Sara M. Barton's Blog, page 5

Killer Summer...This Week's Kindle Special

Now that summer's over, miss the beach? Me too! Snag a copy of Killer Summer...just watch out for that killer tracking sand into the cottage! Free October 1-5!
http://myBook.to/KillerSummer

Want more freebies? Check out these fun novellas!

Scarlet Wilson is a funny, feisty innkeeper and amateur sleuth; while bickering ex-spouses, an overworked homicide cop, and assorted residents tackle baseball, she's serving wine and cheese to a killer in this cozy mystery:

Free Kindle is available here: http://myBook.to/MizScarletHoliday
Free Nook is available here: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/miz-scarlet-and-the-holiday-houseguests-sara-barton/1117564438?ean=2940045470285

Want to get your aloha on? Check out this free Nook novella and join mother-and-son mystery writers as they race to save a missing man in Kauai:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/inspector-samuelson-investigates-a-killing-in-kauai-sara-m-barton/1120258105?ean=2940046130249

Like Evanovich-style humor with your mysteries? Enjoy FBI Agent Henry Hartman, wife Syd, and the Hartman ladies in Charleston, South Carolina as they chase down a spy ring in this free Nook cozy mystery:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/henry-hartmans-fall-guy-crisis-sara-barton/1117444124?ean=2940045420389

What's a Roaring Kill Mystery?

Sounds gruesome, doesn't it? And violent. Probably involves animals, right?

Wrong. Roaring Kill isn't a horrible act. It isn't even actually about murder. Roaring Kill is a hiking trail in the Catskills. One of the characters in "Reluctant Witness" and "Inspector Samuelson Investigates a Killing in Kauai" is thriller author Jefferson Cornwall. He's also a TV producer, and he pays homage to the Catskills, where he and his brothers grew up, by naming his company Roaring Kill Productions.

Here are two excerpts from the new Roaring Kill Mystery series for you to enjoy:

