Posts Tagged ‘mystery’

When Cicadas Cry by Caroline Cleveland ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: May 3, 2024 in giveaways, Mytery/Thriller, reviews
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I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the WHEN CICADAS CRY by Caroline Cleveland Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours.

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Check out my review and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

 

WHEN CICADAS CRY

by Caroline Cleveland

 

 

Pub. Date: May 7, 2024

Publisher: Union Square Co.

Formats: Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 336

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Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/WHEN-CICADAS-CRY 

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In this stunning debut by a South
Carolina attorney, Zach Stander, a lawyer with a past, and Addie Stone, his
indomitable detective and lover, find themselves entangled in secrets, lies,
and murder in a small Southern town.

A high-profile murder case—A white woman has been bludgeoned to death
with an altar cross in a rural church on Cicada Road in Walterboro, South
Carolina. Sam Jenkins, a Black man, is found covered in blood, kneeling over
the body. In a state already roiling with racial tension, this is not only a
murder case, but a powder keg.

A haunting cold case—Two young women are murdered on quiet Edisto Beach,
an hour southeast of Walterboro, and the killer disappears without a trace.
Thirty-four years later the mystery remains unsolved. Could there be a
connection to Stander’s case?

A killer who’s watching—Stander takes on Jenkins’s defense, but he’s up
against a formidable solicitor with powerful allies. Worse, his client is
hiding a bombshell secret. When Addie Stone reopens the cold case, she
discovers more long-buried secrets in this small town. Would someone kill again
to keep them?

Ideal for fans of mystery, suspense, and thrillers in the vein of Karin
Slaughter’s Pretty Girls and Stacy Willingham’s A
Flicker in the Dark, as well as for readers who followed the high-profile
Murdaugh murder trial, held in the same small town as in When Cicadas
Cry.

 

 

MY REVIEW

There was so much that intrigued me about this book. The southern setting. The sensational murder case which created so much racial tension. A cold case that might tie into the recent one. And a killer watching as the small town imploded. It reminded me of the movie A Time To Kill.

The story is told from multiple points of view and I felt the author was right to do that. It helped me connect quickly with the characters and revealed why they had certain reactions and did what they did.

The story ebbed and flowed, kind of like the tide. There were moments where the excitement was palpable, and moments where the focus shifted to personal relationships and the past. I enjoyed all of it.

4 STARS

 

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About Author Caroline Cleveland:

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Caroline Cleveland is a labor and employment lawyer. A native South Carolinian, Caroline
grew up in the Lowcountry and earned her Juris Doctor degree from the
University of South Carolina School of Law in 1991. This is her first novel.

Website | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon 

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Giveaway contest ribbon promo label prize. Vector giveaway banner badge design template

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1 winner will receive a finished copy of WHEN CICADAS CRY, US Only.

Ends May 7th, midnight EST.

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Schedule:

Week One:

4/22/2024

@callistoscalling

IG Review

4/23/2024

Books and Zebras

IG Review

4/24/2024

@jaimes_mystical_library

IG Review

4/25/2024

Two Points of Interest

Review/IG Post

4/26/2024

Kim’s Book Reviews and Writing Aha’s

Review/IG Post

Week Two:

4/29/2024

The Book Critic

Review/IG Post

4/30/2024

Country Mamas With Kids

Review/IG Post

5/1/2024

ENCHANTED EXCURSE

Review/IG Post

5/2/2024

One More Exclamation

Review/IG Post

5/3/2024

FUONLYKNEW

Review

 

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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.

Some Kind Of Truth by Westley Smith ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: May 2, 2024 in giveaways, Mytery/Thriller, reviews
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Some Kind of Truth by Westley Smith Banner

SOME KIND OF TRUTH
by Westley Smith
April 8 – May 3, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A mysterious video. A cold case. A reporter hunting for answers to both.

Pittsburgh crime reporter, Steve James, returns home to find a mysterious package waiting outside his apartment door. At first, Steve fears the package could contain a deadly threat from a local mob boss pressuring him to retract his story, which helped put him behind bars. Instead, Steve finds a junior driver’s license belonging to Rebecca Ann Turner, a teenager who went missing from a party twenty-five years ago, and a USB flash drive containing a video of her murder. Horrified by the contents inside the package, Steve is determined to find out what happened to Rebecca and why someone dragged him into uncovering this mystery. But as Steve sifts through the clues and weaves his way around those trying to prevent him from exposing the truth, he continues to struggle with personal issues stemming from his time as a war correspondent in Afghanistan, where he was filmed being tortured and nearly executed by the Taliban, making what happened to Rebecca all the more personal.

Some Kind of Truth Trailer:

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Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Thriller

Published by: Wicked House Publishing Publication Date: February 2, 2024 Number of Pages: 336 ISBN: 9781959798309 (ISBN10: 1959798308)

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

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MY REVIEW

Steve James never thought that monsters would once again enter his life. He thought his capture and torture by the Taliban while working as a war correspondent in Afghanistan gave him a get out of jail free card from all that. But when he finds a package left at his door containing a drivers license and a USB drive with images of a teenage girl who’d been missing for twenty five years, he must once again go on the hunt. It’s more than just a story to him.

Do you believe in monsters? You should. They’re real. They might be someone you know. Or someone you pass on the street. They look human. They act human. But it’s a glamour they wear so you won’t see the ugliness that is them. Yes, they’re homo sapiens. But they have no right to be called human. I’m a tough cookie. Don’t normally feel sick to my stomach when reading about these kind of monsters. But, the author’s writing wouldn’t let me look away. And knowing monster’s like the ones in this book are real. Are doing horrific things to people and still getting a good night sleep had a strong effect on me.

Steve, along with Amy, a young reporter, dive into the fray. They’re the unsung heroes. They’re the kind of people who hear a gunshot and run towards it while everyone else runs away. What they discover while investigating Rebecca’s disappearance should have made them run away. But, they entered the fray and faced plenty of danger. Unable to quit, even knowing they might not survive the case. I feared for them. I cheered for them. I cared for them.

There was no sugar coating of events in the story. The author put it all out there. Yes, I felt sick sometimes. But that made me eager to see how it all came together. Whether the monsters got their just desserts. And whether the characters I cared about were still alive when the dust settled.

A dark, disturbing story written just the way it should have been.

5 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:
CHAPTER ONE
The package was marked…
ATT: STEVE JAMES of the PITTSBURGH TRIBUNE
…and wrapped in brown butcher’s paper as if it were a poor-man’s version of a Christmas present. Steve had received anonymous packages before, some with leads to run down, others with incriminating evidence from a source he was working with. However, this package had not been delivered to the Pittsburgh Tribune like it should have been. It was left outside his apartment door. Perplexed, Steve lifted the package, gingerly, from the floor. It was light and about six inches long by four inches wide. He shook it, but nothing moved inside. He had not been expecting a delivery, certainly not one to his home by an anonymous person. His guts tightened into an uncomfortable, disconcerting knot. Turning, he looked down the hallway, to where the back stairwell led out to the rear entrance of the apartment building. Sunlight shone through the single window at the end of the hall and cut a sharp blade-like angle of light onto the floor. Dust particles floated in the air as if recently disturbed – maybe by the deliverer of the package. Someone could have gotten into the building by the rear entrance, made their way up to Steve’s apartment, dropped the package by his door, and slipped back out before anyone noticed. He did not live in one of the new high-rises being built around Pittsburgh – apartments that came with all the security bells and whistles – but rather an old turn of the century building on the lower east side of Pittsburgh. The rent was cheap, and the landlord damn-near nonexistent, especially when it came to the safety and upkeep of the building. It was what Steve could afford on a reporter’s salary. He looked back at the parcel in his hands. The sense of unease continued to coil his stomach. Was he being targeted like reporters after 9/11, with anthrax-sealed packages delivered to their homes and offices? Possibly. The fact that his article “MOB IN PITTSBURGH” had helped put Anthony Palazzo, a local money launderer affiliated with the New York-based DeLuca Crime Organization, behind bars could have something to do with the mysterious package outside his door that afternoon. Again, he wondered what was inside and cautiously shook it, like a kid trying to figure out the present under the wrapping on their birthday. Nothing moved, nothing rattled inside. Steve knew he should leave the package alone; place it back on the floor where he found it, call the police, and have them look at it first. That was the smart thing to do. The right thing to do. There could be anything inside meant to bring him harm, especially nowadays, when reporters were being unfairly besieged for spreading false information to the public. Against his better judgment, Steve forced the apprehension away like a fly at a picnic, tucked the bundle under his left arm, fished his keys from his jacket pocket, and opened the apartment door. Once inside, he closed the door and peered through the peephole to the hallway. Still, the hall was empty, and no one passed by. Again, he felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle, and the hairs stand on end with nervousness. Why was the package left and what was inside? Steve wondered. Turning away from the door, he moved into the kitchen. He placed his laptop bag on the counter beside his keys, then removed a Zippo lighter and a pack of cigarettes and placed them beside the laptop bag. He put the brown package beside his things. It looked odd on the countertop, as if it were some evil present that had been left at his home – a gift from Satan himself. There was nothing out of the ordinary with its appearance. Other than the handwritten address, there were no other identifiable words or labels on the outside. Gooseflesh rose across Steve’s body. Whoever delivered the package knew who he was, where he worked, and where he lived. Normally, Steve had all large packages sent to the Tribune’s mailroom. He didn’t trust his landlord, Horace Baker. The slimeball charged an extra ten dollars a month to hold deliveries larger than what could fit into the small gold mailboxes in the lobby. He called it a ‘holding charge.’ Steve was sure it was illegal, a scheme to get more money from the tenants. Steve was not about to pay the extra money. He had heard stories from others in the building that when they received their packages some were opened, searched, and sometimes things were missing. Of course, Baker claimed it was how the parcels arrived. This particular package, sitting ominously on his countertop, should never have made it to his floor. Or maybe it IS from Palazzo, Steve thought. It could have been a scare tactic to get Steve to retract his story, setting Palazzo free from prison, while simultaneously clearing the DeLuca Family of any wrongdoing. For all Steve knew, there could be a small explosive inside the box, just big enough to rattle his cage but not kill him. Or, if they wanted to get the job over with, they could have laced it with anthrax, just like reporters received after 9/11. Yet, he wasn’t so sure Palazzo or the DeLuca Family were ready to make that kind of move against him. At the moment, Palazzo and the DeLuca Family were letting their mob lawyers handle the process through the courts with a defamation and source exposure lawsuit on Steve and the Pittsburgh Tribune. No, Steve was confident it was delivered by someone else. But who? And more importantly, why? He pulled a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey from the cupboard along with a small glass and poured himself a healthy snort. Just to quiet the demons, Steve thought bitterly, taking a swig. Just to quiet the demons. He studied the package while swirling the brown liquor around in the glass, knowing he should leave it alone and call the police. But intrigue was sinking its fangs into his mind, poisoning his thoughts with fantasies of what dwelled inside its dark recesses. Someone knew Steve well enough to know he could never leave a mystery alone. He thumbed one of the cigarettes out of the box, popped it into his mouth and lit it with the Zippo lighter. He inhaled deeply. Smoke filled his lungs. Calmed his nerves. Helped him think straight – so he thought. What’s inside? a shadowy voice spoke from the alcoves of Steve’s mind, pulling him from his reverie. He could not argue with this strange, archaic voice. He desperately wanted to know what was inside the package. Taking a long drag on the cigarette, he let the smoke out slowly between his teeth with a low sssss. What to do? What to do? There was only one thing to do. Setting the cigarette in the ashtray, Steve picked the package up. He felt that familiar chill of disquiet crawl over him, like cold skeleton fingers walking up his spine, vertebra by vertebra. “Enough of this guessing-game shit,” Steve said and tore the heavy brown paper away, exposing a white box underneath which resembled something a pastry would come in. The lid was sealed shut with a single piece of Scotch Tape. Steve knew no one would send him sweets – maybe anthrax, maybe a bomb, but certainly not sweets. In a career that spanned more than twenty years as a crime reporter for the Tribune, Steve had made more enemies, like Anthony Palazzo, than friends. Such was the life, he supposed. He peeled the Scotch Tape from the box and then lifted the lid slowly, as if a venomous snake were about to spring out and bury its sharp fangs into his face. With the box lid cracked, he peered inside. Instead of finding something harmful, the box contained a USB Flash Drive secured in white tissue paper. Two words were handwritten on the front of the flash drive in black magic marker:/p>
PLAY ME!
Steve frowned. Why would someone send him a flash drive anonymously? Did it have something to do with the Palazzo story he’d spent the better part of two years working on? Some missing information that would, without a shadow of a doubt, ensure that Palazzo stayed behind bars for the rest of his life? Or was it something unrelated? Steve didn’t know. Then he noticed the USB was not the only item inside the box. Tucked beside the flash drive was a small piece of white plastic. Removing the plastic from the box, Steve found it was about the size of a credit card and coated with a reddish-brown dirt. He rubbed his fingertips together feeling a gritty dust, like a fine sand. Turning the card over revealed it was a Pennsylvania Junior Driver’s License issued to a Rebecca Ann Turner of 428 Water Street, Abbottstown Pennsylvania. Her birthdate was 10/02/1982. The issue date on the card was 11/23/1998 — twenty-six years ago. The top right-hand corner, where the expiration date should have been, was broken, the plastic chipped away, forever lost to time, leaving a jagged edge that looked sharp enough to slice through flesh. The driver’s license photo of Rebecca Turner showed an attractive sixteen-year-old girl with blonde hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled with life. Her face was long, narrow, and innocent, holding the optimism of youth. Her beaming smile radiated from the picture, enhancing her natural beauty and charm. According to the driver’s license, Rebecca was born in 1982, which would make her forty-two years old now. But Steve got the sickening feeling that Rebecca did not live to see her forty-second birthday. He looked back to the flash drive resting inside the box. He was unsure how the driver’s license and the USB were connected, but he was certain they were, or they would not have been delivered together. What’s on the flash drive? Steve wondered anxiously. His heart began to race, and his palms grew moist with sweat. A horrible notion rushed through his mind that something awful had happened to Rebecca Turner, something the USB would ultimately reveal. “H-holy shit,” he said aloud; the shudder in his voice surprised him. Someone wants you to find out what happened to this young lady, Steve ol’ Boy, and expose the truth. Reaching for the cigarette in the ashtray, he brought it to his lips and inhaled. The smoke settled on his lungs with a comfortable bite that he relished. He looked back to the box; his eyes lingered on its contents. Possible scenarios played across his mind as to why someone would want him involved. But none of these thoughts made much sense at the moment. Steve took another drag and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He had smoked it down to the filter as he often did; a haze of heavy, thick smoke hovered around the ceiling. He picked up the glass of whiskey and finished it in one swallow, and then poured himself another – three fingers worth this time. His mouth had gone bone dry, but he wasn’t sure another shot – even three fingers worth – would wet his whistle. The demons inside were growing, and Steve needed to calm them. Or, at least, he continued to tell himself that on a nightly basis. Warily, he lifted the USB from the box. Dare he view whatever was on it, or call the police and let them handle the situation? He shook the thought off. His reporter instinct had taken over. He needed to know what was on the USB, how it connected with the girl on the junior driver’s license, and why he was chosen to unravel this mystery before going to the police. *** Excerpt from Some Kind of Truth by Westley Smith. Copyright 2024 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Westley Smith:

