$20 GC – Cat & Mouse by Justin M Kiska @partnersincr1me #catandmouse #justinmkiska

CAT & MOUSE by Justin M. Kiska Banner

CAT & MOUSE

by Justin M. Kiska

March 30 – May 1, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Parker City Mystery

 

Twenty years ago, Elizabeth Blakely was the target of a relentless stalker—someone who sent threatening letters, invaded her life, and left her living in fear. The case made headlines. The threats were chilling. And then… it all stopped.

Now, in the summer of 1985, Elizabeth’s past has come roaring back. A new letter appears—eerily familiar and signed just like the ones before. Then her husband is stabbed in their home.

Parker City Police Detectives Ben Winters and Tommy Mason are handed the case and quickly find themselves trapped in a decades-old maze of obsession, secrets, and psychological scars. As they peel back the layers of the original investigation, they begin to suspect the truth was never what it seemed—and the stalker may have never left.

With pressure mounting, the detectives must solve a mystery rooted in the past to prevent another tragedy in the present. But what they uncover will challenge everything they thought they knew about guilt, innocence, and what it means to be a victim.

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Police Procedural with a Dual Timeline element
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: March 31, 2026
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 979-8898202118
Series: A Parker City Mystery, Book 6 on Amazon, Goodreads, & Level Best Books
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads

The Parker City Mystery Series

Now & Then
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
Vice & Virtue
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
Fact & Fiction
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
Black & White
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
Cops & Robbers
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt from Cat & Mouse:

Prologue

December 1965…

The first letter arrived the day before Thanksgiving.

It was typewritten, folded with precision, and sealed inside a simple white envelope. The address, also typed, was not accompanied by the name of the sender or from where it came. The message inside was brief, impersonal, but unmistakably threatening. It promised that someone was watching. That someone knew where she lived, what time she left for work, and how often she walked alone at night. It ended with a warning: Be careful.

The second letter arrived two days later, the day after Thanksgiving. Almost identical, but in the mailbox of a second woman.

Neither of the two took them very seriously, dismissing them as a bad joke. A prank meant to scare them, perhaps a cruel trick from a jealous co-worker or a jilted lover. They were immediately thrown in the trash and forgotten.

Two days later, two more women received similarly menacing letters in their mailboxes.

For the first time, one of the recipients had the sense to go to the police. She turned the letter over to an officer who said it was probably just a practical joker trying to get a rise out of her, but suggested all the same, she make sure to lock her door at night. The officer’s dismissive attitude did little to ease any fear.

But as the days passed and letters continued arriving, more women turned to the Parker City Police Department. After a dozen letters were turned over to the PCPD, Lieutenant Wallace Kerns, the chief’s deputy, finally opened an investigation. And once the police took serious notice and became involved, it was only a matter of time before the newspapers picked up the story. When they did, it was all anyone could talk about. The Blue Ridge Herald ran its first article under the headline: Anonymous Stalker Targets Local Women—Who Will Be Next? The Chronicle Dispatch, never one to be outdone, took a more dramatic approach: Is Parker City’s Police Force Failing to Protect Women?

The stories fanned the flames of paranoia, and soon, reports of a dark figure lurking in neighborhoods at night flooded the police station. No two sightings were identical, however. Some claimed the figure was tall and broad-shouldered, others said he was slim and moved like a shadow. But they all agreed on one thing: he was watching. And he was waiting.

The letters were no longer just an eerie nuisance; they had become something else entirely. A warning of what was to come. Though there was not a single person who knew what that was. Except the person sending the letters, leaving the city in a near panic.

Real crime was a rarity in Parker City. It had its share of bar fights, a few domestic disturbances, the occasional armed robbery, but this, this was something else entirely.

Chapter One

Elizabeth Blakely didn’t think much about the letters at first. Like everyone else in Parker, she was aware of what was going on, reading the news every morning over breakfast. The headlines were difficult to ignore. And as more letters began showing up, as a single woman, she found herself just as unnerved as all the others in town. So far, the police had made no connection between any of the recipients, which meant anyone could be next.

But it was a thought Elizabeth tried to put out of her mind as much as possible. During the day, the hum of the office filling the air—telephones ringing, papers shuffling, murmured conversations behind closed doors—allowed her to forget about what was going on outside and the anxiety spreading across the city. Unfortunately, her days at the office brought with them a different type of unease.

Elizabeth knew that all of the men she worked with couldn’t keep their eyes off her. Whenever she was in the breakroom making herself a cup of coffee or standing over the Xerox machine running off the latest department reports, she could feel their eyes roaming up and down her body. It was something she’d grown used to because it’d been the case ever since she was a teenager. But it wasn’t her fault that she’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on who you asked—with an incredible physique.

Tall and slender, with the right curves in exactly the right places, coupled with the face of an angel and piercing crystal blue eyes, she drove the men wild. While she couldn’t deny she enjoyed the attention, she realized deep down it was more a sense of lust than anything else that had the heavy-breathing, testosterone-jacked-up men circling. On the rare occasion a man would actually take the time to get to know her, he’d discover Elizabeth was one of the sweetest people one could ever meet. She’d give you the shirt off her back if you asked, which is what most of the lecherous men were hoping for.

But she was also smart and full of life. She loved reading and dreamed of traveling to far off destinations, learning about the culture and peoples around the world. Even though it was a time when women were beginning to stand up and demand to be seen as more than simply pretty faces meant to cook and pop out babies, she was desperate to find a kind, intelligent man to settle down with. The kind of man who would hold her in his arms and make her feel safe yet never smothered, and who would honestly listen to her and never treat her as an object.

What Elizabeth wanted was the perfect life.

“A pie-in-the-sky dream!” her best friend Joyce would yell at her, trying to get her to see some sense. “You can’t have it all, sweetie. No fuckin’ way. No fuckin’ how.”

Granted, this was usually after Joyce would come home blitzed following a night of partying, riding high on a wave of feminine self-determination, and still aglow following a meaningless one-night stand. But liquor made Joyce strong…and mouthy. After a few drinks, she wasn’t afraid to tell you what she really thought. Not that she didn’t do that when she was sober. The only difference was she didn’t use as much profane language when she wasn’t half in the bag.

At the end of the day though, Elizabeth just wanted to be happy. She’d grown up seeing her parents madly in love with one another. Her father always doting on her mother and his two little girls. Her father was a “businessman”—which was all her mother ever said he was—who seemed to do well for himself judging by the fact she and her sister grew up wanting for nothing.

They lived in a big house with a pool, went on a family vacation every year, and always had money for new clothes to start school. For good or bad, her parents also encouraged their girls to follow their dreams. When Elizabeth said she was interested in business and wanted to go to college and earn a degree that would land her a good job, her parents didn’t try to dissuade her. Her father did sit her down and explain how she might find the going difficult at times, but he said he was more than willing to support her.

Her mother never said it to her, but Elizabeth knew she was worried that pursuing a career would hamper any chance she had of finding a husband and having a family. Career women weren’t something her mother grew up with, so she couldn’t understand any woman’s desire to work in an office all day and not find the joy in making a home for her family. She’d raised two wonderful girls and loved every minute of it. She felt being a good wife and mother was enough of a job. There was no need for any other type of satisfaction. Most importantly though, Elizabeth’s mother desperately wanted grandchildren. And with Elizabeth having just turned thirty and still not being married and seeing no prospects on the horizon, all hope now fell on Patricia.

Elizabeth’s younger sister seemed to have found exactly what their parents had. Kenneth, her husband of less than two days, was almost too good to be true. A handsome and loving former high school football star turned banker. Patty was in her glory and transformed into a glowing bride as she walked down the long aisle of Saint Joseph’s Episcopal Church with all their family and friends gathered for the occasion.

While all eyes had been on Patty, Elizabeth could still hear the whispers of those wondering why it was the younger sister getting married first. But for the most part, she was able to put the remarks out of her mind and celebrate the love her little sister had found.

As she sat at her desk in the Accounting and Business Office of Upton’s Department Store the Monday following the wedding, she did admit there was something about seeing Patty in the long, flowing, white chiffon dress that was nagging at her. It wasn’t jealousy. That wasn’t it. But there was a surprising yearning in the pit of her stomach that she’d never experienced before.

Elizabeth always knew she wanted to be married and have a family, but she’d never felt envious after attending someone’s wedding. But she was getting older. A fact her mother had taken to pointing out to her more and more recently in the subtlest of fashions.

She shook the thought away and returned her focus to the stack of papers in front of her. Numbers didn’t lie, and they didn’t demand introspection.

Brushing a lock of chestnut hair from in front of her eyes, she turned back to her typewriter and the report that was only half complete. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed the young man in a dark gray mohair suit quietly approach her desk. But suddenly he was standing there hovering over her with a smile on his face that would put a shark to shame.

“Where was that pretty head of yours, sweetheart?”

The voice made her skin crawl.

“Dick! You scared me,” she said, instinctively placing a hand on her chest.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, honey,” Richard Calhoun offered, not even trying to conceal his eyes lingering on her perfectly shaped breasts beneath the green cardigan she was wearing. The way he looked at her, like she was something to be devoured, set her teeth on edge.

“A little daydreaming on the job? No harm in that, kitten.”

“No, just thinking about my sister’s wedding,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Hey, that’s right,” he said, snapping his fingers and perching himself intrusively on the edge of her desk. “Penny got married this weekend, right?”

“Patty,” Elizabeth gently corrected, desperately trying not to roll her eyes. “Yes. She did. This past Saturday.”

“Patty, right. Sorry. Hey, I bet you were a real fox in your bridesmaid dress.” The smirk on his face made her fingers curl into a fist beneath the desk. Leaning in just enough that all she could smell was the overpowering scent of his after shave, he said, “We should grab a bite after work. You can tell me all about it.”

She felt the familiar tightness in her chest. The uncomfortable balance of politeness and self-preservation. Saying no outright would only make him more persistent.

“Not tonight, Dick. I’m still pretty tired from the weekend. And I might have to work late to finish these reports.”

His smile remained, but the light in his eyes dimmed. Just slightly. There was a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable.

Calhoun was the guy in the office that none of the girls wanted to be left alone with. He was always on the hunt, just ready to pounce. With his Brylcreemed hair and the cloud of Aqua Velva after shave that continuously lingered around him, Dick Calhoun fancied himself a true ladies’ man. And he’d had luck with a number of the salesgirls in the store, but the few women who worked in the executive offices on the third floor found the young associate business manager to be an obnoxious skirt chaser. Not that any of them could say anything about his behavior to any of their bosses because he was also Old Man Upton’s nephew.

“Maybe another time,” she added quickly, hoping to smooth over the rejection.

“One of these days, you’re going to take me up on my offer,” he said, his voice lower now, his gaze fixed on hers. “And when you do, you’ll realize how lucky you are.”

Elizabeth forced a tight-lipped smile, her pulse quickening. Calhoun held her gaze for a moment longer before sliding off the desk and sauntering back toward his office. But just before he disappeared behind the door, she swore she saw him lick his lips.

A shiver ran down her spine.

“Everything alright, Miss Blakely?” she heard a deep voice ask from behind her.

That was the second time someone managed to sneak up on her without her noticing. At least in this instance it was someone she didn’t mind seeing standing next to her desk. Alfred Marsh was the opposite of Dick Calhoun. Where Calhoun was all slicked-back bravado and leering stares, Marsh was effortlessly charming with a quiet confidence, wrapped in a shy demeanor. He wasn’t just handsome—he was dreamy, the kind of guy who, without even trying, made a girl’s heart skip a beat.

Tall and handsome, with a strong jawline and a pair of deep-set hazel eyes that always seemed to be thinking a step ahead, he had the kind of looks that made women whisper behind their hands and giggle like schoolgirls. And he didn’t even know it. That made him all the more attractive.

Unlike the other men in the office who made it their mission to gawk at her whenever she walked by, Alfred Marsh actually looked at her—like she was a person, not just a set of curves poured into a pencil skirt. It was unnerving in a way Elizabeth hadn’t expected. A man like him could make a girl forget herself.

Joyce, ever the blunt one, had taken one look at him and whistled. “Now that’s a fox,” she’d declared, loud enough for half the department store to hear. “And if you don’t make a move, sweetheart, I will.”

Elizabeth had rolled her eyes at the time, but now, with him standing there, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his well-tailored suit, she had to admit Joyce wasn’t wrong.

“Is everything alright, Elizabeth?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, too quickly. His hazel eyes flicked toward Calhoun’s door, and though his expression remained calm, there was a sharpness behind it. He knew. Of course, he knew.

“Good,” he said, but there was something else in his tone. A quiet understanding.

She felt herself exhale, only now realizing she had been holding her breath.