Reluctant Witness
A Roaring Kill Mystery Novel, Copyright 2014 by Sara M. Barton

Chapter One --
“Wait here.”
Those two words were the only ones spoken to me as I shivered in the frozen night air, standing coatless and terrified. Even as the emergency responders poured into the park, they weren’t interested in me. They were trying to rescue the woman in the submerged car, the one who didn’t escape. They worked frantically to free her from her metal prison, but as the minutes ticked on, I knew it was useless.
“Put this on,” said a passing firefighter, handing me a jacket, dark and stiff, made of nylon. Hurriedly, I slipped my arms into the sleeves and pulled it around me. It came only to my knees and did little to protect my stocking-covered legs. My long, wet hair was heavy on my shoulders, and I was torn between keeping it under the coat and leaving it exposed to the cold night. I sighed heavily as I watched him run, a man on a mission. I could have told him he was too late. I could have saved him that cold trip into the frigid water. After all, I had been locked in that car for the last three hours.
“Pull it up!” shouted a voice from behind the monstrous emergency vehicle at the edge of that all-to-real nightmare on the shore. I could hear the rattle of a chain as it clanged against the gears on the motorized pulley, fighting the weight of the Toyota Corolla. The icy surface of the pond broke apart once more as the vehicle was yanked out. Huge chunks of ice thumped and thudded against one another. “Get the jaws!”
Frantically, the army of rescuers got into position and began to saw away the twisted metal. I pulled the borrowed jacket closer as I watched, stomping my feet in a feeble attempt to prevent frostbitten toes. A moment later, they had the body free and they loaded it onto the stretcher. The crowd fell away, until there were only four figures working fiercely in the narrow beam of light to revive the limp, lifeless form. The pallet was carefully carried to the waiting ambulance, one man still pumping hard with chest compressions as the others maneuvered it into the vehicle. The engine roared to life the second the heavy doors slammed shut, and with a rumble and loud beeps, the emergency vehicle backed up. The driver pulled a u-turn before steering it onto the road out of the park. A moment later, the siren split the night with an ear-deafening warning as the medical truck headed for the highway.
“Ma’am?” A hand touched my elbow and I jumped, startled by the unexpected contact. “Come with me. Let me drive you to the station for your statement.”
I couldn’t see the man’s face, although I saw the glint of wire-rimmed glasses in the dim light. He was taller than me by a foot or so. From the sound of his voice, I guessed he was in his forties. Why did he make me nervous?
“Ma’am?” He said the word again as I felt those fingers on my elbow, but this time he didn’t let go, even when I tried to shrug him off.
“Don’t touch me,” I told him, recoiling in fear.
“I’m trying to help you,” he insisted, his voice silky smooth, and I almost believed him, until he wrenched my arm behind my back.
“Let me go!” I screamed. “Let me go!”
“What’s going on?” I heard a distant voice shout.
“Help!”
“Hey!” another voice called out. “Stop right there!”
“Nothing to worry about, fellows,” said the man in a confident tone. “I’m a cop!”
“So am I...New York State Police. Let’s see your badge,” demanded a man behind us. “Nice and easy, pal.”
“How about a little professional courtesy?” the stranger asked as powerful spotlight split the darkness with a beam of white light and landed on us. He winced, hand to his face. For a moment, I thought he was trying to hide from his fellow law enforcement officer. “Take my word for it. I’m a cop.”
“I have a better idea,” the uniformed trooper with the flashlight announced. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. Here’s mine.”
He pointed to the badge pinned on his chest, but I thought it unnecessary. After all, I could see the New York State Police cruiser some fifty feet away. “Number 143. Where’s yours?”
“I don’t want to release my prisoner,” my plain clothes captor informed him warily. “She might try to flee.”
Prisoner? That didn’t sound good to me, especially since I couldn’t recall breaking any laws. If anything, I was the victim, given that I had just kicked my way out of the trunk of that Toyota. Do you know how hard it is to find the release switch in the darkness, as the icy water begins to creep in through the crack between sedan body and trunk? Trust me, it’s maddening, especially when your fingers are numb and your blood is almost the consistency of a Slurpee.
Apparently, the cop wasn’t buying the stranger’s story either. In the light of a fellow officer’s torch, I could see a determined expression on his face.
“I’m going to have to insist, since you identified yourself as a law enforcement officer.”
My captor must have recognized the look. As Badge Number 143 took two steps towards us, I felt that stranger’s hand pull me back two steps, as if prepared for flight. He spoke.
“Fine. Let me get it out,” was the gruff response. The moment I felt the man’s grip loosen, I yanked my arm away and tried to rub the pain from my muscles, but the danger wasn’t over. A second later, his fist struck the middle of my back with such brute force it propelled me forward, and as I stumbled into the trooper, chaos ensued. Three shots rang out. Bang, bang, bang. I felt something strike my ear, a thwack that stung like a hornet. Hands pushed me down as feet scrambled past me. I felt myself slipping on the slick, frosted surface, and down the incline I went, my stocking-covered legs exposed, my skirt drawn up to my crotch.
“Police! Stop!”
“Drop your weapon!”
More shots followed as I hugged the ground with my tobogganing body. Unable to control the wild trajectory as I picked up speed, I careened on a path that would surely send me into that broken hole on the frozen surface. All I could think of was how long it had taken me to climb up the hill, and in less than thirty seconds, it had all come undone. I was headed back into that horrifying hell. Hoping to hit the water feet first, I tried to twist myself onto my back and turn around, wildly flapping my arms like a demented snow angel. If only I could fly.
Unexpectedly, a dark figure stepped into my path, planted his feet firmly into the snow crust, and spread his legs apart. He bent over, hands extended in my direction, ready and waiting. I closed my eyes, prepared to go through that human croquet wicket at full speed, hoping I didn’t take him with me into the black water beyond, but something banged against my shoulder and then my leg. My body jerked sideways. Seconds later, his fingers tightened around the collar of my borrowed jacket as the man stood his ground and I skidded to a stop. “There you go. Let me help you up.”
Strong hands lifted me to my feet and then released me. I wobbled, still reeling from the dizzying ride. He glanced at my feet and his eyes grew wide, and then he pointed a finger in my direction. “You’re bleeding.”
“Am I?” I looked down. Red droplets spread across the snow. My frozen fingers touched my cheek. It was warm and sticky. And then I remembered that stinging sensation and reached for my right ear. “Ouch!”
“I have an injury here!” shouted my rescuer. Moments later, there was a crowd gathering around me.
“He got away,” said one cop. “Had a car in the parking lot. We’ve got an APB out.”
“Okay. She’s been shot. Put some light on it.”
“Shot?” I uttered. My head felt like it was detaching from my body. Was it shock or loss of blood? How bad was it? Someone turned my head, trying to examine the wound, and I gave up an involuntary gasp. The pain was excruciating.
“Superficial. Nothing that a couple of stitches won’t fix,” someone decided.
“Want me to run her to the hospital?” asked Badge Number 143, as someone ripped open a gauze pad and taped it to my face.
“I haven’t had a chance to question her yet,” said my rescuer. “I’ll ride along.”
“Great. I want to pop into the Quickie Mart for a snack. I pulled a double today and I’m wiped out.”
“No problem. Miss, you think you can walk to the car?” he asked. I took me a few moments to realize he was talking to me. I was too busy trying to keep my head on straight, even as it seemed to roll forward.
“Oh, geez! I don’t think she’s hearing us. Her eyes aren’t quite focused.” That sounded like Badge 143 talking.
“She’s all wet. It’s probably hypothermia. Anyone got a blanket?”
“How’d she get wet? I thought she was just a witness. Someone told me she called it into the station.”
“Maybe she went in trying to rescue the woman in the car,” someone suggested. ‘Gutsy move, if you ask me.”
“You got a purse, miss?” More men crowded around me, and the din from the clamoring voices made my head hurt so much, I thought it would split in two. “Is your car here?”
“Did you drop your phone? Maybe we can get your personal info off of that.”
“I don’t see a purse anywhere.”
“Was she with the guy who got away?”
All these questions just seemed to catch in my brain, like a thousand fireflies trapped in a nylon net, swirling around and glowing, even as I lost consciousness. One minute there was so much noise and the next, nothing.
I woke up under fluorescent lights inside the ambulance. I don’t know how long I was out, but the first thing I noticed was a warm sensation on my belly that was delightful. To my horror, I soon discovered a foil blanket was the only thing that covered my now-naked body. Three men leaned forward on the bench seat beside me, observing. I clutched the Mylar, trying to rise. Heat packs, tucked into my arm pits, dropped down, bounced off the stretcher, and fell to the floor below.
“Don’t move,” warned the paramedic, as he lifted the blanket to replace them. “It can cause a heart attack. Just lay back down and rest. We’re trying to get your body temperature to rise safely.”
Even as he said that, he was checking my heart with a cold stethoscope. I shivered in the sudden draft, but a moment later, that delicious warmth found me again, when he added another couple of Insta-Hot packs, this time on top of a cotton blanket.
“We don’t want to burn you,” he smiled, patting my covered shoulder. “Sorry, but we had to take off your wet clothes. Can you tell me your name?”
My name? I actually paused to consider this. What was my name? Why couldn’t I recall it? Think hard. You know this. Picture it in your mind. You were named after a flower. Genus Calendula officinalis. Pot marigold. The common, ordinary garden variety planted in flower boxes and beds across America.
“Marigold. My name is Marigold.”
“She must be worse off than she looks,” said the man who had rescued me from that disastrous downhill trip. I could see him now, with his crinkled eyes and gray hair. He was dressed in street clothes. “She thinks she’s a flower.”
“Maybe she was without oxygen longer than we think,” said the second paramedic. “What was the response time?”
“Six minutes,” my rescuer informed him. “Dispatch took the call at 10:07 and we arrived on the scene at 10:13. We still don’t know how or why she was wet.”
“Trunk,” I muttered, even as I found myself nodding off. “I was in the trunk.”
That was the last thing I said before I lost consciousness.
  Inspector Samuelson Investigates a Killing in Kauai
A Roaring Kill Mystery Novella, Copyright 2014 by Sara M. Barton

