Month: June 2021

#Review | The Fiancée by Kate White

The Fiancée by Kate White
Genre: Domestic Thriller
Published by Harper Collins
Publication Date:
ISBN-10: 0063092727
ISBN-13: 978-0063092723
Pages: June 29, 2021
Review Copy From: Publisher
Edition: ARC
My Rating: 5

Synopsis (via GR)

They had everything they needed for a perfect family vacation: close-knit relatives, a bucolic setting . . . and a murderer in their midst?

Summer’s looking forward to a break from hustling for acting work in Manhattan when she, her husband Gabe, and Gabe’s nine-year-old son arrive at the annual family get-together at her in-laws’ sprawling estate. On the agenda are leisurely gourmet meals, tennis matches, and plenty of relaxation by the pool.

But this year, Gabe’s brother Nick has invited his new flame Hannah, whom Summer immediately recognizes from a few years before. Oddly, her brother-in-law’s girlfriend claims not to know her. Yet she charms the other family members, and after Nick announces that he’s proposed to Hannah, Summer doesn’t have much choice but to grin and bear it.

Then the reunion is rocked by tragedy when a family member is found dead. Though the doctors attribute the loss to natural causes, a grieving Summer fears that the too-good-to-be-true Hannah is involved, even as Gabe dismisses her suspicions.

How far will Summer go to expose the truth? As she investigates just what Nick’s fiancée might have done to keep her perfect image intact, she begins to fear that the first death might only be the beginning . . .

My Thoughts

It’s been a long time since I have read one of Ms. White’s books and after turning the last page not only did I have to process what I just read but also ask myself why it’s been so long.

The story takes place in Buck’s County, PA. The ironic thing is that I read the majority of this book on our ride to my son’s house is the next county over from Buck’s so the scene was so easy to visualize because we have been on this drive many times. And then to make it a little eerier, we came upon a situation (vague to avoid a spoiler) that was very similar to an incident in the book.

I love books with family dynamics and then add in a thriller, this book had everything that I enjoy in a story.

It’s the week of the Keaton family reunion when all 4 brothers and their significant others not only gather at their parents’ house but truly look forward to it with its cottages, pool, tennis courts, and the mass amount of land. Why wouldn’t it be a perfect family getaway? Except this year turns out to be not the fun gathering but a somber event when one of the family members is found dead. Then in the midst of this grief, another body is found on the property. Could it be that one of the Keatons is a murderer? Or could it be the new additional guest that is introduced as one of the brother’s fiancée after a couple of months of knowing her?

This story gripped me from the beginning and held me captive until the end. I usually have 1 or 2 suspects on my radar but this book wouldn’t give it up. The suspense was fluid, the writing descriptive where I felt that I was part of the story. The characters believable, even to the point where I would like to be friends with a couple of them. All in all, I loved this book!!!!

And I know one thing is true, it won’t be such a long time before I grab another Kate White book. I am already looking forward to her next book!!!!!!

Purchase Links: Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗

REVIEW DISCLAIMER

  • This blog was founded on the premise to write honest reviews, to the best of my ability, no matter who from, where from and/or how the book was obtained, and will continue to do so, even if it is through PICT or PBP.
  • I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
  • I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.
  •  

    Mailbox Monday

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    Mailbox Monday

    According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.

    Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.

    Monday: (06/21/21)

    What To Do When Someone Dies by Nicci French~ TPB from XXX
    Tuesday: (06/212/21)
    What She Knew by Gilly Macmillan ~ TPB from personal purchase from Bookaholic Outlet
    Her Darling Husband by Kimberly Belle~ eBook from Harper Collins/Park Row via NetGalley

    Friday: (06/26/21)

    We Begin At The End by Chris Whitaker ~ ARC from book swap from Darcia at Quiet Fury Books
    Win by Harlan Coban ~ ARC from book swap from Darcia at Quiet Fury Books
    Into The Black Nowhere by Meg Gardner ~ PB from book swap from Darcia at Quiet Fury Books

     

    #Review | Dream Girl by Laura Lippman

    Dream Girl by Laura Lippman
    Genre: Psychological Thriller, Amateur Sleuths, Mystery
    Published by William Morrow
    Publication Date: June 22, 2021
    ASIN: B08JLHS4FZ
    Pages: 320
    Review Copy From: Publisher via NetGalley
    Edition: Kindle
    My Rating: 3

    Synopsis (via GR)

    Following up on her acclaimed and wildly successful New York Times bestseller Lady in the Lake, Laura Lippman returns with a dark, complex tale of psychological suspense with echoes of Misery involving a novelist, incapacitated by injury, who is plagued by mysterious phone calls.

    After being injured in a freak accident, novelist Gerry Andersen lies in a hospital bed in his glamorous but sterile apartment, isolated from the busy world he can see through his windows, utterly dependent on two women he barely knows: his young assistant and a night nurse whose competency he questions.

    But Gerry is also beginning to question his own competency. As he moves in and out of dreamlike memories and seemingly random appearances of a persistent ex-girlfriend at his bedside, he fears he may be losing his grip on reality, much like his mother who recently passed away from dementia.

    Most distressing, he believes he’s being plagued by strange telephone calls, in which a woman claiming to be the titular character of his hit novel Dream Girl swears she will be coming to see him soon. The character is completely fictitious, but no one has ever believed Gerry when he makes that claim. Is he the victim of a cruel prank—or is he actually losing his mind★ There is no record of the calls according to the log on his phone. Could there be someone he has wronged★ Is someone coming to do him harm as he lies helplessly in bed★

    Then comes the morning he wakes up next to a dead body—and realizes his nightmare is just beginning

    My Thoughts

    Last year I read Sunburn by Ms. Lippman and it captivated me. So when I saw that she had a new book coming out, I was so excited to be approved for an eARC.

    As the synopsis states, this read “echoed” Misery by Stephen King, which I also read years ago.

    The story alternated between multiple time frames within the story that it was a bit confusing. Also, I found that the mindset of the main character Gerry was also perplexing. Was he awake, was it a dream or was it dementia that was hinted at?

    I have to be honest, I was thinking that I might give up on this book on multiple occasions, but at one point, when I was 1/2 way through, I figured I would just try to finish it. After refinishing it, I did check out reviews of the book and it appeared that there were some people that loved it, and others, like me, felt as it was just OK.

    Even though this book was a midline read for me, that doesn’t mean I won’t read other books by this author in the future.

    Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗

    REVIEW DISCLAIMER

  • This blog was founded on the premise to write honest reviews, to the best of my ability, no matter who from, where from and/or how the book was obtained, and will continue to do so, even if it is through PICT or PBP.
  • I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
  • I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.
  •  

    The Begonia Killer by Jeff Bond | #Showcase #Interview #Giveaway

    The Begonia Killer by Jeff Bond Banner

    The Begonia Killer

    by Jeff Bond

    June 1-30, 2021 Tour

    Synopsis:

    The Begonia Killer by Jeff Bond

    You know Molly McGill from her death-defying escapes in Anarchy of the Mice, book one of the Third Chance Enterprises series. Now ride along for her first standalone caper, The Begonia Killer.

    When Martha Dodson hires McGill Investigators to look into an odd neighbor, Molly feels optimistic about the case — right up until Martha reveals her theory that Kent Kirkland, the neighbor, is holding two boys hostage in his papered-over upstairs bedroom.

    Martha’s husband thinks she needs a hobby. Detective Art Judd, who Molly visits on her client’s behalf, sees no evidence worthy of devoting police resources.

    But Molly feels a kinship with the Yancy Park housewife and bone-deep concern for the missing boys.

    She forges ahead with the investigation, navigating her own headstrong kids, an unlikely romance with Detective Judd, and a suspect in Kent Kirkland every bit as terrifying as the supervillains she’s battled before alongside Quaid Rafferty and Durwood Oak Jones.

    The Begonia Killer is not your grandparents’ cozy mystery.

     

    Book Details:

    Genre: Mystery — Cozy/Romance
    Published by: Jeff Bond Books
    Publication Date: June 1, 2021
    Number of Pages: 195
    ISBN: 1734622520 (ISBN-13 : 978-1734622522)
    Series: Third Chance Enterprises, #3
    Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

    Read an excerpt:

    THE BEGONIA KILLER

    By Jeff Bond

    Chapter One

    After twenty minutes on Martha Dodson’s couch, listening to her suspicions about the neighbor, I respected the woman. She was no idle snoop. She’d noticed his compulsive begonia care out the window while making lavender sachets from burlap scraps. She hadn’t even been aware of the papered-over bedroom above his garage until her postal carrier had commented.

    I asked, “And the day he removed the begonias, how did you happen to see that?”