Alfred hesitated, then nodded toward the papers on her desk. “I came by to grab the updated sales figures. I thought I’d save you the trip.”

She blinked, then laughed, relieved for the subject change. “Your office is right there,” she pointed out. “Wouldn’t have been much of a trek.”

He grinned, that easy smile that could knock a girl sideways if she wasn’t careful. “I owe you one.”

She grinned. “I’ll add it to the running tally, but it’s kind of my job.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and for the first time that day, the tightness in her chest eased. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “By the way, heard about your sister’s wedding. How was it?”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Word travels fast.”

He shrugged. “I might have overheard something.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “It was nice. You know how weddings are. Too many flowers, too much crying, and way too much cake.”

“Sounds about right.” He considered her for a moment, then gave her a small nod. “Well, I have some calls to make. Thanks again for these.”

Removing the files, he uncovered a copy of the day’s Dispatch with its headline staring directly at him, declaring the city was gripped with fear by the mysterious letter writer. A concerned look crossed his face and he looked as though he was about to say something but caught himself. Giving Elizabeth a little nod of the head, he walked to his office, leaving behind only the faintest trace of cologne—subtle, clean, nothing like the overpowering scent Calhoun left in his wake.

Elizabeth let out a breath. She glanced toward the office door where Calhoun had disappeared and then back to the stack of papers in front of her.

By five-thirty, most of the office had emptied, except for a few stragglers finishing up their work. One of whom was Dick Calhoun. Elizabeth had no idea what he’d been up to in his office behind closed doors all afternoon, but when he emerged ready to leave for the day, he appeared agitated.

Passing by Elizabeth’s desk on his way out, he looked down at her and said, “Be careful out there.”

Elizabeth’s heart stopped, quickly casting her eyes down to the newspaper lying on her desk. Wasn’t that the way all the mysterious letters ended? Be careful.

No, Elizabeth told herself. She was just being paranoid. All he meant was to be careful getting home because it had started snowing a little earlier which would make getting around more difficult. That had to be it. She shouldn’t let her mind play tricks on her.

When she’d finished her work, she gathered her things and slipped on her coat, shivering slightly as she stepped out into the brisk December air. A light layer of snow lay on the ground as the city streets were lit by the golden glow of shop windows, adorned with festive garlands and twinkling lights. Christmas was just around the corner, but the usual excitement that came with the holiday season was dampened by the underlying tension that gripped the city. There were many who hoped the festive season would help people forget about the recent headlines. But so far, as everyone continued with their annual traditions of decorating and preparing for the holidays, the women of Parker City still found themselves looking over their shoulders, wondering if someone was watching them from the shadows.

Even with the sidewalks filled with people on their way home from work or heading to a restaurant for dinner, Elizabeth felt uneasy. She couldn’t stop thinking about Dick Calhoun’s last words to her as he walked out the door. And the way his dark eyes looked at her from under the brim of his hat. It set her nerves on end. And now, even as she told herself she was being ridiculous, she felt as though someone was watching her.

Picking up her pace, her heels clicking against the pavement, as she turned the corner onto her street, she felt her pulse quicken ever so slightly. She was letting her imagination get the best of her. She forced herself to relax, seeing her apartment building just down the block, its brick façade glowing in the streetlamps. She and Joyce shared the apartment on the first floor of the converted townhouse only a few blocks from Upton’s Department Store. They’d turned the place into a comfortable and inviting home where they’d often have girlfriends over for dinner and game nights.

Fishing her keys from her purse and unlocking the building’s main door, then the door to her apartment, Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief to be home. Turning on the light in the tiny entry hallway, she noticed that Joyce’s coat was missing from the closet, meaning she wasn’t home yet. Not having spoken with her yet today, she also didn’t know what her plans were for the night or if she’d even be coming home. So, Elizabeth figured she was on her own. Not an uncommon occurrence.

Turning on the lights of the small Christmas tree the roommates had set up in the corner of the living room, she took a moment to enjoy the decorations, rearranging a few of the ornaments that still didn’t look like they were in the perfect place. Standing back to see if the changes helped to balance the tree better, she smiled at her work.

Heading into the bedroom, she dropped her purse on the bed and kicked off her shoes, rubbing her aching feet before walking into the kitchen at the rear of the apartment. It was small, just big enough for two people to move around comfortably, but not without brushing against a chair or grazing the counter’s edge. The walls were a pale yellow, faded from cooking and the occasional cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. A Formica table with chrome legs stood in the center of the kitchen, its surface clear except for a set of salt and pepper shakers and a stack of mail. Apparently, Joyce had come and gone already, collecting the day’s post and depositing it on the table for Elizabeth to see.

The linoleum floor, patterned in a checkered design of dull green and cream, let out a soft creak as Elizabeth walked to the compact refrigerator humming in the corner, pondering what to make for dinner. Eyeing the ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a rooster sitting on top of the refrigerator, Elizabeth begrudgingly admitted a plate of cookies would not be a good dinner. Letting a sigh of disappointment escape her lips, she opened the refrigerator and began examining its contents. But as she had her head in the refrigerator, deciding what she wanted to eat while watching To Tell the Truth that night, behind her, outside in the building’s backyard, a shadow quietly passed by the kitchen window.

***

Excerpt from CAT & MOUSE by Justin M. Kiska. Copyright 2026 by Justin M. Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M. Kiska. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Justin M. Kiska

Justin is a theatre producer, director, and mystery writer who can usually be found sitting in his library devising new and clever ways to kill people (for his mysteries). In addition to writing the Parker City Mysteries Series, which includes Now & Then, Vice & Virtue, Fact & Fiction, Black & White, and Cops & Robbers, he is also the mastermind behind Marquee Mysteries, a series of interactive mystery events he has been writing and producing for nearly twenty years. Justin and his wife, Jessica, live along Lake Linganore outside of Frederick, Maryland with their pups Brownie and Cocoa.

Catch Up With Justin M. Kiska:

JustinKiska.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – @JustinKiska
BookBub – @JMKiska
Instagram – @JMKiska
Facebook – @JMKiska

 

Tour Participants:

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Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

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$25 GC – Agatha Christie She Watched by Teresa Peschel @partnersincr1me #teresapeschel #agathachristie

Agatha Christie, She Watched by Teresa Peschel Banner

AGATHA CHRISTIE, SHE WATCHED

by Teresa Peschel

April 6 – May 15, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

One Woman’s Plot to Watch 201 Christie Adaptations Without Murdering the Director, Screenwriter, Cast, or Her Husband

 

Care to match wits with Hercule Poirot? Share tea and gossip with Miss Marple? Chase spies with Tommy and Tuppence? “Agatha Christie, She Watched” will introduce you to must-see movies (and must-avoid) dogs that prove Agatha’s genius depicting the hopeful and dark sides of human nature. These movies will tantalize you, mystify you, and make you laugh at the folly of humanity.

Teresa Peschel watched and reviewed 201 adaptations, from the German silent movie “Adventures, Inc.” (1929) to “See How They Run” and “Why Didn’t They Ask Evans” (2022). Each film was rated for fidelity to the original material and its overall quality. Each review takes up two pages and comes with six cast photos, list of major actors, and known film locations. Foreign movies with English subtitles from India, France, Russia, and Japan are included. We include eight movies in which the fictional Agatha Christie solves murder mysteries, debates Poirot, battles a space wasp (in Doctor Who), and plots to kill her husband’s mistress.

“Agatha Christie, She Watched” is the only comprehensive collection of reviews about Christie adaptations. Use it to find the movies made from the novels you love, fill in your movie collection or host an Agatha Christie festival of your own.

Praise for Agatha Christie, She Watched:

“From the German silent movie Adventures, Inc. (1929) to Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (2022), she covers all of your favourites (including the One True Poirot) and some you may never have heard of! The level of detail and vast array of images is incredible.”
~ Labours of Hercule podcast

Book Details:

Genre: Movie & Video Reference, Movie & Video Guides & Reviews, Non-Fiction
Published by: Peschel Press
Publication Date: April 7, 2023
Number of Pages: 436 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 9781950347391 (ISBN10: 1950347397)
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Peschel Press

Read an excerpt:

Introduction

I’ve always been a fan of Agatha Christie, but not an obsessive one. I didn’t read and reread the novels. I didn’t go looking for obscure short stories. I didn’t read (and still haven’t) her Mary Westmacott novels. I treated her like most people did: She wrote good mysteries, and if they were handy, I read them.

Then Bill began the Complete, Annotated project by publishing Dorothy L. Sayers’ Whose Body?, followed by Agatha’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Over the years, as he annotated the next five of Agatha’s early novels, I read them carefully for possible footnotes. As I did, I paid more attention to her writing, her deft plotting, her sly sense of humor, and her ability to describe a character with a few sentences.

As I became more familiar with her novels, I realized that she’s underrated, probably because she was categorized as a genre writer. Some even consider her works cozies. Clearly, they never read Appointment with Death (1938), And Then There Were None (1939), or Endless Night (1967). I suspect that her Mary Westmacotts — which are described as romances — are anything but.

The publishing world applies labels to make it easier for bookshops to shelve their books in the store, not because they’re accurate.

In July 2020, as the world began opening up from the Covid-19 shutdowns, I was at the library, looking for a DVD to borrow. I spotted Crooked House (2017). I liked the novel, so I thought, “Why not?”

Crooked House was the second Agatha Christie film adaptation I had seen. Sir Kenneth Branagh’s Murder on the Orient Express (2017) was the first.

We needed fodder for the website (peschelpress.com) and I’d already been reviewing books, so I wrote a review of Crooked House. This reminded me that Bill was working on an annotated edition of The Secret of Chimneys. Was there a movie version? A review for the book would be nice. There was. It was an episode in a box set from ITV’s Marple.

Oookaaaay.

Having become overly familiar with Chimneys, I knew Agatha wrote it years before Miss Marple was a twinkle in her eye. But we watched it anyway. It was terrible. Bill wrote his review for The Complete, Annotated Secret of Chimneys, and I wrote mine for the website.

Since the library’s Marple DVD set included three more episodes, we watched them and I reviewed them for the website.

That’s when Bill said the fateful words that brought us here: “Let’s watch more Agatha films. You write the reviews. I’ll post them on the website, and we’ll publish them as a book.”

So here we are nearly three years later. We had no idea how big the Agatha project would become or how many films have been made for cinema and TV. Bill and I have watched more than 200 adaptations. This includes all the English-language ones we could find beginning with Adventures, Inc. (a 1929 silent movie), and many of the foreign versions too. For those, we were limited by availability and whether or not they had English subtitles. It’s criminal neglect that some of the finest Agatha Christie film adaptations in the world are from Japan, yet they’re unavailable in the West.

To my knowledge, we are the only people who’ve watched all the films. I’m definitely the only person who’s written and posted reviews for all those forgotten TV shows and kinescopes.

Along the way, I became much, much more familiar with Agatha’s writing as I had to read the novels and short stories to compare them to the films. She was cutting edge from the beginning. She invented what we call The Poirot, the practice of bringing together the suspects, explaining the clues, and fingering the criminal. It was a trope born of necessity, when her first attempt — Poirot testifying at the trial — didn’t fly with her publisher.

She began experimenting with narrative structure in 1924 with The Man in the Brown Suit. That novel has two narrators, one of them unreliable. Brown Suit is also a romantic thriller disguised as a mystery. Read the passage where Anne Beddingfeld administers to a mysterious, half-naked, sexy stranger’s wounds. This scene could be ripped from any romance novel of today (the sweet kind, not the spicy which would include far more detail). As a side note, the 1989 TV movie is very true to the text despite being turned into a contemporary.

Agatha was an innovative writer throughout her career. Her The Seven Dials Mystery (1929) is a mash-up of P. G. Wodehouse and John Buchan thrillers. Partners in Crime (1929) is a loose cycle of 16 short stories starring Tommy and Tuppence. Each short story is also a parody of a famous mystery writer, including herself! And unlike Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, Tommy and Tuppence aged in real time, from the young, eager lovers in The Secret Adversary (1922) to retired grandparents in Postern of Fate (1973).

And what’s And Then There Were None (1939), in which 10 characters are dispatched in an entertaining manner for their sins, but a PG-rated slasher flick? As a sign of its influence, the basic plot has been lifted, the serial numbers filed off, and rewritten in dozens more novels and movies. The A.B.C. Murders (1936) is a prototypical serial killer novel.

Agatha’s innovations could fill a book and go a long way to explaining why she’s still read today.

The other reason is more subtle.

Whatever you can say about the quality of the adaptations (like The Secret of Chimneys, bleah), they keep Agatha in the public eye. Never underestimate the importance of TV shows and movies on an author’s reputation. For each person who reads, 100 people go to the movies, and a 1,000 people watch TV. Every time an Agatha Christie film is shown, people who’ve never heard of her learn she exists. Some of them search out her books and discover how good her writing is.