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Westley Smith

Westley Smith had his first short story, Off to War, published when he was just sixteen. Recently, he has had short stories featured in On the Premise, Unveiling Nightmares, and Crystal Lake Entertainment. He was the runner-up contestant in the Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s “Mysterious Photograph Contest,” where his name was featured in the magazine. He sold his debut thriller, Some Kind of Truth, to Wicked House Publishing, it was released on February 2nd, 2024.

Catch Up With Westley Smith: Goodreads Instagram – @wsmithbooks Facebook – @westleysmith100

 

 

Tour Participants:

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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.

Hidden In The Shadows by A.D. Vancise ~ Guest Post And Giveaway

Posted: April 30, 2024 in giveaways, Guest Post, Mytery/Thriller, suspense
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Never trouble Trouble, ‘til Trouble troubles you,

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for if you trouble Trouble, Trouble’s sure to trouble you.

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Hidden in the Shadows

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by A.D. Vancise

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Genre: Thriller, Suspense, Mystery

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“All I can ever think about is murdering her.” -C.B.

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Twenty-three-year-old Evie Day never dreamt she’d be back in Woodsville Arkansas, a small town in the

middle of nowhere, after having left five years earlier, but the death of her grandfather called for her

return. After discovering a photo from 1933 of a mysterious woman standing next to a tiny wooden box, a

strange vial of blood wrapped up in a handkerchief in the pocket of her grandfather’s overalls, and a key

hidden in his desk drawer that belongs to a secret safety deposit box, Evie is unwittingly thrown into a

world of evil where those closest to her are the ones to be the most feared and danger lurks around every

corner.


Hidden in the Shadows by A.D. Vancise shines a light on the darkness and reveals the underlying players

that have been hunting in plain sight.

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IMPORTANT NOTICE

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The survivors of satanic rituals and child trafficking inspired this book, along with a photo I found in my

grandfather’s family photos of a mysterious woman standing beside a tiny box. My grandfather died with

the real story of what happened. He was a police officer.

I knew I had to take this story down a dark path once I heard the victims’ stories and those who never

believed them. The killer’s POV is based on true testimonials of survivors. These horrific acts

happened and continue to happen to kids worldwide.

 

Having said that, I feel the importance of noting a trigger warning for intense graphic material such

as child trafficking, sadism, occult rituals, sexual and physical abuse, violence, and murder. If reading

this material evokes memories of or PTSD from abuse, please contact professionals or a safe person

immediately. This novel is in no way meant to sensualize or exploit these serious events. It requires

courage to read this story meant to bring awareness to these heinous acts and give a voice to the

children who no longer have one. It’s to shed light on a darkness that has plagued this world for far

too long. I am awed by all those who can receive this information and want to help the children. We

all need to give them a voice. Thank you for being brave enough to read this story.

 

Sincerely,

 

A.D. Vancise

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Reviews for Hidden In the Shadows

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“Writing with crisp efficiency, mordant wit, and bursts of searing terror, Vancise whets the novel’s escalating puzzles and portents with an edge of queasy uncertainty.” -Editors Pick, Booklife.

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“If you’re looking for a spine-tingling read that will leave you wondering who to trust, what dangers are lurking beneath the surface and when the next twist will come, then Hidden in the Shadows is the book for you.”-Booktrib.

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“Hidden in the Shadows by A. D. Vancise is a thrilling mystery that keeps readers in suspense from the first clue until the end.” – Five Stars. Literary Titan.

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“A.D. Vancise excels in crafting a dark, atmospheric story.” -D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

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“If you are a reader who is tired of reading the same old books that are lackluster and forgettable, then take a chance with this one…you will not be disappointed.” -The Red-Headed Book Lover.

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“The author vividly informs your mind’s eye.” – Five Stars. Readers’ Favorite.

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“Dark, disturbing, and gripping.” -Five Stars. Bookview Review.

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“A grim but exciting and compelling mystery even in its most disconcerting moments.” Kirkus Review.

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Amazon * B&N * Bookshop.org * Bookbub * Goodreads

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What kind of research do you do before you begin writing a book? 

Research into a story depends on the type of story being written. My first book, for instance, didn’t require much research due to it being a semi-autobiography. I knew the story, the characters, the plot etc. I may have had to research medical terms or areas that my brother and his partner had visited as well as speak to Brad, my brother’s partner, about their experiences but that was the minimal research done for that book. This book, however, consisted of close to six months of straight research if not more.

 

Do you see writing as a career? 

I want to see writing as a career, I take it very seriously. Having said that though, my reason for writing is for the love of writing, first and foremost.

 

What do you think about the current publishing market? 

The current publishing market is difficult on many levels. I much prefer the hybrid model. This model isn’t a vanity press, there is quite a difference between the two. A hybrid publisher you still must pitch, and they do not accept all manuscripts for publishing. When your manuscript is accepted the author pays the publisher for structural editing, cover design, copy editing, interior design, and some promotion.

 

Do you read yourself and if so what is your favorite genre? 

I read and read and read again. This I believe should be the pattern of all writers. I learn a great deal from other authors both bad and good or what I like or dislike. Some paragraphs, I’ll read two or three times when they are exceptional. I’ll jot it down in a notebook as well making sure to mark it as someone else’s work because I also jot down ideas or sentences that come to me randomly or conversations between strangers and I don’t want to plagiarize. I read reviews of books I’ve read as well, good, and bad as this also provides great feedback as to what readers want or look for in a book. My favorite genre is and always has been thriller/mystery.

 

Do you prefer to write in silence or with noise? Why? 

I cannot write if it’s too silent around me. I know other authors isolate themselves, but I realized at university that I couldn’t concentrate when it was quiet. I need something to block out in order to focus, so the noisier the better. I often put on music or plant myself in the middle of a room with others watching TV.

 

Do you write one book at a time or do you have several going at a time?

I never saw myself writing two books at once but here I am doing it now. I’m working on the sequel to Hidden in the Shadows and Memoirs from a Killer.

 

Pen or type writer or computer?

When I’m working on the story, I use a program called Scrivener on my computer. I find it’s the quickest way to get the words out. When they flow, they flow rapidly. I still enjoy pen to paper as I came from the era just before computers. We hand-wrote papers or typed them on a typewriter so I will keep a journal or notebooks that I prefer to handwrite.

 

Do you have any advice to offer for new authors? 

Advice to new authors read, read, read, and then read some more and in the genre, you’d like to write in. I hear people often say they want to write a book, but they don’t read. How do you expect to know what sells or what flows, works, or doesn’t work if you don’t read? I would also advise taking some writing courses to gain confidence. And write for the love of writing not because you want to get published. One more thing, you CAN do it, your story is important, WRITE it.

 

Describe your writing style. 

I would describe my writing style as atmospheric. I am a visual artist and I feel that helps in my creation of a scene but it’s a fine line, too much description and you lose the reader, not enough and you lose the reader I try to set the tone of the scene through atmosphere, smells, touch, and tastes. I want my readers to feel embedded in the scene as if they are right there in it.

 

What makes a good story? 

That depends on who is reading it. For me, a good story takes me on a journey. One with smells, textures, tastes, and with well-formed characters. What do I mean by well-formed characters? I want to know how they grew up, what friends they have or had and why, and what are their greatest fears, wants, or dislikes. A character doesn’t just enter a story at age 30 and has no background. For me, this is one of the most important things in a book. If I don’t care about a character, (good or bad) I’m not going to care what happens to them.

 

What is your writing process? For instance do you do an outline first? Do you do the chapters first? 

Outlines, oh the one question that every writer gets asked. I do not work from one. I find them restrictive like I can’t sway from the outline. My creative process I would describe as a gypsy going wherever the wind blows. Haha. Not quite that carefree but I do like to be free to write what comes next. I typically know the beginning and the ending, but everything in between is yet to be seen. I live my life the same way.

Chapters? In my first book, I just wrote not worrying about the chapter breaks but in the second I did write in chapters. Sometimes the chapters merge or rearrange but the Scrivener program is great for editing as each chapter is isolated and can be moved by clicking and dragging. It’s a great program.

 

Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?

I would say that I try to be original without trying to reinvent the wheel. My goal is to always give the reader what I think they want with some surprises. Truth or feeling real seems to be the most important trait for readers.

 

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

If I could tell my younger writing self something, it would be to stop worrying about what others think, stop doubting yourself, and write anyway.

 

How long on average does it take you to write a book?

How long it takes to write a book depends on the writer, research, and desire. My latest book took six months to write but was well over a year before being published. The current books have been over two years and still are not even halfway completed. Sometimes the words flow so quickly that you can’t type fast enough and sometimes it’s an empty canvas. I’ve heard of some writers taking ten years to complete something and some never do.  I find writer’s block to be a very real thing and when it happens, I just let it be. I’ll read and write in my journal or sometimes choose a topic so far removed from my current writing topic just to spark some ideas or flow.

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A D Vancise lives in Canada. When she’s not writing, she’s taking care of her three dogs, her cat, two ducks and some chickens. Her daughter is her inspiration for all things wonderful in the world.

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Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * Amazon * Goodreads

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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a Rafflecopter 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.