    Martha set tea before me on a coaster, twisting the cup so its handle faced me. “Ziggy and I were out for a walk—he’d just done his business. I stood up to knot the bag…”

    Her kindly face curdled, and I thought she might be remembering the product of Ziggy’s “business” until she finished, “Then we saw him start hacking, and scowling, and thrusting those clippers at his flowers.”

    Her eyes, a pleasing hazel shade, darkened at the memory.

    She added, “At his own flowers.”

    I shifted my skirt, giving her a moment. “The begonias were in a mailbox planter?”

    “Right by the street, yes. The whole incident happened just a few feet from passing cars, from the sidewalk where parents push babies in strollers.”

    “Did he dispose of the mess afterward?”

    “Immediately,” Martha said. “He looked at his clippers for a second—the blades were streaked with green from all those leaves and stems he’d destroyed—then he sort of recovered. He picked everything up and placed it in the yard-waste bin. Every last petal.”

    “He sounds meticulous.”

    “Extremely.”

    I jotted Cleaned up begonia mess in my notebook.

    Maybe because of my psychology background—I’m twelve credit-hours shy of a PhD—I like to start these introductory interviews by allowing clients time to just talk, open-ended. I want to know what they feel is important. Often this tells as much about them as it does about whatever they’re asking me to/ investigate.

    Martha Dodson had talked about children first. Hers were in college. Did I have little ones? I’d waived my usual practice of withholding personal information and said yes, six and fourteen. She’d clapped and rubbed her hands. Wonderful! Where did they go to school?

    Next we’d talked crafting. Martha liked to knit and make felt flowers for centerpieces, for vase arrangements, even to decorate shoes—that type of crafter whose creativity spills beyond the available mediums and fills a house, infusing every shelf and surface.

    Only with this groundwork lain had she told me about the case itself, describing the various oddities of her neighbor three doors down, Kent Kirkland.

    I was still waiting to hear the crux of her problem, the reason she wanted to hire McGill Investigators. (Full disclosure—although the name is plural, there’s only one investigator: Molly McGill. Me.)

    “That sounds like an intense, visceral moment,” I said, squaring myself to Martha on the couch. “So has he done something to your flowers? Are you engaged in a dispute with him?”

    Martha shook her head. Then, with perfect composure, she said, “I think he’s keeping a boy in the bedroom over his garage.”

    I felt like somebody had blasted jets of freezing air into both my ears. The pen I’d been taking notes with tumbled from my hand to the carpet.

    “Wait, keeping a boy?” I said.

    “Yes.”

    “Against his will? As in, kidnapping?”

    Martha nodded.

    I was having trouble reconciling this woman in front of me—cardigan sweater, hair in a layered crop—with the accusation she’d just uttered. We were sitting in a nice New Jersey neighborhood. Nicer than mine. We were drinking tea.

    She said, “There might be two.”

    Now my notebook dropped to the carpet.

    “Two?” I said. “You think this man is holding two boys hostage?”

    “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “If I knew for sure, I’d be over there breaking down the door myself. But I suspect it.”

    She explained that a ten-year-old boy from the next town over had gone missing six months ago. The parents had been quoted as saying they “lost track of” their son. They hadn’t reported his disappearance until the evening after they’d last seen him.

    “The mother told reporters he wanted a scooter for Christmas, one of those cute kick scooters.” Martha sniffled at the memory. “Guess what I saw the UPS driver drop off on Kent Kirkland’s porch two weeks ago?”

    “A scooter,” I said.

    Her eyes flashed. “A very large box from a company that makes scooters.”

    Having retrieved my notebook, I jotted, box delivery (scooter?) . We talked a bit about this scooter company—which also made bikes, dehumidifiers, and air fryers.

    Scooter or not, there remained about a million dots to be connected from this boy’s case, which I vaguely remembered from news reports, to Kent Kirkland.

    I left the dots aside for now. “How do you get to two boys?”

    “There was another missing boy, about the same age. During the summer.” Martha’s mouth moved in place like she was counting up how many jars of tomatoes she’d canned yesterday. “He lived close, too. That case was complicated because the parents had just divorced, and the dad—who was a native Venezuelan—had just moved back. People suspected him of taking the boy with him.”

    “To Venezuela?”

    “Yes. Apparently the State Department couldn’t get any answers.”

    I nodded, not because I accepted all that she was telling me, but because there was no other polite response available.

    Neither of us spoke. Our eyes drifted together down the street to Kent Kirkland’s two-story saltbox home. Pale yellow vinyl siding. Tall privacy fence. Three separate posted notices to “Please pick up after your pet.” Neighborhood Watch sign at the corner.

    Finally, I said, “Look, Mrs. Dodson. Martha. Most of the cases we handle at McGill Investigators are domestic in nature. Straying husbands. Teenagers mixed up with the wrong crowd. I’m a mother myself, and I’ve been a wife. Twice.” I softened this disclosure with a smirk. “I generally take cases where my own life experiences can be brought to bear.”

    “But that’s why I chose you.” Martha worried her hands in her lap. “Your website says, ‘Every case will be treated with dignity and discretion.’ That’s all I ask.”

    I looked into her eyes and said, “Okay.”

    She seemed to sense my reluctance and started, rushing, “Those bedroom windows are papered-over twenty-four hours a day! And the begonias, you didn’t see him destroy those begonias! I saw how he severed their stalks and shredded their root systems. You don’t do that to flowers you’ve tended for an entire season. Not if you’re a person of sound mind.”

    “Gardening is more challenging for some than others. I love rhododendrons, but I can’t keep them alive. I over-water, I under-water. I plant them in the wrong spot.”

    “Have you ever massacred them in a fit of rage?”

    “No.” I smiled. “But I’ve wanted to.”

    Martha couldn’t help returning the smile. But her eyes stayed on Kent Kirkland’s house.

    I said, “Some men aren’t blessed with impulse control. Maybe he was a lousy gardener, he’d tried fertilizing and everything else, and the plants just refused to—”

    “But he wasn’t a lousy gardener. He was excellent. I think he grew those begonias from seed. He wanted them to be perennials, is my theory, but we’re in zone seven—they’re annuals here. He couldn’t accept them dying off.”

    Again, I was at a loss. I liked Martha Dodson. She had seemed like a reasonable person, right up until she’d started talking about kidnappings and Venezuela.

    She scooted closer on the couch. “You didn’t see the rage, Miss McGill. I saw it. I saw him that day. He walked out of the garage with hand pruners, but he took one look at those begonias—leaves browning at the edges, stems tangled like green worms—and flipped out. He turned right around, put away the hand pruners and came back with clippers.”

    She mimed viciously snapping a pair of clippers closed.

    “Rage is one thing,” I said. “Kidnapping is another.”

    “Of course,” Martha said. “That’s why I’d like to hire you: to figure out what he might be capable of.”

    Her pupils seemed to pulse in place.

    “I want to help you out, honestly.” I took her hand. “I do.”

    “Is it money? I—I could pay you more. A little.”

    Saying this, she seemed to linger on my jacket. I’d recently swapped out my boiled wool standby for this slightly flashier one, red leather with zippers. I had no great ambitions about an image upgrade; it’d just felt like time for a change.

    “The fee we discussed will be sufficient,” I said. Martha had mentioned she was paying out of her own pocket, not from her and her husband’s joint account. “My concern is more about the substance of the case. It feels a bit outside my expertise.”

    She clasped her hands at her waist. “Is it a question of danger? Do you not handle dangerous jobs?”

    I balked. In fact, I’d done extremely dangerous jobs before, but only as part of Third Chance Enterprises, the freelance small-force, private arms team led by Quaid Rafferty and Durwood Oak Jones. We’d stopped an art heist in Italy. We’d saved the world from anarchist-hackers. Sometimes I can hardly believe our missions happened. They feel like half dream, half blockbuster movies starring me. Every couple years, just about the time I start thinking they really might be dreams, Quaid shows up again on my front porch.

    “I don’t mind facing danger on a client’s behalf,” I said. “But McGill Investigators isn’t meant to replace the proper authorities. If you believe Mr. Kirkland is involved in these disappearances, your first stop should be the police.”

    “Mm.” Martha’s face wilted, reminding me of those unlucky begonias. “Actually, it was.”

    “You spoke with the police?”

    She nodded. “Yes. Well, more of a front desk person. I told him exactly what I’ve been telling you today.”

    “How did he respond?”

    There was a floor loom beside the couch. Martha threaded her fingers through its empty spindles, seeming to need its feel.

    “He said the department would ‘give the tip its due attention.’ Then on my way out, he asked if I’d ever read anything by J.D. Robb.”

    “The mystery writer?” I asked.

    “Right. He told me J.D. Robb was really Nora Roberts, the romance novelist. He said I should try them. He had a hunch I’d like them.”

    My teeth were grinding.