When a writer dies, they can vanish under the constant tsunami of books being written and published daily. Dorothy L. Sayers is a prime example. Sayers wrote at the same time as Agatha. She’s highly regarded and her books are great. But her estate, unlike Agatha’s, shows no interest in licensing her stories and novels for TV or movies. Say the phrase: “Murder at Downton Abbey,” then ask why her literary estate isn’t capitalizing on Lord Peter Wimsey, detective in the peerage and a duke’s brother.

The Agatha Christie estate does not want her writing to suffer that fate, so they license her short stories and novels. Some adaptations are excellent; some are dreadful. For a few, the only commonality between novel and film is the name. Most range in between but all have something to offer, even if it’s only great period clothes, quality acting, or English Country House Porn. Linenfold paneling! Crenelated ceilings! Parquet floors as elaborate as the finest Persian carpet!

Excuse me while I stop and fan myself.

Watching 200+ Agatha adaptations also taught me plenty about filmmaking, pacing, and soundtracks. I can now, sometimes, recognize an actor from another adaptation. I’ve enjoyed seeing how one novel can be interpreted multiple ways, resulting in wildly different films. The Pale Horse (1961) is a good example. The three films (including Miss Marple in one!) are recognizably the same story, yet they’ve nothing to do with each other. The emphasis is different, the characters different, the tone is different.

I’ve watched 13 different Poirots (including an anime version). Seven different Marples (including an anime version). Multiple Tommy and Tuppences. Each actor or actress brings something new to the character.

The foreign films demonstrate how universal she is. She wrote about dysfunctional families, mapped the class divide, noticed the lengths we go to for status and security, and found reasons for murder ranging from money to passion to safety.

Ironically, foreign filmmakers respect Agatha more than she is at home. Appointment with Death (1938) has been filmed three times, but the Japanese version is the only one that captures the novel’s cruelty and horror. The two English language versions fail, one moderately and one spectacularly. Of the four versions of The Mirror Crack’d From Side to Side (1962), only the Japanese version gives a voice to Margo Bence, one of Agatha’s most abused secondary characters. The other three versions ignore her because to face Margo Bence’s pain would mean admitting that the film business cares nothing for children unless they can be sold to make money.

We did not watch every single foreign TV episode even when they were readily available. There just wasn’t enough time. The best we could do was see enough to convey the flavor of a given series. If you want to see them, enjoy yourself! They provide very different views of Agatha and can be rewarding.

The novel that’s been adapted the most is And Then There Were None (1939). We saw ten versions, ranging from a blurry kinescope to slick studio productions with an all-star cast, so it merits its own chapter. Some versions hew to the stage play with its radically rewritten ending. Others stick to the novel, nihilism intact. Some combine the stage play and the novel, so Vera Claythorne learns who the puppet master was, begs for her life, and receives rough justice.

One final warning before you go: spoilers abound, so beware! Unlike Agatha, I don’t play fair with my reviews and hide whodunnit. Where I play fair is in telling you what I thought of them. I liked films that critics panned, and I disliked films others loved. I say why. I go down sidetracks. I enjoyed myself and I hope you will too.

So won’t you join me for an Agatha Christie Movie Marathon? You’ve got hundreds of hours of viewing pleasure ahead of you. Just remember to never accept a cup of tea you didn’t make, or take trips to lonely islands (or châteaus, or country houses) with strangers.

How to use this book

The films are organized by the starring detective. Miss Marple comes first, followed by Poirot, and Tommy and Tuppence. Next, a chapter is devoted exclusively to And Then There Were None, followed by the rest of the adaptations, and the final chapter is movies in which Agatha herself is the star.

Each chapter opens with a photo gallery showing the actors and actresses who played her detectives and characters.

There’s also an index, which is more important than it appears.

Seems logical, yes? Except that some adaptations removed Agatha’s chosen detective, turning the novel into a police procedural. When that happens, the movie is not included in the detective’s chapter. It’s included in “The Rest of the Christies”. Many of the foreign adaptations fall into this category.

Other adaptations (cough, ITV’s Marple, cough) insert a detective who didn’t exist in the novel. That’s why many standalone novels appear in the Miss Marple chapter. She’s now the star of The Sittaford Mystery, Murder Is Easy, The Pale Horse, and others. She also appears in a Tommy and Tuppence novel, By the Pricking of My Thumbs. Similarly, Margaret Rutherford snatched two Poirot novels and made them her own, so they appear in the Miss Marple chapter.

The chapters dedicated to And Then There Were None and the movies not part of a detective series are self- evident. “Agatha the Star,” however, deserves an explanation. In addition to her stories, Agatha’s life has become fodder for Hollywood. This includes the dreadful Vanessa Redgrave/Dustin Hoffman biopic Agatha (1979), a documentary that quotes from her and her work, a Doctor Who episode, and three movies that show Agatha’s exciting life investigating mysteries in a parallel universe. It focuses on Agatha, not her writing. Any relationship to Agatha’s real life should be considered coincidental. Even the documentary in this chapter is not entirely reliable.

Within each chapter, the films are organized chronologically. As you move forward in time, you’ll see changes in how a character was depicted and movie-making styles. Adventures, Inc. (1929) sets the stage. It’s the earliest Agatha film and the scriptwriter, Jane Bess, played fast and loose with the text. She led the way for hack screenwriters everywhere to rewrite Agatha’s prose.

Each review gets two pages. We chose a banner image and six photos of important cast members. I rate films by fidelity to text (or life in “Agatha the Star,” and either the play or the novel in And Then There Were None) and by the quality of the movie overall. The two ratings are separate, but they complement each other and give you a clearer understanding of what to expect.

The cast lists place detectives and police at the top. Everyone else follows in rough order of importance. We group families together to make it easier to work out relationships. Our cast lists are not comprehensive but the main characters are there.

Also note that for those foreign films which don’t name their characters from the novel, we provide that information. This was omitted when they rewrote them so much (such as Unknown (1965), the Indian version of And Then There Were None) that it would not be helpful.

At the end of the list come the film locations, or (in a couple episodes) a song list. Internet Movie Database and Agatha Christie Wiki provided most of the locations, but Bill added to that from other sources (see the bibliography). Knowing the film locations means you, dear reader, can visit the same castle as Poirot or Miss Marple.

Subtitles matter to me. We always looked for versions with subtitles as so many actors mumble or the sound quality is bad. If I can’t understand the dialog, I miss important points. Not every DVD was released with subtitles.

Fortunately, some of the older films like the Joan Hickson Miss Marples are being cleaned up for streaming. They get subtitles. But they aren’t being released as new DVDs so, no subtitles. If you can watch a streamed version, no problem. If you must use your TV and DVD player, you’re out of luck.

We had to have subtitles for the foreign films. We couldn’t see some films we wanted to (we especially regret passing up the Japanese Murder on the Orient Express) because they either weren’t available with subtitles or they weren’t available at all.

The index will help you find a specific film. This isn’t just because some novels got Miss Marple inserted, putting them into the Miss Marple chapter. Agatha’s novels were often released under different names. For example, the novel Lord Edgware Dies (1933) was released in the U.S. as Thirteen At Dinner. It’s been filmed three times, twice as Lord Edgware Dies and once as Thirteen At Dinner. But they’re all based on the same novel and the index connects them.

I list all the names, with a note as to which film it applies to. Or, as with Margaret Rutherford, the film’s name doesn’t correspond to any edition of the novel but I tell you what to look for.

The bibliography provides further reading and shows where some of my information came from.

Enjoy the book. We enjoyed watching the movies, podcasting about many of them, and writing the reviews. We want it to be used, encouraging you to watch Agatha Christie on the screen, always different but always her.

How the movies are rated

Each movie is given two ratings. Fidelity of text is exactly what it sounds. How close is the film to the original text? Sometimes, only the names match. Other films are so faithful, they’re lifeless.

Quality of movie is about the movie itself. Did everything together work as a film? Often, a very good movie isn’t faithful to the text at all (see Miss Marple in Ordeal By Innocence (2007)). If something jars about the movie, I’ll indicate it here.

The rating icons demonstrate Agatha’s many, many ways of killing. Blunt objects, poisoned cocktails, garrotes, knives, guns, stranglers, being pushed down a flight of stairs. They usually reflect the first murder in the film.

A few films, such as And Then There Were None, get five different symbols to reflect all the ways those nasty people got iced.

How to find the movies

We watched the vast majority of the films on DVD on our TV set, the one our neighbors were throwing away. You’re correct that we count our pennies.

That’s why we use our public library. If yours is like ours, it contains a surprisingly large collection of Agatha Christie films. All you have to do is get a library card to borrow them.

You may, like us, have access to more than one library. It’s worth learning what’s available in your area. We belong to our local library (the Hershey Public Library) and to our county library (the much larger Dauphin County Public Library). They often carry different titles so I always check both before moving on to the next step.

Your library is bigger than your municipality, your county, or even your state. Ask for the interlibrary loan librarian. For us, it’s Denise Philips. Denise got us all kinds of DVDs from libraries across the country. This service is usually free, as libraries are tax-supported. Ask and you may be very pleased. The interlibrary loan may take a few weeks for the requested movie to arrive, but it nearly always will.

If Denise could not get us a title, Bill would search eBay and Amazon. We bought a universal DVD player so we could play DVDs from Europe.

There were obscure kinescopes that were on YouTube, so we watched them on the computer.

There are streaming services, including Amazon which gave us access to Britbox. Dailymotion let us watch the Japanese films.

We don’t recommend skeevy pirate sites. They’re illegal, don’t pay royalties to the creators, and whatever you get will be loaded with viruses and malware and the film may be incomplete or damaged.

*** A review ***

The Sittaford Mystery (2006)

Epic expansion of Trevelyan’s life
leaves little room for a coherent
mystery for Miss Marple to sort out

Fidelity to text: 1 pharaoh’s curse

The novel was eviscerated. The murder, séance, escaped prisoner, and a few names remain. Everything else, including the murderer, were altered beyond recognition. Miss Marple resented being shoved in; she stayed defiantly offstage for long stretches.

Quality of movie: 1½ pharaoh’s curses

The scriptwriter shoved ten pounds of plot into a five-pound running length and the result is incoherence with snow.

The Review

Queue up Sir Mix-a-Lot and “Baby Got Back” and recite along with me:

Oh. My. God.
Look at that plot!

You’ll have to sit through this episode twice (at least) to understand what’s going on. This film is 93 minutes long, not long enough for all the disparate plot threads to be woven in a cohesive fashion. The film needed a minimum of another twenty minutes running time to do it justice.

But since ITV didn’t do that, you, dear viewer, will be left asking what just happened? Rewind, dammit! That’s what we did. Repeatedly. Yet there were many moments when I still can’t tell you what was going on.

The trouble starts with forcing Miss Marple into a property that was never written for her. This can work: see ITV’s By the Pricking of My Thumbs, a Tommy and Tuppence novel.

Not here. In fact, Miss Marple disappeared for long stretches of the film, doing heaven only knows what in Sittaford House while sitting out the blizzard. Maybe she was questioning the staff (we only see one servant in the mansion but there must be more), knitting, and speed-reading Captain Trevelyan’s memoirs. She certainly wasn’t at the Three Crowns Inn, inspecting the body and questioning the guests, even though most of the action takes place there.

An entirely new plot is shoehorned in, vastly expanding Captain Trevelyan’s character and backstory. Suddenly, he’s a war hero (WWI), a suspected war profiteer (WWII), an Olympic skater in between (I think; the dialog was incomprehensible at many key points), a major candidate to be the next prime minister (Winston Churchill (!) has a scene with Captain Trevelyan), and he’s a noted archeologist having discovered a major tomb in Egypt back in 1927 that made his fortune! Compared with Capt. Trevelyan, Indiana Jones was a lazy amateur.

But all this rewriting was necessary to give Timothy Dalton scenery to chew to earn his paycheck. In the novel, Captain Trevelyan exists to be swiftly murdered. He doesn’t even get one line. In the movie — since he’s Timothy Dalton — when he’s not emoting in front of us, he’s the topic of conversation by the other characters.

Which I can understand. It’s Timothy Dalton, and my goodness does he look yummy. Some men age very well and he belongs to that lucky cohort. He’s also got to be expensive so the producers made sure to get their money’s worth. Pity they didn’t spend some of their money on a better script or more film stock.

But he didn’t age that well. I had a hard time believing that virginal, lovely, dewy, eighteen-year-old Violet Willets (Carey Mulligan) fell madly in love with a man old enough to be her grandfather. I know why he did, and it’s not just because Violet resembles the woman he callously abandoned twenty-five years prior in Egypt. Violet is delicious, naïve, and believes every word he says and what man doesn’t want that? As for Violet, she didn’t come across as a gold-digger, which is the usual reason sweet 18-year-olds marry men old enough to be their grandfather. Or maybe she was one and the tacked-on ending where Violet runs off to Argentina with Emily Trefusis proves it.