Three Strikes, Your Dead by Elena Hartwell ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: April 24, 2024 in giveaways, Mystery, reviews
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The Eddie Shoes Mysteries by Elena Hartwell Banner

The Eddie Shoes Mysteries
by Elena Hartwell
March 18 – April 26, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

One Dead, Two to Go

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One Dead, Two to Go by Elena Hartwell Get Your Copy: Amazon | B&N | Goodreads

Book One in the Eddie Shoes Mystery Series

Private Investigator Edwina “Eddie Shoes” Schultz’s most recent job has her parked outside a seedy Bellingham hotel, photographing her quarry as he kisses his mistress goodbye. This is the last anyone will see of the woman … alive. Her body is later found dumped in an abandoned building. Eddie’s client, Kendra Hallings, disappears soon after. Eddie hates to be stiffed for her fee, but she has to wonder if Kendra could be in trouble too. Or is she the killer? Eddie usually balks at matters requiring a gun, but before she knows it, she is knee-deep in dangerous company, spurred on by her card-counting adrenaline-junkie mother who has shown up on her doorstep fresh from the shenanigans that got her kicked out of Vegas. Chava is only sixteen years older than Eddie and sadly lacking in parenting skills. Her unique areas of expertise, however, prove to be helpful in ways Eddie can’t deny, making it hard to stop Chava from tagging along. Also investigating the homicide is Detective Chance Parker, new to Bellingham’s Major Crimes unit but no stranger to Eddie. Their history as a couple back in Seattle is one more kink in a chain of complications, making Eddie’s case more frustrating and perilous with each tick of the clock.

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Go HERE for my review.

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Two Heads are Deader Than One

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Two Heads are Deader Than One by Elena Hartwell Get Your Copy: Amazon | B&N | Goodreads

Book Two in the Eddie Shoes Mystery Series

Private Investigator Eddie Shoes is enjoying a rare period of calm. She’s less lonely now that Chava, her card-counting mom from Vegas, is sharing her home. She also has a new companion, Franklin, a giant dog of curious ancestry. Hoping for a lucrative new case, Eddie instead finds herself taking on a less promising client: her best friend from her childhood in Spokane. Dakota has turned up in Bellingham, in jail, where she is being held on a weapons charge. Eddie reluctantly agrees not only to lend her friend money for bail but to also investigate who is stalking her. Soon after Dakota is freed, she disappears again, leaving Eddie to answer to the local cops, including her ex-boyfriend Chance Parker. Has Dakota been kidnapped? If not, why did she jump bail? What are Eddie’s business cards doing on the bodies of two murder victims? The key to these mysteries lies in Dakota and Eddie’s shared history, which ended when Eddie left home after high school. As a person of interest in both murder cases, Eddie is forced to go in search of the truth, digging into the past and facing her own demons.

.

Go HERE for my review.

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Three Strikes, You’re Dead

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Three Strikes, You’re Dead by Elena Hartwell Get Your Copy: Amazon | B&N | Goodreads

Book Three in the Eddie Shoes Mystery Series

Private investigator Eddie Shoes heads to a resort outside Leavenworth, Washington, for a mother-daughter getaway weekend. Eddie’s mother, Chava, wants to celebrate her new job at a casino by footing the bill for the two of them, and who is Eddie to say no? On the first morning, Eddie goes on an easy solo hike, and a few hours later, stumbles over a makeshift campsite and a gravely injured man. A forest fire breaks out and she struggles to save him before the flames overcome them both. Before succumbing to his injuries, the man hands her a valuable object. He tells her his daughter is missing and begs for help. Is Eddie now working for a dead man? Eddie wakes in the hospital to find both her parents have arrived on the scene. Will Eddie’s card-counting mother and mob-connected father help or hinder the investigation? The police search in vain for a body. How will Eddie find the missing girl with only Eddie’s memory of the man’s face and a photo of his daughter to go on?

.

MY REVIEW

You can’t help but love Eddie Shoes. She’s a tough gal and a now seasoned private investigator who has to juggle her eccentric mother, Chava, who’s always butting her nose into Eddie’s business, along with a mob connected father that tries to protect his daughter but his connections make being near him a questionable risk.

A relaxing weekend at a resort with her mother becomes a new case, or two, for Eddie when she rescues a man from a forest fire. As the man is dying he asks Eddie to find his missing daughter. With very little to go on, she’ll have to draw on all of her investigative skills to solve both cases.

What I enjoy so much about this series is the characters. Eddie is a tough cookie but also vulnerable.  Her mother, Chava, is a hoot. Another tough cookie but a bit on the zany side. And her father, who she’s just coming to really know, is a bit intimidating but also wants to be a part of Eddie’s life. These three make for some funny character dynamics.

The mystery is convoluted. Not easily solved. And I must have missed some bread crumbs as the final reveal caught me by surprise.

Fans of cozies with colorful character’s will enjoy this series. You could read this without having read the first books. The author drops some bones so you have an idea where everyone stands. But I’d recommend you start at the beginning and fully connect with these characters. You’ll catch up on all the fun that way.

I sure had a rip roaring time with this newest Eddie Shoes mystery. You can count me in for the next one!

5 STARS

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Praise for The Eddie Shoes Mysteries:

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“ONE DEAD TWO TO GO is a well-written fast-paced story that kept me fully engaged from beginning to end. It’s one of those stories where you get to the end of a chapter and think, “Okay, just a few more pages.” And the next thing you know, you’ve read three more chapters.” ~ Mayor Sonni, Readeropolis “…an engaging mystery that will keep you stumped to the very end.” ~ Susan Sewell, Readers’ Favorite “THREE STRIKES, YOU’RE DEAD gives us another vivid adventure with the quirky, genuine private eye Eddie Shoes. As usual, author Elena Hartwell’s characters are so real you feel like you could run into them at your local dive bar. Three Strikes takes us even deeper into Eddie’s complex family relationships with her charming-but-deadly father Eduardo and hilarious mom Chava, giving us further insight into Eddie’s psyche. The laugh-out-loud moments are many in this vital third installment, and you’ll find yourself wishing you could stay longer in the world of Eddie Shoes.” ~ LS Hawker, USA Today bestselling author

 

Book Details:

Genre: Private Eye Mystery

Published by: Open Road Media, March 2024

Series Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

.

Read an excerpt from One Dead, Two to Go:
CHAPTER ONE
Call me Eddie Shoes. Not a very feminine moniker, but it suits me. My father’s name was Eduardo Zapata. In a fit of nostalgia, my mother Chava named me Edwina Zapata Schultz, even though by the time I was born she hadn’t seen my father in seven months. Edwina was a mouthful to saddle any child with, so at the ripe old age of six, I announced that I would only answer to Eddie. I didn’t have any nostalgia for a guy I’d never met, so Zapata just seemed like a name no one ever spelled right the first time. Chava wasn’t particularly maternal in any conventional sense, so not a lot of nostalgia for Schultz either. At eighteen I legally changed my name to Eddie Shoes. It said a lot about my sense of humor. Chava and I had come to an understanding. She stayed in my life as long as our contact was minimal and primarily over email. It was just enough to allay her guilt and not enough to make me crazy, so it worked for both of us. She’d always been down about my choice of career, but what did she expect from a girl who called herself Eddie Shoes? If I hadn’t become a private investigator, I probably would have been a bookie, so she should have been a little more positive about the whole thing. My career was the reason I sat hunkered in the car, in the dark, halfway down the block from a tacky hotel, clutching a digital camera and zoom lens, waiting to catch my latest client’s husband with a woman not his wife. I’d already gotten a few choice shots of the guy entering the room, but he’d gone in alone and no one else had arrived. I assumed the other woman was already waiting for him. After tailing the guy for a few days, I had a pretty good guess who the chippie would turn out to be. I didn’t think he’d hired his “office manager” for her filing skills, and sleeping with the married boss was a cliché because it happened all the time. I could already prove the man a liar. He’d told his wife he played poker with the boys on Wednesday nights, and I didn’t think he was shacked up in this dive with three of his closest buddies, unless he was kinkier than I imagined. But then, people never ceased to amaze me. December in Bellingham, Washington, often brought cold, clear weather and that night was no exception. Starting the engine to warm up sounded tempting, but I didn’t want anyone to notice me sitting there. Nice it wasn’t raining, but if the thermometer had crept much over twenty, I hadn’t noticed. To make matters worse, I’d scrunched my almost six-foot frame down in the driver’s seat for more than two hours. Even with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I was half frozen, and desperately hoped my mark didn’t have more stamina than I’d pegged him for. All I wanted was to go home and go to bed. And at some point, I would need to pee. Up on the second floor, the door of the hotel room I had my eye on finally opened. I brought my camera up, ready for the money shots. My earlier pics proved that the dirty white stucco on the side of the building bounced the pale glow from the minimal exterior lights enough for pictures to be clear without a flash. Even from this distance, there was a nice unobstructed view of the location. The only barrier between someone standing on the narrow walk and my camera lens was a flimsy, rusty-looking, wrought-iron railing. The balusters looked too thin to stop anyone from falling the height of the first floor to the asphalt parking lot below. I doubted anything at the tawdry place passed code. But what did I care? I wasn’t going to stay there. The “liar”—I have always been creative with nicknames—stepped out, straightening his tie. I snapped a few pictures and held my breath, hoping the other woman would come out behind him. Even if I took pictures of her exiting a few minutes later, the husband needed to be in the picture with her. A surprising number of wives would argue with me about what actually took place in these various, if interchangeable, hotel rooms. For some reason they would rather believe the info about their husband cheating was fake than admit he strayed, which confused me because I got paid either way. It felt especially crazy when they must already know the truth, otherwise they wouldn’t have hired me in the first place. But I knew better than to look for logic in the ways of the human heart and got the best evidence possible. The man turned sideways. Light from the room behind him threw his face into silhouette. He had an exceptionally generous head of hair, which made him very recognizable even in bad light. Mid-forties, and mostly in good shape, he appeared athletic as long as he didn’t unbutton his sport coat. I could see why women were attracted to him, though he didn’t do a thing for me. I preferred men a little more honest. But then, I’d never been married, so what did I know? A figure moved from behind him into the shadow of the doorway. “Come on, honey, step out into the light.” I held the camera to my eye. “One more step, so I can see your face.” The woman obliged by leaning into the cold blue glow cast by the old style, energy inefficient streetlights, her cheeks stained red in the flash of the vacancy sign. I happily clicked away as the “office manager” wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. She clearly wore nothing but lingerie. She must assume no one else would be out this late on such a cold weeknight. Or maybe she enjoyed having people see her, a bit of an exhibitionist in the happy homewrecker. Whatever the cause, she had him in the perfect spot for the best pictures. I loved it when guilty people made my job easy. My photos might not be art, but they were gold in my book. No way the wife could believe this was anything other than what it looked like. Several photos later, the husband extricated himself from the mistress and she ducked back into the room and closed the door. He walked briskly toward a shiny red Chevy Camaro. The guy owned a GM dealership and drove a new car every day. He lit a cigarette, which he puffed on for a few drags before he tossed it into the gutter. Not just a cheater, a litterer. The bastard. The cigarette stench backed his poker party story and covered the smell of another woman, killing two birds with one cancer-causing stone. As soon as he pulled out onto the street, I stretched back up to full height, relieved to still feel my feet. I started up my ancient green Subaru Forrester, cranked my heater, and headed for home, relieved I didn’t have to wait around in the cold for the mistress to reappear. Whatever she did next wasn’t my concern. Having the two of them in the pictures together convinced me my work was done. The hotel was located downtown—the blue-collar north end, not the high-priced, brick, historical south end, so I dropped down to Lakeway Drive, scooted under the freeway, and wound through the streets that curved around Bayview Cemetery. Traffic at ten o’clock on a midweek winter night was light, and I arrived at my little house by ten-thirty. I downloaded the photos from the hotel onto my computer, wrote up a final bill for my client, and went to bed content. What could possibly go wrong with such an easy case? *** Excerpt from One Dead, Two to Go by Elena Hartwell. Copyright 2024 by Elena Hartwell. Reproduced with permission from Elena Hartwell. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Elena Hartwell:

.