    I said, “Some men are idiots.”

    Martha’s face eased gratefully. “Oh, my husband thinks the same. I’m a Yancy Park housewife with too much time on her hands. He says Kirkland’s just an odd duck. When I told him about the begonias, he got this confused expression and said, ‘What’s a perennial?’”

    I could relate. My first husband had once handed me baking soda when I asked for cornstarch to thicken up an Italian beef sauce. The dish came out tasting like soap. After I traced back the mistake, he grumbled, “Ah, relax. They’re both white powders.”

    As much as I probably should have, I couldn’t refuse Martha. Not after this conversation.

    “I suppose I can do some poking around,” I said. “See if he, I don’t know, buys suspicious items at the grocery store. Or puts something in his garbage that might have come from a child.”

    Martha lurched forward and clutched my hands like I’d just solved the case of Jack the Ripper.

    “That would be amazing!” she cried. “Thank you so much! I know this seems far-fetched, but my instincts tell me something’s wrong at that house. If I didn’t follow through, if it turned out I was right and those little boys…”

    She didn’t finish. I was glad.

    CHAPTER TWO

    The state of New Jersey offers private investigator licenses, but I’ve never gotten one. It doesn’t entitle you to much, and you have to put up two hundred and fifty dollars, plus a three-thousand-dollar “surety bond.” Besides the money, you’re supposed to have served five years as an investigator or police officer. Which I haven’t.

    For all these reasons, my first stop after taking any case involving possible crimes is the local police station. Sometimes the police are impressed enough by what I tell them to assign their own personnel, usually some rookie detective or beat cop.

    Other times, not.

    “Begonias, huh?” said Detective Art Judd, lacing his fingers behind a head of bushy brown hair. “The ones with the thick, fluffy flower heads?”

    “You’re thinking of chrysanthemums,” I said.

    “Nnnno, I feel like it was begonias.”

    “Not begonias. Maybe peonies?”

    “Don’t think so,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the gal in the garden center said begonias.”

    I was annoyed—one, at his stubborn ignorance of flowers, and two, that he’d segued so breezily off the subject of Kent Kirkland.

    “The only other possibility with a thick, fluffy flower-head would be roses,” I said. “But if you don’t know what a rose looks like, you’re in trouble.”

    Art Judd’s lips curled up below a mustache. “You could be right.”

    I waited for him to return to Kirkland, to stand and pace about his sparsely decorated office, to offer some comment on the bizarre behavior I’d been describing for the last twenty minutes.

    But he just looked at me.

    Oh, I didn’t mind terribly being looked at. He was handsome enough in a best-bowler-on-his-Tuesday-night-league-team way. Broad sloping shoulders, large hand gestures that made the physical distance between our chairs feel shorter than it was.

    I’d come for Martha Dodson, though.

    “Leaving aside what is or isn’t a begonia,” I said, “how would you feel about checking into Kent Kirkland? Maybe sending an officer over to his house.”

    He finally gave up his stare, kicking back from his metal desk with a sigh. “The department barely has enough black-and-whites to service the parking meters downtown.”

    “I’m talking about missing boys. Not parking meters.”

    “Point taken,” he said. “Why didn’t Mrs. Dodson come herself with this information?”

    “She did. Your front desk person brushed her off.”

    The detective looked past me into the precinct lobby. “They see a lot of nut jobs. You can’t go calling in the calvary every time someone comes in saying their neighbor hung the wrong curtains.”

    “They aren’t curtains,” I said. “The windows are papered-over. Completely opaque.”

    He rubbed his jaw. I thought he might be struggling to keep a straight face.

    I continued with conviction I wasn’t sure I actually felt, “I saw it. It isn’t normal how he obscures that window. Martha thinks it’s weird, and it is weird.”

    “Weird,” he said flatly. “Two votes for weird.”

    “You put those Neighborhood Watch signs up, right?” In response to his slouch, I stood. “You encourage citizens to report anything out of the ordinary. When a citizen does so, the proper response would seem to be gratitude—or, at the very least, respect.”

    This, either the words or my standing up, finally pierced the detective’s blithe manner.

    “Okay, I give. You win.” His barrel chest rose and fell in a concessionary breath. “It’s true, with police work you never know which detail matters until it matters. Please apologize to Mrs. Dodson on behalf of the department. And I’ll be sure to have a word with Jimmie.”

    He gestured to the lobby. “Kid’s been getting too big for his britches for a while now.”

    I thanked him, and he ducked his head in return.

    Then he said, “I suppose she thinks one of those boys being held is Calvin Witt.”

    The boy whose parents had lost track of him.

    “Yes,” I said. “The timing does fit.”

    I considered mentioning the scooter, Calvin’s Christmas wish, but decided not to. We didn’t need to go down the rabbit hole of box shapes and labeling, and whether grown men rode scooters.

    Detective Judd looked ponderously at the ceiling. I didn’t expect him to divulge information about a live case, but I thought if he knew something exculpatory—that Calvin Witt had been spotted in Florida, say—he might pass it along and save me some trouble.

    “I hate to say this, but I honestly doubt young Calvin is among the living.” Art Judd smeared a hand through his mustache. “The father gambled online. Mom wanted out of the marriage, bad. She told anybody in her old sorority who’d pick up her call. Both of them methheads.”

    “That’s disheartening,” I said. “So you think the parents…”

    He nodded, reluctance heavy on his brow. “It’ll be a park, under some tree. Downstream on the banks of the Millstone. Pray to God I’m wrong.”

    I matched his glum expression, both a genuine reaction and a professional tactic to encourage more disclosure. “Does the department have staff psychologists, people who study these dysfunctional family dynamics? Who’re qualified to unpack the facts?”

    “Eh.” Art Judd flung out his arm. “You do this job long enough, you start recognizing patterns.”

    This was a common reaction to the field of psychology: that it was just everyday observation masquerading as science, than anyone with a little horse sense could practice it.

    I said, “Antipathy between spouses doesn’t predict antipathy toward the offspring, generally.”

    The detective’s face glazed over like I’d just recited Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.

    “Perhaps I could conduct an interview,” I said. “As a private citizen, just to hear more background on Calvin?”

    He chuckled out of his stupor. “Good try. You’re free to call as you like, but I don’t think the Witts are real receptive to interview requests now—with the exception of the paying sort.”

    I crossed my legs, causing my skirt to shift higher up my knee. “Is there any further background you’d be able to share? You personally?”

    His gaze did tick down, and he seemed to lose his first word under his tongue.

    “Urb, I—I guess it’s all more or less leaked in the press anyway,” he said, and proceeded to give me the story—as the police understood it—of Calvin Witt.

    Calvin had a lot to overcome. His parents, besides their drug and money problems, were morbidly obese, and had passed this along to Calvin. A social worker’s report found inadequate supplies of fresh fruit and lean proteins at the home. They’d basically raised him on McDonald’s and ice cream sandwiches. Calvin had learning and attention disorders. He started fights in school. His parents couldn’t account for huge swaths of his day, of his week even.

    “They let him run like the junkyard dog,” Detective Judd said. “All we know about the night he disappeared, we got off the kid’s bus pass. Thankfully it’d been registered. We know he boarded a bus downtown, late.”

    I opened my mouth to ask a follow-up.

    “Before you get ideas,” he said, “no, the route didn’t pass anywhere near Martha Dodson’s neighborhood. We always crosscheck Yancy Park in these cases. That’s where the Ferguson place is.”

    “Ferguson?”

    “Yeah. Big rickety house, half falling over? Looks like the city dump. You shoulda passed it on the way.”

    I shook my head.

    “Well,” he continued, “that’s where the Fergusons live, crusty old married couple. Them and whatever riffraff needs a room. Plenty of crime there. Squalor. The neighbors keep trying to get it condemned.”

    I definitely didn’t remember driving past a place like that. “Were there any witnesses who saw Calvin on the bus? Saw who he was with?”

    “Nobody who’d talk.”

    “Camera footage?”

    The detective palmed his meaty elbow. “Have you seen the city’s transportation budget?”

    I incorporated the new information, thinking about Kent Kirkland. He was single according to Martha. Mid-thirties. He worked from home—something to do with programming or web design, she thought.

    Did he have a car? I’d noticed a two-car garage, but I hadn’t seen inside.

    Did he go out socially? To bars? Or trivia nights?

    Could he have ridden the bus downtown?

    “Martha mentioned another case,” I said. “Last summer, I think it was. Another boy in the same vicinity?”

    At first, Detective Judd only squinted.

    I prompted, “There was some connection to Venezuela. The father was born there, maybe he—”

    “Right, that Ramos kid!” Judd smacked his forehead. “How could I forget? Talk about red tape, my gosh. So he’s boy number two, is that it?”

    I couldn’t very well answer “yes” to a question posed like that.

