Elena Hartwell's Blog, page 30
November 18, 2023
The Medusa Murders: Amateur Sleuth
The Medusa Murders, book #1 in the Bay Browning Mysteries
Spotlight + Book & Author InfoDon’t miss any book tour posts! Click the link here.The Medusa Murders
Professor Bay Browning has more snake problems than the Garden of Eden in this twisted mystery. The English Literature instructor is busy preparing for a new semester when a serial killer, known as Medusa, bites her quiet life in the behind.
A wild ride ensues when Bay and her grifter sister, Cass, assist a perturbed Detective Downing with the investigation.
What else can the sisters do, once they become Medusa’s targets? Will the slithering trail of mythology, art history, and family secrets help them catch a killer before she turns them to stone?
Genre: Amateur Sleuth, Mystery, Crime
Published by: Wine Glass Press
Publication Date: November 2023
Number of Pages: 316
ISBN: 9781959078203
Series: Bay Browning Mysteries, #1
“This first-in-series held me captive on the edge of my seat where I frantically turned the pages of this intricately crafted story, desperate to solve the mystery. And, oh, what a revelation it is!”
~ Laurie Buchanan, author of the Sean McPherson crime thriller novels
“A gritty and intense mystery that grabs you and won’t let go until the end. The personal relationships are complex, just like many in real life, and the familial drama pulls you in.”
~ Kelly Young, author of A Travel Writer mystery series and Haunted and Harassed paranormal mystery series
“Ribar effectively wraps mythology, academia, archeology, and a touch of paranormal phenomena together to produce a more than satisfying read. Looking forward to spending more time with Bay.”
~ Debra H. Goldstein, author of The Sarah Blair Mysteries
“A well-written, fast-paced and vibrant debut novel.
A highly recommended new series.”
~ Christine DeSmet, writing coach and author of The Fudge Shop Mystery series and Mischief in Moonstone series
Joy Ann Ribar is an RV author, writing on the road wherever her husband and their Winnebago View wanders. Joy’s cocktail of careers includes news reporter, paralegal, English educator, and aquaponics greenhouse technician, all of which prove useful in penning mysteries.
She loves to bake, read, do wine research, and explore nature. Joy’s writing is inspired by Wisconsin’s four distinct seasons, natural beauty, and kind-hearted, but sometimes quirky, people.
Joy holds a BA in Journalism from UW-Madison and an MS in Education from UW-Oshkosh. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Blackbird Writers, and Wisconsin Writers Association.
To learn more about Joy Ann, click any of the following links: JoyRibar.com, Goodreads, BookBub – @ribarjoy, Instagram – @authorjoyribar & Facebook – @JoyRibarAuthorVisit all the Stops on the Tour!
The post The Medusa Murders: Amateur Sleuth appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 16, 2023
The Last Line: Debut Noir Thriller
The Last Line, a debut noir thriller by Stephen Ronson
Author Interview + Book and Author Info!Don’t miss any debut author interviews! Click the link here.The Last Line by Stephen Ronson
THE LAST LINE
England, 1940: Sometimes the Greatest Threat Lies Closest To Home.
In Britain’s darkest hour a veteran left behind from the fighting discovers evacuee children haven’t been arriving at their destinations.
May 1940. With Nazi forces sweeping across France, the English Channel has never felt so narrow. But even as the foreign threat looms, it’s rumours of a missing child that are troubling John Cook. A 12-year-old girl was evacuated from London and never seen again, and she’s just the tip of the iceberg – countless evacuees haven’t made it to their host families.
As Cook investigates, he uncovers a dark conspiracy that reaches to the highest ranks of society. He will do whatever it takes to make the culprits pay.
There are some lines you just don’t cross.
To purchase The Last Line, click the following link: Amazon UK — Available soon in the US.Author of The Last Line, Stephen RonsonThe Last Line is set in 1940. What drew you to that era for your debut thriller?I’m fascinated by the second world war, especially the early days of it when Hitler was sweeping unopposed across Europe.
When I grew up in the 70s, it was in living memory for so many of the adults, yet in many ways it was a completely different era. Horses were still used just as much as cars. Most people didn’t have electricity, or phones, or fridges. It was really the war that accelerated so much of what we came to know of as ‘modern’.
The war is also one of those few times we can look back to and know that there was an unambiguous sense of ‘right and wrong’.
The Last Line is a noir thriller, what does that genre mean to you?Noir for me is a book or film where the rules of civilization are seen to be only paper thin.
The hero will likely have to inhabit the underworld, break some laws, break even their own sense of morality, in order to get the job done. I’m a big fan of modern noir. S.A. Cosby is probably the master of the genre, and I love reading the worlds he creates and the character that inhabit those world. I’ve tried to do the same with my book, in that you’ve got a man who disregards the law, who kills people who need killing, and risks his own soul in the process, but ultimately works to his own, very real, sense of morality.
John Cook, my hero, is a man with a strong sense of right and wrong.
The Last Line is set in Sussex, tell us about that environment in 1940. How has it changed in the intervening years?
Sussex was, and still is, a rural county. Stand on top of the South Downs and look north towards London and all you can see is green – fields and trees. Turn around and look the other way, and the English Channel is a very thin ribbon of water separating England from mainland Europe. During the early days of the war, you could hear artillery booming in the distance.
In 1940, when Hitler reached the French coast, and Britain’s army was evacuated from Dunkirk, the south east of England was expected to be the invasion zone. Everyone who lived there expected German Panzers to be rolling up their street in a matter of days.
Even though that’s a long time ago, the history is still there. Walk in the fields and you’ll still find pill boxes – concrete gun emplacements built to defend against the invasion. There’s still graffiti from US troops, who massed in the county as they waited for D-Day.
You live part time in Vermont and part time Sussex – what do you love most about both places? How did you end up crossing the pond?
Both places are the best of both worlds, rural but with easy access to great cities. And they’re easy to get between – a quick drive to Boston and a quick flight and I can be in Sussex.
I came to New England to study at Dartmouth College and loved it. Later on, I had the chance to come back and work there, and jumped at the chance. For somebody who grew up in ‘Old England’, ‘New England’s similar but there’s more open space, more wilderness. I’ve turned into a weekend woodsman, and can be found messing around with a chainsaw or splitting logs. It’s not something you can do so easily in England.
But I still make sure I get back to England regularly, every two or three months, to see friends, family, and get inspired for the next books in the John Cook series.
What’s your routine for writing?For the longest time, I wanted to write a novel but didn’t get stuck into it. I felt like I needed a large chunk of time, like the author in Misery, hiding away in a log cabin for weeks or months.
A couple of years ago I realized that time would never come, so I made myself a promise – I’ll sit down to write every day, for 20 minutes. No exceptions. No excuses. Well, I managed to stick to it, and really found a great sense of achievement, watching the words pile up. Six months later I had a first draft.
Words of Wisdom for Aspiring WritersGet it done. The things that separates authors from wannabe authors is the authors got it done.
Once it’s done, you can edit it, you can workshop it, you can see if agents or publishers want it, and you can throw it away if you want to and write the next one. You can’t do any of that until you’ve put yourself in the chair and typed the words, one after the other, all the way to ‘The End.’
When I first got to those words, I cried. I’d wanted it so badly for my whole life and yet I’d waited until I was 49 years old to actually do it. If I had a magic wand, I’d go back and start earlier.
Author of The Last Line Stephen Ronson
Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell
Header Image by Thomas Rüdesheim from Pixabay
The post The Last Line: Debut Noir Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 15, 2023
EBook Giveaway: Get Cozy with 5 New Mysteries!
EBook Giveaway! Five new mysteries to get cozy with this holiday season!
Author & EBook Info + Author Pet Wall!
To enter, email authorbookgiveaway@gmail.comThe EBooks!A Cajun Christmas Killing
The third recipe-stuffed installment in the Cajun Country cozy mystery series is a “fun and heartwarming . . . holiday treat that will keep you guessing until the end” (San Francisco Book Review).
Louisiana B&B owner Maggie Crozat joins forces with her longtime enemy to prevent a murderous Grinch from ruining Christmas.
Maggie Crozat is back home in bayou country during the most magical time of the year. In Pelican, Louisiana, Christmastime is a season of giant bonfires on the levee, zydeco carols, and pots of gumbo. Except, this year, the Grinch has come to stay at the family-run Crozat Plantation B&B. When he floods travel websites with vicious reviews, Maggie thinks she’s identified him as rival businessman Donald Baxter. That is, until he’s found stabbed to death at Maggie’s workplace. And Maggie and her loved ones become top suspects.
The Crozats quickly establish alibis, but Maggie’s boyfriend, Detective Bo Durand, remains under suspicion. With Bo sidelined during the investigation, Maggie finds herself forced to work with an unlikely ally: longtime family enemy Rufus Durand. Her sleuthing uncovers more suspects than drummers drumming, and lands her in the crosshairs of the murderer.
The sleigh bells are jingling, and the clock is ticking for Maggie and Rufus, who must catch the killer—or it will be the opposite of a Joyeux Noël.
Can’t wait? To purchase A Cajun Christmas Killing, click any of the following links: Amazon & Barnes & Noble,Murder in PostscriptWhen one of her readers asks for advice following a suspected murder, Victorian countess Amelia Amesbury, who secretly pens the popular Lady Agony column, has no choice but to investigate in this first book in a charming new historical mystery series.
Amelia Amesbury—widow, mother, and countess—has a secret. Amelia writes for a London penny paper, doling out advice on fashion, relationships, and manners under the pen name Lady Agony.
But when a lady’s maid writes Amelia to ask for advice when she believes her mistress has been murdered—and then ends up a victim herself—Amelia is determined to solve the case.
With the help of her best friend and a handsome marquis, Amelia begins to piece together the puzzle, but as each new thread of inquiry ends with a different suspect, the investigation grows ever more daunting. From London’s docks and ballrooms to grand country houses, Amelia tracks a killer, putting her reputation—and her life—on the line.
Can’t wait? To purchase Murder in Postscript, click any of the following links: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, IndieBound & AudibleMurder on Mistletoe LaneEx-pat Stella and British aristocrat Viscount “Lyndy” Lyndhurst are thrilled to celebrate their first Christmas together as Morrington Hall comes alive with caroling, intricate decorations . . . and a deadly murder.
Taking on the responsibilities that come with being Lady Lyndhurst, Stella is eager to embrace yuletide traditions in the Edwardian English countryside and use her strong social influence for good. Her world becomes so consumed with starting a horse farm charity for the holidays that she barely notices the usual oddities attached to her upper-crust lifestyle. At least, not until items vanish from her bedroom and maligned housekeeper, Mrs. Nelson, becomes seriously ill—only to be found dead in the cold on Mistletoe Lane . . .
Cheery spirits are dashed following the sudden death, especially once Stella questions whether her own staff knows what—or who—killed the woman. Her suspicions mount when another person dies under strange circumstances during New Forest’s annual Point‑to‑Point Boxing Day race. Then there’s the case of Morrington Hall becoming plagued by false identities, secret affairs, and disgruntled employees . . .
Now, with two murders unfolding before their eyes in late December, Stella and Lyndy realize they can’t fully trust anyone except for themselves while investigating. Because as disturbing answers come into focus, identifying the criminal responsible and surviving into the new year would be the greatest gift of the season . . .
Can’t wait? To purchase Murder on Mistletoe Lane, click any of the following links: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org & Hudson BooksellersOne Dead, Two to GoThis mystery featuring a crime-fighting mother-daughter duo is “smart, page-turning fun, with the most feisty and likable P.I. since Kinsey Millhone” (Deb Caletti, National Book Award finalist).
When private investigator Edwina “Eddie Shoes” isn’t fending off surprise visits from her troublemaking mother, she’s spying on cheating husbands, hoping to land hefty divorce settlements for their heartbroken wives. But when the latest mistress Eddie captures on film dies—and Eddie realizes she’s the last person who saw the woman alive—things begin to take a twisted turn.
It doesn’t help that the detective on the case is her ex, Chance Parker, who’s none too happy with the way Eddie left things between them. So when Eddie’s mom, Chava, unexpectedly shows up on her doorstep, Eddie’s actually glad to see her for a change. Because there’s no one better acquainted with the criminal mind than her card-shark of a mother.
And now that Eddie’s in deep with the dangerous crowd, she’s going to need all the help she can get . . .
Can’t wait? To purchase One Dead, Two to Go, click on any of the following links: Amazon, Barns & Noble, Apple Books, Google & KOBOWith Option to KillYou can choose your friends, but you sure can’t choose your relatives.
It’s been a busy year for real estate agent Cindy York. She’s excited to be making a killing at selling houses and in the middle of planning a surprise 50th birthday party for her husband, Greg.
