Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

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As much as we may love our families and friends, they
possess the ability to drive us crazy!

The Moldy Orange Bandage:

Playbooks and Short Stories

by Lirio Blanco Show

Genre: Literary Fiction

As much as we may love our families and friends, they
possess the ability to drive us crazy!

In this pair of theatrical playbooks (with a few short
stories as an added bonus), two family-friendly plays for tweens and up
showcase two different dramas.

In The Moldy Oranges, married life between an
American husband and his Latin immigrant wife never proves dull . . .
especially when the mother-in-law lives under the same roof. And then, when
their trusted neighbor requests a mysterious brown bag be hidden in their
closet, it provides the trigger for family secrets, suspicion, and intrigue.
What is in the brown bag? A diary? Stolen jewelry? A secret detonator for a
kitchen stove, perhaps?

Based on the events of Atlanta’s 2014 ice storm, a group of
middle school girls are trapped in their after-school classroom, seemingly
abandoned by the last faculty member, who flees to protect her own family
during the crisis. Three girls and the class bully must learn to cooperate for
survival until help arrives in The Box of Bandages.

From architect/author Lirio Blanco Show, these stories
provide a peek into family life with an in-law, stranded girls struggling to
cope with a bully, as well as a handful of short animal stories . . . some
based on true events, some completely fiction. Who dares to say which is which?

The answers lie within…

Amazon
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(All four adults begin arguing incoherently with one

another. CARMEN begins pacing around the room,

watching with a suspicious look in her eyes. She kneels

down and picks up the oranges, one by one, from the

floor and carefully places them on top of the dining table. Calmly watching the argument as it escalates, she

then glances at the audience and rolls her eyes, sighing

heavily. She picks up a single orange and begins to peel

it, then begins to eat it. After a few bites, CARMEN begins coughing hard, puts her hands on her chest, as her

face begins to turn red. She motions to her throat, trying to signal the others that she’s choking. Suddenly,

CARMEN collapses on the floor and stops moving.

ALEXA turns toward CARMEN with a shocked realization that her daughter is lying on the floor.)

 

ALEXA:

Carmen! (Shrieking) Carmen?

 

(A deep silence overtakes the room, the lights dim, and

a spotlight on CARMEN starts to brighten.)

 

(ALEXA and KIRA kneel down next to CARMEN in

complete silence.)

 

ALEXA:

Mom, is she okay?

 

KIRA:

Oh God, she is alive, but her pulse . . . it’s so weak. She is purple. Oh God! What happened?

 

ALEXA:

(Crying) I don’t know! Mom! What are we going to do?

What are we going to do?

 

(REGINA pushes the two aside and kneels down over

CARMEN.)

 

REGINA:

Get out of my way, you two!

 

DONOFRIO:

Yes, let Regina check Carmen! She’s a nurse!

 

REGINA:

Her face is purple . . . blue . . . She must have eaten or swallowed something that has blocked her airway.

 

DONOFRIO:

But what?

 

(DONOFRIO begins walking, looking around, and notices the orange peels on the table.)

 

DONOFRIO:

She ate oranges! She ate oranges, but how could that

cause her to choke?

 

REGINA:

The seeds! The seeds, Donofrio . . . Come on . . . Help

me lift her. We need to proceed with the Heimlich

maneuver!

 

(DONOFRIO lifts up CARMEN while REGINA supports her from behind and then presses her chest to forcefully eject the seed. REGINA makes several attempts to no avail while ALEXA and KIRA are desperately crying in the background.)

 

REGINA:

Oh no! Oh no, Carmen! This . . . is not your day, sweetie, no . . . Not today. C’mon, Donofrio, lay her on the floor again . . . Come on!

 

(DONOFRIO follows her directions, and REGINA

starts thrusting her fists against CARMEN’s chest, al-

ternating with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After

three attempts, CARMEN starts coughing and spits

out the seeds. All surround her and give a collective

sigh of relief.)

 

CARMEN:

(Still coughing) What happened?

 

REGINA:

If it wasn’t for your little choking scene here, I was about to lay someone ELSE out in this room. Anybody

want to guess who?

 

(REGINA stares down ALEXA, who backs away.)

 

REGINA (CONTD.):

Or why?

 

CARMEN:

(Coughing less) No! No idea . . .

 

REGINA:

Because your mother started talking to me the same

way you talk to each other in this house—with dis-

respect to me and total disregard to my feelings.

That is why . . . and that my girl, that is not going to

happen . . . again!

 

ALEXA:

But Regina . . .

 

REGINA:

Oh no! No, Alexa . . . This time, you . . . and the rest of you . . .

 

(REGINA points accusingly at KIRA and DONOFRIO.)

 

REGINA (CONTD.):

. . . are going to be quiet . . . and listen to what I have to say. Get that child some water.

 

(DONOFRIO nods meekly and fetches a glass of water

for CARMEN, who is still lying on the floor. He kneels

down and gives it to her.)

 

REGINA:

Do you see this girl lying on the floor? She is the victim here! Yes . . . she is.

 

KIRA:

How dare you, Regina, talk to us like that?

 

REGINA:

My question to you, Kira . . . is how dare you talk to

your family the way you do? You talk to neigh-

bors . . . strangers on the street you never laid eyes

on in your life . . . with more respect than you talk to

your family. Why is that?

 

(KIRA tilts her head down meekly, in tears.)

 

REGINA (CONTD.):

I have been visiting this house for more than fifteen

years, and I know more than anybody else the great

love that bonds this family together. You all have

been through hardships and joyful events, but always

bickering about the most miniscule things . . . While

doing so, today, all of you might have lost the most

precious thing in all your lives . . . Carmen, this

sweet girl . . . who never harms anybody, a creature

full of love and innocence.

 

(REGINA pauses briefly, and silence envelopes the  room.)

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Albalis Vargas-Smith, a.k.a. Lirio Blanco Show, is an architect, painter,
muralist, and writer from Panama. She received her undergraduate and graduate
degrees in architecture from Universidad Autonoma de Centroamerica in San Jose,
Costa Rica. In addition, she received a Bachelor degree in Fine Arts from
Auburn University, Montgomery. She has more than twenty years of experience in
architecture, having worked both in Montgomery, Alabama, and the Atlanta area.
She has done theatrical scene and set design as volunteer work for community
theatre groups. Back in July 2016, Albalis went solo as an entrepreneur,
architect, and painter, founding the Vargas-Smith Studio. The reason? To spend
more time with her daughter. In 2020, she decided to finish a series of backburner
short stories and theatrical plays. One of the theatrical plays is presented in
this book. Currently, Albalis lives in Johns Creek, Georgia, with her daughter,
husband, her dog, Toni, and a precious bird, Ruperta.

Website * X * Instagram * TikTok * Etsy * Goodreads

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Welcome to My 31 Days Of Thrills And Chills 2023! I missed doing this the last couple of years due to Covid and so excited to do it again. I’ll be sharing reviews and lots of extra spooky stuff every day leading up to Halloween. I hope you’ll join me!

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Free Computer Seeks photo and picture

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I’m sharing all kinds of books, movies, and other spooky stuff for every day in October. Gots to get those scares on for the 31st!

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 Through The Woods

by Troy Blackford

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13640644

Genre: Horror

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My Review

They look like ordinary cats. Same shapes and sizes. Don’t let that fool you. These little kitties are killers. It only takes some flesh and blood to turn them into monsters. And some fool gives it to them.

What could be more horrific than giving these cats powers. How about being able to turn living things to ash. Or how about mind control? Or consuming a living creature until there’s nothing left?  What makes the scientists think they can make them into lethal weapons and control them?

As you can surmise, things go every which way but the right one and these killer cats get down to business. I found it particularly fun that they can think and plot. The litter of odd cats all have unique abilities. Some that can’t be weaponized and some that can. But the furry critters aren’t cooperative and one in particular has a dastardly agenda all it’s own.

Fur flies. Claws scratch. Teeth gnash. And all out war comes to man. You’ll look at felines in a different way after this story.

 4  STARS

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Synopsis

A secret government research facility set deep in the woods is exploring the possibility of using the strange mental properties of a litter of unusual cats for national defense.

The cats are exploring the possibility of eating everybody.

Amazon

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

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Let’s Not and Sleigh We Did

by J.P. Sterling

(Christmas Shenanigans)

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Publication date: October 25th 2024
Genres: Comedy, Contemporary, Holiday, Romance

Oh, oh, the mistletoe, hung where I did NOT see.
My brother’s friend waits for me and gets down on one knee—What is happening?

Somebody stop it, please!
Oh, those dreamy blue eyes batting at me, and all the words he dares to say.
This is bad.
Like really, really bad.
We’re now planning a wedding day.
But it’s all for a good reason, not love.
Oh, cough, cough, let’s not bust out the L-word.
It’s purely business.
It is a solid plan until it isn’t.
So maybe I love him, but we agreed not to do that . . . whoops!

Let’s Not and Sleigh We Did is a fake marriage of convenience, brother’s best friend, just-kisses-but-all-the-swoons romcom. Oh, yeah, there’s a fluffy cow too!

Goodreads / Amazon

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Enjoy this peek inside:

A ring.

Not just any ring, a rose gold band.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, a little harshly, the ring pulsating in my peripheral vision.

“We talked about this, remember?” Luke’s voice drops, rasping.

“We talked about marriage.” I tilt my head to one side, as if I’m physically dividing this argument in half., “But not this, and not in front of them.”

“You’re being modest.” He laughs, tossing a look back at his parents. “I thought it would be nice to share this moment with them.”