Violet certainly wasn’t broken up about her husband being murdered on their wedding night. If anything, she seemed relieved. She got it all. The Trevelyan name, the inheritance, two tickets to Buenos Aires, and she didn’t have to sacrifice her sweet toothsome body to some old man, even if he was Timothy Dalton.

The Egyptian subplot was of major importance yet it didn’t make any sense. There was the paranormal aspect too, with a ghostly maiden showing up in Captain Trevelyan’s visions. Was there a curse on the gold scorpion? Was he going crazy? We’re never told. The ghost follows a different movie’s script when it appears and vanishes.

This script also doesn’t tell us how an Egyptian servant can show up in isolated Sittaford in 1949 and get hired on, no questions asked. I understand that the servant problem was bad enough that the upper crust didn’t ask as many questions as they could. But here? Really?

We know Captain Trevelyan did potentially bad things in Egypt. Yet he wasn’t suspicious when this mysterious Egyptian showed up at his door? He’d been having weird dreams about his past. He’s got a burgeoning political career which means close scrutiny of his private life. He’s supposed to be a smart man.

Add in the even more incoherent subplot about the escaped prisoner from Dartmoor prison. None of that made sense; not the purchase of the inn a year prior to the events of the story, not the backstory of how the star-crossed lovers met, not how the prisoner escaped from Dartmoor prison and found his way across the moors to be reunited with his paramour and cousin and their eventual escape to freedom.

There’s also the American war profiteer who helped Captain Trevelyan make a fortune manufacturing substandard munitions that killed more American sailors than the enemy. The American war profiteer’s personal aide-de-camp and quack doctor made even less sense. Why did the war profiteer need him around, other than as a dogsbody? There was mumbled dialog that sounded like they were both in the mafia, but it was unclear.

We also meet the incompetent government clerk who’s looking into Captain Trevelyan’s background to ensure nothing questionable is revealed to the press, thus discrediting the party. He’s not doing a very good job if Captain Trevelyan was a known associate of American war profiteers and he doesn’t know.

Then there’s Charles Burnaby. In the novel, he’s boy-reporter Charles Enderby. The name change was the first step in his complete reworking of motives and backstory. Yet we get no foreshadowing of his dramatic personal life or of his connections to the Trevelyan family.

We get almost nothing of James Pearson’s connection to Captain Trevelyan either. We get even less of a reason for Emily Trefusis to be engaged to James Pearson, boy alcoholic, other than that old standby: He’ll inherit big when Captain Trevelyan dies. Maybe that’s why Emily runs off to Argentina with Violet. She gets the money and the girl and doesn’t have to marry the boy alcoholic.

I could rant on, but you get the picture: This movie was a mess, barely suitable for Timothy Dalton fans. ITV could have saved the cost of his salary and paid for a better script. Or, they could have capitalized on Timothy Dalton and added another twenty minutes of movie, explaining all the subplots and how they connected.

General Information

Based on: The Sittaford Mystery (U.S. title: The Murder at Hazelmoor; novel, 1931)

Run time: 1 hr., 40 min. Subtitles: No

Writer: Stephen Churchett

Director: Paul Unwin

Cast

Geraldine McEwan as Miss Marple

Timothy Dalton as Clive Trevelyan
Mel Smith as John Enderby
Jeffery Kissoon as Ahmed Ghali
Laurence Fox as James Pearson
Zoe Telford as Emily Trefusis
James Murray as Charles Burnaby
Rita Tushingham as Miss Elizabeth Percehouse
Michael Brandon as Martin Zimmerman
Paul Kaye as Dr. Ambrose Burt
Patricia Hodge as Mrs. Evadne Willett
Carey Mulligan as Violet Willett
Matthew Kelly as Donald Garfield
James Wilby as Stanley Kirkwood
Robert Hardy as Winston Churchill

Film Locations

The Flower Pot Pub, Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire (pub exterior)
Dorney Court, Dorney, Buckinghamshire (Sittaford House interiors)

***

Excerpt from Agatha Christie, She Watched by Teresa Peschel. Copyright 2023 by Teresa Peschel. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Peschel. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Teresa Peschel

Teresa Peschel never planned to become a writer, nor did she plan to become an expert on film versions of Agatha Christie stories. Then, as a supportive wife, Teresa read and edited Bill’s annotations to Agatha’s first six novels. A desire to promote the books led to writing movie reviews for the Peschel Press website, which led to Bill suggesting they could publish a collection quickly. Two and a half years later, Agatha Christie, She Watched was born. This book got Teresa — and Bill as her supportive husband — an invitation to speak at the 2024 Agatha Christie festival in England.

Like Agatha Christie, Teresa reinvented herself and because of Agatha Christie, she’s become a better writer.

Catch Up With Teresa Peschel:

PeschelPress.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @peschel
Instagram – @peschel_press
YouTube – @peschelpress9911
X – @PeschelPress
Facebook – @PeschelPress

 

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AGATHA CHRISTIE, SHE WATCHED by Teresa Peschel |

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$25 GC – Crying In The Chapel by Teresa Trent @partnersincr1me #teresatrent #cryinginthechapel

Crying in the Chapel by Teresa Trent Banner

CRYING IN THE CHAPEL

by Teresa Trent

April 6 – May 1, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Swinging Sixties Mystery Series

 

It’s August 1965, and Dot Morgan is finally getting married to the dashing reporter Ben Dalton. Her wedding day, August 14th, promises to be perfect—if only it didn’t follow Friday the 13th. What could go wrong? Planning a wedding with the members of the Camden Chapel, Dot thinks she’s overwhelmed, but then it gets worse when a body is found on the church lawn. Dot decides to focus on her wedding to Ben, but when police reveal the victim didn’t jump from the belfry he was pushed—she can no longer look away. Her suspects aren’t hardened criminals; they’re the same church members who bring casseroles and ask about her family. With her wedding day fast approaching, Dot must unmask a killer hiding in plain sight, or the secrets of Camden Chapel will remain buried in the summer heat.

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books – Historia Imprint
Publication Date: March 10, 2026
Number of Pages: 174 Pbk
ISBN: 979-8-89820-167-8
Series: Swinging Sixties Mystery Series, Book 5 || Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Mystery Series


Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

I entered the empty chapel holding a white leather bridal planning notebook, gifted to me by my own mother. The sturdy three-ring notebook held sections for guest lists, food, and the venue, and in the back pocket, my mother had included a small book from Emily Post, the etiquette goddess, on how to handle anything from duplicate gifts to late guests. Parts of the book were straight out of the Fifties, and things modern people in the Sixties rarely adhered to, but somehow it was good to have a book to tell me where the forks went in a place setting or how to properly plan a big event. Turns out, wedding planning involves a million different decisions, and today, I was working on the flowers. I decided my primary flower would be white daisies with other flowers worked in around them. I wanted the bouquets, the church, and the reception to be bursting with Gerber daisies. The best part was, they would also be on my wedding gown.

The Camden Chapel sanctuary was relatively small and could hold up to one hundred and fifty people. There were classrooms and offices situated on the other side of the church, and surprisingly, there were three floors. It had been a big building project for a town as small as Camden, but hope springs eternal that the heathens from the Dallas area will choose to commute and

live in our bedroom community. My assignment from Vernice was to pick up frames that would hook onto the pews to allow the florist to arrange flowers on the end of each row. After retrieving the frames, I was to deliver them to Lily Salem, the florist. Ben suggested her because he knew her from the private school they both attended. She had recently moved to town and opened Lily’s of the Field at the end of Main Street. For decades, Camden’s only flower shop was Henley Flowers, and they were still going strong. When I worked at the funeral home, I had daily chats with Gertrude Henley, and they were excellent at delivering on time. It would be tough for a new flower shop to get established in Camden, but we hoped our wedding would give Lily’s new business some good exposure.

Up front, standing on a metal stepladder, was Earl Gunther, the church caretaker. Vernice told me to ask him about these contraptions she called pew hooks. Earl was in his late fifties, with a slightly receding hairline that lent itself more to white than grey. He wore brown overalls with black buckles over a tan button-down shirt. He was replacing a lightbulb in the fixture that hung from the vaulted ceiling. His hand rested on the top of the ladder as he turned the bulb in the socket.

“Excuse me,” I said in a quiet voice, not wanting to make him jump and possibly fall off the ladder. At his age, a fall could do some damage. “Are you Earl?”

“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?” His voice was gentle and measured, like a kindly grandfather.

“Vernice told me you could get some pew hooks out of the closet somewhere?”

He descended the ladder. “Are you the new florist or the bride-to-be?”

I blushed. In the last month, I had picked up a new name. People now referred to me as the bride before they used my name. They grinned at me when they said it and I wondered what they were thinking. “I’m the bride. I’m Dot Morgan.”

“Nice to meet you.” He put a finger to his temple and repeated my name. “Dot Morgan. Why does that name ring a bell?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not a member here. My fiancé is Ben Dalton.”

He shook his head. “No. That’s not it.” He stepped back slightly and focused on my face. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “That’s it. I saw your picture in the paper. I have a knack for remembering things. That’s what made me a good patrolman so many years ago. People would say stuff, mostly drunk people who were trying to drive, and then forget what they said. I didn’t forget.”

“You were a policeman?”

“Oh yes. Twenty-five years. I joined the force after a stint in the army. I mostly did patrol. I’ve brought half this town to the drunk tank, and I know about every husband and wife who fight so much that the neighbors call, too. I retired back in ’57. So, how do I know about you?”

As he observed me like a man looking for a piece to a jigsaw puzzle, I shifted from one foot to the other. I was never comfortable when someone connected me to those articles. I had been in the paper several times, mostly having to do with catching killers. The thought of it sounded like something out of The Fugitive on TV. Once people put it together that I was that girl, they treated me differently, and sometimes worse, even acting differently around me. They were waiting for me to find out something they might be hiding. My parents’ mailman once asked me if I knew what was happening with Mrs. Hitchcock down the street. I told him I didn’t really know her, and he laughed and said, “But I hear that when you don’t know, you have a way of finding out.”

Was there something nefarious going on with Mrs. Hitchcock? I had no idea, nor did I want to find out. But the mailman imagined me as a clandestine source of information, brimming with details about the lives of Camden’s people.

“Hey, Earl,” Clarence Shellhammer said from the door. “I need to talk to you about something.” He motioned for Earl to come closer.

“Excuse me,” Earl said. He stepped to the back of the sanctuary, and the two men began to whisper. Clarence looked very bothered and kept pointing to the front of the church. I heard the word “pipes” and then, very clearly, that Earl needed to mind his own business.

Earl nodded and whispered something I couldn’t hear. Then he smiled and patted Clarence on the arm. Clarence pulled away. And then looked over to me. “Sorry for interrupting.”

As Clarence left, Earl turned and pointed a finger at me as he walked back to where we had been talking. “You were involved with that murder out at the lake. From what I read in the paper, you practically solved that case for the police.” He smiled, making friendly creases on his cheeks. “You’re a smart girl. Good to see a young woman who is as smart as she is pretty.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I mumbled out a thank you. He stared at me for a few more seconds and then suddenly nodded, remembering my request. “Right. I’ll get those pew hooks for you, Detective Dot.”

“Although a friend of mine is on the police, I’m not a detective, Earl. I’m just a secretary. An out-of-work secretary, right now.”

Earl’s head bobbed back slightly as a look of surprise came over his features. “You’re too humble. I’m a good judge of character. And as far as just being a secretary, young lady, you just never know what you are capable of until you stop judging yourself.”

As he walked away, I fought rolling my eyes at the moniker Detective Dot. How silly. Plus, I hated to admit how much I enjoyed hearing it.

***

Excerpt from Crying in the Chapel by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2026 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio | Teresa Trent:

Crying in the Chapel by Teresa Trent

Teresa Trent is the author of four different mystery series. The Swinging Sixties Series which features Dot in a small town in Texas starting in 1962. The Henry Park Series, which features Gabby, an artist in Colorado who is also psychic and The Piney Woods Series featuring Nora, a woman who came to a small town in Texas to find out she is related to many of the people there. Her first series, The Pecan Bayou Series, she started writing way back in 2011. That series has nine books and features Betsy, a woman who writes helpful hints and solves mysteries. Teresa is the voice of the Books to the Ceiling Podcast where she narrates scenes from new mysteries coming on to the market. Books to the Ceiling is featured wherever you listen to podcasts. Teresa lives in Texas with her husband and son.

