Real bodyguard. Fake boyfriend. Unexpected benefits. Trouble guaranteed.
Tucker: Autumn Sato is a happiness influencer. And I’m…well, let’s just say my brand is more big gray stormcloud. If life were going to plan, the closest I’d get to her would be scrolling past her posts as fast as my thumbs could fly.
But my sister needs help, so I agree to bodyguard Autumn at her sister’s wedding. One thing leads to another, and suddenly I’m pretending to be her new boyfriend in front of all her friends and family.
It’s a hot mess, made worse because I swore I’d never do this again. Never get close to someone I was guarding. Never fall for someone whose safety was in my hands. Never let distraction get in the way of my job.
Unfortunately, this entire week is nothing but distractions: trapped in a car with my smoking hot client, only one bed in our hotel room, only one tent on the wedding camping trip… all before the bachelor–bachelorette prom. Meanwhile, someone seems to have it out for Autumn… or my family… or both.
As things heat up between us, I’m left with one question: Can I keep my heart—and the people I care about—safe?
A spicy, small-town, bodyguard, fake relationship, grumpy-sunshine romantic comedy with a hint of danger and a lot of heart.
There’s a knock on the door behind us, and it swings open, and—
Wow.
Yeah, this guy is not a blend-into-a-crowd type. He’s gotta be at least six five, and he fills up the doorway—weight-lifter muscles under a lovingly clinging tee, a torso that tapers from broad shoulders to a trim waist, and tree-trunk thighs beneath snug-fitting jeans. His jaw is a hard line to a well-defined chin; his eyes are flecks of pale blue ice; his nose is Roman-warrior-worthy, and his mouth is lush.
Did I say wow? Let me reiterate: Wow.
“Autumn, this is my brother, Tucker; Tucker, Autumn.”
I stand up. Giant White Guy grunts and extends a hand. Mine disappears into his, into heat and calluses and thick fingers that make me wonder—
Nope. Not wondering.
“Thanks so much for being willing to do this on short notice,” I say.
He grunts again.
Okay, so not a conversationalist. We’ll have to work on that because there is zero chance I would date a guy who isn’t a talker. My sister would never believe that.
“Anything you two need from me?” Hanna asks. “Or can you take it from here? I have to run a couple of errands.”
“That’s fine!” I say, hoping to warm him up a bit by being extra friendly, definitely one of my superpowers. “We’ll be great, right, Tucker?”
A grunt.
Not warm yet, but I can work on it.
She gives both of us a look that says she doubts we’ll be great, shoots Tucker another look that I interpret as Behave, and slips out the door.
“So!” I say brightly. “This is gonna be a cinch!”
He raises both eyebrows but doesn’t respond.
“Hanna told you about the discretion thing, right? That my sister can’t know that you’re a bodyguard, because she can’t know that my dad thinks there might be danger at her wedding?”
The grunts clearly have different meanings. I’m taking this one as a yes.
“But I don’t see that as a problem! Because”—I pause for effect—“you can pretend to be my date for the wedding week!”
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About Author Serena Bell:
USA Today bestselling author Serena Bell writes contemporary romance with heat, heart, and humor. A former journalist, Serena has always believed that everyone has an amazing story to tell if you listen carefully, and you can often find her scribbling in her tiny garret office, mainlining chocolate and bringing to life the tales in her head.
Serena’s books have earned many honors, including an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, Apple Books Best Book of the Month, and Amazon Best Book of the Year for Romance.
When not writing, Serena loves to spend time with her college-sweetheart husband and two hilarious kiddos—all of whom are incredibly tolerant not just of Serena’s imaginary friends but also of how often she changes her hobbies and how passionately she embraces the new ones. These days, it’s stand-up paddle boarding, board-gaming, meditation, and long walks with good friends.
Apprentices, and two ghost towns, and almost-demons oh…no.
Mack doesn’t mind the apprentice part of this job; in fact, finding Gwyn is delightful, though he hates she grew up in such a haunted town with parents who don’t believe she’s a Medium.
Mack really hates the old mining ghost town is locked down with weird energy and none of the ghosts can see them, which makes passing them difficult.
Mack especially hates that in Black Rock there’s an almost-demon ghost inciting other ghosts to cause a mob, how is that allowed to be a thing?!
Who you gonna call for help when you’re the experts? Mack wants to know for a friend. (Him. He’s the friend.)
Tags:
Mack has found hell on earth, this was not on his bucket list, Accidental apprentice acquisition, Lachlan is back!, ghost gangs, chaos magician, Seiji is a new bonk bro, wedding, almost demons lurking, too much water and limestone for a medium’s peace of mind, uncharted haunted mines make Lachlan’s day, Eli is her usual scary self, Mack goes Wild West, Brandon can see ghosts here, that’s not a good thing, Brandon gets to have an apprentice too and can’t be happier, ghost pranks, Mack has picked too many battles, he’s putting some back, Ghost-hunting squad–assemble!