Elena Hartwell

Elena Hartwell spent several years working in theater as a playwright, director, designer, and educator before turning her storytelling skills to fiction. Elena is also a senior editor with Allegory Editing, a developmental editing house, where she works one-on-one with writers to shape and polish manuscripts. If you’d like to work with Elena, visit www.allegoryediting.com. Her favorite place to be is at Paradise, the property she and her hubby own south of Spokane, Washington. They live with their horses, Jasper, Radar, and Diggy, their dogs Polar and Wyatt, and their cats Coal Train and Cocoa. Elena holds a B.A. from the University of San Diego, a M.Ed. from the University of Washington, Tacoma, and a Ph.D. from the University of Georgia. She also writes as Elena Taylor, to learn more visit www.ElenaTaylorAuthor.com

Catch Up With Elena Hartwell: www.ElenaHartwell.com TheMysteryOfWriting.com Goodreads BookBub – @elenahartwell Instagram – @elenataylorauthor Twitter/X – @Elena_TaylorAut Facebook – @ElenaTaylorAuthor

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!  

 

Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Elena Hartwell. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

~~~~~

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.

Two Heads Are Deader Than One by Elena Hartwell ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: April 23, 2024 in giveaways, Mystery, reviews
Tags: , ,
1

The Eddie Shoes Mysteries by Elena Hartwell Banner

The Eddie Shoes Mysteries
by Elena Hartwell
March 18 – April 26, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

One Dead, Two to Go

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One Dead, Two to Go by Elena Hartwell Get Your Copy: Amazon | B&N | Goodreads

Book One in the Eddie Shoes Mystery Series

Private Investigator Edwina “Eddie Shoes” Schultz’s most recent job has her parked outside a seedy Bellingham hotel, photographing her quarry as he kisses his mistress goodbye. This is the last anyone will see of the woman … alive. Her body is later found dumped in an abandoned building. Eddie’s client, Kendra Hallings, disappears soon after. Eddie hates to be stiffed for her fee, but she has to wonder if Kendra could be in trouble too. Or is she the killer? Eddie usually balks at matters requiring a gun, but before she knows it, she is knee-deep in dangerous company, spurred on by her card-counting adrenaline-junkie mother who has shown up on her doorstep fresh from the shenanigans that got her kicked out of Vegas. Chava is only sixteen years older than Eddie and sadly lacking in parenting skills. Her unique areas of expertise, however, prove to be helpful in ways Eddie can’t deny, making it hard to stop Chava from tagging along. Also investigating the homicide is Detective Chance Parker, new to Bellingham’s Major Crimes unit but no stranger to Eddie. Their history as a couple back in Seattle is one more kink in a chain of complications, making Eddie’s case more frustrating and perilous with each tick of the clock.

Go HERE for my review.

.

Two Heads are Deader Than One

.

Two Heads are Deader Than One by Elena Hartwell Get Your Copy: Amazon | B&N | Goodreads

Book Two in the Eddie Shoes Mystery Series

Private Investigator Eddie Shoes is enjoying a rare period of calm. She’s less lonely now that Chava, her card-counting mom from Vegas, is sharing her home. She also has a new companion, Franklin, a giant dog of curious ancestry. Hoping for a lucrative new case, Eddie instead finds herself taking on a less promising client: her best friend from her childhood in Spokane. Dakota has turned up in Bellingham, in jail, where she is being held on a weapons charge. Eddie reluctantly agrees not only to lend her friend money for bail but to also investigate who is stalking her. Soon after Dakota is freed, she disappears again, leaving Eddie to answer to the local cops, including her ex-boyfriend Chance Parker. Has Dakota been kidnapped? If not, why did she jump bail? What are Eddie’s business cards doing on the bodies of two murder victims? The key to these mysteries lies in Dakota and Eddie’s shared history, which ended when Eddie left home after high school. As a person of interest in both murder cases, Eddie is forced to go in search of the truth, digging into the past and facing her own demons.

.

MY REVIEW

This is the second book in the series. It’s easy to jump in here if you haven’t read the first book. The author fills in the important details easily and in the right places so as not to slow down the story.

Things have been good for Eddie Shoes. While her P.I. business isn’t booming, it’s keeping a roof over her head. And she’s now got two roommates. Her mother, Chava, and Franklin, the Irish Wolfhound/Tibetan Mastiff dog that had adopted Eddie after saving her from drowning. Keeps things interesting.

Eddie’s past comes back to haunt her when her best friend from highschool, Dakota Fontaine, enters her life once again, needing to be bailed out of jail. Why she’s calling Eddie and what shes’ doing in Bellingham is a mystery soon to be revealed. As bodies start popping up and someone is pointing the finger at Eddie, she scrambles to clear her name and get to the truth. The thing is, when Dakota’s lips are moving, she’s usually lying or trying to make herself look better, so Eddie will have to do some serious sleuthing.

The more I read about Eddie, the more I like her. She’s strong willed and confident in most things, but she has a soft spot for those she’s loyal to and that makes her vulnerable. She also seems to always find trouble, which makes her stories funny and exciting.

Her old flame , Detective Chance Parker is still around, stirring up those butterflies in Eddie’s stomach. I keep hoping one of them will get brave enough to show their feelings and make a move to mend fences. I feel they are a good fit.

Chava is a force unto herself. A little bitty thing but packing tons of energy, Eddie’s mother lends humor to this series. They are something to experience, whether just getting through the day or working on a new case.

Snappy dialogue, plenty of mayhem, and genuine character’s with all of their flaws, makes Elena’s detective series a must read.

5 STARS

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Three Strikes, You’re Dead

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Three Strikes, You’re Dead by Elena Hartwell Get Your Copy: Amazon | B&N | Goodreads

Book Three in the Eddie Shoes Mystery Series

Private investigator Eddie Shoes heads to a resort outside Leavenworth, Washington, for a mother-daughter getaway weekend. Eddie’s mother, Chava, wants to celebrate her new job at a casino by footing the bill for the two of them, and who is Eddie to say no? On the first morning, Eddie goes on an easy solo hike, and a few hours later, stumbles over a makeshift campsite and a gravely injured man. A forest fire breaks out and she struggles to save him before the flames overcome them both. Before succumbing to his injuries, the man hands her a valuable object. He tells her his daughter is missing and begs for help. Is Eddie now working for a dead man? Eddie wakes in the hospital to find both her parents have arrived on the scene. Will Eddie’s card-counting mother and mob-connected father help or hinder the investigation? The police search in vain for a body. How will Eddie find the missing girl with only Eddie’s memory of the man’s face and a photo of his daughter to go on?

.

Praise for The Eddie Shoes Mysteries:

“ONE DEAD TWO TO GO is a well-written fast-paced story that kept me fully engaged from beginning to end. It’s one of those stories where you get to the end of a chapter and think, “Okay, just a few more pages.” And the next thing you know, you’ve read three more chapters.” ~ Mayor Sonni, Readeropolis “…an engaging mystery that will keep you stumped to the very end.” ~ Susan Sewell, Readers’ Favorite “THREE STRIKES, YOU’RE DEAD gives us another vivid adventure with the quirky, genuine private eye Eddie Shoes. As usual, author Elena Hartwell’s characters are so real you feel like you could run into them at your local dive bar. Three Strikes takes us even deeper into Eddie’s complex family relationships with her charming-but-deadly father Eduardo and hilarious mom Chava, giving us further insight into Eddie’s psyche. The laugh-out-loud moments are many in this vital third installment, and you’ll find yourself wishing you could stay longer in the world of Eddie Shoes.” ~ LS Hawker, USA Today bestselling author

 

Book Details:

Genre: Private Eye Mystery

Published by: Open Road Media, March 2024

Series Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

.

Read an excerpt from One Dead, Two to Go:

.

CHAPTER ONE
Call me Eddie Shoes. Not a very feminine moniker, but it suits me. My father’s name was Eduardo Zapata. In a fit of nostalgia, my mother Chava named me Edwina Zapata Schultz, even though by the time I was born she hadn’t seen my father in seven months. Edwina was a mouthful to saddle any child with, so at the ripe old age of six, I announced that I would only answer to Eddie. I didn’t have any nostalgia for a guy I’d never met, so Zapata just seemed like a name no one ever spelled right the first time. Chava wasn’t particularly maternal in any conventional sense, so not a lot of nostalgia for Schultz either. At eighteen I legally changed my name to Eddie Shoes. It said a lot about my sense of humor. Chava and I had come to an understanding. She stayed in my life as long as our contact was minimal and primarily over email. It was just enough to allay her guilt and not enough to make me crazy, so it worked for both of us. She’d always been down about my choice of career, but what did she expect from a girl who called herself Eddie Shoes? If I hadn’t become a private investigator, I probably would have been a bookie, so she should have been a little more positive about the whole thing. My career was the reason I sat hunkered in the car, in the dark, halfway down the block from a tacky hotel, clutching a digital camera and zoom lens, waiting to catch my latest client’s husband with a woman not his wife. I’d already gotten a few choice shots of the guy entering the room, but he’d gone in alone and no one else had arrived. I assumed the other woman was already waiting for him. After tailing the guy for a few days, I had a pretty good guess who the chippie would turn out to be. I didn’t think he’d hired his “office manager” for her filing skills, and sleeping with the married boss was a cliché because it happened all the time. I could already prove the man a liar. He’d told his wife he played poker with the boys on Wednesday nights, and I didn’t think he was shacked up in this dive with three of his closest buddies, unless he was kinkier than I imagined. But then, people never ceased to amaze me. December in Bellingham, Washington, often brought cold, clear weather and that night was no exception. Starting the engine to warm up sounded tempting, but I didn’t want anyone to notice me sitting there. Nice it wasn’t raining, but if the thermometer had crept much over twenty, I hadn’t noticed. To make matters worse, I’d scrunched my almost six-foot frame down in the driver’s seat for more than two hours. Even with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I was half frozen, and desperately hoped my mark didn’t have more stamina than I’d pegged him for. All I wanted was to go home and go to bed. And at some point, I would need to pee. Up on the second floor, the door of the hotel room I had my eye on finally opened. I brought my camera up, ready for the money shots. My earlier pics proved that the dirty white stucco on the side of the building bounced the pale glow from the minimal exterior lights enough for pictures to be clear without a flash. Even from this distance, there was a nice unobstructed view of the location. The only barrier between someone standing on the narrow walk and my camera lens was a flimsy, rusty-looking, wrought-iron railing. The balusters looked too thin to stop anyone from falling the height of the first floor to the asphalt parking lot below. I doubted anything at the tawdry place passed code. But what did I care? I wasn’t going to stay there. The “liar”—I have always been creative with nicknames—stepped out, straightening his tie. I snapped a few pictures and held my breath, hoping the other woman would come out behind him. Even if I took pictures of her exiting a few minutes later, the husband needed to be in the picture with her. A surprising number of wives would argue with me about what actually took place in these various, if interchangeable, hotel rooms. For some reason they would rather believe the info about their husband cheating was fake than admit he strayed, which confused me because I got paid either way. It felt especially crazy when they must already know the truth, otherwise they wouldn’t have hired me in the first place. But I knew better than to look for logic in the ways of the human heart and got the best evidence possible. The man turned sideways. Light from the room behind him threw his face into silhouette. He had an exceptionally generous head of hair, which made him very recognizable even in bad light. Mid-forties, and mostly in good shape, he appeared athletic as long as he didn’t unbutton his sport coat. I could see why women were attracted to him, though he didn’t do a thing for me. I preferred men a little more honest. But then, I’d never been married, so what did I know? A figure moved from behind him into the shadow of the doorway. “Come on, honey, step out into the light.” I held the camera to my eye. “One more step, so I can see your face.” The woman obliged by leaning into the cold blue glow cast by the old style, energy inefficient streetlights, her cheeks stained red in the flash of the vacancy sign. I happily clicked away as the “office manager” wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. She clearly wore nothing but lingerie. She must assume no one else would be out this late on such a cold weeknight. Or maybe she enjoyed having people see her, a bit of an exhibitionist in the happy homewrecker. Whatever the cause, she had him in the perfect spot for the best pictures. I loved it when guilty people made my job easy. My photos might not be art, but they were gold in my book. No way the wife could believe this was anything other than what it looked like. Several photos later, the husband extricated himself from the mistress and she ducked back into the room and closed the door. He walked briskly toward a shiny red Chevy Camaro. The guy owned a GM dealership and drove a new car every day. He lit a cigarette, which he puffed on for a few drags before he tossed it into the gutter. Not just a cheater, a litterer. The bastard. The cigarette stench backed his poker party story and covered the smell of another woman, killing two birds with one cancer-causing stone. As soon as he pulled out onto the street, I stretched back up to full height, relieved to still feel my feet. I started up my ancient green Subaru Forrester, cranked my heater, and headed for home, relieved I didn’t have to wait around in the cold for the mistress to reappear. Whatever she did next wasn’t my concern. Having the two of them in the pictures together convinced me my work was done. The hotel was located downtown—the blue-collar north end, not the high-priced, brick, historical south end, so I dropped down to Lakeway Drive, scooted under the freeway, and wound through the streets that curved around Bayview Cemetery. Traffic at ten o’clock on a midweek winter night was light, and I arrived at my little house by ten-thirty. I downloaded the photos from the hotel onto my computer, wrote up a final bill for my client, and went to bed content. What could possibly go wrong with such an easy case? *** Excerpt from One Dead, Two to Go by Elena Hartwell. Copyright 2024 by Elena Hartwell. Reproduced with permission from Elena Hartwell. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Elena Hartwell:

.

Elena Hartwell

Elena Hartwell spent several years working in theater as a playwright, director, designer, and educator before turning her storytelling skills to fiction. Elena is also a senior editor with Allegory Editing, a developmental editing house, where she works one-on-one with writers to shape and polish manuscripts. If you’d like to work with Elena, visit www.allegoryediting.com. Her favorite place to be is at Paradise, the property she and her hubby own south of Spokane, Washington. They live with their horses, Jasper, Radar, and Diggy, their dogs Polar and Wyatt, and their cats Coal Train and Cocoa. Elena holds a B.A. from the University of San Diego, a M.Ed. from the University of Washington, Tacoma, and a Ph.D. from the University of Georgia. She also writes as Elena Taylor, to learn more visit www.ElenaTaylorAuthor.com

Catch Up With Elena Hartwell: www.ElenaHartwell.com TheMysteryOfWriting.com Goodreads BookBub – @elenahartwell Instagram – @elenataylorauthor Twitter/X – @Elena_TaylorAut Facebook – @ElenaTaylorAuthor

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!  

 

Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!

.

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Elena Hartwell. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

.

 

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