Catch Up With Teresa Trent:

TeresaTrent.com
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Instagram – @teresatrent_cozymys
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Facebook – @teresatrentmysterywriter

 

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Here Comes The Bride… And Your Chance To Win

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Teresa Trent. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
Crying in the Chapel by Teresa Trent | Gift Card

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Giveaway – Driftless Spirits by Karen Ringel @dollycas #karenringel #driflessspirits


Driftless Spirits (Secrets in Casten’s Horn)
by Karen Ringel

About Driftless Spirits

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Driftless Spirits (Secrets in Casten’s Horn)
Cozy Mystery
1st in Series
Setting: The Driftless area of Wisconsin, in a fictional town called Casten’s Horn
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Casten House  Books
Publication date ‏ : ‎ October 30, 2025
Print length ‏ : ‎ 280 pages
Paperback
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8231084883
ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0G11YHMBK
Digital
ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0FXN5T913

Charlotte Burke can’t shake her recurring dream.

Over and over again she dreams of finding a mysterious journal on a candlelit desk while wandering through a strange house in the middle of the night. Every dream has shown her a framed picture of an old woman sitting at the same desk, except the latest version. Last night, the woman stood and offered Charlotte a keyring. In the morning, Charlotte woke up with her car keys in her hand.

Her best friend is worried but skeptical when Charlotte insists the house is real. The dream is metaphorical, Ivy says, reflecting Charlotte’s restless state. Ivy gifts her a journal and urges her to take the trip her subconscious is demanding before she wakes up behind the wheel. A roadtrip of self-discovery will help Charlotte figure out what she really wants.

Charlotte agrees to the roadtrip but not for Ivy’s reasons. To her, the house, the journal and the woman in her dream are all too real. She sets off to do the impossible. If she can find the house and uncover its secrets in time, she might save far more than her driftless life.

About Karen Ringel

In 2020, Karen Ringel retired from an engineering career to settle in the Driftless Area of Wisconsin with her husband. After taking some time to adapt to the rural lifestyle, she started creating the fictional Casten’s Horn, imagining how a small town might have been founded in the secluded valley she lives in. Always a researcher at heart, her books include references to real bits of history and traditions in an effort to enhance her stories. She writes what she likes to read: small-town mysteries with a cozy feel.

Author Links:

Author website, where I blog about my writing and the Driftless area of Wisconsin: https://castenhousebooks.com/

Goodreads author page, where “Ask the Author” is enabled, and I’m happy to answer questions: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/61067885.Karen_Ringel

Purchase links:
Universal Link   Amazon Kindle    Amazon Print    Apple   B&N (ebook and print)   Kobo

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$25 GC – Pity Prank by Whitney Dineen @xpressotours #pityprank #whitneydineen

Pity Prank
Whitney Dineen
(Pity Series)
Publication date: March 30th 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

What happens when a quirkier than normal girl meets a hunky doctor from New York?

It’s not that I have subpar intelligence, or that I’m a total weirdo. In fact, I would consider myself kind, creative, and an all-in-all great catch—if you can get past a few peculiarities.

I love soft things. ALL soft things, and I surround myself with them to help self-sooth my way through the day. I have very particular opinions about sand, aluminum foil, and gum snappers. You wouldn’t believe how many men find this odd. In short, being on the spectrum has not exactly done wonders for my love life.

Enter Dr. Thomas Culpepper. Never in a million years would I have predicted someone like him would move to tiny little Elk Lake, Wisconsin. Then he gets sent to my photography studio to have his picture taken. I misunderstood the assignment, and instead of taking a boring old headshot like the hospital wanted, I forced him to take sexy pirate photos.

As far as meet cutes go, it was awkward. I won’t even mention the baby oil …

Pity Prank is a laugh-out-loud, small town romantic comedy featuring misunderstandings galore, a tiny bit of fake dating, a lot of fuzzy sweaters and socks, and oh, yeah, some sexy pirate photos.

Perfect for fans of Hallmark vibes. Book eight in a feel-good series of standalones.

*** For fans of The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Finley

As soon as I enter, I notice a man sitting on one of the two overstuffed shabby chic chairs by the window. He looks up and makes direct eye contact which causes every thought in my brain to pour out like sand in a sieve. Holy. Hot stuff. Batman. This man is extraordinarily handsome, but his appeal is more than just physical. He emanates a kind of golden energy that’s positively intoxicating.

“Hi there.” As soon as he stands up, I can feel the room start to sway. I stagger to the counter, so I don’t fall over. He’s well over six feet and from what I can tell he’s built like he spends hours at the gym every day.

“H…h…hi, yourself. Thomas Culpepper?” I ask, both hoping he is and isn’t at the same time. How in the world will I be able to take sexy pictures of this man and keep my wits about me? I can’t even look at him fully clothed without stuttering.

“That’s me.” He flashes a brilliant smile which makes me wonder if he’s ever starred in toothpaste commercials. His hair is the softest looking wavy chocolate brown I’ve ever seen. My hand lifts of its own accord like it’s trying to reach out and touch it. Which of course I know I can’t do. At least until it’s time for me to style his hair for the shoot. I practically drool at the thought.

Thomas looks at my hand suspended in mid-air before copying the gesture and waving at me. “He-llo.” He breaks the word into two syllables like I’m new to the English language and might not understand otherwise.

I drop my hand immediately and try to regain my composure. “Constance is very excited about these shots.”

“Really?” He looks confused, like he doesn’t know who I’m talking about.

“Really,” I assure him. “She’s ordered the basic package to start but if she likes what she sees…” In lieu of finishing my sentence, I give him an exaggerated wink.

“I didn’t realize this was such a big deal to her,” he says. I wonder if I got it wrong and they aren’t a couple? Darn it, that’s the thing with me, I have an awful time reading people.

“Oh, it’s a very big deal.”

Thomas’s hazel eyes narrow in confusion before he bends down to pick up the bag he brought with him. “I brought some different shirts.”

“Oh, we won’t need shirts.” There’s no way, I’m covering up this man in unnecessary clothing. No way. Unless of course it’s a pirate shirt, wide open, and billowing in the wind. Lucky for him, I have such an item in my costume collection.

Thomas’s gorgeous brow furrows, drawing my attention to the golden flecks in his eyes. “I brought a doctor’s coat too, if you prefer that.”

“A doctor’s coat?” I love the idea of turning him into a sexy doctor. It’s decided then, we’ll do a pirate look and a doctor one. Constance is going to love these.

Motioning to Thomas, I tell him, “Follow me into the backroom and you can get ready there.”

As he approaches, I inhale his spicy aftershave. Cloves, cinnamon, and orange, oh my! “You smell great.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. That’s another fun thing about me, I don’t always think before speaking, which can sometimes make other people uncomfortable. Like the time I told a woman in the grocery store that her pants made her butt look amazing. While meant as a compliment, it was clear she wasn’t used to such a forthright comment from a stranger. I figured that out when she walked out of the store, leaving a full cart behind.

The last thing I want to do is make Thomas nervous, so I hurry to tell him, “You smell like my favorite Christmas cookies.”

“Huh. I’ve never heard that one before.”

“It’s a compliment of the highest order,” I assure him. “My mom makes the best orange spice shortbread you’ve ever tried.” Just when I think I’ve saved the moment from getting too awkward, I groan suggestively and declare, “Yummy!” Thomas’s eyes pop open wider in an expression I once again worry is fear.

The backroom of my store is one big unfinished space with a variety of backdrops scattered about. I point toward the barber-style chair in front of a big lighted mirror in the corner and tell him, “Let’s start there. I’ll get your hair and makeup done first and then we’ll settle on wardrobe.”

“Hair and makeup?”

“Yeah, you know, so we can get the look we’re after.”

“I thought I was okay the way I am.”

“You’re fantastic,” I assure him. “Really great! But I want to make sure we capture your character to the fullest.”

“I’m a doctor,” he tells me. I’m starting to think Thomas might be the one new to the English language.

“Doctor, pirate, sexy duke with a superiority complex… you can be anything you want and I’m here to make that happen.”

Thomas sits down in the makeup chair looking highly uneasy. “I really am a doctor.” Then he asks, “Do you get a lot of pirates and nobility in here?”

“Tons,” I assure him.

Thomas sits down with the same amount of enthusiasm he might have knowing he was about to be electrocuted. “I’m pretty sure I don’t need hair and makeup,” he says again.

“I’m not putting lipstick on you, Thomas.” Picking up a bronzing palate, I tell him, “Just a bit of contrast to sharpen your angles.”

“Why exactly do I need sharper angles?” How is it possible that he’s even sexy when he’s acting stupid?

Turning to look him square in the eye, I ask, “Why do you think you’re here?”

“I’m here to get my picture taken for …”

“Constance,” I finish his sentence for him. “You’re here for Constance. And you want to make her happy, don’t you?”

“I… suppose?” He isn’t selling it.

“You suppose? She’s paid me four hundred dollars to take very specific pictures of you and that is exactly what I’m going to do. Do you understand?” He nods his head almost imperceptibly, so I tell him, “This is my job, Thomas. My job. It’s what I do for a living. It’s how I pay my bills.”

“Yes, but…”

“Constance came in here herself to tell me what she wants, and as she is my client. I’m not going to let her down.”

Thomas sits as still as a statue while I brush bronzer on his cheeks and jaw. By the time I’m done with him, he could have posed for a Michelangelo statue of a Greek god. I can’t take all the credit for that though; he practically is one on his own.

Once I’m convinced his face couldn’t look any better, I put the makeup brush down and face my model once again. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. After turning the chair so his back faces the mirror, I lift my hands and run all ten of my fingers through his hair. Holy heck. It’s even softer than it looks. It’s better than all my furry sweaters combined. It’s like running my hands through a litter of baby minks. It’s softer than the Barefoot blanket I spent way too much money on. But only because it lost some of its softness after being washed. Until then, it was worth ten times as much.

Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is to rub Thomas Culpepper’s head every day of my life until I die.

Reluctantly, I remind myself that Thomas is Constance’s boyfriend, not mine. Yet I don’t understand how that can be because this man is so vital and alive. Constance has the warmth of a vampire bat in winter. But they got together somehow and now it’s my job to give my client the best fantasy material I can.

She never has to know it’s doing the same for me.

Author Bio:

Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries — not always in that order.

Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.

She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.

Gold Medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2017.

Silver medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.

Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.

Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.

Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017

Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / X


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$10 GC – Who’s Out There by Westley Smith @partnersincr1me #westleysmith #whosoutthere

WHO'S OUT THERE by Westley Smith Banner

WHO’S OUT THERE

by Westley Smith

March 9 – April 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Inside Marburg State Park lies the remains of Camp Southwoods, where four counselors were slain twenty-six years ago. Their murderer, Douglas Lee Carver, has become a local boogieman with a chilling nursery rhyme attributed to his name. Locals believe the now-abandoned camp is haunted.

Ranger Colt Mitcham, leader of the Ranger Rescue Unit for Marburg State Park, ignores the ghost stories of Camp South Woods. He has real-world problems to worry about, like apprehending the person who’s been vandalizing the grounds, finding a missing local man who’s disappeared inside the park, and making sure that his team secures the park before the rapidly approaching blizzard – the worst storm in years – unleashes hell across the land.

But when a member of Colt’s team is found murdered, Colt begins to wonder if the tales about Camp Southwoods are true. Has Douglas Lee Carver returned? Or is there someone else out there? Someone with a personal axe to grind against Colt and his team, hoping to use the urban legends as a cover for their crimes and keep what happened at Camp Southwoods three decades ago from being exposed.

Praise for Who’s Out There:

“An abandoned summer camp with a dark history, a brutal winter storm, and a group of park rangers fighting for their lives are the core of Westley Smith’s WHO’S OUT THERE. With no help coming from the outside, Colt Mitcham has to figure out how to protect his crew as a relentless killer strikes again and again. This intense, blood-spattered page-turner had me in its grip from the beginning and kept me guessing until the end. Westley Smith is the real deal.”
~ Joshua Moehling, USA TODAY bestselling author of AND THERE HE KEPT HER and A LONG TIME GONE

“Taut. Relentless… a plot careening to the brink and you’re clinging on the edge all the way. Move over Voorhees. Step back Myers. Smith’s WHO’S OUT THERE sends you both packing. Don’t read this book until your feet are up, your blinds are drawn, and your glass is full-you’re in it till the end!”
~ Tj O’Connor, Award Winning Author of THE WHISPER LEGACY and THE DEAD DETECTIVE FILES

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Action Adventure
Published by: Manta Press, Ltd
Publication Date: February 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 324
ISBN: 9781958370322 (ISBN10: 1958370320)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

God, it’s cold. Rumor Shoff checks his digital watch. 10:45 p.m. The Marburg State Park ranger won’t start his nightly rounds for another fifteen minutes. It will take him at least half an hour to forty-five minutes, to reach this end of the park. Rumor has plenty of time to accomplish his task. Perfect.