Tropes: MM Romance, Multicultural Romance, Ghost Town, Ghost Medium, Age Gap, Apprentices, Wedding, HEA
This is the fifth and final book in the series following a plot crossover with the Jon’s Mysteries Series. While it would be best to read the books listed in the below order, you can read Mack’s Horribly Hellacious Ghost Town without having read “Book 4” with minimal confusion. To read in series order, Book 1 – Brandon’s Very Merry Haunted Christmas, Book 2 – Mack’s Perfectly Ghastly Homecoming, Book 3 – Mack’s Rousing Ghoulish Highland Adventure, Book 4 – Jon & Mack’s Terrifying Tree Troubles, and Book 5 – This title.
AJ Sherwood believes in happily ever afters, magic, dragons, good men, and dark chocolate. She often dreams at night of delectable men doing sexy things with each other. In between writing multiple books (often at the same time) she pets her cats, plays with her dogs, and attempts insane things like aerial yoga.
She currently resides in Michigan with aforementioned dogs and cats. Being in snow country gives her the excuse to stay inside and watch bl dramas, which suit her perfectly.
A broken past. A
forbidden present. A second chance worth everything.
Sam Durbin is on the brink of everything he’s worked for. One bad injury
threatens to end his breakout hockey season, and the pressure to get back on
the ice is mounting. But nothing throws him off his game faster than coming
face-to-face with his physical therapist—the woman he walked away from. The one
he never forgot.
Angelina Rossi finally has the career she fought for. A position at a top-tier
clinic, a future she built on her own terms … and a patient who could destroy
it all. Treating Sam should be simple. Clinical. Professional. But every
session drags up the past she’s tried to bury and the feelings she never truly
let go.
Sam knows he doesn’t deserve a second chance. Angie knows she can’t survive
giving him one. But every session chips away at their defenses—old wounds
resurfacing, new heat building, and neither of them quite able to hold the
line.
Giving in to desire could end Sam’s comeback before it begins. It could destroy
the career Angie’s fought so hard to build. But walking away might be the one
loss neither can overcome.
Deking at Love is a steamy, second-chance, forbidden sports romance
featuring a wounded hockey player, a no-nonsense physical therapist, and a
chemistry they can’t outskate. Perfect for readers who love witty banter,
workplace tension, and high-stakes emotion—with a guaranteed HEA.
Since childhood, all sorts of
stories and characters have lived in G.K. Brady’s imagination, elbowing one
another for attention, so she’s finally giving them their voice on the written
page.
An award-winning
writer of contemporary romance, she loves telling tales of the
less-than-perfect hero or heroine who transforms with each turn of a page. She
also writes historical fiction under the pen name Griffin Brady.
G.K. is a wife and
the proud mom of three grown sons. When she’s not writing, she might be
reading, traveling, drinking wine, listening to music, or gardening—sometimes
all at once! She currently resides in Colorado with her very patient husband.
First they stole her trust. Now they want her life.
April Manning’s generous nature has always been a gift, and her greatest weakness. After being scammed out of her life savings by a trusted friend, April is left with an eviction notice and one last hope: reclaiming her position as an interior designer at her old architectural firm, even if it means a showdown with head architect Hunter Ellis, her cheating ex.
But that’s not the only hitch. When the owner of the firm turns up dead, the last thing April expects to find is the bloody murder weapon on her doorstep.
Now the killer sets a plan for April and suspicion flares at every turn…from the mysterious new handyman, to an estranged family member she’s tried to forget. Chased from her dream home and cornered like prey, April is hemmed by the wintry forests of Tennessee with few options. As chilling memories of childhood abandonment haunt her, it seems everyone has a hidden agenda to take April down.
Only one thing is certain. A monster is stalking Smoky Creek, and April must unmask them before they land the fatal blow.
Readers of Sarah Alderson and Kiersten Modglin will love the twisted betrayals and dark obsession of Lies to Forever, the latest standalone thriller by award-winning novelist Marlene M. Bell.
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Praise for Lies to Forever:
“A must-read for fans of smart, character-driven suspense fiction. Highly recommended” ~ The International Review of Books
“Author Marlene M. Bell has crafted a gripping, psychological thriller. …a suspense-laden drama where the twists and turns of the plot are genuinely surprising and rewarding.” ~ The Book Review Directory
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Lies to Forever Trailer:
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Book Details:
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Genre: Suspense, Crime
Published by: Ewephoric Publication Date: March 17, 2026 Number of Pages:316 ISBN: 9798986340982
I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.
When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.
