Category Archives: Excerpt

The Spotlight Is On fighter pilot’s daughter by Mary Lawlor @pumpupyourbook #marylawlor

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The story of the author as a young woman coming of age in an Irish Catholic, military family…

 





Title: Fighter Pilot’s Daughter

Author: Mary Lawlor

Publisher: Rowman and Littlefield

Pages: 323 

Genre: Memoir 

Format: Hardcover, Paperback, Kindle, Audiobook

Fighter Pilot’s Daughter: Growing Up in the Sixties and the Cold War tells the story of Mary Lawlor’s dramatic, roving life as a warrior’s child. A family biography and a young woman’s vision of the Cold War, Fighter Pilot’s Daughter narrates the more than many transfers the family made from Miami to California to Germany as the Cold War demanded. Each chapter describes the workings of this traveling household in a different place and time. The book’s climax takes us to Paris in May ’68, where Mary—until recently a dutiful military daughter—has joined the legendary student demonstrations against among other things, the Vietnam War. Meanwhile her father is flying missions out of Saigon for that very same war. Though they are on opposite sides of the political divide, a surprising reconciliation comes years later.

Fighter Pilot’s Daughter is available at Amazon.

Here’s what readers are saying about Fighter Pilot’s Daughter!


“Mary Lawlor’s memoir, Fighter Pilot’s Daughter: Growing Up in the Sixties and the Cold War, is terrifically written. The experience of living in a military family is beautifully brought to life. This memoir shows the pressures on families in the sixties, the fears of the Cold War, and also the love that families had that helped them get through those times, with many ups and downs. It’s a story that all of us who are old enough can relate to, whether we were involved or not. The book is so well written. Mary Lawlor shares a story that needs to be written, and she tells it very well.” ―The Jordan Rich Show


“Mary Lawlor, in her brilliantly realized memoir, articulates what accountants would call a soft cost, the cost that dependents of career military personnel pay, which is the feeling of never belonging to the specific piece of real estate called home. . . . [T]he real story is Lawlor and her father, who is ensconced despite their ongoing conflict in Lawlor’s pantheon of Catholic saints and Irish presidents, a perfect metaphor for coming of age at a time when rebelling was all about rebelling against the paternalistic society of Cold War America.” ―Stars and Stripes

 

 
 
Book Excerpt 

The pilot’s house where I grew up was mostly a women’s world. There were five of us. We had the place to ourselves most of the time. My mother made the big decisions—where we went to school, which bank to keep our money in. She had to decide these things often because we moved every couple of years. The house is thus a figure of speech, a way of thinking about a long series of small, cement dwellings we occupied as one fictional home.

It was my father, however, who turned the wheel, his job that rotated us to so many different places. He was an aviator, first in the Marines, later in the Army. When he came home from his extended absences—missions, they were called—the rooms shrank around him. There wasn’t enough air. We didn’t breathe as freely as we did when he was gone, not because he was mean or demanding but because we worshipped him. Like satellites my sisters and I orbited him at a distance, waiting for the chance to come closer, to show him things we’d made, accept gifts, hear his stories. My mother wasn’t at the center of things anymore. She hovered, maneuvered, arranged, corrected. She was first lady, the dame in waiting. He was the center point of our circle, a flier, a winged sentry who spent most of his time far up over our heads. When he was home, the house was definitely his.

These were the early years of the Cold War. It was a time of vivid fears, pictured nowadays in photos of kids hunkered under their school desks. My sisters and I did that. The phrase “air raid drill” rang hard—the double-A sound a cold, metallic twang, ending with ill. It meant rehearsal for a time when you might get burnt by the air you breathed.

Every day we heard practice rounds of artillery fire and ordinance on the near horizon. We knew what all this training was for. It was to keep the world from ending. Our father was one of many dads who sweat at soldierly labor, part of an arsenal kept at the ready to scare off nuclear annihilation of life on earth. When we lived on post, my sisters and I saw uniformed men marching in straight lines everywhere. This was readiness, the soldiers rehearsing against Armageddon. The rectangular buildings where the commissary, the PX, the bowling alley, and beauty shop were housed had fallout shelters in the basements, marked with black and yellow wheels, the civil defense insignia. Our dad would often leave home for several days on maneuvers, readiness exercises in which he and other men played war games designed to match the visions of big generals and political men. Visions of how a Russian air and ground attack would happen. They had to be ready for it.

A clipped, nervous rhythm kept time on military bases. It was as if you needed to move efficiently to keep up with things, to be ready yourself, even if you were just a kid. We were chased by the feeling that life as we knew it could change in an hour.

This was the posture. On your mark, get set. But there was no go. It was a policy of meaningful waiting. Meaningful because it was the waiting itself that counted—where you did it, how many of the necessities you had, how long you could keep it up. Imagining long, sunless days with nothing to do but wait for an all-clear sign or for the threatening, consonant-heavy sounds of a foreign language overhead, I taught myself to pray hard.

– Excerpted from Fighter Pilot’s Daughter by Mary Lawlor, Rowman and Littlefield, 2013. Reprinted with permission.


About the Author
 

Mary Lawlor is author of Fighter Pilot’s Daughter (Rowman & Littlefield 2013, paper 2015), Public Native America (Rutgers Univ. Press 2006), and Recalling the Wild (Rutgers Univ. Press, 2000). Her short stories and essays have appeared in Big Bridge and Politics/Letters. She studied the American University in Paris and earned a Ph.D. from New York University. She divides her time between an old farmhouse in Easton, Pennsylvania, and a cabin in the mountains of southern Spain.

You can visit her website at https://www.marylawlor.net/ or connect with her on Twitter or Facebook.




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GC Giveaway – Maximum Pressure by Sheila Lowe @partnersincr1me @sheila_lowe #maximumpressure

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MAXIMUM PRESSURE

by Sheila Lowe

October 6 – 31, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

SYNOPSIS

Claudia Rose Forensic Handwriting Mystery Series

 

Old grudges die hard—some never die at all

Forensic handwriting expert Claudia Rose never expected much from her high school reunion, just the usual mix of mean girls, jocks, nerds, and bullies. But when she stumbles upon the lifeless body of someone she knew, the night takes a deadly turn. As secrets resurface and old rivalries ignite, Claudia finds herself caught in a dangerous game where the past is more than just a memory—it’s a motive for murder.

Praise for Maximum Pressure:

“Fun high school reunion story…until, well, the murders. The ending will surprise you. Intelligent read.”
~ Karen Fox 5 star Amazon Review

“A fantastic read!! Sheila Lowe, as always, delivers a compelling story that’ll have you in the edge of your seat!”
~ MattsHonestReviews 5 star Amazon Review

“I love this series… So well written I could see these characters very clearly. I love this series and this may be my favorite case! The suspense was edge of your seat & I loved it.”
~ K-BRC 5 star Amazon Review

“Another great book from Sheila Lowe–Hard to put down ’til the end… This is a fun and exciting story, face-paced, and as always with Sheila Lowe’s books, full of great HWA insights and comments. I think this is one of her best stories and right up my alley as an amateur handwriting analyst!”
~ Vera 5 star Amazon Review

“Excellent, well-written mystery that takes off like a jet from an aircraft carrier in the opening pages and never lets up! With every book she writes Lowe continues to sculpt her craft and gets better & better. The characters are likable & attention holding. The plot and the sub-plots were both well-developed.”
~ Roger Fauble 5 star Amazon Review

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Write Choice Ink
Publication Date: June 2, 2024
Number of Pages: 314
ISBN: 978-1970181487 (print)
Series: A Claudia Rose Forensic Handwriting Mystery, #9
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle Unlimited | Audible | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Apple Audio

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Friday afternoon, October 6

Everything had changed in Edentown, and nothing had changed. Twenty-five years ago, when Washington Boulevard was the main drag, the high school crowd hung out at the Fox theater on Saturday nights, then walked in a pack to Carl’s Jr. for burgers. There had been a shoe store, a drugstore, a barber shop and a hair salon, a couple of high-end dress boutiques. The no-tell hotel above Guido’s Café that rented rooms by the hour.

Those businesses were gone now, replaced by boxy modern high-rise office buildings, an ultra-modern museum, and a refurbished warehouse that housed upscale fast-food vendors, cheese shops, and a yoga studio. Enterprises that meant nothing to Claudia Rose in the context of her hometown. Making a right turn at Olive Avenue, she felt like Alice in Wonderland—as disoriented as if she had stumbled into an alternate reality.

As she made another right, more than a little uneasy that she might not recognize the old neighborhood, the breath she had held too long whooshed out like a popped balloon. Her shoulder muscles let go. She needn’t have worried. Aside from the odd paint job here and there, the residential streets were much the same as when she had graduated from Edentown High School in 1999.

She had driven the seventy miles from Playa de la Reina to work the registration desk at the opening event, a cocktail party in the school gym, with her best friend, Kelly Brennan. How many of her classmates would she be able to identify at the reunion, her first in all those years?

Despite running late due to the standard stop-and-go traffic that made the 405 famous, she refused to hurry. It was a long time since she had last visited Charter Street, and now that she was here, it felt weirdly like peeping in on someone else’s life.

There was the home her parents had bought when she was in junior high. It had been brand new, part of the creeping gentrification that devoured neighborhoods whole—Godzilla chomping its way to tracts of larger dwellings.

Claudia had loved that house, not least because she no longer had to share a bedroom with her younger brother. With its three-car garage and faux-French Country kitchen, the two-story rambler had seemed like a mansion after their old two-bedroom apartment. Now, her eyes were seeing it for what it was: an ordinary house on an ordinary street, looking smaller than the picture she’d held in her mind.

She stopped the car and sat there, calling up flashbacks of summer parties in the backyard. Hiding behind the bushes with her friends and getting high on weed; drinking beer filched from their parents’ coolers. What had happened to the families she had once known? Some of her classmates must have kids attending Edentown High.

Her first wedding reception had been held in that backyard. Within five years, the marriage had tanked. More years after that, her parents put the house on the market and moved to Seattle. Today, it would sell for close to a million.

Claudia loosed a long, nostalgic sigh. It felt as though she was sitting in the front row at a stage play that had ended long ago, the drama wrung out of it. The curtain had been raised; the scenery revealed as a plywood façade.

The sound of her phone startled the melancholy out of her. Kelly’s ringtone. She touched the answer button. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Where the blipity blam are you?”

“Keep your panties on. I’m five minutes away.”

“I need you here now, girlfriend. Here I am, womaning the desk all by my lonesome, and people are showing up early.”

Claudia knew better than to take the gripe seriously. Parties lit Kelly up brighter than fireworks on the Fourth of July. In the background she could hear the tuning-up sounds of a rock band. “Who’s there?”