“You did?” my voice squeaks, as I’m totally blindsided and wishing I had at least a heads- up. The arrangement had sounded so much more business casual than what’s going on right now. A proposal on one knee is not business casual. This is my heart in my throat, and I’m about to throw up. “Where did you get a ring?” I hiss.

“I bought it today.”

“Today?” I grapple for my throat, praying something gives before I pass out.

“Yeah, today when I was thinking about you.”

Doing a hard pause on the word, you, he’s still holding the ring awkwardly in his hand. I frantically search his face for signs of a prank, but he doesn’t have an ounce of humor curved into a smile.

He’s one-hundred-percent serious.

Quakes rumble against my rib cage. This is an act. I’m clearly about to blow our cover as I’m acting so confused, but this whole thing is blowing my mind. “This is happening so fast.”

“It’s okay. Better than okay.” He takes my hand in his, holding it in front of him. “Ten years ago, you kissed me on a dare. You didn’t know it at the time, but I was already falling in love with you. You were my first kiss, but I knew in that moment, I wanted you to be my last.”

I blink. Everything about his proposal sounds genuine.

My gaze floats to his mom; her hands clasp together in front of her, but her gaze is piercing in my direction. Luke’s dad has a that’s-my-boy grin laced on his lips.

And Luke!

Luke’s winning an Oscar for his acting. His gaze dials right into mine, like it’s boring a trail through my eyes right to my heart. I can’t even tell it’s a fake proposal, and I one-thousand- percent know it’s fake.

It is fake . . . right?

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About Author J.P. Sterling:

J.P. Sterling grew up watching old reruns of Lucille Ball and Mary Tyler Moore and fell in love with wholesome entertainment and slapstick comedy. She loves leaning into the over-the-top humor and full circle moments, especially if it means the underdog gets to shine.

Aside from writing, she’s also a wife and homeschooling mom, a holistic dietitian, a former college professor and lover of all things dark chocolate.

*No swears. Just kisses. No Blasphemies.*

Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Amazon

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Today Aileen Erin and Rockstar Book Tours
are revealing the cover for INFESTATION, the second book in her YA Romantasy
series book which releases January 21, 2025!

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Check out the awesome cover and
enter the giveaway!

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On to the reveal! 

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INFESTATION (Days Of Iron And Clay #2)

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by Aileen Erin

Pub. Date: January 21, 2025
Publisher: Ink Monster, LLC
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 414

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Find it:
Goodreads, https://books2read.com/INFESTATION-ERIN

Special Preorder Price of $1.99 until release day!

 

SAMANTHA

I never thought I’d willingly walk into Hell again, but I did.

I survived and am back where I belong—at home. But Gabe, my demon-dead friend,
is still missing. And the guilt is crippling me.

While I’m laughing and happy with my boyfriend, Gabe is suffering. While I’m
resting and healing, Gabe is being endlessly tortured. But every plan I come up
with is a suicide mission. And despite what it sometimes looks like,
I’m not ready to die.

So, when my werewolf friends ask me to help their pack with a problem, there’s
no way I can say no—even if I’m not ready to jump into another fight. There’s a
mysterious evil the werewolves can’t track, and they need me to help them kill
it.

It’s the perfect distraction. The only problem? Phoenix, a mortal, wants to
go with me.

Even though he’s proven he can handle the supernatural, I can’t help but think
nothing good can come from him getting an even better glimpse of how not normal
my work life is. But I can’t say no to him; all I can do is pray
Phoenix is still by my side when this is over.

PHOENIX

My life pre-Samantha was turmoil. Soccer career, over. Family life, devastated
after the loss of my grandmother. Dating? Laughable. Every relationship fell
apart because the door in my heart had been shut tight. I was unknowingly
holding out for the one girl who had completely changed my world.

Samantha is it for me; my heart knew it before I did. I’d go anywhere as
long as it’s with her.

But her guardian angel, Eli, said something to me that makes me think something
truly terrible will happen to Samantha. And I’m not about to let that
happen. I’ll do anything to keep her safe.

 

Tropes:

 

Good v. Evil

Found Family

Angels & Demons

Slow Burn Romance

YA Dark Fantasy

 

Enjoy this peek inside:

(The morning after the events of INVOCATION. Samantha is just waking up, and
spots her mom sitting in a chair beside her bed…)

 

I started to say something, but she put her finger over her
mouth and pointed.

I looked down, and there was someone laying at the foot of my
bed.

Wait. Not just someone. Phoenix was sleeping
curled up at my feet.

So, he really had been here last night. He’d stayed.

I was confused. And excited. And thankful. Then again,
confused. Truly. Why would he have stayed?

When I thought about it, I barely knew him. That was the
logical part of me. But the rest—the emotional, spiritual, soul part of me—felt
like this was right. That I knew him and that of course he
should be here. Because where else would he be?

But that made exactly zero sense. And yet, here he was.

I glanced at Mom in question, but she just shrugged. As if
that explained everything, but it really didn’t explain anything at all. I
needed actual words. A hand gesture. Something. Anything.

Phoenix was still in the pack’s standard joggers and T-shirt,
which triggered more of the memory from last night. He’d been there when I woke
up earlier from the nightmare. I’d gotten dressed, and he’d been in the
kitchen. He’d cooked for me. Fed me.

I didn’t have any memory of how or when I’d ended up back
here in this bed, but I must’ve been carried back upstairs. Mom couldn’t have
done that. Or Frank. One of the werewolves could’ve but they’d been gone. I
didn’t remember Eli being there either.

That left Phoenix.

He’d carried me?

Oh man. A foggy memory hit me, and I cringed. He totally had carried me up
here, and I’d grabbed him and begged him to stay like some massive clinger.

Way to just show him all the ugly bits in one go, Samantha.

Of course he stayed. I’d guilted him into it. What a
nightmare.

His long legs were tucked in tight as he slept, but his feet
still hung off the edge. It was almost as if he didn’t want to risk touching me
and waking me up. And yet, he had one arm reaching out to me, lightly gripping
my ankle.

He looked younger when he was asleep, but no less fierce or
handsome. The short-sleeves of his shirt had ridden up on one side, displaying
more of his tattoos. They took up more of his arms than I’d thought, and I
wanted to get a closer look, to run my fingers over them, to ask what they
meant, but that could wait. I didn’t want to wake him up.

I glanced at Mom, and she gave me a barely-there smile, as if
she were holding back whatever she was thinking about him. That was a first.
Mom was never shy about her feelings. She had to be hiding something, but from
the way her smile quirked up as I stared at her, I knew she wasn’t going to
spill anytime soon.

 

 

About Author Aileen Erin:

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Aileen Erin
is half – Irish, half – Mexican, and 100% nerd—from Star Wars (prequels don’t
count) to Star Trek (TNG FTW), she reads Quenya and some Sindarin, and has a
severe fascination with the supernatural. Aileen has a BS in Radio-TV-Film from
the University of Texas at Austin, and an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from
Seton Hill University. She lives with her family in Texas, and spends her days
doing her favorite things: reading books, creating worlds, and kicking ass.

Sign up for
Ink Monster’s newsletter!

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Giveaway Details:

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Welcome to My 31 Days Of Thrills And Chills 2023! I missed doing this the last couple of years due to Covid and so excited to do it again. I’ll be sharing reviews and lots of extra spooky stuff every day leading up to Halloween. I hope you’ll join me!

.

Free Computer Seeks photo and picture

.