Chapter One --
“Climb in,” said the man who sounded like he gargled twice a day with gravel. Two wispy words, grunted through tight lips. As an invitation, it left a lot to be desired. There was no formality, no “please” to sweeten the request. It was a command, one I didn’t want to obey. “Hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
Mesmerized by the large, dark metal object he waved in my direction, I froze. I stared down the barrel of his gun, wondering if the bullets were as big as I thought they must be. How could I ignore the weapon he waved in front of my face, especially now that Johnny Hiro’s slight form was crumpled up and slumped over the upended rain barrel some ten feet from me, a spreading crimson stain just above his heart?
“This ain’t no debutante’s ball. I’m not asking you to join me on the dance floor.” I felt a hard poke in my side with the muzzle and tore my gaze away from the dying man. Johnny had been nice to me. He had led me through the fields to where the meadow ended and the vista below became an endless tableau of aqua sea and blue sky. He had pointed out a pod of whales swimming up the coast as we stood together at the edge of the cliff, taking in the magnificent view. “Move it.”
“Why did you have to shoot him?” I’m not really sure how I got those words out, but I managed to ask the one question that most heavily weighed on me. I wondered what would happen to me. I saw the dented red Nissan pickup just a few feet away. When he pulled up, I had just assumed the gnarly, gray-haired man was lost, stopping to ask us directions back to the highway. That was before we saw the evil gleam in his eyes and the gun in his hand. “I would have gone with you anyway.”
“Don’t need him. A witness is a liability. Now, what are you waiting for, Christmas?” His gaze never left me as he reached down and scooped up something from the ground. I recognized my leather satchel. He tucked it under his arm, the strap dangling, like it was pirate booty. I tried to think why he wanted it so badly. It was a very ordinary brown leather bag. The only thing of value in it was my tablet, with all my work notes stored on the memory chip. At best, he would probably get a hundred dollars at the local pawn shop. Was that enough of an incentive to take a couple of lives?
“You didn’t have to kill him,” I mumbled, suddenly shivering in the heat of the day as the shock of being kidnapped set in. Johnny was dead because he was inconvenient. Just like that, a nice man was no more.
“Sure I did. He was in the way. You’re going to be in the way if you don’t do what you’re told. I can put a bullet in your head and solve my problem.”
With a heavy sigh of resentful resignation, I lifted my right leg, hoisted myself into 60-gallon container, and pulled my left leg in. Standing there, I waited for instructions, even though I knew what he would tell me.
“Sit down.”
I nervously returned his gaze, taking in the color of those dirty brown eyes; they narrowed at my hesitation, confirming my worst fears. I had no doubt he was a cruel man; the signs of his vile nature were etched into his face, from the set of thin, unyielding lips to the way his paper-thin, pale skin was pulled taut across the high cheekbones. This was a miser, stingy and mean. He wasn’t giving anything away today, not even compassion.
Squatting, I wondered how I could fight off the wave of panic that took me as the top was locked into place with a firm click. I was now cut off from the outside world, invisible and alone, in the place Johnny thought might make a good backdrop for the Namnoun-Birken wedding. They had asked for a spectacular view, so he and I had gone scouting for a unique place that would be breathtaking. Now it turned out that we had literally found it. It was where my associate surrendered to a gunshot wound, and probably also where I would do the same. My beloved Jeff, the man who had given me my life back the last time someone tried to take it away, might never know why I disappeared from the face of the earth, let alone where my body was stashed away. Jeff.How I wish he was here now. A large lump of sorrow, too big to swallow, caught in my throat.
The bright afternoon sunlight filtered through the thick plastic container that would be my coffin, bathing me in a serene blue glow. I tried to stay calm, but as terror robbed me not only of my dignity, but also my sanity, I began to gasp, gulping every smidgen of oxygen left in that small space. Bereft of hope and fresh air, I smelled the chemical vapors of the barrel’s resin as it heated up in the sun. What would I do when the last bit of breathable air went into my lungs? I dreaded suffocation. Breathe, Chris, but control it. Let it in and out. Slow it down.
Whimpering, I felt the sting of salt water as tears filled my eyes. Frustration bubbled up in me as I fought the impulse to scream. With no one to hear me, it would have been an exercise in futility, satisfying no useful end, sucking up too much of my remaining oxygen. That realization just made me cry harder -- big, hard, gob-smacking, anguished sobs. In the narrow confines of my barrel prison, I found it difficult to raise my arms without great effort, so I squeezed my eyelids shut to expel the tears; they rolled slowly down my cheeks before dripping onto my tee shirt. I indulged in a solitary pity party, imagining the blue plastic container filling up, teardrop by teardrop. Death by drowning, the police report would say. Sorrow overtook the victim.
I heard my captor grunt as he shifted my plastic coffin. Tossed about like a cocktail peanut in a can of Planters when he lifted the rain barrel up and into the back of his pickup truck, I felt my own weight push me against the hard wall of the container and wondered if my knees would press against my larynx, cutting off my air supply. Oh, such a terrible way to die. After what I’ve already been through, I deserve better.
My kidnapper muttered a curse as the rain barrel slipped from his grasp and dropped onto the metal bed of the truck. I felt the cruel blow of plastic against metal; my head took the full impact and I winced. Two full rotations of the barrel seemed to move me further onto the truck, and a moment later, with another grunt or two, I felt the container being righted. The relief was immediate as I shifted myself into a more comfortable position.
It didn’t last long. I heard the creak of a door in need of lubrication, felt the man settle his weight in the driver’s seat, and then the ignition switch was turned. The engine sputtered to life. The truck shuddered as the driver shifted the transmission; the gears grinded briefly and then we were rolling, presumably in the direction of the Kaumualii Highway. As the truck traversed the open field, I was tossed about, thanks to every stick and every stone the four tires lumbered over.
The driver drove slowly. I thought this was more the result of the treacherous road than a desire to take his time. The barrel almost tipped as we headed down the hill. I tried to lean back, keeping my weight even. When my kidnapper reached the curve, he suddenly swung the wheel to the left. It hit me like a jolt out of the blue, just as the red Nissan gathered speed. One moment I was upright in a rain barrel in the truck bed, knees to chest, arms tucked in at my side; the next, I felt the container go airborne.
When it landed, it came down with a big thump that shook every bone in my body. I bit my tongue so hard my teeth pierced it. The barrel bounced a couple of times on a downward trajectory and then it began to pick up speed. I steeled myself for the big, dramatic crash, trying to recall what I had observed on the way up the hill with Johnny Hiro. There were large rock formations, but they were quite some distance from the road. A few rusty pieces of old farm equipment had been abandoned in the meadow, like skeletal remains of a stripped carcass. But everywhere else, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but knee-high grass, wild flowers, and scrub brush. I closed my eyes, preparing myself for the worst, hoping for the best, as I continued to tumble inside the plastic cylinder. When it finally slowed down and came to a gentle stop, I sobbed, “Thank you, God!”
But my ordeal was far from over. There was still the matter of escaping from the barrel. How was I to do that? The man with the gun had screwed on the lid. My mind desperately sought a solution to my conundrum. How much time did I have before my tormentor realized the rain barrel and I were missing? I strained my ears, listening for the sound of the truck returning, but all I heard were birds chirping in the distance.
Lying on my back, I maneuvered my hands up the side of the barrel, snaking my confined limbs back and forth until I could reach up and touch the top. Was there any way for me to unscrew it myself? I didn’t think so, but I felt my way along the plastic surface anyway, hoping to find some way I could grasp and turn the circular disk. My fingers came across something unexpected as they probed inch by inch, something that protruded into the container. Leaning my head as far back as I could and tilting it to the side, I glanced up to see it was a rubber plug covering the hole for the water tubing. A mere three or four inches in diameter, not only could it serve as a conduit for fresh air if I knocked it out, I might be able to somehow twist the lid off if my fingers could grasp the sides and twist.
I don’t know how long I worked at it, but by the time I felt that first small movement of the lid, that tiny bit of success, I was drenched with perspiration. I felt like a pig in the pit at Smith’s Tropical Paradise Garden Luau in Kapaa, baking in the sun. Every once in a while, I stopped briefly to catch my breath and take in a whiff of hot air. It smelled of crushed, sweet-smelling grass and soil, the fragrance unleashed by my rocking movements inside the barrel. The heat was getting to me now as I worked and my throat was parched. I longed to leap into the nearest body of cool water; how far was it to the ocean? At that moment, I’d have even taken the plunge if it was into shark-infested seas.
When I finally wrestled the cover of the container off, my physical relief was almost immediate. I managed to wriggle out by grasping the edge of the rain barrel and shimmying from side to side until I was free. The moment I was, I grabbed the collar of my tee shirt and wiped the perspiration from my face and set my mind to figuring out what to do next.
“I need help,” I said aloud, the sound of my own voice almost reassuring. “How am I going to get it out here, in the middle of nowhere?”
Standing up, I studied the horizon. Should I make an effort to head to the road or find a place to hide, in case that wretched man returned? He struck me as someone who would search every nook and cranny until he found me. And then I remembered what I had in my pocket.
“My phone!” As soon as it was in my hand, my fingers tapped on the glass.
“Nine-one-one. Can I have your name and phone number please?”
“Ah...Chrisanth Neeson. My number is....” I rattled it off, trying hard to control the panic I felt.
“Where are you located and what is the nature of your emergency?” said the voice on the other end. The first question caught me off-guard. My mind went blank as I struggled to describe the dirt road off of Route 50. Somehow I managed, and then, with a voice that quavered, I described Johnny Hiro’s shooting and my own ordeal. The dispatcher told me not to hang up. “Can you move away from the barrel and conceal yourself, in case the man comes back?”
“Okay,” I agreed, now moving on automatic pilot. My gaze surveyed the horizon, seeking some refuge. I finally decided upon a spot just up the hill, where the boulders were long and flat, but I could lie down in the tall grass and make myself nearly invisible.
It took nearly ten minutes for the first police SUV to arrive from Koloa. When it was still a hundred yards away, I stood up, waving my arms and ran down the hill to meet the officers.
“Where is the dead man?” said the first, opening the back door for me. I climbed in.
“Up there.” I pointed to the top of the ridge. I felt the dread of returning to the scene of the crime. I didn’t want to remember that awful sight.
Johnny Hiro’s form was now prostrate on the ground beside the rain barrel, just a few feet away from his beat-up old Jeep. His right hand hovered over the obvious wound.
The driver stopped the Kauai Police Department emergency vehicle about twenty feet from the body, spitting out orders as his partner radioed for assistance; both men clambered out and hurried over. I watched the first reach down and put his fingers alongside Johnny’s neck. He dropped to his knees, his hands suddenly pressing on Johnny’s chest. The two cops quickly exchanged a few words before the other grabbed his radio again. A few seconds later, he came running toward the SUV, went around to the back, and lifted the rear door.
“He’s still alive, but just barely,” the officer announced, as he grabbed the first aid kit. “The ambulance is on its way. Here’s hoping it gets here in time.”
You can find Roaring Kill Mysteries at Amazon, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, and other digital publishers. Reluctant Witness is available as an ebook or paperback. In spector Samuelson Investigates a Killing in Kauai is available as an ebook.
 
