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The Devil You Knew: Historical Crime Fiction

The Devil You Knew: historical crime fiction by Mike Cobb [image error]

Excerpt + Book & Author Info + a Giveaway!
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The Devil You Knew

Atlanta. 1963. Three adolescent girls go missing. And a killer is on the loose.

Young Billy Tarwater, eleven years old at the time and infatuated with one of the girls, thirteen-year-old Cynthia Hudspeth, finds himself caught up in the drama and suspense of the kidnappings.

Fast forward to 1980. Tarwater, now an up-and-coming newspaperman, sets out to find the killer and free an innocent victim of injustice.

The Devil You Knew masterfully combines coming-of-age poignancy with the cliffhanging suspense of a noir thriller.

The reader is taken on a journey of twists and turns to an unexpected end.

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: September 1, 2022
Number of Pages: 480
ISBN: 9780578371436 (ISBN10: 057837143X)

To purchase, The Devil You Knew, click on any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

 

Read an excerpt of The Devil You Knew:

Chapter One

I, Billy Tarwater

 

1963

 

“Won’t you come.”

The Reverend Virlyn Kilgallon’s baritone reverberated in a thunderous cannonade, his voice at once magisterial and dark. The altar call always came at the end, when the congregants were sufficiently energized by his twenty-five minutes of prophecy and supplication. The sermon was timed with precision. I know because I clocked it with my Caravelle self-winding, a gift from my Granddaddy Parker.

The year was 1963. I was a tow-headed eleven year old, not quite ready to make the lonely walk to the chancel rail, but old enough to feel pangs of guilt, accompanied by a generous dollop of fear. Looking back, I now understand that my anxiety was borne of both a dread of the curtain-cloaked water vessel behind the choir loft and a sense that I was missing out on something big. 

Was there some great, liberating secret lurking behind the curtain––a secret shared only by members of the club, manifest in a covert handshake or a knowing back-channel glance––a secret that I dared not ponder until I made The Walk myself? The Walk. The dreaded Walk. Each Sunday I would steel myself and stand on the edge of the precipice. But every time, I would throttle. Back away. No, not yet. Not ready. Not today. Maybe next week. 

What lies behind the curtain carries great weight, conjuring all sorts of images, both good and bad, hopeful and foreboding. But more often than not, when the curtain is finally drawn back, the ordinary, the mundane, dispels any notion of mystery. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, the Wizard said. A part of me yearned to ignore the Wizard––to throw open the faux velvet. But another part of me reveled in the impenetrable mystery.

My ignore-the-Wizard self would sometimes conjure memories of the fourth grade experience at the Nathan B. Forrest Elementary School, a two-story red brick on the edge of my neighborhood, around the corner from the public library and Fire Station No. 13, and a block away from the A&P. Downstairs were K through 3, upstairs 4 through 7 (we didn’t have middle school back then). In ’60, as a third grader, I had never been upstairs. We of the lower classes were forbidden to make the journey to the upper reaches––our day would come, we were told. The two fourth grade teachers, Misses Throckmorton and Sexton, both spinsters, looked––to my eight-year-old eyes––to have been at least a hundred, maybe a hundred and one. In the minds of all of us third graders, they were the oldest, meanest creatures we’d ever known. We feared what lay ahead for us next year. And believe me, the images we concocted were not pretty. But then, when we finally made it to the top, we learned that upstairs was really no different from downstairs––just a little more worldly, a little more challenging. And Miss Throckmorton, my teacher, was an innocent compared to the ogre I had imagined. I should have learned a lesson from that. 

The liturgical plunging into the depths at the hand of the reverend––there wasn’t much to it, really, as I would later find out. 

*  *  *  

“Won’t you come.”

We always sat in the second pew from the front, in the very center, facing the reverend head-on so that, when he proclaimed the inerrant word of God, we would be assured he was speaking directly to us, as if we were the only souls in the room. I would be flanked by Grandmother Tarwater on my left and my mother on my right. My brother Chester would be somewhere in the balcony, where the teenagers sat, surely to enjoy some semblance of privacy for whatever-they-did-up-there. It was only on the rarest occasion that my father would grace us with his presence, even though it was his mother who sat beside me and who would, on occasion, retrieve a stick of Doublemint gum from her purse and slip it to me when her daughter-in-law wasn’t looking. I can still remember the pear green packaging with its dark green and white logo. Her beam of diabolical satisfaction as she surreptitiously passed it. The double-strength peppermint juice coated my tongue and drifted down my throat. Somehow, that seemingly simple indulgence allayed the discomfort of my bony frame against the hard mahogany surface (I was skinny back then––would that I could recapture that aspect of my youth), the cold clime of the sanctuary, the jarring from the sermon that, as it went on, bore more opprobrium than good news. 

*  *  *

I wasn’t Billy back then. I was Binky. Not a nickname I would have enthusiastically chosen. But it was given to me when I was much younger and, to my abiding chagrin, it stuck. The name had nothing to do with pacifiers, by the way––I’m told I would puff my cheeks and eject the tasteless abomination, formed of rubber and plastic, across the room whenever my mother tried to force it on me––a poor excuse for the real thing, I must have thought. Rather, the moniker had derived from my odd habit as a tot, hopping restlessly, doing a little twist, and sticking my backside in the air like a lapine doe in heat. Anyway, the nickname stuck, and I lived with it until the age of twelve-and-a-half, at which time Binky left home for good and Billy arrived, standing at the door, shuffling back and forth, raring to be let in.

*  *  *

“Raise a hand. I see your hand…and your hand…and your hand.”

I would sit on that cold, hard bench and watch the hands go up throughout the congregation. Some old and wrinkled. Some young and firm. Some worn and calloused. Some pale and smooth like mine. Within minutes, most of the fold would have both hands in the air, waving them back and forth and beckoning the firmament. 

“Now rise before God.” 

My grandmother would reach down and pull me up by my bony elbow as she leapt from her seat. My mother followed suit. The entire congregation stood before the reverend and swayed like a mighty wind casting back and forth on a restless sea.

“Won’t you come. Your name was written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. Show Him you love Him. Confess before all.” He swept his hand across the room in a wide arc. “And you. You who have not found Him. Will this be the day you cross the line of faith?”

The choir would open up with the invitational hymn, their sotto voce voices gradually rising to a crescendo that rattled the twelve-station stained glass windows along the side walls of the sanctuary. On Christ the solid Rock I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.

One by one, damned near half the flock would leave their rows, sidle gingerly in front of their more reluctant pewmates to the aisle, and promenade to the chancel rail, their hands clasped before them or, on occasion, still raised in the air. One or two of the petitioners my age or a year or so older would profess his or her lust to be gulfed in that big, awesome tank of water. The occasional adult, finding himself having reached maturity without knowing God’s salvation, would plea for the gift of immersion, tears streaming down his cheeks.

My grandmother would sashay to the front of the sanctuary, a queen pink lace handkerchief held tight in her hand. My mother would follow. I would sit alone, with my palms flat against the seat, my thumbs and forefingers slightly under my scrawny thighs, wondering when I would be ready to make The Walk, stand before the congregants who would have chosen on that particular Sunday to remain in the pews, and profess my love of the Almighty, praise be.

At the time, I reckoned that all Southern Baptist churches behaved like my grandmother’s. I would later learn that some preachers assumed God didn’t require multiple trips to the rail––one profession of faith, followed shortly thereafter by the dunk in the tub, was sufficient. But not Virlyn Kilgallon. He expected it every Sunday––I once heard him refer to it as “hitting the sawdust trail,” something about a reference to tent revivals. But thank God he didn’t require multiple dips in the bath. Otherwise, we would have been in church all day on baptism Sundays.  

*  *  *

When the altar call was not afoot, I amused myself in assorted ways, some harmless, some not so much. My diversions of the latter kind shall remain, at least for the time being, unadvertised. But they often involved some clandestine desecration of the hymnal pages. As for the former, my favorite distraction involved carefully examining the odd members of that motley group that called themselves a choir, for whom I made up aliases. There was No Neck Nancy––the woman (she must have been in her early thirties) whose head literally sat smack-dab on her shoulders with nothing in between. Whenever she wanted to look to the right or the left she had to turn her entire body. I now know the malady for what it is, or was (I have no idea where she is today or, for that matter, whether she is anywhere)––Klippel-Feil syndrome. But at the time, she was just one more freak, likely having escaped from a carnival midway somewhere. And there was See Me Sylvia. My grandmother claimed she came to church primarily for one reason––to show off her fancy hats and jewelry––but there didn’t seem to be much there worth flaunting. Launchpad Leonard would, out of the blue, produce the loudest, most explosive belch you’d ever heard––so loud, in fact, that it sounded like one of those Atlas rockets blasting off from Cape Canaveral. And whenever I saw him do it outside the choir loft without his robe, his quaking beer belly spilling over his belt buckle, my first instinct was to run for my life. 

How would I have survived Sunday mornings without diversions? My brother, perched high above the sanctuary floor in the balcony with his friends, no doubt had his own amusements. More than once, I suspected him of sneaking out of the church just as the service began, sitting in the back seat of the Brookwood Wagon reading Mad Magazine, only to scurry back in a few minutes prior to the service’s ending so he could walk out with the rest of the assembly and my mother would be none the wiser.

*  *  *

Almost every Sunday, Reverend Kilgallon’s mien and comportment would take a bleak and sinister turn about halfway through the sermon. It was as if he became a different man altogether. Not the paternalistic pastor calling his flock to salvation, but, rather, a demonic, truculent savage condemning all in his presence to a life of eternal damnation. 

I would always see it coming. He would remove his wire-rimmed bifocals and whack them onto the lectern––I awaited some Sunday when he would send shards flying across the room. His face would redden. The veins in his temples would pulse. A curious tic would come upon him––an emergent twitching around his right eye. Then he would let loose, pointing to the balcony and setting free a stentorian roar. “Sinners all. The whole vile lot of you. You will roast in Hell––like sizzling bacon at the men’s fellowship breakfast.” (Okay, he didn’t really say that last part about the bacon––I made that up––but the thought may have crossed his mind.) Then he would turn on the assembly at large, sweeping his finger across the room and damning every single one of us. 

An electric charge would run down my spine as if I had been sitting on metal, rather than mahogany, and the Almighty Himself had let loose a bolt of lightning onto the church. I would give a little shake and look back at the balcony. 

Is my brother up there? Or is he in the station wagon, reading The Lighter Side or Spy vs. Spy, oblivious to the judgment, the condemnation, that has just been leveled on him? 

On all of us.

*** Excerpt from The Devil You Knew by Mike Cobb. Copyright 2024 by Mike Cobb. Reproduced with permission from Mike Cobb. All rights reserved.


Mike Cobb — Author of The Devil You Knew

Mike’s body of work includes both fiction and nonfiction, short form and long form, as well as articles and blogs of literary interest.

While he is comfortable playing across a broad range of genres, much of his focus is on historical fiction, crime fiction, and true crime. Rigorous research is foundational to his writing. He gets that honestly, having spent much of his professional career as a scientist.

Mike splits his time between midtown Atlanta and a lake in the North Georgia mountains, far away from the rat race of the city. The balance between city life and mountain life inspires his writing.

To learn more about Mike, click on any of the following links: mikecobbwriter.com, Goodreads, Instagram – @cobbmg, Twitter/X – @mgcobb & Facebook – @MGCobbWriter

 

 

Visit all the Stops on the Tour!

06/03 Showcase @ Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
06/04 Interview @ Hott Books
06/04 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
06/05 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
06/06 Review @ Novels Alive
06/07 Podcast reading @ Books to the Ceiling
06/07 Review @ bookwormbecky1969
06/10 Interview @ Literary Gold
06/11 Review @ FullyBookedInKentucky
06/12 Showcase @ Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!
06/13 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
06/14 Review @ Melissa As Blog
06/15 Review @ Paws. Read. Repeat
06/18 Showcase @ Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!
06/20 Review @ dianas_books_cars_coffee
06/25 Review @ elaine_sapp65
06/26 Book Talk with Fran Lewis Radio Interview
06/26 Review @ Just Reviews
06/27 Review @ Pat Fayo reviews
06/28 Review @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read

Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell

 

The post The Devil You Knew: Historical Crime Fiction appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Broken Bayou: Debut Thriller

Broken Bayou the debut thriller by Jennifer Moorhead

Author Interview + Book & Author Info + Author Pet Corner!Don’t miss any debut author interviews, click the link here for more.Broken Bayou

In this debut thriller, a troubled child psychologist returns to a small Louisiana town to protect her secrets but winds up having to protect her life.

Dr. Willa Watters is a prominent child psychologist at the height of her career. But when a viral video of a disastrous television interview puts her reputation on the line, Willa retreats to Broken Bayou, the town where she spent most of her childhood summers. There she visits her aunts’ old house and discovers some of her unstable mother’s belongings still languishing in the attic—dusty mementos harboring secrets of her harrowing past.

Willa’s hopes for a respite are quickly crushed, not only by what she finds in that attic but also by what’s been found in the bayou.

With waters dropping due to drought, mysterious barrels containing human remains have surfaced, alongside something else from Willa’s past, something she never thought she’d see again. Divers, police, and media flood the area, including a news reporter gunning for Willa and Travis Arceneaux—a local deputy and old flame.

Willa’s fate seems eerily tied to the murders. And with no one to trust, she must use her wits to stay above water and make it out alive.

To purchase your copy of Broken Bayou, click either of the following links: Amazon and Interabang BooksInterview with the author of Broken Bayou, Jennifer MoorheadBroken Bayou focuses on Dr. Willa Watters, a child psychologist who is struggling with her own history. Where did that character come from? Inspiration? Pure imagination?

Dr. Willa first came to me when she was a teenager. I got to know her when she was seventeen. Willa appeared to me after a flash fiction contest I entered years ago. The agent holding the contest said my entry would make a good opening to a novel. And boom.

I saw her and her mother and younger sister on a road trip to Broken Bayou, Louisiana. I knew it would be this family’s last trip there, but I didn’t know why. I think meeting Willa at that age helped me see her history and from there I could see how she was shaped by it.

Many of my backstory scenes did not make the final cut but they were instrumental in getting to know her and her troubled family dynamics. I tried to stay in the background as much as possible and let her show me what life was like for her.

 

Broken Bayou is a small town in Louisiana. Tell us about that community and how you developed it for your first novel?

Broken Bayous is a fictitious town. It’s a mash-up of so many small towns I’ve visited in Louisiana and I’ve always loved the small town vibe. I knew it would be in south Louisiana but I wasn’t sure exactly where. So I pulled up a map and started looking.

I’ve spent time in St. Francisville so I liked the idea that Broken Bayou would be close to that area of the state. Only Broken Bayou would not have the tourism St. Francisville does so therefore not as much money either. I wanted it broken.

Once I had the location, I started fleshing out the town: street names, cafes, antique stores, etc. I drew a map of it and listed what would be there. It was an easy town for me to picture because where I live, I’m surrounded by small towns. 

Now that we know the inspiration for Dr. Willa Watters, tell us about the inspiration for the story and how you researched it. 

The story started with a simple newspaper article I read several years ago in The Times-Picayune. It was about a missing schoolteacher whose car was discovered in a bayou near New Orleans. But, for me, the really interesting part revolved around what else the divers found. Turns out bayous make good hiding places. That felt like the real story to me and, more importantly, it felt like Dr. Willa’s story.

It got me thinking, what if a missing teacher was only the tip of the iceberg?

My research spanned many fields. I toured the North Louisiana Crime Lab for starters and interviewed a forensic pathologist there who explained the nuances of body identification, especially when found in water. I also interviewed an assistant District Attorney about crime in southern Louisiana, specifically serial killers. They both provided me with stories that fall into the “truth is stranger than fiction” category.