I’m sharing all kinds of books, movies, and other spooky stuff for every day in October. Gots to get those scares on for the 31st!

~~~~~

 A World Of Horror

Edited by Eric J. Guignard

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Genre: Horror / Anthology

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MY REVIEW

Eenie meenie miney mo. Which was my favorite. It’s like Lays Potato Chips. I can’t choose just one. I loved this anthology.

Look at all of those authors. I’m always excited to find new ones in my favorite genre. And I really enjoy anthologies. I got nibbles from each author and got a taste of their writing. So many of these wowed me. There’s something for everyone who loves horror.

The stories have global settings and the things that go bump or chomp in the night are limitless. So much horror. So much suspense. This is an excellent collection.

5 STARS

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Synopsis

Every nation of the globe has unique tales to tell, whispers that settle in through the land, creatures or superstitions that enliven the night, but rarely do readers get to experience such a diversity of these voices in one place as in A World of Horror, the latest anthology book created by award-winning editor Eric J. Guignard, and beautifully illustrated by artist Steve Lines.

Enclosed within these pages are twenty-two all-new dark and speculative fiction stories written by authors from around the world that explore the myths and monsters, fables and fears of their homelands.

Encounter the haunting things that stalk those radioactive forests outside Chernobyl in Ukraine; sample the curious dishes one may eat in Canada; beware the veldt monster that mirrors yourself in Uganda; or simply battle mountain trolls alongside Alfred Nobel in Sweden. These stories and more are found within A World of Horror Enter and discover, truly, there’s no place on the planet devoid of frights, thrills, and wondrous imagination!

Table of Contents includes:

“Introduction: Diversity in Fiction” by Eric J. Guignard
“Mutshidzi” by Mohale Mashigo (South Africa)
“One Last Wayang” by L Chan (Singapore)
“Things I Do For Love” by Nadia Bulkin (Indonesia)
“On a Wooden Plate, On a Winter’s Night” by David Nickle (Canada)
“Country Boy” by Billie Sue Mosiman (United States of America)
“The Wife Who Didn’t Eat” by Thersa Matsuura (Japan)
“The Disappeared” by Kristine Ong Muslim (Philippines)
“The Secret Life of the Unclaimed” by Suyi Davies Okungbowa (Nigeria)
“How Alfred Nobel Got His Mojo” by Johannes Pinter (Sweden)
“Sick Cats in Small Spaces” by Kaaron Warren (Australia)
“Obibi” by Dilman Dila (Uganda)
“The Nightmare” by Rhea Daniel (India)
“Chemirocha” by Charlie Human (South Africa)
“Honey” by Valya Dudycz Lupescu (Ukraine)
“Warning: Flammable, See Back Label” by Marcia Douglas (Jamaica)
“Arlecchino” by Carla Negrini (Italy)
“The Man at Table Nine” by Ray Cluley (England)
“The Mantle of Flesh” by Ashlee Scheuerman (Australia)
“The Shadows of Saint Urban” by Claudio Foti (Italy)
“Warashi’s Grip” by Yukimi Ogawa (Japan)
“The White Monkey” by Carlos Orsi (Brazil)
“The West Wind” by David McGroarty (Scotland)

Amazon

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

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Death in St. George's by M. A. Monnin Banner

DEATH IN ST. GEORGE’S
by M. A. Monnin
July 29 – August 23, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
The Intrepid Traveler Mystery series

  When Stefanie and Thomas meet in Bermuda for time alone away from the demands of the Artifact Retrieval Team that Thomas heads, their romantic rendezvous is waylaid after an archaeologist requests their help to recover an emerald bracelet that’s been stolen from his site. Thomas is reluctant, but Stefanie can’t resist the lure of buried Spanish treasure. Then one of the archaeologists is murdered, and they find themselves on the suspect list. Spanish gold isn’t the only thing uncovered. Secrets can be deadly, and Stefanie and Thomas must find the killer before it’s too late.

Praise for Death in St. George’s:

“Monnin’s story has echoes of Agatha Christie’s work, making the most of a large group of suspects and red herrings galore.” ~ Kirkus Reviews

Death in St. George’s, the third in M. A. Monnin’s Intrepid Traveler Mystery series, will treat readers to the sensory pleasures of the subtropics while dipping their toes in danger. Monnin’s writing is as crisp and sensual as fresh ironed linen. Readers are in for a delight and will hop on board wherever Stefanie travels.” ~ Sara E. Johnson, Author of the Alexa Glock Forensics Mysteries

“What a treat! Memorable characters, a tropical setting, and intricate plotting. A binge-worthy read!” ~ Joan Long, Agatha Award-nominated author of THE FINALIST

“A charming mystery with twists I didn’t see coming, Death in St. George’s is a treasure in itself.” ~ Jules Parker, Wild Rose Press author

“A contemporary cozy with the timeless charm of a classic whodunnit, Death in St. George’s feels like a refreshing rum swizzle on a warm Bermuda evening. Archaeology and mystery buffs alike will root for Stephanie and Thomas as they unravel two intertwined mysteries—one archaeological, one modern.” ~ Megaera Lorenz, author of The Shabti

“Murder, romance, a splendid setting, engaging characters, buried treasure… M.A. Monnin’s latest mystery has them all, and may just be her best and most engrossing novel yet.” ~ Tom Mead, author of Death and the Conjuror and The Murder Wheel

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: May 14, 2024 Number of Pages: 264 ISBN: 9781685126483 (ISBN10: 1685126480) Series: An Intrepid Traveler Mystery Series, Book 3

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Enjoy this peek inside:
Chapter 1
“I don’t believe you’re the kind of woman who craves peace and quiet,” Thomas said, holding Stefanie’s hand in the back seat of the taxi. His handsome face melted her heart yet again. She drank in the welcome sight of him, from the strong jaw beneath the stubble of a beard to his chestnut brown hair. The sun-bleached streaks she’d teased him about in Greece would return after a week in Bermuda, she’d bet.

Having arrived in Bermuda earlier in the day, she’d met him at the airport, and they were on the way to rent a car in the Town of St. George.

“A week alone sounds blissful to me,” she countered. “No trying to discover who ran us off the road in Crete or chasing after Borgia Peacocks in Venice.” And no former girlfriends, she thought. But she’d learned enough to not say that aloud. “No calls from René.”

“René knows that I am not taking his calls for a full week,” Thomas said.

René Renault, his boss, and therefore ultimately hers at Interpol’s Cultural Heritage division, didn’t willingly recognize personal time. Thomas, as the head of Interpol’s Artifact Retrieval Team—ART for short—could dictate his own projects. So far their time together had been a non-stop whirlwind of undercover investigation in an effort to reclaim stolen objects that had been reported to Interpol. A little downtime was in order. “We could lock our cell phones in our suitcases until next Monday,” she suggested. He smiled. “Is that really what you want?” What she really wanted was to decide on their future living situation. There was no question that they would be together. But would she move in with him at his place in Munich? Or keep her apartment in St. Louis and fly to Europe when she couldn’t bear to be apart from him any longer? Asking so soon might go to his head, and she couldn’t have that. The taxi driver took a sharp curve a little too fast, then swung in to avoid a red scooter speeding from the opposite direction whose driver drove as though both lanes were his. Stefanie shared a smile with Thomas as they listed from one side to the other with the motion of the taxi. “I suppose we need the phones to look up places to explore,” she said. “And I need photos for my travel blog.” That reminded her to take in the sights, something other than Thomas. She tore her gaze away from him, but kept her hand in his. The streets of St. George’s were narrow, barely wide enough for two lanes, and in some places, not even wide enough for that. Low garden walls butted right up against the road. Sidewalks, where they existed at all, fit snugly between the road and the series of one- and two-storied houses. Most of the houses were small and compact, as if hunkered down for impending storms. “These buildings have been here since the 1690s or early 1700s,” she said, charmed by their low profiles and the wooden shutters that adorned nearly every structure. In no time at all, the taxi driver pulled up to the car rental. As he paid the driver, Thomas’s face blanked in disbelief at the tiny electric cars lined up for rent. “The bigger cars must be in back,” he said, taking his black leather bag, his only piece of luggage, out of the open Ford trunk. The taxi driver grinned. “Not in Bermuda. It’s the law. Tourists can only rent scooters or electric cars.” Still grinning, he gave Thomas a business card. “Call me if you want me to take you anywhere.” When Thomas’s gaze brightened on the row of scooters,Stefanie protested. “No scooters,” she insisted. “I’ve seen how people drive here. Driving on the left will be challenging enough.” “No problem,” Thomas said. “I’ve driven in England.” He bypassed the Twizy models, which had a single seat in front and a single seat in back. “I want you at my side,” he said. “Not behind me.” “Or you behind me,” she countered. His mouth quirked up. “That would not happen.” Oh, how she missed the little games they played. It had only been a week since they’d parted at the Milan airport, but those seven days felt like a year. After inspecting several small, square Italian Tazzaris, which had two front seats, Thomas grudgingly chose one in red. “I didn’t think I’d be driving a toy car,” he said as they folded themselves into the Tazzari. She laughed. “Admit it, you’ve always wanted a red Italian car.” She buckled her seatbelt with difficulty due to his leather duffle on her lap, which was too large to cram into the minuscule storage space behind their seats. Resting her arms across the duffle, she entered their address into the GPS on her phone. “We’re lucky Greg wasn’t using his house this week. A whole house to ourselves is so much nicer than even the best hotel.” Her former bank client, Greg Edwards, had often urged her to stay at the house whenever she wanted. Greg, the dedicated owner of Riverboat Rum based in St. Louis, only made it to Bermuda occasionally. Usually when corporate finances and Bermudian law dictated. The bungalow stood on a cliff on the outskirts of the historic Town of St. George. Painted peach, the two-bedroom cottage had an intimate covered patio at the rear that faced the glassy Atlantic—a perfect place to write her travel blog and enjoy the sun. Thomas’s claim about driving on the left was justified. He had no problem acclimating, and in short order, they’d gone the less than a mile to Greg’s house. After changing into swimsuits to lounge in the warm Bermuda sunshine, Thomas poured them each a glass of pinot grigio, and they settled onto the chaise lounges in the backyard. The smoky scent of a neighbor’s wood fire mixed pleasantly with the tang of sea air. Stefanie glanced around the yard and patio for a fire pit they could use but didn’t see one. “Bermuda is more colorful than I expected.” Thomas’s gaze went from the low wall painted to match the peach house color to the neighboring bright blue cottage beyond, with its white stepped stone roof. He shifted his gaze from the neighbor’s house to her. “The view is stunning.” She smiled