 

Why I'm Sending You to Kauai on a Free Mystery Tour!

Paradise...what's not to love? Everybody needs a little tropical treat now and again. I know I do.

I spent my summer working on my newest humor-filled mystery, "Miz Scarlet and the Bewildered Bridegroom". While the writing end of things is always fun, the editing can be grueling. Page after page requires a fine tooth comb to ferret out errors. I'm still not done yet. To keep myself fresh and focused, I like to take little side trips.

This summer, I went back to Kauai, where I ended my newest book, "Reluctant Witness". I had no intention of writing a related short novella after I finished it. But it happened. One morning I woke up and decided I needed another mental trip to Hawaii, so I packed my imaginary suitcase and took off. Here is the result:

 Aloha, paradise! Once known as Marigold Flowers, back when she was in the federal witness protection program, wedding planner Chrisanth Neeson is blossoming on the garden island of Kauai, her temporary home, as she reinvents her life. She’s not alone. Reunited with her father, Chris also is also spending time with the mother of the man she loves and someday hopes to marry. Everything is copacetic...until a companion is shot and she is stuffed into a rain barrel by a menacing man brandishing a gun. Was this another attempt at a contract killing or is something else going on?
Kauai is hardly the murder capital of the world. Police in paradise don’t normally deal with killers. Just ask Lieutenant Gwendolyn “Goldie” Golden of the Kauai Police Department’s Investigative Services Bureau. With a limited budget and lots of territory to cover, the cops are stretched thin after a body is found at the Puu o Hewa Reservoir; it becomes a priority case for the police, forcing the shooting to a back burner, even as a cattle rancher from the same neighborhood goes missing. Is this a crime wave?
Enter Jefferson Cornwall, the dashing thriller author and love of Chris’s life. Rushing to her side, he’s prepared to rescue the damsel in distress and sort out the clues, but he’s going to have a little help on the case from none other than his mother, Lisbeth Causley, author of the Inspector Samuelson Investigates mystery series, who also writes romantic suspense as Serena Duvall.  Liz is no bubblehead babe. She’s solved some pretty tough cases and earned respect from law enforcement agents and forensics experts around the country. Mother and son rally a team of professionals and volunteers to uncover the threads of a dangerous mystery that involves Chris, a missing cattle rancher, and a woman in the midst of a very ugly divorce. Chris might not be an experienced crime-solver, but after all those years of living on the run, she knows a thing or two about surviving, and those skills are about to pay off big time!I confess I had a great time tossing my characters from "Reluctant Witness" into a new mess, this time with a love triangle that could be deadly for Chris.You can find this book free on Smashwords now in all digital formats and at Kobo in epub:"Inspector Samuelson Investigates a Killing in Kauai" at Smashwords
 "Inspector Samuelson Investigates a Killing in Kauai" at Kobo BooksIt will also be free on Barnes and Noble, Kobo Books, Apple, and elsewhere as soon as it's approved.