“The committee members of course—the three Cathys—”

Three friends who shared a name, each with a different spelling. Cathi Soden, Cathy Brewer, Kathy McCarty. Kelly reeled off more names. “Sharon Bernstein, Espie Rodriguez, Ginny Vernon, Eleni Boukidis, Becky Condren. Lemme think … Mark Lukeman, Don Baker—”

Claudia broke into the litany. “Got it. I’ll see you in a few.”

“No detours.”

Too late.

“No detours.”

She ended the call and entered the school’s address into the GPS—something she had not needed to do twenty-five years ago. The mile-long walk straight up Charter Street had terminated at the rear entrance to the school’s swimming pool. Not anymore. The snippy electronic voice directed her to an underpass constructed years after she had left home.

Chapter two

Claudia entered the gym through the back door, at once hit by the disembodied voice of a young Christina Aguilera singing about a genie in a bottle. She paused there to take in the frenetic preparations for the reunion: A custodian on a ladder, hanging a “Class of 1999” banner. Caterers hurrying to offload chafing dishes of hors d’oeuvres onto a long buffet. Early arrivals milling around the portable bars, waiting for them to open. Volunteers decorating the round tables with baskets of chrysanthemums dyed in the blue and gold of the school’s colors.

Her eyes were drawn to the back wall, where “EDENTOWN HIGH SCHOOL” was freshly painted in six-foot-high letters. The bleachers that normally stood there had been folded away for the evening’s event, but Claudia had not forgotten the countless times she and her friends had stood on them cheering on their basketball team, the Pioneers, to a long string of winning games.

The registration desk was set up on the other side of the gym from where she had entered. Crossing the highly polished polyurethane floor, she could see Kelly laughing and bantering with a handful of classmates lined up to receive their name tags. Whether the reunion committee was ready or not, the party was getting started.

Claudia gave her friend a quick appraisal and dropped into the vacant chair beside her. “The dress rocks,” she said approvingly.

Kelly had dragged her along on a shopping trip, determined to dazzle the mean girls with her adult fashion sense, even if most of the mean girls had matured and forgotten her existence. She had found a sultry blue-grey A-line that brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Claudia’s pick was a one-shoulder black number that her husband, Joel, had judged as “extremely sexy.”

Her eyes were sparkling, her extra-white smile gleaming as Kelly pushed a box of name tags towards Claudia. “You look a-mayzing, you auburn-headed hussy.”

Cathi Soden, the reunion chair, had told them that almost half of the class was expected to attend one or more of the weekend events, which meant they had more than two hundred classmates to check in.

“What took you so long?” Kelly asked. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

“As much as this town has changed, it would be no big mystery if I had.”

Now that there were two of them, several people at the back of Kelly’s line moved to stand in front of Claudia. She looked up at the first woman in line and got a vague sense of familiarity, but no name. The woman wore a pink chiffon dress that billowed on a slender frame, making it look a size too large. And something about the glossy chestnut brown pageboy hairstyle jarred with her pasty complexion, and hazel eyes that burned brightly.

The woman gave her a knowing smile, challenging her with a winding “wrap it up” motion with her index finger. “C’mon, Claudia, I sat behind you in AP English our entire senior year. We passed a bazillion notes to each other—”

Before she could control her face, Claudia’s brows shot up and she felt her eyes widen in surprise. How could this pale shadow be the pudgy, rosy-cheeked classmate of her memory? “Omigod, Andie Adams. I didn’t—I’m sorry, I—”

Andie’s expression relaxed into a good-natured grin. “It’s okay, I’m not the only one here who doesn’t look like they did in high school. Unlike you, I might add. You haven’t changed much.” She glanced around the gym. “Isn’t it weird, seeing all these ‘old’ people and knowing you’re one of them?”

Claudia, thumbing through the “A’s” for her name tag, felt compelled to protest. “Hey, forty-two is not old.”

Andie laughed. “Depends on your attitude, I guess.” She pointed to the box of names. “Could I get Nat’s, too? You remember my cousin, Natalie Parker?”

A clear image of two teenage girls popped into Claudia’s head—Andrea, sweet and shy—the ever-ready gopher to her bossy cousin, the bubbly captain of the cheer squad. “It would be hard to forget her,” she said “Are you two still ‘Nat’nAndie?’” The two had borne the nickname throughout their school years, as though one name covered both of them.

Andie shook her head. “I work for Nat, but these days we have separate identities.”

Wondering whether there was a silent “finally” behind the remark, Claudia handed the badges over with a warm smile. “It’s great to see you, Andie. Have fun.”

“Why don’t you come find us when you’re done here. I’ll save you a seat. We can catch up.”

“Thanks, I will.” The invitation pleased Claudia. After all these years, it felt good to reconnect with old friends.

As Andie started to walk away, Kelly chimed in, “Save a seat for me too.”

She turned back. “Of course! See you both later.”

Waiting until Andie was out of earshot, Kelly cupped a hand to Claudia’s ear and whispered, “When was the last time that girl got some sun? She’s as white as tofu.”

“Her hands were like ice. Maybe she’s been sick.”

“Yeah, sick of following Nat around like a slave, doing her bidding.”

“Let’s hope they’ve both outgrown that by now.”

Kelly gave a small snort of derision. “I doubt it. She just picked up Nat’s badge for her, didn’t she?”

***

***

Excerpt from Maximum Pressure by Sheila Lowe. Copyright 2025 by Sheila Lowe. Reproduced with permission from Sheila Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Sheila Lowe

Sheila Lowe is a forensic handwriting examiner, author, and educator with over fifty years of experience decoding the written word. Her nonfiction books include Reading Between the Lines: Decoding Handwriting and her memoir, Growing From the Ashes. In the bestselling Forensic Handwriting suspense series, Sheila’s real-world expertise drives unforgettable fiction as she bridges science and mystery with every stroke of the pen. Her Beyond the Veil paranormal suspense series features a woman who talks to dead people.

Catch Up With Sheila Lowe:

SheilaLoweBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – @sheilalowe
BookBub – @SheilaLoweBooks
Instagram – @SheilaLoweBooks
Threads – @SheilaLoweBooks
X – @sheila_lowe
Facebook – @SheilaLoweBooks
YouTube – @SheilaLowe
BlueSky – ‪@sheilalowebooks.bsky.social‬
LinkedIn – @SheilaLowe

 

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Maximum Pressure by Sheila Lowe [Handwriting Analysis]

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$25 GC – Accidental Paradise by Eric Grandy @goddessfish #ericgrandy #accidentalparadise

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I am always curious how an author choses their cover. I find the cover for Accidental Paradise by Eric Grandy simple yet intriguing. I invited Eric to share his thoughts.

What you love about the cover and why it fits the book.

The cover for “Accidental Paradise” is much like the plot, both simple and complex. What starts out as an innocent search for the idyllic vacation spot for my protagonist, movie star LaVern Whitaker, evolves into a fight for survival for her and her adopted small town. The images in the lenses, the Hollywood sign and the country house, are the essential elements that connect her to both.

The image is of a young and attractive Black woman, and the unsmiling, partially obscured face lends a touch of mystery. Is it LaVern or is it a stock photo? The reader gets to decide. It also looks misleadingly innocent, like she isn’t the determined protector she turns out to be. The eye-catching cover demands your attention, much like movie idol LaVern when she’s out in public. The sunglasses are symbolic of LaVern’s initial attempts to hide her true identity.    

ACCIDENTAL PARADISE by Eric Grandy

GENRE: Coming of Age

BLURB

Natural talent, hard work, and a childhood friend help LaVern Whitaker find her calling as an actress.  When her life becomes overwhelming, they discover a small town where her true identity can remain unknown and she can stay out of the spotlight.  The more she visits her secret getaway, the more deeply she feels connected to the history, the lifestyle, and the people.  Could this place be her home away from home, or become the home she has dreamed of?  Or will sinister forces rip it all away?

EXCERPT

“Make me a promise, Shaundra. Promise me we will always be best friends.”

“I promise, Peaches.”

LaVern stood up and said she had better head back. “Are you coming over tomorrow?”

“Hell yeah.”

Both girls had a hardy laugh at that one.

As Freeman and Jackie watched their daughter recross the street, they noticed a more delighted and relieved child than the one who left a few minutes earlier.

The girls resumed their old routine of talking and gossiping in LaVern’s bedroom. Shaundra asked more questions about her new school; how did she like going to school with White kids? Did she hang out with the other Black students? How was she treated? LaVern did her best to answer; No, she wasn’t completely accepted by everyone, she wasn’t friends with all the Black kids, she still felt very self-conscious being one of a few Black students in an all-White school, sometimes she felt very alone but she had made a few friends.

“My daddy said it would take a little while, that I would get used to it. He said I would get a better education.”

“Well, you’re already smart Peaches. You’ll be smart no matter what school you go to.”

“Well, it is harder than 139, but I’m doing OK.

“I know you, Peaches. If you say you doing OK, I know you killin’ it.”

LaVern looked down at her feet. “Well, I’m doing alright.”

But the Big Dog was right. She was killing it.

 

AUTHOR Bio and Links

Eric Grandy was born and raised in Baltimore City and graduated from City College. After he graduated from Essex Community College, he was drafted by the Chicago Cubs and played six years for that team. He went on to a variety of jobs: photographer, lab manager, driver for DHL and warehouse manager. After retirement, he decided to devote himself to writing, producing several short stories and Accidental Paradise, his debut novel.

Grandy still lives in Baltimore with his wife Rhonda and his daughter Marti.

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$20 GC – Crime Writer by Vinnie Hansen @partnersincrimevbt #vinniehansen #crimewriter

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CRIME WRITER

by Vinnie Hansen

September 22 – October 17, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

SYNOPSIS

In the peaceful California coast city of Playa Maria, CRIME WRITER ZOEY KOZINSKI joins a local police officer for a ride-along in hopes of breaking through her writer’s block. But during a routine traffic stop, the cop is shot, the victim of a brutal homicide.

Zoey realizes she is the only witness and the number one target on the killer’s hit list. PTSD kicks in, sending her into a tailspin. It doesn’t help that she lives on an illegal cannabis farm and that her estranged mother has just arrived. Even the police officer’s widow points a finger at the writer, claiming she was a distraction, and the police department knew it.

Lurking on the fringes is a man who stopped briefly at the crime. Good Samaritan or sinister suspect? For her safety, Zoey needs to find out.

Praise for Crime Writer:

“Vinnie Hansen hits the ground running in her latest novel Crime Writer. Novelist, Zoey Kozinski, is thrown into the heart of a murder investigation when her ride-along with a police officer goes horribly wrong. This gritty novel is laced with clever moves that will keep the reader on their toes until the end.”
~ Allen Eskens, recipient of the Barry Award, the Minnesota Book Award, Rosebud Award, and Silver Falchion Award, has also been a finalist for the Edgar and Anthony Awards.