    I simply repeated, “Martha mentioned the case.”

    “Yep. That was a doozy.” As he remembered, he walked to a file cabinet and pulled open a drawer. “Real exercise in frustration.”

    “There was trouble with the Venezuelan government?”

    “And how.” He swelled his eyes, thumbing through manila folders, finally lifting out an overstuffed one. “I must’ve filled out fifty forms myself, no joke.”

    He tossed the file on his desk. Documents slumped from the folder out across his computer keyboard.

    I asked, “You never located the boy?”

    “Not definitively. We had a witness put him with the paternal grandparents, the day before Dad put the whole crew on a plane.”

    “Did you interview him?”

    “Who?”

    “The father.”

    Detective Judd burbled his lips. “Nope. The Venezuelans stonewalled us—never could get him, not even on the horn. He told some website he had no clue where the kid was, but come on. They took him.”

    I’d been following along with his account, understanding the logic and sequence—until this. I thought about Zach, my fourteen-year-old, and what lengths I would’ve gone to if he’d disappeared with his father.

    “So you…stopped?” I said.

    He stiffened. “We hit a brick wall, like I said.”

    “Yes, but a boy had been taken from his mother. What did she say? Was she satisfied with the investigation?”

    “No.” Judd’s mouth tightened under his mustache. His tone turned challenging. “Nobody’s satisfied when they don’t like the outcome.”

    I tugged my skirt lower, covering my knee.

    He continued, “I get fifty-some cases across my desk every week, Miss McGill. I don’t have the luxury of devoting my whole day to chasing crackpot theories just because somebody looks angry snipping their flowers.”

    “Of course,” I said. “Which makes me the crackpot.”

    He closed his eyes, as though summoning patience. “You seem like a nice lady. And look, I admit I’m a Neanderthal when it comes to matters—”

    “‘Nice lady’ puts you dangerously close to pre-Neanderthal territory.”

    He smiled. In the pause, two buttons began blinking on his phone.

    “Pleasant as it’s been getting acquainted with you,” he said, “I can’t commit resources to this begonia guy. Just can’t. If you can pursue it without stepping over any legal boundaries, more power to you.”

    I felt heat rising up my neck. I gathered my purse.

    “I will pursue it. Two little boys’ welfare is on the line. Somebody needs to.”

    He spread his arms wide, good-naturedly, stretching the collar of his shirt. “Hey, who better than you?”

    The contents of the folder labeled Ramos were still strewn over his keyboard. “I don’t suppose I could borrow this file…”

    “Official police documents?”

    “Just for twenty minutes. Ten—I could flip through in the lobby, jot a few notes.”

    He’d walked around his desk to show me out, and now he stopped, hands on hips, peering down at the file. The top paper had letterhead from the Venezuelan consulate.

    I stepped closer to look with him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Our shoes bumped.

    “Or even just this letter,” I said. “So I have the case number and contact information for the consulate. Surely there’s no harm in that?”

    Detective Judd didn’t move his shoe. He smelled like bagels and coffee.

    He placed his fingertip on the letter and pushed it my way.

    “I can live with that.”

    “Thanks,” I said, grinning, snatching the paper before he could reconsider.

    CHAPTER THREE

    I drove home through Yancy Park, thinking to get a second look at Kent Kirkland’s property. As I pulled into the subdivision, I noticed a dilapidated house up the hill, off to the west. It rose three stories and had bare-wood sides. Ragged blankets flapped over its attic windows.

    The Ferguson place.

    Somehow I’d missed it driving in from the other direction. Art Judd had been right: the place was an eyesore. Gutters dangled off the roof like spaghetti off a toddler’s abandoned plate. A refrigerator and TV were strewn about the dirt yard, both spilling their electronic guts.

    I made a mental note to ask Martha Dodson about the property. I found it curious she suspected Kirkland instead of whoever lived in this rats’ den. Art Judd had mentioned crosschecking Yancy Park. Maybe the police had already been out and investigated to Martha’s satisfaction.

    I kept driving to Martha and Kent Kirkland’s street. I slowed at the latter’s yard, peering over a rectangular yew hedge to a house that was the polar opposite of the Ferguson place. The paint job was immaculate. Gutters were not only fully affixed, but contained not a single leaf or twig. Trash bins were pulled around the side into a nook, out of sight.

    ***

    Excerpt from The Begonia Killer by Jeff Bond. Copyright 2021 by Jeff Bond. Reproduced with permission from Jeff Bond. All rights reserved.

     

    Author Bio:

    Jeff Bond

    Jeff Bond is an American author of popular fiction. A Kansas native and Yale graduate, he now lives in Michigan with his wife and two daughters. The Pinebox Vendetta received the gold medal in the 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards, and the first two entries in the Third Chance Enterprises series — Anarchy of the Mice, Dear Durwood — were named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best 100 Indie Books of 2020.

    Q&A with Jeff Bond

    What was the inspiration for this book?

    Molly McGill is one of three co-protagonists introduced in Anarchy of the Mice, book one of the Third Chance Enterprises series. For the second, third, and fourth books, I wanted to delve deeper into each character. Durwood Oak Jones came first with Dear Durwood, and now it’s Molly’s turn with The Begonia Killer. I set out to craft a story that was unique to her, and best portrayed her values and personality.

    What has been the biggest challenge in your writing career?

    The question of what to write has always been central to my journey as an author. I enjoy writing in many modes – action, humor, relationships – and deciding which to focus on for upcoming projects has always kept me up at night.

    In the end, I’ve decided not to decide, writing broadly and dipping into multiple genres. The Begonia Killer is my first cozy mystery.

    What do you absolutely need while writing?

    I won’t say “inspiration,” because that sounds like I need gorgeous cliff bluffs or views of the Golden Gate Bridge. (Which I actually did have for a time, writing in the Bay Area.) But I do need to feel optimistic about whatever story I’m telling, to believe that the work has unique qualities and pushes me into new territory as a writer.

    Also, coffee.

    Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?

    I have eleven and nine-year-old daughters who keep me extremely busy, so my schedule has to be strict: when they’re at school or gymnastics practice, I’m writing.

    Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

    Many people will say Eunice, Molly’s cantankerous grandmother, but I’ll stick with Molly. Her resilience and fundamental concern for others is what grounds both The Begonia Killer and, before it, Anarchy of the Mice, a Kirkus Reviews Best 100 Indie Book of 2020.

    Tell us why we should read your book.

    The Begonia Killer offers readers much of what they expect from the cozy mystery genre – neighborhood intrigues, quirky characters, etc. – but with a fresh plot and urgency more like a thriller. Heroes and villains alike are portrayed three-dimensionally; I’ve had early readers rooting for characters I never expected to attract sympathy, which I take for a good sign.

    Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?

    A handful of Molly’s domestic challenges are drawn from my own experience. Like Molly, I have a litterbox-challenged cat with a history of peeing on stuffed animals. When fourteen-year-old Zach yells at her for putting two left socks together, that’s an echo of me from middle school – not appreciating my own mother, and imagining I knew a lot more about the world than I actually did.

    Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

    If you’re not usually a reader of cozy mysteries, that’s okay – I’m not usually a writer of them! As discussed above, I write broadly so if you’re looking for a different sort of story, please check out my other titles.

    Tell us a little about yourself and your background?

    I grew up outside Kansas City, then headed east to study at Yale. I told my friends there I wanted to write a novel. I’d grown up racing through all the Clive Cussler in my grade-school library, and college was introducing me to War and Peace and The Corrections, characters so real I felt the author – from centuries ago, thousands of miles away – plucking thoughts straight from my own head.

    These denser books dazzled me, but I missed the rush of the thrillers I’d read as a boy. Could a story do both? I wanted to give it a shot.

    I took a regular job out of school and began writing novels on the side. I finished a too-long manuscript about classmates entering the workforce. A basketball story. An adventure of mismatched heroes rescuing the world from anarchy. They weren’t good yet, but each was better than what’d come before.

    Meanwhile, life rolled on. I held day jobs as a consultant, business analyst, teacher, and programmer. I lived on both coasts and ended up in the middle. I wrecked an ankle playing too much basketball. I shepherded two daughters into elementary school – a gig that’s made me a soccer coach, gymnastics parent, and winder of ponytails.

    Through it all, I wrote. It’s taken a few detours, but I believe I’ve finally arrived at the books I imagined writing in school – stories that balance propulsive plots with characters you’ll care about.

    What’s next that we can look forward to?

    After writing mostly thrillers the last few years, I’ve begun branching into romance categories, and recently joined the Romance Writers of America. The next two books in my queue have an even more pronounced emphasis on the genre.
    At the same time, I continue to expand the Third Chance Enterprises universe. Book four, which is previewed at the end of Begonia, is called Astroplane and features Quaid Rafferty, the series’ final co-protagonist, who’s not thrilled about having to wait so long for his standalone.
    You can find more – including short stories and original artwork – about him, Molly, and Durwood at www.thirdchancestories.com.