"Inspector Samuelson Investigates a Killing in Kauai" at Amazon
If you good souls price match it at Amazon, it can also be free ("Oh, please, please, please!")Let me know if you enjoy Chris, Jeff, and the others characters in this novella. That always inspires me to keep writing. In the meantime, enjoy your Kauai holiday. Aloha, readers.


Available as an ebook and as a paperback!

"Reluctant Witness" at Amazon
"Reluctant Witness" at Barnes and Noble
"Reluctant Witness" at Kobo Books
"Reluctant Witness" at Smashwords


 

Epub? Mobi? This Week's Free Summer Specials!

This is my favorite time of year, when I love to climb into the water and read. Whether I'm floating in my lounge chair or kicking up my legs in an aquatic workout, I love to lose myself in a story. It's a chance for me to relax, unwind, and take a mental vacation from the everyday routine. For that reason, I like to encourage people to join me. Read for pleasure. Read for fun. Read!

This week, I have two specials -- one for epub-bers, the other for mobi-users. Whether you've got Nook or Kindle, you've got the chance to read one of my books for free!


KINDLE AND MOBI SPECIAL:

Over at Amazon, I've got Killer Cotillion , the Dance with Danger anthology. It's a perfect beach read, with several romantic suspense stories...women who get tangled up with men who behave badly -- that's often a recipe for disaster. Just ask Kim, the cookbook author of Foxtrot with a Furtive Fox. She thought she knew the men in her life. Who knew they both had secrets that could come back to bite her in the fanny? She's going to find out the hard way that things aren't always what she expects!

Go to Killer Cotillion at Amazon







NOOK AND KOBO EPUB SPECIAL:

Over at Kobo Books, you'll find my newest book, Reluctant Witness . Called "totally captivating" by one reader, it's a thrilling and romantic road trip for a protected witness who gets kicked out of WitSec when she is suspected of wrongdoing. With the help of thriller author Jefferson Cornwall and his security team, Marigold Flowers will find out what really happened to her and why, but not before she's pursued across the country by very determined contract killers and an equally determined team of protectors.

Go to Reluctant Witness at Kobo Books


These specials are good only from July 17-July 21, so act now!

Author Excerpt from "Reluctant Witness"

Now that Reluctant Witness is published and on sale at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, and other sites, I want to give readers a small sample of the book one reader described as "totally captivating"!

Despite its length (466 pages!), many readers have told me they didn't want the story to end. They're already asking if there will be a sequel. With such wonderful characters, how can I not bring them back for an encore...or two...or three?

Marigold Flowers (not her real name) is a protected witness who is suddenly suspected of endangering the US marshals in charge of her WitSec  program. Back on the road, now under the watchful eye of thriller author Jefferson Cornwall and his security team, poor Marigold has so many endless hours to fill.

A copy of romantic suspense author Serena Duvall's book, Vanilla Orchid Magic, becomes cathartic for the woman on the run. Curious about the role Jefferson Cornwall played in helping his mother write the book, intrigued by the handsome, complicated bachelor, Marigold delves into the story, and in doing so, begins to unravel the secrets of her own troubles. Both women, one real, one fictional, have a couple of things in common. Pursued by dangerous men, they are pawns in criminal enterprises that put them in serious jeopardy. Will Marigold find the answers to her own mystery in a book?

Here, then, is my reading of the story within the story. Nora Hazen, organic coffee and spice farmer on the island of Guadeloupe, in those sparkling Caribbean waters, has an unexpected run-in with a stranger, who shocks her to her very core:



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Test Your Knowledge -- Cops, Contract Killers, or Catskills?

I'm still putting the finishing touches on my newest novel, Reluctant Witness . While that's in production, put your sleuth hats on! Let's Play "Cops, Contract Killers, or Catskills":

In Part One of Reluctant Witness , there is a harrowing chase through the Catskills, as Marigold Flowers finds herself pursued by a pair of contract killers. She is rescued by New York State Police troopers, who take her into protective custody, but that's only the beginning of the tale. Why is someone so determined to kill her? Even poor Marigold doesn't know the answer to that question. While investigators try to sort that out, why don't you get busy and test your knowledge? There are eight questions. Your job is to determine whether the answer to each of these questions relates to cops, contract killers, or the Catskills:

1. Roaring Kill is...
A. What SWAT teams call surprise raids that employ stun grenades and lots of yelling to intimidate targets
B. A "wild cat" distraction technique used by professional hit men to terrorize their victims into submission
C. A popular hiking trail in the Catskills near the Devil's Path

2. Where are you most likely to find a stinger?
A. On the road -- it's the spike strip used by a state trooper trying to stop a dangerous driver
B. In the tool kit of a professional hit woman trying to make a death look accidental -- it's slang for a hypodermic needle filled with heroin
C. At the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival -- it's what hippies called hornets, wasps, and bees in 1969

3. The Borscht Belt was famous for...
A. Preventing suspects from unholstering a police officer's gun
B. Enabling hired killers to hog tie their victims more easily
C. Making comedian Joan Rivers a household name

4. Actor Woody Harrelson's father was famous for being...
A. A highly decorated police officer
B. A reputed contract killer
C. Mayor of Windham, New York

5. Which of these is not a real fact?
A. "Hunter" was a 1980's cop drama starring Fred Dryer as Sgt. Rick Hunter
B. Hunter S. Thompson was the most wanted contract killer ever apprehended
C. Hunter Mountain is a popular Catskill ski resort with a 1600-foot vertical drop

6. The Beaver Kill is...
A. Former "Leave It to Beaver" actor-turned-Los Angles Police motorcycle cop Ken Osmond's trademark move for disarming a suspect
B. A successful contract hit carried out on an unsuspecting victim wearing a fur coat
C. A popular trout fishing spot in the Catskills

7. An EFT is...
A. A type of taser used to subdue a dangerous suspect
B. A type of electronic payment method accepted by contract killers with good money-laundering skills
C. A type of rare salamander found only in the Catskills

8. Ice wine is...
A. Cop slang for a loud complaint by an inebriated skier to hurry up and pull him out of the snowbank
B. When a hit man buys his victim a drink just before carrying out the fatal contract
C. A type of sweet dessert wine produced by New York wineries when the grapes freeze



And the answers to the questions are as follows:


1. C -- It is located in Tannersville, New York and is part of an extended hike to Sugarloaf Mountain, a popular Catskills destination.