“Crime Writer is a riveting thriller. The stakes keep getting higher, and the tension never falters. I highly recommend it.”
~ Terry Shames, author of the award-winning Samuel Craddock mystery series and the Jessie Madison thriller series.

“Replete with heart-stopping moments, action, and unexpected realizations, Crime Writer is a winner.”
~ D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review.

Crime Writer Playlist:

If you need a killer background playlist while diving into Crime Writer, Vinnie Hansen’s got you covered with the perfect soundtrack. Check out the Crime Writer inspired playlist on YouTube and get ready for an immersive reading experience.

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 9, 2025 (ebook)
Number of Pages: 266 (paperback)
ISBN: 979-8-89820-027-5 (paperback)
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Day 1 – early evening

One

Heat from the Mobile Data Transmitter radiated onto Zoey Kozinski’s arm. The interior of the patrol car cooked, muggy and close. September brought the hottest weather to the central coast of California, anxiety about fires flaring as the oak leaves curled and undergrowth crisped. Thankfully, Officer Austin kept the windows of the patrol car open even as the sun started to set.

“Must be boiling with your vest.”

“Better to sweat than bleed.” Austin’s profile was sharp angles, pointed nose, strong chin.

“How much does that thing weigh?” Zoey already knew, but the officer didn’t seem talkative. She needed to crack the façade and dig out some grist to apply to Officer Horne, the character in her book. Her stalled, barely-started book.

“Six pounds.”

Officer Austin rolled along Scenic Drive, a main thoroughfare through Playa Maria County. Zoey wished they could listen to music, something to go with driving on a sultry evening, maybe Ella Fitzgerald’s “Summertime.” Instead, the police radio spat information, filling awkward silence. Zoey jotted down that a list of stolen cars was tucked on the left side of his dash. She’d chosen a night shift, hoping for a modicum of action but nothing on the radio stirred Austin’s interest.

“How do you feel about ride-alongs?” She flipped her legal pad and the printed-out opening pages of her manuscript winged to the floor. All two of them. A whopping three hundred ten words. She bent down to retrieve them.

“It’s part of our Community Policing.” Austin kept his focus forward. “To increase civilian awareness of what police work entails.”

She didn’t bother to write down the canned response.

Austin must be a rookie to receive the crappy assignment of hauling a ride-along, but he didn’t look like one. Silver highlighted his short hair. Older than her fictional Officer Horne. Her protagonist Horne should be young, freshly free of his training wheels, a more credible character to rush toward a terrible mistake after witnessing the shooting of a fellow officer.

In the margin of the legal pad, she scribbled: A hot-head. Temper=hubris. Too eager to prove himself?

Then she wrote Stan and put a question mark after it. The name of the murdered officer in her manuscript had appeared in a magician’s puff of smoke, typed by her fingers before she was conscious of a choice. Not a common name for guys of her generation, the lost kids born between Generation X and the Millennials. The name had merit—easy to pronounce, but not overly used. Why had it popped into her head?

She slipped her pen through her tangle of red hair and scratched her scalp.

Austin shot her a glance, maybe thinking she didn’t know she was using the ink end.

“Writing off the top of your head?”

She smiled slightly. Witty for a police officer.

He quirked a brow. “Making headlines?” His tone was dry. No smile. Was he being funny or busting her balls?

Zoey tapped the legal pad. Her next question wasn’t on it, but Austin’s age and his quips begged for it.

“What did you do before becoming a law enforcement officer?”

Long fingers curled around the wheel, maneuvering the vehicle through the rush-hour clog of Scenic Drive. He scanned the lanes of traffic and sidewalks long enough that she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“I was a teacher.”

“Really?” Her voice squeaked with unveiled surprise. Heat rose up her face. With her coloring, there was no playing off a blush. When she was a kid, her Grosse Pointe classmates had pinned her with the nickname Tomato.

“High-school history.” In the parking lot, he’d offered a firm handshake and introduced himself formally as Officer Austin, although he’d added with a trace of humor ‘at your service.’ Over six-feet with ropy muscles, he was a bit old for her, maybe forty-five, but a hottie, nonetheless.

“That’s a strange career trajectory.”

“Not really. In both jobs you deal with a lot of young punks.”

As part of the outreach program, he probably was not supposed to refer to members of the community as punks. She was making progress.

“In policing I bet you have more flexibility about how you deal with punks?”

His lip curled, but he didn’t respond.

“So why the career move?”

“In teaching, the more you work, the less you’re paid,” he said. “Police work offers time-and-a-half for overtime. Ten-hour shifts and four-day work weeks. More money and time for my family.”

“Kids?”

“Three.”

She felt a twinge of disappointment. Her sex life had been reduced to her Magic Wand, and Austin wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so a bit of fantasy had slipped under her normally guarded door. Since she didn’t want a relationship, a hot cop could be the ticket. Married killed that idea.

And three kids! With the world’s exploding population and global climate change, that was self-indulgent. One of her least favorite character flaws—in reality. In fiction, it was a great character flaw.

“My wife’s the one who should have made the career move to cop,” Austin volunteered. “She’s a tiger. Can outshoot me.” He shook his head in admiration.

Another twinge. She had a serious weakness for men who complimented women in absentia.

Zoey touched the cool metal of the AR15 propped in front of the passenger seat. “This is some serious fire power.”

The creases in his uniform lifted infinitesimally, a hint of a shrug. “You should see what they have on the street.”

She ran her finger down her list of questions. Nothing so far had gotten the juices flowing. “What kind of handgun do you carry?”

“Smith & Wesson. Officers with more seniority get Berettas. The most senior officers have Glocks.” Jealousy tinged his voice. “But if you want a better gun, you can buy one. I’m looking at a Glock.”

The crackling voice of dispatch relayed a report of a middle-aged black male dealing drugs in Playa Maria Park.

Austin swung off Scenic onto a street that cut along the seedier edge of downtown, where the homeless population dwarfed the number of university students. He slowed at the park.

Dusk had sifted into darkness, but streetlights illuminated the perimeter of the grass. Young men played basketball in a well-lit court. A lone man leaning against a light pole straightened at the cruiser’s arrival. Austin put the windows up, parked the car, and plucked a wood baton from the base of his door. “Remain in the vehicle.”

Another patrolman rolled up and joined him. She noted details. Suspect’s dreadlocks glisten in bluish light. Tan pants bag around skinny legs.

Austin questioned the man, while the other officer patted him down and dipped into the pockets of his army-fatigue jacket. With the window closed, Zoey sweated.

In the end, the man bumped away and swaggered toward the basketball court.

Talking together, the officers watched him, then turned in the direction of the vehicle. Austin nodded. The other man laughed. They were talking about her. The inside of the cruiser steamed like a sauna. Austin was letting her marinate in a patina of sweat.

Zoey opened the passenger door, which prompted Austin to step toward the cruiser. Before he plopped into his seat, he thunked his baton into its spot.

“I asked the suspect if we could search him and he said no,” he started before Zoey even asked. “But he has a Search Clause.” Austin cleaned his hands with foam sanitizer. “That’s a bargain he made for probation. He relinquished his right to probable cause.”

She scribbled the information. This was good stuff, strengthening her knowledge of the law.

“But you didn’t find anything?”

“Maybe he sold out.”

Dry humor. Deadpan delivery. Her favorite. To curtail a blush, she cast her eyes to the pocket of his door.

“Don’t most officers these days carry whip-batons?”

He gave her a look.

Amazing eyes—way greener than her own. He yanked the baton from its spot and held it across his lap, the top grazing her thigh.

Phallic symbol, for sure. The air inside the car shifted subtly.

“See all those nicks?” he said. “My T.O. gave this to me, said the riff-raff on the street notice the dents. They’re mostly from getting in and out of the car, but hey,” he returned the baton to the door pocket, “they don’t know that.”

He gave his hand a second squirt of the sanitizer. “I tell you one part of this job I don’t like. The grime. You’d have to get up close to appreciate how much that guy . . . how grubby he was.” Austin started the car. “Tell you the truth, I’m more afraid of an accidental needle poke than a gunshot.”

“Was he dealing?”

“I imagine.” Austin put down the windows. Fresh air rushed into the compartment. “He doesn’t have any other means of income.”

The radio called Austin to roust a panhandler near the entrance to the freeway. Civilian complaint. Austin zoomed back up to Scenic. At the intersection before the freeway entrance, he stopped at a red light with the rest of the traffic. The girl panhandling on the median spotted the cruiser, folded her sign, and meandered down the sidewalk.

Austin turned and rolled along the street across from the girl. In spite of a curvaceous figure packed into tight jeans, with her wavy brown hair hitched into pigtails she looked all of fifteen. The girl ignored them.

Zoey twisted toward Austin. “Are you going to stop?”

“She’s not doing anything illegal now. She didn’t even jaywalk.” He sped up. “We got her off the median.”

“Yup. Sure did.” He knew, and she knew, that as soon as they were out of sight, the girl would return to her spot.

How do they negotiate spots? She wrote. First come, first served?

If she asked Austin about the girl—did he know her—what was her story—she sensed he’d blow off the questions. The police department had picked the wrong officer to give ride-alongs. Austin lacked a gregarious, empathetic personality.

Zoey tried to unpack how she’d arrived at this conclusion. Maybe because he’d chosen policing over teaching. Police work had to be more frustrating than high school teaching, certainly less rewarding.

She shook her head. Don’t assume. She asked about the girl.

“Espie Gonzales.”

“You know her?”

“Yeah.” His forefinger tapped the steering wheel a few times. “She lost her baby in that shooting.”

“Oh, that’s her.” Zoey strained to see the girl disappearing into the darkness. Her tragic case had dominated the front page.

“Hell of a way to start this job.” Officer Austin looped around the block back to Scenic Drive. Rush hour traffic had thinned. “I was there earlier when they arrested her piece-of-shit boyfriend, too.”

She was sure Officer Austin was not supposed to say that. Zoey chewed on her pen and scribbled an idea: Stan dies b/c he harbors a secret? She doodled hashtag symbols on her paper.

Maybe Austin recognized zoning-out behavior from all those past students because he volunteered, “As a mystery writer, you’re probably looking for something more exciting. Let’s see if I can find a car to pull over.”

Within two minutes, he pointed out a white sedan. “Burned-out taillight.” He unclipped his seatbelt.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Your car is your coffin. Cop training 101. If someone jumps out of a vehicle, you don’t want to be fumbling with a seatbelt.”