The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover. He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door. Without so much as a warning. My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles. The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend? “April.” My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office. Whang. A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface. A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient. “I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.” The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes. “Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name. My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees. A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.” Haven’t heard that in a while. Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes. I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way. Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped. A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early. “Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm. “Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area. “Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.” “He must have a lot on his mind.” Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.” I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant. He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought. “Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair. I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.” From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable. I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.” “Miss.” I turn toward the voice. “I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.” My first slam-and-crash date request. It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared. Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table. “Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?” I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.” “April, he’s not coming in.” “That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.” “Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.” With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk. “I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?” “You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?” “Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.” “Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.” The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.” Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress. “Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.” “You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs. “It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds. “Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.” “Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks. “Been there a few times.” “You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso. Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment. Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say. When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude. The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take. Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out. While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain… A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather. I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps. Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow? A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace. I don’t smell burning wood. My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub. Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck. That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa. “Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?” I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—” A metallic odor hits me. “Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived. Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene. I can’t be implicated in this. *** Excerpt from LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M Bell. Copyright 2026 by Marlene M Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M Bell. All rights reserved.
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About Author Marlene M. Bell:
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Marlene M. Bell shares many traits with the bold protagonists she writes. Her Annalisse series stars a New York antiquities appraiser who chases dangerous criminals in far-flung locales. The series has won eight international literary awards and an avid fan base around the world. When Marlene’s not busy plotting her next novel, she’s exploring her wooded Texas ranch with camera in hand and thirty sheep faithfully in tow. As an accomplished painter and nature photographer, she’s always hunting for the next spark of inspiration – or the next adventure calling her name.
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Lies, Deception… and a Deadly Giveaway
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A deadly family vendetta at a Jersey Shore restaurant finds John McGinty (aka Ginty) tailing his boss’s lying wife and junkie son into a dark world of embezzlement, drug dealing and murder.
Ginty has just stepped in as the manager of a Wildwood restaurant owned by his friend, Lou Scolletta, after Lou fires the old manager for dipping in the till.
Ginty starts out ordering rolls of salami and bottles of Galliano, but quickly becomes Lou’s consigliere, picking up questionable packages from sketchy associates; tailing Lou’s wife Concetta on her furtive trips to Cape May; scouring the Jersey Shore for Lou’s son, Davy, a junkie on the lam; and wondering why a possibly bent State Trooper keeps showing up everywhere he goes.
Things in Ginty’s world don’t improve when a drug shipment goes wrong, a blackmail note appears…and a body is found floating in Delaware Bay.
Ginty is now the unwilling-yet trusted-confidante of all the Scollettas, and realizes that everyone in this twisted family circle is in danger-including himself.
WILDWOOD EXIT is as sordid as it is comic, and should be on every beach towel from Asbury Park to Cape May.
Praise for WILDWOOD EXIT:
“A quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart” ~ Amy Rosenberg, Philadelphia Inquirer
“Funny, thrilling . . . a captivating crime story with a vivid Jersey Shore setting.” ~ Kirkus Reviews
The car bumped hard, the undercarriage hitting the edge of the shoulder, as it careened off the Garden State Parkway, heading for a stand of trees. The bump woke me up, and I jammed on the brakes and fought the steering wheel, cutting it hard left, but it was too late. The car fishtailed as the front smashed into a tree, the rear swinging right as the brakes took hold and crashing into another tree. I was flung forward, my hands coming off the wheel and banging against the console.