2. A -- These strips pop the tires on a suspect's vehicle as he drives over them, usually at a roadblock, enabling the police to safely control the end of a dangerous chase

3. C -- The Catskills was home to a number of famous summer resorts, where families often went to escape the heat and be entertained. The movie, "Dirty Dancing", was set there, at the fictitious Kellerman's.

4. B -- Charles Harrelson, the estranged father of actor Woody Harrelson, was actually convicted of the murder of a Texas federal judge, John H. Wood, Jr., in 1979 on behalf of a drug cartel; he was also accused in other murders-for-hire.

5. B -- Hunter S. Thompson was the inventor of "Gonzo journalism", a member of the "Freak Power" political party, the chronicler of the Hells Angels, and the author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; but as far as anyone knows, he was never a contract killer, despite his love of illegal drugs and weapons.

6. C -- Trout fishing is a very big draw for many who visit the Catskill Mountains, and Beaver Kill, a tributary of the Delaware River, is a popular place for dedicated anglers to wade in and drop a line. It is also spelled Beaverkill.

7. B -- An EFT, better known as an electronic fund transfer, is the modern-day means by which we move money. With the right money laundering skills, a contract killer can be paid for his work and the money electronically placed into a bank account hidden from law enforcement by a variety of duplicitous techniques, making it appear to be a legitimate deposit.

And yes, this was a trick question. A red eft is a juvenile Eastern Newt salamander, but it is not a rare type found only in the Catskills. Points to you for knowing about salamanders, though. These beautiful creatures are a woodland treasure!

8. C -- Ice wine, known in Germany as eiswein, is produced when the grapes freeze on the vine in winter before fermentation; the result is more sugar in the wine. There are only a handful of vineyards and wineries actually in the Catskills, with many others located throughout New York State. Check out the many wine trails throughout the Finger Lakes, the Hudson Valley, and even the Niagara Falls area.

Pop Quiz: Can You Get Drunk on Bourbon Pointu Coffee Beans?

You will soon journey with me to the island of Guadeloupe and visit with organic coffee and spice farmer Nora Hazen in my upcoming book, Reluctant Witness. In the meantime, here's a pop quiz to test your knowledge of coffee, chocolate, and spices.

True or false:

1. Researchers have determined that bourbon pointu coffee beans cause many motor accidents, due to their high alcohol content.

2. Chocolate comes from cacao beans that grow on forty-foot evergreen trees in moist, tropical climates.

3. Vanilla beans come from vanilla trees. The sap is tapped to produce vanilla extract.

4. Cinnamon flowers are collected, dried and ground up to flavor snickerdoodle cookies, potpourri, and cinnamon buns.

5. Nutmeg trees produce two important spices, nutmeg and mace, used by cooks around the world.

Can you identify the photos of chocolate, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and bourbon pointu coffee beans in their raw forms below?


ANSWERS BELOW:

True or false quiz:

1. False -- These are a variety of coffee bean that originated on Île Bourbon (now called Réunion Island) off the coast of Madagascar and are highly prized for their smooth flavor and figgy aroma. They have subtle differences depending on where in the world they are grown. Unless you throw in a shot of your favorite liqueur, they are definitely alcohol-free.

2. True -- The cacao beans are harvested from big pods that grow on the tree, fermented and dried, before being roasted and ground into a paste. From this, we get unsweetened baking chocolate, cocoa, and with some cocoa butter added, the chocolate that becomes candy.

3. False -- Vanilla beans are actually the seed pods of vanilla orchids. There are two popular types of Vanilla planifolia: Bourbon vanilla is prized for its sweet, fruity notes. The Madagascar area is known as the leading producer of this type of vanilla. Mexican vanilla has a spicier, woodier flavor and is rarer.Vanillia tahitiensis, more commonly called Tahitian vanilla, is a floral, sweet type of vanilla bean, with smaller pods. Vanilla extract is made by percolating the vanillin from the cured pod with alcohol and water.

4. False -- Cinnamon comes from the inner bark of  Cinnamomum and Cassia trees. The flavor of cinnamon is influenced by tree type and variety. Cinnamon is a spice that has been prized in most parts of the world, enhances a wide variety of foods and beverages, from sweet to savory, and is sometimes used as a food preservative.

5. True -- Nutmeg comes from the seed of the tree, and mace from the red covering of the seed. These two spices are used in a variety of dishes from haggis (Scotland) to pumpkin pie (America) to garam masala (India), and in drinks such as Barbados rum punch. Nutmeg is also used in a variety of products, such as toothpaste, cough syrup, cosmetics, and pharmaceuticals. But no, mace not used to make chemical mace, the defense spray.

Photos:

A. Bourbon pointu coffee beans
B. Harvested cinnamon tree
C. Vanilla orchid
D. Cacao beans
E. Nutmeg (dark nut is nutmeg, red membrane is dried to produce mace)

Cooking with Characters -- Camille's Paradise Cake

Reluctant Witness is currently in its final stages of publishing and should be in bookstores in May!

When I started writing my newest book, Reluctant Witness, I never intended to delve into the subject of coffee and spice production, any more than I expected to take my characters on a journey that not only went all over the United States, but also to the Caribbean and Europe. I confess I love good coffee. Nothing disappoints me more than something that tastes like boot scrapings. The truth is that coffee production is a pithy subject, from the financial aspects to the fine nuances of delectable beans.

Nor did I expect to invite two fictional authors along as characters in the book, but how could I not? Having the chance to write from so many perspectives was a challenge I just couldn't pass up.

Jefferson Cornwall, the dashing and determined hero, writes thrillers for a living, when he's not producing his newest hit TV show, Dangerous Deception. He's a complicated man, who has led a complicated life. A popular, prolific author of mega-bestselling books, known as one of Atlanta's most eligible bachelors, he's got more money than he can spend in a lifetime, but he never seems able to commit to any one woman. Maybe there's a reason for that.

And Jeff's mother? She's none other than the well-known author of the popular Inspector Samuelson Investigates series, Lisbeth Causley. She often took her three young sons along on her forensics and fact-finding forays, nurturing their love of mystery and intrigue. But she also writes romantic suspense as Serena Duvall. Exotic locales and sizzling passions combine to produce love stories that thrill the hearts of her dedicated fans. She's a diehard romance fanatic, always on the hunt for a great love story.