She unlatched her seatbelt, too. He didn’t object.

He called in the license plate, citing the letters phonetically. “Old model white sedan. Make unclear. One male.” He concluded the call with their location and lit up the patrol car.

The driver continued along Scenic toward the outskirts of town. Austin tapped his airhorn. The silhouetted head, wearing a hat, lifted as though checking the rearview.

The dispatcher reported back on the license plate. No red flags.

Austin used the airhorn again. But the white sedan tooled along. The number of businesses thinned. Traffic dwindled.

Muscles jumped in Austin’s jaw.

Zoey jotted. Wants authority obeyed! No wonder high school kids drove him crazy. Austin like Camille? Camille, her mother, was a first-class control freak.

He eyed her notepad and frowned. Closing the windows, he put on the siren and left it on, wailing, but this could hardly be called a chase. They were traveling thirty miles per hour.

“Why isn’t he pulling over?”

Austin didn’t have an answer, at least not one he could utter with her in the vehicle. Finally, he said, “Could be absorbed in his cell phone.”

That was not the reason. She was an eagle at spotting drivers using a device and, in this case, the hat would have accentuated any dip of the head. He was not using his phone, and his actions were sure to piss off a cop, especially this cop—an authoritarian personality with an audience to impress. Zoey planted her Keds against the cruiser’s floor and stretched her torso, staring at the car ahead, anxiety percolating up her legs.

“His car could be sound baffled.” Austin’s voice tightened as he offered the flimsy possibility.

Rationalizing. Even if the driver couldn’t hear, he could see the cruiser lights. The situation reminded her of the pursuit of the Bronco carrying O.J. Simpson up the 405. That day in June, 1994, she’d come into the house after swapping mix tapes with her middle school friend. Her mom, in impossibly white Capris, so raptly watched the television that Zoey popped one earbud of her Walkman in the middle of Warren G’s “Regulate” to see what was up.

She heard the song now in her head as the white sedan left Playa Maria proper. Scenic Drive opened onto coastal highway along the Pacific, an empty stretch of dark two-lane highway. The driver put on his blinker. She sighed in relief. The car crunched onto the steeply-graded gravel shoulder.

Austin pulled in behind it. She slouched down in her seat, taking notes on the pad propped against her thighs. Her heart hammered. A routine traffic stop, but it felt off. Austin pissed. She drew an anger emoji. And he had not called for back-up.

Too macho? she wrote.

She shrank in her seat as Austin approached the sedan, his hand on his weapon. She scribbled details. The car’s window glided open. The man stuck his head out, glancing back.

At the turn of the driver’s head, Austin crouched and drew. A gun muzzle appeared out the window opening.

Three pops split the silence.

Austin collapsed onto the asphalt.

Zoey’s stomach lurched. The white car roared to life. Its tires spat gravel and squealed onto the pavement, the back-end fishtailing. She opened the passenger door, her pulse throbbing in her head, the world awash in swirling blue and red. Her shoes skidded on the gravel. She caught herself by grabbing the door. With the tilt of the car, the door continued to fly open, whirling her toward the drainage ditch.

Regaining her balance, she crept forward, the night so quiet she could hear the distant whoosh of the ocean. Or was the whoosh inside her head?

Officer Austin lay splayed on the edge of the pavement. He’d landed so the exit wound faced her, the back of his head a bloody pulp.

She swallowed bile and recoiled behind the cruiser. There was no way he was alive.

Her body felt floaty, unreal, tethered only by the pain of pebbles under her knee.

A red sportscar passed headed toward town. The driver slowed. Hope surged in her. Help had arrived. She started to rise on wobbly legs.

The car zoomed off, leaving her.

She forced herself to draw a breath but couldn’t get it beyond her throat. Austin had been hit close range with something high caliber. Leaving the cruiser door gaping open, she leaned across the seat divider and grabbed the police radio, her hand shaking wildly. She tried another breath, but air kept going in and out in sharp jags.

The radio would be faster than her cell phone, skirting any telecommunicator and going directly to dispatch. Officers in the area would hear the transmission. She wanted someone to come right now.

The radio suddenly squawked to life in her hands. Her heart slammed her chest.

“555 are you 10-4 on your stop?”

Hell no. Nothing was 10-4. She keyed the mic.

Another set of headlights zoomed toward her. Maybe when she’d gotten out, the killer had spotted her and was returning to take care of loose ends. Her whole body shook. Shrinking down, she identified herself to the dispatcher.

“The ride-along?” the suspicious voice snapped. “Where’s Officer Austin?”

“He’s been shot!”

An intake of air. A tiny pause.

The car in the opposite lane sped by. A white car! Its bright lights were blinding, the driver in too big of a hurry to be bothered with the odd appearance of a lone police vehicle at the side of the road, overhead lights flashing. Or maybe the driver didn’t slow down because he already knew what was there.

“Where are you?” the dispatcher’s voice steeled into all business.

Zoey wished she had the dispatcher’s nerves, hoped she could get through her report before fainting or puking. Sweat slicked her palm. “Edge of town on the coast highway headed north, about a mile past where Officer Austin called in the stop.”

“Help is on the way. Stay put.”

As though she were going to do what? Run up the deserted, dark highway? The white car that had sped by flipped a U-ey and roared back toward her, skidding to a stop behind the cruiser.

The sedan’s lights remained on bright. Her stomach shriveled. A man strolled toward the cruiser.

Maybe she should run.

***

Excerpt from Crime Writer by Vinnie Hansen. Copyright 2025 by Vinnie Hansen. Reproduced with permission from Vinnie Hansen. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Vinnie Hansen

A Claymore and Silver Falchion finalist, Vinnie Hansen is the author of the Carol Sabala mystery series, the novels LOSTART STREET, ONE GUN, and CRIME WRITER, as well as over seventy published short works.

She is a member of Mystery Writers of American, Sisters in Crime, and the Short Mystery Fiction Society. A retired high-school English teacher, she lives with her husband and the requisite cat in Santa Cruz, CA.

Learn more at:

www.vinniehansen.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @vinnie5

 

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$20 GC – Murder At The Wedding by Christine Knapp @partnersincr1me @chriswknapp #murderatthewedding

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Murder at the Wedding by Christine Knapp Banner

MURDER AT THE WEDDING

by Christine Knapp

September 8 – October 3, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

SYNOPSIS

A Modern Midwife Mystery

 

Birth, death, mayhem, and murder…

Maeve O’Reilly Kensington loves her job as a nurse-midwife at Creighton Memorial Hospital in the quintessential New England seaside town of Langford. Nothing could bring her more pleasure than helping women usher new life into the world… except possibly having a child of her own with her husband, Will. In the meantime, she’s happy to celebrate the families of those she treats, and content to support her husband in his newly formed catering business.

However when Creighton Memorial’s Chief Obstetrician suddenly drops dead at his daughter’s extravagant wedding reception, catered by Will, Maeve’s two worlds collide in the worst possible way. Suddenly murder is on the menu, and Maeve is desperate to help her husband and find out who killed the doctor.

With the help of her wealthy, acerbic sister Meg and quick-witted Boston Irish mother, Maeve sets out to solve a murder and clear her husband’s name. Can she stay one step ahead of the killer? Or will they strike again… this time closer to home?

Praise for Murder at the Wedding:

“Christine’s writing style is very entertaining with sensory laden description of the various environment, characters, and even the state of Maeve’s cookies and knitting. Clever & Entertaining Gem!”
~ Kings River Life Magazine

“Readers will fall in love with this series immediately!! I highly encourage and suggest you grab your copy.”
~ Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: Gemma Halliday Publishing
Publication Date: June 10, 2022
Number of Pages: 249
ISBN: 9798835432134 (pbk)
Series: Modern Midwife Mystery Series, Book 1

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Audiobooks.com | Gemma Halliday Publishing

MODERN MIDWIFE MYSTERY SERIES

Check out the full Modern Midwife Mystery series: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Gemma Halliday Publishing

Murder on the Widow's Walk Modern Midwife Mysteries book #2 Christine Knapp
Murder on the Widow’s Walk, #2
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Audiobooks.com		 Murder on the Books Modern Midwife Mysteries book #3 Christine Knapp
Murder on the Books, #3
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Audiobooks.com		 Murder at First Light Modern Midwife Mysteries book #4 Christine Knapp
Murder at First Light, #4
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads		 Murder on the Green Modern Midwife Mysteries book #5 Christine Knapp
Murder on the Green, #5
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

 

Read an excerpt:

from CHAPTER TWO of

Murder at the Wedding

The parking lot at St. Andrew’s Episcopal was filled almost to capacity. Despite a recent visit to the car wash, my Jeep looked out of place next to all the Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, Jaguars, and Porsches.

I took out and quickly scanned the engraved linen cream invitation. It read:

Matrimonial Ceremony of
Charlotte Alexis Whitaker
and
Brooks James Hawthorne IV
St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church
Langford, Massachusetts
Saturday, the eighth of June, at two o’clock in the afternoon

As I approached the massive church, I saw all the pink plantings and railings wrapped in white tulle with pink peonies at precise intervals. It was a floral tour de force that must have taken an army of gardeners and florists a few days to accomplish. Inside there were pink roses, peonies, and hydrangeas everywhere. The scene was right out of InStyle Magazine. I wondered, were there any pink flowers left on the East Coast? On the West Coast?

As I squeezed into the last row, a large choir serenaded the full house in the loft above the congregation.

The choir began to sing “My Spirit Sang All Day” as Mrs. Whitaker, resplendent in a strapless, rose silk Carolina Herrera with a vibrant pink cabbage rose behind one ear and a necklace of marble-sized, green South Sea pearls, was ushered to the left front pew. Really? Strapless for the mother of the bride? Well, she does look amazing.

A hush fell over the crowd. The stained-glass doors closed, and the groom and his men filed to the altar.

Did one have to be six feet two, gorgeous, and ripped to be in this wedding party?

As the first strands of Wagner filled the air, the doors opened, and down the aisle came Anastasia Bleeker. She was one of the bride’s four-year-old charges at Miss Bloomfield’s School, where wealthy, pregnant women enrolled their offspring-to-be to claim a coveted spot. Anastasia was wearing a white tulle fairy-tale gown with a dark rose-colored sash. A circle of petite, light pink roses and baby’s breath crowned her chin length, straight, white-blonde hair. She carried a small, white wicker basket in one hand, and with the other, she started to drop pale pink rose petals down the long aisle.

Channeling Lady Di, I thought.

Next came the ring bearer, Barrington Cabot. He was another nursery school trust-fund-baby-in-the-making in white linen shorts and jacket and a head of black, curly hair. Then six breathtaking models, or rather bridesmaids, dressed in rose-colored tulle skirts and pale pink lace wrap blouses, floated down the aisle carrying white and pink hydrangeas wrapped in rose-colored ribbons. They looked like an upscale version of an ad for the United Colors of Benetton.