At the bed of his Ford F-150, he lifts a duffel bag with R. Shoff sewn into the canvas, and throws the strap over his shoulder. He pulls the trucker’s cap tighter to his balding head, the air rushes through its vented rear and prickles his dome. Chills walk up his skin. He zips his coat to his chin. Christ, it must be near zero with the windchill. The crisp, dry air burns his throat, and the scent of the oncoming snowstorm tickles his nose.

He’s alone in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Only the forest trees are watching. Silent observers who won’t tell a soul what he is up to—even after killing plenty of their kin.

Good. But Rumor needs to move. If caught by the park ranger at a quarter to eleven, he’ll arrest Rumor and charge him with trespassing on state land after dark. That’s the least of Rumor’s concerns. What’s in his duffel bag, however, is.

Heaving the strap to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, Rumor starts toward a large ranch-style gate serving as the entryway onto Serpentine Trail. The white moonlight casts the gate’s arch onto the gravel trail winding its way through the forest like a snake, past the Shoff Family Cemetery, and down to the shoreline of Lake Clarke, directly across from the abandoned summer camp.

Rumor starts past the gate and into the forest, the moonlight has trouble penetrating the leafless trees; the branches so thick and interwoven they block all but a few streaks of white light cutting through the bare canopy. But Rumor doesn’t need a flashlight to guide him; he’s taken this trail many times to get to the cemetery—day and night—before the land was stolen from his father.

Rumor’s face grows warm even in the bitter cold at the thought of the Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources (DCNR) stealing his father’s land. The DCNR came to his father a year and a half ago with an offer to buy thirty-two acres of woodlands that made up the southwestern shore of Lake Clarke, excluding the small plot of land on which the Shoff Family Cemetery rests. No sir! Uncle Sam won’t pick up the tab to take care of that. They planned to add to Marburg State Park’s already sizable acreage. With his father’s refusal to sell, the DCNR made an eminent domain claim—the right of the government or its agencies to expropriate private property for public use. His father sued. But it was a losing battle from the start, and the courts ruled in favor of the DCNR, forcing his father to surrender the land with zero compensation.

The DCNR can claim eminent domain or whatever fancy legal jargon the lawyers invented to sugarcoat the truth, but to Rumor, it was theft—plain and simple.

The trail curves sharply to the right, and the Shoff Family Cemetery appears on the left. Behind an old wrought iron fence, fifteen tombstones jut from the forest floor like crooked white teeth. The wind blows with a haunting whistle. The bare branches sway back and forth, casting long shadows across the front of the tombstones that look like skeleton fingers caressing the grave markers. Rumor pauses by the gate. Even in the shadowy darkness, he spots his mother’s tombstone. Feels his heart ache.

Fuck cancer.

Rumor starts again. The gravel trail fades away and turns to dirt, worn-down over time by hikers making their way to the lakebed on the backside of the hill. He hasn’t been past the cemetery since August 1997 and doesn’t want to go down there now. Still, the DCNR needed to pay for what they had done. And by God, Rumor was going to collect in spades, even if that meant scaring up the memory of that dead girl he and his father discovered the morning of the camp massacre.

Along the shoreline, where the cold water of Lake Clarke laps at the rocks and bankside like a soft kiss, Rumor pauses to catch his breath. The smell of mud and fishy water mixes with the crisp night air that smells both clean and repugnant to him. The full white moon is visible above, and its reflection ripples across the water. In the open, the cold wind cuts across the lake bowl. It stings Rumor’s face and makes his nose leak. He slides the sleeve of his jacket under his nose and sniffs back a glob of snot. The last time he stood there was the morning of the massacre at Camp Southwoods, when he was six.

Across the inlet of water, the steel cable tinks against the flagpole in the courtyard at Camp Southwoods. It’s a lonely, eerie sound that causes Rumor to shiver, as if a ghostly voice speaks from the past. The moonlight casts an eerie white glow across the rundown mess hall, tucked between two identical shotgun-style buildings—the boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses. The dilapidated structures stand out against the clear northeastern sky—though it’s about to be overtaken by the dark snow clouds rolling in from the South.

The ghost-town vibe of Camp Southwoods still resonates with residual energy from the grisly murders in the early morning hours of August 5, 1997. Rumor’s stomach churns as the vivid memory unpacks itself and his eyes drift to where they found the girl, washed up on the shore. She was lying on her side, facing away from them, her brown hair tangled with lake weeds, wet leaves, and interwoven sticks. On the back of her yellow T-shirt was a word in large red letters: COUNSELOR. Rumor thought she was sleeping. But when his father rolled her over to check on her, Rumor saw her pretty face was split from her hairline to her mouth, leaving a fleshy fissure where the axe had struck her. On either side of that gory canyon, two lifeless, milky-white eyes were locked on him in a death stare. An arrow was through the swell of her left breast. Deep lacerations scarred her forearms, and the first two fingers on her right hand were gone. She was from Camp Southwoods, just across the inlet—the torn and bloody yellow T-shirt with the camp’s name and logo affirmed this.

Rumor remembers screaming in horror at the sight of the dead camp counselor. Then, his father was next to him, hurrying them back up the trail to call the police.

Her name was Alice King, and how she ended up there raises the hackles on Rumor’s neck. He tugs his coat closer. But she wasn’t the only camp counselor found slain. Kurt MacReady, Virginia Steel, and Ted Charno also met their demise at the hands of fifteen-year-old Douglas Lee Carver, who, for reasons unknown, decided to hunt them down with a bow and arrow (taken from the camp’s archery range) before stealing their faces with a violent strike with an axe. Three of the victims, Rumor has learned in his research of the murders, were disposed of quickly. But Alice King had valiantly fought back. Sadly, she fell to Carver’s wrath by the lake before washing up a few feet from where Rumor now stood.

Since the murders, a local legend arose of a curse on Lake Clarke and a curse on Marburg State Park itself. Locals claim to see shadow people on the trails or around the camp, hear whispering and laughing, and see lights emanating from the rundown cabins. The lore has grown exponentially over the years. So much so that locals have reimagined an old nursery rhyme, “Bye, Baby Bunting,” to scare the bejesus out of one another for nearly three decades. Rumor knew it well:

Little counselor running,
Douggie Carver’s gone a-hunting
Gonna catch that counselor,
Gonna cleave that counselor,
Little counselor done running.

But those campfire tales are just that…tales. You have work to do. Rumor checks his watch. 10:55 p.m. Get your ass moving.

He continues to follow the trail south along the lake to an area known as Ice Fisherman’s Cove. It’s a favorite spot for ice fishermen to set up because the water freezes fast and hard in the winter. By a large oak tree leaning dangerously over the trail, Rumor drops the duffel bag and squats beside it. He unzips the bag and pulls out a gardening shovel. A battery-operated DeWalt drill with a three-inch wooden drill bit in its jaws. A 350 ml syringe. And a bottle of Tardon—an herbicide that kills woody plants. He drops to his knees at the oak’s base and begins clearing away a small patch of earth with the shovel. The January ground is frozen and tough to dig up. Perspiration dampens his back even in the cold. But he’s persistent, despite the challenging work, and continues removing the earth until the oak’s root system is bare.

He rechecks his watch. 11:10 p.m.

Need to hurry this up.

With the drill, Rumor bores into the oak’s most prominent root. Once done, he opens the Tardon bottle, takes out the syringe, dips the wide plastic needle into the herbicide, and extracts a barrel full of blue liquid.

What was that? Footsteps?

Rumor searches the trail ahead but sees no one in the moonlight. It could be an animal. A deer?

The legend of Camp Southwoods, and its murderous boogieman, has lit his imagination. Stop it. There ain’t any ghosts in these woods. I’m alone.

Rumor shakes the silly thought away, plunges the 350ml of Tardon into the root, and empties the barrel. Drink it up. The Tardon kills the trees slowly over several weeks. He’s poisoned many trees around the park. Some are on trails like this one. Some in parking lots where a tree collapse could damage structures, costing the DCNR a lot of money in time and repairs. That’s just what Rumor wants. He refills the hole with dirt, replaces his equipment in the duffel bag, and stands.

Gazing upon the oak leaning precariously over the trail, Rumor knows it’s just a matter of time before it topples. He smiles jovially. Poisoning the trees is only one of the many subterfuges Rumor has committed around the park: clogging the toilets in the guests’ facilities, wrecking the well pumps so the park didn’t have water for drinking and cleaning, dumping trashcans, spray painting obscenities on the public pavilions. He even lit a few fires that burnt some acres on the park’s western side in late September. Maybe I’ll drill holes in the canoes this summer. Or put wasps’ nests in the garbage cans. Or poison the drinking water. He has little concern about someone getting hurt from his shenanigans: people are collateral damage. Pride flows through his veins, pure like holy water, warming him. He’s giving it to the man for stealing his father’s land.

But the warmth is quickly blown away as another gust of wind howls across the lake. Rumor shivers and looks at his watch again. 11:22 p.m. Time to get going.

He returns to where the trail winds back into the woods, past the Shoff Cemetery, and eventually to the parking lot. The desolate tink, tink, tink of the cable snapping against the flagpole at the abandoned campground cuts across the inlet.

Footsteps! On the trail again.

Someone is there! Cold fear shoots through him and tightens his chest like a clenched fist. I can’t get caught. Not now. Not when there’s so much more to do.

He ducks behind a large white sycamore and checks his watch. 11:29 p.m. The park ranger may be down there, checking for trespassers or even looking for him after finding his pickup in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Or it might be a few local kids hiking to the abandoned campground to get high, drink, or make out. They might even tell each other ghost stories about Carver’s victims haunting the area.

Rumor peers around the tree and scans the trail from which he just came. No one lingers about. The tightness in his chest eases. Still, he tries to tune out the wind and focus on the sounds of approaching footsteps. But if they were there and not a figment of his imagination, they’re gone now. He lets out a slow, grateful breath and feels the tension in his muscles relax.

Rumor steps out from behind the tree. He’s about to turn away when he sees a human silhouette step off the trail and duck into the forest about twenty-five yards away.

I’m seeing things, he thinks, as his balls shrivel into his pelvis and goose pimples rise from his feet to his scalp. He’s heard stories about hikers seeing shadow people on the trail, ducking in and around trees. Is that what he’s seeing now? A shadow person? No! There’s no one out there. It’s the wind causing the tree branches to swing and the shadows to move, nothing more. He swallows. His throat is dry like dust. But you heard footsteps—twice now—and saw the shadow. Someone or something is out here with you. Maybe one of Carver’s victims? An unseen frozen hand clasps upon his lungs in a powerful, vicelike grip.

Fuck this!

Rumor turns on his heels to bolt up the trail when a loose rock gives way, and his right foot slips out from underneath him. He loses his grip on the duffel bag, which slides from his shoulder into the dark somewhere, and falls hard on his right elbow. The impact with the unforgiving ground peels the flesh back, and the sting of cold air bites at the raw, bleeding wound. He stifles a scream. He can’t risk someone hearing. Through the discomfort, he pulls himself to his feet and darts up the trail toward the dark, concealing woods where he’ll be safe from…well, whatever it was that he saw duck off the trail.

He doesn’t stop or look back until he’s far enough from the shoreline, hidden deep within the woods where no one—man or ghost—can see him. He bends at the waist to catch his breath, to allow his heart rate to slow. It beats in his ears like a sinister drum. He now understands what it must be like for people who say they’ve seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster…

“A ghost,” Rumor whispers in the dark.

Of course, Rumor will never admit ghosts are real. Just like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are nothing more than stories made up by fringe outliers looking for attention. What he saw tonight were moving shadows, brought on by the wind and an overactive imagination. Rumor feels that the only ghosts down there are memories.

Then why were you running?

He doesn’t entertain this thought and looks at his watch. 11:40 p.m. Christ! I need to—

My duffel bag! It isn’t slung over his shoulder. You must’ve dropped it when you fell. His bloody elbow begins to thump with discomfort at his carelessness. How could you be so stupid! He can’t leave it behind. If found, the Rangers will easily link the tree poisoning and the vandalisms back to him because his damn name is stitched on the side.

No. Leaving the duffel bag isn’t an option.

Rumor gazes down the trail into the dark hollow and listens for footsteps again. But only the breeze blows through the trees, rustling what leaves remain on the branches. He’s positive that everything he’s experiencing—the footsteps, the shadowy figure—is a manifestation brought on by the camp’s violent history and his memories of that fateful day. His head was full of enough lore about Carver and Camp Southwoods to trick anyone’s brain into thinking someone was out there, maybe even following him.