If this wasn’t enough to deal with, Greg’s younger sister Annette, who’s been estranged from the family for 20 years, makes an unexpected visit to celebrate the event. Annette asks Cindy for help finding a house to rent.
She claims she wants to get to know her loved ones again, but Cindy suspects the woman is hiding something.
When Annette’s troubled past catches up with her in a hurry and leaves an innocent bystander dead, Cindy must step in and find a killer. If Cindy can’t close this deal quickly, someone she loves will pay the ultimate price.
Can’t wait? To purchase With Option to Kill, click on any of the following links: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, & KOBOTo enter the giveaway email: authorbookgiveaway@gmail.comThe EBook Giveaway Authors!Catherine Bruns, With Option to Kill
USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bruns lives in Upstate New York with a male dominated household that consists of her very patient husband, three sons, and assorted cats and dogs.
She has wanted to be a writer since the age of eight when she wrote her own version of Cinderella (fortunately Disney never sued).
Catherine holds a B.A. in English and is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.
Catherine is represented by Nikki Terpilowski of Holloway Literary. For endorsements, please contact Nikki at nikki@hollowayliterary.com.
To learn more about Cathrine, click any of the following links: Website, Facebook, Twitter/X, Instagram, Amazon, Goodreads & BookBubEllen Byron, A Cajun Christmas Killing
Ellen’s Cajun Country Mysteries have won multiple Agatha Awards for Best Contemporary Novel and Lefty Awards for Best Humorous Mystery. Bayou Book Thief, her first Vintage Cookbook Mystery, won the Lefty for Best Humorous Mystery Award and was nominated for Agatha and Anthony awards. She also writes the Catering Hall Mysteries (under the name Maria DiRico) and will soon debut a new series, the Golden Motel Mysteries.
Ellen is an award-winning playwright, and non-award-winning TV writer of comedies like Wings, Just Shoot Me, and Fairly Odd Parents. She has written over two hundred articles for national magazines but considers her most impressive credit working as a cater-waiter for Martha Stewart.
An alum of New Orleans’ Tulane University, Ellen blogs with Chicks on the Case, is a lifetime member of the Writers Guild of America, is a member of Sisters in Crime. and serves on the national board for Mystery Writers of America. A native New Yorker, she lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband and a rotating crew of rescue pups.
To learn more about Ellen, click on any of the following links: Website, Newsletter, Facebook, Facebook (Catering Hall Mysteries), Instagram, BookBub, BookBub (Maria DiRico), Goodreads & Goodreads (Maria DiRico)Elena Hartwell, One Dead, Two to Go
CREDIT MARK PERLSTEINElena Hartwell spent several years working in theater as a playwright, director, designer, and educator before turning her storytelling skills to fiction. Her first series, the Eddie Shoes Mysteries, introduced a quirky mother/daughter crime fighting duo.
With All We Buried, (written under Elena Taylor) Elena returns to her dramatic roots and brings readers a much more serious and atmospheric novel. Located in her beloved Washington State, Elena uses her connection to the environment to produce a forbidding story of small town secrets and things that won’t stay buried.Elena is also a senior editor with Allegory Editing, a developmental editing house, where she works one-on-one with writers to shape and polish manuscripts, short stories, and plays. If you’d like to work with Elena, visit www.allegoryediting.com.
Her favorite place to be is at Paradise, the property she and her hubby own south of Spokane, Washington. They live with their horses, Jasper, Radar, and Diggy, their dogs, Polar and Wyatt, and their cats, Coal Train and Cocoa.To learn more about Elena, click on any of the following links: Website, Newsletter, Facebook, Instagram, X/Twitter, BookBub & GoodreadsClara McKenna, Murder on Mistletoe Lane
Clara writes the acclaimed historical cozy Stella & Lyndy Mystery series, about an unlikely couple who mix love, murder and horse racing in Edwardian England. MURDER AT MORRINGTON HALL kicks off series. MURDER AT KEYHAVEN CASTLE, the third book in the series, was selected as a Historical Novel Society’s Editor’s Choice and voted one the BEST cozy mysteries of 2021 by SUSPENSE MAGAZINE. Her latest release, MURDER ON MISTLETOE LANE, captures Christmas at the turn of the last century.
She is a member of Sisters in Crime and the founding member of Sleuths in Time, a cooperative group of historical mystery writers who encourage and promote each other’s work.
With an incurable case of wanderlust, she travels every chance she gets, the UK being a favorite destination. When she can’t get to the UK, she’s happy to write about it from her home in Iowa.
To learn more about Clara, click any of the following links: Website, Facebook, Instagram, & BookBubMary Winters, Murder in Postscript
© Julie Prairie Photography 2016A longtime reader of historical fiction, Mary set her latest works in Victorian England after being inspired by a trip to London. Look for the second book in the Lady of Letters mysteries, Murder in Masquerade, in February 2024.
Mary also writes the Professor Prather Mysteries, featuring amateur sleuth Emmaline Prather, solving crimes on a small college campus, and the Happy Camper Series featuring Zo Jones. Zo runs a gift store in beautiful Spirit Canyon, South Dakota … when she isn’t solving murders that is!
To learn more about Mary, click on any of the following links: Facebook, Instagram, Website (Mary Winters), Website (Mary Angela) & GoodreadsTo enter the giveaway, email: authorbookgiveaway@gmail.comAuthor Pet Wall!
The post EBook Giveaway: Get Cozy with 5 New Mysteries! appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 14, 2023
Perfect Shot: A Thriller, Debut Novel
Perfect Shot: A Thriller (Special Agent Alexandra Martel) by Steven Urszenyi
Interview with Seven Urszenyi + Book & Author Info + Author Pet Corner!Love finding debut authors? Click the link here for more ITW Debut Author posts.Perfect Shot: A Thriller
A former Army sniper must fall back on her Special Ops skills when a friend’s death uncovers a global nuclear threat, in Steve Urszenyi’s Perfect Shot, the first in an electrifying new series featuring Special Agent Alexandra Martel.
Special Agent Alexandra Martel has put her days on the battlefield behind her. Charming and disarming, relentless and lethal, she earned a reputation as one of the most renowned and decorated Army snipers in the service before stepping away. But when Alex, now an FBI special agent on loan to Interpol, learns that an old friend, an MI5 officer, has been killed under mysterious circumstances, she’s pulled back into the dangerous world she left behind: a world where some people fear her, some want to recruit her, and everyone seems to want her dead.
Following a trail of clues left behind by the dead woman, Alex pieces together a terrifying conspiracy that only escalates when a nuclear warhead goes missing. Dodging death at every turn, she reluctantly joins forces with a CIA officer, but he has plans of his own for her—and will stop at nothing to achieve them.
Chasing the truth through the streets of London and bustling Turkish markets to the underbelly of Paris, Alex is unrelenting in her pursuit of justice. But as the clock ticks down and the world edges closer to doom, she must fall back on her Special Ops skills to stop the unthinkable. She thought her life as a sniper was over—but with stakes this high, she must use whatever means necessary to render the world safe.
You can purchase Perfect Shot at the following retailers: Amazon & MacMillian Publishers.Perfect Shot is available in hardbackback, ebook, and audiobook through your favorite bookstore or website!Interview with Steve Urszenyi, Author of Perfect Shot Perfect Shot is set in London, Paris, and Turkey. What is your relationship with those locations? What kind of research did you have to do to make them come alive on the page?There are also scenes set in The Hague, Arnhem, and Moscow! I did a lot of traveling via Google Maps and many travel websites and YouTube videos in the early stages of writing Perfect Shot. Thank goodness for the internet! But then, when it came time to polish the manuscript, I traveled in person to all the locations except Adana, Turkey, and Moscow. I was going to go to Moscow, but literally, as I was researching airfares, some schmuck decided to invade Ukraine, and that trip went out the window.
Before writing Perfect Shot, I had been to Paris and London. I love big cities. I’m drawn to their history, and I love the dynamic currents of their present. I am also attracted to the underbelly of big cities—or any place—because that’s where things happen that the vast majority of the public doesn’t get to see.
As a paramedic for more than thirty years, I got a behind-the-scenes glimpse of my own big city, Toronto. When I started my career as a twenty-year-old, I had never imagined the things that happen below the polite surface of my hometown.
Perfect Shot centers on former Army sniper—and now Special Agent—Alexandra Martel. How did your background as a paramedic and tactical medic with the Ontario Provincial Police play a role in building her character?
Alex is a character who’s been brewing in my mind for several years now. And over those years, she has been shaped by my experiences as a paramedic and a police tactical medic in different ways.
I instilled her backstory with bits of my own to lend her some authenticity so that some of what she thinks and says are things I would think and might say.
For instance, before she was a sniper, she was a combat medic, so like me, she knows what it’s like to save—or not save—the life of someone you’ve been feverishly working on. That, and I incorporate police and combat tactical scenes into my story that are more fully realized because I’ve experienced what it’s like to hot-load on and off a hovering helicopter or otherwise done some of the things—but by no means all of them—that Alex does in Perfect Shot.
Perfect Shot has been called “an electrifying new series” in the thriller genre. What writers have been role models for you as you break into the publishing world?
There are multiple levels to this question. Regarding role models who have inspired my love of the thriller genre, I credit Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy, and Nelson DeMille, all of whom infused me with awe. Ludlum and Clancy for showing me the potential of a thriller—how it could simultaneously move, excite, and inspire me. DeMille showed me in writing his John Corey novels that a character could be so animated and full of, well, character.
But in terms of professional role models, I would say my good friend Simon Gervais (whom I only met at my first ThrillerFest outing to New York in 2018) taught me to be patient and helped me understand that the world of traditional publishing is built around the long game.
He encouraged me to keep going and keep working on my craft and showed me that, just as in any professional endeavor, networking and relationships with other writers and people in the business are essential.
Patience was the most challenging thing to master; it still is!
When you aren’t reading and writing thrillers, you like to travel on your Harley-Davidson. How long have you been riding motorcycles? What do you love about that mode of travel?
July-August 1975I’ve been riding motorcycles since I was twelve. I spent a summer in the Seventies in Hungary, and some cousins taught me how to ride. I don’t even know the motorbike brand, but it was probably a 50cc bike. I fell in love with riding and shifting through the gears. It was a blast!
I am still filled with that same sense of immense pleasure when I ride my Harley and climb up through the gears all these years later. I can’t explain it. There’s something about cruising through the mountains or taking a twisty road beside a river that is so soothing.
My wife and I have ridden throughout the United States, from mountains to deserts, big cities, and small towns—Nashville, Key West, Las Vegas, and places almost too small to have a name.
I hope I’ll never be too old to ride my Harley!
A bit of an adventurer, you also like to take photos. Share a favorite photo with us, and tell us what you love about capturing “stories” in an image
I’ve been doing photography since I was pretty young. I mean, these days, every toddler has a fifteen-hundred-dollar iPhone with a camera, but in the olden days, you had to have an actual camera, and my parents bought me my first Kodak Instamatic when I was probably ten or eleven.
My dad was an excellent photographer, and if it’s true that you can inherit an eye for something, then that’s where I got mine.
A few years ago, we did a safari to Tanzania. It’s a fantastic country, and we were fortunate to have seen all that we saw. However, the elephant and giraffe pictures I am sending are among my most memorable because the subjects are so beautiful, graceful, and iconic.
I took some great pics of lions, cheetahs, and leopards, but that elephant and Masai giraffe are among my favorites.
While mine aren’t in the same league as great photographers like Franz Lanting, Marina Cano, or Paul Nicklen, I like to get out and shoot when I can. And I’m always trying to find ways to elevate my game.
What are you working on now?
I turned in the second book in the Alex Martel series a few months back. So, naturally, I’m now writing Book 3!
Congratulations!Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:
The thriller writing community is a very supportive bunch. Get involved and attend a conference like ThrillerFest to hone your craft and network with fellow scribes. But if there were one piece of advice I would offer to would-be authors, it’s this: take classes, attend seminars, listen to the experts, but be selective about what advice you take to heart.
The best advice I ever received was simply this: if you want to write, write!
Author Pet Corner!
Lady and Radar!Talking about my life with dogs would take an entire article all by itself, but suffice it to say, I love dogs! I have been privileged to have had five beautiful dogs, two of which were search and rescue canines, and one was a little Jack Russell Terrier with tons of personality.
My last search dog was named Radar, and he was simply an amazing creature, as most working dogs are. We couldn’t have asked for a better canine family member, either. He was just the happiest and friendliest fellow. Our JRT was named Lady. She was a little dynamo, but mostly, she was glad to be Radar’s little sister.