and set her wine on the small metal table between them. “Just you and me,” Thomas said. “Alone.” “Alone,” she agreed. “With our peace and quiet. But you never know,” she teased, “maybe it was the adventure that drew us together.” Swinging his legs off the chaise lounge, he sat up with his feet planted firmly in the grass and took her hand. “Is that all?” No, but Thomas found the excitement of the chase irresistible. She smiled as he massaged her palm with his thumb, but didn’t move closer to make it easier for him. Keeping him on his toes was delightfully entertaining, something that he enjoyed as much as she did. “Where should we go tomorrow? A boat tour to spot sea turtles?” she asked. Still holding her hand, he said, “Let’s go snorkeling. Tobacco Bay. The fish and coral there are supposed to be worth seeing.” “I’ve never been snorkeling,” she admitted. “I planned to try it in Crete, but there wasn’t time. Have you?” “At the Great Barrier Reef.” Australia. That didn’t surprise her. As the son of the owner of Germany’s largest publishing firm, he’d probably gone all over the world and done all kinds of activities that she’d never tried. Never tried because she’d dedicated all her time to working at Markham-Briggs Bank. That wasn’t happening anymore. “There’s nothing to it,” Thomas said. “You’ll love it. And after we’ve done Tobacco Bay, we’ll snorkel above shipwrecks. Bermuda is surrounded by them. Until then,” he said, “I want you all to myself.” She gave in and swung around to a sitting position facing him. Bending forward, she lifted her lips toward his, stopping a breath away. “You have me.” A discreet throat-clearing intruded on their moment. It came from the direction of the blue house next door. Reluctantly, Stefanie pulled back. On the other side of the peach-colored wall, a thin man of about five foot eight or nine, tanned and with receding blond hair, peered at them from between two large palm trees. He’d changed from the sweat-stained blue polo and dusty dark grey knee-length shorts he’d worn when she’d met him two hours before and was dressed as colorfully as the houses in a pastel plaid shirt above coral Bermuda shorts. Stefanie hid her disappointment. “It’s Jeffrey Fitzsimmons,” she said in a low voice. “I picked up the keys from him when I got here this afternoon.” She scooted further back on the chaise lounge and slipped her arms through her linen cover-up. Chatting with neighbors while dressed only in a skimpy bikini put her at a disadvantage. “Good afternoon,” Jeffrey called to them. “Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt.” Thomas observed him without replying. “Good afternoon,” Stefanie called back as she stood up. Greg had cautioned her about always including a polite greeting when she visited Bermuda. “The locals are sticklers about common courtesy,” she told Thomas. “We’ll be outcasts if we forget that.” “Always the customer service vice president,” he remarked. “If I’d gotten that promotion,” she said, “we never would have met.” He leaned in and kissed her. “A tragedy averted.” She smiled, then glanced at the neighbor. “Jeffrey’s the kind who likes to talk. I had to make excuses so I could meet you at the airport in time. Luckily, the taxi was waiting.” She gave Thomas’s bicep a gentle squeeze. “We don’t want to get on his bad side. We might want to use this house as a getaway again.” “Neutral territory?” he asked. “Conveniently located between the U.S. and Europe?” “Something like that,” she said, then turned back to Jeffrey. The neighbor indicated the wall that separated the properties. “May I?” “Yes, of course,” Stefanie answered. Jeffrey stepped over the wall. He’d come prepared, bringing his own bottle of beer. There were only two chaise lounges, but two metal chairs at a small table against the house were available. Stefanie gestured toward them. She and Thomas dragged their lounges around to face the patio rather than the ocean. “Welcome to Bermuda,” Jeffrey said to Thomas. Thomas must have worried that the neighbor was settling in for an evening of conversation. “Thank you,” he replied. “We’ll be trying your local cuisine at dinner soon.” “Here on St. George’s Island? I can recommend places,” Jeffrey offered as he pulled out a pink metal chair. “The Wahoo Bistro has fantastic fish.” “Hamilton,” Thomas said, mentioning Bermuda’s capital city on the main island. Jeffrey nodded. “More nightlife there.” Thomas pointed a finger at Stefanie’s empty wine glass. “Another?” “Yes, please.” She turned back to the neighbor. “Do you live here yearround, or part-time, like Greg?” “Year round,” Jeffrey said. “I’m with the National Museum of Bermuda. The lead archaeologist.” “Are you?” She perked up. “Thomas has a degree in archaeology, and I once interned at a dig on Crete. I didn’t go into archaeology as a career, though.” “Oh, I know you’re in banking,” Jeffrey said. “Greg’s told me all about you.” Thomas caught that last piece of info as he returned with the half-empty bottle of pinot grigio. “Has he?” Thomas asked, filling Stefanie’s glass. She was surprised at that news, too, but didn’t clarify that she wasn’t in banking anymore. Her work with ART was confidential. “Yes.” Jeffrey turned back to Stefanie. “Greg told me about your involvement with the Akrotiri Snake Goddess in Greece.” Stefanie and Thomas exchanged glances. She hadn’t mentioned her part in it to any of her former colleagues at Markham-Briggs. In fact, other than those directly involved, she hadn’t even talked to anyone about the theft of the Akrotiri Snake Goddess. That had been left to the news media and whatever details the Greek police gave out. Thomas never boasted about his accomplishments. It was counterproductive to future cases. “Jeffrey’s an archaeologist here in Bermuda,” she told Thomas. The neighbor leaned forward, beer bottle in hand, elbows on knobby knees. “I’m hoping you can help me.” So he’d had something specific in mind when she brushed him off to get to the airport. With that news, Thomas seemed even less receptive to the intrusion. He concentrated on pouring wine into his own glass. “Yes?” Jeffrey gave him a brief smile but focused on Stefanie. “It’s your help I want.” Stefanie and Thomas exchanged another look, one of surprise that time and amusement. Thomas had put in the major investigative work in their endeavors. She’d simply used the customer service skills she’d learned at Markham-Briggs Bank to her advantage. Yet Jeffrey approached them because of her reputation, rather than Thomas’s stellar career. One point to her. His eyes bright with humor, Thomas lowered himself onto the chaise lounge. Sipping his wine, he let her have the spotlight. “My help?” Stefanie asked. “I’m not in banking anymore.” “Greg says you’re known for your discretion.” Jeffrey leaned even further towards them, sitting on the edge of his seat. “And from your time at the bank, that you have an eye for potential trouble.” You never knew what people would remember. She’d entertained Greg once with a description of what she noted about each person when they entered the bank, watching for signs of potential robbery. Thomas’s grey-blue eyes sharpened. “Something has disappeared from the site I’m working on.” Jeffrey spoke in hushed tones despite the fact that they were in the backyard, with the Atlantic on one side and empty yards on the others. “The theft hasn’t been reported yet, and we—I,” he emphasized, “hope it can be recovered before anyone has to know that it’s missing.” She peered at Jeffrey. He’d gotten awfully close to their actual jobs. Disconcertingly close. “I’m not sure how discretion and an eye for potential trouble will help after the fact,” she said. Thomas was leery, too. “Why didn’t you report the theft?” “The homeowners didn’t want the publicity if it could be avoided. I went along with that to protect our reputations.” Jeffrey’s gaze darted between Stefanie and Thomas. “If we don’t get it back, our professional reputations are shot. Each one of us working the site.” “What kind of site?” Thomas asked. “It’s on privately owned land. There’s a garden renovation going on at Carmichael House here on St. George’s,” Jefferey said. “The owner, Marlene Carmichael, our Minister of Economy and Labor, wants to make it a showplace. When a dead tree in the existing garden was removed, a small chest was exposed under the roots. That prompted a call for an archaeological assessment of the area to see if anything else was buried in the vicinity.” “A chest?” Stefanie asked, giddy as a child with an unwrapped present as she pictured a metal-strapped wooden treasure chest filled with gold and jewels. Jeffrey held his hands about ten inches apart. “A small one. Brass and steel.” She cocked her head. “What was in it?” A short laugh escaped Jeffrey’s lips. “Nothing.” Thomas raised his eyebrows at that. “Any idea how it ended up here?” Jeffrey sat back. “Most likely a Spanish shipwreck in the mid to late 1500s. Spanish and Portuguese sailors occasionally washed up on Bermuda before the Sea Venture wrecked in 1609 and we British settled here. We believe the ship this chest came from was on its way from Cartagena to Spain.” An exciting find. But the chest was empty. That was disappointing. And now it was missing. Having a reputation for discretion was nice, but the investigation should be carried out by the authorities, not two vacationers with few resources. “I’m a travel blogger now, and Thomas is an assistant professor of archaeology,” she said, using their completely legitimate cover occupations. “What you’re describing sounds like a job for the police.” Thomas agreed. Jeffrey’s brows drew together, disappointment written in every line of his features. “We can’t have another Tucker’s Cross. We can’t.” A spark of excitement flickered deep within Stefanie’s chest. She’d read the story of Tucker’s Cross in the guidebook she’d brought on the flight from the States. “The emerald and gold cross that was recovered from the San Pedro,” she said. “Replaced with a forgery, which was discovered just in time for Queen Elizabeth’s visit in 1975.” Thomas set his wine glass on the table. “Stolen.” “When the archaeological record gets lost, the whole island loses. It can’t happen again,” Jeffrey said, his voice rising in desperation. “It can’t.” Surely that emotion on his face wasn’t for a small brass chest, even one that was 450 years old. Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “It isn’t the chest that’s missing, is it?” *** Excerpt from Death in St. George’s by M. A. Monnin. Copyright 2024 by M. A. Monnin. Reproduced with permission from M. A. Monnin. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author M. A. Monnin:

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M. A. Monnin

M. A. Monnin is the author of the Intrepid Traveler Mystery series, including Agatha Best First Novel finalist DEATH IN THE AEGEAN. Her 3rd in the series, DEATH IN ST. GEORGE’S, came out May 2024. She also writes the St. Killian, PI and the Hawk Hathaway, Time Traveling Troubleshooter short stories. Mary’s short stories have appeared in Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, and numerous anthologies. A member of ITW, MWA, SinC, and SMFS, an avocational archaeologist and USAF veteran, Mary is a trustee of the Kansas City Archaeological Society and treasurer of Mid-America Romance Authors. She lives in Kansas City, MO.

Find M. A. Monnin at: www.mamonnin.com www.CuratorsofCrime.com Goodreads BookBub – @monninma Instagram – @m.a.monnin Twitter/X – @mamonnin1 Facebook – @MAMonnin

 

 

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Broken Fortune

by Aly Mennuti

 

Publication date: July 16th 2024
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Women’s Fiction