Steeling himself against his fears—real or imaginary—Rumor takes a step. Then another. Soon he’s heading back toward the lake to find the duffel bag. In his mind, he keeps repeating:

They’re only stories.

***

Excerpt from Who’s Out There by Westley Smith. Copyright 2026 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Westley Smith

Westley Smith is the author of the crime thrillers Some Kind of Truth (Wicked House Publishing) and In the Pale Light (Watertower Hill Publishing). In the Pale Light landed on IngramSpark’s #1 pre-order charts in the mystery, thriller, and hard-boiled detective category. He is also the author of the psychological thriller, They Came at Night (Watertower Hill Publishing). He has two self-published horror novels, Along Came the Tricksters and All Hallows Eve.

Writing since he was ten, his first short story, “Off to War,” was published nationally at sixteen. His short stories have recently appeared in On the Premise and Unveiling Nightmares. He was the runner-up contestant in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s Mysterious Photograph Contest, and his short story “Winter Reflections” was chosen as a finalist for Crystal Lake Publishing’s Shallow Waters short story contest. He also had a short story, “The Security Guard,” in the horror anthology “Hospital of Haunts,” (Watertower Hill Publishing) which hit #1 on Amazon, and his true encounter with the urban legend of York, PAs, Toad Road and The Seven Gates of Hell, was featured in George Watertower and Other Childhood Terrors (Watertower Hill Publishing).

He lives in southern Pennsylvania with his wife and two dogs.

Catch Up With Westley Smith:

WestleySmithBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @wssmith100
Instagram – @wsmithbooks
Facebook – @westleysmith100

 

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$25 GC – Life Or Death by Andrea Kane @partnersincr1me #andreakand #lifeordeath

Life Or Death by Andrea Kane Banner

LIFE OR DEATH

by Andrea Kane

March 16 – April 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

FORENSIC INSTINCTS

 

Who killed Ryan McKay’s cousin?

In suburban Westchester County, just outside the frenetic pace of New York City, a deadly murder occurs. After a violent struggle, FBI agent Shane Walsh is dead and his wife, Caitlin, has vanished. At the urging of a mysterious text, the Walshes’ nine-year-old daughter, Kennedy, has been safely whisked away by a close family member.

The FBI is determined to bring down whoever assassinated one of its own and is focusing on Caitlin as a prime suspect. Ryan McKay, Forensic Instincts’ chief technology officer, as well as Shane’s cousin and lifelong friend, vehemently disagrees. Ryan knows the Walsh family well. He insists that Caitlin is innocent, and that she, herself, is in danger.

After convincing his team to cast a wider net, Ryan leads FI on a zigzag course across two continents to locate Caitlin, sidestepping the FBI at every turn, and protecting Kennedy at all costs. But the FBI is on the warpath, and threatens to permanently shut down Forensic Instincts if they don’t back off. Undeterred by the FBI’s threats, FI goes underground in pursuit of their rogue mission.

As the pace quickens, Kennedy becomes the target of unnerving text messages. Both The FBI and the Forensic Instincts teams sense that the end game is near and that the chess match is spiraling to a stunning conclusion. Determined to declare “checkmate” before the killer, Forensic Instincts must not only protect Kennedy but make sure that their team doesn’t end up as collateral damage when the king falls.

Praise for Life Or Death:

Life Or Death is a riveting read that explodes right from the opening pages with the shocking murder of an FBI agent – then takes the reader on a non-stop, roller coaster ride of thrills and suspense during a desperate search to find the victim’s missing wife and to protect his 9-year-old daughter. Andrea Kane really delivers the goods in this book, the 11th in her Forensic Instincts series.”
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson mystery series

“An adrenaline-fueled joyride. Andrea Kane doesn’t pump the brakes in LIFE OR DEATH. Centered around family ties, and who can you really trust when shadowy forces close in? Combustible pacing and a cast of characters you can’t get out of your head long after the last page.”
~ James L’Etoile — award-winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series

Life or Death, the latest heart-stopping thriller from New York Times bestselling author Andrea Kane, delivers nonstop tension, emotional depth, and a twist-filled chase that spans continents. When an FBI agent is murdered and his wife vanishes, the elite Forensic Instincts team must outsmart the Bureau itself to uncover the truth. Ms. Kane once again proves why she's a master of psychological suspense. Fans of razor-sharp plotting, unforgettable characters, and fast-paced suspense will devour this one!”
~ Marjorie McCown, author of The Hollywood Mystery Series

“Forensic Instincts’ leader, Casey, is recovering from an injury sustained in a previous case when tragedy strikes. An employee’s cousin is murdered, and his wife has vanished. Left behind is their traumatized eleven-year-old daughter, Kennedy. As the FBI and Forensic Instincts compete to solve the case, Kennedy’s close-knit family and the FI team surround her with love and support. Life or Death, the eleventh book in Andrea Kane’s gripping series, draws readers into an emotional high-stakes race for the truth.”
~ Stacy Wilder, author of the Liz Adams Mystery series

Life Or Death Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense Thriller
Published by: Bonnie Meadow Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages: 304, HC
ISBN: 9781682320686 (ISBN10: 1682320685), HC
Series: Forensic Instincts, Book 11 | Each is a stand-alone novel
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | RBmedia, Audiobook Links

Read an excerpt:

Bronx River Parkway
Friday, 3:55 p.m.

It wasn’t rush hour—not quite yet. So the drive was an hour plus away. That now left a short distance to go.

Ryan remained quiet and tense, staring out the passenger window as he had throughout the trip to Westchester County.

“Where are we going in New Rochelle?” Marc finally asked, glancing at his GPS, aware that he didn’t recognize the address Ryan had given him.

“To my cousin, Shane Walsh’s, house,” Ryan replied.

Marc nodded as they reached their exit and he eased his car around a loop and off the parkway. “Tell me only what I need to know. I’m not going to pry.”

“You’re not prying. I’m just really freaking out.” Ryan cleared his throat and relayed the entire situation to Marc.

Marc took it all in. “You’ve mentioned that you had a cousin with the Bureau. But that’s about all you’ve said, other than the fact that he has a wife and a young daughter.”

Ryan shrugged. “Shane’s a private guy, so I don’t talk about him much. He’s a Special Agent, Violent Crimes division, at the New York field office. He’s been there since he joined the FBI about eight years ago.”

“Does Hutch know him?”

“I never asked. But I doubt it. Hutch is in charge of all the Violent Crimes divisions. That’s too high up to know every agent who works under him.” Ryan pointed, shifting to the edge of his seat, and reiterating what the GPS was already showing them. “Make your next right. Two blocks down and make a left. Go through a few lights. You’ll see a cul-de-sac on your right. Marigold Terrace. Shane’s house is number 15.”

Marc understood that Ryan’s redundant supply of information was a manifestation of his anxiety. He just nodded again, then pressed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal to speed them up without accelerating too much. Suburban cops lived for speed traps.

Four minutes later, Marc turned onto Marigold Terrace and eased slowly around the curvy road.

“Three down on your left,” Ryan instructed. “White clapboard house, blue shutters.” His tension intensified as Marc reached Shane’s home. “That’s Caitlin’s car parked in the driveway. And Shane’s parked in his usual spot on the street. If they’re both home…but they don’t want Kennedy there… Shit.”

Ryan flung open the passenger door before Marc had brought the car to a complete stop. He was halfway to the front door, digging in his pocket for the key Shane had given him long ago, when Marc reached his side.

“Ryan, wait.” Marc grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Why?”

Marc tugged out the two pairs of latex gloves and shoved one pair into Ryan’s hand. “Put these on.”

Ryan gritted his teeth, while he and Marc worked their hands into the gloves. “Can’t leave any new fingerprints,” he muttered. “In case this is a crime scene.” He sounded ill.

“Is the door unlocked?” Marc asked, quickly assessing the garage door, which was up. He might have suggested accessing the house through there, but Ryan was already in motion. And time was precious.

Ryan jiggled the doorknob. “No.”

“Okay, use the key. I’ve got my Glock. Let’s go.”

Ryan’s hands were shaking as he turned the key and pushed open the door.

He and Marc stepped inside. The foyer was empty and quiet. In fact, the whole house was silent in a way that suggested no one was home.

“Shane?” Ryan called. A pause. “Caitlin?” No response. No sound of footsteps. Nothing.

Marc eased his way in front of Ryan, then crept ahead, sweeping the area with his gun.

Ryan followed behind him, aware that, not only was Marc armed, he was former FBI. He was trained at this. Ryan was not.

They’d barely gone fifteen feet, when Marc caught something in his peripheral vision, and swerved to his right. “Shit,” he muttered.

Ryan peered around him and gasped. Just outside the bathroom was a crumpled body, unmoving and lying in a pool of blood. Beside it, were two shell casings and a cell phone that had been crushed. On the other side of the cell phone was a jagged line of blood.

The inconsistency of the blood pattern struck Marc at once. Reflexively, he whipped out his cell phone and took a few quick photos.

Ryan was in a whole different headspace. Pushing past Marc, he strode over, squatting as he reached the body. “Shane,” he managed.

“Oh my God. Shane.”

Marc was beside Ryan in a heartbeat, restraining him from doing anything that would contaminate the scene. He leaned over Shane’s body, checking for a pulse, a breath—any sign of life.

There were none.

Marc gripped Ryan’s arm, standing and pulling him to his feet. Ryan’s entire body was stiff with shock, but Marc knew that consolation would have to wait.

“Ryan, we’ve got to get out of the house,” he said, visually sweeping as much of the ground floor as he could. “The killer might still be inside. He might have Caitlin.” A hard swallow, as Marc considered the possibility that she might also be dead. That additional jagged line of blood didn’t bode well. “I’ll call 911 as soon as we’re on the front lawn.”

Ryan didn’t budge. He was staring, wild-eyed, down at Shane’s lifeless form. It was only when Marc tugged insistently at his forearm that he regained some semblance of awareness. “No, Marc.” He gave a firm shake of his head. “I have to stay with him.”

“He’s gone,” Marc stated simply, placing a supportive hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “But Caitlin might not be. Let’s get the EMTs and the cops here. We might be saving her life.”

Slowly, Ryan turned, allowing Marc to lead him outside the house and to the front lawn, where he sank down on the grass, still unable to process this horrific occurrence.

Marc kept his Glock at the ready—just in case it was needed. “I’ll watch the windows and the doorways to block any attempt at escape,” he told Ryan. When there was no response, Marc glanced down, giving Ryan a worried look. The poor guy was staring off into space and wasn’t even hearing him.

Stationing himself close to his friend’s side, Marc took out his iPhone and called 911.

“What is your emergency?” was the immediate response.

Marc supplied his name, the address of the crime scene, and then, in staccato phrases, the necessary information.

He disconnected the call, knowing that it would be two minutes, at the most, before the ambulance showed up. He used the time wisely, pressing the button to Hutch’s private cell phone line.

One ring. Then, “Marc?”

“We’re in New Rochelle,” Marc said. “Ryan’s cousin, Shane Walsh, has been killed at his home. He worked for the Bureau, New York field office, Violent Crimes. I called 911, so the locals must already have been dispatched.”

Not even a heartbeat of a pause. “Text me the address.”

“Already done.”

“Then I’m on my way.”

***

Excerpt from Life Or Death by Andrea Kane. Copyright 2026 by Andrea Kane. Reproduced with permission from Andrea Kane. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Andrea Kane

Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty-three novels, including nineteen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles. With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night.

Kane’s first contemporary suspense thriller, Run for Your Life, became an instant New York Times bestseller.

She followed with a string of bestselling psychological thrillers including No Way Out, Twisted and Drawn in Blood.

Her latest in the highly successful Forensic Instincts series, Life or Death, forces this eclectic team of investigators to navigate a high wire act between the FBI on one side and a vicious killer looking to terminate the rest of a young family on the other. The first showcase of Forensic Instincts’ talents came with the New York Times bestseller, The Girl Who Disappeared Twice, followed by The Line Between Here and Gone, The Stranger You Know, The Silence That Speaks, The Murder That Never Was, A Face To Die For, Dead In A Week, No Stone Unturned, At Any Cost, Struck Dead and Life or Death.

Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include My Heart’s Desire, Samantha, Echoes in the Mist, and Wishes in the Wind.

With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages.

Kane lives in New Jersey with her family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan.

Catch Up With Andrea Kane:

AndreaKane.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – @akane
BookBub – @writetome1
Instagram – @AuthorAndreaKane
X – @andrea_kane
Facebook – @AuthorAndreaKane
TikTok – @author.ak
RBmedia Audiobooks

 

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One Click Could Be Life Or Death For Your TBR

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The Spotlight Is On Royal Mayhem by Samantha Jayne Grubey @xpressotours #samanthajaynegrubey #royalmahem

Royal Mayhem
Samantha Jayne Grubey
Publication date: April 15th 2026
Genres: New Adult, Romance

Part one of a duet.