The most fun I had, though, was interviewing a friend who is also a clinical child psychologist. Her knowledge and her stories helped me understand my protagonist so much better. Human behavior fascinates me, especially when it pertains to our pasts. She helped me navigate some tricky terrain about family trauma, mental health, Autism, and the impact our childhoods have on us.

Tell us about your road to publication:

Oh boy. In a word … long!

My story is very typical in a lot of ways. Broken Bayou is the fourth book I’ve written. The other three are locked away in a drawer! I was fortunate enough to get an agent with my third book, but that book did not sell to publishers. Lots of lessons learned in that process. That agent and I ended up amicably parting ways. I thought I’d indie publish my next book but after it was edited my writing group said maybe I should at least try to traditionally publish. So, like a crazy person, I went back into the query trenches!

I started off querying Broken Bayou as women’s fiction and got lots of full requests and no offers so I hit pause. I hired a freelance editor, and the first thing she said is—this is crime fiction. OH!

So I did another edit and pressed play again, this time as a crime fiction novel. And bingo, I found my agent. We went out on sub to publishers and on our second (or third) round found an editor I am eternally grateful for! I honestly didn’t believe I had a book deal until I signed the papers and they signed the papers. I thought for weeks someone was going to say, “Oh wait, we made a mistake.” Thankfully, that was just my insecure writer voice talking!

 

In addition to writing mysteries, you are also a filmmaker. Tell us about your film projects and how they impact your storytelling:

While my third book was out on sub (and getting rejected!) to publishers, I got an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. Distractions are key when a writer is querying or out on sub.

A friend’s daughter wanted to direct an indie short film for Louisiana Film Prize, and she needed a writer. I jumped at the chance then Googled “how to write a short film”. Ha! She guided me through the crazy process and helped me write what would become the first of three indie shorts we produced together. We even made one in May of 2020 on my iPhone with only 4 people on set.

Side note: my husband and father opened a sound stage in 2005 in my hometown so I had the opportunity to visit a lot of TV and movie sets, and it is fascinating to watch behind the scenes. So when it came time to make my indie shorts I understood a little bit of the process but, wow, did I learn so much more. Watching a scene on a monitor is fascinating as a writer. It’s like how I picture a scene in my book when I’m writing it.

During filming, I watched through the monitor and studied what it showed, what it didn’t, how the actors moved in the space, mannerisms and language and everything in between. I think it gave me a wonderful perspective on scene building and character development. Second side note: my sister is the lead actress in all of my films.

 

What are you working on now?

I’m working on a companion book to Broken Bayou. I’ve taken a character from Broken Bayou and I’m writing their story. It’s in the first draft stage so I’m not exactly sure where it’s going (warning – pantser alert) but I loved this character, so I want to follow that story and see where it takes me. But I don’t want to say which character it is yet!

 

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

Find your tribe. My writing group is the glue that held me together during this process. They supported me, brainstormed with me, edited with me, and talked me off the ledge when I’d call and say, “What in the world am I doing tyring to be a writer.” Finding your people is instrumental in being a good writer, and it also gives you lots of comedy relief!

 

Author Pet Corner!Bandit! Dolly! and Bibiana!

Bandit – 12-year-old black and white Goldendoodle who loves golf cart rides and chasing squirrels. He does not love thunderstorms.

 

Dolly – 1 ½ year old Goldendoodle who loves to paddleboard with me and is slightly obsessed with her older brother.

 

Bibiana – An animal shelter rescue kitty whose age is unknown and who rules the house with an iron paw! My girls named her after a contestant on The Bachelor TV show!

Jennifer Moorhead — Author of Broken Bayou

Jennifer graduated from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. Geaux Tigers!

She has written and produced three indie short films that each made top 20 at the Louisiana Film Prize and were awarded at festivals around the world.

She lives in Louisiana with her husband, two daughters, two dogs, one cat, and plenty of horses, mini ponies, and mini donkeys in a place where swamps and winding trails are the norm.

When she’s not writing, she’s on a tennis court laughing and providing job security for her coach.

Find out more about Jennifer by clicking either link: Instagram & Facebook

 

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

Header image from Pixabay

The post Broken Bayou: Debut Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Rogues & Patriots: A Nick Crane Thriller

Rogues & Patriots: A Nick Crane Thriller by Patrick H Moore

Guest Post + Excerpt + Book & Author Info + Giveaway![image error]
Don’t miss any blog tour post! Click the link here.

 

Rogues & Patriots

A Nick Crane Thriller
Patrick H. Moore’s new novel Rogues & Patriots is Book Two of Moore’s taut and topical three-volume series in which veteran LA PI Nick Crane finds himself locked in a life or death struggle with Miles Amsterdam and “the Principals,” a powerful but soulless group of aristocratic, right wing “super patriots” who are bent on turning the United States into a police state.

Eight years after he and his team liquidated Frank Constantine, a murderous military shrink and close personal friend of Miles Amsterdam, Nick Crane finds himself abducted, beaten and threatened with rendition to a black site in Egypt if he refuses to join the Principals’ cause, which includes attempting to incite anti-Muslim violence in every major American city. Crane, however, is rescued by his close friend and business partner, Vietnam War vet Bobby Moore, and the war is on.

With its well-drawn characters, non-stop action, and sharp, first person narration, Rogues & Patriots will leave the reader breathless. Itis a scintillating sequel to 27 Days, Book One in this series as, once again, Nick Crane stands tall as a world-weary PI everyman who takes on all comers in his drive to make America safe again for everyone.

Book Details:

Genre: PI Thriller
Published by: Down & Out Books
Publication Date: April 22, 2024
Number of Pages: 361
ASIN: B0CVG42JRY
Series: A Nick Crane Thriller, 2

To purchase your copy of Rogues & Patriots click either link here: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt of Rogues and Patriots:

 

 

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The frowning corpse of Roberto Diaz was found by a jogger on Friday morning at six a.m. on a windswept hillside in East Los Angeles. Cause of death still unknown. Time of death according to the ME, around two a.m. Not an accident, not according to my LAPD friend, narcotics detective Tony Bott. Roberto had been Tony’s best informant, and my friend was beside himself with anguish and rage.

Twelve hours before the body was discovered, Tony had charged into my office on the third floor of the Poseidon Building, near Third and Alameda. All wound up. First, he told me he’d been called down to the old Spring Street Courthouse by a federal prosecutor named Sam Blaylock, who’d told him that henceforth his best informant, Roberto Diaz, would be off-limits. Starting today, Diaz would report to one of Blaylock’s DEA agents. He would work for a new DEA-ICE task force dedicated to combating drug trafficking, sex trafficking, and human smuggling. Not to mention narco-terrorism and murder-for-hire. The whole nine yards.

“It was strange,” said Tony. “Blaylock was all casual and dismissive. Like jumping a man’s informant was no big deal. He never even apologized. But I controlled myself. Got out of there fast. I figured I had to talk to Roberto, see how he felt about this, but when I called him, his voicemail was full. So I paged him. That was three hours ago. He still hasn’t gotten back to me. That’s not like Roberto. I’m worried.” Tony paused. Took a deep breath. “So listen, Nick, listen to what happened next. Either I’m crazy or something weird is going on.”

Tony stopped, pulled a bandana out of the pocket of his Tommy Bahama walking shorts and mopped his forehead. He was wearing his casual designer clothes: Izod pullover and Polo deck shoes to go with the shorts. And the mirrored Ray-Bans pushed up on his forehead. Why this instead of his usual dirty white boy riding-in-the-Mexican-car undercover look—black jeans, colored tee-shirt, and blue bandana? Or his basic go-to-court look—Dockers, bland polo shirt, casual shoes?

Simple. He had a date right across the street from my office at the Third Street Korean Bar & Grill. At seven p.m. Or as Tony explained:

“This woman came up to me in the parking lot outside the courthouse. Right after my meeting with Blaylock. I was steaming. And plenty worried too. ‘Cause Roberto is kind of a simple guy. Those sharks are the last people he needs to be working with. That’s when I felt her breathing on the back of my neck. I turned around, and she gave me a big smile. She looked about forty. Stylish enough, I guess, but a bit wizened in that clubwoman kind of way. Wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. She says, ‘Hey, Tony, got a sec? I need your help with your old informant Roberto Diaz. That prick Blaylock wants me to shadow him. He thinks Diaz won’t suspect anything ‘cause I’m a woman. Says he wants to know what Diaz is really doing. Yeah, right. How the hell should I know? I’m in over my head. Maybe we can catch a drink later, and you can give me some tips?’ She acted like we were pals. It made no sense. And why in hell would Blaylock want his own informant followed? I deadpanned, and she said, ‘Look, I’m Tami Wheat. I’m a new investigator with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. And I need your help. C’mon, Tony, be a sport. I would so appreciate it.’”

He paused for breath while I mulled it over. Tony was right. It made no sense.

“Then,” said Tony, “I was about to ask her why she thought I could help, but I stopped myself. ‘Cause I figured if I helped her out, it might help me stay connected to Roberto, when and if he surfaces. So what I said was, ‘Sure. I can meet you for an hour or so. Around seven. But I’ll have to bring a friend ‘cause we already have something planned for the evening.’ She didn’t like it, and I told her to take it or leave it. I guess she decided to take it.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. Thinking. Spoke. “It does seem weird. Why in hell would she come up to you five minutes after Blaylock gave you the black spot? It makes no sense. I never told you this, but three years ago Blaylock was the AUSA on a twenty-pound federal meth case where my lawyer friend Jack Snow got the client a year and a day. A year and a day! With no cooperation. Outrageous! I remember thinking at the time that it seemed kind of sketchy.”

“Something’s up with that Blaylock fool. I can feel it.” Tony nodded firmly. “And Roberto’s been spooked for a while now. He was approached by some undercover guys about a week ago in a North Hollywood bar. He managed to shake them, but he was freaked out. Said he was going to disappear for a while. Which was fine up until today, when I learned what the Feds have planned for him. He’s not here legally. They’ll hold that over his head.”

“Does Roberto have a local case?”

Tony grinned. A bit sheepishly.

“I know. He’s working off a case that’s never even been filed. Jack Snow says that’s pretty much taboo among the Feds, but that you local boys do it all the time.”

“He’s right,” said Tony. “Those federal bastards have no mercy. They put you to work setting people up, and then they still send you to prison. Whereas we local boys have heart.”

CHAPTER TWO

At seven o’clock we walked across the street to the Korean Bar & Grill. A smiling Tami Wheat greeted us halfway down the bar. “Gentlemen. How nice of you to be on time!”

“Always,” said Tony. I stepped forward and introduced myself as Nick. Perfunctory handshake.

Tami was about what I expected—on the petite side, toned and tan with a determined look in her close-set blue eyes. She was wearing expensive jeans, a frilly white blouse, and a brown leather bomber jacket.

“It’s too noisy in here for conversation,” I said, nearly shouting. “Let’s sit on the patio.” Outside, we sat in swinging chairs suspended on chains under a bamboo awning. A moment of awkward silence, waiting for the drinks to arrive. I stepped into the breach. “Nice place, huh? Whenever I get the chance, I sit out here with a Pellegrino while I write up my case notes.”

Our drinks arrived. More chit-chat. Then Tony got down to business. “So, what can I do for you, Ms. Wheat? You said something about needing pointers on how to shadow Roberto Diaz.”

“That’s right,” said Tami. “But please call me Tami. I’m pretty new to this game, and although they trained me, I’ve never done surveillance on my own before. And because Diaz has disappeared, I’ve got to figure out how to find him.”

Tony and I exchanged a quick glance. Was it possible Blaylock and his team had not yet located Roberto? This would help explain why Tami had appeared out of nowhere, asking Tony for help.

“Just so you know,” said Tony slowly, “I can’t find him either. The damned guy has disappeared. And this can be a slow game. I’ve had informants disappear for months at a time and then reappear with a new target.” He paused and shook his head, his lips set in a hard line. “But more to the point, why on earth should I throw you a bone when your people have made it crystal clear you’re stealing my prize informant?”

“Wow!” said Tami. “You’re angry. I would be too, I suppose.” A moment of silence. Then she plunged ahead. “But there’s no need to be defensive. We’re all on the same side here, aren’t we? I mean, we all want to indict these drug trafficking bastards and lock ‘em up. Protect our borders and all that good stuff.”

“I wonder,” said Tony, cracking a half-smile, which, given his mood, dripped more menace than mirth, “if we are on the same side? The way I see it, your people want to fuck me and use Roberto. Then when he runs out of information, you’ll indict him for trafficking and lock him up. Then, when he’s done his time, you’ll deport him. A bad deal all around.”

Tami was shocked by Tony’s vitriol. At least she looked shocked. My friend’s cell phone pinged, and he punched in his code. Stared at his screen, worry lines erupting across his forehead.

I stepped in. “Here’s what you need to understand, Tami. Detective Bott has every reason to be angry. The standard procedure here in LA is for our federal colleagues to share informants with local law enforcement. It’s been that way for decades. And here you and your team go and break the rules. Without any reasonable explanation.”

Tami shrugged, a casual lifting and falling of her shoulders. Almost too casual. “I understand. And just so you know, like any good conservative, I have great respect for precedent. But this situation is different. We are a brand-new state-of-the-art task force, and we are taking all due precautions to keep everything in house. In order to avoid any possible slip-ups.”

Tony looked up from his phone. Treated Tami to his best scowl. Went back to his readout.

“That’s completely out of line,” I said. “You’re implying Detective Bott would screw things up unless he’s cut out completely. That’s downright insulting. Not to mention ironic, considering here you are trying to persuade my friend to help you out with Roberto when, according to your boss, Sam Blaylock, he’s not even supposed to go near the damned guy.”

Tami looked at Tony, who was ignoring her. Looked at me and smiled. Broad, friendly, and phony as hell. “Why should you be insulted? It’s no skin off your back. You’re not law enforcement. In fact, Mr. Crane, unless I’m mistaken, you’re one of those rare PIs who never even was a cop.”

Hit me like a gut punch. This woman, notwithstanding her green and helpless act, knew exactly who I was and what I did for a living. Which made no sense. Unless…I took a long pull from my Heineken.

At that moment, Tony’s phone pinged again. This time, he swiped up, glanced at the number, frowned, and held the phone to his ear. “Holy shit.” The blood drained from his face. “Gotta roll.” He stood up, flung down some bills, and was gone within seconds. I had a bad feeling. Diaz.

And I had problems of my own. Here I was, alone with this peculiar woman, who seemed to know more about me than she had any business knowing. I decided to probe. “Sorry my friend had to leave. I didn’t see that coming. But I’m curious. How did you know I’m Nick Crane? We’ve never met before.”

She looked at me. No smile this time. Instead, a measured, thoughtful look, like a hunter surveying her prey. “Well, if you really want to know, we know all about you, Mr. Crane. We know you’ve almost lost your investigator’s license countless times for breaking the rules. It’s amazing you still have a license to carry. Suffice to say, you’re not too popular in certain circles.”

She was baiting me. Much as I wanted to, I decided not to bite. I stood up, nodded shortly, and walked away, leaving her there on the patio, one hand wrapped around the waist of her St. Pauli Girl, the other reaching for her phone.

*** Excerpt from Rogues & Patriots by Patrick H. Moore. Copyright 2024 by Patrick H. Moore. Reproduced with permission from Patrick H. Moore. All rights reserved.

 

Guest Post by Patrick H. Moore
Author of Rogues & Patriots

My new PI thriller Rogues & Patriots has been five years in the making. Now, at long last, it is now available on various platforms including Amazon and Barnes & Noble. In this article, I’m going to describe the process that led to the actual writing of Rogues and Patriots. 