After a slight pause, the stained-glass doors parted again, and Dr. Whitaker appeared in his morning suit, standing at Charlotte’s right side. She was breathtaking in a Vera Wang white silk ball gown glittering with thousands of tiny seed pearls. A deep rose satin ribbon wrapped around her bouquet of white peonies. Her Belgian lace veil trailed behind her down the aisle.

The ceremony went on amid candlelight, roses, and organ music. It was like being in a dream, albeit a very, very expensive dream.

Finally, vows were exchanged, there were no objections, and Charlotte and Brooks were off to the photo-taking session in a vintage, white Bentley. As they left, the guests milled about outside the church for a bit and then headed to the reception.

Evelyn Greyson, the sixtyish director of Obstetric Nursing, stood at the top of the church stairs as I exited. She was dressed in a powder blue suit with a short jacket with peplum and knee-length, fitted skirt. A pearl necklace, her ever-present pearl brooch, and small pearl stud earrings completed the look. Her graying hair was, as usual, in her trademark chignon.

“Beautiful wedding,” I said.

“Magnificent,” Evelyn replied. “Dr. Whitaker wouldn’t have it any other way. See you at the reception, dear.” And then she strode off to her car.

Evelyn always agreed with everything Dr. Whitaker said and did. She worshipped him. Did she also have an unrequited crush on him?

I quickly greeted a few colleagues but didn’t linger because I wanted to see how Will was doing.

The Country Club was buzzing with activity when I drove through the porte cochère, pulled up to the main entrance, and handed my keys to a valet. The grand foyer was glittering with hundreds of candles and still more massive floral arrangements in blush pink. A string quartet played Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” beside the grand staircase.

Out on the veranda, the wedding party was taking pictures before an expanse of green lawn and brilliant blue sky and sea. It would be a wedding album worthy of its own issue of Town & Country.

Large silver serving trays were circulated among the guests, offering tiny crab cakes topped with dill aioli, mini beef Wellingtons, smoked salmon pinwheels, and tomato and goat cheese on toast points. There were massive silver bowls of fresh shrimp on ice on round marble tables.

“Maeve! Maeve! Over here!” one of the midwives called. Looking around the ballroom, which held table settings for six hundred guests, I saw that the Creighton Memorial staff was on the right side of the room while family and friends were on the left. I waved to the midwives but walked over to the table where Grand, Will’s grandmother, was sitting with Will’s parents, Will’s sister, Eloise, her husband, Taylor, and Will’s younger brother, Teddy.

“Hello, Maeve.” William stood and extended his hand. Never a hug, never a kiss on the cheek, just a handshake.

“Hello, so nice to see you all,” I replied, shaking his hand as I nodded to the table. I saw that Lydia, my mother-in-law, was outfitted in a mint green silk cocktail dress with a large diamond necklace and matching drop earrings. She tilted her head toward me and smiled but said nothing.

“The Country Club is such a perfect wedding venue,” I offered.

“Quite lovely,” she replied.

“You look beautiful, Maeve,” Grand said.

“Thanks, Grand.”

“Sweet dress,” Lydia said.

Sweet dress? What, am I five years old? Lydia was a master of the backhanded compliment, and she was not my biggest fan. Keep it together, Maeve.

Eloise was in a sleeveless, pale green and cream striped dress with an emerald and diamond pendant and earrings. Like mother, like daughter.

“Well,” I said, “enjoy the meal. Will has been creating a masterpiece.” I saw William’s and Lydia’s smiles tighten. They did not respond. They were not pleased with Will’s chosen profession.

“I can’t wait,” Grand said.

I gave a little wave and headed over to find my table.

Scanning the room, I saw my sister, Meg, cross her eyes and raise her wine glass in a mock salute. Meg was the Langford real estate agent of choice for the wealthy and had been invited along with other top business leaders of the town. She knew I had just navigated a minefield with my emotionally distant in-laws. As soon as I reached my table, I quickly sat down and took a long drink of chardonnay.

Herend Chinese Bouquet china in pink, Gorham Newport Scroll sterling, and Baccarat crystal decorated each setting.

My gosh, they’ll have to pat everyone down before they leave.

Murray Alfond, the famed orchestra leader, turned on his mic and said, “Please be seated while the bridal party arrives.”

There was sustained applause as Charlotte and Brooks triumphantly paraded into the ballroom. “The bride and groom will dance to a classic personally chosen by Brooks,” Alfond announced.

“The Very Thought of You” wafted through the room as Charlotte and Brooks took to the floor. They obviously had attended many ballroom dancing classes in preparation for this moment, and they danced impeccably.

Then the entire wedding party sashayed to “Fly Me to the Moon.” It was like watching La La Land. They were all perfectly coiffed, dressed, and ready for filming. Plus, they could dance.

When they were done and returned to their seats, Alfond intoned, “Please bow your heads while Reverend Lucas Mathers says grace.”

The Episcopal pastor of St. Andrew’s, Reverend Mathers, was slightly rotund with flushed pink cheeks. He ran his hand through receding black hair, obviously feeling the weight of this moment. Then he bowed his head.

“Dear Holy Father, thank you for this glorious day! What a wonderful celebration! We ask you to bless Charlotte and Brooks, as well as their families and friends, and we beseech you to grant this special couple a life together that is happy and blessed. We further ask you to bless this fabulous repast and grant your blessings on all present. Amen.”

Gee, that was short. He must be hungry.

A phalanx of waiters served the first course of spring green and white asparagus spears with shaved red onion. As we started in on the delicate vegetables, the best man, Ry Farmington, took the microphone and asked all to raise their glasses in a toast to the couple.

“Brooks has been like a brother to me since our first day at Hollis in Harvard Yard. We’ve seen many adventures together—none of which, out of respect for your patience and his reputation, I will go into here.”

He paused for applause and a few knowing hoots.

“In the words of the Bard,
No sooner met but they looked;
No sooner looked but they loved;
No sooner loved but they sighed;
No sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason;
No sooner knew the reason, but they sought the remedy;
And in these degrees have made a pair of stairs to marriage
Please rise and toast to their lives together.”

Six hundred guests rose and toasted the couple.

Then came truffle-scented tenderloin with dauphinoise potatoes and tender baby carrots. I snuck a look first at the Whitaker table and then at William and Lydia. They all seemed to be enjoying the meal, and I prayed that all the reviews would be excellent.

For dessert, a chocolate mousse with a crème brûlée center was placed at each setting. I knew the wedding cake would be cut and served later.

Just then, the wait staff re-entered the room. They set a Baccarat champagne flute filled with pink champagne at each place. A hush came over the ballroom. Dr. Whitaker was standing at the head table, staring the crowd into silence. Then he picked up his glass and smiled adoringly at Charlotte.

Everyone listened as he gave a long, loving toast to his daughter. Finally, he took a moment to gather his thoughts before saying, “Charlotte, your mother and I found this magnificent champagne in France a few years ago and had it shipped in for your wedding.”

Mrs. Whitaker stared at Dr. Whitaker with a huge Miss America smile.

Dr. Whitaker continued, “Would everyone please rise and toast my lovely daughter Charlotte and her husband, Brooks.” He lifted his crystal flute to his lips and took a sip while beaming at Charlotte.

Immediately, his cheeks turned scarlet, and he started to wheeze. The crystal dropped from his hand and shattered on the ground. He clutched at his throat while making extensive gasping attempts to pull in a breath. Then he went limp and collapsed to the floor. The room erupted into pandemonium.

***

Excerpt from Murder at the Wedding by Christine Knapp. Copyright 2022 by Christine Knapp. Reproduced with permission from Christine Knapp. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Christine Knapp

Christine Knapp practiced as a nurse-midwife for many years. A writer of texts and journal articles, she is now thrilled to combine her love of midwifery and mysteries as the author of the Modern Midwife Mysteries. Christine currently narrates books for the visually and print impaired. A dog lover, she lives near Boston.

Catch Up With Christine Knapp:

ThoughtfulMidwife.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @cwknapp4478
Instagram – @maevecw
Threads – @maevecw
X – @chriswknapp
Facebook – @Christine Whelan Knapp
TikTok – @maevecw

 

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GC & Review – Above The Clouds by Tim Vee @_Tim_Vee_ @goddessfish #abovetheclouds

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ABOVE THE CLOUDS by Tim Vee

GENRE:  post-apocalypse, dystopian, sci-fi, horror

MY REVIEW

Tim Vee writes some interesting stories, and Above The Clouds had me intrigued. This unique apocalyptic/dystopian novel takes place deep underground, in long unused subway tunnels and sewers. No one knows what came before .

Everyone has their duties to perform, whether it’s raising the young, hunt or work to provide necessities. When their usefulness comes to and end, whether through injury or old age, they are sent to the surface to fend for themselves.

Dara and her sister, Squirt, are the main characters in Above The Clouds. Squirt is still young enough that she helps where she can and not much is expected of her. Dara is a hunter. She is expected to bring back from the hunt a dozen rats or three cats or a dog.

The world Tim Vee has created is bleak and dangerous. It is a world I haven’t visited before and I have read many apocalyptic and dystopian fiction novels. We go from the depths of the earth to the clouds in the sky, where Squirt will find a life she could never have envisioned. I like the twist from dark to light, from despair to hope. I was suitably creeped out and that is always a good thing. LOL

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

BLURB

n a ruined, distant future of our world, filled with rain, gloom, and danger, Squirt and her sister Dara fight to survive as part of the underground clan, hunting meat to survive and clinging to the edges of existence.

When Squirt encounters a mysterious figure above ground, her life is upended. Taken to a gleaming paradise above the clouds, she finds herself trapped in an idyllic prison, where everything seems perfect—but is danger hiding in plain sight? Does Charlotte, her enigmatic and gentle companion, hide secrets behind her perfect smile? Does Mrs Wallis, the tower’s cold matriarch, watch Squirt with a predator’s patience?

Below, Dara hunts alone, trying to find meaning in her life and haunted by her sister’s disappearance while whispers of betrayal within the clan force her to choose between being a victim or fighting for her survival.

As the sisters’ paths converge, truths are exposed: immortality comes at a terrible price, and the ones they’ve trusted most may be their greatest enemies. Above the Clouds is a haunting tale of the fight for survival and identity, asking the question: What does it truly mean to be human?

EXCERPT

She made it to the side of the ruins, ducked under a concrete slab, and crouched silently, listening and watching the darkness. She allowed her ears and eyes to acclimate to the noises and darkness of the ruins, the dripping water, the scurrying of a rat, the rattle of a falling piece of rock, and the sounds men made.