Broken Fortune explores the unraveling of a wealthy, blended family forced to reconsider their future together as their world falls apart around them.

Elizabeth Sunderland—a forty-three-year-old wife and mother of two teenagers—is the oldest of five children in a blended family that never quite blended. The only thing that has held them together is the iron will of their wealthy parents: Benjamin Sunderland, a venture capitalist, and Kate Bernard, a partner of a hedge fund. Together, Benjamin and Kate create and rule over a Manhattan dynasty of which their children each bear their own unique scars.

Elizabeth has been trying to keep the family together since she was ten years old, hoping to convince everyone they have more in common than just their fortune. This stance will be put to the ultimate test when Kate dies with one final request: that the family travel together to the island of St. John and spread her ashes in the ocean. However, Kate’s plan to fix the family will involve more than just a family trip to the sea.

As the hidden secrets and quiet betrayals built up over thirty years begin to ripple and crash like the ocean surrounding the sinking family, Elizabeth not only faces each of her sibling’s personal inflection points—moments that could lead to reconciliation or ruin—but she has to face her own demons that have laid dormant. What happens next will shock Elizabeth into recognizing a reality she had no idea existed.

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Enjoy this peek inside:

“How much money did you get?” Paul drops in, trying not to seem as outright aggressive as my other siblings but still trying to ferret out the information.

“It was nothing,” I say, trying to shut this conversation down.

“Oh, it wasn’t nothing,” Benjamin says. “It was over five million dollars.”

Everyone at the table looks ready to either spill their drink, fall off their chair, or turn me upside down to try and shake the five million out of my pockets.

“Can I have some?” Winnie says, shifting her attention for the first time this evening from my father to me.

“No,” Benjamin says sternly to Winnie. “Your mother is giving that back.”

“What about,” Paul says, daring to get between Benjamin and his money, “if you give us all five million dollars, so Lizzie doesn’t feel so alone. I mean…I’m sure my mother left something for all of us and Lizzie’s just came through first.”

“No,” Benjamin says. “Lizzie won’t feel alone when I have it back. Because none of you are getting any extra money. Everything that was Kate’s is now mine. That’s what we decided. And upon my death—which should be noted, won’t be happening anytime soon—you will all receive the entire inheritance split into five.”

“Wait,” Paul says, clearly upset. “Wait. She’s our mother. Mine. I’m her son. I mean, no offense to your kids Benjamin, but me…and Julian, we should get something now. Not have to wait until you die. You’re not my father.”

Paul’s words visibly cut through Benjamin, like an unexpected knife in the back. Even I can’t help but wince on his behalf—considering he’s spent the last thirty-three years trying to convince Paul he’s a reasonable, viable father. Meanwhile, he’s made not one corresponding overture in my direction, relegating me to the status of just an afterthought that will always linger…

About Author Aly Mennuti:

Aly Mennuti has always had two passions: philanthropy and literature. She satisfies one of those by being an executive at an international nonprofit consulting firm and has helped a diverse range of high-profile clients reach their philanthropic goals. However, she’s always had a desire to express herself creatively and carve out her own role as a writer in a writing family. Finally, in her forties (and with two children hitting their teens and deciding Mom is really uncool and not needed to hang out with anymore) she has the time and headspace to tell her own stories. She lives in Washington, DC, with her husband, Nicholas Mennuti, a novelist and screenwriter, their two children, Charlie and Lilly, and their eccentric Goldendoodle, Barry.

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It’s a romp in the swamp!

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Bill’s Cajun House of Pleasure

by Alan Lampe

Genre: Historical Fiction

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It’s a romp in the swamp of historic proportions!

Eager young reporter Jimmie Rains is assigned to write an exposé on the treatment of elderly residents of Our Lady of Sorrows Nursing Home. He soon finds that all the residents speak in awe and hushed tones of the life led by legendary fellow resident Bill Valencourt.

As a teenager, Bill was sent to work for his cranky and demanding uncle who ran a bordello on the edge of the swamp. His girlfriend, Anne Marie, was less than happy with this arrangement. As the granddaughter of the famous swamp witch Marie Laveau, she believes her magic is strong enough to keep Bill from straying. She seduces him, believing the taking of his virginity will bind him to her for all time.

When his uncle is murdered by the wife of an angry patron, Bill’s destiny is irrevocably changed, leaving him the new owner of the cathouse and setting him on the path to both riches and ruin. When he falls in love with one of his girls—the beautiful and curvaceous Ariel—Anne Marie vows revenge.

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Six chimes in descending tone came out of the radio, followed by a baritone voice.  “And now WFUX-AM 690 proudly presents the News of Louisiana with Rich Bastards.”

“Good evening Louisiana, this is WFUX-AM 690 and I’m Rich Bastards.” The new voice purred out of the radio speaker.  “Today, I have the esteem privilege of interviewing Governor Earl Long.  He’s taking a little break from the campaign trail to speak with me this evening.  Governor Long, welcome to the News of Louisiana.”

“Why thank you there, Mr. … uh Bastards, or do you prefer Rich?”

“Please governor, I’m a simple man.  Rich Bastards will be fine. Now then,” a shuffling of papers could be heard coming from the radio, “according to this here report from your campaign office, you are funneling funds to Arkansas farmers for undisclosed reasons.  Would you care to explain those reasons?”

“What?” Governor Long was bewildered.

“Your campaign office told us you are funneling funds to the farmers in Arkansas.  I’m sure your constituents would love to know why.”

“What are you talking about?  I’m not funneling funds to the Arkansas farmers.”

“Ah ha!” Rich Bastards pounced. “So you are funneling funds somewhere, just not to the northern hillbillies. Now let’s see, where could you be funneling the funds to?”

“I’m not funneling any funds to anywhere, Rich Bastards!”

“Your campaign office swears you are, Governor Long. If you’re not funneling funds to the northern hillbillies, you’ve got to be funneling them somewhere. Is it Mississippi? No, wait; they wouldn’t know what to do with the funds even if you were funneling it to them.  Lord knows they don’t spend any money on education.  Why hell, they’d probably think the greenback is some sort of mutilated, or mutant spinach plant.  So that just leaves Texas.”

“This is preposterous, man.  I’m not funneling funds to any of the bordering states!”

“But your campaign office says you are right here on this piece of paper.”  A rustling of paper followed the statement.

“Let me see that paper.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Governor, but a good reporter never reveals his sources.”

“But you’re not a good reporter!  You’re just spewing conjecture.”

“Spewing conjecture!”  Rich Bastards was bewildered.  “I’ll have you know I have never spewed anything in my adult life.  Although the étouffée at this past Mardi Gras almost came back up.  But I swear on my grand pappy’s grave that I haven’t spewed since I was a baby.”

“It’s all a lie.  I’m not funneling funds anywhere,” said the governor.

The radio went silent for a moment before Rich Bastards spoke again.  “So you’re laundering the money.  Can you believe it Louisiana?  Our own governor right here and now just admitted to laundering money in Texas.”

“I did no such thing.  You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Oh come now, governor.  You deny laundering money with the northern hillbillies and the uneducated Mississippians, but you never denied laundering the good clean money of Louisiana through the oil soaked hands of the Texans.”

“I deny that right now.  I’m not funneling funds or laundering money to any of the neighboring states.  And that’s the truth.”

Rich Bastards paused again and then continued the interview.  “Well then, I guess that settles it.  You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen, Governor Long is embezzling funds through off shore accounts.”

“What?!” Governor Long was beside himself.

“Oh sure, you denied the funneling of funds and the laundering of money, but you never denied embezzling funds.”

“This is utter nonsense!  I am not doing anything illegal with my campaign.  All of my funds are accounted for and verified.  I’m not a crook!”

“Oh come now governor, you’re a politician.  And as all Louisianan’s know, all politicians are crooks.  I’m confident the books you would provide for us to look at would be as fake as a… a Honus Wagner baseball card.”

“Honus Wagner!  What the hell does he have to do with this?  He has a real baseball card, you know.”

“Honus Wagner has a real baseball card!  You’re saying someone with a name like Honus is in the same league as Babe Ruth, Roy Campanella, Ted Williams and Bobby Doerr.  Now that’s preposterous Governor Long.  But let’s not change the subject.  Which nefarious enterprise are you supporting through your campaign funds?”

“For the last time, I am running a clean campaign.  I am not funneling funds.  I am not laundering money.  I am not embezzling.”

Rich Bastards was silent for a moment.  “Well that just leaves extortion.  Why Governor Long, I am shocked, yes shocked to see that a fine upstanding political figure like yourself is extorting funds from the less educated Mississippians for your own sick pleasure.”

“A minute you go you called me a crook and now you’re calling me a fine upstanding political figure.  Listen Rich Bastards, I am doing nothing illegal with my campaign.  It is all legit.  The great people of Louisiana know my record and know I’m an honest man.”

“That’s what every politician says right before they get caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  You’re brewing up some shifty gumbo that you hope the people of Louisiana will swallow, aren’t you?”

“Is there no end to you and mad ramblings?  I’m through with you and this interview.”  The sound of chair scraping along the floor could be heard, then the governor spoke again, but his voice wasn’t as audible as before.  “I have to go find out who the hell told me that talking to Rich Bastards would be a good thing and fire him.”

“Fellow Louisianan’s, the governor has gotten out of his chair and is leaving the booth.”  Rich Bastards raised his voice and continued, “Go ahead governor and leave.  You’re not the first guest to ignore the questions of Rich Bastards.  We know you’re a crook.  You’re whole campaign office says so right here on this piece of paper!”  A shuffling of papers came through the speaker.  “Wait, where is that piece of paper?  It was right here on my desk.  Did that kid from the Times-Picayune sneak in here while the governor as leaving and steal my paper?”  More shuffling of papers could be heard across the airwaves.  “I swear to you folks, I just had a piece of paper from Governor Long’s campaign office in my hand, and now it is gone.  Hell, there goes the credibility of this whole interview, with no facts to back it up now.    But don’t you worry, Louisiana, Rich Bastards wont’ stop until the truth is revealed. This is Rich Bastards for WFUX-AM 690 signing off.”