I began writing Rogues & Patriots in 2019. At this juncture I had published one crime novel, a lively tale called Cicero’s Dead that was indie published in 2014 by my good friend, screenwriter and novelist Max Myers. Sales were strong, but I wasn’t completely satisfied for the simple reason that Cicero’s Dead broke no new ground. I wanted to write a crime novel that really mattered, that said something significant about our society and the country we live in.

I wracked my brain for some time before finally capturing the wisp of an idea. I would have my protagonist, veteran Los Angles PI Nick Crane, lock horns with a shadowy group of wealthy and aristocratic so-called patriots known as The Principals. The Principals, led by an unstable retired Marine Corps captain named Thomas Quincey and his terrifyingly sane accomplice Marguerite Ferguson, would have a very nasty plan in mind—to essentially lock up Muslims and Latinos in private prisons, the purpose of which would be to make boatloads of dirty money while, in effect, making America white again, or at least as white as possible. In order to kick off their scheme and terrify Americans into submission, Quincey and Ferguson’s unsavory crew would launch a series of false flag operations directed at Muslim American communities in and around major American cities. The idea was to strike such fear into the hearts of rank-and-file Americans that they would eagerly support Quincey and Ferguson’s diabolical plan.

So far, so good. The problem I faced, however, was why would The Principals come after Nick Crane? What triggered their extreme animus toward him? To answer this essential question, I hearkened back to an earlier unpublished novel called The Mental Health Club in which Nick and his team bring a highly unstable military psychiatrist named Frank Constantine to justice. It seems that Frank—who was engaged in “gentler, kinder” torture research—was also busily murdering innocent women and leaving their nude corpses displayed in conspicuous places.  Although Nick did everything in his power to simply arrest Frank, he refused to surrender, and in the melee, Frank’s own handyman Henry Taylor shot and killed him. 

It turns out—and this is the key connection—that Thomas Quincey and Frank Constantine had been lifelong friends. They had grown up together; attended private schools together; played sports together; and even gone to Yale together. Quincey is unable to come to terms with Constantine’s death; he blames Nick for his friend’s demise, and, put very simply, he wants Nick to pay with his life.

Although Thomas Quincy despises Nick with every particle of his being, he is in some ways a practical man. He realizes that if Nick could be coerced into working for him, it could greatly help his false flag operations due to Nick’s combination of leadership qualities and significant personal courage and competency. With this in mind, Quincey and his crew abduct Nick and hold him for interrogation at their “black site” in Los Angeles. During the interrogation, Quincey offers Nick the devil’s own bargain. If Nick agrees to work for him organizing the murderous false flag operations, Quincey will, in effect, “write off” the fact he blames Nick for Frank Constantine’s death.

Nick naturally refuses Quincey’s unacceptable offer, and with the help of his friend and business partner Bobby Moore, Nick temporarily escapes from Quincey and company. Thus begins the “cat and mouse” game between Nick and his team and Quincey and his crew.

And, to add additional intrigue to the story, Nick has been hired by Thomas Quincey’s wife, the lovely Iraqi immigrant Adara Ghaffari, to help her and her father Muhammad escape from Quincey’s clutches.

Once I had figured out my basic setup, I merely had to execute, that is, I had to write the novel. I tried to make my characters, both the good and the evil, as vivid as possible and I tried to keep the action moving forward with very few interruptions. Did I succeed? Naturally, only the readers can make that determination, and I’m eager to field my readers’ responses to my long and earnest efforts.

Patrick H. Moore — Author of Rogues & Patriots

Patrick H. Moore is a Los Angeles based Private Investigator, Sentencing Mitigation Specialist, and crime writer. He has been working in this field since 2003 and has worked in virtually all areas including drug trafficking, sex crimes, crimes of violence, and white-collar fraud.

“There’s no feeling quite like walking into a prison to consult with a client knowing that he or she is facing many long years behind bars, unless you can thread the needle and convince a skeptical Federal judge to give your guy or gal a second chance. Criminals are not known for putting a high priority on telling the truth; neither are cops and prosecutors.”

This is no easy task but mastering this job, which combines art, science and intuition, has given Patrick the tools to write realistic crime fiction that depicts the unpredictable and violent world of cops, convicts, prosecutors and defense attorneys.

27 Days, Patrick’s first traditionally published thriller, was published on February 6, 2023 by Down & Out Books. It is the first in a three-part series in which veteran Los Angeles Private Investigator Nick Crane battles a group of aristocratic domestic terrorists known as the “principals.” 27 Days was recently named a finalist in the General Fiction category of the 2023 American Fiction Awards.

The second book in Patrick’s three-part series is titled Rogues and Patriots and published by Down & Out Books on April 22, 2023.

To learn more about Patrick, click on any of the following links: patrickhmoorewriter.com, Goodreads, BookBub – @patrickhmoore77, mInstagram – @patrickhmoore1, Twitter/X – @PatrickHMoore1 & Facebook

 

Visit all the Stops on the Tour!

05/20 Showcase @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read
05/22 Showcase @ Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
05/23 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
05/25 Interview @ Hott Books
05/28 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
06/03 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
06/05 Review @ darciahelle
06/08 Review @ Book Reviews From an Avid Reader
06/19 Partners in Crime Presents: Author Interview
07/12 Podcast reading @ Books to the Ceiling
10/18 Mysteries to Die For: Toe Tags Podcast

Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell

 

 

The post Rogues & Patriots: A Nick Crane Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Scales of Justice: A Mystery

Scales of Justice, a mystery by Mitchell S Karnes

Excerpt + Guest Post + Book & Author Info + Giveaway![image error]
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Scales of Justice

Top assassin Graham Turner walks a delicate line as he tries to secretly solve the mystery of his parents’ “accidental” deaths. The truth is buried deep within a child’s forgotten past and an organization that demands secrecy and absolute devotion. His main obstacle is William Allen, Graham’s boss and legal guardian. A master of manipulation and control, William pits Graham and his brother Robert against one another like pawns on a chessboard. William’s idea of justice is kill or be killed.

Just as Graham discovers the identity of his parents’ murderer and sets out to exact his revenge, he falls in love and develops a conscience. Graham must choose between love or loyalty, forgiveness or revenge. In a world of gray, Graham must find the line between black and white, wrong and right.

Follow the parallel stories of Graham and his father, two assassins who become their own worst enemies.
Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
Published by: Amazon
Publication Date: September 7, 2023
Number of Pages: 479
ISBN: 9798860779228

To purchase a copy of Scales of Justice click any of the following links: Amazon | Goodreads | MitchellSKarnes.com

Read an excerpt of Scales of Justice:

Scales of Justice

Chapter 1 excerpt

 

“Ease up, Champ,” Graham whispered.  “Don’t wear yourself out and make my job too easy.”  He removed the small envelope from the three-pronged plastic stick of the bouquet and opened it.  “You are the only Chance I’ll ever take.  Have a great conference.  I’ll see you next month…and I’ll be keeping Atlanta hot for you!”  There was a little red heart sign and the name, “Mary.”  Graham shook his head in disgust.  “He really does have a woman in every port.”  As soon as the noise subsided and Graham heard the shower water, he readied himself for the task at hand.  He slipped into the shadows of the far corner of the den and waited for Chance to come to him.  Graham didn’t have to wait long.  

Chance opened the bedroom door and wrapped the fluffy white towel around his waist.  He examined the damage to his brand-new white shirt.  Twisting and turning it in his hands, he noted the two missing buttons, the slight tear, and the smudges of red lipstick.  “Oh well,” he said and tossed the shirt in a nearby wastebasket.  “Well worth it.”  Opening the fridge, he uncorked a chilled liqueur and chugged the miniature bottle.  “Wow, Stacey was tenacious!”

Shelly, you idiot, Graham thought.  He wanted to step out of the shadow and kill Chance right then, but he resisted the urge.  All in due time, Graham, he assured himself.

“Oh well, she served her purpose,” Chance said.  “Now how do I get rid of her before Janet calls?”  Chance walked back to the bedroom and returned with a gold ring.  Putting it on his left hand and glancing one more time toward the sleeping naked woman in the bedroom, he lifted the phone to his mouth and said, “Call Janet.”  It rang once…twice…three times.

“Hey, babe,” came the sweet voice on the other end.  “How’s your day been?”

“Draining,” Chance said with a smile as he looked back to the bedroom.  “It was a real struggle.”

“Oh, but I’m sure you kept up your end of the deal,” she said.  “Nobody can stand up to my man.”

“You got that right.”  Chance heard laughter in the background of the phone and bristled defensively, “Janet, who’s that?”

“Oh, I’m at the ladies’ book club tonight.  You want to talk to anyone?” she asked.

“No thanks,” he said.  “Hey, I got to go.  I need to get packing for the trip back.”

“Okay, babe.  I love you,” she said and then hung up.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chance said and tossed the phone to the couch to the left of Graham.  Chance suddenly noticed the flowers and walked over to examine the bouquet.  “When did these get…”  He pulled out the note.   “Mary…Mary…Mary…who the hell’s Mary?”  He picked up the bouquet, smelled it once, and then walked it over to the trash can.  He slapped the back of his neck.  “What the hell?”  He twisted around and slapped again at the stinging sensation in the back of his neck.

“The polistes annularis,” the dark figure announced calmly.  “Or as we say in Tennessee, ‘The red paper wasp.’”  He took a step back as Chance swung awkwardly at him.  “But you lawyers…you love all of that Latin mumbo-jumbo, don’t you?”  Chance fell to his knees.  Graham took the opportunity to touch Chance once again with the wasp held delicately in his tweezers, this time stinging the front of his throat.  Chance slapped at the wasp, but Graham pulled it safely away.  “Ah…ah…ah,” Graham said with a shake of his head.  “Just one more for good measure, if you don’t mind.”  He put the wasp to Chance’s temple, and it obliged once again with a deadly sting.  

Chance uttered raspily, “Who are you?” as he grabbed at the swelling lumps on his temple and neck.  His tongue was swelling rapidly, and Graham could tell he was already struggling desperately to breathe.  

“Who am I?  I guess I owe you that much,” Graham said.  “What harm could it do?”  He squatted a few feet from Chance and scrutinized the desperation in his face and eyes.  Chance clawed his way toward the bathroom, but it was so far away.  “Graham Turner at your service.”  He studied his victim as Chance’s body convulsed.  Graham laughed, not at Chance’s situation but his own last comment.  “Well, I suppose I’m actually at the service of your wife Janet.”  

Chance stopped struggling and turned his swollen neck towards Graham.  Was it a joke?  Chance tried to say Janet’s name, but his tongue was too swollen to utter any sound other than the heavy wheezing of each belabored breath.  The couch within his reach, Chance crawled for it.

“Looking for this?” Graham asked, waving Chance’s phone in front of him.  “You lawyers are way too predictable.”  He put the phone in his jacket pocket.  “Anyway, you asked a question and we only have a few minutes at most, so let me explain while there’s time.”  Graham moved toward the bedroom door and waited there.  Seeing Chance glance towards the bed, Graham said, “Oh, don’t concern yourself with Shelly; I drugged her drink downstairs as soon as I saw your overt interest in her little black dress.  She’s out for at least another hour.”

Graham smiled.  He didn’t have to hear the words to know the thought.  “Yes, I do think of everything.  That’s why they pay me so much.  But your wife…”  Graham paused.  “Yes, your wife, she thinks of everything too.  Quite a lady you have there.  Well, I suppose I should speak in the past tense in that situation.  Quite a lady you had, Chance.”

The lawyer’s neck was blowing up like a massive goiter and his face contorting so badly that Graham’s stomach heaved; he quickly stood and walked away as Chance struggled toward the bathroom.  Looking out the window, Graham continued, “She caught wind of your plan to leave her and cut her out of everything…last year, I think.”  Graham couldn’t stand to see Chance struggle any longer.  He moved back to him, stepped over the lump of flesh and said, “Save your energy, you won’t find the epinephrine kit either.”  Chance collapsed; sobbing, quivering and moaning to his last gasp of breath.  Graham removed the black gloves and replaced them with a set of blue latex gloves instead.  He checked Chance’s wrist for any sign of a pulse.  He waited and watched until he was absolutely certain Chance Harrington was dead from the anaphylactic shock.  According to the research, Chance Harrington had a deadly allergy to wasp stings…especially the red paper wasp.  Graham set the wasp on Chance’s neck and used the dead man’s hand to squash it.  Finally, he put the dead wasp next to the bouquet Chance had dropped on the floor.

As he removed up any evidence of his own presence in the room and made certain the scene looked authentic for a bee sting, Graham said, “Thanks, Mary…I owe you one.”  He closed the door, wiped the handle and waited for the elevator.  He wasn’t about to walk back down fourteen flights of stairs, especially in Denver.  

The elevator door opened, and Graham disappeared inside.  One more dead body to lose in the endless count of bodies…one more name to forget…one more job to mark off as “Zero Retribution,” a job well done.

*** Excerpt from Scales of Justice by Mitchell S Karnes. Copyright 2024 by Mitchell S Karnes. Reproduced with permission from Mitchell S Karnes. All rights reserved.

 

 

Guest Post from Mitchell S Karnes — Author of Scales of Justice
Who is Graham Turner?

 

Naming a character is one of the most difficult tasks I face with each story. I often overthink the process. I usually cringe when I read character names that are cliché or indicate his role (i.e. John Steele, Rocky Balboa, Princess Buttercup, Grace etc.), but I felt that “Turner” was appropriate because it revealed the main conflict of Scales of Justice. Will Graham discover the power to turn from his current ways? Will he fear the consequences that continue to enslave him? The choice of “Graham” was meant to pay homage to two great inspirations: Creative writing professor – Phillip Graham & Author – Graham Diamond.

In chapter one, the reader discovers herself amid an assassin’s hit, watching through the eyes of Graham Turner. He is currently at the top of his game and field. Graham is so good that he affectionately calls his assignments, “Zero Retribution.” His methods of killing are so creative that all deaths are considered natural and create no suspicion. But if the reader pays attention to the small details (the soured stomach and the ritual of taking four Tums, always four Tums), she will see that the cool, calm, and controlled exterior do not match the internal conflict of our protagonist.

Graham begins to have recurring nightmares (dreams) of his parents that clash with the stories he’s been told. He realizes that the dreams are repressed memories that reveal the murder of his mother and father. More troubling is the fact these memories indicate the murderer is a member of his own organization. How does Graham investigate the murder without drawing the suspicion of his boss, which would lead to his own death?

Throughout the story, Graham faces a myriad of antagonists, each revealing a specific part of his character and blocking one of his goals. He struggles to free himself from the control and manipulation of his boss, William Christopher Allen, jr. Graham fights to protect his stepbrother, keeping him out of the “family business.” Graham suppresses his own feelings and desires, but falls helplessly for his new neighbor, a Christian cop. But, the ultimate battle is spiritual. Can a man responsible for the deaths of countless people find God’s forgiveness?

I am unapologetically a Christian who writes, but I truly do not see myself as a Christian writer (one who writes exclusively for a Christian audience. I will, however, place God within my characters’ worlds, always giving a chance for reconciliation and forgiveness. The world is a messy place. I believe God longs to shine His light into the darkness of our world. Why should it be any different for a story?

I wanted to make Graham a real person trapped in the darkness of an assassin’s world. I wanted Graham to feel like he doesn’t have a choice. I needed him to know what he is doing is wrong, but for him to feel hopeless and powerless to change his situation. Then, I want to conflict him with a conscience and a soul. All of this was necessary to lead to (spoiler alert) the final conflict with the Bishop who killed his parents. At that moment, Graham has a choice to either exact the revenge he’s longed for, or accept forgiveness and extend that offer to the Bishop as well.

I pictured a final scene with Graham driving off in a car. He looks into the rearview mirror (representing the past), the windshield (representing the future), and to a gun in the passenger’s seat (representing the present). I was going to leave the reader with three choices. Graham returns to his life as an assassin. Graham chooses freedom, even though it means a life of running. Graham’s conflicted soul leads him to commit suicide. I discarded that ending for the one in Scales of Justice, which reveals my thoughts on Graham’s situation. I hope you enjoy the story and dig deeply into the layers that reveal not only the world of Graham Turner, but of Mitchell S. Karnes as well.