We have been without dogs since Lady crossed the Rainbow Bridge almost ten years ago. I’m hoping that at some point in the future, we’ll have the time to devote to a new canine companion in our home!
Radar!
I’m so sorry for your losses, but what beautiful dogs! My horse Radar approves.
Steve Urszenyi — Author of Perfect Shot
Steve Urszenyi served for over thirty years as a paramedic in Toronto and as a tactical medic (TRU/SWAT, CBRNE, HUSAR, and public order unit) with the Ontario Provincial Police. He is an expert in chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear, and explosives (CBRNE/WMD) incident response.
Most recently, Steve was the commander of the Ontario Emergency Medical Assistance Team (EMAT), the province of Ontario’s disaster medical response and all-hazards incident management team.
Steve is the recipient of the Governor General of Canada EMS Exemplary Service Medal and Bar in recognition of his more than thirty years of distinguished service and career accomplishments.
Since he was young, Steve nurtured a love for writing, but he also felt a need to serve the public as a front-line first responder. Throughout his career, his fondness for storytelling never wavered. He cultivates his decades of experience in emergency response and tactical operations to write authentic and gripping stories that thrill readers.
Steve and his wife Lynne love international travel and riding his Harley-Davidson motorcycle across North America, especially through the Rocky Mountains and the American Southwest’s always-changing landscapes.
They have two grown children and have had several dogs, including Steve’s former search and rescue dogs, K9 Timber and K9 Radar.
Steve is an avid photographer and outdoorsman who loves hiking, camping, canoeing, and exploring the wilderness.
To learn more about Steve, click any of the following links: Website, Facebook, Instagram, X. Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell
Header Image by Jean-Philippe Fourier from Pixabay
The post Perfect Shot: A Thriller, Debut Novel appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 13, 2023
JL Lycette — The Committee Will Kill You Now: A Medical Thriller
The Committee Will Kill You Now by Jennifer / JL Lycette
JL Lycette Author Interview + Book & Author InfoDon’t miss JL Lycette’s debut interview, click the link here.The Committee Will Kill You Now by JL Lycette
The gripping new book from the author of The Algorithm Will See You Now. Based on the true-life rationing of kidney dialysis in 1960s America, a medical intern in 1992 Seattle tries to leave his painful past behind, only to uncover a shocking truth of thirty years prior and the lasting, generational harm of hidden secrets…
After a co-intern dies by suicide, a grieving Noah Meier commits an accidental error. In a desperate move to save his patient’s life, he covertly seeks help from audacious surgical resident Marah Maddox, igniting a bond between them.
When the hospital is suspiciously quick to sweep everything under the rug, Noah turns to his late father’s journal for guidance and makes a chilling discovery, all while trying to stay out of the crosshairs of abusive Dr. Rankel, keen to make an example of Noah. Worse, Rankel clearly has it out for Marah as the only woman in her program.
As the hospital’s patriarchal power structures, and the truth about his father’s past, threaten Noah and Marah’s burgeoning relationship, Noah will have to choose: shoulder his father’s devastating legacy or create his own daring future.
The latest sensational page-turner from physician-author JL Lycette, The Committee Will Kill You Now is a riveting historical suspense about the inner workings of the medical world and the personal struggles of those within it.
A thrilling near-historical drama that exposes the dark side of the medical establishment and a must-read for anyone interested in medicine, ethics, and the human struggle for justice.
To purchase The Committee Will Kill You Now, you can find it at the following retailers: Amazon, Black Rose Writing, Barnes & Noble.Interview with Jennifer/JL Lycette
The Committee Will Kill You
Now
is your second novel. How different was the process for you (writing and/or publishing) than with your first?I wrote the first draft of The Committee Will Kill You Now in April 2020, as part of Camp NaNoWriMo, while we were all hunkered down in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic. It was probably the easiest time I’ve ever had focusing on my writing because it was my mental escape from everything else going on during that time.
I challenged myself to write something much more complex than my first book, which I might not have done in different circumstances. But at that time, sure, deciding to write a dual timeline story with the second timeline told in epistolary form with journal entries and with a single character POV throughout, but also telling the story of the negative character arc of the secondary character and throwing in a romance subplot, was exactly the distraction from the real world my brain needed. I’ve seen other writers share how sometimes the writing process is like a fever dream, and when I think back to that month of drafting, it definitely felt that way. I don’t know that I could ever repeat it.
The revision process, conversely, was relatively slow. It was an on-and-off process over the next two and a half years, a timeline similar to my first novel. I want other people who aren’t full-time writers to know that it can take longer when you’re only revising on weekends, but eventually, you will get there.
Amid that, I signed a publishing contract for my first novel, and after it was published, my publisher asked if I had a second book. By then, Committee was ready to show them, and they offered a contract for it, too. So, it was a much faster process to publication than the first book, which took me about six years from first draft to publication.
The Committee Will Kill You Now set in 1992 but references the 1960s and the rationing of kidney dialysis. What drew you to that aspect of medical history?
I first became interested in the “God Committee” when researching the history of kidney dialysis for a small portion of a scene in my first book, The Algorithm Will See You Now.
The “God Committee”—or the Admissions and Policies Committee of the Seattle Artificial Kidney Center, as it was formally known—was an actual committee of mostly laypeople in the early 1960s in Seattle, WA, who met in secret over a number of years to ration the first kidney dialysis in the United States. (But my story and all its characters are fictional).
In the scene in Algorithm, an older Noah is referencing the history of dialysis to a young resident and remarking on the importance of knowing the history of how things came to be. In my research for this scene, when I came across the “God Committee,” I was fascinated and mortified. Because this history had not been taught to me in my medical school – in the city where it happened.
In that scene (in Algorithm), I included an idea that Noah’s father had been a part of this “God Committee” and that it forever changed him. I also hinted at a past connection between Noah and Marah in the first book that I knew I wanted to go back and explore further at some point. All of that together became the story idea for The Committee Will Kill You Now.
It’s a prequel to Algorithm but each book can be read as a standalone or in either order.
The Committee Will Kill You Now features Noah Meier and Marah Maddox. What would you like reader to know about them?
The first thing to know is that Marah Maddox is the antagonist of my first book (The Algorithm Will See You Now), and, as any writer knows, your antagonist always thinks she’s the hero of the story. So, in writing Algorithm, there was a lot of character work that didn’t end up on the page that I had to do to explore her motivations and beliefs, which ultimately turned her into the villain she became.
Noah Meier is a mentor character in Algorithm to the protagonist (Hope Kestrel, who isn’t in Committee as she wouldn’t have been born yet). To deepen the character connections and add tension in Algorithm, I hinted that Marah and Noah had a past relationship. Eventually, I had enough of their backstory in my head to realize I had an entire additional book I needed to write.
The other part of their story that the book explores is how the same traumatic experiences can change people in very different ways. Marah and Noah become the people they are much later in life, as we first meet them in Algorithm, because of the trauma of their medical training.
This book is also a love letter to medical students, residents, and trainees, and, I suppose, in some way, to my past self. Not everyone makes it out of those years of intense experiences with their sense of self intact. With Noah and Marah, one of them does, and one of them doesn’t.
As a doctor, how do you balance the truth of medicine and the necessary intrigue for writing fiction? Do you take liberties?Oh, I love this question so much because it was a surprising learning experience for me with both books! There have been many scenes I ended up either cutting or significantly revising because my non-medical beta readers didn’t find the true-to-life scenes believable.
I had to pretty much throw out things I had written from my own real-life experiences and instead come at it to look at what best served the story. Then, of course, I could use my medical knowledge and expertise to add factual information, but only as necessary for the story.
I’ve had some physician colleagues call me out on some of these liberties, but they still loved the books, so I don’t mind. That’s all part of fiction writing.
But yes, trying to please both a layperson and physician reader audience has been a tricky balance at times.
What are we likely to find you doing when you aren’t reading or writing thrillers?
Mainly in my day job, doctoring, where I’m a community hematologist/oncologist in rural Oregon. But when I’m not working, reading or writing, I’m mostly trying to spend time with our teenagers when they’ll allow me, and taking care of our aging golden doodle and ornery Boston terrier.
What are you working on now?
I’m in the early stages of drafting my next WIP. I can’t say much about it yet except to share that I’m pushing myself to go outside the hospital setting. While this next WIP is “medicine-adjacent,” the characters are not physicians.
Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:
Something I’ve been reflecting on for myself with this launch of my second book is trying to remember why I write. Publishing one’s work is always a double-edged sword – part of writing is to have someone read our work – but it’s very easy to get caught up in the trap of external validation, especially with social media. When I revisited why I started writing, it was to express myself in an honest and true form, to discover and clarify truths that others might also find meaningful or resonant.
So, I’m reminding myself that success or failure is therefore not defined by how many books I sell or how many people “like” a social media post but whether the book represents those values of honesty and authenticity to the best of my ability. From the advance reviews I’ve received, it does. So, by those higher values, I’ve already met the metric of success. I have a writing friend who reminds me that sales are always out of the author’s control, so you have to just let that go and write the next thing. I’m not saying I’m 100% successful at this, but I’m trying to more consciously reframe that for myself each day.
Author Pet Corner!
The Guinea pigs, Flapjack (white) and Sandwich (brown)
The rabbit, Gizmo
Jennifer/JL Lycette
JL / Jennifer Lycette is a novelist, award-winning essayist, rural physician, wife, and mother. Mid-career, she discovered narrative medicine on her path back from physician burnout and has been writing ever since.
Her essays can be found in Intima, NEJM, JAMA, and other journals; and online at Doximity and Medscape.
She is an alumna of the 2019 Pitch Wars Mentoring program and a member of ITW (International Thriller Writers) and PNWA (Pacific Northwest Writers Association).
Her other published speculative fiction can be found in the anthology And If That Mockingbird Don’t Sing: Parenting Stories Gone Speculative (Alternating Current Press). The Algorithm Will See You Now is her first novel. Her second novel (title and cover reveals coming soon!) will be out in November 2023.
To learn more about Jennifer, click on her name, photo, or any of the following links: Twitter, Mastodon, Facebook, LinkedIn & SpoutibleElena Taylor/Elena Hartwell
Header Image by Pexels from Pixabay
The post JL Lycette — The Committee Will Kill You Now: A Medical Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 10, 2023
Girl on Trial: YA Mystery/Thriller
Girl on Trial, a YA Contemporary Mystery/Thriller
Excerpt + Book & Author Info + Giveaway!
Don’t miss my interview with Kathleen. Click the link here.
Girl on Trial by Kathleen Fine
Does doing one bad thing make you a bad person?
Sixteen-year-old Emily Keller, known by the media as Keller the Killer, is accused of causing the deaths of a family of four, including young children.
Emily is one of the youngest females to be accused of a crime so heinous, making this the nation’s biggest trial of the year. But what really happened that fateful night—and who’s responsible—is anything but straightforward.
Living in a trailer park in Baltimore with her twin brother and alcoholic mother, Emily’s life hasn’t been easy. She’s had to grow up fast, and like any teen, has made questionable decisions in a desperate attempt to fit in with her peers.
Will her mistakes amount to a guilty verdict and a life in prison? It’s up to the jury to decide.
Genre: YA Contemporary Mystery/Thriller
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: October 2023
Number of Pages: 336 I
SBN: 9780744306835 (ISBN10: 0744306833)
To purchase Girl on Trial, click on any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | CamCat Books
Read an excerpt of Girl on Trial:
Girl on Trial By: Kathleen Fine
Prologue
January 12, 2022
“The only reason I come to this meeting is for my weekly caffeine high,” Tiffani with an i admitted. Emily nodded at her friend as she took a sip of her lukewarm, watered-down coffee, a taste she’d gotten used to. A taste she now associated with healing.
“I’m not no strung-out addict or nothin’,” Tiffani continued and then focused on Emily, remembering that Emily, in fact, wasn’t there just for the coffee. “No offense—wasn’t tryin’ to say nothin’ bad about addicts. It’s just they don’t give us caffeine inside, ya know?”
“No offense taken.” Emily smiled as she wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, relaxing her tense shoulders. She’d become used to Tiffani’s candor and had grown to appreciate the woman’s raw honesty. She watched as Tiffani sprinkled some sugar into her undersized paper cup and stirred it with the plastic spoon tied to a container with blue yarn. Tiffani glanced around the room and then untied the yarn, placing the spoon into the pocket of her gray, state-issued sweatpants. Emily bit her lip, debating if she should stop her, but then decided not to. Tiffani was going to do what Tiffani wanted to do—she always did and always would.
“I gnaw on the edges of this enough and it gives me a sorta sharp blade.” She gave Emily a wink as she patted her pocket, keeping the new weapon safe as she took a seat in the circle with the other women.