She sniffed and smelled something. Something cooking.

Rat! she thought.

Moving slowly and cautiously, she crept out from her hiding place, not making a sound. She climbed onto a slab of concrete laying diagonally and crawled upward until she was looking down at where Chagga sat on a rock, roasting a pair of skinned rats above a fire. Adam was standing, shaking and banging the water off his furs. Chagga was speaking.

“…Tomorra, when the hunters head out, make sure our men are on guard at the big tube that comes in by the butcher…”

Hidden in the shadows above, Dara silently slipped her quiver from her shoulder.

“…That is where we attack…Once we have taken control, all those who have no faith will be butchered, and we will call Major Tom, and he will pick up, and he will send the riders, and we leave for Marbro Country!”

She rolled onto her back and slid two arrows from the quiver.

“Can you trust this bandit, Barg, father?” said Adam.

Gently, she laid one of the arrows on the concrete, and the other she notched.

“No,” said Chagga firmly. “But I need them to do in the guards while you kill the chief.”

She rolled, holding the bow with her left hand, pulling the bowstring back.

Kill Adam, and the others won’t know the plan? she thought. Or kill Chagga, and there is no plan?

She closed her left eye, pulling the string tighter.

AUTHOR Bio and Links

Tim works in digital marketing in Toronto and is well-traveled, having visited over 80 countries. When he is not working or writing, he likes to spend time with his family and German Shepherd and go cycling.

Website: https://timvee.com/

Apple Books: https://books.apple.com/us/book/above-the-clouds/id6741713791

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=ddhFEQAAQBAJ

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Above-Clouds-post-apocalyptic-Tim-Vee-ebook/dp/B0DTJL73QM/

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1704940

X: https://x.com/_Tim_Vee_

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21960899.Tim_Vee

 

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$30 GC – Canyon Of Deceit by Diann Mills @partnersincr1me @DiAnnMills

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CANYON OF DECEIT

by DiAnn Mills

September 8 – October 3, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A rescue team searches for a missing young girl and suspects all is not as it seems in this high-stakes romantic suspense novel from the author of Lethal Standoff and Facing the Enemy

When wilderness survival expert Therese Palmer receives a frantic phone call from former colleague Professor Rurik Ivanov, she is shocked by the news that his young daughter, Alina, is missing—and that Rurik wants Therese’s help finding her. She’s sure Rurik hasn’t given her the whole story . . . especially since he refuses to report the kidnapping to the police. Yet with a child’s life hanging in the balance, Therese can’t turn down this mission. She knows the clock is ticking and she can’t do this alone.

Therese reaches out to Texas Ranger Blane Gardner, whom she met seven months ago during one of her training courses in wilderness survival skills. Blane’s specialized training and background with the Crisis Negotiation Unit make him uniquely prepared for this search-and-rescue mission. He agrees to help Therese and to accept Rurik’s terms to keep Alina’s disappearance quiet, and as the two begin working together, Therese is determined the spark growing between them won’t distract from their mission to save Alina.

Traversing deep into the desert of Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Alina’s last known location, Therese and Blane struggle to separate truth from lies within the mix of intel they’re receiving. As they close in on answers that suggest the involvement of Russian organized crime and a high-profile international assassination attempt, they must fight to rescue Alina before she becomes an innocent casualty of a much bigger plot—no matter the risk to their own lives

Praise for Canyon of Deceit:

“…Time was running out, and the chilling certainty settled in Alina’s life depended on them unraveling the truth before the ruthless men hunting them closed in. With danger at every turn, Therese and Blane had no choice but to trust each other, even as the secrets they carried threatened to pull them apart…”
~ Sue Garland, Christian Novel Review

“Set against the rugged, dangerous beauty of the Guadalupe Mountains, Canyon of Deceit is a riveting tale of high stakes, survival, and trust that I couldn’t put down. DiAnn Mills has crafted a page-turning novel. This is romantic suspense at its finest!”
~ Elizabeth Goddard, award-winning author of Storm Warning

“A pulse-pounding blend of romance and suspense, Canyon of Deceit has a gripping plot and unforgettable characters with a story that keeps you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.”
~ Carrie Stuart Parks

“Buckle up, readers! Canyon of Deceit is a heart-pounding suspense packed with intrigue on every page. Danger, action, and adrenaline-fueled drama make this a must-read for fans who crave edge-of-your-seat adventure.”
~ Natalie Walters, bestselling, award winning author of the SNAP Agency series

Canyon of Deceit Trailer:

Plus, Canyon of Deceit includes two original songs written by the heroine, Therese—one from her childhood and one that captures the depth of her love and transformation as an adult. These heartfelt lyrics come to life in custom-recorded tracks that reflect the emotion and spirit of the novel.

Click here to listen and step deeper into Therese’s world.

Book Details:

Genre: Romantic Suspense
Published by: Tyndale House Publishers
Publication Date: September 9, 2025
Number of Pages: 352 (pbk)
ISBN: 9781496485151 (ISBN10: 1496485157) pbk
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Walmart | Goodreads | BookBub | Tyndale House Publishers

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

New Caney, Texas
October, Thursday, Current Day
Therese

The shrill ring of my mobile phone jolted me awake at 2:00 a.m., a haunting prompt that emergencies seldom emerged in daylight. Someone had ventured into the wilderness and needed me to lead a rescue mission. My skills of trekking over precarious terrain to find victims who suffered from physical injuries, dehydration, starvation, or all three, kept me on alert. At times I viewed my life like a Star Trek tagline, “Where no man has gone before.”

I grabbed the phone off my nightstand. Unidentified caller. “Hello?”

“Ms. Palmer, this is Professor Rurik Ivanov from Houston Leonard University. We met nearly a year ago. You taught a course in wilderness survival as an adjunct professor.”

I captured a mental image of the Russian man—gray-blue eyes, stone-gray hair, angular face. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I apologize for the hour, but I’m in a desperate situation.”

The angst in his voice zapped me into guarded mode, especially when I barely knew the man. I snapped on my bedside lamp. “Are you all right?”

“No, ma’am, which is why I’m calling you. Do you remember my wife and daughter?”

“I met them both at a faculty dinner last Christmas. A lovely family.”

“My wife was murdered today, and kidnappers have taken my daughter.”

I inhaled sharply, and alarm for the professor’s family fired hot from the soles of my feet. “Daria? Alina? What happened?”

“A man called me late this afternoon while I prepared to leave for home. He said he’d taken Alina. Then he sent a link to a video showing my wife’s execution—”

He stopped abruptly, his final words drumming into my senses. The seconds ticked by, and I waited.

“I watched Daria grab her chest and struggle . . . The blood rushed from her precious body—my dear Daria’s life gone forever.” He grappled again to control his tear-filled voice. “He said they would release Alina unharmed if I paid three million dollars. They’d call with instructions. When the man hung up, I hurried home thinking it had to be a terrible mistake or someone had used AI to generate the video. On the way, I phoned Daria and the call went to voice mail. I also redialed the man who’d contacted me. The phone rang repeatedly, but the number offered no way to leave a message. I contacted Alina’s school and learned Daria had picked her up before noon.

“At home, reality rooted. A lamp and a table in the living room lay in pieces. Daria would have fought hard, but there were no signs of blood. I didn’t recognize the place in the video where they killed her. I even checked for geotag information on the clip, but it had been stripped. I later clicked on the link . . . the video had disappeared.”

I ached for his loss. “What do the police say?”

Silence answered me, then Rurik finally said, “Contacting them is impossible. The man warned me against telling anyone who works in law enforcement, or I’d never see Alina again.” He sobbed into the phone. “Please, give me a moment.”

“Take all the time you need.”

The professor taught Russian language and literature at Leonard University and was highly respected and liked among faculty and students. I’d enjoyed our occasional chats, and he’d observed some of my classes. What had he done to upset the wrong people?

“Thank you. I can talk now,” he said. “I have no idea where the killers have taken Daria’s body or how to find Alina. Neither do I suspect anyone.”

I willed my pulse to slow. “Professor, the police are trained in handling confidential matters and how to find who is responsible. They have families and understand what you’re going through.”

“And endanger my daughter?” Panic throbbed in his ragged voice.

“I’m sorry.” My grief over losing Kate many years ago surfaced raw and bleeding. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. At home.”

“Are there family or friends who can stay with you?”

“My family is in Russia, and I do not trust anyone.”

“You could very well be in danger too.”

“My welfare is unimportant.”

“Who are these people, and why has your family been victimized?”

“I have no idea. The man refused to identify himself, but he did say ‘we.’ Maybe he thinks I have money or believes I have done something criminal to my country or to the US.”

What was he not telling me? I tossed off my blanket and stood in my bedroom, shivering, not from the cold but the horror of this unfolding story. “Professor Ivanov, I’m confused. Why call me? This is a job for the police or the FBI.”

“I cannot risk my daughter’s life. You are my only hope to find Alina. You have the skills to get her back.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “I’m a wilderness-survival specialist, nothing more. I’m not equipped to carry out a hostage negotiation without backup, which is another reason you need to involve the authorities.” More questions bolted into my mental space like a landslide. “How would I find her?”

“That’s where I can help you. Alina has GPS trackers hidden in her shoes. Not even Daria knew about them.”

“Why would you track your young daughter?”

“Alina’s biological mother died when she was a baby, and I’ve been consumed with protecting my daughter ever since. I checked my phone app and learned at one thirty this afternoon, Alina was taken to a private landing strip west of Houston. I called there, and a woman who worked in the small office said no one had filed a flight plan. But she made a mistake. The tracker had stopped registering.” He coughed and asked me to wait while he got a glass of water.

A connection at Harris County Office of Homeland Security & Emergency Management popped into my consciousness. They had the technology to confirm the date and time a plane took to the skies and where it landed.

“I’m better. I apologize for my lack of control,” the professor said. “My app showed tracking again near an abandoned airstrip in a remote area south of Hobbs, New Mexico. The tracking indicated ground-speed movement for two and a half hours to a section on the north side of Guadalupe Mountains National Park called Dog Canyon. That’s where the tracking ended, and I’ve detected nothing since. I assume the kidnappers parked the vehicle and proceeded on foot with Alina. Research shows the area is off-grid. Ms. Palmer, did they remove her shoes? How would they expect her to walk in bare feet?”

My thoughts trailed to the worst possible scenario. Why take Alina to a remote location unless they planned to dispose of her body there? Another argument lay with logic. Why go to the expense of transporting a kidnap victim there when they had the ability to dispose of her body in their backyard? A morbid idea, except true. Whatever the reason, they risked exposure from security cameras until they reached an off-grid area.