Mitchell S Karnes — Author of Scales of Justice

Mitchell S Karnes is a husband, father of seven, and grandfather of nine. Mitchell uses his experience and insights as a minister, counselor, and educator to write and speak on challenging issues and concerns with an ever-growing audience. He has published five novels, three short stories, a one-act play, and numerous Bible study lessons. He is now working on a new series featuring Abbey Rhodes, a Nashville Homicide Detective.

Through two separate battles against Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, God has given Mitchell a new perspective on life that challenges him to create stories to not only entertain audiences but call them to action. Mitchell’s mission is to reach and reconcile those who have been disillusioned with God and His church and inspire the church to live out the love of Christ Jesus in a broken and hurting world.

 
To learn more about Mitchell, click on any of the following links: MitchellSKarnes.com, Goodreads, Instagram – @mitchellskarnesauthor, Twitter/X – @mitchellskarnes & Facebook

 

Visit all the Stops on the Tour!

05/13 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
05/14 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
05/15 Showcase @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read
05/16 Review @ Hott Books
05/17 Review @ Elicias Book Haven
05/17 Teresa Trent’s Books to the Ceiling Podcast
05/23 Review @ Novels Alive
05/24 Review @ reviewsbyrudra
05/27 Guest post @ Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
05/29 Showcase @ 411 ON BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND PUBLISHING NEWS
05/30 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
06/03 Review @ Pat Fayo reviews
06/06 Review @ Book Reviews From an Avid Reader
06/17 Book Talk with Fran Lewis Radio Interview
06/17 Review @ Just Reviews
09/20 Mysteries to Die For: Toe Tags Podcast

Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell

 

 

The post Scales of Justice: A Mystery appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

The Birthday of Eternity: Historical Private Eye

The Birthday of Eternity, A Comfort & Company Mystery

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The Birthday of Eternity

L.A. private investigators Kit and Henry become entangled in the city’s robust post-WWII occult trade when they’re hired to track down Lillian, the estranged wife of a prominent physician, and her spellbinding “spirit” lover Tashin.

Fresh from her training in judo and “dirty fighting,” Kit poses as an eager recruit at a Hollywood cult run by the ambitious Reverend, while Henry takes on the city’s séance circuit, which has reinvented itself in the wake of war. Assisting them are Kit’s psychiatrist lover Luca and her combat veteran brother Stanley, who offer their own brand of expertise in unraveling the tricks of the conmen.

Plunged into the strange and deadly world of mediums and gurus, Kit and Henry soon discover that surviving the spirit trade will take all of their cunning and a whole lot of luck.

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Private Detective Mystery
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: December 6, 2023
Number of Pages: 358
ISBN: 9798986893044
Series: Comfort & Company Book 2

To purchase a copy of The Birthday of Eternity click on any of the following links: Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads
Audiobook Links: Audible | Spotify | Barnes & Noble | Google Play | Chirp

The Birthday of Eternity Audiobook Sample:

 

Read an excerpt of The Birthday of Eternity:

THE BIRTHDAY OF ETERNITY

D. PRICE

A COMFORT & COMPANY MYSTERY

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

 

Copyright © 2023 by A. D. Price

 

All rights reserved.

 

Cover design by Amy Dunkleberger

 

https://adpricebooks.com

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request. 

ISBN 9798986893037

PROLOGUE

 

DAIVIKA

(Preface, “Survival: My Journey to Enlightenment,” CoEB Press, 1948)

 

Happy New Year! Today, I begin the story of my death. The story of my death and my rebirth. The story of my journey to enlightenment. It won’t begin at the beginning. It won’t unfold in chronological order, or in subject order. Instead, it will flow in psychic order. An order marked by change—the before and the after—and its place in my eternal existence, in the circle with no beginning and no end. 

Some in my position might shy away from sharing their story. They might prefer to keep their past a secret. However, from my experience—the experience that brought me to this point today—secrets destroy. They destroy trust, of course, but they also destroy hope. We can’t profess to love nature’s sunshine while keeping a part of ourselves in the darkness. Our past, our histories, are as much a part of our being as our beliefs and our actions.

Of course, it’s impossible to recall everything, and not all revelations are suitable for all audiences, but as far as common decency and memory will allow me, I will be truthful and open with my history. It’s the least I can do for my new friends and colleagues. Now more than ever, I need your trust. So, I will give you my secrets—some of them anyway.

And circle or not, I must start my story somewhere, and when I think about the past, I find myself returning to one moment, one place, one hot summer afternoon. It was a moment whose significance grew over time, like a soft mew swelling to a roar. It’s there I’ll begin the story of my life, a not-so-long-ago moment, fresh from death’s door. 

Chapter 1

 

DAIVIKA

(Excerpt from “Survival: My Journey to Enlightenment.” CoEB Press, 1948)

 

Death, as a concept, bubbles up often in my current existence, but in my previous life, I did my best to keep the topic at bay, to push down my fears and ignore any pain. Months after the war’s end, I was still rationing my sadness, still offering fake smiles and unearned laughs. 

That began to change with the death of my grandmother. Days before, she had taken a bad fall and her recovery had been fitful. I dropped by the hospital once or twice, but on that last Sunday, I canceled my planned visit and attended one of my husband’s archery competitions instead. She passed during the night.

Gramma had always been the kind constant in my life—more giving than my mother—and her departure from this world was a blow to my defenses. Its full impact, however—my shame especially— didn’t hit me until later. Even then, as I first stood by her open grave under that scorching sun, dry martinis in ice-cold glasses were all I was thinking about.

In her will, Gramma instructed she be buried at Forest Lawn, in the Everlasting Love section, next to her beloved husband, my grandpa. He had succumbed to a stroke a few years earlier, and his demise rendered Gramma spiritually unbalanced. Or as she put it, without him by her side, her life had no joy. At the time, I didn’t associate Gramma’s spiritual imbalance with a literal imbalance, the type of vertigo that caused her to misjudge a step, take a spill and break her hip, but the connection seems obvious to me now.

 I also see now the deep imprint that my grandparents’ long and loving marriage left on my psyche. My parents’ marriage was fragile and my own romances were flops. But Gramma and Grandpa’s bond truly was everlasting—in life and beyond. Who doesn’t yearn for that? 

No doubt that if my native Californian Gramma had been in charge of the matter, her burial would have taken place on a rainy dawn in winter. As it turned out, however, the fates preferred a cloudless afternoon in July. The night before, a Santa Ana wind had blown in, delivering a day of gusts so hot and dry they all but set fire to the lungs. The service at the Wee Kirk o’ the Heather Church had been reasonably well-attended, but most of the mourners, including my husband, skipped the burial. While immaculate and stubbornly green, the lawn the cemetery was famous for had absorbed the wind’s heat, making standing graveside more hellish than heavenly.

The minister-for-hire went through his rituals as quickly as was socially acceptable. But as he was delivering his final words over Gramma’s coffin, the birds and insects of Forest Lawn went abruptly silent. I felt the silence more than I heard it, but I sensed instantly that something was off and something else was eminent. And just as that anticipation hit, the sky’s light dimmed and the air dulled. We had been plunged, midday, into dusk. 

During the next few seconds, my ears started to ring, or rather, hum. My heart raced, and I gasped. Then I fainted. My knees gave out and I tumbled to the ground. I toppled just inches from the open grave, my left arm dangling over the side. I quickly recovered but when I opened my eyes, the world was tinged with red and the air that swirled around me was frigid. I could hear murmurs of concern and felt someone touching my back. Embarrassed, I struggled to my feet and assured everyone I was fine.

And for a time, I fooled myself into believing that I was fine. On the drive home from the cemetery, I heard radio bulletins describing the total solar eclipse that had just occurred in the Northern Hemisphere. Everything I had experienced during the funeral was unusual but explainable. A natural phenomenon. 

Or was it? Was Gramma’s funeral occurring at the same time as a rare astronomical event a coincidence? Or had Fortuna influenced the scheduling somehow? What had I seen? What had I felt? Had I felt through that cold wind Gramma’s spirit heading for the Afterlife? Or was it the stirring of my own sorrow, blowing around me in warning? Or both?

Chapter 2

 

HENRY

 

With a thwap, the arrow struck the hay bale, missing the square target by an inch. A crow clattered in a nearby sycamore, and a muttered curse slipped from Hoyle Cooper’s mouth. By Henry’s estimation, the target, set up in a sunny spot between two gnarled olive trees, was about 40 yards away.

With all the studiousness you’d expect from a man who had earned the nickname “Doctor to the Stars,” Cooper pursed his lips and reached for another arrow in his quiver. “Just one more,” he said, eyes narrowed. Cooper inserted the arrow and drew back his bent arm like Sagittarius on the battlefield. Although Henry knew next to nothing about archery, he sensed that Cooper’s form was perfect. The arrow flew out and, in a blink, struck the target dead center.

“That’s more like it,” Cooper said, half to himself. The faintest of smiles creased his smooth, pampered face, and he turned to face Henry for the first time. He didn’t offer his hand, but nodded. “Mr. Richman. Thank you for agreeing to meet me here. I know it’s a little out of the way for you.” He gestured at the arrow-dotted target and started off toward it. “Don’t move an inch. I’ll be right back.”

“I understand the need for privacy,” Henry yelled to his prospective client as he strode off. The archery field, located in the Arroyo Seco, was only a few miles from his downtown office—a short drive on the new parkway­—but its dusty roughness seemed a world away from his usual concrete haunts. 

“I’m sure you do,” Cooper called over his shoulder. With one swoop, he grabbed the four spent arrows from the bale and dropped them into his quiver. He gestured again, this time to a trail behind Henry. “That way.”

Henry tugged at his fedora as he stepped onto the dirt path. Roughly outlined by rocks, it curved gently around some flowering chaparral, heading east up a slight incline. “Do you practice here often?”

“Every Monday and Saturday. And any other day I can get over here.”

“It shows.”  

“Thank you,” Cooper said, joining Henry on the path, but keeping one striding step ahead. “I took up field archery a few years ago as a way to keep my mind and vision sharp. Then, I admit, it became a bit of an obsession.”

“Do you compete?” Henry said with a wince. His aging leather shoes offered little protection against the sharp rocks whose tips protruded out of the arroyo dirt. 

“With the Roving Archers.”

“Where do they compete?”

“We’re part of the Southern California league, but we compete nationally,” Cooper said with a note of pride. “Like the World Series.”

“The team’s good?” Henry knew the answer would be yes, because that’s how men like Cooper conversed.

“Number one in the country,” Cooper gushed.

Henry half-smiled. “Congratulations.” 

At last, they reached the apex, and Cooper stopped and nodded in the direction of some oak trees. “Let’s talk at the table.”

The rough wood table looked like it hadn’t hosted a picnic, or any other human activity, in a dog’s age. If Cooper wanted privacy, Henry thought, he couldn’t have found a better spot. With a rag plucked from his quiver, Cooper swept away pine needles and dried berries from the table’s benches, and Henry took note of the doctor’s powerful but smooth hands. “Sorry about the mess. I should have warned you to dress casually.” 

Henry shrugged as he knocked dust from his hat. 

Cooper dropped his quiver on the table top and collapsed on the closest bench, straddling it like a horse. Then he gestured toward the opposing bench and said to Henry, “Have a seat.”

Henry positioned himself directly across from the doctor, who had his hands folded across his chest. If Cooper had intended to make Henry uncomfortable, as rich clients often did, he had succeeded in spades. In the past, Henry might have resented the maneuvering and even retaliated for it, but these days he was content to play the long game. In a minute or two, Henry knew, the cocky Hoyle Cooper would be exposing his vulnerability to him, a stranger, and in that moment, Henry would hold all the power. “How can I be of help?” 

“It’s my wife Lillian,” Cooper said, then added, “My soon-to-be ex-wife, I should say” Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out some Pall Malls and offered the pack to Henry, who waved them off with a polite smile. 

“Your ex-wife?” Henry repeated, as Cooper went through the motions of lighting a cigarette. Henry didn’t keep up with the town’s gossip, but Kit had mentioned seeing a publicity item about the starlet’s marriage to the much-older physician years before. 

“That’s right. She left me in March and served me with divorce papers in April.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” Cooper muttered, then took a deep drag on his Pall Mall. “If I’m being honest, the whole business took me completely by surprise.”

“In my experience husbands never see the bad things coming,” Henry said. Cooper grunted and tilted his head to exhale and stare into the distance. Henry gave him a few seconds, then broke the silence. “On what grounds is she suing you for divorce?”

At the word “divorce” Cooper snapped back to attention. “Unbelievably, on the grounds of incompatibility.”

“Why unbelievable?”

“Because she’s the one who changed, not me. If anyone should be suing on that basis, it’s me.”

“Changed how?” Henry blinked a few times and removed his glasses. Finding a fine layer of dust covering both lenses, he pulled a handkerchief out of his back pants pocket. Methodically, he began to rub the right lens.

“Where to begin?” Cooper placed his half-smoked cigarette on the table’s edge. He closed his eyes as though summoning the remains of his self-control, but said nothing.

Henry stopped mid-rub and raised his eyebrows. “How about the beginning of the end? Did she fall out of love with you?”

“That’s what she’s claiming. But there’s more to it than that.”

“There usually is,” Henry said, moving on to his left lens.

“A lot more. You have no idea.” Cooper looked down and bit his lip. In his discomfort, he seemed to have abandoned his cigarette.

Henry checked his watch. “Forgive me, Mr. Cooper, but if you want me to help you, you’ll need to give me a few more details. Did she fall in love with someone else?”

Cooper gave a barking laugh. “In a manner of speaking.” 

Henry tucked the curved arms of his glasses behind his ears and stared expectantly at Cooper. The man had gotten rich off the indiscretions of Hollywood’s brightest stars, carefully hiding their abortions, venereal diseases, sterility or the real reason they had to split town from spouses and the gossip columnists. Maybe it had never occurred to him that one day, he’d be haunted by some of his own secrets. 

At last, Cooper took a deep breath and continued, “Lillian’s grandmother Zinnie died last fall. She had a bad fall and a stroke—nothing unusual for someone her age. But she and Lillian had been very close. Almost like mother and daughter. In fact, I think Lillian loved Zinnie more than her own mother. At any rate, Lillian was devastated by her death. She barely ate or slept for a month afterward. It was like she was in a trance. I wanted to send her to a psychiatrist, but she said no. And she refused to take any medications.” 

“Medications? You mean goofballs?” Henry said, his muscles tensing. He had his own opinions on the topic of goofballs.

“We don’t call them that, but yes, barbiturates. She refused to take them. I was nearing my wit’s end. When you’re in my line of work, you need a functioning wife. Then the wife of an old friend, Perriman—he’s my stockbroker—suggested we do a séance for Lillian. Alberta thought —

“Who thought?”

“Mrs. Perriman, Alberta, thought maybe an appearance from Zinnie might bring her out of her stupor. I was skeptical but desperate. So, I agreed to hire one.”

“A medium?”

“A so-called medium. Madame Zarzinzky.” 

Henry interrupted. “Zarzinsky with two z’s?”  

Cooper sneered. “Three fucking z’s. My friend’s wife claimed they had helped her cope after their son was killed in the war.”

“They helped?”

“It was a couple. The woman was the medium. The husband apparently led the group during the contact phase.”

“You didn’t attend the séance?”

“I wasn’t invited. But the couple dropped by the house for a preliminary consultation—as they called it.”  

Henry nodded. “Sounds like they were pros, if they took the time for a reconnaissance mission. Where did this séance take place?”