My hands were cut and bleeding as I sat staring at the road, the car twisted at a forty-five-degree angle. Pain throbbed from my right temple, and I realized I must have hit the windshield or the roof. A heaviness pressed down inside my head above my eyes, and I felt an urge to close them and go to sleep. I forced myself to stay awake and get out of the car. I knew I was still technically drunk, but the crash had pumped enough adrenaline into my veins that I was hyper-aware, despite the likely concussion. I tried to open the trunk, but it was stuck shut, the right fender crunched in and bent on the top where it met the hatch. A car passed going north on the other side of the Parkway. I looked back up the south-bound lane and saw no traffic. I stepped onto the road and half-jogged across, stepping over the median and across the north-bound lane. I glanced back at the car, slanted cock-eyed in the grass just past the Exit 6 sign for North Wildwood, then hurried through the grassy stretch alongside the road and into the woods that bordered it. My only thought now was to avoid getting a DUI. I could deal with the car later. What a disaster. I had just bought the damn thing yesterday afternoon from a guy in Buena with a badly running nose and a burning desire to take my cash and go meet someone to make him well. That’s what I got for taking a lead on a cheap car from a guy holding up the end of the bar at a beer-and-a-shot place down the street from my house. I could have asked Lou to hook me up, but the price was right, and I just wanted something to get me through the summer. So I hitched a ride to Buena from a buddy who was headed to Margate, where I met Drew, the guy with the dripping nose. Drew had that pressing business to attend to, so he was fine with giving me the uncompleted paperwork. Drew said, “Just see Mitch at the title place here next week, he’ll handle it.” I trudged through the patch of woods, distancing myself from the Parkway. I came to a two-lane road and ran across that into deeper woods on the other side. I was about ready to just sleep under a tree there, when through a gap in the branches I saw an open field. I pushed forward to the perimeter of the woods and stopped, trying to make out where I was. If it was somebody’s back yard, I would have to be careful. But there were no lights, just a dark field spreading out before me. I looked to my left and saw a brighter patch on the ground and a hundred yards beyond that a low building, maybe a garage? I walked through tall grass to shorter grass, and as I got closer to the bright patch, I realized what it was: a sand trap. I was on a fairway of Wildwood Country Club, the home course of my friend Lou Scolletta, whose house I was supposed to have been at four hours ago. There was probably a caddie shack I could hide out in, but I opted for a makeshift bed in the grass of a hollow a few fairways over. I lay down and, in the brief period before I passed out, wondered if this was the best way to prepare for the first day on my new job. * * * There was no way I wanted a full-time job working for Lou. I knew just enough about Lou to know not knowing anything more was the prudent path. The fact that he had just fired the prior manager for dipping in the till did not make the opportunity more appealing. But there was a crazy part of me that thought running a place—a restaurant, not McNabb’s Tavern, the decrepit neighborhood tappie in Southwest Philly where until last year I humped kegs, mopped up fluids, breathed a lot of smoke and told myself I was the “manager”—might be something I could do. Because I was nowhere right now. No degree, no trade—just fifteen years of bartending that had ended when the last McNabb standing decided—wisely—that this was no way to make a living. The new owners didn’t need a mug like me in the fern bar that McNabb’s was to become. I knew The Seabreeze, the quintessential Jersey Shore restaurant. When Lou bought it six years ago, I helped out a few weekends bartending when some of the corner boys he had hired just disappeared on him. It wasn’t hard finding someone to cover for me at McNabb’s. Our weekends were slower in the summer anyway, with a lot of folks going to the shore. Lou and I hung out more back then. He bought the place in 1977 when I was thirty and Lou maybe thirty-seven. It was sort of a vanity project for him; his main business was a Cadillac dealership in South Philly. The following summer, he showed up at my bar with his son Davy—guess the kid was sixteen. He wanted Davy to get a summer job. Could we take him on, washing dishes, whatever? I wondered why he didn’t hire him at the dealership, but I guess he wanted him to work for someone else. So I hired him, and he was okay, typical teenager, hardly said a word. There really wasn’t that much to do—we had a kitchen and did some sandwiches, but it wasn’t much to keep a dishwasher busy. I guess that was the first favor I did for Lou. And I did owe him big, seeing as how his dad got me out of the draft back in 1967. Plus, Lou got me my first restaurant job, which was really a pretty good gig at a nice South Philly restaurant. But with Lou, you never felt like he was looking for payback. He just came off as a great guy, not like he was some connected dude that you had to say yes to. I’m sure he sold a lot of cars seeming like a great guy. I used to give Davy a ride home sometimes, which often led to Concetta—Lou’s wife—asking me in to eat. There was always food, loads of food. She’d give me a plate of pasta, red wine out of a jug—might be ten o’clock in the evening, but so what? Then Lou would show up, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash that I was there. Then he had me down to a little mom-and-pop restaurant near his dealership for dinner, and I met some of his friends. They were mostly older and had gone to Bishop Neumann or Southern, but a few knew guys from Kingsessing, my old neighborhood in Southwest Philly. I thought about that pasta and how a mick like me was going to run a real restaurant, and, as I passed out in the wet grass at 3:30 AM, whether Davy was still having the same nose-dripping problems as Drew from Buena, a path I saw him starting down two and a half years ago. * * * The sound of a mower woke me up. The guy running it looked like he had seen worse. He pointed me to the caddy shack and gave me some coins for the payphone. Thank God Lou picked up, but then that’s Lou, he’s not surprised if some fuckup calls him at dawn. I washed up as best I could with cold water and no soap in the filthy sink in the shack’s bathroom, then waited outside the locker room, not wanting to meet up with anyone, until Lou arrived. What a night. Blitzed out of my mind, drinking stingers like I was twenty in Somers Point, dancing with those crazy chicks, trying to teach me to moonwalk like Michael Jackson on that Motown show a couple of months ago. It was the Friday after a Monday Fourth of July, and it felt like the bar itself was stumbling under the strain of a week-long bender. I had just stopped in for something to eat, then met these girls, three of them, late teens, which led to my dancing lesson. As it got late and the stingers took their toll, I figured maybe I’d just crash in the back seat for a couple of hours, then get breakfast somewhere, rather than roll in drunk at four in the morning and freak out Concetta. Then two of the girls disappeared and the last one, Sharon, became glued to a chair at my table—that is, her butt was glued to the chair, but her face ended up stuck to the table itself, her long brown hair straggling out into the sticky remains of many ungodly drinks. At closing time, I struggled her to her feet and managed to get her to moan out where she was staying in Sea Isle City, a couple of towns south. After she vomited in the parking lot, I got her into the back seat and drove as carefully as I could, taking Route 9 to avoid the faster traffic. I got the girl out of the car at her shabby rental duplex, leaving her sprawled on a chaise lounge in the screened porch. I banged on the door until one of her roommates appeared in a long t-shirt. We got her into bed and I talked the roommate through how to make sure Sharon didn’t choke on her own vomit. I sat in my car, worrying about the girl. I was old enough to be her father, but being plastered in a Somers Point bar at closing time didn’t exactly qualify me to be in loco parentis. I was just a more experienced wastrel, a thirty-six-year-old failed bartender who would have been a disappointment to someone, if there was anyone left to fill that role. When I left the girl’s rental, I figured it wasn’t much farther to Wildwood, and what the hell, why not take the Parkway? But of course, that’s what impaired judgment is all about. So fatigue and drunkenness once more exacted their toll on a stupid Irishman, and here I was creeping around at dawn like an escaped convict. *** Excerpt from Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner. Copyright 2025 by Joel E. Turner. Reproduced with permission from Joel E. Turner. All rights reserved.