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I recall the beginning of Isaac Asimov’s biography in his Foundation books where it says he “was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He moved quickly to correct situation.” At the age of three, he stowed away in his parent’s baggage when they emigrated to the United States.

To many people’s surprise, I was born in Connecticut. I don’t have grand or fond memories of my time there. My family moved to Arkansas six months after my birth. I grew up a southern boy and enjoyed writing from an early age. The earliest recollection I have of writing for pleasure is a second grade writing contest. I placed second. I can’t remember if the contest was school wide or district wide, but I do remember where I finished. The prompt was “If you were stuck on a deserted island, what would you bring with you.” I wrote a fine masterpiece, one I’m sure the Smithsonian will treasure for years when they obtain it. My composition related how I would take a magic book with me and use it to conjure up the necessities and a flying carpet to leave the island. Welcome to the world of my writing.

I continued to write stories throughout junior high and high school. I wrote a science fiction series in colored magic marker, where each character was represented by a different color. Even at that young age, I found a way to remove the unnecessary tags. I believe there are over a dozen twenty-page stories in that series. I wrote a couple of science fiction trilogies, one included a comical slant. I even designed a worksheet with the mysteries of Dr. Investigator for my little sister to solve. Like a good author, I kept all these treasures. Maybe one day I’ll revise them and share them with you.

I entered the Air Force after high school and journaled my experience. On the last Sunday of basic training, at the church services, your flight is allowed to say a few words. I wrote a poem for my flight. It was read by another flight member. I still have those journals and interesting stories abound within them.

After the Air Force I continued to improve my craft. I wrote a novella and published it monthly in the newsletter of my local Society for Creative Anachronism group. That, as well as the work I did on the newsletter itself, allowed me get my Award of Arms, a lordship, within the SCA.

In the late 1990’s and early 2000’s I focused on poetry. During this time I lived in the Dallas / Fort Worth area. Teen drug overdoses were frequent and my poems drifted to telling their story. I have a poem in each of the following The National Library of Poetry anthologies.

  • A Prism of Thought
  • Soaring with the Wind
  • A Picture of Elegance
  • Outstanding Poets of 1998
  • Blossom in the Dawning
  • America at the Millennium

One of my post powerful poems, The Measure of 0.16, I wrote after a drunk driver killed four Brock High School students on December 19, 1998. 0.16 was his blood alcohol level and the event helped reduce the legal limit in Texas to 0.08. I’ve written over 80 poems and most fall into the “Tragic Poems of Life” chapter in a Word document where I keep them.

On April 20, 1999, the Columbine Massacre occurred where two students killed twelve classmates and a teacher. The school shooting dominated the news that week. It also led me to launch a memorial website, www.Columbine-Angels.com, where I tracked acts of school violence for the next ten years. The site has over 2000 entries, the most of any site that I know of. I also provide extensive data as to when and where the attacks occur. Many people from around the world visited my site and several asked for permission to use my data in their research. I wish I could have continued the site in perpetuity, but the ever-growing numbers, nearly 300 in one calendar school year, is just too much for one person. Keeping the site updated became a second job. Although I received great response from the site, I couldn’t continue to dedicate that much of life to it. From 2010 to 2015, I updated the site with acts of school violence I saw in the news. Those are fewer, but if you research diligently and consistently (i.e. twice a day like I was), you will see how violent are kids truly are. Early in 2016 I posted my last update to the site.

My former girlfriend and I developed the essence of Bill’s Cajun House of Pleasure. We truly enjoyed our time in Bayou Cove. After we separated I built our escapades into a full length novel. This historical fiction romp takes place from 1939 to 1969 in the swamps of Louisiana. Bill works at his uncle’s bordello and is in love with a descendant of the infamous Marie Laveau. Things change and he falls for one of the soiled doves under his uncle’s employ. After World War II, he and her live in Amsterdam. When they return to Bayou Cove in 1950 he builds his grand Cajun House of Pleasure. Staying informed of world events via WFUX-TV, he and his women are able to play politics with the lieutenant governor’s wife. In the ’60s the sexual fun continues to roll when a few artist stop by and find what they need to be successful. It’s a fun story with adult language and sexual situations. I hope you enjoy it.

I am currently developing my next story. The new tale is set in medieval times on a different planet. It’ll be a fun romp as my characters travel across the continent. Highlights along the way include stops in Hack, where the Hackers live; Pee-On, where the Pee-Ons live; Dead Oak and their solution to depositing their dead on a cart to be hauled off; and more.

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Alan Lampe has been writing down tales and stories since the second grade. Over the years, his writing matured and was recognized by The National Library of Poetry. They published six of his poems in their anthologies in the late 1990s. Jotting down ideas and cranking out numerous short stories off and on throughout the first decade of the twenty-first century, he focused on his writing in 2011 instead of Super Bowl XLV.

Bill’s Cajun House of Pleasure is the brainchild of Alan and his former girlfriend. The first nuggets of this romp in the swamp were hatched eight years ago. Between workshops, critic groups, and conferences, he polished his prose in the following years. Wanting to leave no detail unchecked, he traveled to Louisiana to capture the essence of Cajun life.

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Get ready for a pulse-pounding journey through the darkest corridors of power in the Otis Thorne thriller series!

In the second Otis Thorne thriller, a malevolent alliance triggers a global pandemic, forcing Thorne and Noah into a race against time. Can they unravel the sinister plot?

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Black Dust

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The Otis Thorne Thriller Series Book 2

by Arla Jones

Genre: Thriller, Suspense

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An action-packed thriller for fans of Clancy, Thor, and Flynn, Great for readers of political conspiracies and CIA counterterrorism missions.

In the gripping second installment of the Otis Thorne thriller series, the world is thrust into chaos as a malevolent alliance between Russia and North Korea unleashes a deadly biological weapon upon the United States. The insidious plan triggers a devastating global pandemic, pushing Otis Thorne and his trusted ally, Noah, into a perilous race against time. As they unravel the sinister plot, they find out who is behind the deadly biological attack against their country. With lives hanging in the balance and the fate of nations at stake, Thorne and Noah must navigate a treacherous web of deception, danger, and intrigue to uncover the truth and stop the relentless march of the pandemic.

This second book will leave you breathless and wanting more.

Amazon * Books2Read * Bookbub * Goodreads

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 1 The Biting Dust

 

 An underground research facility, North Korea, 2027

 

The underground facility was perfect for secret tests, including nuclear and chemical experiments that they did not want any of their enemies or neighboring countries to see on the satellite. The facility was dug deep underground into a volcanic mountain that hadn’t experienced any volcanic activity for years. Only the high-ranking members of the Worker’s Party knew about this facility.

The secret nuclear weapon and chemical weapon research in this facility created an environmental change in the bugs that had come in contact with the research area. The tiny insects that survived the chemical environmental change moved in the air like a cloud of black dust, looking for a living animal or person, and then attaching to the skin. The scientists called these bugs:

무는 먼지 muneun meonji which meant the biting dust.

It was a new form of life, not exactly anything that had existed before, but they were tough and resilient, like cockroaches, and could survive almost anything. The only difference was that these bugs were microscopic and moved together, never individually.

The scientists were both surprised and horrified by what they had created. They knew that, for example, grasshoppers could change their behavior because of crowding, which is called density-dependent phenotypic plasticity and refers to the bugs changing behavior due to environmental factors. The North Korean scientists suspected that something similar had happened to these bugs that had survived the chemical and nuclear research area, and thus, this new form of black bugs appeared on Earth.

When the sun set and it became dark, these bugs searched for their next target, any warm-blooded living thing would do, and they started biting. For some reason, the bugs never moved or bit during the daytime.

The scientists first thought was that the reports of the biting bugs were just imagination or hallucination, but when they got a sample of the black dust under the microscope, the bug looked more like a blackish-green crystal than a normal bug except this crystallized bug was alive. It was a new form of life created by chemical weapons.

The researchers observed that these insects exhibited movement to locate their target specifically during cooler temperatures, typically after sunset. They hypothesized that each minuscule bug functioned like a vampire, extracting blood from the host, resulting in a sensation of biting and itching. This experience often gave the impression of something crawling on the skin, followed by a subsequent sting, with the intensity increasing based on the number of bugs present on the skin. The scientists studied the bugs some more and realized that and realized they could reproduce themselves.

The bugs displayed no distinction between males and females. The researchers observed that the life cycle of adult-sized insects spanned approximately five days, following a developmental period of one week to reach this stage.

At the end of the adult-sized bugs’ life cycle, the insect emitted a cloud of black dust, smaller than its original size and measuring approximately one-fifth of a millimeter. These entities, referred to by scientists as eggs, cracked open resembling a butterfly’s cocoon, revealing larvae inside. These juvenile bugs exhibited rapid growth, reaching the size of an adult, around half a millimeter, within a week. The most troubling discovery was that the scientists could not find any method to kill these bugs or their eggs. They tried all kinds of pesticides to no avail. They even tried to burn a building infested with these bugs, but the bugs survived.