~~~~~

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.

A Peek Inside The Edison Enigma by Thomas White

Posted: April 18, 2024 in Mystery, Science Fiction
Tags: , ,
0

A physicist discovers the secret to time travel only to find out he was not the first, it is now his task to go back and repair history.

 

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Title: The Edison Enigma

Author: Thomas White

Publication Date: February 29, 2024

Pages: 196

Genre: Scifi/Mystery 

Edison, a Chicago physicist, manages to successfully transport an object through time. Almost immediately following this success Dr. Edison is shut out of the facility and told by benefactor Raphael Barrington, to take a vacation. He is contacted by Don Rivendell, a grizzled old man with a secret. Rivendell explains to Tom that he is not the first person to discover time travel. Someone else went back and changed history by saving a young girl from dying in an internal combustion engine explosion.

Dr. Edison is tasked with going back and fixing history. He travels back to 1904 to find the younger version of Rivendell and stop him from saving the girl.

You can purchase your copy of The Edison Enigma at Amazon at https://t.ly/_NOoo.

 

 

Enjoy this peek inside:

 

Tom, Lori, and Jerzy entered the lab and stood on the landing, looking over the commotion. There was a hustle and bustle of frenetic activity as lab personnel moved from station to station, checking data, preparing modules, and entering critical information.

“Every time I come in here, I expect to see tables with bubbling test tubes and old, toothless women sweeping the floor,” Jerzy said.

Lori laughed. “Well, it would be hard to explain what bubbling test tubes have to do with this project, but I get your drift. We are kinda like Dr. Frankenstein with this whole thing.” Tom vaulted down the stairs and skipped to the control area on the opposite side of the room. He high-fived everyone he passed and crossed to an older, balding man with a semi-circle of gray hair around the fringe of his scalp. A short gray mustache covered most of his upper lip. The man had a slow gait caused mainly by forty straight hours on his feet. Tom hugged him.

“Bruce! This is it! I feel like tap dancing!”

“Well, I’ve put up with worse from you. We’re just running the final check-down now; almost complete. The data you just sent down is perfect.” Bruce had a New Jersey accent highlighted by a Yiddish lilt that caused his mustache to bounce when he spoke.

The retrofitting of the building was designed specifically for this project. Constructed like a sports arena with a high domed ceiling, the lab was ten thousand square feet open from wall to wall. Three levels encircled the room starting at the floor. Each subsequent level rose above the one below and contained a series of computer stations lined up like the NASA control room, collating, interpreting, or generating data. The entire room was connected, hardwired, and air-gapped to The Quint’s central motherboard. The Quint was the fastest and most potent AI computer known to man and contained the most significant elements of learned behavior and artificial intelligence. More significantly, it could determine and pinpoint a specific moment in time.

In the main staging area, in the center of the room, was the masterpiece of the entire project – The Time Tube. The Time Tube was a four-story, transparent tube made from indestructible acrylic conducive to energy absorption. As energy swirled through the Time Tube, it created the power needed for time travel. It stood 18’ tall with an eight-foot diameter. A raised platform ran halfway around and had six steps that led up to a full-size door allowing access to the Tube.

The lab’s roof was six stories high and supported a series of lighting instruments, air conditioning units, and safety mechanisms.  Among the other things that lived in the ceiling was a series of tubing that wrapped around the room like a tornado and converged from the roof to the lab’s centerpiece. This series of tubing was called the Cyclone. Air was pushed through the Cyclone at incredible speeds, producing centrifugal force. That energy transitioned to Euler acceleration, creating a variation in the angular velocity. Theoretically, this opens a window in time and allows the object to pass through.

After years of research, study, and failed experimentation, Tom finally understood that time is, in fact, parallel, meaning that time moves through us rather than us moving through time. In essence, time is an ever-evolving moment. We move from one plane to the next as we move forever forward. The wonder is that it is infinite, never-ending, so we will never reach the edge of time as time continues to build moment next to moment. Once Tom accepted that theory, the means of moving through time began to evolve.

With enough energy, we can freeze ourselves in a moment, thus staying still as time moves on. The challenge became moving through thousands of moments to move back in time, or more accurately, let a specific moment of the past catch up to you. It had taken Tom and his crew almost five years to reach this point. They believed they could generate enough energy to move back and forth within their time sphere to moments that have happened or will happen and return to their own designated moment and survive.

One of the most daunting challenges the team had to overcome when sending something through time was having the entire entity arrive in the same moment. Any portion of an entity that arrived a millisecond later than any other part of that entity would be split in two by the paradox of time. Using an optical lattice clock allowed the team to calculate to a precise moment. When coordinated with The Quint, the top or bottom, front or back, the side to side of any entity would arrive at the same exact moment in time so as not to be split apart.

Subsequently, above the main control area, against the back wall, was the read-out of an optical lattice clock, accurate to one second every 400 million years. It was this technology that allowed Tom and his staff the ability to pinpoint a single moment in time. The optical lattice clock uses laser beams instead of atoms to calculate the second. The light from the laser excites the strontium atoms and increases the accuracy of determination of time.

With The Quint’s exceptional calculation ability, Tom could capture moments within a zeptosecond, one trillionth of a billionth of a second, targeting specific areas of history or periods of time, with phenomenal accuracy.  Projecting these moments into the future would allow them to move forward in time as well. Theoretically, at least.

That theory would be tested this afternoon.

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About the Author
 

 

 

Thomas White began his career as an actor. Several years later he found himself as an Artistic Director for a theatre in Los Angeles and the winner of several Drama-Logue and Critics awards for directing. As Tom’s career grew, he directed and co-produced the world tour of “The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Coming Out Of Their Shells”. The show toured for over two years, was translated into seven different languages and seen by close to a million children. Tom served as President and Creative Director for Maiden Lane Entertainment for 24 years and worked on many large-scale corporate event productions that included Harley Davidson, Microsoft, Medtronic Diabetes, and dozens of others. The Edison Enigma is Tom’s third novel following up Justice Rules which was nominated as a finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association 2010 Literary contest, and The Siren’s Scream.

Author Links

Website | X (Twitter) | Facebook 1 | Facebook 2 | Goodreads

 

 

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Raising The Dead by Jayne Lisbeth ~ Review And Peek Inside

Posted: April 17, 2024 in Mystery, reviews, Supernatural
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 Raising the Dead is the journey of a naive young woman who grows to maturity through the love and mentoring of friends, both living and dead.

 

 

 

Title: Raising the Dead

Author: Jayne Lisbeth

Publication Date: August 15, 2023

Pages: 330

Genre: Paranormal Fiction / Supernatural / Mystery

A naive 20-year old bride, Emeline,  is grief stricken after the deaths of her beloved parents. She believes she has made a grave error in moving with her husband 3000 miles from her beloved California Delta childhood home to Charles Town, Virginia, to be closer to her husband, Randy’s,  mother. Emeline is bereft in sorrow, marooned in grief until a mysterious woman, Felicity,  wanders into her life and changes her world forever.  When Felicity disappears as mysteriously as she arrived, Emeline is determined to unearth her older friend’s whereabouts. What she ultimately discovers forces her to question her sanity, world, memories and newfound joys.

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MY REVIEW

I like my main characters, especially women, to be self confident and strong.  Emeline was not that woman. At least not at first. She was only twenty, married and grieving the loss of her parents.  And now she’s moved across the country to start her new life. I understood her insecurities, her naivete. And I was thrilled to see her bloom into that strong woman through the help of a mysterious older woman, Felicity, who took on the role of a guiding, nurturing mother.  But then Felicity disappears and Emeline is driven to find her.

I thoroughly enjoyed this story.The characters were well developed and believable with flaws and all. And the  writing was compelling, inviting me to turn each page. It was also so visual, making faces and scenery easy to see. Emeline’s search for Felicity was moving. I so wanted her to find the woman who she dearly loved. That was a mystery in itself that I kind of figured out and then thought maybe I hadn’t. As for the ending. It was all I could have hoped for.

4 STARS

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REVIEWS OF RAISING THE DEAD

Author: Jayne Lisbeth, Cover Artist: Tim Gibbons

Publisher Austin Macauley: “Raising the Dead is a deep and emotional account of Emeline’s introspective journey, with a wholesome, spiritual supernatural angle. An inspirational, assured novel that is sure to resonate with the target audience. The poignant plot, very well-structured, the assured writing style and the events that unfold unveil a strong narrative arc Ultimately, it is thought to be a worthy addition to the genre, sure to appeal to a wide audience.”

Mary Lea McKennan, Idaho: 5 Stars:

“I just now finished the final pages of Raising the Dead!!  ‘Awww’, is what I said aloud along with shedding a few precious tears of joy! The characters within this book have rekindled the love in my heart for all of my own friends and family, current and past, who are there to guide us and teach us throughout our lives. You’ve done a wonderful job of weaving the ups and downs of everyday life into a heartwarming tale that will strengthen all who read it.”

Roberta Flowers Dillman, St. Petersburg, FL: 5 Stars:

“Raising the Dead is like a delicious layered dessert. Just when you think you got to the best part you turn the page to a more delightful part. I loved this journey and I love a deep read that’s easy to read. Raising the Dead is both. Great work, Jayne.”

Howard Gordon, Eugene, Oregon, 5 Stars: “Blew me away”

“This book was given to me by a friend and when I began reading my first impression was that it was too descriptive. Details, details, details. As I continued to read I found that these details as the story goes on formed a basis for an intriguing story of thoughtful and surprising characters. It turns out that I couldn’t put the book down.  I was bounced from sadness to joy to wonder at the author’s use of words and changes of mood. I was then flummoxed by the addition of a second story contained within the book which made everything crystal clear. I had read Ms. Lisbeth’s previous book, Writing in Wet Cement, and this one convinced me that there is an upcoming bestseller in the future.”

Paula Stahel, Breath and Shadows Productions, Tampa, FL

“A Lovely Read“”  Jayne Lisbeth has conjured a sweet story of a young, naive newlywed whose world opens to new ideas, skills, and the discovery of fulfilling friendships after an unexpected mentor literally walks into her life. And ultimately comes to understand the lasting power of love.”

Click here to read more reviews.