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About Author Joel E. Turner:
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Joel E. Turner’s first novel, WILDWOOD EXIT, a noir tale set at the Jersey Shore, was published by Level Best Books in 2025. Amy Rosenberg of the Philadelphia Inquirer called it “a quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart”. His second novel, BRENDA’S GREEN NOTE, forthcoming from Cynren Press in 2027, is a coming-of-age story about a young woman with synesthesia who harnesses her ability to see sounds as colors to become a key player in the vibrant music scene of the 1960s in Philadelphia. His fiction has appeared in many US and UK journals. His website joeleturnerauthor.com, has samples/links to his work and posts about books, film and music. Articles he has written about Soul music have been featured on the UK-based Soul Source website, a major platform for news on the Northern Soul scene. Mr. Turner splits his time between Philadelphia and White Cloud, Michigan.
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Purple, Blame, Game: Kiki Lowenstein Cozy Mystery Cozy Mystery 21st in Series Setting – St. Louis, Missouri Publisher : Spot On Publishing Publication date : June 2, 2026 Number of Pages – coming soon Digital ASIN : B0GPQFM5GT Other Formats Available Soon.
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No good deed goes unpunished…
Kiki Lowenstein is used to juggling crafts, customers, and chaos—but she never expected her latest charity project to lead to murder.
When Kiki offers free crochet classes to make stuffed animals for hospitalized children, the project seems like the perfect way to give back. But tensions quickly rise among her students, and a heated confrontation sparks rumors, accusations, and a social media frenzy that threatens to destroy lives.
Then everything takes a deadly turn.
On a foggy Mardi Gras morning, Kiki discovers the body of Celeste Harrow behind her store.
Suddenly, Kiki is caught in a tangled web of secrets, lies, and motives. The victim had made enemies. Plenty of them. And now, Kiki must figure out who turned a good deed into a deadly game—before suspicion lands squarely on her.
With her business at risk, her family in the spotlight, and a determined detective asking hard questions, Kiki must rely on her instincts (and a little help from her friends) to uncover the truth.
Because in this cozy mystery, nothing is as harmless as it seems…
Perfect for fans of:
• Cozy mysteries with strong female sleuths
• Crafting, crochet, and creative communities
• Fast-paced whodunits with humor and heart
• Series like Hannah Swensen, Aurora Teagarden, and Tea Shop Mysteries
A Kiki Lowenstein Cozy Mystery — can be enjoyed as a standalone!
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About Author Joanna Campbell Slan
Joanna Campbell Slan is a New York Times, USA Today, and Amazon bestselling author of nearly 80 books, known for her page-turning cozy mysteries and emotionally rich women’s fiction. Her stories blend amateur sleuths, strong female friendships, humor, and heart—earning praise from Publishers Weekly as “a cut above the usual craft-themed cozy.”
Best known for her long-running Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series (Agatha Award finalist), Joanna creates unforgettable characters who grow, adapt, and triumph. Her popular Cara Mia Delgatto Mysteries, set on Florida’s Treasure Coast, and her award-winning Jane Eyre Chronicles—recipient of the Daphne du Maurier Award for Literary Excellence—showcase her range across contemporary, historical, and literary-inspired suspense.
Joanna’s books resonate with readers who love:
Cozy mysteries with strong female protagonists
Craft-themed and small-town settings
Stories about friendship, reinvention, and second chances
Clean mysteries with humor, heart, and suspense
In addition to fiction, Joanna is an internationally recognized teacher and author of nonfiction books on public speaking and crafting. Her work has been praised by top communication experts, and she has contributed to the beloved Chicken Soup for the Soul series.