“One minute, ladies,” the guard announced to the group as the chatter quieted down and the women took their seats in the circle. Emily picked up an NA book from the only empty seat in the circle that Nikki left for her as a placeholder. She sat down in its place, shifting uncomfortably in the metal chair. She moved her eyes toward the group secretary, Darlene, as she flipped through a stack of papers on her lap.
“Hello, I’m an addict and my name is Darlene. Welcome to the Lincoln Juvenile Correctional Center’s group of Narcotics Anonymous. Can we open this meeting with a moment of silence for the addict who still suffers, followed by the serenity prayer?” Emily closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she tried to stop her palms from sweating. She still got anxious even though she’d been attending the meeting every week for the past year. How has it been an entire year? she wondered. So much has happened in only twelve months.
“Is there anyone here attending their first NA meeting or this meeting for the first time?” Darlene asked. “If so, welcome! You’re the most important person here! If you’ve used today, please listen to what’s being said and talk to someone at the break or after the meeting. It costs nothing to belong to this fellowship; you are a member when you say you are. Can someone please read, Who Is an Addict? and What Is Narcotics Anonymous?”
“I will,” Chantelle volunteered as she reached across the circle, grabbed the paper from Darlene, and began reading aloud to the group.
“Yo, Em,” Nikki leaned over and whispered in Emily’s ear. “You celebratin’ today?” Emily nodded at her timidly. She didn’t like speaking in front of people even if it was a group of women she trusted.
“You’ll do great,” Nikki whispered as she punched Emily lightly in the arm. Emily peered around the circle to make sure no one was paying attention to Nikki’s whispers. They weren’t supposed to have side conversations during the meeting—the guard would send them out of the room if he caught them.
When Chantelle finished the reading, Darlene thanked her and said, “Now can someone please read Why We Are Here and How It Works?”
Emily watched anxiously as the paper was passed down to Trina. She closed her eyes and listened to Trina’s words, clenching her jaw tightly.
“I used last night,” Nikki muttered so quietly, Emily wasn’t sure if she was meant to hear her. She glanced over at Nikki, who was staring down into her coffee cup shamefully. Nikki had been the first person to introduce herself to Emily at her initial meeting, making her Emily’s OG friend in the group. Emily furrowed her brow and placed her hand on top of Nikki’s. She wished Nikki had told her about the relapse earlier—then she could have had an actual conversation with her about it. She wondered where Nikki could’ve gotten her hands on anything since she’d heard a rumor the guards had been doing weekly bunk checks.
One day at a time, Nikki had told Emily, so many months before when she’d been a broken shell of herself. “One day at a time,” Emily whispered, trying not to let the guard hear their buzzing.
Seeing Emily’s tentative face, Nikki mumbled, “My roommate snuck some smack up her papusa. Had her boyfriend’s kid bring it in when he visited her. Whack, dude. Whack.” She shook her head and rubbed her buzzed hair with her rugged hands. “She’s a bad influence on me. I gotta get a new roommate.”
Emily frowned, aware that there was nothing she could do to help Nikki. Nikki had to want sobriety for herself, just like Emily had wanted it. She squeezed Nikki’s hand tightly and whispered, “Glad you’re here.” As much as Nikki’s relapse upset her, it gave her a tiny bit of strength to share her story. Maybe she could help Nikki even a little bit today by sharing her own struggles.
“No touching,” the guard yelled from across the room, eyeing Nikki and Emily. As if being scolded by a teacher, Emily reddened and instantly pulled her hand away from Nikki’s.
Darlene reached below her chair and lifted a shoebox to her lap. “This group recognizes length of clean time by handing out key tags. If you have one coming to you, please come up and get it. The white one is for anyone with zero to twenty-nine days clean and serene.” Darlene opened the box to reveal a white key tag and dangled it in the air. Nikki glanced at Emily and then hesitantly stood up to collect her tag. The group clapped and whistled wildly as she crossed the circle and took her tag. She gave a couple of the women fist bumps as the group chanted, “What do we do? Keep coming back!” Emily put her fist out as Nikki gave it a bump. She hoped this small gesture, this modest group of women cheering for Nikki, would be the reason she’d quit for good this time.
“The orange one is for thirty days clean and serene.” Emily watched as two women got up, collected their tags, and sat back down. Applause and chanting “What do we do? Keep coming back!” vibrated the room.
As Darlene handed out the tags for two months, three months, and so on, Emily gripped her chair, knowing her turn was coming. Her palms, damp with her sweat, began to slip along the chair’s metal sides.
“The yellow one is for nine months clean and serene,” Darlene announced.
Nikki peered at Emily and nudged her bicep. “Your turn is coming up soon,” she whispered. Emily smiled at her, trying to give the façade of bravery, but she felt anything but brave. What she really wanted to do was run as fast as she could out of the room and into the parking lot.
“The glow-in-the-dark one is for a year clean and serene.” You can do this, Emily thought as she unsteadily stood up and walked toward Darlene. All the women in the room clapped loudly and chanted as she took the tag and went back to her seat, her face flushing with pride.
Darlene placed the box back under her chair and collected the sheets of readings from the women who had read. “Today, Emily is celebrating her one-year anniversary with us. You ready, Em?”
The women’s applause quieted and all eyes turned toward her. Clenching her fists tightly, she felt her beating heart rise to her throat. She scanned the room at the women and girls before her. Addicts, inmates, and friends. My people, Emily thought as she said, “My name is Emily, and I am an addict. This is my story . . .”
1
Trial Day 1: January 7, 2019
i
The alarm on Emily’s phone chimed just as Sophie whispered in her ear, “Wake up, Emawee. Wake up.” She opened her eyes widely, her body covered in sweat, her sheets soaked yet again. “Time to wake up.” She heard Sophie’s whisper get farther away, humming distantly from somewhere in her dreams.
From somewhere in her nightmares.
As she turned off the alarm, she tried to overlook the numerous text messages that’d surfaced from numbers she didn’t recognize.
“Die, killer”
“You’ll pay in hell for what you did.”
“Murderer”
How can people I don’t even know want me dead?
With shaky hands, she deleted the texts as a CNN report popped up on her screen, updating her on the “Trial of the Year,” that was beginning that day:
CNN Breaking News
The Biggest Trial of the Year Begins Today, January 7, 2019. Emily Keller, also known by the media as Keller the Killer, is accused of causing the deaths of four family members, two of them small children. Only 16 years old, Emily is one of the youngest females to be accused of a crime so heinous.
Emily buried her face in her pillow, taking a deep breath. She tried to hold back the habitual tears that were creeping out from the corners of her eyes. I have to be strong today; no crying, she told herself as she rubbed her temples slowly. I need to put on my protective armor, or I’ll never make it through today alive. She reached under her mattress, grabbed her orange pill bottle and gave it a shake, the rattling sound of the tablets comforting her. She poured two pills onto her clammy palm and placed them gently on her tongue. Protective armor.
“Emily?” her brother, Nate, quietly inched open the bedroom door, “You awake? It’s time to start getting ready for court.”
Without looking up at him, she nodded as she rolled out of bed, trying not to think about how wrong the prosecution had the facts and how she could be sent to prison because of it. As she attempted to walk toward the door, her ankle monitor snagged on her lavender bedsheet. She yanked the sheet off in frustration and dragged her feet to the bathroom to prepare for the first day of her new life.
Debbie and Nate were already waiting for her in Debbie’s rumbling Toyota Camry when she stepped out of the trailer.
“It’s your turn for shotgun.” Emily opened the door to the backseat where Nate was already buckled in.
“You can take it today,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact with her.
“I don’t need pity shotgun just because I’m on trial for murder, Nate,” Emily replied curtly as she reluctantly sat down in the front seat. As she buckled her seat belt, she already regretted scolding Nate for doing something kind. I’ll apologize to him later, she told herself. Nate had been up with her until three o’clock that morning, listening to her cry and consoling her. I don’t deserve him, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.
She rolled down her window and took a deep breath of fresh morning air as her mom lit a Virginia Slim, her hands trembling. “Morning vodka shot hasn’t kicked in yet?” Emily muttered under her breath as she turned on the radio. Or maybe one shot doesn’t cut it anymore, Emily thought.
“What hasn’t kicked in?” Debbie asked as she ashed her cigarette into an empty coke can, oblivious to Emily’s disrespectful comment.
“Coffee hasn’t kicked in yet?” Emily corrected herself as she investigated her face in the cracked side mirror of the car. The face staring back at Emily was swollen from weeks of nonstop crying. Although she’d put on some of her mom’s waterproof mascara, she still looked like someone had run her over with a truck. You’re so repulsive, she thought as she tried to comb her drab chestnut hair with her fingers, squinting at her image through the cracked glass. She wanted to disappear. Sink down into the seat of the car and disappear forever.
As she pinched her upper cheekbones to give her face some color, she glanced at Nate through the corner of the broken mirror, hoping he couldn’t tell she was staring at him through the mosaic lens. Since he had headphones in his ears, she assumed he was listening to a news podcast about the trial. The expression on his face looked like it was straining to stay calm, but she could read his emotions no matter how hard he tried to hide them. When you shared a womb with someone, you knew everything they were feeling.
There was actually supposed to be three of them. Her dad had left when he’d found out Debbie was pregnant with triplets. He’d said since he didn’t want one baby, he definitely didn’t want three. Emily used to sometimes think about how different her life would’ve been if their other brother hadn’t died at birth. Maybe he would’ve punched Tom Swanson for dumping her two years ago since Nate didn’t do a thing about it. Maybe he would’ve taught Emily to throw a football since Nate was anti-athletics.
Maybe he could’ve stopped Emily before she lost herself. Maybe he could’ve stopped this whole situation. Maybe no one would have died.
“Valerie told us to meet her around back when I spoke to her on the phone last night,” Emily directed her mom as they pulled up to the courthouse. Debbie nodded as she navigated her ancient car around to the back of the building, avoiding the crowd hovering at the entrance.
“Shit, look at all of the people,” Nate announced as he stared at the crowd and cameras surrounding the front of the building. No one seemed to notice their rickety car escape past the swell to the rear parking lot. Maybe they were expecting some sort of official-looking black SUV like you see in crime movies and not our pathetic piece of tin, Emily speculated, thinking about how some seniors at her school owned nicer cars than her mom’s. She peeked down at her gray dress and nervously picked little lint balls off it as her mom parked the car.
“You look fine, Em,” Debbie insisted as she opened a mini bottle of vodka from her purse and took a swig, “That dress looks lovely on you.” Debbie had spent her tip money to buy Emily “new” thrift store clothes for the trial. Emily was now pulling at a seam on the edge of the dress, making it unravel.
As she waited for her mom to finish her shot, she felt around for the phone in her purse to make sure it was turned off. She’d turn it on later that night once her mom and Nate were sleeping so she could read through her texts and the news in privacy. That way, if she cried, no one would see her. Strong people don’t cry, she told herself.
“You need a pill?” Debbie asked as she fumbled through the large purse on her lap. The Valium Emily had taken that morning was beginning to set in, and she was starting to feel unreasonably calm.
“I’m good.” Although I’ll need another one soon, she thought. It hurt her too much to live in reality.
Emily’s lawyer, Valerie Anderson, was standing at the back entrance of the building, propping open the heavy metal door with her bright red heel. As Emily stepped out of the car, Valerie waved her hands frantically, “Quick, before they catch on that you’re back here!” she shrieked as she lifted her long, hot pink nails to her mouth.
“We better hurry.” Debbie grabbed Nate’s and Emily’s hands, tug-ging them toward Valerie.
“Wait,” Emily urged as she struggled to catch up to her petite mom’s gait. Without warning, her black heel wobbled to the side and she stumbled, falling onto the hard concrete. Before she had the chance to assess the damage to her knees, Nate dropped his mom’s hand, grabbed Emily up by the arm, and quickly escorted her to the door. As they approached Valerie, all eyes looked to the blood running down Emily’s knees. Emily was surprised the wounds stung so badly even though the rest of her felt numb.
“We’ll have to find some Band-Aids ASAP before we converse.” Valerie’s heels echoed in the hallway as she led them to their room. Emily slouched over even more than she had been as she followed Valerie, spying the name Keller stuck to a metal door with a yellow Post-it. As they stepped inside, the heavy door slammed behind them with a loud thud.
*** Excerpt from Girl on Trial by Kathleen Fine. Copyright 2023 by Kathleen Fine. Reproduced with permission from Kathleen Fine. All rights reserved.
Kathleen Fine — Author of Girl on Trial
Kathleen Fine received her Master’s in Reading Education from Towson University and Bachelor’s in Elementary Education from University of Maryland, College Park.