“I can’t stress enough how the authorities have technology and skills to find Alina. They can unravel valid threats and comprehend the danger of taking your story to the media.”

“The man who called me said they’d be watching my every move. I bought a burner phone tonight to call you.”

His anguish rippled through me, interfering with my ability to think clearly. “What about the ransom?”

“I can liquidate assets here and in Russia to meet their demands, but the statistics on kidnappers returning my Alina alive are not good. Perhaps they would accept what I can put together now. I’m sorry . . . I wish I had an answer. Why harm an eight-year-old little girl?”

“I have empathy for your grief.” Daria’s lovely face and the white-blonde-haired little girl refused to leave me alone. “Although I could lead you into Dog Canyon, I have no idea how to pull her out of the clutches of dangerous men. You’d need armed law enforcement and possibly a negotiator.”

“That would draw attention. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“Money is not the issue, Professor—”

“Alina means more to me than anything else in this world. What is love but to take ownership of a problem and do all I can to stop those men?”

“What if I fail?” The terror of not finding his daughter alive resurrected an echo from the past that had shaped my career.

“Can you live with yourself if you don’t try?”

Unaware, he’d pressed my weakest button. “I’ll hear you out. But I don’t believe you’ve given me the whole story, and I need the truth before I risk my life.”

“I’ve . . . I’ve given you all of it.”

“You’ve stated what you want me to know. What have you done or not done in this tragedy that Daria is dead, Alina is missing, and you can’t go to the police?

***

Excerpt from Canyon of Deceit by DiAnn Mills. Copyright 2025 by DiAnn Mills. Reproduced with permission from DiAnn Mills. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

DiAnn Mills

DiAnn Mills is a bestselling author who invites her readers to step into stories where suspense meets adventure and romance warms the heart. Known for crafting unforgettable characters tangled in unpredictable plots, DiAnn believes every breath we take unfolds a story waiting to be told—so why not make it thrilling?
Her novels have consistently landed on bestseller lists including CBA, ECPA, and Publishers Weekly, and have won prestigious awards such as the Christy, Selah, Golden Scroll, Inspirational Readers’ Choice, and Carol awards.
DiAnn is a founding board member of American Christian Fiction Writers and Conference Advisor for the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers. She actively participates in Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, Mystery Writers of America, the Jerry Jenkins Writers Guild, and International Thriller Writers, DiAnn passionately invests in helping fellow authors succeed through mentoring, book coaching, and editing. She travels nationwide speaking and teaching engaging writing workshops.
A proud coffee snob who roasts her own beans, DiAnn also enjoys diving into good books, experimenting in the kitchen, and unabashedly spoiling her grandchildren—whom she insists are the smartest kids in the universe. She and her husband make their home under the sunny skies of Houston, Texas.

Connect with DiAnn online for behind-the-scenes glimpses, writing tips, and lively discussions:

diannmills.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – @DiAnnMills
BookBub – @DiAnnMills
Instagram – @diannmillsauthor
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Facebook – @DiAnnMills
YouTube – @DiAnnMills

 

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CANYON OF DECEIT by DiAnn Mills (Gift Cards)

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Giveaway – Reaper by Sam Stone @partnersincr1me @crash4895

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REAPER

by Sam Stone

September 8 – October 3, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A TASK FORCE RAVEN THRILLER

 

In the aftermath of a devastating terrorist attack on a U.S. Border Patrol station in McAllen, Texas, Major Jake Baylor faces his most personal mission yet. When a VBIED explosion and mortar attack kills dozens, including his best friend Clint McNamara, Baylor and his elite Task Force Raven spring into action.

What appears to be a brutal cartel assault is actually something far more sinister—a coordinated diversion allowing ISIS operative Abu Waleed Hassan, known as “The Reaper,” and his team of jihadists to slip across the border undetected. As Baylor and his team of Texas Rangers with special operations backgrounds race to track down the terrorists, they find themselves operating in the shadows of bureaucracy, caught between political agendas and the urgent need to prevent another attack.

From interrogating a high-level cartel operative in a remote Texas ranch to conducting off-the-books operations in Mexico, Task Force Raven follows the trail of breadcrumbs leading to Hassan’s deadly plot. When suicide bombers strike San Antonio’s Riverwalk, killing hundreds, the clock starts ticking on an even more catastrophic attack aimed at Houston’s petrochemical infrastructure.

In this high-stakes thriller that blends military action with law enforcement tactics, Baylor must confront not only the external threat but also his own grief and rage. As federal agencies squabble over jurisdictional authority and media narratives, Task Force Raven operates with a simple directive from Texas Governor Robert Williamson: “Find them, and make sure they can never hit us again.”

With time running out and lives on the line, Baylor will need every skill he’s honed from years with both the Texas Rangers and Special Forces to bring the terrorists to justice—or stop them permanently.

Book Details:

Genre: Political Thriller
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: June 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 644 PBK
ISBN: 979-8316987726 PBK
Series: A Task Force Raven Thriller, Book1
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle Unlimited | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

 

 

Author Bio:

Sam Stone

When the action starts, you know it’s real. A fifth-generation Texan with a cowboy spirit, Sam Stone spent over 30 years as a Texas Police Officer, retiring as the Commander of Special Operations, leading in high-stakes situations where failure wasn’t an option. Coming from a proud, patriotic military family, he writes with an authenticity that can only come from lived experience. Now, he calls the Texas Hill Country home, where he lives with his wife—his love in this life and all others—and their two loyal dogs. Get ready for a pulse-pounding ride—check out his latest book today!

Catch Up With Sam Stone:

SamStoneAuthor.com
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YouTube – @RavenActual-SamStone

 

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This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Sam Stone. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
REAPER by Sam Stone {Signed Book + Swag}

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Giveaway – Barnabas Bartholomew And The Undead Freshman by Matthew Lett @xpressotours #matthewlett

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Barnabas Bartholomew and the Undead Freshmen
Matthew Lett
Publication date: September 16th 2025
Genres: Coming of Age, Fantasy

Death isn’t the end of education—at least not at UniverZity U., where fourteen-year-old Barnabas “Barney” Bartholomew is about to begin his freshman year.

As a recently raised zombie trying to make his undead mother proud, Barney must navigate the haunted halls of an underground mausoleum-turned-school, where strict Crypt Keepers enforce ancient rules and mysterious passages hide untold dangers. With fellow freshman facing expulsion for merely refusing to eat their grits, Barney knows he’ll need more than just good grades to survive. But when he discovers his beloved grandfather’s connection to this shadowy institution, Barney realizes there might be more to UniversZity U.—and himself—than meets his speckled blue eyes.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“What in the heck is a lich?” Barney asked.

“It’s a member of the Undead class, like us, except it was brought back to life by a sorcerer or a necromancer for evil purposes.”

“What sort of evil purposes?” Barney asked. There was a knot in his stomach; a bundle of nerves resting on the edge of a guillotine.

“Hard to tell,” Pudgy replied. “Depends on what the sorcerer wants the lich to do. He could use it as an assassin, I suppose, to knock off his enemies, or as a bodyguard. Or in this case, a guard dog over a graveyard.”

“But why a graveyard? What would a sorcerer want in a graveyard anyway? And what if it’s not even there? This lich thing. Suppose it’s gone?”

Pudgy shrugged. “Then it’s gone and we don’t have to worry about anything. But if it is real, and there is a lich wandering around, it’ll be looking for souls to eat. That’s why we need the crucifix, to repel it.”

“’Souls to eat?’” Barney repeated. “Are you serious?” He felt light-headed for a second; the world beyond his eyes in a lazy swoon.

“Quite serious,” Pudgy answered. “That’s what liches do. They eat the undead, and if they can, they’ll eat their souls too.”

Barney’s face paled at the thought. An undead cannibal running around the graveyard? That’s what it was! An undead cannibal! The dead eating the dead, for Christ’s sake!

Pudgy caught the look on Barney’s face; pallid, the sickly color of cream cheese left out in the sun for too long. He snickered. “Hey, calm down. It’s a legend, remember? We’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Barney didn’t answer, his tongue frozen to the roof of his mouth, when Millicent cleared her throat. “Guys?” She tapped the face of her wristwatch. “We need to go if we plan on making curfew. You can discuss the ins-and-outs of liches later, but we need to move.”

“You’re right,” Pudgy said. “I’ll take the lead with the flashlight. Milly, you’ll be behind me. Barney next and then Marcy, and I don’t want you two kissing back there. Agreed?”

Barney blushed clear to his toes. Marcy smiled at him. Millicent laughed out loud and Pudgy winked at Barney, who was staring at the tops of his shoes with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, okay…” he mumbled. “Funny, real funny, now can we go?”

And so they entered the southwest tunnel, its passages by now near memorized. It was more of a home away from home for the children; its twists and turns nothing more than well-travelled streets and avenues in their hometowns.

Barney stepped through (minus his flashlight which he’d given to Pudgy), when a thought struck him like a phantom stone in the darkness: Pudgy never fully answered my question, he thought. Why the graveyard? Why would a sorcerer (or a necromancer, for that matter) want a lich guarding a graveyard for him? Hmmm…

###

The trip to the graveyard took less than forty-five minutes, and the four of them arrived to find the wrought iron gates unlocked, and the tombstones shrouded in a silky mist of pale fog. A raven, with one eye missing, was perched on a spire atop the gate. It looked down at the children, as if considering their plight, then cawed in its shrill voice a single word they heard all too well:

“BEWARE!”

The raven took flight after its portent of doom. It did a hop and a half-skip, spread its wings, and then soared over the face of the moon reflected in the wavering mist. The raven disappeared as Pudgy opened the gate in a scream of rust. It was loud in the tranquil of the graveyard; as good as any doorbell that rings after midnight.

“Smooth move,” Barney quipped.

“Sorry,” Pudgy said. “I didn’t expect that. Let’s go.”

They walked through the gates; their eyes blind, sinking in what they could not see. Silence–the full-time caretaker of the grounds–greeted them. Distant thunder rolled over the clouds in the east. Lightning followed and took a snapshot of the graveyard for posterity’s sake.

And had there been a black cat perched on the back of a tombstone, with its yellow lamp-lit eyes and its spine arched in a splay of fur, it would not have surprised Barney in the least. The graveyard was spooky, if not picturesque in the simmering light of the moon; a mural better suited on the backdrop of a Halloween landscape.

“What now?” Barney whispered. The air was dank, hollow

somehow. There was no need to whisper, but the graveyard almost

demanded—dared that it be so upon its consecrated ground.