A native Floridian, Joanna lives on Florida’s Treasure Coast, where she draws inspiration from coastal life, creativity, and her passion for crafts like Zentangle®, crochet, and upcycling.
Her mission: to make the world a better place—one story at a time.
A Necessary Death Historical Cozy Mystery Setting – A tavern in Colonial Pennsylvania (1764) Publisher : Wagonbridge Publishing Publication date : September 15, 2025 Print length : 272 pages Paperback ISBN-10 : 1953444202 ISBN-13 : 978-1953444202 Digital ISBN-13 : 978-1953444219 ASIN : B0FLDWVCJW
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With Penelope Corbitt in the kitchen, the tavern will never be the same.
Penelope Corbitt can turn a lump of meat and a bit of flour into a mouth-watering pie or make a tasty meal of cabbage and vinegar. But all her skill can’t save her family in the spring of 1763, when she loses everything to pay off her missing husband’s debts. Walking a tightrope between the freedom of poverty and the confines of propriety, she must accept her stingy brother-in-law’s reluctant charity to keep her family fed and her children close. The miserable journey north from Philadelphia is interrupted when the coach crashes in the mud. Penelope and her children are stranded at a run-down tavern. Penelope doesn’t think things can get worse.
Then she finds a dead man.
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About Author Terri Karsten
Living in the shadow of the Mississippi River bluffs, Terri Karsten has been a writer and educator for many years. She grew up in sunny San Jose, California, playing amid the cherry orchards that soon gave way to houses. In her search for education and adventure, she lived in Iowa and Wisconsin, Mexico and France, before settling into a hundred-year-old house in Winona, Minnesota. She spends most days in her tiny office, surrounded by books, papers, and good memories.
With more ideas than time, Terri writes a bit of everything, ranging from historical fiction novels to picture book folktales to dozens of short stories and articles in magazines, encyclopedias, and newspapers.
When she is not writing, Terri loves poring over old cookbooks and recreating dishes from long ago, especially medieval, Renaissance, and colonial foods. Always ready for the next adventure, she enjoys camping, hiking, and traveling. Her latest goal is to visit National Parks in every state. Only 13 states to go!
Death of an Antiquarian: A Mia Reid, Archaeologist, Mystery by Rose Kerr
Death of an Antiquarian: A Mia Reid, Archaeologist, Mystery Cozy Mystery 2nd in Series Setting – Lakeview City, Ontario, Canada (loosely based on Toronto, Canada) Publisher : Level Best Books Publication date : December 16, 2025 Print length : 242 pages Paperback ISBN-13 : 979-8898201159 Digital ASIN : B0GHSW122X
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When archaeologist Dr. Mia Reid takes a contract position at the Lakeview City Museum, she expects artifacts, exhibitions, and research notes, not murder. The death of a local antique dealer, with unexpected ties to artifact smuggling, draws Mia into a dangerous mystery.
As chatter of an international smuggling ring surfaces, Mia and Luke race to uncover the truth. The stakes rise when threats reach her—and her beloved grandmother.
With lives in jeopardy and artifacts at risk of vanishing forever into the black market, Mia must use all her skills to piece together the puzzle. Can she expose a killer before the next artifact or person disappears?
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About Author Rose Kerr
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Retired in Southern Ontario with her husband, Rose spends her days crafting mysteries featuring strong, smart women who use their resourcefulness to solve crimes. When she’s not writing, she enjoys discovering the hidden gems of the region and indulging her lifelong curiosity.
Murder, mines, and missing millions—retirement just got interesting.
When a shady real estate developer is found murdered beneath Harriet Keaton’s family home—shot, stabbed, and surrounded by rare 1830s gold coins—her estranged twin brother Joey is the prime suspect. He insists he’s innocent…but won’t name the real culprit. With Joey refusing to talk and millions missing from the retirement accounts, the future of the Independence Retirement Community is suddenly on the line. Now, whip-smart Harriet and her sleuthing partners—Craig Travail (savvy lawyer, reluctant romantic) and Yeager Alexander (conspiracy theorist, resident rabble-rouser)—must dig into the past to solve the crime. Their best lead? A decades-old memoir from Harriet’s treasure-obsessed father and whispers of a long-lost gold hoard. But treasure has a way of attracting trouble. As fortunes vanish and suspects multiply, the trio must untangle two decades of betrayal—before the killer strikes again. Murder, mayhem, and the Carolina gold rush: welcome back to the Indie, where retirement is anything but quiet.