How can a couple of fictional authors impact the main character of Reluctant Witness? You might be surprised. Poor Marigold Flowers (yes, that's an alias) has been in the Witness Protection Program since she was sixteen years old. Imagine what it is like to grow up hiding in plain sight, pretending to be someone who never really existed, never able to put down roots, or ever really stop looking over your shoulder. How can you ever really settle down if you're always just a wrong word away from blowing your cover?

After Marigold found her fiancé murdered in her home in Rhode Island nearly sixteen years later, she assumed that the past that put her into WitSec caused the killer to strike. But what if it isn't?

Enter Jefferson Cornwall, a man who refuses to trust the woman on the run, even as he is beguiled by her. He knows too well that she might be lying, but he's willing to take a chance on her story, hoping it becomes his next blockbuster hit.

When Jeff Cornwall finds out Marigold enjoyed one of his mother's previous romantic suspense novels, he offers to lend her his own personal favorite, Vanilla Orchid Magic. Having served as his mother's research assistant for the book, Jeff has personal insight into the true life events that inspired the story. It never occurs to him that  he's about to set Marigold on a course of self-discovery unlike any other.

Vanilla Orchid Magic is Serena Duvall's tale of a woman named Nora Hazen, living on the island of Guadeloupe, growing organic coffee and spices. As Marigold reads Nora's story, she becomes upset by the turn of events. Why? Because Nora's villain bears a remarkable similarity to Marigold's.

Jeff Cornwall knows all too well what Nora's villain was like, so he's ready to go after Marigold's, and he's more than happy to put his unofficial witness protection team on the job.

But even after that mystery is solved, there's so much more to come. How do you help a Reluctant Witness reclaim her life? What chance does she have to find love on the run? Marigold's journey ends with surprises she never saw coming, in a place she never expected to be, with people she never expected to see. The heartwarming conclusion shows us that promise of paradise lives in each of us.

In honor of Reluctant Witness, I created Camille's Paradise Cake. I love to bake. That’s why you will often find my characters baking, too. I know some people are intimidated by the idea of making cakes from scratch. They shouldn’t be. This cake is practically foolproof. It’s made in one bowl, with all the ingredients tossed in and mixed by hand, with a wooden spoon.

Camille’s Paradise Cake:

Whisk together in a large bowl:

2 cups all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons freshly grated peeled ginger root (or 1 teaspoon ground ginger)
2 teaspoons cinnamon
½ teaspoon nutmeg

Add in and mix by hand with a wooden spoon until smooth:

1 ¾ cups sugar
1 cup natural vegetable oil (Wesson, Crisco)
3 eggs
1 teaspoon good quality real vanilla extract

Add and mix in:

1 cup shredded carrots
1 cup mashed bananas
1 8-ounce can crushed pineapple (drained)
1 cup finely chopped nuts (macadamia, walnut, or pecan -- whichever you prefer)
1 cup flaked coconut

Pour the batter into greased and floured pan(s). Bake at 350 degrees. Cake is done when toothpick comes out clean:

9” x 13” pan -- about 45-50 minutes
2 9” round cake pans -- about 30-35 minutes
Cupcake pan -- about 20-25 minutes

Camille’s Paradise Cake is delicious as is, or dusted with confectioner’s sugar, but it is also a wonderful cake when frosted. Use your favorite cream cheese or buttercream frosting recipe, or you can try this one:

3 cups confectioner’s sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) of butter at room temperature
1 teaspoon good quality real vanilla extract
1-2 tablespoons whipping cream

In a bowl, beat together sugar and butter with an electric mixer at low speed until blended. Increase speed to medium and continue beating until smooth and fluffy, about three minutes. Add in vanilla and whipping cream. Continue to beat for one minute, until it has good spreading consistency. (If necessary, add a little more cream.)

Pour yourself a good cup of coffee and enjoy!

Sneak Peek at "Reluctant Witness"

Poor Marigold Flowers...she entered the witness protection program at age sixteen, and nearly two decades later, her life is falling apart. Someone murdered her fiancé in Newport, Rhode Island. She came home one day and found him dead on the floor of her condo. Who killed him and why?

 The cover of the upcoming book (designed by the author)!Moved to Lake Placid, New York, she restarted her life with a new identity and built a business as an event planner. It all fell apart when a hired contract killer tried to grab her and her WitSec handler unexpectedly showed up on the scene. A terrible shootout ensued and Marigold took advantage of the chaos to flee...right into the hands of a second contract killer!

Why is she being pursued now, after all these years? Is it because of what happened to her family when she was a teenager or because of something else entirely...something sinister...something dangerous?

Enter the Cornwall brothers. Jackson is a New York state trooper. Lincoln is an FBI agent. Jefferson is the successful author of several thrillers and a TV producer. If there's one thing the Cornwall brothers can't leave alone, it's a mystery! That's because their mother is none other than Lisbeth Causley, author of the popular "Inspector Samuelson Investigates" series. But she also writes romantic suspense under the pen name, Serena Duvall, and her "Caribbean Dreaming" series is a very popular one.

As Marigold hopscotches across the country, protected by an unofficial team of security specialists determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, she spends the endless hours reading. And in Serena Duvall's book, Vanilla Orchid Magic, she finds a character she can relate to, a woman much like herself, on her own and over her head in deceitful deception. Here then is Marigold Flowers:

EXCERPT from Reluctant Witness :