She is a member of the Maryland Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, and Author’s Guild.
When she’s not writing and selling real estate, she enjoys spending time with her family, traveling to the Outer Banks, and of course, reading anything she can get her hands on.
She currently lives in Baltimore, Maryland with her husband, three children, and Sussex Spaniel. Her short stories have been published in Litro Magazine, Pen in Hand, The Maryland Writer’s Association Anthology, and in The Indignor Playhouse Anthology. Girl on Trial is her debut novel.
You can find more about Kathleen at any of the following links:KathleenFineAuthor.com, Goodreads, BookBub – @kathleenfineauthor, Instagram – @kathleenfineauthor, Twitter/X – @kathleenfine, Facebook – @fine.kathleen, TikTok – @kathleenfineauthor
Visit all the Stops on the Girl On Trial Tour!
10/23 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
10/23 Showcase @ The Book Divas Reads
10/24 Review @ Kritters Ramblings
10/24 Showcase @ Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
10/25 Review @ Catreader18
10/25 Showcase @ 411 ON BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND PUBLISHING NEWS
10/26 Review @ Must Read Faster
10/27 Mysteries to Die For: Toe Tags Podcast – 1st Chapter Read & Review
10/28 showcase @ Silvers Reviews
10/30 Review @ nanasbookreviews
10/31 Review @ Stormy Nights Reviewing & Bloggin
11/01 Review @ Book Reviews From an Avid Reader
11/02 Review @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read
11/03 Review @ Paws. Read. Repeat
11/04 Review @ tea. and. titles
11/06 Podcast interview @ Blog Talk Radio
11/06 Review @ Just Reviews
11/07 Review @ ashmanda. k
11/08 Review @ Review Thick & Thin
11/08 Review @ Wall-to-wall Books
11/09 Review @ mokwip8991
11/13 Review @ Nesies Place
11/14 Review @ Lynchburg Reads
11/15 Review @ elaine_sapp65
11/15 Review @ Novels Alive
11/16 Review @ Celticladys Reviews
11/16 Review @ Coffee and Ink
11/17 Review @ Melissa As Blog
Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell Taylor
The post Girl on Trial: YA Mystery/Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 9, 2023
High Cotton Mystery: Murder, Mayhem and 4 of a Kind
High Cotton Mystery #1: Murder, Mayhem and 4 of a Kind by Duffy Brown
1st in Series
Setting – Georgia
Independently Published (September 21, 2023)
Paperback : 174 pages
ISBN-13 : 979-8861824446
Kindle ASIN : B0CJK2BX4YTo purchase Murder, Mayhem and 4 of a Kind, click on the following link: AmazonAuthor of the High Cotton Mysteries — Duffy Brown
Duffy Brown loves anything with a mystery.
While other girls dreamed of dating Brad Pitt, Duffy longed to take Sherlock Holmes to the prom.
She has two cats, Spooky and Dr. Watson, her license plate is Sherlock and she conjures up who-done-it stories of her very own for Berkley Prime Crime.
Duffy’s national bestselling Consignment Shop Mystery series is set in Savannah and the Cycle Path Mysteries are set on Mackinac Island.
To learn more about Duffy, click on any of the following links: Website – Facebook Visit all the Stops on the Tour!
NOVEMBER 9
Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
NOVEMBER 10
#BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee
Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book
Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell
The post High Cotton Mystery: Murder, Mayhem and 4 of a Kind appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 8, 2023
Girl Among Crows: Debut Thriller
Girl Among Crows, the debut thriller from Brendon Vayo
Excerpt + Book & Author Info + A Giveaway!
Don’t miss any blog tour posts! Click the link here.
Girl Among Crows by Brendon Vayo
Beware the Brotherhood of the Raven
When two boys vanish from her hometown, Daphne Gauge notices uncanny parallels to her brother’s disappearance 30 years earlier. Symbols of an ancient Norse god. Rumors of a promise to reward the town’s faithful with wealth and power, for a price. She warns her husband that another sacrifice is imminent, but just like last time, no one believes her.
This leaves her with a desperate choice: investigate with limited resources, or give in to the FBI’s request for an interview. For years, they’ve wanted a member of the Gauge family to go on record about the tragedy back in 1988. If she agrees to a deposition now, Daphne must confess her family’s dark secrets. But she also might have one last chance to unmask the killer from back then . . . and now.
For readers who enjoy Stephen King, Gillian Flynn, Joshilyn Jackson, Riley Sager, Jennifer McMahon, and Simone St. James.
Genre: Horror
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: November 2023
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 9780744306552 (ISBN10: 0744306558)
To purchase Among Crows, you can find it at the following retailers: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | CamCat Books
Read an excerpt of Girl Among Crows:
Among Crows
My husband Karl shakes hands with other doctors, a carousel of orthopedic surgeons in cummerbunds. I read his lips over the brass band: How’s the champagne, Ed? Since he grayed, Karl wears a light beard that, for the convention, he trimmed to nothing.
The ballroom they rented has long windows that run along Boston’s waterfront. Sapphire table settings burn in their reflections.
The food looks delicious. Rainbows of heirloom carrots. Vermont white cheddar in the macaroni. Some compliment the main course, baked cod drizzled with olive oil. My eyes are on the chocolate cherries. Unless Karl is right, and they’re soaked in brandy.
At some dramatic point in the evening, balloons will drop from nets. A banner sags, prematurely revealing its last line.
CELEBRATING THIRTY YEARS!
Thirty years. How nice, though I try not to think that far back.
I miss something, another joke.
Everyone’s covering merlot-soaked teeth, and I wonder if they’re laughing at me. Is it my dress? I didn’t know if I should wear white like the other wives.
I redirect the conversation from my choice of a navy-blue one-shoulder, which I now see leaves me exposed, and ask so many questions about the latest in joint repair that I get lightheaded.
The chandelier spins. Double zeroes hit the roulette table. A break watching the ocean, then I’m back, resuming my duties as a spouse, suppressing a yawn for an older man my husband desperately wants to impress. A board member who could recommend Karl as the next director of clinical apps.
I’m thinking about moving up, our careers. I’m not thinking dark thoughts like people are laughing or staring at me. Not even when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Are you Daphne?” asks a young man. A member of the wait staff. No one should know me here; I’m an ornament. Yet something’s familiar about the young man’s blue eyes. Heat trickles down my neck as I try to name the sensation in my stomach.
“And you are?” I say.
“Gerard,” he says. The glasses on his platter sway with caffeinated amber. “Gerard Gedney. You remember?”
I gag on my ginger ale.
“My gosh, I do,” I say. “Gerard. Wow.”
Thirty years ago, when this convention was still in its planning stages, Gerard Gedney was the little boy who had to stay in his room for almost his entire childhood. Beginning of every school year, each class made Get Well Soon cards and mailed them to his house.
We moved before I knew what happened to Gerard, but with everything else, I never thought of him until now. All the growing up he must’ve done, despite the odds, and now at least he got out, got away.
“I beat the leukemia,” he says.
“I’m so glad for you, Gerard.”
If that’s the appropriate response. The awkwardness that defined my childhood creeps over me. Of all the people to bump into, it has to be David Gedney’s brother. David, the Boy Never Found.
My eyes jump from Gerard to the other wait staff. They wear pleated dress pants. Gerard’s in a T-shirt, bowtie, and black jeans.
“I don’t really work here, Daphne,” says Gerard, sliding the platter onto a table. “I’ve been looking for you for a while.”
The centerpiece topples. Glass shatters. An old woman holds her throat.
“Gerard,” I say, my knees weak, “I understand you’re upset about David. Can we please not do this here?”
Gerard wouldn’t be the first to unload on what awful people we were. But to hear family gossip aired tonight, in front of my husband and his colleagues? I can’t even imagine what Karl would think.
“I’m not here about my brother,” says Gerard. “I’m here about yours.” His words twist.
“Paul,” I say.
“What about him?” “I’m so sorry,” says a waiter, bumping me. Another kneels to pick up green chunks of the vase. When I find Gerard again, he’s at the service exit, waiting for me to follow.
Before I do, I take one last look at the distinguished men and a few women. The shoulder claps. The dancing. Karl wants to be in that clique—I mean, I want that too. For him, I want it.
But I realize something else. They’re having a good time in a way I never could, even if I were able to let go of the memory of my brother, Paul.
The catering service has two vans in the alleyway. It’s a tunnel that feeds into the Boston skyline, the Prudential Center its shining peak.
Gerard beckons me to duck behind a stinky dumpster. Rain drizzles on cardboard boxes.
I never knew Gerard as a man. Maybe he has a knife or wants to strangle me, and all this news about my brother was bait to lure me out here. I’m vulnerable in high heels. But Gerard doesn’t pull a weapon.
He pulls out a postcard, its edges dusty with a white powder I can’t identify. The image is of three black crows inscribed on a glowing full moon.
“I found it in Dad’s things,” says Gerard. “Please take it. Look, David is gone. We’ve got to live with the messes our parents made. Mine sacrificed a lot for my treatment, but had they moved to Boston, I probably would’ve beat the cancer in months instead of years.”
“And this is about Paul?” I say.
“When the chemo was at its worst,” says Gerard, “I dreamed about a boy, my older self, telling me I would survive.”
I take my eyes off Gerard long enough to read the back of the postcard:
$ from Crusher. Keep yourself pure, Brother. For the sake of our children, the Door must remain open.
Crusher. Brother. Door. No salutation or signature, no return address. Other than Crusher, no names of any kind. The words run together with Gerard’s take on how treatment changed his perspective.
Something presses my stomach again. Dread. Soon as I saw this young man, I knew he was an omen of something. And when is an omen good?
“Your dad had this,” I say. “Did he say why? Or who sent it?”
An angry look crosses Gerard’s face. “My dad’s dead,” he says. “So’s Brother Dominic. Liver cancer stage 4B on Christmas Day. What’d they do to deserve that, huh?”
“They both died on Christmas? Gerard, I’m so sorry.” First David, now his dad and Dominic? He stiffens when I reach for him, and, of course, I’m the last person he wants to comfort him. “I know how hard it is. I lost my mom, as you know, and my dad ten years ago.”
The day Dad died, I thought I’d never get off the floor. I cried so hard I threw up, right in the kitchen. Karl was there, my future husband, visiting on the weekend from his residency. I didn’t even think we were serious, but there he was, talking me through it, the words lost now, but not the comfort of his voice.
I looked in his eyes, daring to hope that with this man I wouldn’t pass on to my children what Mom passed down to me.
“Mom’s half-there most days,” says Gerard. “But one thing.”
The rear entrance bangs open, spewing orange light. Two men dump oily garbage, chatting in Spanish.
“Check the postmark, Daphne,” says Gerard at the end of the alleyway. He was right beside me. Now it’s a black bird sidestepping on the dumpster, its talons clacking, wanting me to feed it. I flinch and catch Gerard shrugging under the icy rain before he disappears.
The postmark is from Los Angeles, sent October last year. Six months ago, George Gedney received this postcard. Two months later, he’s dead, and so is another son.
What does that mean? How does it fit in with Paul?
Though he’s gone, I keep calling for Gerard, my voice strangled. Someone has me by the elbow, my husband. Even in lifts, Karl’s three inches shorter than me.
“Daphne, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Colquitt. I need Sheriff Colquitt or . . .” Voices argue in my head, and I nod at the hail swirling past yellow streetlamps. “Thirty years ago, Bixbee was a young man. He might still be alive.”
“Daphne, did that man hurt you? Hey.”
Karl demands that someone call the police, but I shake him.
“It’s fine, Karl,” I say, dialing Berkshire County Sheriff ’s Office. “Gerard’s a boy I knew from my hometown.”
Karl’s calling someone too. “Some coincidence,” he says.
Though it wasn’t. Here I am trying not to think about the past, and it comes back to slap me in the face as though I summoned it. Paul. The little brother I vowed to protect.
The phone finally picks up. “Berkshire Sheriff’s Office.”
“Hello,” I say, “could I leave a message for Harold Bixbee to call me back as soon as possible? He is or was a deputy in your department.”
“Uh, ma’am, I don’t have anyone in our personnel records who matches that name. But if it’s an emergency, I’d be glad—”
I hang up. Damn. I should’ve known at nine p.m., all I’d get is a desk sergeant. I’d spend half the night catching him up to speed.
“Daphne.” My husband lowers his phone, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “I asked Ed to pull the hotel’s security feed. You’re the only one on tape.”
“What? No.”
“It shows that you walked out that door alone,” says Karl, gesturing, “and I come out a few minutes later.”
The Door must remain open.
Dread hardens, then the postcard’s corner jabs my thumb. I’m about to show Karl my proof when I realize that now there are only two crows in the moon.