    Catch Up With Jeff Bond:
    ThirdChanceStories.com
    Goodreads
    BookBub – @jeff_bond
    Instagram – @jeffabond
    Twitter – @jeffABond
    Facebook – @jeffabondbooks

     

    Tour Participants:

    Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

     

     

    Enter the Giveaway:

    This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Jeff Bond. There will be one (1) winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on June 1, 2021 and runs through July 2, 2021. Void where prohibited.

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    Mailbox Monday

    Mailbox Monday

    According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.

    Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.

    Monday: (06/14/21)

    Last Girl Ghosted by Lisa Unger~ ARC from Harper Collins
    The Evidence by K.L. Slater ~ Kindle from Bookouture via NetGalley

    Tuesday: (06/15/21)

    Tever Saw Me Coming by Vera Kurian~ Kindle from Harlequin via NetGalley

     

    Dead Tree Tales by Rush Leaming | #Showcase #Interview #Excerpt #Giveaway

    Dead Tree Tales by Rush Leaming Banner

     

    Dead Tree Tales

    by Rush Leaming

    June 7 – July 2, 2021 Tour

    Synopsis:

    Dead Tree Tales by Rush Leaming

     

    Set in Charleston, SC, and the surrounding islands, police are called to investigate the poisoning of a much-loved 1000-year-old tree, only to find evidence of a more brutal crime. From there, the story explodes into a fast-paced, multi-character thriller unlike any you\’ve ever read. Not for the faint of heart…

    Dead Tree Tales by Rush Leaming is about a lot more than a dead tree. It’s a mystery. It’s a crime story. It’s a thriller. It’s a powerful comment on today’s society and politics… fast-paced, full of action and intrigue… It’s a real page-turner and just a fantastic read.” – Lorraine Cobcroft, Reader’s Favorite

     

    Book Details:

    Genre: Crime Thriller
    Published by: Bridgewood
    Publication Date: June 8th 2021
    Number of Pages: 488
    ISBN: 0999745654 (ISBN13: 9780999745656)
    Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

     

    Read an excerpt:

    CHAPTER ONE

    It was known simply as The Tree; that is what the locals on Johns Island, South Carolina, called it. A Southern live oak born a thousand years ago (some even said fifteen hundred), its gargantuan limbs swirled and stretched as much as two hundred feet in all directions. The lower arms, heavy with age, sometimes sank into the earth only to reemerge. Other branches flailed recklessly in the sky, like some sort of once-screaming kraken turned to wood by an ancient curse.

    Generation after generation had protected it. Rising from the center of a former indigo plantation, and now officially known as Addison’s Oak, The Tree had long been a source of pride, even fear, in the surrounding community, as well as James Island, Wadmalaw Island, and the nearby city of Charleston.

    But now, The Tree was dying. It was not from natural causes either, not from time, nor gravity, nor the weather.

    Someone had killed it.

    “Is that a thing?” Detective Charlie Harper asked as he turned his head to look at his partner, Detective Elena Vasquez.

    “I think so.” Elena squinted her eyes toward the top of the canopy, the leafy summit shadowed and backlit by the noon sun.

    “Arborcide? That’s a thing?” Charlie asked again.

    An Asian-American man in his mid-twenties wearing wraparound sunglasses stood next to the two detectives. “Yep. You remember that incident a few years ago in Auburn? Toomer’s Corner. Crazy Alabama fan poisoned the tree there.”

    “Yeah,” Charlie said. “But I mean legally. Is it legally a crime to do this?”

    “Cops were involved there,” the man said. “The guy went to jail. Has to be something. Why don’t you call them? See what they did.” He pulled a pack of spearmint gum from the front pocket of his jeans and stuffed five pieces in his mouth, noticing Charlie watching him. “Quitting smoking. Nicotine gum makes me dizzy.”

    Charlie nodded. “Been there.” Six feet tall, with a closely trimmed beard under bright-blue eyes, he walked around the perimeter of the field.

    Salt air swirled around him—they were only a couple of miles from the beach—and Charlie realized it was the first time he had been away from the city and out on the islands in months, maybe even over a year.

    Elena Vasquez, an athletic five-ten with shoulder-length black hair bobby-pinned over her ears, stood in front of the young man and opened a new page in the Notes app on her iPhone. “So, you’re the one who called about this?”

    “Yes. It took some digging to figure out who to contact. I didn’t know there weren’t any police stations out here.”

    “That’s correct.” She typed the date 5/19/2015 at the top of the page. “Closest station is the Island Sheriff’s Patrol on James Island, but they don’t handle things like this. That’s why you got us from the city. And who are you again?”

    “Daniel Lee.”

    She looked up from her iPhone. “Daniel is a nice name. It’s my son’s name, though we call him Danny. Where are you from, Mr. Lee?”

    “I’m originally from Maryland—Chesapeake Bay area—but now I live in Charleston. West Ashley. I’m a Ph.D. candidate at the college.”

    “College of Charleston?” Elena asked and continued typing.

    “Yes. Environmental science. Teach a couple of undergrad classes as well. And I’m president of the local Sierra Club chapter. Our service project for this year has been public park maintenance and cleanup. I came here a week ago and saw that broken limb—”

    “This one?” Charlie pointed at a fat twisted branch about the length of a Greyhound bus lying near the base of the tree.

    “Yes.”

    “Well . . .” Charlie said. “How do you know it wasn’t lightning or something?”

    Daniel went over to Charlie and squatted next to the fallen limb. “There are no burn marks. Lightning would leave those.”

    “Maybe it’s just old age. Isn’t this thing like a thousand years old or something?”

    “Possibly more. It is rotting,” Daniel said. “But not from old age. See this discoloration? The rust-colored saturation of the stump where it broke?”

    Charlie leaned in a little closer. “Yes.”

    “That’s from poison, from a lot of poison. And you can see spots like this forming and spreading all around the trunk and on other branches.”

    Elena stood beneath The Tree, placing her hand on a dark-orange splotch on the trunk. The gray bark surrounding the stain felt tough and firm, but inside the color spot, it was soft and crumbling. “I see it.”

    “It’s like cancer,” Daniel said. “The Tree is not dead yet, but it will be soon. I had the soil tested as well as samples from the broken limb. They came back positive for massive levels of DS190.”

    “And that is?” Charlie said.

    “A variant of tebuthiuron. A very powerful herbicide. Similar to what was used at Toomer’s Corner. Somebody has been injecting the tree as well as dumping it into the ground. Probably for a few months to reach these levels.”

    “Injecting the tree?” Elena said.

    Daniel pulled them over to the base of the trunk where a ring of jagged holes stretched just above the ground. “Yes. See these gashes? Somebody has been boring into the trunk, then filling it with DS190.”

    Charlie took out a pair of latex gloves and put them on before touching the holes in the trunk. “You’re sure this is intentional?”

    “Has to be. This stuff doesn’t just appear on its own. It’s man-made. Someone has been doing this.”

    “But why?” Charlie asked.

    Daniel held out a hand, palm up. “Thus, the reason the two of you are here.”

    Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know about this. We usually work homicide.”

    Daniel gestured towards the gashes in the trunk. “You have a murder victim. Or soon will. Right in front of you.”

    “But it’s a tree!” Charlie said.

    Elena looked up from her phone. “Okay, Mr. Harper. Easy.”

    Daniel motioned for them to follow as he walked to the backside of the trunk. “There’s something else.” He came to a stop in a patch of grass ringed with dandelion sprouts and pointed to dark-red streaks spread across the blades. “That’s blood, isn’t it?”

    Charlie bent down and touched his gloved hand to one of the blades. “Maybe.” He took out a plastic bag and a Leatherman multitool from his jacket. He pulled apart the hinged scissors, then clipped away about a dozen pieces of grass and dropped them into the bag.

    “And another thing,” Daniel said and led Elena to a spot about ten feet away. He pointed to a white card lying in the grass. “I didn’t touch any of this, by the way. I didn’t want to disturb the crime scene . . . I watch a lot of cop shows. I know how that goes.”

    “Doesn’t everyone.” Elena squatted down, taking a plastic bag from her jacket. She used tweezers to pick up the card, muddy and frayed at the edges and turned it over to reveal a yellow cat emoji, just the head, whiskers, and a faint smile, printed on the opposite side. There were no words, just the image.

    A strong breeze moved through the leaves of the great tree, a sound like rain showers mixed with groaning as the heavy limbs bent in the wind.