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Praise for Deadly Gold Rush:
“Deadly Gold Rush is a satisfyingly complex entwining of events and personalities that proves hard to put down.” ~ Midwest Book Review “Deadly Gold Rush caught my attention from the first sentence and kept me transfixed to the very end. Couldn’t put it down.” ~ Readers’ Favorite Reviews “Lively mystery bubbling with unforgettable characters and historical spirit.” ~ Booklife Reviews “Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees.” ~ Kirkus Reviews
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DEADLY GOLD RUSH Trailer:
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Book Details:
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Genre: Mystery, Legal Thriller, Historical
Published by: Lystra Books & Literary Services, LLC Publication Date: March 3, 2026 Number of Pages: 378 pages, Paperback ISBN: 979-8992136357, Paperback Series: The Indie Retirement Mystery Series, Book 2 | Each is a Standalone Mystery
The narrow alleyway walls muffled the gunshot as uptown Charlotte slept. It was one thirty in the morning on Tuesday, April 1. The phone call didn’t last long. “It’s me,” the caller said. “I need your help.” “I’m listening.” “I have a body.” “Whose?” “Chance Landry.” “Where are you?” “Lincoln Street. Inside the Rivafinoli Passage in South End. Next to the Queen Charlotte mural.” “Anyone with you?” The caller explained who else was still there. “You leave. Tell them to stay with the body and wait for my call. I need to think.” Three minutes later, the call was made to the only living person remaining in the passage who could help. “I am going to text you an address.” Next, they explained what to do with Landry’s body when they got to the address. “Are you kidding? He’s already dead.” But the person giving instructions had no sense of humor. “Just do it.” A text message followed with the address. The person who received the message knew how to follow directions and did as they were told.
Chapter Two
Vengeance is Sweet
The 11:15 p.m. email on Craig Travail’s phone read: Your friends are about to suffer financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations. You have only yourself to blame. What? Travail read the email again, slower this time. He read it twice more. There was no author name. Just an unknown vengeanceissweet email address. Travail exhaled. His email checking practice was a bad habit, a routine held over from his career when clients expected their lawyers to be available 24/7. Nothing good ever came of his itch to scratch his email in-box for late-night messages, like now, when it would be twice as difficult to sleep after watching the late night local news—with its smorgasbord of crimes, collisions, and natural disasters—and reading this email. One news story was about elder fraud, a reminder of how susceptible retirees are to financial fraud schemes. Was that what was coming for his friends at the Independence Retirement Community, which everyone called the Indie? Were the residents about to suffer financial ruin because of risky investments? If so, he’d be angry at the perpetrators for their heartless guile and frustrated with his friends for being so gullible. The television show made the point, though, and he agreed, that adults spend most of their lives collecting assets to make retirement possible and the rest of their days worried if their accumulated treasure will last as long as they do, leading some retirees to make risky and uninformed choices with their nest eggs. Was that what his friends had done? Made bad choices with their money? Is that what the emailer taunted him about? Travail’s instinct was to fire off a harsh response to the email with some choice lawyer-like words and warnings, but he ignored the bait—he suspected they wouldn’t respond anyway—and he punched the remote control instead. The television screen faded to black, and his den fell silent, save for Blue’s rhythmic snores and his jerking legs. Travail’s black and tan coonhound must be dreaming, chasing ducks along the lake behind Travail’s cottage, as he was apt to do in real life, and as usual, failing to catch the waterfowl before they darted back into the water. Travail leaned over his club chair’s arm and let his free hand graze on Blue’s back until his pet stopped running in his sleep. Maybe the email was a prank. Maybe, like him, a friend had become bored with life at the Indie. And yet, the email bothered him. Whose lives—which friends’ lives—were about to be shattered? And how? And for that matter, why? And what did he have to do with it? Since moving a year earlier into the Independence Retirement Community, Travail had made two best friends, Harriet Keaton and Yeager Alexander, and several other good friends. He’d met many other retirees, some whose company he tolerated and some whose company he could do without. Either way, he didn’t want to see anyone hurt. He certainly didn’t want his close friends to suffer, and he didn’t want to be the person responsible for their pain. The flame on the candle he’d lit this morning was down to the base of the wick. He turned away from it, detesting the severe loneliness of March 31. There was no logic for feeling so alone—what with all the crimes, court cases, and historic mysteries Harriet, Yeager, and he navigated since he arrived at the Indie and the time they spent together—but it was hard to control his feelings, especially the feeling of being by himself. A Jewish resident told him about the tradition of lighting a candle on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. It felt loving to strike the match in Rachael’s honor, but as day became night, Travail’s mood shifted. It had been three years to the day. The flickering light had a strobe-like effect on the things that reminded him of Rachael: her furniture, her quilts, her artwork, her pictures. Travail missed Rachael’s kindness, her playfulness, her creativity, and the rituals they shared. The flicker made the past too present, making him long for another night and morning and day together. She was here, there, and everywhere, but nowhere at all. Assertive is what he’d needed to be in the moment that changed everything. He and Rachael were in the mountains at a high-elevation rental for a