Buy Links:

Amazon  | B&N | Kobo | BooksAMillion

 

 

Book Excerpt:

 

 

One hundred and fifty-five years after Mildred Hanson’s death, Randy Upswatch carried his bride, Emeline Jannison Upswatch, across the threshold of Cabin #25. Randy gently set Emeline down on the heart pine kitchen floor. The windows let in bright splashes of the morning light through the wavy old glass. An antique black wood stove squatted in a corner, next to a small fireplace with an open hearth. The original porcelain sink had been retained but over the years the plumbing had been modernized. Across the room, an old gas stove nestled adjacent to a vintage Frigidaire. A scarred wood plank shelf was built into the wall between the stove and refrigerator, with drawers installed beneath. Knotty pine cabinets and shelves provided plenty of room for Em’s collection of antique bowls and pitchers. Next to the fireplace, a pantry with floor to ceiling shelves completed the kitchen, empty storage begging to be filled.

Emeline’s heart lifted, then sank, when she remembered the days she and her mama, Cleo, had filled their own pantry shelves. Mother and daughter would process their Sacramento Delta crops into jeweled jars of vegetables, relishes, jams, pickles and chutneys. Her eyes teared up, which she quickly hid from Randy. She scolded herself. Damn, girl, it’s been two years since Mama’s passing…[TG1] isn’t it time for you to move on? She thought to herself.

“Sure, wish I’d paid more attention to Mama’s cooking,” she said aloud.

“What?” Randy asked.

“Oh! I didn’t realize I said that out loud. Just thinking that Mama always needed my help with jamming and canning, but never taught me to cook. She really wanted her kitchen all to herself.”

But Randy didn’t hear this response as he was busily exploring the rest of the cabin. “Holy Shit, Em, lookit this!” he exclaimed. Emeline followed Randy down a central hallway leading to other rooms. At one end of the central hall was a large bedroom. Windows sparkled as lacy light fell through the trees surrounding the cabin. A smaller bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway seemed forlorn. A large tree shadowed the room, darkening the interior. In the center of the hallway and next to the kitchen was a small bathroom boasting an enormous clawfoot tub. A window over the tub with a deep sill would be perfect for African Violets and geraniums, Em thought.

Off the center of the long hallway was the living room. It was just big enough to hold their old couch, her mama’s ancient Lincoln rocker, and two end tables. An old black stove, sitting on a raised platform of bricks was nestled in a corner of the room. At the far end of the room were glass French doors, obviously an addition to the original structure of the cabin. Throughout the cabin, light scattered through many antique windows. Emeline pushed Randy aside and walked through the French doors. “Randy, it’s the best part of the cabin!”

Through the doorway, she had spied bookshelves. Views of the surrounding pastures were idyllic portraits framed in the old windows. Directly in the center of the room was another door to a back garden. It would be perfect for cross ventilation when both the kitchen and library doors were opened. Wildflowers of all colors were woven into the bucolic pasture in the distance. The flowers gently danced in the spring breezes from the surrounding hill, transporting the outside world into this inner sanctum. Shadows from a large willow tree quivered as the tree shook its slender green leaves on delicate branches, nearly touching the ground. Em was reminded of children around a maypole, all wearing long green dresses. “Oh, Randy, there’s a window seat!”

The cozy seat under the large window was laced between the bookshelves. A stone fireplace beckoned in the corner. Em lifted the lid of the window seat and a smoky scent of old fires wafted up to her. It was the most peaceful room in the cabin, exuding warmth and history. Em imagined the hours other occupants had sat on this window seat, immersed in a book. She walked to the door. “Randy! It’s a Dutch door!”

“A what?”

“A Dutch door, see, the top and bottom open separately. We can just open the top and get the breezes and leave the bottom latched. Oh, I’ve always wanted a Dutch door!”

Em turned to Randy and enveloped him in her arms. “It’s a perfect home for us. It’s beautiful. This room is where I bet I’ll be spending my time. It’s the jewel of the cabin. What a special place. It’s a library, Randy.”

“Oh, yeah. My mom told me the lady who built all these cabins insisted her people led educated lives. She had a little school where she taught the kids how to read. Imagine that, teaching slaves to read, even giving them places like this to live. Mom said everybody in the town thought the old lady was nuts. They couldn’t stand the way she treated her slaves. She didn’t even call them slaves! She actually paid them, as her ’employees’. That was 200 years ago. Things have certainly changed since then,” Em said thoughtfully.

Emeline felt as though she were in the middle of a pumpkin with the cabin’s knotty pine walls, the colors of burnt sienna and sunsets. She felt the rooms had been warmed by years of sunlight, woodsmoke and the fingertips of many inhabitants, completing the warm embrace of each room.

Emeline caressed the beautiful wood paneling as she returned to the living room where Randy stood next to the small Franklin stove. “I had no idea these cabins were so lovely. Mom just said they were old. She didn’t tell me anything about what great shape they’re in.” The glow on his face helped to light up the room.

“We should set up our bed and try it out in our new home, don’t you think?” Randy said with a bright smile.

Em’s mind was elsewhere, busy with all she would do to make their new home a nest she could feather with her dreams.

They returned to a slower examination of all the rooms. The antique pine floors creaked beneath their feet. In her mind’s eye, Em began placing their furniture in each room.

She lingered in the smaller of the two bedrooms as Randy left to retrieve boxes from their U-Haul. The entire cabin was infused with rainbows of light except for this small room at the end of the hallway. This room was darker, more somber. An enormous tree towered above this end of the cabin, blocking out the sunlight. The room seemed more silent than the others, with their creaking floors and squeaks. This room had a sad, lonely, uninhabited feel to it.

–Excerpted from Raising the Dead, by Jayne Lisbeth. Austin Macauley, U.K., 2023. Reprinted with permission.

 

 

About the Author

 

 

Jayne Lisbeth was born in NYC and continued her life’s journey from Long Island, to New Jersey, Massachusetts, Vermont, California and Tampa, all places featured prominently in her writing.  Her first book, a memoir, Writing In Wet Cement has been published internationally by London based publisher, Austin Macauley. Jayne’s second book, Raising the Dead, a work of historical fiction, mystery, friendship and the supernatural, was published in 2023, also by Austin Macauley.  Ms. Lisbeth publishes monthly “Food for Thought” blogs on her website, Jaynelisbeth.com. Her “Food for Thought” blogs are based on her reflections of  life, friendship, love, and topical subjects of interest. Ms. Lisbeth’s non-fiction, poetry, and short stories have been published from Vermont to California to Tampa, Florida where she has received awards at the local level. She has been published locally in Pages of Our Life, volumes I and II which is currently part of the USF, Tampa, Geriartic Studies Programs. Ms. Lisbeth’s short stories have been published in the LEC Phoenix Anthologies, 2015-2023. Jayne’s interests include writing, reading, exploring, traveling, calligraphy, gravestone rubbing, entertaining and cooking.  Jayne’s author’s website is Jaynelisbeth.com.

Ms. Lisbeth and her artist husband, Tim Gibbons, are the owners and founders of Funky As A Monkey Art Studio, providing art in public places and launching new and emerging artists in exhibiting their art.

Author Links

Website | Amazon Website | Publisher’s Website | Facebook | Instagram Booksigning Event at The Corner Club

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The Big Lie by Gabriel Valjan ~ Review And Giveaway

Posted: April 2, 2024 in giveaways, Mystery, reviews
Tags: , ,
2

THE BIG LIE by Gabriel Valjan Banner

THE BIG LIE
by Gabriel Valjan
March 11 – April 5, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

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Synopsis:
A Shane Cleary Mystery
LOST: Poodle. Standard. Black. Studded collar. No tags. Goes by the name of Boo.

Sun Tzu may have said, ‘Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer,’ but he didn’t live in Boston, and he’s not Shane Cleary. Shane’s latest and most unexpected client, while not quite an enemy, is Southie’s most dangerous criminal. Everything screams he shouldn’t take the gig, finding the gangster’s lost dog, but Shane can’t resist the promised ‘bonus.’ His cat, Delilah, is against it, and his girlfriend, Bonnie, the lawyer, doesn’t know. Life is neither easy nor simple for Shane. Bonnie asks for his help on a pro bono case, his friend Bill requests a sketchy background check, and a mafia henchman makes a peculiar request. Shane can’t help but think his client just might kill him anyway after he finishes the job. Does Jimmy know a Truth that will change Shane’s life, or is it a Big Lie?

Praise for THE BIG LIE:

“Gabriel Valjan writes in a voice not heard since the golden days of the noir novel. His tough characters—good guys, bad guys, and confused folks just caught in the whirlwind—sparkle like the facets of a dark jewel, and his images linger in the mind after the book’s long over.” ~ SJ Rozan, best-selling author of THE MAYORS OF NEW YORK “If Raymond Chandler were alive today, this is the story he’d write: Great characters, a noir-ish plot that never flags, writing that sizzles, and a relevant tale of the ways in which justice is, sadly, not blind.” ~ Mally Becker, Agatha nominated author of THE TURNCOAT’S WIDOW “Whip-smart, pacy, and full of curves. A worthy addition to the PI oeuvre.” ~ Colin Campbell, Acclaimed author of the Jim Grant thrillers “When you begin a crime novel with PI Shane Cleary getting hired by a gangster to find a stolen pooch, a standard poodle named Boo, there are several ways you can go, and most of them are downhill. Fortunately, Gabriel Valjan is at the helm of THE BIG LIE, which guarantees it heads in the right direction. Up. The dialogue is snappy, the retorts witty, and along the way we meet a host of unforgettable characters–hey, it’s Boston, what else would you expect?” ~ Charles Salzberg is the award-winning and Shamus Award nominated author of SECOND STORY MAN, CANARY IN THE COAL MINE and the Henry Swann series

 

Book Details:

Genre: Hardboiled Detective Mystery

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: March 2024 Number of Pages: 175 ISBN: 978-1685125301 Series: A Shane Cleary Mystery, Book 5

Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads | Bookshop

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MY REVIEW

There are several important ingredients that I feel are needed in a mystery. There’s the character’s. I need them to be quirky. To be genuine. You know…. flawed and such. And I need to connect with them. To see their faces in my mind. To almost recognize them as neighbors. or family or friends.

Then there’s the mystery itself. I like it to flow and not be too easily solved. I need several false trails and suspects.

A little romance, perhaps. Not so much the main focus, but I like to anticipate if it will become a thing.

Location or setting. I like to feel as if the author is showing me the place, like I’m being introduced to a character.

And any kind of critters are always a bonus. I love them and it’s such fun to have them be characters as well. To have their own quirks and silliness.

And if it’s part of a series I want that desire to continue. To want to see what happens to the main characters later on.

If I get all of that, I’m happy. And getting more is even better. The Big Lie gave me all of it. And even better. I hadn’t read the previous books and the author filled me in on enough backstory to help me make sense of things.