    Charlie Harper removed his glove and rubbed the edge of his dark-brown beard. Looking at the massive branches, which did seem like the arms of giants, he began to understand why The Tree was such a big deal. “Have to say, it is beautiful here. Can’t believe I’ve been in Charleston four years and never been here. I should bring Amy. She’d love it.”

    Daniel looked at Elena for an explanation.

    “His daughter,” she said, then turned to Charlie. “You should. My dad brought me here a few times when I was a kid.”

    “Well, you better hurry,” Daniel said.

    “There’s nothing to stop it?” Elena asked.

    “Probably not. I contacted a team of forestry researchers I know from Virginia Tech. They are going to send a team down to look at it, see if anything can be done. I sent a request to the Parks Department to pay for it. If they don’t, Sierra Club will hold a fundraiser.”

    Charlie sighed. “Okay. While we decide what to do about this, I’ll call and have some signs and barriers put up to keep the tourists away.”

    Elena turned to Daniel. “Thank you for meeting us here. Could you come to our station in the city today or tomorrow to give a formal statement?”

    “Sure.”

    “Bring copies of the lab work. We gonna find anything when we do a background check on you?”

    Daniel shook his head. “No. Just some parking tickets . . . a lot of tickets actually. Parking at the college is a bitch.”

    “That it is,” Elena said. “Here is my card if you think of anything else.”

    “Thanks,” Daniel said. He stopped a moment as if to say something, then continued toward a white Chevy Volt parked near the road.

    Elena looked at Charlie and raised her eyebrows. “So, Mr. Harper, what do you think?”

    “Ehh . . . I mean I understand it’s old and rare and special and all that, but it’s a fucking tree. I don’t know anything about trees, do you?”

    “No, but . . .”

    “But what?”

    “I don’t know,” Elena said and looked around the field. “My Spidey-sense tells me there’s more to it than just some weird vandalism.” She took a step forward and winced.

    “Back acting up?” Charlie asked.

    “A bit,” she said.

    “Lunchtime anyway. Let’s take a break. I’m starving. June and I got into it again this morning. Skipped breakfast.”

    “Sorry to hear that.” Elena swept a strand of black hair behind her ear. She pointed with her chin down a two-lane road to a crooked sign with a faded image of a pagoda: The Formosa Grill. “Chinese?”

    “Sure,” Charlie said.

    The two of them began to walk toward their gray Ford Explorer when Charlie saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and knelt in the grass. He used his Leatherman tool to again pry away several blades.

    “What is it?” Elena asked.

    Charlie’s head bolted upright, his blue eyes narrowing. “Mr. Lee!” he shouted. He pulled another latex glove from his pocket.

    In the parking lot, Daniel climbed out of his car and made his way back to the field. “Yes?”

    “Mr. Lee, when was the last time you were here before meeting us today?”

    “Yesterday morning,” Daniel said.

    Elena knelt next to Charlie, looked into the grass, and let a low whistle escape her lips. She used her phone to take a photo.

    Charlie used tweezers to pick up a severed finger. Sliced just below the knuckle, the stump crusted in blood, the flesh covered with red ants, it ended with a sharp green fingernail. He looked at Daniel. “Did you happen to notice this?”

    Daniel swallowed hard, turning his face to the side. “No. I did not.”

    Charlie put the finger in a plastic bag.

    Elena looked at him, her wide brown eyes giving him a knowing shimmer. “You interested in this case now, Mr. Harper?”

    Charlie didn’t flinch. He stared at The Tree.

    ***

    Excerpt from Dead Tree Tales by Rush Leaming. Copyright 2021 by Rush Leaming. Reproduced with permission from Rush Leaming. All rights reserved.

     

     

    Author Bio:

    Rush Leaming

    RUSH LEAMING has done many things including spending 15+ years in film/video production working on such projects as The Lord of the Rings films. His first novel, Don’t Go, Ramanya, a political thriller set in Thailand, was self-published in the fall of 2016 and reached number one on Amazon. His equally successful second novel, entitled The Whole of the Moon, a coming-of-age tale set in the Congo at the end of the Cold War, was published in 2018. His short stories have appeared in Notations, 67 Press, Lightwave, Green Apple, 5k Fiction, and The Electric Eclectic. He has lived in New York City, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Zaire, Thailand, Spain, Greece, England, and Kenya. He currently lives in South Carolina.

    Q&A with Rush Leaming

    What was the inspiration for this book?

    The idea first came to me in the mid 1990’s, the idea that the impending destruction of a famous tree would stir up a whirlwind of trouble in a community. I envisioned it as a multi-character, complicated interlocking of storylines. The crime element came later, and actually Part-Two: One-Hit Wonder, the sniper targeting right-wing figures, came from a screenplay idea I had but never wrote.

    What has been the biggest challenge in your writing career?

    Getting noticed!

    What do you absolutely need while writing?

    Music. Mornings are classical; afternoons/early evenings are rock and pop; nighttime is old-school jazz

    Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?

    I’m a binge writer, not an everyday writer. I sometimes go years or more in between projects. But as in this book, when I’m in the throes of it, I write my first drafts very fast, using my iPhone!
    I’ll write everyday about 3-4 hours in the morning, then in the evening spend a couple of hours reviewing, revising and often expanding on what I wrote in the morning.

    Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

    In this book, definitely Len Rawlings. I had to get in his head to find the logic in his views but also wanted to show the humanity within, that he, like so many people who become radicalized, are really lost souls.

    Tell us why we should read your book.

    Because it’s about a Tree, but so much more!

    Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?

    I wrote it in three months during Covid quarantine.

    Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

    Sunscreen. No, wait…another writer already used that.

    Plastics. No, that’s a movie quote.

    I’ve got it: Thanks.

    Tell us a little about yourself and your background?

    I’m the king of odd/weird jobs. Here’s a small sample from my bio:

    car wash attendant, bartender, dishwasher, Adjunct Professor, lab rat decapitator, shoe salesman, fish pond builder, a monster in a low-budget horror movie, music video director, refugee camp volunteer, film production manager, ESL teacher, star of a country music video…

    What’s next that we can look forward to?

    I’m mulling over my next project, but in the end the story chooses the writer, not the other way around. One option is a sequel to this one. I’ve got a few ideas rolling in my head, but nothing cohesive yet. Another idea is a sci-fi/coming of age/romantic-adventure/travel tale. So we’ll see!

    Catch Up With Rush:
    LeamingRush.wixsite.com/nightfall
    Goodreads
    BookBub – @RushLeaming
    Instagram – @rushleaming
    Twitter – @LeamingRush
    Facebook

     

     

    Tour Participants:

    Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

     

     

    Enter the Giveaway:

    This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Rush Leaming. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card (U.S. ONLY). The giveaway runs June 7, 2021 through July 4, 2021. Void where prohibited.

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

     

     

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    The Redemption by C.L. Tolbert | #Showcase #Interview #Giveaway

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    The Redemption

    by C.L. Tolbert

    June 1-30, 2021 Tour

    Synopsis:

    by C.L. Tolbert

    Emma Thornton is back in The Redemption, C.L. Tolbert’s second novel in the Thornton Mystery Series.

    When two men are murdered one muggy September night in a New Orleans housing project, an eye witness identifies only one suspect – Louis Bishop- a homeless sixteen-year old. Louis is arrested the next day and thrown into Orleans Parish Prison. Emma Thornton, a law professor and director of the Homeless Law Clinic at St. Stanislaus Law School in the city agrees to represent him.

    When they take on the case, Emma and her students discover a tangle of corruption, intrigue, and more violence than they would have thought possible, even in New Orleans. They uncover secrets about the night of the murders, and illegal dealings in the city, and within Louis’s family. As the case progresses, Emma and her family are thrown into a series of life-threating situations. But in the end, Emma gains Louis’s trust, which allows him to reveal his last, and most vital secret.

    Book Praise:

    “With The Redemption, Cynthia Tolbert delivers another beautifully written and compelling read in her Thornton Mystery series, as law professor Emma Thornton’s fight to save a teen wrongly accused of murder endangers her own life in this gripping tale of corruption and crime in the 1990s Big Easy.”
    Ellen Byron, Agatha Award Winning Author of the Cajun Country Mysteries

    Book Details:

    Genre: Mystery
    Published by: Level Best Books
    Publication Date: February 9th 2021
    Number of Pages: 286
    ISBN: 978-1-947915-43-5
    Series:Thornton Mysteries, Book 2 || Each is a Stand Alone Mystery
    Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

     

    Read an excerpt:

    CHAPTER ONE

    September 9, 1994


    8:05 p.m.

    Just before dark on the night of his death, Brother Reginald Antoine stepped out of the cottage where he lived. He slammed the door shut to prevent the soggy heat of the late summer evening from invading the front room. Except for occasional river breezes, the New Orleans climate was swamp-like until late October. His exits had become swift and cat-like to avoid escalating power bills and a strain on the house’s only window-unit air conditioner.