They conceded that there was no established method for exterminating these nightcrawlers. However, the scientists soon recognized that they possessed an unparalleled weapon, unique in the world. It was now imperative to devise a strategy for employing these insects to their advantage against their adversaries.

***

The next phase was to experiment with the labor camp prisoners. They chose a distant location in Hoeryong, where the notorious concentration camp was reportedly closed in 2012. However, in reality, it was still running state-supported secret experiments on the remaining political prisoners.

This infamous camp was in North Hamgyong province in northeast North Korea, close to China’s border and about 700 miles away from the Sea of Japan. Regardless of how close the camp was to the Chinese border, not many prisoners escaped.

It was heavily guarded, and the experiments and malnutrition made the prisoners weak and sick. Most of them were brought there in the back of a truck in the middle of the night, so they never saw the outside of the camp and where it was located. They had poor-quality shoes that were not made to walk long distances along the valleys and hills on uneven ground. If they escaped, their prison outfit would not keep them warm during the freezing nights when the temperature dropped below twenty Fahrenheit.

It was the perfect place for the new secret weapon experiment.

The prisoners were never told what the new experiment would be. They were just exposed to it. This time it was the bugs!

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Fathers and Sons

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The Otis Thorne Thriller Series Book 1

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A High-Stake Conspiracy with Historical Roots. A Sci-Fi Political Thriller. Moral Dilemmas. Infiltration of Trusted Institutions. International Espionage. Blackmail and Personal Stakes. Race Against Time.

In ‘Fathers and Sons,’ a riveting thriller unfolds as a clandestine organization threatens to plunge the United States into chaos by undermining both its political stability and the integrity of President Andrew Burr.

Otis Thorne, a former CIA operative, becomes President Burr’s last hope as he unearths a sinister infiltration of the White House, leaving trust in short supply. With the United Nations General Assembly looming, Thorne races against time to expose the conspiracy, exacerbated by the coercive demand that President Burr deliver a specific pro-Russian speech. The stakes intensify as the blackmailers hold the life of the President’s son in the balance, with a series of demands that trace their origins back to the darkest days of WWII, Nazi Germany, and the Soviet Union.

Will Thorne untangle the web of deceit in time to save not only the President’s family but the entire nation from an insidious plot decades in the making?

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Chapter 1 The Secret Meeting

 

On a cold, crisp night in the waning winter days of 2026, a lonely doorman stood in front of a dimly lit restaurant waiting for someone. It was past midnight. Most restaurants in the King Street area of Arlington, Virginia, closed at midnight or earlier. With the constant swarm of customers earlier that same evening, the bright lights and sounds of chatter and music gave way to soothing darkness. The night softened the sharp edges of the buildings and toned down the harsh bright colors of the restaurant signs.

If there had been an observer, he would have noticed a line of limousines arriving. In each one of the limousines was a single passenger. After the passengers got out of their luxurious limousines and walked up the few marble steps to the heavy iron door, the limousines drove quietly away. Each passenger showed his right wrist to the burly-looking doorman, who then opened the door and let the passenger inside after checking it.

An exclusive group of rich and powerful men had gathered for a clandestine meeting. This was their first gathering in person. The men had talked several times on the phone and held video conferences, but they had never met in person. Only Hydra, their leader, had met the participants individually on a few selected occasions. But those meetings had been kept discreet and in remote locations, like his well-guarded dacha, his luxury holiday country home by the Black Sea.

These men wanted to shape the global economy and international politics for the benefit of their homeland and themselves. Operation Pobeda had brought them together. Pobeda means a victory or a coup in the Russian language. The operation had started over seventy years ago and had required lots of money and time to prepare. But the most important thing was that they needed one man on their side who could fulfill their demands and get them what they wanted, namely the president of the United States.

The group called themselves Septem, the Seven. The name, Septem, referred to the number of participants in the group—seven—even though not all of them participated in person in the meetings. The Septem needed one day to start a successful execution of all the activities in Operation Pobeda that would change the world and threaten the stability of the world order.

The ages of the Septem ranged from mid-forties to seventies. Each man had a different tattoo on their right wrist: Phoenix, Hydra, Werewolf, Hippogriff, Cyborg, Nachtkrapp, and Basilisk. Each tattoo represented a mythical or a sci-fi creature. They used their tattoos both as an identity check as well as code names because they did not want to be heard communicating with each other by their real names and talking about their secret operation. Their faces and businesses were too familiar to everyone following the news. If their collaboration had been known, someone might have started asking questions. These men were too clever and too careful to let any outsiders know about Operation Pobeda. They knew that knowledge was both leverage and power. The stakes were high.

When the Septem group members entered the restaurant, they glanced around to ensure it was as private and secure as their leader, Hydra, had promised. The place was empty except for these men who had arrived.

The color scheme inside was of cool grays and blues, with metallic touches on the walls. The tiny lights on the ceiling bathed the room in a soft glow. The thick blue curtains were drawn over the windows so no one would see inside the restaurant. One wooden table was placed in the center of the room. A few flower arrangements of white Callas and purple anemones in tall vases on the pedestals were arranged around the dining room.

The table was set for seven men with as many tablet computers on it. In the middle of the table, a set of glasses and bottles of sparkling water, house wine, brandy, and vodka bottles were ready. However, none of the participants considered this visit a social one.

One seat was empty, but there was a tablet computer because this participant joined the meeting via video call. He had covered his face with a black bird mask called il dottore. The mask had glass openings in the eyes and a long, curved black beak. The bird mask was fitting because his tattoo represented a mythological bird—a Nachtkrapp, a scary night raven, inked inside his right wrist. Just like all the other participants, he showed his wrist to the others for identification purposes. He used voice-altering software that gave his voice a deep metallic sound to make sure that nobody recognized him.

They could have had all the meetings online via video conference call, but none wanted to do that because someone could still be listening, monitoring, and might discover their plans. The man with the Hippogriff tattoo on his wrist owned the restaurant, and no outsider could have planted listening devices there without him knowing it. He also provided limousines for the participants. The most important thing was to keep Operation Pobeda secret. The other reason was that if they had to make difficult decisions, it was always better to do it face-to-face, for example, if they had to sacrifice a member of this group to ensure the operation’s success.

“Is everyone in order?” Hydra, the spokesman, asked with a thick Russian accent. He glanced at the computer screen in front of him. They were all there. The operation was ready to launch.

Hydra was in his early seventies. He was a tall, slender, white-haired man with eyes as friendly as a shark’s. The many-headed serpentine monster, Hydra, was tattooed on the inside of his right wrist. He was one of the oligarchs that had emerged in Russia after its transition from socialism to capitalism, and he was well-connected to the Russian mob and the government. He knew how and who to bribe to get things done in the new Russia. His billions had come from owning media companies in Russia and transferring his investments to Swiss bank accounts before the economic sanctions sank the ruble.

“Yes, Hydra, Operation Pobeda will be set in motion today as agreed,” an elderly man with salt and pepper hair replied. “The doppelganger is ready to play his part.” He had a Basilisk tattoo, a legendary reptile that can kill with a single glance.

“Any new developments?” Hydra asked. His icy gaze went around the table. Some of the participants faced his stare with blank, brave looks, and some turned their eyes toward the tablets in front of them. Everyone feared Hydra, their government ally, their strategist, not just because of his fortune but because of his influence and his high-level allies in Russia.

“Everything is going as planned. No delays, no changes. My men are in place and ready to go to the airport,” a man wearing a black leather vest and pants replied. He had a huge, fiery-looking Werewolf with flaming eyes tattooed on his right wrist. He looked like a member of a motorcycle gang. He was in his mid-forties and had earned his fortune in drugs, sex, collecting debts, and later setting up legal shell companies to hide his more illicit businesses.

“Thank you for the update, Werewolf,” Hydra replied and asked the one person participating via video conference, “Do you have anything else to share with the rest of us, Nachtkrapp?”

“The President won’t have a clue what hit him,” Nachtkrapp replied with a metallic voice, but you could still hear a slight Bostonian accent.

“Everything seems to be in order. “If there is nothing else, then we will meet again after the first phase of Operation Pobeda is over,” Hydra said, ending the clandestine meeting.

It had started raining, and the raindrops glinted in the streetlights like silver silk. The doorman held a large umbrella for each man until they got into their limousines. Then he went back for the next one. Hydra was the first to leave, and Werewolf was the last. Each man left the same way they came, alone and in a dark limousine with tinted windows. The doorman closed the restaurant doors and turned off the lights.

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Enthusiastic about crafting high-octane thrillers packed with action and unexpected plot twists, Arla Jones, blends her personal experiences to create tales that will set your heart pounding. With each keystroke, she conjures compelling characters, some you’ll root for, and others you’ll love to despise. Beyond the keyboard, the author finds solace in gardening and draws inspiration from the vibrant world around her. Immerse yourself in her stories, where danger and desire collide, and be prepared for an unforgettable, exhilarating journey. Brace yourself, dear reader, as Arla Jones is poised to take you on a thrilling ride you won’t easily forget.