Melinda Brown doesn’t want much in life, graduate university and survive.

Prince Alexander has everything, surrounded be riches and spoilt to the core. Everything he’s ever wanted has been at the tip of his finger due to his prestigious status as future King of England.

Despite coming from two different worlds, they share the same university. One day everything changes when the two crash into each other’s lives, literally.

As they both enter each other’s worlds, they’re forced to make compromises for the sake of their growing attraction.

Will Melinda and Alexander be able to win people with their love, especially when it becomes clear that they both hide secrets? Or will Prince Alexander by denied for the first time by the first woman that he truly wants? Not everything is as it seems in Royal Mayhem.

Add to Goodreads / Pre-order


Author Bio:

Samantha Jayne Grubey is an author of new adult romance.

When she’s not writing or reading, she will be playing sims or doing some diamond art and if she isn’t doing any of that she could be pole dancing or most likely working.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok / X



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  • $25 GC – ZigZag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton @partnersincr1me #zigzaggirl #ruthknafosetton

    Zigzag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton Banner

    ZIGZAG GIRL

    by Ruth Knafo Setton

    March 2-27, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

    Synopsis:

    Zigzag Girl, by Ruth Knafo Setton, is a twisty contemporary mystery with a touch of magic, set in Atlantic City and the eerie New Jersey Pine Barrens. Lucy Moon, a brilliant young magician with a mysterious past, works in the town’s theatre, staging performances of enchantment and conjure. But one night, during the ‘Sawing a Woman in Half’ trick, Lucy discovers her friend’s body in the box, dead. As Lucy digs deeper, she uncovers a trail of murders and suspects. With the help of a fierce group of female magicians and mystics, she must expose the truth before she becomes the final act.

    Book Details:

    Genre: Mystery/Thriller
    Published by: Black Spring Press
    Publication Date: March 17, 2026
    Number of Pages: 376
    Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | The Black Spring Press Group

    Read an excerpt:

    Chapter 1

    Atlantic City
    Wednesday October 17
    24 years later

    Nine minutes to the finale.

    Hand me a flower and I’ll transform it into a dove. Shoot me from a cannon and I’ll come out smiling. But lock me in the box and saw me in half, I’ll scream bloody murder.

    Unheard of for a Moon – a member of America’s most famous magic family – to be terrified of that creaky old standard, the sawing box. But you’re hearing it now.

    In exactly nine minutes, Charlie, our production manager, and Van, my friend and co-star, are supposed to reenact the famous Sawing a Woman in Half illusion as it was performed by Magnificent Morelli and his assistant Cleo West in this theatre during World War Two.

    The classic poster hangs in the dressing room: a man with slick black hair and a thin moustache gesturing to a pretty strawberry-blonde who holds a Statue of Liberty torch.

    Between them is the infamous sawing box. Black letters slash across the top of the poster:

    MAGNIFICENT MORELLI! MAN OF MYSTERY

    At the bottom:

    NIGHTLY IN THE SCARLET ROOM WORLD-FAMOUS ATLANTIC CITY BOARDWALK

    There’s one problem. Van should have been here two hours ago.

    My best friend and other co-star, Stormie, and I managed to get through the show to this point because we’re used to working together and because even in the midst of frenzy, Charlie is an oasis of calm. We call it the Charlie effect. He quickly redesigned the order of illusions to make up for Van’s absence.

    But Van still hasn’t shown up, so Charlie will saw me in half in Cleo’s original sawing box. This is not the contemporary sleek or transparent sawing box you see on a Vegas stage, but the real thing. Pure old-school; a deep, long wooden container that resembled a coffin. No openings for head or feet. No clamps for neck or ankles. The kind of box in which the magician’s assistant is completely locked inside, head to toe. If that’s not horrifying enough, this is the same box in which Cleo’s murderer placed her body.

    Good publicity for a haunted theatre on Halloween, says Charlie.

    At five-seven, I’m two inches shorter than the box. Stormie, coming in at a fraction under six feet and 190 pounds, can’t even squeeze inside.

    Hanging right next to Morelli is our poster:

    HALLOWEEN THRILLS, CHILLS & BLACK MAGICK! REBEL MAGIC
    STORMIE, VAN, & LUCY BLACK WIDOW THEATRE, 13TH FLOOR – if you dare! MIDNIGHT CASINO, OCT 17 – NOV 10

    Van and I flank Stormie – a magical version of Charlie’s Angels. As if instead of fighting crime, we resolve to change the world, one trick at a time. In the middle, Stormie towers over Van and me in an orange and black dashiki gown, enormous hoop earrings glinting through her copper- black hair that falls in long ropelike locks. On Stormie’s left is Van, a tiny silvery futuristic superhero who sometimes bills herself as ‘Kickass Korean Babe’ – spiked hair, jumpsuit, thigh- high boots with four-inch heels, and a gleaming knife in each hand. On Stormie’s right, I sparkle in my red-hot Miss Scarlett dress and stilettos. That’s me, on the corner of woo-woo and fuggedaboutit – a magic wand in one hand, a cannoli in the other.

    Tonight is our opening night, and it means something big to all three of us: our breakthrough as sisters of magic, an opportunity to make our name in the good old boys’ world of magic, and for me, a chance to make my name without the Moons holding me up on stage.

    Van wouldn’t miss this for the world.

    Her silver jumpsuit is hanging on the wheeled rack, her knives ready for action. She’s not answering her phone, but during the intermission, she left Stormie and me a message: Emergency. Start without me.

    Stormie’s golden-brown eyes were huge, her olive skin sallow, making the freckles stand out. ‘Emergency?’ Her voice is shrill. ‘That is not a Van word.’

    ‘An accident?’ ‘She’d tell us. No, it’s MLD.’

    For the past couple weeks, Van has kept her new boyfriend on the lowdown. Boyfriend is normal – Van juggles men like her knives. Keeping him secret is not. Stormie calls him, ‘MLD,’ short for Mysterious Loner Dude.

    ‘Van would not miss our opening night for a guy, no matter who he is.’ ‘Then where is she?’ Stormie shook her fingers in my face. ‘Look at my hand. The girl’s giving me shpilkes.’ Whenever she’s emotional, Stormie brings out the Yiddish words her Jewish Nana taught her.

    ‘If by shpilkes, you mean bad vibes, I’ve got ’em too.’

    Chapter 2

    Seven minutes to the finale.

    Backstage, hands trembling, I tug on Cleo West’s very own Stars n’ Stripes gown, slithering into the shimmering satin. Too short for me. Seams fraying – it’s been let out and tightened more than once. Cleo must have gained and lost weight during the war years.

    I sit at the vanity, tightly clip my hair and pull on a long reddish-blonde wig. I hate wigs, they suffocate me and give me an instant headache.

    Trapped, wrapped and bundled inside the constraints of hair and layers of fabric, my heart staccatos. When did the theatre get so cold? The scent of lavender crawls over my flesh, the sign that the Widow’s resident ghost, Cleo, is in the house. When you grow up with an Irish witch as an aunt, you accept the presence of ghosts. Doesn’t mean you like them, but you come to terms with sharing the space. According to Auntie Maze, ‘Cleo wants us to see the cracks and stains left behind by the past. When she slams doors or turns off lights, she’s saying, “Look! There’s something you’re not seeing!”’

    I add final touch-ups to my stage make-up and check my reflection from every angle. I glimpse pinpricks of light in the mirror. Next to my reflection a woman’s face appears, rippling as if she’s underwater. Her fiery-gold hair wavers. Ice-pale eyes meet mine. Two Cleos in the mirror.

    I grab the edge of the table. This is the first time she’s shown herself to me! Just in case she’s really there and I’m not losing my mind, I whisper, ‘You’re not real, Cleo. You’re dead. Look, I’m just pretending to be you for an hour, okay? Now please go away.’

    She stares at me through the glass. Her lips move. I lean forward, press my face to the mirror, straining to hear.

    Cleo disappears, and a large black figure looms in the mirror. Moves closer.

    I jolt to my feet and whip around.

    A man wearing a black hoodie. At least he’s real, not a ghost. He pushes back the hood. Dark hair falls past his chin.

    ‘What’s going on here?’ he demands.

    Shifting on my feet, I keep my hands low at my sides, ready to punch. ‘You need to leave now.’

    He steps closer. He’s half a foot taller, his strong-boned face scowling, his eyes bitter as black coffee. ‘Where’s Van?’

    ‘Not here.’

    ‘She said I could come backstage.’

    ‘Who are you?’ Is he Van’s mysterious guy?

    Stormie arrives, breathless. ‘You’re on in five,’ she says to me, and then slits her eyes at the stranger. ‘Elvis Jones! What are you doing here?’

    This is Elvis Jones? Definitely not the cheesy overweight Elvis impersonator in a white jumpsuit I imagined when I saw his poster:

    Elvis Jones Magic in Hell

    Midnight Show No one will be admitted after the door is shut.

    I found the blurb pretentious and, on principle, refused to see his show. If I’d known what he looks like, I might have taken a chance. He watches me with a sardonic grin as if he knows what I’m thinking.

    ‘Hi, Stormie,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for Van.’

    ‘She hasn’t arrived. Yet.’

    He retreats toward the door. ‘I’m outta here.’

    Stormie and I watch him leave, and she mutters, ‘What the hell has that girl been up to?’

    ‘I’m scared for her.’ I hear the words and wish I hadn’t said them.

    ‘Maybe her phone died, and she’s stuck somewhere. She’s gonna show up.’

    ***

    Excerpt from Zigzag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton. Copyright 2025 by Ruth Knafo Setton. Reproduced with permission from Ruth Knafo Setton. All rights reserved.

     

    Author Bio:

    Ruth Knafo Setton

    Born in Morocco and raised in the Lehigh Valley, Ruth Knafo Setton is the author of the novel, The Road to Fez (Counterpoint Press). Her honors include awards and fellowships from the National Endowment of the Arts, PEN, CineStory, Nimrod, Cutthroat, Writer’s Digest, and residencies at Hedgebrook, Yaddo, MacDowell, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She is a multi-genre author whose fiction, creative nonfiction, screenplays, and poetry have won many awards and appeared in journals and anthologies. A former Fiction Editor of Arts & Letters, she has taught Creative Writing and Multicultural Literature at Lehigh University and on Semester at Sea.

    Catch Up With Our Author:

    RuthSetton.com
    Tips, Tricks, & Tea with Ruth (Substack Newsletter)
    Amazon Author Profile
    Goodreads – @ruthsetton
    Instagram – @rksetton
    Threads – @rksetton
    X – @RuthSetton
    Facebook – @ruth.setton

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    Real Magic Awaits: A Giveaway That’s Not an Illusion 🎩

    This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Ruth Knafo Setton. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
    Zigzag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton | Gift Card

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    $10 GC & More – Call In For Murder by Tammy Barker @dollycas #tammybarker #callinformurder

    Call In For Murder: A Neon Desert Novel
    by Tammy Barker

    About Call In For Murder

    CALL IN FOR MURDER COVER 3
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    Call In For Murder: A Neon Desert Novel
    Cozy Mystery
    1st in Series
    Setting – Nevada
    Independently Published
    Publication date ‏ : ‎ October 19, 2025
    Print length ‏ : ‎ 238 pages
    Paperback
    ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8999862600
    Digital
    ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8999862617
    ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0FVMJMQ3R

    Call-in radio host Ashley Compton is Las Vegas’s best friend when it comes to giving relationship tips to strangers. But when a repeat caller is found murdered after exposing her woes on the air and accepting the challenge to put up or shut up, Ashley questions if her homespun advice was the catalyst for the murder.

    Afraid of losing her job and destroying her reputation, Ashley heads to the seedy side of Las Vegas to snoop around. There she encounters shady dealings: lies, gambling, adultery, and potential criminal activities. When her two-timing and felonious suspects spout glib excuses to justify their behaviors, she digs deeper and is threatened, injured, and gets what she dishes out: advice she doesn’t always like.

    Can Ashley’s sleuthing skills catch the killer, or will she end up just another crime statistic? Can she save her career, or will she be put on the Do-Not-Call list?

    About Tammy Barker

    TAMMY BARKER

    Tammy Barker is a serious, by-the-book Washington DC government accountant by day and a wildly imaginative fiction writer by night. She writes contemporary traditional amateur sleuth mystery novels and historical pulp fiction short stories. Her other loves include reading anything, restoring or refurbishing vintage items, small home repairs, cooking and baking, classical piano, and wishing she lived during the 1940s and 1950s. She is on Facebook, and her website is https://tammybarkerwriter.com.

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