Author Bio:

Matthew Lett was born in Kassel, Germany. Currently, he lives in Sapulpa, Oklahoma with his wife of 39 years, and their two daughters, who also reside in Oklahoma. He’s also a Veteran of the United States Navy, serving on both the U.S.S. Saratoga and U.S.S. America aircraft carriers from 1985-1989. Matthew has been a prolific writer for over 20 years and is a multi-published author with an array of Novels, Novellas, Novelettes, and assorted short stories in a variety of genres. Most of his work can be found in Horror/Suspense/Mystery categories.
During his leisure time, Matthew enjoys rock-n’-roll music, attends church on a regular basis, watches Mystery Science Theatre 3000, reading, and playing with his 3 grandchildren. And of course, Writing. His books include such titles as, “He Who Walks the Corridors,” (Wolf on Water pub.), “Trail of Love and Death,”, “Woodview Heights: Legacy of Decadence” Trilogy and “Barnabas Bartholomew and The Undead Freshmen.”
Matthew Lett can be reached via e-mail for comments, feedback, and suggestions at matthew74107@yahoo.com


GIVEAWAY!

Barnabas Bartholomew and the Undead Freshmen Blitz

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    • Giveaway – The Itch Of Greed by Christa Nardi @xpressotours @ChristaN7777 #theitchofgreed

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    The Itch of Greed
    Christa Nardi
    (Izzie Di Sante Mysteries, #6)
    Publication date: September 22nd 2025
    Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

    A dark cloud hangs over baseball season in small town Rosedale when star pitcher Randy Kampton is taken out of the game for good.

    The DA is determined to pin the crime on Cole Rigley, a friend’s brother and fellow pitcher, citing the fierce competition for a major league trade as his motive for murder. Rigley’s brother, asks Henry and reluctant restaurant owner Izzie Di Sante to help prove his innocence. Adding fuel to the fire, Kampton stole Rigley’s girlfriend months earlier.

    While Kampton’s pitching skills are universally acknowledged, no one, not fans or teammates, has a kind word to say about him, making for a long list of suspects. Rigley, on the other hand, is respected for his talent and team spirit. The wild card is another pitcher recovering from a car accident, whose open roster spot has all three men vying for the same prize.

    In Rosedale, loyalty to the minor league team runs deep, and Izzie’s digging into the players’ pasts draws resentment from fans, police, and management alike. When the team’s PR person is targeted after meeting with her, the threats become all too real. The closer Izzie gets to uncovering the truth, on and off the field, the higher the stakes, and the more dangerous the game becomes.

    Goodreads / Amazon

    —

    CHAPTER 1:

    An alert sounded on my phone as I entered Cenare, the Italian restaurant I owned with my sister Chloe. While Chloe was a foodie, I took care of the business side of things. Before our parents died, I freelanced as a journalist following homicides in New York City.

    I was committed to the restaurant and Chloe, but my passion was murder, so I kept the homicide alerts coming. Occasionally, if one sparked my interest, I took some time to search out my next story. Homicides provided a rush the restaurant business didn’t give me. I put my things down on the small table in the kitchen area and pulled up the message.

    “Breaking news! The Rosedale Thorny Bats will be hurting this season. Their best pitcher, Randy Kampton, died under suspicious circumstances. His body was discovered by the custodians in the Thorny Bats locker room early this morning. Stay tuned for details.”

    The announcement prompted me to check my other sources for unsolved homicides, although I’d never heard of the Thorny Bats or Kampton. I assumed if the man was a pitcher, the sport was baseball. It was spring and our guests or employees occasionally mentioned baseball. Growing up, Chloe and I spent most of our time in the restaurant. We lived and breathed Cenare.

    My escape was writing. I knew from experience that the death of those close to you changed your life. My stories focused on the impact of a sudden death – usually a homicide – on those left behind. I found less resistance from law enforcement when I focused on cold cases or those that were stalled. Most often, my casual interviews with those who knew the victim provided clues to the killer.

    Unfortunately, sometimes the killer targeted me. Having lived in New York City for five years, I was prepared for that, even in small town Pinewood, Maryland, where murders rarely happened. With the first ever murder in our small town a few years back, I clashed with the local police detective when the immediate conclusion was a burglary, and I disagreed. For the record, I was right.

    With the murder of an athlete, Kampton’s death would likely be quickly solved if the alert was any indication. Not finding anything else of note in the alerts, I went through my morning routine of checking income, paying bills, placing orders, and taking inventory. At least I used my degree in business management. I preferred taking care of those tedious tasks before anyone else arrived.

    As usual, Chloe arrived with a breakfast treat as I finished the accounting and started the inventory.

    “Good morning, Chloe. Those look and smell delicious.”

    “Thanks, Izzie. Help yourself. I got this idea in my head and combined ingredients from an apple brownie recipe and a cinnamon streusel cupcake. Ryan assured me they were more than edible.” With money from the estate and the restaurant, Chloe had completed her training at the culinary institute nearby. In and out of the restaurant, she often created dishes. Breakfast for me and whomever else wanted a taste tended not to be traditional Italian. For the restaurant, she kept with the family tradition and stuck to Italian dishes.

    I chuckled. “I don’t know how you can cook here all day and then try out new things when you get home.”

    “Well, Ryan brought some work home that he needed to get done like yesterday. Only he didn’t get the assignment until that morning.” She shrugged. “I got creative in the kitchen while he worked.”

    Since she and Ryan married a few months ago, she hadn’t been as creative with her morning treats, though I could always count on her to provide my breakfast. When she took a week off for her honeymoon, I had to fend for myself, usually stopping at the local bakery on my way to work.

    “It’s delicious! Not quite brownie and not quite muffin. Still very moist and I’m a sucker for cinnamon and apples. I’ll have to freeze some of these for the next time I see Henry. Now that he’s taken the detective exam and he may be working part time in Franklin, I hope to see him more often.”

    Henry and I had started off as friends and our relationship moved forward from there. He was always a willing assistant and backup when I pursued a story. Helping me out prompted him to pursue his private investigator credentials.

    “Speak of the devil.” I showed Chloe the phone, took the container of treats, and sat down at the table.

    “Hi, Henry. How are you?”

    “Good. I may have a case for you and wanted to give you a heads up. Do you have a few minutes?”

    I grabbed a piece of paper off the nearby printer. “Sure. What’s going on?”

    “You know the guy who always gives me a hard time about driving an automatic or having a family car? Phil Rigley?”

    “Dark hair, hazel eyes, not quite as tall as you, and maybe a year or two younger. A southern twang.”

    “That’s him. He called this morning, wanting my opinion. His brother, Cole, plays ball with the Thorny Bats. Cole contacted Phil this morning. Something about a player dying and the police interviewing everyone. Phil didn’t have many details, but he wanted me to look into it.”

    My phone pinged with an alert. “I caught one announcement earlier and then another just came in. A custodian found Randy Kampton, a pitcher for that team, dead this morning. It was a sports broadcaster the first time, the usual police blotter the second time. Nothing else. Where did the Thorny Bats come from? Is there a new major league team in Maryland?”

    “No. The Baltimore Orioles is the only major league team. The Thorny Bats is a triple-A minor league team out in Rosedale. The players are good and some eventually get picked up by a major league team. I played in college and a few of my teammates went on to the minor leagues. We lost touch but I may see if I can locate them.”

    “The news I caught indicated a suspicious death. Thorny Bats is a weird name for a team though.”

    “Minor league teams often have interesting names, usually related somehow to their location and often suggested by fans. Rosedale, thorns, and baseball bats – Thorny Bats. Makes perfect sense to me.” He chuckled. “Keep me posted. If it’s a homicide, Phil thinks his brother will be a person of interest. Both Cole and Kampton are pitchers, and Kampton stole his girlfriend.”

    “Both would give Cole two motives. I’ll call you after lunch with any updates. Katie just walked in. Right now I best finish the inventory and start the lunch prep.”

    Katie was a chef-intern from the culinary institute. We’d hired two to help Chloe and relieve her of 12-hour days. A brunette in her mid-twenties, Katie stood a good six inches shorter than my five foot ten, with the figure of someone who competed in gymnastics through high school and still used her gym membership. She added to Chloe’s energy in the kitchen. Chloe hummed and listened to her favorite tunes when not directing Katie. They worked well together and became fast friends.

    Jerry, another intern, comes in mid-afternoon, when Katie leaves. Jerry towers over Katie at six foot. Husky, he looks more like a bodyguard than a chef. Before switching careers after twenty years, Jerry worked for stuffed-shirt lawyers as a paralegal. He burned out about the time his mother became ill. He started as a server and moved into the second intern position. Jerry’s personality and age lent itself to being a calming influence in the kitchen.

    “Katie, be sure to try Chloe’s latest breakfast treat, but save some for Henry, please.”

    She laughed. “Will do.”

    Inventory done, I moved to the restaurant side. As I dressed tables, Jennifer, the manager, joined me. She became the manager when the original manager left. A long-term employee since before Chloe and I took over, Jennifer was in her mid-thirties, older than both Chloe and me. She continued in the role of server most often, but also helped with training new servers, and took on hostess responsibilities when I took time off to chase down a story.

    As the waitstaff filtered in, I raced upstairs and put on a dress, a throwback to when our parents were alive. Our mother thought it added an element of class and set Cenare apart from fast-food places. As I reentered the kitchen area, I took a deep breath. I might not be a foodie, but the smell of the spices made me smile.

    Lunch went smoothly and I fidgeted at the hostess stand. I wanted to check my computer and phone for any updates on the Kampton death. It had been months since a case grabbed my attention. This time, it sounded like Henry and his buddy wanted me involved. I wasn’t too sure how the league, minor or otherwise, would appreciate me asking questions. Sometimes questions uncovered secrets best left untold, at least from their perspective.

    Author Bio:

    Christa Nardi is an accomplished author of cozy mysteries with an edge – still no graphic violence or sex or profanity, but touching on social issues. Christa’s background is in higher education and psychology, much as her protagonists, Sheridan Hendley in the Cold Creek and Sheridan Hendley mystery, along with Stacie Maroni in the Stacie Maroni mystery series. She has always loved mysteries – reading them, writing them, and solving them. She reviews books on her blog, predominantly cozy mysteries.

    Christa is a member of Sisters in Crime and can be found on occasion at Bouchercon, Killer Nashville, or Malice Domestic. She writes four series: Cold Creek Cozy Mysteries, Sheridan Hendley Mysteries, Stacie Maroni Mysteries, and the Izzie Di Sante mysteries. Christa also collaborates with Cassidy Salem in writing the Hannah and Tamar Mysteries, featuring teen sleuth sisters.

    When not writing or reading, Christa and her husband enjoy travel, their three grandchildren, and their dogs. Christa supports dog rescue and local shelters.

    Website / Goodreads / Twitter / Instagram


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