5 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:
CHAPTER ONE:
BROTHER RAT
“A dog? You want me to find a dog?” “That’s right.” The head lifted, and eyes the color of Windex evaluated me. The slice of light from the streetlamp through the curtains behind him revealed a revolver on the armrest and a pair of pliers in one hand, which he squeezed to strengthen his grip. He used them to extract teeth from his victims. Whether he did it when they were alive or dead added to the legend and menace of Southie’s most infamous son. Another man stood near him. I’m told life serves you the same lesson over and over until you learn what you need to learn before the next thing comes along. I’ve also been told that karma never forgets an address. Jimmy was proof of both. He almost killed me but didn’t. I should’ve killed him, but I couldn’t because he was protected, and not by the mob. A stained badge shielded the man sitting in my chair, in my apartment in Union Park. My landlady had called me at Bonnie’s place. She told me I had visitors, and they wanted a word with me. She said Jimmy made a point to pet her two Corgis and offered her some advice. The thug recommended a brand of dog food so her dogs wouldn’t gain more weight. He emphasized canine physical fitness, which was pure Jimmy since he was a fitness nut. Jimmy had muscles because like most of the young lions in Southie, he lifted weights. He sported a veined neck, muscular arms, and a thick chest trapped inside a tight polo shirt. I knew if I couldn’t take him, I was confident he’d feel me for days. We both weighed about 165 pounds, but I had a smidge more height to his five-eight. I had one more advantage over Jimmy, I could stand my ground and take a hit. Jimmy, like most jockeys of the weight room, walked around with toothpicks for legs because he neglected to train them. His pant leg rode high enough for me to eyeball pasty shins, black socks, and sneakers. No ankle piece there. I read the room as I came in. The situation would play out in one of two ways. One is someone pulled a trigger, and my last thought was either part of the hardwood floor or, my brains were spaghetti against the wall and ceiling. The second option was I lived, forced to listen and learn how to avoid the same situation again. Like I said, a lesson in life and karma. Jimmy murmured something to his bodyguard. It was low and slow, the kind of soft and secretive Irish whisper you’d expect in a bar’s last hour. I assumed he’d told his man to wait outside because the guy moved past me. The door to my apartment opened and closed. I didn’t see his face but caught a glimpse of the feet. Construction boots. The pair of pliers indicated the chair near me. “Sit.” “I prefer to stand.” “Suit yourself.” I peeled my jacket off, so he’d know I was armed. His eyes admired the holster. I knew what he was going to say, so I said it before he did. “Same rig as Steve McQueen in Bullitt.” “Cross-draw don’t seem bright or effective.” “Want to test me?” His right hand pulsed with the pliers. A blued steel .357 slept on the left armrest of my favorite chair. His choice of firearm was an older model, not the kind Dirty Harry would carry, but it got the job done. Jimmy was right-handed, but that wasn’t the point. His eyes flashed, as a way to taunt me, and then focused. “Nah, I don’t feel lucky today, and all I want is for you to find my dog.” “On second thought,” I said, “I think I’ll take that seat.” “Excellent, we can have a civilized conversation then.” I get all kinds of crazy for clients because my retainer and daily rates are reasonable. Paranoid businessmen hire me because they suspect a partner or a favorite employee is a thief. Neurotic spouses hire me because they see a frequent-flyer for a phone number on the bill from Ma Bell, or odd charges on their dearly beloved’s statement from American Express. Bonnie told me family law was the worst, and I agreed, but it pays the bills. I’ve listened to more sob stories and provided more free advice than Ann Landers. In short, I’ve handled embezzlement, fraud, infidelity, and on occasion, missing persons, in addition to arson, murder, and narcotics. But this pitch to find a canine—a variation on a missing person or property—was new. Jimmy, who didn’t like to be called Jimmy, was an extortionist, a murderer, and South Boston’s premier gangster, so it was hard for me to picture him heartsick over the absence of man’s best friend. He said, “Don’t you have a cat?” “Delilah.” “Delilah, that’s right. You would be upset if she went missing, wouldn’t you?” His hand waved, pliers and all. “There’s a name…Delilah, as in Samson and Delilah. A female dog is called a bitch, but I never did learn what they called a female cat.” “A molly.” “You know, I’ve never cared for cats. Loyalty issues, moody and temperamental.” “Rather ironic coming from you. Cats are excellent judges of character.” “And what do you think your Delilah would say about me, if she could talk?” “You wouldn’t want to know. Can we wrap this up?” Delilah, he didn’t know, could talk. Sort of. She blinked once for Yes, twice for No, and meows were extra for emphasis. If she’d seen Jimmy now, she’d turn banshee and caterwaul profanities. “You want me to find a dog?” “A dog.” “Your dog?” “My dog.” Jimmy had never been talky, or loud, but he commanded every room he was in with an unnerving silence. He neither drank nor smoked or used drugs. His mother was alive, and he looked after her like a doting son. His brother was successful on the other side of the tracks, in politics, and Jimmy went out of his way not to cast a shadow on frater eius. “I’m aware that Shane Cleary doesn’t need my money. I know he does all right as a landlord for his Greek friend, with steady income from tenants, and this PI thing is something he does for kicks, to try to make life interesting.” Those blue eyes sparkled in that truant light while he talked about me. “Are you suggesting all that could vanish if I don’t take the case?” “Not at all,” he said. “All I’m saying is I know things about you; things you might not know about yourself, things like personal history, and I don’t mean your falling out with the Boston Police Department.” “Good to know, but I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.” “You were too good for them, like you’re too good to work for that dago in the North End.” “And there it is. I earn my money, and you know it, Jimmy.” “Yeah, you do. I had to say it before you tell me my money is no good.” “Money makes the world go round,” I added. “That’s right. Money does, and it’s all-American as apple pie.” “I know your story, and you say you know mine. What if I don’t care what you know?” “I do, and you will care about what I know. Speaking of I do, how come you haven’t asked that lawyer broad you’ve been seeing to marry you?” “She doesn’t believe in marriage, and none of your business.” Jimmy was a career criminal, and not someone I would associate with domesticity. Women close to him have disappeared, and yet there was little to nothing in his jacket for other misdeeds, thanks to his agent friend. Any priors going back to his teen years—like larceny, a spatter of robberies with a dash of assault and battery—was smoke on the water. “Work this one case for me, Shane. It’s all I ask. I’ll pay you your rate and throw in the personal history as a bonus, if you’ll find my dog.” “Personal history?” “You haven’t read or seen it. Trust me, this is something you don’t know.” “You said it yourself. I don’t need the money. As for your teaser about history …what if I don’t care?” He stared at me. He was Windex and I was dirty glass. “You will, I promise. That’s your problem in life, Shane Cleary. You care, and this one time, Jimmy is gonna set you straight.” Jimmy was volatile as a bucket of gasoline, he liked to test boundaries. All he needed was fumes and a lit match. Like the time someone called him Old Blue Eyes in one of the taverns on Broadway. The poor souse probably meant it as a compliment after one too many beers. Jimmy didn’t see it that way. He especially hated Sinatra, the way he detested all Italians, so he stomped the guy’s face in. His eyes glanced down at the weapon under my arm. The holster was such that the gun pointed up at the armpit. His eyes met mine. “Did you know my old man lost an arm? Crushed between two rail cars. You would’ve liked him, Shane. He was a quiet, proud man, what we would call socially conscientious today He’d clerk here and there at the Naval Yard, but he never worked a full-time job after he lost that arm.” “Tough break.” “Our fathers had something in common.” Being Irish was my first thought, but I waited for it through tight teeth. I wanted to punch him in the face for making any comparison between us. I thought, I should’ve killed him when I had the chance. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it, either. “We’re alike, you and I,” he said. “First the teaser and now, flattery. I’ll bite. How do you figure we’re similar?” “We’re both damaged. You came home from the war changed, like your old man.” I couldn’t resist. “I went to Vietnam. What’s your excuse?” That made him smile and say, “Know how we’re alike?” “Don’t know, Jimmy. Maybe, some people would call us rats: me for my time with the BPD and you, well, you know.” His face didn’t flinch or register emotion. “We’re alike because we both believe we’re doing the right thing.” I waited for the rationalization, how what he was doing with the FBI helped South Boston, his people, the maligned Irish. Jimmy was a psychopath, and his line of thinking was a special aisle at Toys “R” Us. “I’m doing my part to clear this town of those wop bastards. No different from you cleaning the stables at the Station House, like when you testified against that crooked cop.” “People within the department were crooked, Jimmy. He killed a black kid and staged the scene. There’s a difference.” “‘Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto.’ Say what you will. Call me an informant. A snitch. Call me a rodent with whiskers and sharp teeth, but go look in the mirror, and tell me what you see, Brother Rat. Tell me how we’re not alike.” “For starts, I was an only child. You weren’t.” “You’re right. My brother, the smart one, helped me as best he could, like that teacher, that professor helped you.” He snapped his fingers. “What was his name?” “Lindsey. Delano Lindsey.” “Did you know I taught myself the classics? I did it, with a library card. See, we’re both strong on initiative and self-education. You look to me like you’re a man hot for Shakespeare. I bet you can quote something from the Bard. How ’bout it?” “‘The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.’ Lear.” Jim wagged a finger. “That’s good, but let’s talk shop now.” “Talk about your dog?” “No, personal history. Your old man went the way of Hemingway, didn’t he?” My blood rose. Several long seconds died between us, about the amount of time it took for one of Ray Guy’s punts to land downfield. “I’ll let you in on something you didn’t know about the day he did a Hemingway.” Through clenched teeth, I told him, “I know all I need to know about my father, thanks.” “Do you? ‘To you your father should be as a god.’ Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Jimmy rose and took his jacket. He dropped the pliers into a pocket and hung the jacket over his left arm. He inserted the gun into his waistband behind him. I sat there numb, confused, and intrigued. He said his man was outside, waiting in the car. Jimmy drove a black Mercury Grand Marquis. He reached the door when, against my better judgment, I asked the question that betrayed my interest in the bait, his lure about personal history, “Where was the last place you saw the dog?” “Roxbury. Dog groomer.” Jim rattled off the address while my mind tried to picture him dropping off his pet in the black section of town. I had to ask him. “This dog have a name?” “Boo.” “As in To Kill a Mockingbird.” “Righto.” “One last thing,” I said. “Breed?” “Poodle. Standard. Black. Studded collar. No tags.” *** Excerpt from The Big Lie by Gabriel Valjan. Copyright 2024 by Gabriel Valjan. Reproduced with permission from Gabriel Valjan. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Gabriel Valjan:

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THE BIG LIE by Gabriel Valjan, credit Peter Rozovosky Gabriel Valjan is the Agatha, Anthony, Derringer, Silver Falchion and Shamus nominated author of the Shane Cleary mystery series with Level Best Books. He received the 2021 Macavity Award for Best Short Story. Gabriel is a member of ITW, MWA, and Sisters in Crime. He is a regular contributor to the Criminal Minds blog. He lives in Boston’s South End and answers to a tuxedo cat named Munchkin.

Catch Up With Gabriel Valjan: GabrielValjan.com Goodreads BookBub – @gvaljan Instagram – @gabrielvaljan Twitter/X – @GValjan Facebook

Photo: Gabriel Valjan, credit Peter Rozovosky  

 

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Acquittal? by Christer Tholin ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: March 2, 2024 in giveaways, Mystery
Tags: , , ,
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A Swedish Crime Novel

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Acquittal?

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Stockholm Sleuth Series Book 5

by Christer Tholin

Genre: Mystery, Crime

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A Swedish Crime Novel

Umeå, Northern Sweden: Willmar Björkman has been incarcerated for five years after being found guilty on a murder charge; albeit unjustly convicted according to his claims. From the very start, he has adamantly maintained that he is innocent of the crime. Detectives Lars and Elin are hired to find new evidence that casts doubt upon the validity of the guilty verdict so that a retrial of his case can be requested. Is that even possible now that so much time has passed? The two detectives start asking around to dig up some new information, but find themselves facing a wall of silence – nobody seems interested in reopening the case. In fact, they themselves are uncertain if Willmar is even innocent at all. But then the coincidences begin to pile up and ultimately the investigation spins completely out of control…

ACQUITTAL? is the fifth, standalone book from Christer Tholin’s Stockholm Sleuth Series.

If you like fast-paced action and surprising twists and turns, then you will love Christer Tholin’s sleuth series.

Buy ACQUITTAL? to see how this suspenseful case is solved!

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Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

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Enjoy this peek inside:

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It had grown late; it was completely dark on the country road, there were no street lights out here. Tall trees stood to the right and left. The snow that lay under the trees did nothing to brighten it. The asphalt was glistening from the wetness, at least Elin hoped that it was water and not ice, because the temperature was around freezing. Once the sun set, the thermometer could quickly drop a few degrees, and then there could be black ice on the ground after the rain. She slowed down – forty-five miles per hour were allowed here. She preferred to go slower than that, especially around the curves.

The lights from oncoming vehicles were blinding. Every time a car came along, she had to concentrate to stay in her lane. She slowed down even further and now was only driving thirty-five miles per hour. That didn’t suit the man behind, he flashed his lights at her several times. Now she was also blinded by the light from the side mirrors. Finally, he overtook after a curve. Well, at least he couldn’t bother her anymore.

