You may have traveled here yourself, as a child or as a parent, lured in by the local fame of the street and its ghoulish decorations each year. The lights, the smoke, the gravestones, and the moaning. The witches, cackling and handing out candy. The swarms of little Frankensteins and cowboys and robots and ballet dancers lugging their pillowcases and plastic pumpkin buckets filled with sugar and junk.
But Ivy Woods isn’t perfect.
Far from it.
Look closer. Look under the makeup and the masks, look into the windows of the perfect houses. Dig under the surface of those freshly mowed lawns and you’ll find the worms. I’ve looked—believe me, I’ve looked. There’s something about this street. There are secrets. I know from watching through the windows, from hearing the hushed conversations, from lingering on their faces when they think everyone else has looked away.
Oh they think they are perfect. They pat themselves on the back for throwing such good parties, for raising such fine children, for living in such big houses.
But they are pretending.
They don masks on this one single night to dress up as someone or something else, but in reality they live their lives this way.
We all do.
We hate ourselves. We are too fat, or too thin. We should work hard, be smarter. We are lonely and depressed. We are worried about money. We are ashamed of the way that our friends and family treat us. But we lie about it all. We hide behind a protective façade, fragile glass figurines inside elaborate dollhouses designed to look like perfect, safe, happy places.
Tonight it will all shatter.
Watch closely and you’ll begin to see what I see. There’s trouble in the air, a cold wind blowing in from far away, and it’s settled on Ivy Woods Drive. The secrets and the lies we tell ourselves and others will emerge tonight like spirits of the dead. Lines will be drawn. Sides will be taken. Someone won’t make it out alive.
I can’t save that person, but I’ll tell the story. Turn over the rocks, expose the worms. Pull back the masks.
Because I know their secrets, secrets that will destroy them all.
If they don’t destroy themselves first.
Excerpted from The Mother Next Door by Tara Laskowski, Copyright © 2021 by Tara Laskowski. Published by Graydon House Books.
About the Author
Tara LaskowskiTARA LASKOWSKI is the author of One Night Gone, which won an Agatha Award, Macavity Award, and Anthony Award, and was a finalist for the Mary Higgins Clark Award, Left Coast Crime Award, Strand Critics’ Award, and Library of Virginia Literary Award. She is also the author of two short story collections, Modern Manners for Your Inner Demons and Bystanders, has published stories in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine and Mid-American Review, among others, and is the former editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. Tara earned a BA in English from Susquehanna University and an MFA from George Mason University and currently lives in Virginia. Find her on Twitter and Instagram, @TaraLWrites.
SOCIAL LINKS:
Author website: https://taralaskowski.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tara.laskowski.9
Twitter: @TaraLWrites
Instagram: @taralwrites
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56555529-the-mother-next-door
The post New Domestic Suspense — THE MOTHER NEXT DOOR by Tara Laskowski appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 5, 2021
New Fantasy Novel — TRAITORS OF THE BLACK CROWN by Cate Pearce
Three women will betray the black crown. A Knight. A Duchess. A Queen.
Raena Schinen narrowly escaped when the Queen’s guard murdered her entire family. If Raena’s survival is exposed, she’ll be next. For fifteen years Raena has hidden as a male Knight, “Sir Rowan”, consumed by her vengeful desire to assassinate the Queen.
The moment Raena is close enough to exact her revenge, she is unexpectedly exiled to a foreign land. There she serves the common-born Duchess Aven Colby, whose suspicious kinship with the Queen further threatens Raena’s delicate secrets.
Just as they become united in a common goal to curb a looming invasion, unexpected heat and romance blossoms between “Sir Rowan” and Aven. The peril demands they set out on a journey to form clandestine political alliances, risking the Queen’s wrath, and drawing Raena and Aven closer together.
But no one in the kingdom could have imagined the sinister foe rising from below the surface. In order to save themselves and those they love, Raena, Aven, and the Queen must recognize who are the oppressors and who will unite against the Black Crown.
TRAITORS OF THE BLACK CROWN
Author: Cate Pearce
Publisher: Hansen House
Release Date: Wednesday, September 22 2021
ISBN: 978-1-7353239-6-1
ASN: B08YHNNWZF
Cover Artist: Elizabeth Jeannel
BOOK LINKS:
Publisher (Paperback)
Publisher (Hardcover)
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Goodreads
CHAPTER ONE
RAENA’S SPRING
“Knights of Hawk’s Keep. Come with me, you’re next.”
Raena and Finn stood from the wooden bench and left behind their weapons and armor. Clad in fighting pads over their tunics, they followed the man into a sitting room. The humble space held nothing but five chairs and was lit by candle sconces on the stone walls.
“Sit.” The man gestured.
Finn and Raena’s chairs scraped the stone floor as they settled into them.
Raena studied the man as he paused to look through a scroll bearing the Prince’s mark. Like most elder men of Candor, he had chestnut hair to his shoulders and a clean-shaven face. Raena thought his countenance was pleasant, though his skin was marked with deep crimson blemishes as if wine had soaked into it. He wore a decorative silk tunic of emerald and gold, the colors of House Payton; colors of the Queen’s house. It made Raena’s chest clench.
The man spoke with a low timbre. “You two are the only knights from Hawk’s Keep? I thought Lord Sylas was sending three.”