“It was set up by someone Alberta Perriman knew, from her charity work. A producer’s wife, Sheila Seaver,” Cooper said with a dismissive half-shrug. “She’s a go-between of some sort. I admit I didn’t pay that much attention to the details.” 

“I assume Zinnie made an appearance of some sort at the séance?”

Cooper gave a rueful smile. “Exactly what you’d expect. As Lillian described it, Zinnie spoke through the medium, mentioned a few personal details about Lillian. Just enough to be convincing.”

“But nothing that couldn’t be deduced from the consultation?” 

“It was all obvious, except for a couple of tidbits that Lillian probably let slip during their first interview. But I’ll tell you, afterward, Lillian was transformed. She started eating again, going out, seeing friends. It was great at first.”

“Then?”

“Then she was introduced to Tashin.”

“Sorry?”

“Tashh,” Cooper said, then paused for effect, “Shinn. Also known as Lillian’s soulmate.”

“The other man.”

Cooper sneered. “He’s her other man in the Spirit World. Her soulmate. She calls him Tashin.”

“He’s a ghost?”

At the word “ghost” Cooper screwed up his mouth. “He’s a reincarnated spirit. That’s how Lillian described him. According to her, the two of them had been soulmates in previous incarnations.  But in order to achieve perfect harmony with him in the Afterlife—I’m quoting here—she had to first divorce me.”

“Sounds convenient. And how did she meet . . .Tashin?”

“She refused to tell me.”

“Any guesses?”

 Cooper shrugged. “She never wanted to discuss where she went off to, but she swore she wasn’t sleeping with anyone.”

“Did you believe her?” 

“What choice did I have? Not that it mattered in the end. Wherever she was going, she was spending more and more time there. Then one day, she left and never came back.”

“Did she take anything with her?”

“A few clothes—only as much as would fit in a single suitcase. If you saw the size of her wardrobe, you’d know how strange that was.”

Henry nodded. Hollywood starlet or the wife of a rich, prominent doctor—either way, she’d be drowning in clothes and jewels. “That takes us to April. What’s going on now?”

“Now? I’m counter-suing her and naming Tashin as a co-respondent,” Cooper said, suddenly animated. 

“You’re suing the spirit?”

“Please,” the doctor snarled. “He’s no spirit. He can’t be. There’s no way my gorgeous twenty-five-year-old wife left me for a bunch of stale hot air.” Anger rising, Cooper brought his fist down on the table. “That prick is as solid as this wood, guaranteed. I’d rather stick icepicks through my eyes than pay that whore a cent of alimony.”

Henry winced. If he had any sympathy for the man’s plight, it was quickly going out the window. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Look, I’m asking you because I heard you were the best. The last guy I hired was on the payroll for a month and couldn’t even figure out where she was going, let alone who with.” 

Cooper’s revelation didn’t surprise Henry, but knowing the target was clever and aware enough to elude surveillance didn’t thrill him either. “So, to be clear,” Henry said, “if and when I locate them, you want me to serve him?”

“Exactly. Find her and serve him.”

 

* * *

 

Traffic was still light when he pulled out of the park and headed west in the Studebaker. He had left Cooper sitting at the picnic table, tending to both his ego and a fresh Pall Mall. The doctor had promised to send over all the relevant details—address and phone number for the referring friend’s wife, Lillian’s photo and a description of her known haunts and habits—later that morning. 

When the subject of Henry’s fees came up, Henry requested an outrageous retainer and, as was his practice when dealing with the wealthy, doubled his daily rate. Cooper accepted the sums without debate, not even flinching when Henry suggested a second investigator, his partner, might be needed to locate his ex-wife. Apparently gut-spilling about his marriage had taken a toll on Cooper’s bravado. Either that or doctors had a more casual relationship with their money than the studio executives and politicians Henry usually did jobs for. 

By the time he had eased off the parkway and headed downtown, Henry already had his afternoon planned. The first pieces were starting to fall into place, but no doubt about it, the outlines of the puzzle were stranger than anything he had ever encountered.

 

KIT

 

“He’s not a real dog,” Kit said calmly into the receiver. “Okay, he is a real dog, but he doesn’t work here. He’s a model. A dog model. My partner—my human partner—and I are the company investigators. We’d be happy to—”

The caller—an older man by the sound of the voice—hung up, and Kit jammed the handset into its cradle with a loud sigh. When she had agreed to include Valentino’s photo in their Comfort & Company Yellow Pages ad, she had worried about disappointing clients expecting to see the dog in the office. And in fact, a couple of walk-ins had promptly walked out when Valentino failed to make an appearance. But what kind of nut would hire a dog to handle their private affairs?

And where was the new Girl Friday? Without consulting her, Henry had offered the job to his wife’s niece, who had graduated from the same business school as Kit and, according to Henry, was ready to start immediately. Kit was leery of hiring “family,” but Henry had assured her that his cousin-in-law’s daughter wasn’t really family. “She’s the daughter of Bea’s cousin,” Henry explained, “and she lives with her divorced mother.”

Though unconvinced, the evening before, Kit had confiscated an ancient writing desk and chair from the downstairs supply closet and tucked them into the office’s only free corner. The phone line barely reached the small desk, and picking up the handset from the worn-down swivel chair required a stretch. Hardly ideal, Kit thought, but it was the best she could do on short notice. 

The niece, Clara, was supposed to start at eight that morning, but when Kit arrived at ten, the room was so stuffy she had to leave the door open to air things out. Annoyed and disappointed, Kit plunked down in the executive chair she shared with Henry and contemplated heading for MacArthur Park with her camera.

“Knock, knock.” A young woman stuck her head into the room and smiled at Kit. “Hi. Are you Miss Comfort?”

“I am. Come on in.”

A short redhead with a fireplug build hustled in, carrying a large, string-tie envelope. Her round-collared white shirt and pleated skirt—desert brown, the color du jour—looked like they had just been pulled from a Bullocks hanger, and her copper hair sported the extreme part and soft curls popular with the collegiate crowd. She repeated her smile and, extending the envelope toward Kit, said, “It’s from Dr. Cooper. Mr. Richman said I should give it directly to you.”

“You talked to Henry?” 

“No, not directly. Mr. Richman met with our client, Dr. Cooper, at the archery field.” 

“Archery field?”

“Dr. Cooper spends a lot of time there,” the redhead said, then added, “Shooting arrows.” Her voice was firm but girlishly high-pitched. Kit didn’t detect an accent, other than L.A. neutral.  

“And you’re from?” Kit said.

“McMasters and Rice. The law firm? Over on Fifth.”

“I know it.” Kit knew McMasters and Rice and every other law office that specialized in divorce. Many of Henry’s best clients had ended up at one of them. Kit tapped an empty space on her desk. “You can leave that there. Mr. Richman should be here soon.”   

“Thanks,” the redhead said, placing the envelope near the desk’s edge. She flashed another smile, then bit her lip. 

“Anything else?” Kit noticed that while the secretary’s clothes were new, her brown pumps, with their creased leather and uneven heels, weren’t.

“Is it true you rescued a woman from some crazy Nazi orange farmers?” 

Kit hesitated. The “truth” was something very different than the story carried in the city papers a few months before, the orange farmers being fifth columnists and more fanatical than crazy. But the true story wasn’t hers to tell, according to the War Department. Not at the moment anyway. “More or less,” she said at last.

“That’s . . . awe-inspiring.”

“Thanks. We just did what we had to.”

“Still, gosh, it took guts. More than most people have.”

“You’d be surprised what you’re capable of when a gun is pointed at you.” The redhead’s expression darkened, and Kit regretted the comment.

“I know, you must have been terrified.” 

An awkward silence filled the room. “What did you say your name was?” Kit asked.

“Ruby O’Reilly,” the redhead said.

“Very nice to meet you, Ruby,” said Kit, imagining the moniker Henry would likely assign her: Ruby the Red.

“Oh, gosh, it’s been an honor to meet you, a real honor.” Ruby turned to leave, then paused, her attention caught by the dartboard hanging on the back of the half-open door. “If you’re looking for a secretary, I type 80 words per minute, shorthand 220 words per minute, and I know how to be discreet.”

“Thanks, but we just hired someone . . . I think,” Kit said, confused. They hadn’t advertised the position in the classifieds.

“Oh, well,” Ruby said, a little surprise in her voice, “if she doesn’t work out, you can reach me at the firm. I’m there Monday through Saturday, eight to five.” 

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

As she neared the threshold, Ruby said, “Should I close the door?” 

“Please,” Kit replied and watched as Ruby grabbed the outer doorknob.  

“Don’t forget to call if you need me,” Ruby repeated while pulling the door behind her. “Trinity 5, 5520.”

The door closed, and Kit sat back in the executive chair, muscles tense. To relax, she closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply, in and out, in and out. It was a trick taught to her by Luca, her brother’s former shrink and her current, what, beau? Lover?

On her fourth and final exhale, she opened her eyes and looked off to the right at the now-closed door. Pinned to the dartboard, she saw, was a note. She got up for a closer look. The paper was from a steno pad and the scribbled words read: “Changed my mind about the job. Office is too small. And where’s the dog?! Clara.”

 

* * *

 

Weather conditions weren’t ideal for picture taking—the sun was too bright and pervasive—but after a morning of frustration and nonsense, Kit needed an excuse to head outside. She often used photography as her escape hatch, and she wasn’t particular about her subjects. To her, a loose brick could be just as eye-catching as a beautiful bloom, a bum on a bench just as visually stimulating as a fur-draped starlet. Henry would tease her about her aesthetic choices and invent captions for her more obtuse shots: “Fire Hydrant with Dog Pee” or “How Green Was My Shoe?” But Kit wasn’t offended or deterred by the opinions of others. Photography was her soul balm. It took her away from racing thoughts and self-doubts, from bad memories and future fears.

And today, she needed that balm to push memories of the man she had killed to the back of her mind. Today, Ruby O’Reilly had been the one to unleash her painful thoughts. But sometimes all it took was the smell of oranges or the feel of dirt to return her to the scene, the orange grove where she shot and killed a man named Carl. She had pulled the trigger and fired the bullet that ended his life. He had given her no choice—she wasn’t ambivalent about her motive—but the power the little derringer had given her still haunted her. With a gun, she thought, it was too easy to become a killer, and too easy to play savior.  

In one second, so much of her life had changed. Not her waking, everyday existence, but her silent, inner life. Before the shot, the dynamics of the partnership had been clear—Henry had been in charge—but after it, the lines of authority had blurred. Henry owed her his life, after all, and Henry took his debts seriously. Would he repay her with the two things she craved most from him: respect and trust? She yearned for both, but wondered if she had truly earned them yet. Was she worthy and capable? On many days, she had her doubts.    

For a hot weekday afternoon, MacArthur Park was surprisingly crowded, making picture taking a challenge. She preferred to photograph faces, to select one or two and create a portrait. Usually she would ask permission, but sometimes she took them surreptitiously. The candid photos were always more interesting than the posed, permitted ones, but given her profession, she didn’t want her motives to be questioned, possibly through violent means.  

According to Henry, before the war, the park had been magnificent—a destination, not a pass-through—but started going downhill a few years back after William Randolph Hearst had forced a name change on City Hall. Apparently, Hearst, who dreamt of sending General MacArthur to the White House, had calculated that having a park named after the war hero was good publicity, so, poof, Westlake Park became MacArthur Park. Kit suspected the park’s decline had more to do with the decision to split it in two, with Wilshire Boulevard running unapologetically down the middle, than with the dubious politics of General MacArthur, but she never argued civics with Henry.

Despite Henry’s grumblings, Kit loved strolling through the park. The breeze off the lake, while slight, offered some relief from the heat, and the paddling swans made for good backdrops. Along with the swans, the park boasted a collection of “florid fly-by-nights,” as Henry would say, some of whom were featured in Kit’s portrait portfolio. She was on the lookout for one of these when she noticed some tourist types clustered around a man sitting on a lake-facing bench, a small table at his knees. 

The young, dark-haired man had a lively game of three-card monte going, his hands moving the king, ten and two of clubs around so fast on the table that none of his opponents had a chance to select the correct card. Hand after hand, Kit watched him play, always winning against the eager passersby. After each victory, he would slide his booty into a tin can, grinning with undisguised joy. 

Fraud lay at the heart of many of Comfort & Company’s cases, and Kit had learned from Henry that most con games, including three-card monte, were simple in design but complex in detection. The mind perceived what it wanted to see, what experience had taught it to see, never what was actually going on.  

As she raised her camera to take the enterprising young man’s picture, she wondered what drove people to these games, what need in them did they fulfill? Hope? The belief that next time, the outcome would be different? Or maybe it was the opposite, maybe they took a strange pleasure in the certainty of their losses. Whatever the need, the marks kept coming, and the conmen kept playing.

Kit devoted the last shots of her roll not to the young man with the dazzling smile and devilish hands but to his audience—the vacationing families, office workers, retirees and bums who had gathered to give testament to his skills. She knew the conman’s sleight-of-hand deception could never be captured in a photograph, but she hoped the reactions of his targets would be.  

*** Excerpt from The Birthday of Eternity by A.D. Price. Copyright 2024 by A.D. Price. Reproduced with permission from A.D. Price. All rights reserved.

 

 

A.D. Price, Author of The Birthday of Eternity

A native of Washington, D. C., A. D. Price is an Emmy-winning screenwriter and author. Her publications (as Amy Dunkleberger) include educational books and feature articles on historical and arts-related subjects.

In 2022, she published After the Blue, Blue Rain, her first novel and the first book in her Comfort & Company mystery series.

She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two dogs.

 
 
To learn more about A.D., click on any of the following links: www.ADPricebooks.com, Goodreads, BookBub – @adpricebooks, Instagram – @adprice22, Threads – @adprice22, Facebook – @adpricebooks & YouTube – @ADPrice

 

Visit all the Stops on the Tour!

05/10 Podcast reading @ Books to the Ceiling
05/13 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
05/14 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
05/15 Showcase @ 411 ON BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND PUBLISHING NEWS
05/16 Showcase @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read
05/17 Showcase @ Silvers Reviews
05/21 Interview @ Hott Books
05/22 Interview @ darciahelle
05/24 Showcase @ Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!
05/25 Review @ Paws. Read. Repeat
05/26 Review @ Pat Fayo reviews
05/29 Showcase @ Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
05/30 Review @ Avonna Loves Genres
06/01 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
06/07 Review @ elaine_sapp65

Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell

 

 

The post The Birthday of Eternity: Historical Private Eye appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow: New Thriller by Mary Keliikoa

Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow, a domestic thriller by Mary Keliikoa

Author Interview + Book and Author Info + Pet Corner!Don’t miss any author interviews! Click the link here.Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow

Murder, dark family secrets, and the unwavering bond of sisterhood— regardless of the cost

Beth Ralston, a paralegal in Portland, Oregon, would rather be racking up billable hours than mingling at an office party— especially when her sister Lindsay, aka her plus one, is a no-show.

After making her obligatory rounds, Beth returns to her office to find that her boss, who she’ d talked with moments before, has been murdered. She sees a woman fleeing the scene. Wait— was that Lindsay? Unable to catch up to her in time, Beth waits for the police to arrive and notices that Lindsay has left her phone behind with an unsent text message to Beth displayed on the screen: “ Don’ t ask. Don’ t follow.”

Lindsay is unreachable for days, and when Beth starts to come under suspicion for the crime, she decides that waiting is impossible. While retracing Lindsay’ s steps, determined to bring her home, Beth uncovers what her sister, an investigative reporter bent on changing the world, was trying to expose— corruption, secrets, and betrayal on an unimaginable level. Revealing the truth might bring back the one person she’ s desperate to find— but it could also destroy the only life and family Beth’ s ever known.