“How’d he do that?” I keep flipping it, expecting the third one to return, before I sense my husband waiting. Distantly, I hear wings flap, but it could be the rain. “Gerard wanted me to have his dad’s postcard.”
“So this boy Gerard comes all the way from Springfield to hand you a postcard,” Karl says. “And he can magically avoid cameras?”
“I’m not from Springfield,” I say, shaking off a chill. Magically avoid cameras. And Gerard can turn pictures of crows into real ones too. How?
“You seem very agitated,” says Karl. “Want me to call Dr. Russell? Unless . . .” Karl’s listening, just not to me. “Ed says the camera angles aren’t the best here. There’s a few blind spots.”
“I said I’m not from Springfield, Karl. Any more than you’re from Boston.”
My husband nods, still wary. “Boston is more recognizable than Quincy. But how does your hometown account for why Gerard isn’t on the security footage?”
I lick my lips, my hand hovering over Karl’s phone.
When we first met, I wanted to keep things upbeat. Me? I’m a daddy’s girl, though (chuckling) certainly not to a fault. In the interest of a second date, I might’ve understated some things.
“Here,” I say, “it’s more like I’m from the Hilltowns. It’s a remote area.” My lips tremble, trying to force out the name of my hometown. “I was born and raised in New Minton, Karl.”
Somewhere between Cabbage Patch Kids and stickers hidden in a cereal box, the ones Paul demanded every time we opened a new Crøønchy Stars, is recognition. I can tell by the strange flicker on Karl’s face.
“The New Minton Boys,” he says. “All those missing kids, the ones never found.” Karl is stunned. “Daphne, you’re from there? Did you know those boys? God, you would’ve been a kid yourself.”
“I was eleven,” I say. And I was a kid, a selfish kid. I came from a large family. Brandy was seventeen, Courtney fifteen, Ellie nine, and Paul seven.
The day before my brother disappeared, I wasn’t thinking that this night was the last time we’d all be together. I wasn’t thinking about the pain Mom and Dad would go through, especially after the town gossip began.
No. I thought my biggest problems in the world were mean schoolboys. So I ruined dinner.
“Daphne?” Now Karl looks mad. “That’s a big secret not to tell your husband.”
If only he knew.
*** Excerpt from Among Crows by Brendon Vayo. Copyright 2023 by Brendon Vayo. Reproduced with permission from Brendon Vayo. All rights reserved.
Author of Girl Among Crows, Brendon Vayo
Brendon Vayo was born in Okinawa, Japan, and now lives in Austin, TX.
He has a wonderful wife and three children. The kids keep him awake at night, so he hopes his books do the same to you.
Catch Up With Brendon Vayo:
Goodreads Instagram – @brendonvayo Twitter/X – @brendonvayo3 Facebook
Don’t Miss Any Stops on the Girl Among Crows Tour!
10/30 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
10/31 Review @ Novels Alive
11/01 Guest post @ The Book Divas Reads
11/02 Showcase @ Silvers Reviews
11/04 Review @ Urban Book Reviews
11/06 Showcase @ Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
11/07 Interview @ Hott Books
11/07 Review @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read
11/09 Review @ dianas_books_cars_coffee
11/10 Showcase @ I Love Books and Stuff Blog
11/12 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
11/13 Podcast interview @ Blog Talk Radio
11/14 Showcase @ Must Read Faster
11/15 Review @ The Book Review Crew
11/16 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
11/19 Showcase @ Nesies Place
11/20 Review @ Lynchburg Reads
11/21 Review @ ashmanda. k
11/22 Review @ Wall-to-wall Books
11/23 Review @ aratecla_the_bookrat
11/23 Showcase @ Teatime and Books
Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell
The post Girl Among Crows: Debut Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 7, 2023
James L’Etoile: Face of Greed
James L’Etoile launches Face of Greed
Book and Author Info + Plus an excerpt
Read my review of Face of Greed here.
Face of Greed by James L’Etoile
When a prominent Sacramento businessman is killed and his wife injured in a brutal home invasion, Detective Emily Hunter and her partner, Javier Medina, are called to investigate. At first glance, it seems like a crime of opportunity gone horribly wrong, but Emily soon finds there might be more to both the crime and the dead man.
The high-stakes investigation also comes at a time when Emily is caring for her mother, who has early-onset Alzheimer’s, and Emily struggles to balance her job with her personal life. The city’s political elite seem to want the case solved quickly, but darker forces want it buried.
Could there have been a motive behind the attack, making it more than a random home invasion? Emily uncovers clues that cause her to reconsider her understanding of the crime. A deadly game of greed and deception pulls Emily deeper into the shadowy world of gang violence and retribution. She has to walk the razor’s edge to identify the killer—without becoming the next victim.
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller, Procedural
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: November 2023
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 9781608095889 (ISBN10: 1608095886)
Series: Detective Emily Hunter, Book 1
Purchase Face of Greed by James L’Etoile by clicking any of the following links:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Oceanview Publishing
Read an excerpt:
Face of Greed
Emily Hunter learned to be wary of open doorways when she rolled up to a call. In the five years of her assignment to the detective bureau of the Sacramento Police Department, she knew bad things often lurked in the dark behind partially open doors. When it was the front door of your own home, at seven in the evening, the anxiety bit deep.
She crept close, listening for anything or anyone who didn’t belong. Her hand tapped the grip of the Glock on her hip as she climbed the stairs. The lights were on, and the television blared an infomercial for a product promising the end of dry skin.
“Mom?”
Emily had moved her mother in with her four months ago after the seventy-year-old retired teacher suffered a series of memory lapses and household accidents. The advancing scourge of dementia meant Connie Hunter was unable to live a safe, independent life in her own home.
“Mom, are you there? Sheila?” Emily called out for the caregiver she’d hired to stay with her mother while Emily worked long hours as a detective.
When no response came from within, Emily’s subconscious went to a very dark place. She’d investigated a series of home invasions in the city where gangbangers targeted the homes of elderly people to terrorize and loot money and prescription drugs from the weak and powerless.
The front door hadn’t been kicked in, and there was no sign of a forced entry. Emily entered and scanned the living room—except for the missing mother and caregiver, the home appeared normal.
She turned off the television and heard the kitchen faucet running. A quick look into her remodeled kitchen found the water running over a sink full of dishes, but no one there. She shut the water off and spotted Connie’s GPS-enabled pendant on the kitchen counter. She held the tracker in her hand.
Emily heard the front door slam followed by the metallic click of the deadbolt. She heard the voices before stepping into the living room. Sheila had draped a comforter from the sofa over Connie’s frail shoulders. Her mother was wearing a light housecoat and a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. She shivered as Sheila rubbed her arms, warming her.
“What happened? Where were you?” Emily asked.
“I found her wandering down the street, near the park,” Sheila said.
Connie looked small and fragile in the housecoat, one too thin for the cold spring air.
“Mom, what were you thinking?”
“It was time to go,” Connie said with a shiver in her voice.
“Go? Go where?”
“Home.”
Emily bit her lip. It wasn’t the first time her mother mentioned going home, or a need to do something somewhere else. Sundowner’s Syndrome, the doctors called it. A little gift that came with dementia—confusion, a sudden surge in anxiety, and a feeling that she was lost. In a way, she was.
“Mom, this is home now,” Emily said.
“I swear, I turned my back for a second while I was finishing up the dinner dishes, and she slipped out.”
“She hasn’t pulled that one before. What happened?”
“She seemed a little more confused than usual but couldn’t tell me why. She was watching her shows, then walked out. I can’t be responsible for her wandering off. You might want to think about moving her into a facility—”
“I’m not putting my mom in a home.” Emily draped the GPS locket around her mother’s neck.
“Why weren’t you wearing this?”
“That’s not mine.”
“Yes, it is. Remember? We talked about it.”
Connie didn’t respond, but the look behind her eyes was one of confusion and uncertainty.
Emily’s work cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Calls after seven in the evening weren’t telemarketers who should be banished to a leper colony. These nighttime calls invariably meant someone suffered a beating, rape, or another murder in a city with no shortage of victims. In earlier years, she’d wondered if she didn’t answer the phone—if she let it ring until it stopped—would the crime still occur? Could she prevent another victim from ending up in some desolate field? A few hundred calls later, her naïve hope evaporated, and she came to terms with the fact the flow of victims in this city was never-ending.
She stabbed the answer button. “Hunter here.”
“Evening, Detective, please hold for the Watch Commander,” a woman’s voice instructed.
While Emily waited, she plodded to the office in the rear of her home and removed a fresh notebook out of the bottom drawer. On the first line of the first page, she wrote, “1935 hours, rec’d call from Watch Commander.”
“Hi Emily, Lieutenant Ford here. Initial report is a home invasion gone bad. One victim dead and one injured.”
“Another one? Where are we talking about?”
“The location is . . .” Emily heard rustling paper in the background. “Here it is. It’s 1357 46th Street. That’s a nice neighborhood.”
“It used to be anyway. I’ll call Medina and get there as soon as I can,” Emily responded.
“I called him first. His name was up on the rotation. Javier said he would meet you on scene. Emily, there’s something else you need to know.”
Emily fell silent.
“The Chief’s already there. He’s taking a personal interest in this one.”
“Oh sweet Jesus! That’s never a good sign.” Emily tossed the notebook on the desk.
“Gotta mean this is a high profile case. So, watch your back.”
“I appreciate the heads up. I’ll be there as soon as I tie up something.” She disconnected the call and tried to figure out how she could work the case remotely. Maybe her partner, Javier, could hold up his phone and livestream the crime scene. Who was she kidding?
“Sheila?”
Emily found her mother and Sheila parked in the living room watching a television show that was popular in the sixties. Connie had calmed, and her face was relaxed.
“I can stay,” Sheila said. “I overheard the call. I think she’s calm now. It won’t be long until she’s off to bed. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Thank you. Call me if there is any problem and please make her wear that GPS pendant. I’ll figure something out . . .”
As Emily changed into a fresh blouse, the thought of Chief Clark wandering through the crime scene kept surfacing. Whatever drew the top cop out to a crime scene after dark wasn’t going to bode well for the assigned detectives.
Once in her dark blue Ford Crown Victoria, Emily let the defroster attack the rapidly-forming condensation on the windshield. Sections of the window cleared and showcased the obnoxious blue Christmas lights her neighbor clung onto four months after the holiday season. They blinked on and off at once, stabbing a constant strobe into the detective’s bedroom window—another flimsy excuse for her insomnia.
As the car warmed up, Emily got out and scraped a thin film of ice from the driver’s window with the side of her hand. She stole a glance down the quiet street, gathered her shoulder length dark hair in a ponytail, and stepped back into the shadows, away from the car. She followed the fence line to the neighbor’s glowing stale yuletide shrine. Emily pulled the seventh and tenth small bulbs from their sockets and partially rethreaded the hellish electrical orbs back in the strand. The entire string blacked out, and she basked in the electric silence without the hellish current knifing out into the night. Then she returned to the car, backed out of the driveway, and wondered when her lazy-ass neighbor would recognize he’d become a victim of a drive-by-bulbing.
Emily made a right on J Street and sped to 46th, where the glow from the blinking red, blue, and yellow lights of emergency vehicles exacted some sort of revenge for her neighbor’s light display. Residents of this upscale enclave didn’t typically park their Benz, Jag, or Maserati on the street. Their precious status symbols were locked away in garages, or behind walled courtyards. She recognized the silver Crown Vic in front of her as the Mayor’s car and crept forward until her front bumper came within an inch of the Mayor’s sedan, effectively boxing the politician’s ride against a fire vehicle with a bright red and white sign warning, “Keep Back 100 Feet.”
“The Chief and the Mayor at the crime scene. Fricken awesome.”
The residence dwarfed the other homes on the block by double. A massive red brick front, coupled with heavy black iron gates to the right side of the residence, gave the place the feel of an embassy compound. Emily approached the front door, where an officer stood post, ensuring only official personnel entered the crime scene. She identified herself to the young officer in his freshly pressed dark blue uniform. After signing in on a clipboard held by the officer, Emily snagged a pair of blue paper booties from a box on the porch and pulled them over her shoes. She stepped through the front door and immediately noticed blood spatters on the marble floor, each marked with yellow plastic numbers. She grabbed a set of nitrile gloves and pulled them on before she accidentally contaminated the scene.
Emily followed the sound of voices and the strobes of camera flashes to a room down from the entryway. She paused at a large living room space where a petite blond woman sobbed on a white leather sofa. A paramedic knelt in front of her and tended to a red lump on her forehead. Detective Javier Medina sat in the chair next to her.