    He stood on the front porch for a moment, staring at the entrance to the Redemption housing project. All was quiet. No one was in sight.

    He was looking forward to the evening. He’d promised to help Alicia Bishop complete forms for a scholarship to Our Lady of Fatima, the top girls’ school in the city. He found himself singing under his breath as he locked the front door.

    Most of the kids Brother Antoine worked with never finished school, and he was painfully aware that he’d failed far more than he’d helped. But Alicia’s story would be different. Her graduation would be her family’s first. Clear-headed and determined, much like her Aunt Juanita, the woman who had raised her, she was destined to earn far more than a high school diploma. He believed she was destined for great things.

    Brother Antoine surveyed the street familiar to him from childhood. Alicia and her Aunt Juanita lived in an apartment was only a few blocks over, but well within the Redemption housing project. Driving such a short distance would be silly, plus he felt like a little exercise. It was a good evening for a walk, even though no one felt completely safe walking around any neighborhood in the city at night. At least one person had been killed in New Orleans every day that year, so far. Sometimes more. Too many drugs were on the streets. But he didn’t worry about any of that.

    He tucked the bundle of papers he’d pulled for the meeting under his arm and headed out. When he was a kid he’d found the Redemption overwhelming – so vast it couldn’t be taken in, visually, from his porch or from any single location. A crowded jumble of russet brick, broken down porches, and peeling army-drab paint, it stretched across the lower garden district from Magazine Street to the Mississippi River. When he was about six he tried to count the buildings, but gave up when he got lost. Everything looked the same to him back then. When he returned to live at the mission house he realized he’d been wrong. Each place was unique. Every apartment, every stoop, every front door was distinct, because everything inside was different. Every place had its own family, its own problems, its own joys. Every place had its own family, its own problems, and joys. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until his return.

    He passed the community garden planted around the corner from the mission house with its patches of brave sprouts pushing out of the ground. He was proud of that little spot, and equally excited for the people who were involved, especially those few who returned week after week to dig, and prod, and encourage the seedlings to grow. Some of the plants even promised to bear fruit, which was reason enough to celebrate.

    As he walked he could smell urine from the street gutters where drunken men or stoned boys had relieved themselves. A recent rain only added a steamy intensity to the mix, creating a cauldron of odors which would vanish only when the next day’s sunlight parched the streets.

    The Redemption was teeming with human spirit, poverty, and crime. It was home to many, but with rare exception, no one chose to live there. And everyone who did, even the very young, understood how fragile life could be.

    He walked up the steps to Juanita Bishop’s apartment and rapped on the front door.

    ***

    9:00 p.m.

    Sam Maureau pulled his car into the Redemption and parked at a curb at the end of Felicity Street. He was alone. Jackson, his partner, couldn’t come. But Sam wasn’t worried. He checked his watch. He was right on time. Things were under control.

    He turned off his lights and, except for the murky glow of the half-obscured moon, was surrounded by a blanket of darkness. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust, but even after he waited, he still strained to see. Most of the streetlights on that block had been shot out, and several apartment windows had been boarded over. He peered in between the last two buildings on the corner for any sign of movement.

    Sam kicked aside a beer can as he stepped out of his car. He didn’t expect any trouble that night. Marcus, a dealer who ran the Gangsta B’s, the largest gang in the city, had asked for a meeting to discuss ‘some business’, but they’d never had problems before. Their businesses had always co-existed, side-by-side. Sam had begun selling crack in small quantities ten years earlier, when he was twenty-five, and had remained one of the smaller distributers in the city. He figured that Marcus, who was younger by at least ten years, either wanted to bring him and his territory into the Gangsta B’s, or he wanted to buy him out. He didn’t see the need to change anything right now, unless the price was right. He was making pretty good money. His clients were happy with him. But he didn’t mind talking with Marcus.

    Sam patted his jacket pocket. The gun was still there. It never hurt to be careful. He locked his car, checking to make certain nothing was in the back seat. Marcus had asked him to meet around the corner.

    Sam made his way across the grassy common area, dodging the few mud puddles he could see reflected in the wan moonlight, to an old iron bench across from Marcus’s grandmother’s apartment where they had met once before. He sat down to wait. The bench hadn’t quite cooled from the daytime heat. The faint breeze from the river ruffled what scant remnants remained of his once luxurious surfer-boy hair and sent greasy paper bags, discarded whiskey bottles, and random debris scurrying across the sidewalk. He absent-mindedly patted his bald spot to make certain it was covered.

    He couldn’t see them, but their chatter floated over to his bench. Even though the words were indecipherable, Sam heard three distinct voices. Then he heard Marcus speak.

    “Go get Louis.”

    Out of habit, Sam felt his jacket pocket again, reassuring himself that his piece was still there. Marcus and one other young man came into view. Sam nodded as they approached.

    Marcus was a commanding presence. Tall, and athletic, intricate tattoos of black ink woe across his dark skin, tracing his biceps, and emphasizing his ropy, muscular arms and powerful shoulders. His long hair, pulled back into a pony-tail, flowed down his back. No one questioned his authority.

    “We’re gonna wait a minute for Louis,” Marcus pulled out a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, blowing billowy clouds into the night air.

    “Yeah, sure. But what’s this all about?” Marcus ignored Sam’s question and pulled hungrily on his cigarette, blowing smoke rings, refusing to make eye contact with Sam.

    Several minutes later a tall young man and a boy who couldn’t have been over sixteen joined them.

    “You and your people gotta go. You’re right in the middle of my territory. I’m claiming it, and I’m taking it – now. Ain’t nothing you can do about it.” Marcus threw down his cigarette and stomped it into the grass.

    Sam stood up to face Marcus. “Fuck you, Marcus. You don’t need my three blocks. I’ve had it for years, and its outside your territory anyway. You can’t just take it.” Sam clenched the fist of his left hand and shoved his right hand in his jacket pocket where the gun was hidden.

    “That’s where you’re wrong, mother fucker.” Marcus grabbed another cigarette and rammed it three times against the pack. “I got business coming to me from uptown all the time now. It’s time for you to give it up.” Marcus nodded to the three boys, who formed a circle around Sam and Marcus.

    “No way, bro’!” Sam’s hand instinctively tightened around the gun.

    Surrounded by the group of young men, Sam saw an opening, turned, and simultaneously pulled the gun from his jacket. As he stepped toward his escape, he saw something moving along the sidewalk next to the street. It appeared to be a man dressed in dark clothes, but it was impossible to be certain. Sam heard one shot, and felt it whizz by him. The distant figure dropped. Sam twisted around, and aimed his weapon toward the sound of the gun fire. Then he heard another shot.

    Feeling something hot in his chest, he crumbled to the ground. The last thing he saw was the young kid, the one they called Louis, running toward the river.

    ***

    Brother Antoine said good night to Alicia on the front porch of her aunt’s apartment and started his walk back home. He was feeling good, lighthearted. He and Alicia had completed her application and she had nearly finished her essay. He was certain she was a shoo-in for the scholarship. He’d only traveled a few feet down the sidewalk when he saw a group of men and a few boys gathered together in the grassy area next to one of the buildings. The cloud-covered moon offered enough reflection to allow him to make out the scant silhouette of the tallest member of the group. There was no doubt. His swagger and perpetual cigarette were unmistakable. Marcus Bishop. They had to be up to no good.

    Brother Antoine followed the curve of the sidewalk, which brought him a little closer to the group. He noticed there was movement, perhaps a scuffle. He heard a shot, then felt a searing pain in his chest. He placed his hand on his shirt where he felt dampness, and, struggling to breathe, fell to the ground. He grabbed the scapular around his neck, praying, as he lay there, someone would come administer the last rites.

    ***

    Excerpt from The Redemption by Cynthia Tolbert. Copyright 2021 by Cynthia Tolbert. Reproduced with permission from Cynthia Tolbert. All rights reserved.

     

     

    Author Bio:

    Cynthia Tolbert

    In 2010, Cynthia Tolbert won the Georgia Bar Journal’s fiction contest for the short story version of OUT FROM SILENCE. Cynthia developed that story into the first full-length novel of the Thornton Mystery Series by the same name, which was published by Level Best Books in December of 2019. Her second book in this same series, entitled THE REDEMPTION, was released in February of 2021.

    Cynthia has a Master’s in Special Education and taught children with learning disabilities for ten years before moving on to law school. She spent most of her legal career working as defense counsel to large corporations and traveled throughout the country as regional and national counsel. She also had the unique opportunity of teaching third-year law students in a clinical program at a law school in New Orleans where she ran the Homeless Law Clinic and learned, first hand, about poverty in that city. She retired after more than thirty years of practicing law. The experiences and impressions she has collected from the past forty years contribute to the stories she writes today. Cynthia has four children, and three grandchildren, and lives in Atlanta with her husband and schnauzer.