Perfect for fans of Gregg Olsen and Karin Slaughter

To purchase Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow from any of your favorite outlets, click the link here.Author Interview with Mary Keliikoa, author of Don’t Ask, Don’t FollowDon’t Ask, Don’t Follow is your first standalone domestic thriller, what made you shift from your terrific series (the private eye Kelly Pruett Mysteries and police procedural Misty Pines Mysteries), to write this book?

I’ve been wanting to write a story that involves a law firm setting for quite some time.

When this particular idea came to me, I knew it fell more into suspense and I wanted to explore the relationship between sisters and dark family secrets. I’ve had a few people suggest I make it a series though since the main character is a paralegal, and her sister is an investigative reporter, but at the moment, the character ARCs feel complete to me. But never say never!

 

Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow centers on sisters Beth Ralson and her sister Lindsay. What would you like readers to know about them and their dynamic?

That while they look like they are polar opposites on many subjects, they really want many of the same things. Of course, the dynamic of big and little sister is on full display here, but there really is little that they wouldn’t do for each other. 

 

Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow is set in Portland, Oregon. Why did that feel like the right location for this story?

I grew up in Portland, and many of my 18 years in the legal field were spent downtown. Since it’s an area I knew so well, I couldn’t imagine placing it anywhere else.

 

How has your background in the legal field given you insights into writing about murder, mystery, and mayhem?

While I didn’t work in criminal law, my time working around lawyers and courthouses provided a lens in which to view so many different cases, personalities, and ways in which to research and handle different situations. Especially in this new book which is set in a law firm, my background came into play. And in my procedural, it really gave me the confidence to ask questions of others in the field, whether they were in law enforcement, judges, etc.  

 

When you aren’t in the Pacific Northwest, you can often be found on a beach in Hawaii, two of my favorite places to be. What are some of your favorite places in the PNW and the islands?

I love the Oregon coast, and the Columbia River Gorge. Both areas boast some of the most beautiful scenery. But I have to say, my little slice of heaven at home on our property is my happy place.

As for the islands, we live on the Big Island and any beach there rates among my favorites, as well as the drive to Hilo. The bamboo forest and waterfalls along the way are stunning.

 

What are you working on now?

I’m making great progress on the third book in my Misty Pines mystery series. Killer Tracks will be out in September 2025. I’m also shopping another domestic thriller, Game Over, where an innocent prank between a couple goes horribly awry. 

 

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

There are a lot of voices out there telling you what you should or shouldn’t do as a writer. Write every day. Don’t write every day. Outline. Don’t outline. I say, only do things that resonate and speak to you and don’t compare your process to anyone else’s.

At the end of the day, there is no “right” way, only what is right for you.

Great advice!Author Pet Corner!

August!

 

August is our 15-year-old kitty, who rescued us when she was 9 weeks old.

She was deemed unadoptable at the beginning by the Humane Society, but a young girl there had fostered her until she got over her fight or flight tendencies.

When we met her, she flopped onto her back while on our laps and stole our hearts. And now we fully own that she runs us—which we wouldn’t have any other way.

 

Mary Keliikoa, Author of Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow

Eighteen years in the legal field, and an over-active imagination, led Pacific NW native Mary Keliikoa to start writing mystery and suspense.

She is the author of the award-winning HIDDEN PIECES, A Misty Pines mystery series, the upcoming DEADLY TIDES, the PI Kelly Pruett mystery series including the multi-award nominated DERAILED for best debut, and the upcoming stand-alone DON’T ASK, DON’T FOLLOW out Summer of 2024. Her short stories can be found in Woman’s World and the anthology, Peace, Love, and Crime.

When not at home with her husband and fur-kids, you can find Mary enjoying time on a beach on the Big Island where even under the palm trees and blazing sun she’s plotting her next murder—novel that is.

To learn more about Mary follow her on social media:Facebook, X/Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, BookBub.Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell

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The Last Broken Girl: A Debut Thriller

The Last Broken Girl, the debut thriller by author Cynthia Rice

Author Interview + Book & Author Info + Author Pet Corner!Don’t miss any debut author interviews, click the link here for more.The Last Broken Girl

Erin Moore, kidnapped as a teenager and held for months, learns her abductor is up for parole. The police always believed her captor acted alone, and that the female accomplice Erin described years ago was the fabrication of a traumatized mind.

Twenty years later, Erin leads a rigidly structured life with her husband and two young daughters and has a successful psychology practice in the same small midwestern town.

When her abductor is paroled early and goes missing, leaving behind a large pool of blood, Erin and her husband become suspects. Erin receives threatening notes she is certain came from the accomplice, but she is unable to convince the police the menace is real.

As Erin watches her life unravel, including her marriage, career and possibly her sanity, she knows the only way out is to bring the accomplice to justice, even if it’s twenty years late.

To purchase The Last Broken Girl, click any of the following links: Bookshop, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books.

 

Interview with the Author of The Last Broken Girl — Cynthia Rice

 

The Last Broken Girl centers on Erin Moore. What would you like readers to know about her?

Erin is an educated, intelligent woman and a practicing Psychologist.

Even with her education and professional insight, she’s never been able to move past the events of her teen years. It affects her relationship with her husband and her sister, as well as how she approaches her practice.

The Last Broken Girl is a thriller about a kidnapping. What drew you to that scenario for your debut novel?

In the plotting of the novel, I wanted Erin’s backstory to include a major traumatic experience which she survived but has had a lasting impact on her personality, and one where evil comes calling on her years later.

The kidnapping fit the bill.

The Last Broken Girl is set in rural Wisconsin, a place you have strong ties. What led you to set your novel there?

My father lived five miles outside a small town about forty miles from where my story takes place, and I was a frequent visitor to the area.

It was a town in decline, with the Shopko and Kmart closing, high unemployment, lots of bars, and only one grocery store.

There is an idyllic stereotype of small-town safety which ignores the very real problems of poverty, sexual abuse, drugs, violence and broken families. I find the dichotomy between perception and reality makes these small towns fertile ground for crime fiction.

How does being a physician impact your writing?

As a scientist, I tend to approach life in an analytical fashion, and that has its downside when it comes to writing fiction.

My first drafts tend to be light on the characters’ emotions, and that’s something I’m working on. There’s a great podcast series The Shit No One Tells You About Writing featuring Bianca Marais, Carly Watters, and CeCe Lyra, where they discuss increasing the ‘interiority’ in the scenes, and this is something I pay attention to in my editing.

I also find myself occasionally using terms or phrases which are confusing to people without a medical background, and my critique group has been helpful in curtailing this. For example, I described ‘the dependent’ side of a body bag, meaning the side down, and that was flagged.

When my kids were younger, I once asked the information desk at Bloomingdales in NYC which floor Pediatrics was on, in a moment of weakness. (This made Elena laugh out loud!)

I am also a mediocre golfer! What do you enjoy most about the sport?

For me, golf is mainly about social interaction. I have several groups of friends I play with. I have taken lessons to improve, and recently returned from a five-day golf camp in St. George, Utah, which was lots of fun.

In the end, golf is about being outside on a summer day with friends and getting to drive that little cart around. The score is secondary, although it’s an undeniably sweet feeling when your drive goes straight and long.

What are you working on now?

I’m working on a final draft of a mystery, still unnamed, the first novel in a potential series, which takes place in Door County, Wisconsin. The protagonist is an ER physician, but this is not per se a medical mystery. It deals with themes of unhealthy family dynamics and obsession.

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

It’s important to find and keep a community of writers, whether through groups like Mystery Writers of America or a small critique group.

To quote Neil Gaiman, “Everything good that happened in my writing career happened because someone, normally another writer, helped me. Suggested me for something, put in a good word, and so on. The idea was always that you help others and they help others in turn. It’s not a win or lose game.”

 

Author Pet Corner!Clarice!Porkchop!

I have a one-year-old kitten Clarice, a Siberian Forest Cat, who was not named for Clarice Starling, whose favorite spot for napping is on my laptop keyboard.

(When I shared the name with my kids, they both immediately texted me a photo of Hannibal Lecter.)

I also have an 8-year-old domestic shorthair rescue cat named Porkchop named by my son, and whose nametag reads Porkchop Rice.

Cynthia Rice — Author of The Last Broken Girl

Mystery and suspense author Cynthia Rice is a physician living in the Milwaukee area and a proud member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers.Her debut novel, The Last Broken Girl , a psychological suspense and winner of the 2023 Claymore Award, is set in rural Wisconsin, where the author has strong ties.When she’s not working on her next novel, Cynthia keeps busy reading, traveling, and playing mediocre tennis and golf. She lives with her two cats Clarice and Porkchop.To learn more about Cynthia, click on any of the following links: Twitter, Instagram & Website.Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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Original Twin, Debut Thriller

Original Twin the debut thriller by Paula Gleeson

Author Interview + Book & Author Info + Author Pet Corner!Don’t miss any ITW Debut Author interviews, click the link here for more.Original Twin

She’s always been second best. Now she’s the only one left.

Twin sisters May and June couldn’t be more different. May is quiet, self-conscious, withdrawn; June is boisterous, beautiful, magnetic…and missing.

It’s been a year since June disappeared, a year of May waiting for her to turn up with an explanation of where she’s been and why she left. But with the discovery of an old newspaper article comes a secret: Their mother once vanished, too, on the same date when she was nineteen years old.

Just like June.

This was no coincidence. June was investigating this buried family mystery, and she left May a series of clues to pick up where she left off. Now, if May wants to find June, she’ll have to retrace her footsteps through their mother’s past.

The more answers she digs up, the more questions May has. And the biggest one of all: When her sister’s trail of breadcrumbs runs out, what will she find?

To purchase Original Twin, click the link here.Interview with Paula Gleeson, Author of Original TwinOriginal Twin involves sisters and a family secret. What interested you about the relationship between siblings and the secrets a family keeps?

I will always be attracted to sibling stories because of my relationships with my own siblings and the passing of my sister.

As for secrets, every family has them! I really wanted to explore how keeping those secrets could erode family dynamics and mental well-being over time. 

 

Original Twin features two women who aren’t identical. Why did you make the decision to give them their own, unique features? How does that charge their relationship?

May and June were instantly distinct, in both appearance and personality since they started whispering their secrets in my ear—so they made that decision for me. Haha.

It absolutely charges their relationship as both twins believe the other is far superior in every way and this plays on how they handle their environment and why they make such drastic life decisions. Insecurities that are neither true or justified are like an unwelcome parasite and I really loved exploring that with these two sisters.

 

Original Twin is set in the small town of Harold. Tell us about the environment and how it interacts with the story.

My fascination with small towns comes from living in multiple over the last decade.

Harold is a fictional town that is reminiscent of so many rural, Australian towns smattered across the country. The small-town mentality, claustrophobia, heightened dynamics and relationships add its own layer of complication when exploring hidden secrets and a mystery that all the locals claim as their own.

 

You also write non-fiction and make films. Tell us about your projects in those arenas:

Yes! I have been working in the film/TV realm for multiple decades now.

As well as producing work for other production companies, I also produced my own short films and documentary works.

My Olympic documentary A Sporting Chance won the highest honor at the Federation Internationale Cinema Television Sportifs (FICTS) Festival in Milan. My controversial article for national magazine Inside Sport was nominated for an Australian Sporting Commission journalist award for best print coverage by an individual.

Very cool! Congratulations.Tell us about your sister Kristie:

My sister was the best of them. She had so much love and empathy for those around her and made you want to be in her orbit. Funny, brave, and kind, she was a shining star who was too bright for this world, and I miss her every day.

She would have loved that I fulfilled my dream of being a published author and that my debut featured sisters—she’ll be cheering me on wherever she is.

 

What are you working on now?

Right now, my Book 2 under contract has been drafted and approved by my editor. It’s called BONEY CREEK. This one will be out May 2025. It’s going to be just as twisty as my debut and hopefully I can share more details soon. I am also on submission with a YA mystery and hope to shop my horror film script to production companies soon.

 

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

You do you. Everyone’s journey is different. Everyone’s headspace is different. And if you don’t want to write every day, don’t. Don’t look at other’s successes and compare them to your own. Find your community and never let them go.

And most importantly, never give up. Like ever.

Great advice!Author Pet CornerAtreyu!

Atreyu is named after the boy who rides the horse from the movie The Neverending Story—which is apt because Atreyu has been in and out of the vet since he was a pup and that feels like a never-ending story.

He likes watching horror movies cuddled withMama, squeaking his fav toy Two-fer, and chasing motorbikes along the fence line.

He loves listening to Mama read out her chapters and seeing if he can guess the killer—spoiler: he always gets it wrong but that’s okay because his status as “Good Boy” stills stands.

 

 

 

Paula Gleeson

Paula writes mysteries and thrillers for all ages, usually with multiple twists and complicated females at the helm.

She is an award-winning filmmaker and nominated non-fiction writer. She lives just outside of Melbourne, Australia and is often found in her pj’s, drinking tea (wine), and watching horror movies snuggled between her doggo and a big cheese pizza.

Her debut thriller, ORIGINAL TWIN, releases 1 June 2024. Find her online at paulagleeson.com

 

Find out more about Paula by clicking here.

 

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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On The Horns of Death: An Ancient Crete Mystery

On the Horns of Death: An Ancient Crete Mystery by Eleanor Kuhns [image error]

Excerpt + Book & Author Info + a Guest Post + a Giveaway!
Don’t miss any blog tours, click the link here to read more!

On The Horns of Death

An Ancient Crete Mystery

Ancient Crete, 1450 BC. When young bull leaper Martis finds Duzi, the newest member of the bull leaping team, dead in the bull pen early one morning. Made to look like he met his end on the horns of the bull, it’s clear to Martis that this was no accident . . .

Martis once again finds herself thrown into a dangerous game of hunting down a murderer as the deaths start to mount. An old friend of Martis’ sister, and possible lover to Duzi, is the next person to be found dead, and Martis’ investigations lead her to believe love and jealousy are at the heart of these crimes against the Goddess.

Is someone targeting the bull leaping community? Or is there something else at play? With only the Shade of her sister Arge to confide in, Martis struggles to untangle the growing web of secrets which stretch around her.

Praise for On the Horns of Death:

“A clever, feisty, likable heroine, vivid descriptions of life in ancient Crete, and a complex murder make this a good pick for historical-mystery fans”
~ Booklist

“A wealth of historical detail”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Severn House
Publication Date: April 2, 2024
Number of Pages: 224
ISBN: 9781448310890 (ISBN10: 144831089X)
Series: An Ancient Crete Mystery #2

To purchase a copy of On the Horns of Death click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Severn House

Guest post from Eleanor Kuhns
Author of On the Horns of Death

 

Why did I choose Bronze Age Crete for my second series?

In my first series, I wrote about early America and the Shakers. Why did I make such a radical departure and move to Bronze Ancient Crete?

Well, for one thing, the primary protagonist in the Will Rees mysteries is a man. I wanted to use a traveler in those mysteries.  I was afraid if I kept him in only one place, I would find it harder and harder to imagine a story. Think of Jessica Fletcher’s Cabot Cove with a new murder in a small town every week. With that many death, there soon wouldn’t be anyone left. The writers must have seen the problem since she began traveling. They even sent her to New York City. 

Plus, I wanted to give my detective more scope to meet people and investigate crimes that didn’t always involve his nearest and dearest.

That meant, since women were not allowed to travel unescorted in eighteenth century America, the weaver had to be male. Therefore, when I began looking for a new detective, I wanted to use a woman. And Martis, although young by modern standards, was just a few years shy of marriageable age and adulthood. She was also young enough to jump the bulls, a dangerous sport that requires youthful agility and speed.

Secondly, I’d written quite a few stories involving the Shakers. Eleven to be exact.  Although a very interesting community, and one in which women were equal partners, I was struggling to come up with fresh ideas involving them. The Shakers were and are (there are still three living Shakers) a caring community.  They once took in almost everyone who applied; orphans, children who parents could not care for them, the disabled and even the homeless men who once wandered the roads. So-called the Winter Shakers, they usually joined in the fall and left again in the spring.