getaway when a freak storm rolled in and dumped six inches of snow on the ground. Rachael decided to drive to the local general store to stock the pantry for their cozy weekend together. He had a work call and offered to go with her after he finished. “It’s just snow,” she’d said. “Okay, but be careful,” he’d responded. “Always, dear.” Then she kissed him on the mouth, patted his bottom, and walked out of his life forever. The news came in a phone call from the local police. First came the shock, then the grief, and then the Monday-morning quarterbacking. He should have insisted Rachael let him drive her. He should have done more to protect her. If he had, maybe she would still be here. Maybe the out-of-control delivery truck that hit the black ice would have killed him instead of her, or maybe Travail could have prevented the accident. Spring in North Carolina was supposed to be about new beginnings, not endings, with the dogwoods and azaleas in bloom, but his eyes grew wet from the memories, and he felt a sudden heaviness in his body. He looked at the email again and became resolute. For sure, he would not make the same mistake twice with the people he cared about. He would protect them. But who was behind the email? Whoever wanted sweet vengeance against his friends wanted vengeance against him too, because their pain would be his pain. The question for his lawyer brain—used to solving riddles for years—was: who despised them and him that much? Like an unexpected electric shock, the answer startled him. This email was exactly the kind of plot his nemesis, Robert Elkin, would conjure. If Elkin hurt Harriet, Yeager, and his other close friends, he hurt Travail worse. But wasn’t Elkin no longer a threat? They’d exposed his concealment of the truth about the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence, avoided death at the hands of his father, pushed him out of his Big Law leadership position, and seen to it that the state bar took his law license. Elkin no longer had big-time lawyer power. The only thing he had was anger, resentment, and a low-paying job as a paralegal with a former client, though Travail didn’t know the client’s name or their business. It was a sharp drop from the level of influence that had made the man dangerous, and yet, there was reason to be cautious. Elkin was cunning and would hold a grudge till death do they part. Travail leaned his head back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, and pondered the text again: financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations. Harriet was too smart to get caught up in a financial scam. Not so with Yeager. He was impulsive, likely to jump at the chance to possess something shiny because it might become shinier. Travail pulled an olive-colored sweatshirt over his t-shirt, woke Blue, and took him into the backyard to do his business under the stars. While he waited, Travail glanced across Lost Cove Lake to Harriet’s cottage. He inhaled the fresh night air, and he marveled at the main building’s reflection on the lake’s surface. Harriet’s lights were out. She, an early riser, must be asleep. Seeing Harriet’s peaceful cottage raised a question he’d been pondering. Should he ask her on a date? Carrie Roberts, the Indie Gossip Queen, thought so and often shared her opinion. Most days, it seemed like the right decision not to ask Harriet—or anyone else, for that matter—on a date. Three years wasn’t that long, really, since Rachael died. And yet, here he was, caught in a web he’d spun for himself, trapped somewhere between what he no longer had and the companionship he wanted but resisted. Harriet was his friend. Should he keep it that way? Harriet would most likely turn him down anyway. He was a project, and he knew it, starting with the lesson she’d had to teach him last year that retirement living is not life’s dead end but a fresh path forward. And now, with him being a sixty-six-year-old widower afraid to address his feelings, she’d be quick to beg off. Blue finished up, and the two headed inside. His watch told him it was a new day. He blew out the dwindling flame on the candle and headed to his bedroom, where Blue was already curled up on the end of Travail’s queen-size bed. Wearing only striped boxers and a white cotton t-shirt, Travail pulled the covers up to his chin. With a good night’s sleep, he’d be fresh in the morning to put his effort into stopping Elkin. He still had his law license, after all, and as Yeager would tell him from time to time, “You ain’t dead yet.” He closed his eyes and imagined tying a dry fly rig with two nymphs on a dropper line, the key to catching river trout on and below the surface at the same time. This falling-asleep system was better than counting backward from three hundred by threes. It worked its charm in less than five minutes. Travail didn’t know when he dozed off that the murder train had left the station. He didn’t know when he began to snore that someone had already set the trap for his friends. And he didn’t know when he fell into a deep sleep that when the sun came up, he would ponder, and not for the first time, how he could have been so wrong to believe retirement living would ever be boring or lonely. *** Excerpt from Deadly Gold Rush by Landis Wade. Copyright 2026 by Landis Wade. Reproduced with permission from Landis Wade. All rights reserved.
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About Author Landis Wade:
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Landis Wade is a recovering trial lawyer turned author who writes award-winning mysteries and legal thrillers with a historical bent. His publication credits include six works of fiction, eight non-fiction writing books, many short stories, and a podcast that produced 400 episodes of author interviews and writing discussions. His first novel in his Indie Retirement Mystery series, Deadly Declarations, won ten awards and Kirkus Reviews said of his second in the series, Deadly Gold Rush, that “Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees.” Landis splits his time between Charlotte, Durham, and the North Carolina mountains. He is the recipient of the 2025 Founders Award for service to the Charlotte Writers Club and the literary community.
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