For a while everything went fine, she slowly began to relax, but she still maintained a reduced speed. After the idiot from before, there had been no more cars behind her, but now she noticed a car slowly getting closer. Judging from the lighting, it had to be a bigger vehicle. Why did he have to drive like that on this road? She fully understood that the locals knew this road well and could probably judge the weather conditions better than she could, but nevertheless, you should probably still be a little more careful when driving a truck. Well, she had to concede, if he was carrying a heavy load, he probably had little to worry about, even if it was a little slippery. In Stockholm, until recently, the buses didn’t even have winter tires; they all had all-season tires to save costs. Only last year did they start to gradually change over the tires, because there had been a few accidents. After each bend, the lights disappeared behind Elin, only to reappear on the next straight stretch, and a little faster each time – the distance between them was rapidly shrinking. Elin kept glancing nervously in the rearview mirror, she hated it when people tailgated. It was indeed a truck, one of those giant ones, and now he was driving close behind her, flashing his lights. Just what she had been afraid of. She felt compelled to drive a little faster, but she didn’t go beyond forty. Unfortunately, it didn’t help, the truck was still sticking like glue to her. If she had to brake for any reason now, he’d probably run her off the road. Elin hoped that after the next curve there was a clear stretch again so that the guy could pass her. She was uncomfortable with this brightly lit monster clinging to her tail. Trees on either side, blinding lights from the front, and that idiot with all the horsepower tailgating. Carefully she went around the bend – yes, there was a longer clear stretch coming up here, and at the moment there was no oncoming traffic. Furthermore, there was now a small slope on the right side, which increased the distance to the forest and made the road look a little brighter. Elin could only hope that the driver of the truck would take this chance. She looked in the rearview mirror – yeah, he flashed his lights and pulled his vehicle into the left lane. Elin took her foot off the gas and the truck pulled alongside her. It was one of those trucks that transported lumber, fully loaded and with a trailer. They all sped through here like jackasses, the speed limits didn’t seem to apply to them. Water splashed onto her car from the side, her vision was blurred for a brief moment, then the windshield wiper swept over it and she could see the road in front of her again. The truck was halfway past her now but seemed to be slowing down. Elin checked her speedometer, it was thirty-five, which made her wonder if the truck was running out of steam? Irritated, she looked ahead, luckily no oncoming traffic. She reduced her speed even more, which allowed the truck to move past her a bit more. But what was he doing now? What the hell, he was braking! The red brake lights shone brightly. And now he pulled over towards her side. Why? The tree trunks were coming menacingly closer, Elin honked the horn and slammed down on her brake. She felt the rear of her car swerve, while all that was visible in front of her were wheels and wood. The truck cut her off! In a panic, she turned to the right. At that moment her Volvo got a bump in the front and was pushed even further towards the roadside. She pressed on the brakes with all her might, but despite this, she was still getting closer and closer to the downhill slope. She would bring the car to a stop in a moment, just in time. But then the Volvo got a bump from behind and slid down the slope. Snow, trees – Elin screamed. The Volvo spun, the wheels hitting some obstacle. Then the car overturned – the last thing Elin saw was her airbag deploying.

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**Don’t miss the rest of the series!**

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Find them on Amazon

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Christer was raised in the North of Germany, Schleswig-Holstein. After having spent years in Berlin / Germany, Brighton /UK and Budapest / Hungary, he has now been living in Stockholm / Sweden for almost two decades.

As a crime-story aficionado of long standing, Christer always wanted to write detective stories of his own that would not only be exciting, but that would also be set against the backdrop of the natural beauty of Sweden – and that would afford him the opportunity to portray Swedish society as seen through the eyes of a foreigner. The result: his “Stockholm Sleuth Series.”

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Playing Dead by TG Wolff ~ Peek Inside And Giveaway

Posted: February 23, 2024 in giveaways, Mystery
Tags: , ,
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Playing Dead
by TG Wolff

 

 

February 19 – 23, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:

The nightmare is over. Alexander “Rotten” Carter is dead. But when his body is dumped in Cleveland Homicide Detective Jesus De La Cruz’s neighborhood, there are more questions than answers. Rotten was dressed up like the king of hearts, right down to the dagger in the suicide king’s temple. The elaborate staging is perplexing at the same time seems to be sending a message. As Cruz investigates, he discovers Rotten Carter was more complex than the simple villain he had painted him to be. So is his murder, which is related to the deaths of his two lieutenants months prior. Both were strangled and found, with playing cards in their mouths. Jacks. As the body count climbs, connection tie back to a dead CI and an accident that made a cop a widower. A web becomes apparent with one man in the middle: Narcotics Detective Matt Yablonski. But is he the spider or another fly?

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery

Published by: Down & Out Books Publication Date: February 2024 Number of Pages: 398

Series: The De La Cruz Case Files, Book 4

Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Enjoy this peek inside:

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The crime scene was around the corner, no more than ten houses from Cruz’s own. Two streets came together at a sharp angle, creating oddly shaped yards. An island was formed at one of the peaks, surrounded by roadway. It was the length of one of the yards facing it. Geometric colors showed brightly in the morning sun, giving the landscape a third dimension it didn’t naturally have. Cruz approached, his mind transforming the lines and shapes into the macabre corpse. “I called 9-1-1 and, thankfully, no one else has come out,” Binnie, the girls’ father, said. He stood guard over the island in worn sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He was barefoot. “Aurora kept the girls. She’ll settle them down.” “Good. I didn’t want them to see this, not any more than they had.” Binnie turned until he and Cruz were side by side. “The island was part of the city’s Color the Corners Chalk Festival. It took the artist two days to do it.” That explained the background, a mosaic reminiscent of a stained-glass window, but not the character on it. Cruz thought Francie’s description of a costume was accurate. The victim, male, White, was in his twenties. The torso was covered by a tunic, the kind a knight might wear. Instead of regal, the tunic was decorated with hearts in groups of twos and threes, some facing up, others down. The costume was thin fabric. Details were printed on, not embroidered. The legs were dressed in a pair of tights, the red color coordinated with the tunic. The feet were bare. The arms were bare as well. One was bent at the elbow with the hand resting on the lower abdomen. The other was positioned upward. The hand curled around the hilt of a long dagger, the blade buried in the head. It was an unnatural position that forced the wrist, elbow, and shoulder out of a flat alignment. Cruz rounded to the base of the figure. He recognized it. “Someone made him into the king of hearts. Better get shoes on, Binnie,” he advised as vehicles began arriving at the scene. “This isn’t going to be quick.” “I’ll put some coffee on,” he said and headed to the house directly behind them. There was no estimate on when the man had died. His body temperature was lower than was naturally possible given the weather. The nighttime low bottomed out around fifty degrees. The body was low forties. The Cuyahoga County Medical Examiner would use methods more sophisticated than temperature to estimate time of death. A cursory review of the body found no cuts, wounds, or contusions aside from the knife in the head. The blade had been driven in above the left ear. The handle was wrapped in leather, the complicated over-under weave spoke of skill and craftsmanship. Cruz examined the round, silver ball at the end and found it to be slightly flattened and marred with scratches. Something about the position of the mouth drew Cruz’s attention. He applied pressure on the chin, opening the jaw. Inside was the white edge of folded paper. Widening the opening, he gently pulled. The folded item came easily. It wasn’t paper exactly. It was thicker. Coated. He turned it over, both sides printed in a blue elaborate pattern reminiscent of…a playing card. He unfolded it, revealing the king of hearts. Rising, he compared the body position to the card. It was a match. He pictured the man resting his head on a table. His killer standing over him, holding the dagger in position with one hand and using a hammer in the other to drive the point deep. There were no defensive signs. It was as if the man simply lay down and allowed the knife to be driven into his head. The ME would tell him if the man was incapacitated via drugs or other means. Wherever happened, it didn’t happen here. Beneath the body was the chalk of the drawing. The lines separating the colors were disturbed directly beneath but even that was minor. There was minimal transfer to the back of the clothing. The man was set in place, not dragged, which meant either multiple people were involved or one person strong enough to handle a body. The man was average to short with sinewy arms and legs. Cruz put him in the 160-pound camp. Ready to tackle the timetable, Cruz went up the short walk to where Binnie waited with a cup of coffee. “It’s nice and hot,” he said, holding out the insulated Cleveland Browns cup. Cruz went up one step to accept. “I appreciate it. Tell me what happened this morning.” “You know, Cruz, I can’t tell you much. I was dead asleep when Sunny screamed. You know how it is, one second out cold, then wide awake. I went to the front door. I could tell there was something on the island but not what it was.” He pointed to the screen now hiding the crime scene. “It didn’t make sense until I was nearly to the sidewalk. I told the girls to go get you and ran back in the house to get my phone. I didn’t even think about shoes. I called 9-1-1 and waited for you or them to arrive.” “What time was this?” Binnie pulled out his phone and searched for outgoing calls. “Eight minutes after seven. The sky was light but the street still dark. You know. You arrived just a few minutes later.” Cruz did know but wanted details to supplement his own observations. “What about cars on the street? Anyone leaving the area? Any vehicles that didn’t belong?” His witness thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Everything was quiet. I didn’t even see anyone walking their dog yet.” “I had someone go house-to-house. Anyone who was awake was in their kitchen or backyard. There was no answer next door. Any idea where your neighbor is?” “Metro General Hospital. He works first shift in the maintenance department. He left at twenty to seven. When he started his car, I woke enough to read the clock and decide it was too early to get up.” Binnie pointed to a pair of patrol officers waving their way. “I think they want you.” “We’re close to wrapping up here. Let me see what they need, then we’ll go to my house. I need to ask your daughters a few questions.” Cruz left the porch, turning his attention to the officers. “What do you have?” “The victim has been identified as Alexander Carter, age twenty-seven,” the leading officer answered. “His listed address is his parents’, but he’s spent a lot of time as a guest of the county. In and out for possession, assault, petty theft. He’s—Detective?” Cruz stalked to the protective tent. “Detective? Cruz?” The officer hurried to keep up. Cruz took a knee next to the dead man’s shoulder and studied the face. He’d seen it in pictures a dozen times, only twice in person. In every case, the eyes had been narrowed with hate, the chin tipped up in challenge. “Do you know this guy?” the officer asked. “Not just me. We’ve been after Rotten Carter since July. Send me the information on his next of kin. I’ll make the trip after we wrap here, and I follow up with the girls. Go back through the neighborhood, see if anyone here knows our vic.” The officers left the tent to execute orders while Cruz studied the man he daydreamed about killing. Without the attitude he wore like skin, Rotten Carter had a clean-cut look. He didn’t have ink tatted across his body or battle-earned scars saying the man fought his way through life. He could have been a family man with a white-collar job. He could have been an ordinary guy earning an honest living. But he wasn’t. Rotten Carter was a mid-level dealer who had been on Cleveland police’s radar for years. His sister, Natasha “Sasha” Carter was a confidential informant to Cruz’s best friend, Narcotics Detective Matt Yablonski. Sasha snitched with her brother’s permission or at least knowledge. She fed information on Rotten’s competition, keeping her brother’s territory solid. One day last January, Sasha got in touch with Yablonski and asked for a meetup. She didn’t follow their normal protocols, wanting Yablonski to come to her place. He arrived at the agreed upon time and found Sasha overdosing. Yablonski called for backup and began CPR. Rotten walked in and misread the situation. While Rotten and Yablonski fought, Sasha died. Rotten blamed Yablonski. He focused his energy and resources on finding the man who killed his sister. Bad luck or bad timing put Rotten in the same place at the same time as Yablonski, and Yablonski’s wife, Erin. Rotten saw his opportunity for revenge and took it. That night, Erin and Aurora were driving to a restaurant for a celebratory night out. Rain poured down, making the street dark and the road slick. There was no evidence Rotten Carter tracked Erin’s car through downtown Cleveland. There was no proof Rotten drove the car and instigated the crash. There were no witnesses to point to Rotten as the reason Erin Yablonski was dead and Aurora’s legs might never be the same. And yet there was no doubt. Alone in the tent with the corpse of the man he hated, Cruz felt empty. This didn’t fix a damn thing. And now, it would be his job to find the killer who had done him and the rest of the city a favor. Cruz didn’t want the job, but he wasn’t going to pass it on. He was going to use it to his advantage and prove Rotten Carter was behind the crash. Closure. That’s what he could give Aurora and Yablonski. *** Excerpt from Playing Dead by TG Wolff. Copyright 2024 by TG Wolff. Reproduced with permission from TG Wolff. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author TG Wolff:

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author

TG Wolff writes mysteries that play within the gray area between good and bad, right and wrong. She specializes in puzzles, giving you everything you need to solve the mystery. Diverse characters mirror the complexities of real life and real people, balanced with a healthy dose of entertainment. TG Wolff is the co-creator and co-host of Mysteries to Die For podcast. She holds a Master’s Degree in Civil Engineering and is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.

Catch Up With TG Wolff: TGWolff.com Goodreads BookBub – @TG_Wolff Instagram – @tg_wolff Twitter/X – @tg_wolff Facebook – @Mysteries2Die4

 

 

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