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Lines of Deception by Steve Anderson Banner

Lines of Deception

by Steve Anderson

March 18 – April 12, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
 
The Kaspar Brothers Series
A West German nightclub owner goes behind the Iron Curtain on a desperate mission to save his brother, in this Cold War thriller by the author of Lost Kin.

West Germany, 1949. Former actor Max Kaspar suffered greatly in the Second World War. Now he owns a nightclub in Munich—and occasionally lends a hand to the newly formed CIA. Meanwhile, his brother Harry has ventured beyond the Iron Curtain to rescue an American scientist. When Harry is also taken captive, Max resolves to locate his brother at all costs. The last thing he expects is for Harry to go rogue. Max’s treacherous quest takes him to Vienna and Prague to Soviet East Germany and Communist Poland. Along the way, dangerous operators from Harry’s past join the pursuit: his former lover Katarina, who’s working for the Israelis, and former Nazi Hartmut Dietz, now an agent of East German intelligence. But can anyone be trusted? Even the American scientist Stanley Samaras may not be the hero Harry had believed him to be . . .

Praise for Lines of Deception:

“In this convincing and atmospheric spy tale set on the haunted landscape of postwar Europe, the engaging Max Kaspar leads us into deepening shadows in which the certainties of loyalty and morality grow dimmer at every turn. An intriguing and satisfying read.” ~ Dan Fesperman, author of Winter Work

“Steve Anderson brings the past to life… As close as you’ll get to a historical guide to the vagaries and treacheries and to the hidden byways and ratlines of post-war Europe.” ~ Luke McCallin, author of the Gregor Reinhardt series

“If you like international intrigue on a grand and gritty scale written in language that moves like the wind, this is your read.” ~ Mary Glickman, National Jewish Book Award Finalist for One More River

“Kept me on the edge of my seat, and the unexpected twists left me guessing until the final pages.” ~ Roccie Hill, author of The Blood of My Mother and other novels

“Readers who know the Kaspar brothers from Anderson’s other tales will not be disappointed, and those who are new to the brothers’ exploits will be faithful hereon.” ~ NCR Davis, author of For the Boys: The War Story of a Combat Nurse in Patton’s Third Army

Book Details:

Genre: Espionage, Historical Thriller, Cold War Thriller

. Published by: Open Road Media Publication Date: March 2024 Number of Pages: 200 ISBN: 9781504086134 (ISBN10: 1504086139) Series: Kaspar Brothers (#4)

. Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Open Road Media

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Enjoy this peek inside:

MUNICH

Tuesday, May 17, 1949 12:01 a.m.
Max Kaspar learned about his brother, Harry, from the little man who brought him the severed ear. The nasty fellow even had the gall to bring it to the Kuckoo Nightclub, keeping it in a small purple box on his table along the wall. Up on the club’s small stage, Max had just finished belting out a recent jump blues hit from the States, “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” everybody clapping along. He flubbed a couple lines but his few fellow Germans had no idea and the Americans were too drunk to care. The little man never clapped along. He’d just stared at Max. Max used to be fairly certain that a man watching like that was either a talent agent or a producer. But that was before Total War, before fire bombings, and concentration camps, stranded orphans, souls scarred for life. Before his own rehabilitation. As the applause died, Max kept the man in a corner of his eye. Small head on narrow shoulders, an outdated curly greased mustache, and a frenzied glare like Peter Lorre, his eyes bulging, never blinking. Max forced out a grin. “Thank you, folks, meine Damen und Herren,” he said in that mix of English and German everyone used to please both occupier and occupied. Then he pulled their young waitress Eva onto the stage. Eva gasped. “Now, Herr Kaspar?” Between them, they embraced speaking their native German. “You said you want a chance, my dear, so now’s your shot,” Max told her. Eva beamed at him. Their four-piece band made anyone sound good since they had a hepcat GI playing drums and another on piano, a former Swing Kid from Cologne on the horn, and a steady old Kabarett veteran on bass. Eva’s dimples and curves and sweet voice did the rest. She launched into a rousing version of “Slow Boat to China” festooned by her thick accent and the crowd cheered her on. Not bad for a Tuesday. But Max was creating diversions. He’d needed to surveil the man, which meant throwing him off. He made for the bar. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and went down into the cellar, passing under the dance floor and tables above. What could the little man want? He threatened to throw Max’s shaky world spinning out of kilter. The day had started like any other here in Schwabing, that Munich quarter once home to pioneering artists, then to a small-handed, fatheaded blowhard named Adolf, and now to free-spending American occupiers. Max had peacetime, normalcy, a cozy routine. Fresh white bread from his American friends, toasted, with real butter and orange marmalade. Real coffee. He was finally forgetting what ersatz coffee tasted like, thank god or whoever was responsible. He’d arrived early at the club like usual, before noon, before anyone. Drank another real coffee. He went through the ledgers and checked the earnings stacked in the cellar safe, if only to confirm all truly was well and normal. Then he wandered the Kuckoo, his Kuckoo, wincing at the few dirty ashtrays and beer glasses left out from the previous night. He rolled up his sleeves, emptied the ashes and cleared the glasses, and wiped things down. His staff could do this, but a little chore always gave him something like peace of mind. A part of him was even hoping that Eva would arrive early and see him doing it. He went through his mail, finding the usual inquiries from bands and singers, and bills he had no problem paying now, at last. The occasional letter came from Mutti und Vati in America. But, still nothing from his brother, Harry, here in Europe. The void of letters, postcards, or even a surprise visit had been growing, swelling, prickling at him low in his gut. Just this morning, Max had gotten that creeping feeling he knew from combat: Things were all too quiet. Down in the Kuckoo cellar, Max now felt a shudder, deep in his chest, and the normalcy dwindled as only a memory, a fog. An opened bottle of American rye stood atop the safe and he thought about taking a shot for courage, then decided he didn’t need it. He needed to move. He came back upstairs on the other side, behind their red curtain at the back of the stage. He eyed the little man closer from the shadows while Eva gave it all she had. The man was now watching the bar, craning his compact noodle for any sight of Max. That purple box stood in equal proportion to his short neat glass of Fernet, to his fresh pack of Chesterfields, to his sterling jeweled lighter, his gnarled knuckles revealing him to be older than his shiny face let on. Why show off, Max thought, when any secure communication would do? This peacock was certainly not CIA. The Munich desk was more likely to send some new kid with a crew cut. Eva was bowing now, the crowd whooping and stomping. As if sensing Max, the man slowly swiveled Max’s way, still not blinking. Max rushed out along the wall and sat down next to the man. They waited for the crowd to quiet, silent like two passengers aboard an airliner off to a rocky start. “Good evening, Herr Kaspar,” the man said in German, his accent as inscrutable as Max expected. “I enjoyed your routine.” “It’s not a routine,” Max blurted, sounding more annoyed than he’d wanted. The man smirked, which released a sniffle. “You did not know all the words, yes? Tricky, keeping up with these Americans.” “What in the devil do you want?” His waiter came over, Gerd. Max sent poor Gerd away with a snap of fingers. The little man lost the smirk. He slid the small purple box over to Max. It was larger than a ring box, smaller than for a necklace. Max pushed the box open with his index finger. He saw one human ear, lying on its side, with a neat cut and cleaned up. “Harry Kaspar,” the man said. “Perhaps he hears too much.” “My brother?” Max’s head spun. Everything blurred and he shut his eyes a moment. “Just tell me what you want.” “Harry Kaspar is your brother, yes?” The man had said brother like a curse word. Hot pressure filled Max’s chest, and he wiped away the sweat instantly sopping his eyebrows. He grabbed the man by the collar. He could smell the man’s toilet water, and possibly a bad tooth. “Why, you . . .” he roared. “Now, now. Listen. You will find instructions with the ear, which I leave with you. You deliver the ransom soon? Perhaps the ear can be reattached, yes?” Max had to assume it was Harry’s ear. He realized he didn’t know what his brother’s ear looked like, not exactly, and the thought made his heart squeeze a little. He let go of the man. “Why Harry?” he asked. “I told you: He hears too much. But I suppose it could’ve been an eye—” “Listen to me. You don’t know who you’re playing with. Harry’s an American.” The man gave the slightest shrug. “Naturalized American. Unlike you. Still a lowly German . . .” He gave a tsk-tsk sound. “But with means now, I see.” Max’s jaw clenched from loathing. “Who are you? I thought kidnappers were supposed to be anonymous.” The man pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, we’re better than kidnappers. And we’re confident that you will comply. Because Harry told us that you would pay.” “He did? Why?” The man smiled. “I don’t think he wanted his embassy involved, and certainly not the Soviets.” “The Soviets? Hold on. Where did you come from anyway?” The man gave another slight shrug. He nodded at the box. He scooped up his Chesterfields and lighter, stood, straightened his black crushed velvet blazer, blinked around the room, and left. Harry smoked Chesterfields, Max recalled, and the thought stiffened his neck with worry. The ear box remained on the table. He pulled it closer, glanced around for privacy, and then opened it again. Tucked up into the lid was a note, typed on a small white square of paper: Ransom: $1,000 or equivalent. Come alone. No tricks. 9 Lessinggasse, Vienna *** Excerpt from Lines of Deception by Steve Anderson. Copyright 2024 by Steve Anderson. Reproduced with permission from Steve Anderson. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Steve Anderson:
Steve Anderson

Steve Anderson is the author of numerous novels, mostly historical thrillers about gutsy underdogs. In an earlier life he earned an MA in history and was a Fulbright Fellow in Germany. Day jobs have included busy waiter, Associated Press rookie, and language instructor. He’s also written historical nonfiction and translated bestselling German novels. A hopeless soccer addict, he lives in his hometown of Portland, Oregon with his wife René.

Catch Up With Steve Anderson: www.StephenFAnderson.com Goodreads BookBub – @SteveAnderson Instagram – @steveawriter Twitter/X – @SteveAwriter Facebook – @SteveAndersonAuthor
Check out his Substack Newsletter: @steveawriter

 

 

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