“Aye, we are the only two,” Raena answered. “I am Sir Rowan, son of Brande. This is Sir Finley, son of Wain. Sir Cames was the third, but he fell from a horse yesterday and has broken his arm.” Raena took care to deepen her voice and speak with authority, as she had practiced. There was an art and science to passing as the man she claimed to be, and confidence made all the difference. She disliked the notion that she may appear arrogant upon a first introduction, but better to be represented as an arrogant man than to reveal her secret.
“I see,” the man grumbled, “did he at least come with Lord Sylas, to spectate the events today?”
Raena glanced at Finn, whose eyes narrowed with concern.
“No, sir,” Finn said. “He was told to stay in the tents and rest. He was given several teas of nightflower from the healers.”
“Hmm. Very well, but the Prince will be informed,” the man retorted. “Let’s begin. I’m called Sir Han’gahan, I’m a personal guard and knight to Queen Zarana and Prince Zander. I’ll be explaining the events of the Knight’s Trials to you, and I’ll also be getting your history so we may tell it to the crowd.”
“Our history?” Finn asked, scratching at the russet stubble that coated his cheeks.
“Aye,” Han’gahan nodded, “there will be the greatest crowd you’ve ever seen, probably the greatest crowd ever assembled in all six kingdoms. The Prince wants every knight to have a story to excite the spectators. You should tell me all your achievements so I may share the details the Prince prefers. He is rather particular, as this is the first Knight’s Trial he’s ever conducted.”
Raena resisted the urge to look again at her friend Finn at the mention of sharing “everything”. She felt a ball of worry growing inside her gut, clenching her insides.
“Alright, both of you are a bit young,” Han’gahan said. “How long have you been knights for Sylas?”
“Two years,” Finn replied. “We are the same age, twenty-three.”
Han’gahan shrugged. “As I thought, you are barely men. Well, it might be a short tale of your conquests, as we haven’t seen war in Candor since you were likely born. But we’ll do our best. Let’s start with you, Finley, since you are apt to sharing. Was your father a hero of the Equinox battles?”
Finn rubbed his hairy face again, an anxious tic. “Not particularly, no. He was a guard for Hawk’s Keep, so he stayed and defended it from any chance of invasion by Ediva. He would have fought for Candor, if he’d been needed in the legions.”
“Hmm,” Han’gahan grunted. “Well, Ediva didn’t make it that far into Candor’s borders since the soldiers held them off at the Calam mountains, didn’t they? That’s all right though, lad. Anything else your father did, of note?”
Finn shook his head.
“Very well,” Han’gahan said. “How about your own notable achievements, what have you done as a knight? Have you killed any bandits or…whatever you do, in Hawk’s Keep?”
“We have seen bandits and the forest-raiders; the Ruvians,” Finn bit his lip. “I haven’t killed any, no. They are usually scared away, back into the pines. We do train for war, spar, and fight one another. We learn about the kingdoms and the famous battles of the Equinox.”
“As all knights do,” Han’gahan muttered. “Maybe you hunt, then? Have you killed anything at all?”
Finn shrugged. “I’ve killed boars.”
Raena grew restless with Finn’s simple humility. “We have a demonstration, sir. Every year Lord Sylas hosts a festival and we display our skill for combat. It’s swordsmanship, poleaxe defense, and archery. Finn, er, Sir Finley, has taken second prize. Many knights compete from a variety of Candor’s noble families.”
“There you go, lad,” Han’gahan clapped. “We can use that. Let’s talk about you then, Rowan. You’re a Boen-looking thing, aren’t you? Pardon me for saying it, but I haven’t seen golden hair and hairless pink flesh like yours in twenty years or more. You must have some Boen ancestors, long ago?”
Raena straightened up and raised her chin. She had never been in a position to tell her false origin story alone. Lord Sylas had always introduced her as Rowan to visitors, and answered if they had questions about her heritage. Telling it now to one of the Queen’s knights, no less. “Perhaps. I’m a bastard, so there’s no telling.”
Han’gahan smiled. “Aye, nothing wrong with being a bastard. Your mother must’ve been Boenish. I’ve met your father, Brande, and he is as dark as any Calamytan. What a dog then, to go after another woman’s bed. I know he fought in the Equinox, so we will mention that when we speak of you. How about you? I don’t suppose you’ve killed bandits, or anything bigger than boars?”
Raena shook her head, “I haven’t. I trained as a squire under Lord Sylas and was knighted by him, the same as Finn.” Those were easy words to say, as all of them were true, at least.
Han’gahan waved his hand. “No matter. Perhaps you boys can prove yourselves in the Knight’s Trial today and have something to start telling tales about.”
“Rowan is being humble, sir,” Finn said. “He shared that I was second in the knight’s demonstrations, but he neglected to mention that he was first.”
About the AuthorCate Pearce was homeschooled on a Christmas tree farm in rural Western Washington. At age eight she was fed-up with a plotline on Star Trek TNG so she wrote her own episodes on a Commodore 64. She has been a writer ever since, but only recently decided to share that information with you and the world.
Cate has two children which she delivered at-home with the assistance of saintly midwives. Cate is unapologetic in her fervor for feminism, queerness, and Christian faith. Aside from writing, her “day job” is to prepare organizations for response and recovery from catastrophic disasters. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.
SOCIAL LINKS:
Website
Facebook
Twitter
Instagram
Goodreads Author Page
Amazon Author Page
http://www.otherworldsink.comThe post New Fantasy Novel — TRAITORS OF THE BLACK CROWN by Cate Pearce appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