Since the Shakers are a celibate sect, taking in converts was how they maintained their number. All the new converts couldn’t be murderers, though, right?

So, I decided it was a time for a change. Because I wanted to feature a bull leaper, one of the young people who run at a bull, grab the horns and flip over, the protagonist had to be young. Also, the so-called Minoan culture was very woman centered. Although they worshipped a pantheon of Gods, Poseidon, Dinoysus, Artemis, Hera and more, the Supreme God was a Goddess. And women had a lot of power. They clearly served as powerful Priestesses. I chose a young woman as my protagonist/detective.

Because I wanted to feature that unusual and very dangerous practice of bull-leaping, I made her one of them. In In the Shadow of the Bull she is in training. But in On the Horns of Death she is one of the team. And of the three victims, two are part of the crew so Martis has an important reason for finding the murderer.

I should add that during my research, I read a male archaeologist who said women did not serve as bull leapers because women couldn’t do that sort of thing. I subscribe to another theory. The figures in a famous fresco of bull leaping features both reddish brown skin and white. The Egyptians painted men reddish brown and women white so I chose to believe the Ancient Cretans did as well and that the fresco shows both young men and young women leaping. The Greek myth of Theseus and the Minotaur supports this theory since the tributes taken to the monster’s lair were both male and female.

Martis is a clever, feisty heroine who defies her family to become a bull-leaper, and then defies both friends and families to investigate murders. The mysteries also give me a chance to explore a very fascinating culture at the dawn of history.

Read an excerpt:

On the Horns of Death
 

By Eleanor Kuhns

One

Late again, I hurried down the stony slope into the caves under Knossos. Even from the top of the twisty path, I could hear the grunting and the nervous kicking of cage walls by agitated bulls. I increased my pace despite the slippery footing. I could smell the thick coppery scent of blood, far more intense than the usual odor of damp rock. Why was there blood? Something terrible was happening.

The oil lamps in the center of the cave cast a dim smoky light, but there were several, enough to see by. Although all the bulls were restless, most of the bull leapers were crowded around the foremost pen. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked Arphaia and Obelix as I reached the stone floor. Arphaia and Obelix had helped fill the hole left by the loss of my sisters.

Arphaia rolled her eyes at me and shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’ A short, sturdy girl, her skin was the color of ripe figs. Obelix was taller and paler and so slim she looked like a boy from the back. Like me, they’d tied their hair back into braids. ‘I’m busy here,’ Arphaia continued. She was helping Obelix pull her skirt over her loincloth, and I guessed the older girl had unexpectedly gotten her monthly. It was always an inconvenience for us women on the team.

‘Can I help?’

Arphaia shook her head. Glad to be excused – I was burning with curiosity – I hurried across the stone floor toward the cluster of older bull dancers by the cage. Ready for the upcoming ceremony, they wore only loincloths and boots.

‘Something upset the bulls,’ Geos said with a frown, running a hand over his bald head. He had trained all of us.

‘Especially the bull chosen for sacrifice . . .’ Elemon glanced anxiously at the pen. He was the most experienced of us but a recent injury had left him skittish.

I dropped my metal belt on the floor with a clatter and went to join the team. The bull in the pen was white – a pure white like the foam that came ashore from the sea. The largest and strongest of them all, he’d been chosen for our performance at the Harvest Festival today. After the six days of the celebration, he would be sacrificed to the Goddess. Other sacrifices would be made through out to the Dying God to thank him for the grape harvest, and the wine he’d taught us how to make. But this bull, the greatest of all, would be sacrificed last.

I approached the pen. The strikes against the wooden planks had loosened several. I tried to squeeze into the throng at the front, but no one would move away to let me through. I went around to the side and peered through a crack.

The white bull was trotting around the pen, lashing his tail, kicking up his front feet and grunting angrily. But he did not come near this side. Hmm. Why not? I crouched down to peer through a larger gap at the bottom.

And there, right in front of me, was the body of a man. I gasped and fell back. ‘Geos,’ I said in a trembling voice. When he did not hear me, I raised my voice. ‘Geos.’

‘What, Martis?’ He sounded harried.

‘Come here. There is a body inside the pen.’

‘What? Who is it?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shook my head. I hadn’t wanted to look. The body appeared to have been both gored and trampled by the bull. ‘I think this is why the bull is so nervous . . .’

Geos came around the corner. Although, at sixteen, I stood taller than him by several inches, now he stared down at me sitting on the rock floor.

‘Are you sure?’ He sounded disbelieving. ‘Why would anyone join a bull in the pen? These are not tame animals.’

‘I don’t know.’ I scooted backwards so he could crouch down beside me. Groaning, he lowered himself first to one knee and then to the other. Cautiously, using both hands, he collapsed to a sitting position. From there, he looked through the breach between the weathered wooden boards.

‘By the Goddess,’ he muttered, ‘you’re right. How could this happen!’ He struggled to rise. ‘We’ve got to get that body out of there. None of the bulls will settle . . .’

Turning, Geos shouted at the other bull dancers. ‘One of you, go find Tinos.’

As the High Priestess’s consort and the wanax who served as the chief administrator of Knossos and its environs, Tinos would be responsible for investigating this tragedy.

I rose shakily to my feet and peered into the pen next to the one occupied by the white auroch. This one was empty. Glad to have a problem to focus on, I said, ‘Maybe we can put the bull in here. And this wall’ – I gestured to the partition we’d been looking through – ‘is already damaged.’

Geos glanced into the empty pen and then turned his gaze on the battered fence. ‘Perhaps. But first we need to pull the body out. Once that is gone, maybe the bull will settle down.’

By now, the other bull dancers had joined us. Elemon shouldered me out of the way. ‘The boards are already damaged,’ he said. ‘Maybe we can pull them away and slide the body through.’

Geos nodded and his eyes shifted to the pen behind me. ‘We can take some of those pieces and use them to barricade the hole afterwards.’ As Elemon wrenched the boards away from the cage bottom, Tryphone grabbed the victim’s arm to pull him through. After a few seconds of futile struggle, Thaos, one of the other men, knelt down to help him. The body awkwardly inched forward.

I could barely watch. I could see that several bones were shattered and his arms flopped limply behind him.

Once he was free, we bustled around gathering wooden planks to place over the gap. I didn’t believe the bull could escape through the narrow opening at the bottom, but we covered it, nonetheless. No one wanted an angry animal charging around the caves, and he was still not settling down. Of course, the smell of blood hung heavily in the air.

‘What happened?’ Arphaia asked as she and Obelix approached us.

Before Geos could reply, excited chatter from the youngest of our team – all still congregated at the entrance to the arena – distracted us. Geos hurried around the pen, the rest of us following. Tinos had arrived. He was clad in a long robe banded with diagonal stripes of red and blue and wore his ceremonial knife on the belt around his waist. Apparently, he’d been pulled away from an important ritual. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘He’ – gesturing to Curgis – ‘told me you discovered a body in the bull’s pen?’

‘That’s right,’ Geos said. ‘I sent him to you.’

In his formal clothing, Tinos seemed older and much more serious than the man I knew and liked. ‘Show me,’ he said.

Geos glared at the kids. ‘Stay here,’ he said firmly. ‘This is not something any of you should see.’

Thirteen-year-old Costi curled his lip mutinously but didn’t argue.

‘I’ll watch them,’ Obelix offered. She was quite pale.

Arphaia glanced at her. ‘We both will,’ she said.

I did not offer. Although I did not want to look at the body, I did want to be near Tinos. I quickly joined the line of bull dancers following him and Geos to the side of the bull pen.

Tinos stared at the battered and bloodied remains on the floor for several seconds and heaved a sigh. ‘Who discovered the body?’ he asked.

‘Martis,’ Geos said.

Tinos shot me a look from under his thick black eyebrows. This was not the first time I had witnessed a violent death. ‘Of course, it would be,’ he said.

‘I could smell the blood when I got here,’ I said, rushing into speech. ‘And the bull was angry and upset. They’ – and I gestured to Elemon and Tryphone – ‘were here by the pen.’

Tinos glanced at the bull dancers, and then his gaze flicked to the pen where the white bull could be heard snorting and shuffling. ‘I see.’ He turned to Geos. ‘That white bull can’t be used in the ceremonies now.’

‘I know,’ Geos agreed. ‘He’s been tainted. But we have a few others.’ He pointed to the pens at the back of the cave. ‘Backups. The second choice is black, though. Not white.’

Tinos nodded. ‘He will have to be the one. A bull that murdered a man is no fit sacrifice to the Goddess.’

I thought of all the bull leapers who’d been gored or trampled by a bull during the ceremony and wondered why a wounding or a death in the course of a performance was acceptable to the Goddess. Because this had not happened during the Goddess-sanctioned ritual?

‘What possessed him to enter the cage?’ Tinos wondered aloud, pushing his hair to the back. When no one replied to what was clearly a question without an answer, he asked, ‘Does anyone recognize him?’

‘I don’t think any of us really examined him,’ Geos admitted apologetically.

Tinos raised his brows and looked around at us. Thaos and Curgis, the newer bull dancers, shook their heads and backed away. I refused to show such weakness in front of Tinos – I did not want him to think less of me – so I steeled myself and stared down at the body. Elemon cut through the crowd and joined me.

It was difficult to recognize the victim through the blood and the bruising. I thought his skin was naturally darker than the fair Elemon, but I couldn’t be sure. Finally, Elemon shook his head and stepped away to join the others. I continued staring at the body a few seconds longer – not at the face, but at the kilt around his hips. We all wore loincloths during the bull dancing. It was necessary to move freely, and we did not wear clothing like a long skirt that would catch on the horns. The victim’s garment was subtly different, longer and decorated with blue stripes.

‘I know who that is,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘It’s Duzi.’

Two

‘Duzi?’ Geos said, staring at me in shock. ‘Are you sure?’ He too spoke softly so the others could not hear.

I nodded, too shaken to speak. I’d first seen Duzi a few weeks ago. Although my mother did not want me visiting the docks, insisting it was too dangerous, I still occasionally went. I counted Tetis, an Egyptian prostitute who worked there, as my friend. That time, as we were talking, Tetis stopped mid-word and stared over my shoulder. I turned to look.

Several Cretan sailors manhandled a prisoner off one of the slim naval ships. His heavy black beard, stretching all the way down his chest, and the battered bronze helmet with a spike in the center marked him as a foreigner. ‘A pirate,’ Tetis said with dislike. ‘More and more of them harass Egypt.’

By the time Duzi joined the bull leapers a week later, the helmet was gone and the beard shaved away. But the kilt girding his hips was the same one he wore now.

‘Who’s Duzi?’ Tinos asked, keeping his voice low so he could not be overheard.

‘A volunteer for the bull leapers—’ Geos began.

‘The navy brought him here,’ I said at the same time. ‘I saw them take him off a ship.’ My voice trembled, and Tinos raised his eyebrows at my emotion.

‘Ah. The pirate,’ he said. He knew my mother did not want me visiting the docks. But he didn’t scold me. Not this time anyway. ‘Did you know him well?’ I shook my head.

‘A pirate?’ Geos repeated incredulously, staring at Tinos. Crete had probably the best navy in the world; our cities and towns suffered little from the depredations of pirates.

‘Egypt asked for our help,’ Tinos explained. ‘The seafarers from the east – they target those rich cities of the Black Lands, and the cargo ships that trade with us.’

‘But they don’t dare attack us,’ Geos said in satisfaction.

‘Only once in a while,’ Tinos agreed with a smile. He turned and looked at the tunnel that led to the arena. Although he couldn’t see anything in the gloom, he said, ‘It must be time for the bull dancing and time for me to meet the High Priestess. On the way, I’ll tell the bull handlers that we won’t be using the white bull and they should take out the black one instead.’ He glanced first at Geos and then at the rest of us. ‘Please, don’t gossip about this tragedy. We don’t know what happened . . .’

I sneaked a look at Elemon and the others. They didn’t seem to realize the victim was Duzi – one of us.

Geos nodded. ‘I don’t want the kids to know either,’ he agreed. ‘Not until after the performance, at least. It’s dangerous enough as it is, without distraction. What possessed the young fool to go into the pen?’

‘And please, can we cover him up?’ Tinos added as he turned away.

‘Cover him with what?’ Geos muttered as Tinos disappeared into the tunnel. I looked around. All the bull leapers except for Obelix and me were clad in loincloths, and I was the only one wearing a jacket and a linen blouse as well as a skirt. At sixteen, I felt awkward running through the town half-naked so I covered my loincloth with street clothes. I slipped off the skirt and held it out to Geos. Although the skirt was an old one, and both faded and shabby, I wore it often. I would not be happy if Duzi’s blood stained it and made it unwearable. But right now, I didn’t see what else I could do.

Geos nodded his thanks and draped the garment over Duzi’s face. ‘And what am I supposed to do about bull leapers,’ the old man grumbled. ‘Half the team is too young and untried – still basically children.’

I knew Geos did not like sending me in. Geos and my grandfather had been close friends and although we honored the Goddess with the dance, it was dangerous. Injuries and, yes, deaths were common. Geos didn’t want to see me hurt. That was why he had been so ready to accept Duzi into our ranks. The barbarian was untried but also strong and lithe. He learned the acrobatics quickly. Geos had had high hopes for him.

I guessed today I would leap over the bull’s back more than a few times. Although we numbered thirteen without Duzi, we were only nine once the youngest – Costi, Nub and the twins – were taken out.

I dropped my linen blouse and jacket on the belt, stripped the bangles from my arms and ran my fingers through my hair to remove the hair clips and ropes of beads. Automatically, I dropped them on my clothing. But I did not join the line of bull dancers waiting to parade into the arena. Instead, I returned to the body. Poor Duzi. At least the protection of my skirt offered him some dignity. I shifted it to cover his face more thoroughly and saw to my dismay that the cloth was already stained. I doubted the marks would ever wash out. But with the blood wiped away, the wounds on Duzi’s face and chest were now more easily seen. There was something odd . . . As I bent over the body to get a closer look, Geos shouted at me.

‘Martis! What are you doing? Come on. We have to go. We’re late already.’

I jumped. ‘Coming.’ I quickly squeezed in between Arphaia and Thaos. After a growth spurt this past summer, I no longer stood at the front but in the middle.

Although it was not yet raining, the sky was overcast and the air was cool. The hot dry summer had ended, and we were moving into the cooler, wetter autumn. In another week or so, the farmers would begin sowing the wheat and barley in the fields.

But today, and for the next few days, we celebrated the grape harvest.

We were a somber group that paraded around the arena, entertaining the crowd with handstands and somersaults. As we queued up at one end of the space, and I looked at my teammates forcing smiles as they waved at the audience, I wondered how they would behave if they knew who lay dead in the bull’s pen.

With a self-conscious grimace, Obelix removed her skirt.

Flowers rained down upon us – but not the brightly colored blooms of spring. Mostly narcissi and crocus bloomed now, so we were showered in yellow and purple.

A few moments later, the bull handlers released the animal into the arena. The black auroch, although not a small animal, appeared smaller to me than the white bull. But this one also seemed more energetic. He snorted and pawed the ground in the middle of the arena, watching us with his shiny black eyes.

Elemon nervously touched the thick ropy scar that twined around his torso. He’d finally recovered from the wound sustained in a ceremony seven or so months ago, but it had been a difficult convalescence.

Tinos, still in his long robe, leaned forward, his face twisted with sympathy. He was a former bull leaper himself and wore a scar almost identical to Elemon’s around his waist.