    Q&A with C.L. Tolbert

    What was the inspiration for this book?

    In 1995 I met a fifteen-year-old boy who had been charged with the murder of a man in a housing project in New Orleans. Even though he was a juvenile, he was in the adult prison system because of a statute which required that all juveniles be tried as adults for certain crimes of violence. The DA had already mentioned the death penalty as a possibility for the juvenile, which was permissible then. I was teaching at a law school, and took the case through the law school’s clinic.

    I’ll never forget the look in the young man’s eyes when I met him. I wasn’t certain if he fully comprehended the seriousness of his circumstances, but one of his knees shook up and down like a piston. He was terrified, and refused to speak of the night of the murder.

    I was haunted by his case, which inspired The Redemption. In the actual case, the young man protected his brother, who was the head of a gang, and went to prison for him. I changed the story to show how the young man could have turned that same loyalty and courage around to help save himself.

    What has been the biggest challenge in your writing career?

    Without question, the biggest challenge in my writing career has been marketing. I enjoy writing, and would love to spend all of my time engaged in the development of the next move in my plot or a particular nuance of a character. But I read recently that writers should spend fifty percent of their time writing, and the other fifty percent marketing. Self-promotion is not easy for me. Plus, my social media skills aren’t exactly stellar. My goal for the coming year is to at least remember to use hash tags on my posts, and to up my marketing time to the required fifty percent!

    What do you absolutely need while writing?

    I prefer silence while I’m writing. I also need a computer, my computer glasses, and about five to six hours of sleep.

    Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?

    I write every day, unless there is a conflict. Writing very early in the morning works best, until the day kicks in and I need to complete a few chores. Then, after my morning chores, I’ll start again, if the day permits, and write from about 1:00 to 5:00.

    Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

    Other than Emma Thornton, my favorite character in all of the Thornton Mysteries, my favorite character in The Redemption was Juanita Bishop.

    Juanita was the owner of her own business, “A Cut Above” hair salon. She devoted herself to raising her niece, Alicia, helped out other family members, including her nephew Louis, and saved her money for her own home – all with the same fierce love. She wasn’t afraid of anyone, not off duty police officers who harassed her for protection money, or thugs who threatened her family. She was tough, principled, but kind. She never failed to give everything she had to the people she loved. Plus, she looked and dressed like an Egyptian queen.

    Tell us why we should read your book.

    The Redemption is, as its name implies, a mystery that also offers a story of healing and hope, and a glimpse into the characters’ humanity. The story is told through the eyes of Emma Thornton, a stressed-out, working-mom attorney, whose impulsive tendencies cause trouble. But what makes the book even more unique is the element of social justice which runs through the story line. I wanted to show the reader how easy it is to manipulate a sixteen-year-old. This vulnerability is what caused Louis Bishop’s arrest and incarceration, and eventually, since, in 1996 the death penalty was constitutionally viable for juveniles, it is what made him susceptible to this country’s most extreme punishment. Emma quickly realizes that she must gain Louis’s trust to help him, which proves more difficult than tracking down the actual murderer.

    Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?

    I lived in New Orleans during the time period of The Redemption. I enjoyed revisiting the city in my imagination as I wrote. I had planned on flying down to New Orleans to verify street names and locations, but the pandemic shut down travel, and I wasn’t able to do in-person research. I was comfortable with all of my descriptions in the book but one. I had never walked on the wharf at the end of Felicity and Tchoupitoulas Street, and wasn’t certain how and with what materials the dock was constructed.

    I decided to try Google Maps Street View to find the streets and the wharf. It was surprisingly easy. I located Felicity Street, which I virtually “walked” down, much as Emma would have. When I found Tchoupitoulas Street, I virtually followed the curve, then found the wharf along the river. I could even see the texture of the wharf, and verified that it was comprised of poured concrete.

    I wrote the wharf scene after viewing the virtual wharf. To verify what I’d written, I asked my cousin, a former jack-up ship captain, to review the pages. He and his fellow captains, who are all familiar with the New Orleans docks, approved the description, and even wanted to know more about Emma and her adventures!

    Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

    I’d like my readers to know how much they’re appreciated. It’s so exciting that someone actually reads something I’ve written, and touches me more than I can say. I’d like to thank all of my readers, in the most heartfelt way.

    Tell us a little about yourself and your background?

    In 2010, I won the Georgia Bar Journal’s fiction contest for the short story version of OUT FROM SILENCE. I developed that story into the first full-length novel of the Thornton Mystery Series by the same name, which was published by Level Best Books in December of 2019. My second book in this same series, entitled THE REDEMPTION, which is set in New Orleans, was released in February of 2021.

    I have a Master’s in Special Education and taught children with learning disabilities before moving on to law school. I spent most of my legal career working as defense counsel to large corporations and traveled throughout the country as regional and national counsel. I also had the unique opportunity of teaching third-year law students in a clinical program at a law school in New Orleans where I ran the Homeless Law Clinic. I retired from the practice of law several years ago.
    I have four children, and three grandchildren, and lives in Atlanta with her husband and schnauzer.

    What’s next that we can look forward to?

    I’m working on Sanctuary, the third book in the Thornton Mystery Series. This book is also set in New Orleans, and begins with the death of the leader of a cult.

    Catch Up With Cynthia:
    CLTolbert.com
    Goodreads
    Instagram – @cltolbertwrites
    Twitter – @cltolbertwrites
    Facebook – @cltolbertwriter

     

     

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    #Review | Her Ocean Grave by Dana Perry

    Her Ocean Grave by Dana Perry
    Genre: Police Procedural, Thriller
    Published by Bookouture
    Publication Date: June 2, 2021
    ISBN 1800193858 (ISBN-13: 978-1800193857)
    ASIN: B091CRDBK2
    Pages: 290
    Review Copy From: Publisher
    Edition: Print/Kindle
    My Rating: 5

    Synopsis (via GR)

    Over the cliff edge, she sees a broken body on the jutting rocks below, the waves crashing all around. She can’t see the girl’s face, which is covered by her long, brown hair. But she knows her. She met her just yesterday…

    When Samantha Claymore doesn’t return home after an afternoon bicycle ride on Martha’s Vineyard, Detective Abby Pearce acts immediately. She knows from experience how quickly a lost girl can become a tragedy. Back on the island for the first time since she ran away as a teenager, Abby hopes solving Samantha’s case will make up for her past mistakes… But, as the media swarm and Samantha’s grieving mother joins the search, the police find no trace of the beloved sixteen-year-old—even when a reward is offered for her return.

    Trawling through old case files, Abby discovers that Samantha is not the only girl to have gone missing in the small community of Martha’s Vineyard. She’s convinced more could follow, but her team insists there’s no link to be found. Until Samantha’s best friend is found dead at the bottom of a cliff the next day…

    After searching Samantha’s bedroom and trawling through the files on her computer, Abby digs into the death of Samantha’s father five years ago at sea, following the trail to one of the island’s most powerful families. The same people who failed to protect Abby the night she was forced to leave as a young girl. Is there anyone left on this quiet island who Abby can trust? Can she find Samantha before more innocent lives are taken?

    An absolutely unputdownable and nail-biting crime thriller that will have you racing through the pages. Perfect for fans of Lisa Regan, Kendra Elliot, and Gregg Olsen.

    My Thoughts

    Caveat: I’m a big fan of this author’s books, both the Clare Carlson series written by R.G. Belsky and the Jessie Tucker series penned under Dana Perry. Would I enjoy this book, the first in another series, as much as I have all his previous books?

    Her Ocean Grave checked off many boxes of what I enjoy in a book.

    √ The story flowed, along with the captivating suspense, from page 1 to the last word.

    √ The setting description, within the narrative, was so vivid that while sitting on my deck reading, I felt as if I had been transported to Martha’s Vineyard.

    √ The characters were both believable and lifelike. I could picture them as they came alive in my mind.

    √ Short chapters meant that I would tell myself just one more chapter because the story was so engrossing and then realized I had read 10.

    √ Enough twists and turns that had me guessing how this tale was going to end.

    √ And just when I thought the case had wrapped up, BAM! I didn’t see that one coming!!

    Now to answer my question. YES!!! I definitely devoured this read!!

    And what’s more exciting for me now is that I have 3 sequels to look forward to!! No pressure but keep these books coming and make it quick, please!!!!!!

    Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗

    REVIEW DISCLAIMER

  • This blog was founded on the premise to write honest reviews, to the best of my ability, no matter who from, where from, and/or how the book was obtained and will continue to do so, even if it is through PICT or PBP.
  • I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
  • I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.
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