Javier and Emily became partners six months ago, and while he had more time in the department, Emily’s tenure in-grade as a detective made her the senior investigator. Unlike many of his fellow officers, he didn’t resent a woman—particularly one with fewer years behind the badge—holding the lead position.
Emily thought Javier possessed a natural inclination to the job. He could coax a confession from a suspect, or listen to a victim with an honest sense of compassion.
Javier nodded at Emily and pointed toward the kitchen. The Mayor came strolling out with a glass of wine, handing it to the woman.
“Thank you, Johnny.”
Mayor Stone perched next to her on the sofa and held her hand—the one not holding a wine glass.
“It’s probably not a good idea to drink anything until we make sure you’re checked out. You took a pretty solid blow to the head,” Javier said.
“Lori needs a little something to calm her nerves, something you certainly aren’t doing,” Mayor Stone said.
Emily continued down the hallway and located the hub of activity in a well-appointed office. It gave off more of a library vibe, with floor to ceiling polished mahogany bookcases on the two sidewalls and subdued lighting through Tiffany glass lampshades. A set of French doors with large windows opened out onto a manicured garden.
Chief of Police Thomas Clark, a tall man with the weathered face of a ranch hand, stood off to one side as an evidence technician framed-up a series of photographs of a dead man, face down in a pool of blood, in the center of the room.
“I’m glad you and Medina caught this one, Detective,” the Chief said, somber with a glance toward the Mayor.
“Chief,” Emily replied with a quick nod of her head to the living room and the city politician.
Chief Clark shrugged. “Long-time family friend is what I understand. Sure seems there’s more to it than that. She called him first thing after 911.”
Emily circled behind a medical examiner’s assistant who secured paper bags over the victim’s hands to preserve any forensic evidence. A uniformed officer stood near the patio door and observed the activity.
“You first on scene?” Emily asked.
“That would be me,” the officer said. “My partner and I responded to a 911 call from the residence. We found the wife in here kinda hanging over him. She seemed pretty messed up with what she stumbled into.”
Emily scanned the overturned furniture, files strewn on the floor, said, “What were they looking for? Wife give you any indication?”
The officer shook his head.
She noticed a red smear on the officer’s gloved hand. “Did you touch the body?”
The officer held up his bloody right latex glove and explained, “Yeah, I checked for a pulse and found his throat slit from ear to ear.”
Emily nodded. “You have an ID on this guy yet?”
“Yep, sure do. That’s the homeowner, Roger Townsend. He and his wife, Lori, are the only two occupants. She came home and interrupted the suspects.”
“She able to give any ID on them?”
“Detective Medina is with her now.”
A medical examiner’s assistant unfolded a plastic tarp next to the body to contain any fibers or trace evidence. The assistant said to whoever listened, “We’re gonna roll him now.”
The body stuck on the hardwood flooring where the thickened blood adhered to Roger Townsend’s face. A sickening elastic snap sounded as his head released from the floor. When the body rolled face-up, Townsend’s dead eyes stared up at the assembled group hovering over him. One eye was puffy, his cheek welted from a blow. The body settled, and Roger’s jaw fell slack, exposing the gaping slash wound to his neck. The wound severed the major blood vessels and nearly cut through to his spine. The victim’s head remained attached only by the thick muscle bundle at the back of his neck.
Deputy Forensic Pathologist Elizabeth White knelt alongside the body. “Ward, get a shot of this, please.” She pointed to the gash in Roger’s throat.
One of her staff stepped in and snapped a series of photographs of the victim’s body in the new position.
“Our subject suffered a gunshot wound to the back, but I see no evidence of an exit wound,” Dr. White said.
“COD?” Emily asked.
“There’s no surviving an attack this severe. Exsanguination—he bled out right where he dropped.”
“Looks like he took a beating before he died. Any defensive wounds?”
“None evident now. I’ll be able to tell you more later, Emily. We’ve taken liver temps and gotten everything we can from the scene. I’m ready to transport the body. I’ve tentatively set TOD approximately two hours ago. You need anything else before they cart him off?” Dr. White asked.
“When can I take a look at your crime scene photos?”
“By the time you return to the bureau, they’ll be downloaded and emailed to you.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Emily said. She remembered a few years ago the same photos would take hours. A vestige of the past that labeled her as one of the last dinosaurs to leave the comfort of paper and convert to the digital age. New detectives coming on board now would never know the joys of film developing, paper map books, and carbon paper.
The Chief motioned for Emily, who had paused behind the victim’s desk over a stack of papers spread out on the slick bloody surface. She felt the papers were too neat, too tidy, in a room that suffered a tossing. Emily used her phone and snapped a photo.
“Here’s what they came for,” the Chief said and pointed to the open floor safe.
Emily approached the floor safe, squatted, and shot photos of the high-end safe and the sliding cabinet capable of hiding it from view. She ran her gloved hand around the lip of the safe. Nothing felt rough or out of alignment, telling her the safe wasn’t forced or cut open; someone opened it using the combination lock. Emily started to stand when a white smudge in the bottom of the dark safe caught her attention. A small trail of light-colored crystalline powder stood out on the safe’s black steel floor.
“Hand me an evidence vial, would you,” Emily said to one of the crime scene techs behind her.
She grasped the clear plastic tube in one hand and swept up the powder into the container with a plastic scraper. After she capped the vial, Emily used a pen from her pocket, labeled it with her name, badge number, and sequence number of the sample. “I want to make sure this is tested back at the lab. Not enough to do a field test without destroying the whole sample, but I’d swear it’s meth.”
“Then it belonged to the killer. He must’ve dropped it when he stole whatever Roger kept in the safe,” the Mayor said. So much for keeping the crime scene secured.
“We don’t know yet, Sir,” Emily answered.
“What we do know is Roger Townsend wasn’t involved in the drug trade.”
Emily stood and faced the Mayor. “And exactly how do we know that?” The irritation on the detective’s face bled over into her voice. At five-six, she needed to look up at the politician.
“Townsend held power and influence in this community. He ran my last reelection campaign and donated a significant amount of money to several prominent legislators. He had no need to be involved in drugs.”
Emily shrugged and replied, “Maybe it’s how he raised his donated cash. If he was involved in politics, then he’s dirty.”
The Chief stepped between the two, and Javier caught his partner’s eye as he stuck his head in around the corner. He had a knack of sensing Emily’s fuse of self-destruction burned short and knew to extract her before this confrontation with the Mayor exploded.
“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, I’m done with Mrs. Townsend. I’m sure she would appreciate a moment of your time,” Javier said.
Mayor Stone’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles on his jaw tightened into thick cords on his square face. He glared hard at Emily, then turned and strode out of the room toward the front of the home.
The Chief turned to Emily. “Don’t poke the bear.”
“What? Because our victim here ran in some high-powered political circles, I’m supposed to ignore the evidence?”
“No one is saying sweep it under the rug. Make sure you use a little diplomacy and document the hell out of everything.”
A metallic rattle interrupted the conversation, and the medical examiner’s team rolled a compact folding gurney into the room. One of the two men opened up the gurney and lowered it close to the ground next to the victim’s plastic-wrapped body.
“You ready for us to take him?” one of the M.E.’s staff asked.
Emily turned to Javier, who nodded and responded, “Yep. He’s ready for you. We’ve gotten what we need.”
While the M.E.’s technicians bundled the body and placed it onto the gurney, Emily asked her partner, “When did the Mayor get here?”
Javier leaned back against a bookshelf. “He was already here when I arrived. And I got here twenty minutes after the first units rolled up. They caught me on my way home from a date.” He grimaced and closed his eyes immediately after divulging his abbreviated date.
“Really? A date? Ended kinda early didn’t it? I take it you struck out?”
Javier’s cheeks flushed, and he approached the victim’s desk and sorted through the documents. “It was fine, thank you very much.” Javier changed the topic. “I called the Chief and let him know Mayor Stone happened to be here consoling the widow when I arrived.”
“Yeah, good call.”
“Turns out Mr. Mayor lives a few blocks away.”
“Uh huh,” Emily responded. “What did you get from the wife?”
“Not much. She came home, found her husband on the floor, and someone clocked her from behind. When she came to, she worked herself free from a phone cord, but by then the killer had disappeared.”
“She get a look at who hit her?”
“No.”
“How long was she out?” Emily asked.
Javier paused from sifting through the paperwork on the victim’s desk and said, “She doesn’t know, but it took her about ten minutes to work free from the phone cord around her wrists.”
“You buy her story?”
“I don’t know. If someone clocked me from behind, I wouldn’t have a goose-egg on my forehead.”
“You think she’s holding back?”
“I do. Perhaps not intentionally. Could be shock,” Javier said.
“Did the wife tell you if anyone else knew the combination, or what he kept in the safe?”
“No, she didn’t mention the safe.”
“Well,” Emily said. “Let’s go ask her.”
The newly widowed Mrs. Townsend parked on the white leather sofa with Mayor Stone, her hands held tightly in his. “Lori, we’ll handle everything. You need to take care of yourself now,” he said.
“Mrs. Townsend, I need to ask you a few questions,” Emily said in a soft voice. For all of her faults, the detective handled the survivors of murder victims with sensitivity and compassion. She didn’t refer to them as the “next-of-kin,” which implied they weren’t victims of the crime. Wives, brothers, husbands, and children who experienced a loved one ripped from their lives were victims. The only difference is they remained behind and continued to suffer the loss. They bore the pain of surviving.
Mayor Stone dropped Lori Townsend’s hands and said, “Detective, this isn’t necessary right now—she’s been through quite enough, I would think.”
The small-framed blonde turned in her seat and crossed her legs. Blood stained the knees of Mrs. Townsend’s spandex tights, and when she noticed the red patches on her legs, she became conscious of them and tried to cover the spots with her hands. The red polish on her right index fingernail was chipped and she seemed self-conscious about it. “I’ve already told the other detective what happened. I don’t know what else I can say,” she said.
“I realize you’ve spoken with Detective Medina, and we know you’ve been through an ordeal. I’d appreciate a few moments of your time to help us find the person responsible for the death of your husband.” Emily sat on the corner of a large white marble coffee table directly across from Mrs. Townsend.
“Detective,” the Mayor warned.
“It’s all right Johnny,” Lori responded, putting a hand on the Mayor’s knee. “Go ahead, Detective. I’m not sure what happened. Maybe it will help me put the pieces together, too.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Townsend.”
“Please, call me Lori,” she responded while she pulled her blond hair together, quickly securing it back in a ponytail, readying for a fight. Her stiff posture told Emily this woman was used to being in control.
“Tell me, how many people knew your husband kept a safe in his office?”
“I really couldn’t say. I mean, he didn’t do a great deal of business here at the house. Every so often he’d hold a meeting in his office, so someone could’ve seen him open the safe.”
“I’ll need a list of those people, Mrs. Townsend.”
“Really now, Detective.” Lori let out a nervous laugh. “I’m sure Councilman Perkins, Senator Rodriguez, and the Mayor didn’t conspire to murder my husband.”
“How many people knew the combination to the safe, Mrs. Townsend?” Emily asked.
“That was Roger’s safe. I don’t think anyone else knew the combination.” Her face hardened as she thought about the question. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you? Roger never gave me the combination. That was his baby.”
The Mayor puffed up and put his hand on Lori’s shoulder. “I’m sure that’s not what the detective meant. Did you, Detective?” He cut an icy glare at Emily.
“I asked if anyone else other than your husband could’ve opened the safe?”
“No, Roger was the only one with the combination.”
“What did your husband keep in the safe?”
“I know he kept some cash in there, along with business papers.”
“How much money would he keep in there?”
“I don’t know, not much; maybe ten—twenty thousand or so?”
Emily considered her response and wondered what kind of world it would be where ten grand was pocket change. She decided to throw her a curve and asked, “Did your husband keep any drugs in the safe?”
“Hunter, damn it! I’ve already told you Townsend was not involved with illicit drugs. You’re done here. Lori, I’m taking you to the hospital,” the Mayor announced as he stood and extended his hand to Lori.
Lori Townsend drew herself up from the sofa in a slow and calculated way that carried a feline quality. She stood up on her toes and kissed the Mayor’s cheek. “Thank you, Johnny, I’ve had quite enough for one night.”
As the Mayor held out a jacket for Lori, she turned her back on Emily. “Roger wasn’t into drugs. He wasn’t that kind of man.” She shrugged into the jacket. The Mayor put his arm around her shoulder and escorted her out of the room.
Javier leaned against the hallway near the living room, said, “Well, that went well.” He paused until the front door sounded. “The Mayor’s all twisted up with this one. There’s more here than some family friend connection. Trying to cover some shady campaign financing?”