Gently scooping up the sleepy dog in my arms, I padded down the hall to the main foyer, I peeked around the corner. The door to the den was still closed, so I went back to my bedroom and decided to start on Vanilla Orchid Magic. Kary contentedly dozed off again.
The story was published in 1999, apparently just a few years after Jeff’s accident. It was the first book in the Serena Duvall Caribbean Dreaming romantic suspense series, all set in the islands. It didn’t take long for me to lose myself in the tale. The opening line of the first chapter skillfully managed to capture my attention.
“Silence!” he hissed at me. “They will hear you and kill us both!”
I felt the insistent hand cover my mouth and tasted the skin of those rough, masculine fingers on my lips. In the faint glow of moonlight, I couldn’t see his face, but as I fought his effort to subdue me, my hands brushed the stubble on his cheeks and tangled in the locks of his shoulder-length hair. How I longed to claw myself free!He held me fast, tucked into the shadows, his hot breath on my neck as he kept one arm around my waist. I struggled to free myself, only to find my arms yanked behind my back.
“Stop it,” he whispered, his lips pressed against my ear. “Don’t you know they will slice your throat and dump you at sea as fish bait? Is that really how you wish to die?”
Recoiling, I turned my head, desperate to see my captor. He loosened his grip on me, twirling me around until I could gaze up at the shadowy figure in front of me. As his hand came away from my mouth, I uttered the one question that mattered most to me.
“Who are you?”
“I am Inspecteur Principal Jean-Claude Noiret, Interpol, at your service!”
“Interpol? But...I am not a criminal!” I sputtered, my voice hushed. “What are you doing here?”
“I am on the trail of a very dangerous fugitive from justice.”
“Here? On a spice farm?” I was dumbfounded. “But...who?”
“Le Scorpion, a ruthless drug trafficker, a man who has destroyed many lives with his evil. He was born Guillaume Chartier, but you, mademoiselle, know him better by his alias, Alain Beaumont.”
A cold, dark force pierced my heart, taking my breath as it punched through my lungs. I felt the whoosh of air escape from my lips, even as this stranger moved to catch me. His strong, masculine arms held me fast as the night went black and I lost consciousness.
When I came to, I was no longer in the shadows of the drying shed, but some distance away, in a grove of cacao trees. Inspecteur Noiret cradled me in his capable arms.
“What happened?” I whispered, still feeling fragile.
“You passed out. There is no need to panic, mademoiselle. We will capture Chartier. Have no fear.”
“No,” I protested. “It’s not that. It’s that...it’s that...I just made him my partner in the business.”
“You own this place?” Inspecteur Noiret sounded dismayed.
I felt my throat go dry as I tried to speak. Suddenly, the emotional roller coaster ride of the last few weeks made sense. The man I had only known for little more than three months, the man who had swept me off my feet so unexpectedly, professing his undying love, was a fraud. Even as I had demurred, he pressed himself on me, insisting that it was to our mutual benefit. Even as I had gently refused, he grew more insistent by the day, plying me with gifts meant to seduce. He promised that I would grow to love him, for he would make himself worthy of me. It was all a con. “It was what he wanted for a wedding present from me.”
“Mon dieu!” he muttered. “The man is a fiend! Does this mean you two are married?”
As I read, my thoughts returned briefly, painfully, to Jared. Was it the Caribbean setting of the story? I thought about the trip we took because he was worried about his Dutch Island Investments. Why did that bother me? Surely it was a coincidence that he chose Dutch Island as the name of his firm. It was just a local Jamestown landmark, a piece of Rhode Island history, wasn’t it? I thought about the times we had kayaked there, packing a picnic lunch to share on the rocks as the ocean rolled in.
But then I got a nagging feeling, deep in my gut. Why did I think Jared Spears and Alain Beaumont had more in common than just the Caribbean? Just before he was murdered, Jared had taken me to Curacao. We spent several days there, relaxing on Blue Bay Beach. He had asked me to sign papers when we went to the bank in Willemstad, said they were just a formality. We weren’t going to have a prenuptial agreement, at least not the usual kind, because Jared knew I was going to remain faithful to him during our marriage. He trusted me with his money. Should I have wondered whether he was trustworthy, too?  Copyright 2014 by Sara M. Barton

From Russia with Love? Free Cold War Thrillers

With Russia's recent annexation of Crimea, the Big Chill is creeping back into the world. How far will Putin go in his quest to reinvent the Russian Empire? We won't know until the smoke clears and we smash those mirrors to reveal the real game plan. In the meantime, here are two 2012 Cold War thrillers you can download for free with coupons from Smashwords (These books are rated PG: Mild language, mild violence, mild adult situations):

Where There's Smoke, There's Prometheus
Use Coupon Code VT29R (Good until April 19, 2014)

In 1978, Maddy Walker can't understand why a group of psychics from the Inner Sanctum of Atlantis insist she has mystical powers. Introduced by the strange Dr. Ben Pynchon, alternative psychology professor best known for promoting UFOs, Maddy is spooked by the New Age mystics. What are they really after when they try to recruit the young psychology student and several other young women? Is it a genuine effort to create world peace or is this part of a fifty-year Soviet plot to penetrate the U.S. government? Tossed into Prometheus's fire, Maddy must fight to survive the classified psychic research programs for the Defense Intelligence Agency. Was Navy vet Tom murdered because he knew too much about what was being done to his fellow vets by the psychics? Were her friends Pansy and Amy attacked to force her to join the dark side? Pursued by a string of fabricated catastrophes and disasters, Maddy must rely on her wits and psychology background to survive. Betrayal, deceit, and despair turn her world upside down as the protectors of the Inner Sanctum of Atlantis reach out to manipulate the Pentagon. Protected by a powerful senator, the psychics gain ground in Congress with their phony telepathy experiments and dirty tricks. There's no turning back once Maddy realizes Senator Harmon Wilson's aide, Bradley Bartlett has set up the murder of the Assistant Secretary of the Navy. From Capitol Hill to the coast of Maine, Maddy must outwit her captors long enough to expose their evil game over the next three decades.


The Deadly Secret of Dr. Arcanum Lock's Evolutionary Spirit Project
Use Coupon Code EY76C (Good until April 19, 2014)

What happened at Dr. Arcanum Lock's camp for child psychics back in 1965? What was the Evolutionary Spirit Project? Were they really taught to channel spirits, or was something else, something far more dangerous and sinister going on? What does it have to do with national security today? Spies, lies, and bad guys are out to get Gillian Goodwin and her friends, unless she can unravel the mystery. She gets an SOS from old friend Jack, an aid relief worker headed to Somalia. He needs to figure out how he ended up on a Homeland Security watch list and get off it in time rescue famine victims before it's too late. The answer lies in the distant past, back at Camp Eirene, where Dr. Arcanum Lock and his friends ran their "Whole World Healing" peace camp for child psychics. Was it really a legitimate endeavor or an intelligence game designed to help the Soviets penetrate the U. S. government? Over several decades, Gillian's life is haunted by what happened at that camp that summer in 1965, and the specters that cling to her threaten national security on several fronts. The only way to save anyone is to find out what really was going on and to trust in herself to recognize the truth when she sees it. In a world of duplicity and deception, Gillian Goodwin has to dig deep and discover what's real and what's not, from her three marriages to the lifelong friendships she's counted on, nothing is what it seems in this harrowing Cold War journey with phony psychics, terrorists, and spies on all sides.