Tryphone took up his position. He was two or three years older than I was and almost as dark as Duzi. Tryphone had come to Knossos from a town on the eastern side of Crete. I don’t think any of us knew why he’d left Gortnya and traveled east. But Geos had been overjoyed to discover Tryphone was already an experienced bull leaper.

At Geos’s nod, Arphaia moved around to the rear of the bull where she would catch us as we dismounted. Geos usually chose her as the catcher; a farmer’s girl, she was cautious but not afraid of the beast. But she was graceless as an acrobat. Short and stiff, her flips over the bull’s horns usually dropped her right behind the beast’s head in a clumsy sitting position.

Geos looked up at the High Priestess. As usual, she did not smile, and her expression was as rigid as a statue’s. Her obsidian-dark eyes flicked over us, and then she nodded. Geos gestured at Tryphone. He moved forward.

His bronzed arms reached out to grasp the bull’s horns, and his legs lifted up until I could see the soles of his boots. He used the momentum from the bull’s head toss to flip over, landing easily on the bull’s black back. With a salute and a bow to the High Priestess, Tryphone jumped down, barely touching Arphaia’s hand for balance.

Since Obelix and Thaos would jump after Elemon, who had just stepped forward for his performance, I allowed my mind to wander. Wondering what exactly Duzi had been doing in the bull’s pen was so much easier than imagining his fear as the bull charged. I recalled the drying streaks of blood; he had not died much before the arrival of us bull dancers. Of course, that did not tell me when he might have gone into the bull’s pen. Or how long he had been inside suffering the bull’s attacks.

My mind went reluctantly to my last sight of the body. Something bothered me about the wounds. I knew what the injuries caused by a bull’s horns and hooves looked like; during the last year, I’d seen more than I cared to. The blunted horns left craters and long gashes in human flesh. And the battering left by the monstrous hooves was especially memorable; the power and the weight of the bull resulted in large bruises and broken bones. But there was something—

‘Martis!’ Geos’s voice suddenly interrupted my thoughts. ‘What is the matter with you?’ Coming out of my deep thought, I blinked at him. He gestured at the bull standing in the middle of the arena. I gulped. I usually spent a few minutes mentally preparing myself for the run across the sand, the careful stretch out to grasp the bull’s horns and finally the leap up and over. ‘Go,’ Geos said impatiently.

 *** Excerpt from On the Horns of Death by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2024 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.

 

Eleanor Kuhns — Author of On The Horns of Death

Eleanor Kuhns is a previous winner of the Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel competition for A Simple Murder.

The author of eleven Will Rees mysteries, she is now a full-time writer after a successful career as the Assistant Director at the Goshen Public Library in Orange County, New York.

Learn more about Eleanor by clicking on any of the following links: www.eleanor-kuhns.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Instagram – @edl0829, Twitter/X – @EleanorKuhns, Facebook – @writerkuhns
 

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05/21 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
05/22 Review @ One More Chapter
05/24 Review @ Cozy Up With Kathy
05/29 Review @ Dogs, Mysteries, & More
05/31 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
06/01 Guest post @ The Mystery of Writing
06/03 Showcase @ Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!
06/04 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
06/11 Interview @ Hott Books
06/14 Podcast reading @ Books to the Ceiling
06/14 Review @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read
06/18 Book Talk with Fran Lewis Radio Interview
06/18 Review @ Just Reviews
07/24 Partners in Crime Presents: Author Interview
10/18 Mysteries to Die For: Toe Tags Podcast

Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell

 

The post On The Horns of Death: An Ancient Crete Mystery appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Bold: Rein In Your Mind, Reign In Your Career

Bold: Rein in Your Mind, Reign in Your Career by Audrey D. Lloyd [image error]

Excerpt + Book & Author Info + a Giveaway!
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Bold: Rein in Your Mind, Reign in Your Career

Bold: Rein in Your Mind, Reign in Your Career is a book about mindset, finding your authentic self, and stepping into your personal power. Leading with your true and authentic self, you significantly increase your chances of success. The search for personal understanding is timeless. Author Audrey D. Lloyd advances a compelling, strategic approach illuminating how to identify, value, honor, and capitalize on your special and unique gifts, talents, and capabilities. In Bold, Audrey D. Lloyd seeks to show that there is no single, defining event that will allow you to succeed. Instead, it is an accumulation of talents, choices, experiences, and actions that drive the true path to success that is unique to you. In this book Audrey D. Lloyd shows you how to:

—Tap into your true and authentic self

—Understand vision (a mental image of what you desire), values (embodiment of your character), value (valuation and impact of your utility, experience, and talent), and how to be valued (to be recognized, compensated etc.)

—Attain more engagement, power, joy, and success at work by shifting your mindset and taking the strategic path to self-actualization — to realize your full potential.

—Bold is the quintessential blueprint for overcoming uncertainty, gaining confidence and clarity in your life and career.

If you are interested in self-discovery and living up to your full potential, Audrey D. Lloyd will show you how to unlock your bold.
Book Details:

Genre: Non-Fiction
Published by: New Degree Press
Publication Date: February 26, 2022
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: 9781637307427 (ISBN10: 163730742X)

To purchase Bold: Rein in Your Mind, Reign in Your Career click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:
Bold: Rein in Your Mind, Reign in Your Career

Introduction

I did not start out bold, but I was always strong. I have experienced great heights and understand the pain of searching to find a way out of the valley to escape being lost.

No single defining event motivated me to search for bold. An accumulation of feelings and prior experiences drove me to the realization that I was not living the life I really wanted. I was not where I wanted to be in my career.

Most of the companies where I’ve worked were good, some were great, and a few were exceptional. I learned fast and was never afraid of a challenge or hard work. Finding opportunities came easily to me. Yet, I did not use this to my full advantage. I was still allowing companies to select me versus playing a more active role in the selection process. At times, I accepted positions that were below my full ability. Looking back, I was passive, too compliant, overly nice, and willing to sacrifice my time, energy, and sleep. I knew all of this but did not do anything to change the outcome.

 

That all changed after I had a chance to review my notes from a reference check for a new position. I personally knew the references who provided input from over the last seven to fifteen years of my work history. Each reference was asked to provide short answers to specific questions about their prior experience working with me, my general character, and professional impact. I cannot recall exactly how the specific question was worded, but essentially it asked about my experience and expertise. I remember everything slowing down as my eyes met the line that one of my references provided anonymously, which read:

“Audrey is so talented, amazing, and passionate. I only wish she could find the opportunity that is right for her and deserving of her skills.”

Those words washed over me like Niagara Falls. The assessment provoked me.

While I have now achieved success beyond what I believed was possible, it took longer for me to get there. Looking back, I made all the right moves but often made them without fully understanding my own strengths. I had the right cards in my hands, I just didn’t always play them to my benefit.

I was the common denominator in this dilemma. I do not attribute any of my painful lessons or missteps to any person or company other than me. I take accountability for not prioritizing myself and seeking the right culture and environment for me. I am ultimately accountable for my success.

I read those words again, and that was when it hit me. When we hold ourselves accountable, we take back control.

To Be True

Some people are not aware of the importance of searching for and discovering their proper and true role in life.

—Chin-Ning Chu (Chu, 1994)

Choosing to leave the ranks of a full-time employee (FTE) to independently pursue organizational change management (OCM) consulting and executive coaching required careful consideration and considerable courage. I remember think- ing, Before I make the final decision to leave a full-time job with benefits, I’d better speak with someone who can help me weigh my options. The representative from EAP (Employee Assistant Program) was laid back, casual, and unassuming.

“So, what’s going on?” she asked. Then she listened without making a sound as I spoke. I was listening as well. Then she calmly and empathetically said, “Maybe you just don’t want to do it.” She was so neutral in her response that I could not tell if her reply was a question or a comment. Either way, she was right. I did not want to do “it.” I did not want to play it safe anymore.

The lessons of the past taught me many valuable lessons about myself, the importance of company culture, making brave choices, and finding the proverbial “right room.” The decision to take my power back and become more aware of what I want and what is right for me was a significant turning point in my life. Like a baptism, I decided to give up the old to embrace the new. I changed the way I value myself, the way I have selectively designed my career, and the choices that define my world.

The good that came out of the experience is a clear understanding of who I am, what I value, and how critical engagement is for living and for work. What came out of this experience was the motivation for unlocking my “bold.” Self-appreciation and understanding underscores the belief that when you show up as your true and authentic self, you will almost guarantee your success.

Further on in the book, we will discuss the Bold Value Equation (BVE), a “needs analysis” that compares what you are willing to give and what you expect from an employer in exchange for your expertise, time, and value. These needs reflected the “season of my life,” which represented more mature goals and aspirations than my younger, less-confident self. I was no longer willing to sacrifice my time, health, and autonomy. Reaping financial rewards without making a meaningful contribution to the company was no longer enough, nor was it worth it if my skills, experience, and knowledge were not fully needed, leveraged, and appreciated. After all, we all have financial, emotional, social, and environmental needs that must be recognized and satisfied in the workplace—and we have the authority to make choices that are required in order for us to move ahead in life.

Moving Ahead

Life continues even after making big decisions. Taking accountability and making peace with our decisions frees us from the burden of thinking there must be a right or wrong. On the path to becoming bold, moments like these test our resolve, define our character, and show us who we really are in the moment of choice. We emerge stronger by recognizing and honoring our truth.

Insights like these—along with the teaching of my parents, hands-on experience in OCM, and executive coaching—led me to write this book. I have dedicated my career to helping individuals and organizations change and transform.

This book is written with you in mind. All throughout, I will make the case for why intentionally identifying and leveraging your bold creates a powerful competitive advantage, not by telling you what you need to be or do but by telling you how to do less of what you are currently doing.

As a certified International Coaching Federation (ICF) coach and global consultant with over twenty-five years working with some of the world’s best companies, I under- stand the issues and the significance of company culture as well as what is required for individuals to transform their lives. I have designed transformation strategies for some of the world’s largest companies and trained leaders globally on communication effectiveness and issues management, in addition to having the honor of spending hundreds of hours deeply listening to and coaching individuals around the world.

In these pages, I will share true stories along with lessons and insights I learned working in corporate America. I want to recognize that at times I am vague and do not offer the tantalizing details of conversations that occurred at many of the companies where I worked. I do this to honor the value of confidentiality and to illustrate the bold move of taking the high road and moving away from the drama, as rehashing, reliving, and rumination do not offer a path forward. In fact, reliving such negative and often toxic events steals our joy and weakens our power.

Many of the structured processes and frameworks that I have included are inspired by my work in OCM and coaching. I am giving you the best of both worlds, as I have sat in many of the same places where you may find yourself today. I am now able to look at things objectively through the lens of both the employee and the expert, and this duality allows me to be empathetic and honest.

As an executive coach, I spent hundreds of hours listening to the stories, aspirations, hurts, and triumphs of my clients. I heard joy, pain, pressure, and disappointment in their voices. I saw dreams and spirits on the brink of breaking. I witnessed breakthroughs, setbacks, and personal victories. In coach ing I follow, encourage, and challenge each one of them to achieve the goals they have established.

You know yourself best. Understanding this is essential to understanding the difference between leading and being led. While the information and thinking shared in this book have resulted in positive change and success for many of my clients, I will always take the position that you are the leader in your life, and this book is most valuable when you use it as inspiration in customizing a strategy that best suits you. If you find the models and processes helpful, you can use them as is or as a guide. Ultimately, remember that your talent, passion, mindset, and actions are the most important ingredients for catalyzing your success.

I wrote this book for the following reasons:

I hope and trust that it will motivate you to explore and unlock your true potential.
I truly believe “bold” is a powerful concept that anyone can access and use to improve their career and life.
I wish this book existed earlier in my career.
The timing of the book and the topics covered coincide with the current needs of many individuals who are at a crossroads in their lives and in their careers. This book is a resource and tool for reflection and planning.

Several factors are driving the need for a bold mindset:

In the face of an increasingly complex, turbulent, and uncertain future, there is a need to cement your focus, power, and the resolve that is required to succeed.
Given the accelerated and changing nature of work, you need to become more autonomous, independent, and confident in who you are and in the value you provide.
Understanding yourself at your core will enable you to learn,, adapt, and evolve. This is the secret to sustaining “your bold.”

We will discuss:

Why tapping into your true and authentic self is essential to your career and living your best life.
The importance of understanding your vision (a mental image of what you desire), values (embodiment of your character), value (valuation and impact of your utility, experience, and talent), and how you want to be valued (being recognized, compensated, etc.).
How you can use your bold to serve others.

I kept the following four profiles in mind when writing this book:

Individuals who are tenured and who have mastered technical success but are in search of balance and greater fulfillment.
High performers on the cusp of unlocking their brilliance and attaining the next level of success, but their goal is often elusive, as “something” is standing in the way.
Middle managers who serve on the frontline of leadership but are often overlooked due to a lack of a personal strategy for promotion and success.
Individuals who are successful in getting a job but struggle to find the right lasting opportunity.

I hope this book will help you:

See and appreciate your value and the bold in others.
Increase your confidence.
Own your choices and your career.

Your Call to Adventure

Nothing in life occurs by chance. I am guessing you may have found this book because you are searching for clarity, change, or direction. You sense from the cover that this is not your “typical” career book outlining exactly what you need to say or do. Perhaps you already own a few of those books, yet you are in search of more introspection. You are nuanced, after all, and the world is much too complex for rote advice.

You are at a place in your life that requires individual and purposeful consideration and planning. The time has come for you to do the deep introspection that only you can lead.

This book is simply a tool to inspire, illuminate, and affirm your personal strategy to live boldly.

I hope you will accept my invitation to stay open and curious about learning about yourself. Come along with me to explore what is possible when you realize your bold. Everything in this book is simple to apply but not always easy to achieve.

The difference between living boldly and ordinarily is like night and day. With a heightened level of awareness and commitment, you will start to see yourself and the world around you differently. Others will sense and see it too, but most importantly, you will experience it for yourself.

Introduction to Bold Reflections 

Each chapter is carefully selected and arranged to help you grow and transform at your own pace. Use chapter takeaways and powerful questions to gather insight to develop your strategies and action plans.

As you take on the challenge to bring forward the best version of yourself, reserve the time and find a quiet space to reflect. I recommend you keep a pen and notebook or voice-record app close by to record your thoughts and reflections at the end of each chapter.

What do you hope to learn about yourself by reading this book?

   ______________________________________

   ______________________________________

What intrigues you the most about your reaction to the introduction of bold? Why?

  ______________________________________

  ______________________________________

Are you ready?

  ______________________________________

  ______________________________________

*** Excerpt from Bold: Rein in Your Mind, Reign in Your Career by Audrey D. Lloyd. Copyright 2024 by Audry D. Lloyd. Reproduced with permission from Audrey D. Lloyd. All rights reserved.

 

 

Audrey D. Lloyd — Author of Bold: Rein in Your Mind, Reign in Your Career

Audrey D. Lloyd, PCC, is a gifted ICF-credentialed executive coach, organizational change management and business transformation expert, speaker, inventor, futurist, and universal citizen.

Drawing upon her extensive coaching and global experience, she presents compelling reasons to believe in oneself and how to take a strategic approach to unlocking our true brilliance, personal power, and joy.

To learn more about Audrey, click on any of the following links:
BoldCochee.com
Goodreads
Instagram – @bold_practitioner
Twitter – @adlloyd

 

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05/21 Review @ ashmanda. k
05/22 Review @ Novels Alive
05/24 Showcase @ From the TBR Pile
05/29 Review @ Wall-to-wall Books
05/30 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
06/05 Review @ Review Thick & Thin
06/06 Review/Interview @ Hott Books
06/11 Review @ Why Not? Because I Said So Book Reviews
06/12 Review @ Paws. Read. Repeat
06/24 Book Talk with Fran Lewis Radio Interview
06/24 Review @ Just Reviews

Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell

 

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