Emily stood at an assortment of photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Townsend arranged on a small white enamel table. Javier picked up one of the silver frames and handed it to Emily. A group of smiling people in black tie dress; Roger Townsend and his wife, Lori, with another attractive blond woman and Mayor John Stone.
From behind them, a young uniformed officer called out, “Hey, Hunter, move your car so I can drive the Mayor home with his prom date.”
Emily tossed the officer her keys. “I’ll follow you out. Give me a minute to finish up.”
“Poor kid, I wonder what he did to deserve his assignment?” Javier asked.
The cell phone in Javier’s pocket played the first few notes of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” and he pulled it out quickly. “Detective Medina.” He listened for a few seconds and hung up. “That was the Medical Examiner’s Office. They’ve scheduled the post for eight in the morning. That’s quick.”
Emily nodded. “Everything about this case is quick—too quick.”
*** Excerpt from Face of Greed by James L’Etoile. Copyright 2023 by James L’Etoile. Reproduced with permission from James L’Etoile. All rights reserved.
James L’Etoile — Author of Face of Greed
James L’Etoile uses his twenty-nine years behind bars as an influence in his award-winning novel, short stories, and screenplays.
He is a former associate warden in a maximum-security prison, a hostage negotiator, and director of California’s state parole system.
Black Label earned the Silver Falchion for Best Book by an Attending Author at Killer Nashville and he was nominated for The Bill Crider Award for short fiction.
Dead Drop garnered a Lefty and Anthony Award nomination, and a Silver Falchion Award, and a PSWA win for best novel.
To learn more about James, click on any of the following links: www.jamesletoile.com, Goodreads, BookBub – @crimewriter, Instagram – @authorjamesletoile, Twitter/X – @JamesLEtoile & Facebook – @AuthorJamesLetoile
Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell
The post James L’Etoile: Face of Greed appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
November 4, 2023
Deadly Tides: Police Procedural
Deadly Tides, a police procedural by Mary Keliikoa
Excerpt + Book & Author Info + A Giveaway!
Don’t miss any blog tour posts! Click the link here.
Deadly Tides
A missing surf legend. Waterlogged clues. Can he trust his gut instincts to end the wave of murder?
Sheriff Jax Turner is learning to live again. Holding tight to the hope of reconciling with his FBI agent ex-wife, the wary man is determined to keep his focus on his coastal Oregon community. And after a concerned brother requests a welfare check, Jax is troubled to find the absent surf shop owner’s tracks lead to a pool of blood.
Now investigating a potential homicide, Turner chases a tip from his former spouse about a severed foot found on the beach. But when a torrent of leads links the victim to a politician’s son, a jealous competitor, and a get-straight program for youth, the steadfast lawman fears layers of lies and secret agendas will keep him from stopping a vicious killer. Can he unravel the fatal agenda before he’s the next corpse to wash ashore?
If you like flawed heroes, gritty crimes, and dark twists and turns, then you’ll love Deadly Tides, the chilling second book in Mary Keliikoa’s Misty Pines Mystery Series.
Book Details:
Genre: Police Procedural, Psychological Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: October 2023
Number of Pages: 299
ISBN: 9781685122799 (ISBN10: 1685122795)
Series: Misty Pines Mystery, #2
To purchase Deadly Tides, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
Deadly Tides
CHAPTER 1
Abby Kanekoa rolled through town in her Prius, searching the empty streets and worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Stonebridge Assisted Living Center had called an hour ago to let her know her mother, Dora Michaels, had walked away. Again.
It was early January on the Oregon coast. There’d been no substantial rainfall for several days. The chilly mist-filled winds had come through that morning, though, and the center couldn’t say exactly when her mother had slipped out their door. Time to put a better lock on that thing. Mom might not be drenched to the bone, but she’d be cold.
Thankfully, this was Abby’s scheduled day off. Not that the FBI didn’t work with her regardless. After her daughter, Lulu, died of leukemia, they’d brought her back to the team as if she’d never left. They understood her bad days. Same since her divorce. Despite what Jax thought about how she’d handled her grief, burying herself in her work and having the support of the Bureau had saved her more than once.
Especially the flex schedule. With her mother’s early onset of Alzheimer’s, it allowed for these occasional searches.
Or not so occasional, as it were. Mom had escaped three times this month.
Greenery and garland from the holidays still clung to the streetlamps on Misty Pines’ main strip. But she had yet to catch a glimmer of her mother’s fiery red hair. At a crawl, Abby glanced inside each of the storefronts. Last time, she’d found her mother at the donut counter picking out an apple fritter.
“Honey’s favorite,” she’d repeated all the way to the car, her hand gripping a white bag full of them.
Abby’s Hawaiian father—“Honey,” as her mother had called him—had treated the family to fritters every Saturday morning since Abby could remember. He’d died twenty years ago, but Abby had continued the tradition with her own family until Lulu died, and it became too painful. Today, the donut shop’s seats and barstools were empty.
On Scholls Ferry Road, kids played on the swings and monkey bars of the elementary school. The time before the donut shop, Abby had found Mom by the cyclone fence, her fingers clenching the metal lattice, watching the kindergarten class play kickball. They both cried as Abby drove her back to the facility. Alzheimer’s had been brutal to her mother, stealing much of her mind. But memories of Lulu were ingrained, even deeper than those of Abby; Dora often gazed at her like they’d never met.
Abby pulled in front of the bookstore, ignoring the pang in her chest. Emily Krueger greeted her from behind the counter, sorting a new shipment of novels with bare-chested men and women in flowing gowns on their covers.
Abby explained the situation.
“I haven’t seen your mom. But I’ll call if I do.” Emily reached a hand across the counter and squeezed Abby’s forearm. Emily had endured the disappearance of her own daughter a few months ago. If anyone understood Abby’s concern, Emily did.
“Thank you. I’m sure she’s just out picking flowers or….” Or what? Where did a sixty-four-year-old woman wander to? What was she looking for when she left the warm confines of the assisted living home into the cool and murky outdoors?
“Maybe she’s folding laundry,” Emily said.
Abby chuckled despite her worry. During the summer, Dora had strolled into the laundromat down the road to fold a stranger’s tighty-whities. But that’s also why fear prickled Abby’s spine now. Dora stuck to the downtown area when she walked off.
Why not this time?
Abby slid back into her car and dialed Trudy at the sheriff’s station.
“No reports about your mom have come in today,” Trudy said.
“You’ll call if one does?”
“Certainly, hon. And I’ll let Jax know.”
Jax. Abby stretched her neck. “Don’t bother him. If needed, I’ll call him later.”
“Uh oh. I thought you two had decided to work on your relationship.”
“We’ve been so busy and….” Abby trailed off. She didn’t have a good reason for why things hadn’t progressed between them, only that she was to blame.
“It’ll work itself out,” Trudy said. “You’ve both been through a lot.”
Abby gnawed on her thumbnail. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Have you checked the ocean parks?”
“Next on my list.”
Abby accelerated out of town, tension growing in her shoulders. It shouldn’t be so easy for residents to walk out of an assisted living center. In truth, she was more annoyed with herself that Dora had to be there in the first place.
But Abby had to work and couldn’t give her mom the full-time care she needed. Better facilities could be found in Portland, those focused on memory diseases, but they were a couple-hour drive. At least when her mom walked off from Stonebridge, she couldn’t get far, and Abby was close enough to hop in her car to search. She’d been in law enforcement long enough to know those thirty to sixty minutes could make all the difference.
A fact she was being reminded of today and another source of frustration. Abby hadn’t caught the call on her phone when the staff at Stonebridge first reached out this morning. It took three attempts. She’d been in the shower shaving her legs, of all things. As if anyone would notice.
Abby turned into the boat basin. She cruised through the parking lot, noting the fishing boats rocking dockside. She scanned each of them, spotting a crew of fishermen getting ready to brave the bar, but no redheads traversed the area.
Next, she headed out Ocean Drive, turning onto Meddle Road a couple of miles later. The route led to the ocean and was miles from the facility. Too far for Dora to wander? She’d been gone for half a day. If motivated, she could have made it this far. Abby’s hands tightened on the wheel. Thick mist had rolled in and hung in the sky. The temperature had dipped.
She swung her car into the abandoned beach parking lot and got out. Wind whistled past her as she crested the top of the lot and scanned the shore. The sand blasted against her pant legs with hollow pops and stung her face. She lowered the sunglasses from the top of her head onto her eyes and wrapped her jacket tighter as the cool air bit through the thin fabric.
Where are you, Mom?
Seagulls squawked overhead, catching the drafts. A few landed near the surf, arguing over an empty Styrofoam container. Aside from birds, though, the beach was empty. Only rocks stood sentinel offshore, water eddying around them. This was too far south of one of the surfing beaches and too far north of the other. No place to crab or fish here either. Summer had long passed for tourists to visit, except for the random one or two that had lost their way and stumbled upon the place. The local morning beachcombers had already come and gone, likely sipping coffee in front of a warm fire by now.
Abby’s focus drifted to the tree lined cliffs in the distance. Some trees had fallen, catapult and hapless, onto the dunes. Other had come in on the tide. Abby scanned the area for signs of her mother. That’s when she saw the splash of red rising from a row of logs near the sandy ridge.
Whatever was there had hunkered down. Hiding?
Mom. Abby raced down the hill, the soft white sand sucking at her practical flats. She gave up and kicked them aside. Fifty yards farther, she hit the hardpack and sprinted, the wind at her back. As she drew closer, another flash of red provided certainty that it was hair flapping in the wind.
“Mom, is that you?” Abby hollered.
She slowed her pace to a walk as she approached. The woman was dressed in a nightgown and hunched like a turtle with only her back showing. Shaking. Her red hair, streaked in gray, whipped upward. My god. She was whimpering.
Abby’s heart pounded. Her mother must be freezing.
She almost ran again but it was always best to approach Dora in the same manner she’d approach a small child. Or a suspect.
“Mom?” she said again. Still no response. If she was deep in her illness, the word might not register. “Dora?”
Her mother lifted her head. “It’s mine.”
Abby blew out a long, weary sigh. She’d found Dora—alive and talking. That’s what mattered. Slipping out of her jacket, Abby draped it over her mom before sitting on the log next to her.
“You sure came a long way.” Abby gazed out at the water. Relief at finding her mother unharmed whooshed through her like the breeze around them. Her heartbeat found its steady rhythm. “How about we get someplace warm and dry? Pancakes sound good, don’t they? Let’s find some hot pancakes and drench them in real maple syrup. You’d love that, right?”
“Okay. But I want to take it with me. I found it.”
Her mother had probably discovered some unique shell or glass fishing float. Whatever she’d found, she could keep. Abby would help her display it in her room. “Sure, Mom.”
Dora straightened, and Abby’s stomach twisted at the sight of the blood saturating the front of her mother’s white gown.
“Are you okay?” Abby said, her voice inching up.
Then she saw the source of the blood.
In her hands, she held a tennis shoe containing a severed foot.
*** Excerpt from Deadly Tides by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2023 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.
Deadly Tides Author, Mary Keliikoa
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 and DEADLY TIDES, both part of the Misty Pines mystery series, 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.
She’s also had short stories in Woman’s World and the anthology, Peace, Love, and Crime.
Catch Up With Mary: Website, Goodreads, Bookbub, Instagram, Twitter/X, Facebook.
Visit all the Stops on the Deadly Tides Tour!
10/23 Review @ elaine_sapp65
10/24 Review @ reviewsbyrudra
10/24 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
10/24 Showcase @ The Mystery Section
10/25 Review @ leannebookstagram
10/26 Review @ Books of my heart
10/27 Showcase @ Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!
10/27 Showcase @ The Book Divas Reads
10/28 Interview @ Novel Nerd Blog
10/29 Review @ Catreader18
10/30 Review @ Novels Alive
11/01 Guest post @ Mystery, Thrillers, and Suspense
11/02 Review @ Lynchburg Reads
11/03 Review @ Melissa As Blog
11/05 Review @ Why Not? Because I Said So
11/06 Review @ Bound 4 Escape
11/07 Showcase @ 411 ON BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND PUBLISHING NEWS
11/08 Review @ Country Mamas With Kids
11/09 Podcast interview @ Book Talk with Fran Lewis Radio Interview
11/10 Showcase @ Nesies Place
11/11 Review @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read
11/12 Review @ Book Reviews From an Avid Reader
11/13 Review @ Colloquium
11/14 Review @ fundinmental
11/15 Review @ 5 Minutes for Books
11/16 Review @ mokwip8991
11/17 Podcast reading of the excerpt @ Books to the Ceiling
Elena Taylor/Elena Hartwell
The post Deadly Tides: Police Procedural appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.
