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The Fatal Saving Grace by Jim Nesbitt #AuthorInterview

GHott February 25, 2026 3 Comments

THE FATAL SAVING GRACE

by Jim Nesbitt

February 9 – March 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

ED EARL BURCH HARD-BOILED TEXAS CRIME THRILLER

MAYHEM WITH A BADGE

After wandering the peephole wilderness of a private detective for two decades, defrocked Dallas homicide detective Ed Earl Burch is finally an official manhunter again, wearing the badge of a district attorney’s investigator working in the harsh desert mountains of West Texas.

Big D, it ain’t. And life as a resurrected lawman isn’t everything he hoped it would be. Too many rules. Not enough satisfaction. And a boss who hates him for saving his life.

But Burch is back, playing the same deadly game he mastered as a murder cop, tracking a serial killer who tortured and murdered his ex-lover with a straight razor—an Aryan Brotherhood gang leader Burch thought he killed in a desert shootout.

He’s also trying to protect the fugitive granddaughter of an old friend and her four-year-old son—from this remorseless killer and cartel gunsels hired by her incestuous Dixie Mafia daddy.

Throats get slashed. Bullets smack flesh. Bodies drop. And Ed Earl Burch and his partner, Bobby Quintero, are in reckless pursuit, dodging death, closing in on their prey.

No place Burch would rather be. Unless he gets killed.

Praise for The Fatal Saving Grace:

The Fatal Saving Grace is the Independent Press Award Distinguished Favorite for Action/Adventure 2026

“Nesbitt delivers a scorched-earth tale where every shadow conceals an ambush and every road bleeds history. He paints West Texas in colors of rust, smoke and whiskey, and the result is a story that feels carved in stone. This is cowboy noir at its finest.”
~ Baron Birtcher, Will Rogers Medallion winning author of Knife River

“Ed Earl Burch, who’s partial to Lucky Strikes and Maker’s Mark, makes Mike Hammer look like Miss Marple. Jim’s novels offer wicked humor, an eye for detail, brass-knuck action and language that would strip the paint off a Hummer.”
~ Noel Holston, author of Life After Deaf and As I Die Laughing

“Jim Nesbitt knows his Texas crime and writes one fine line at a time. Hard-boiled with prickly pears, old leather boots, a bit of tobacco, freshly spit of course, he gets it right.”
~ Joe R. Lansdale, champion mojo storyteller and author of the Hap ‘N Leonard crime thrillers

“A gritty and deadly must-read, THE FATAL SAVING GRACE cements Nesbitt’s standing among the best writers in the pantheon of Southern noir.”
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, bestselling author of the Detective Justice Mysteries

“Ed Earl Burch is back, and that’s great news for readers who love classic hard-boiled noir, colorful characters, crackling dialogue and plenty of action. Highly recommended!”
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Gil Malloy and Clare Carlson mysteries

“Some would call it justice. Some would call it revenge. No matter what you call it, the concept has been a long running theme of the Ed Earl Burch series. The same is very much true in the fifth book of the series, The Fatal Saving Grace: An Ed Earl Burch Novel by Jim Nesbitt.”
~ ‘Ace Texas book reviewer’ Kevin Tipple

Book Details:

Genre: Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction, Western
Published by: Spotted Mule Press
Publication Date: December 15, 2025
Number of Pages: 301
ISBN: 9780998329482 (ISBN10: 0998329487)
Series: Ed Earl Burch Hard-Boiled Texas Crime Thriller, Book 5 | Each is a Stand-Alone Thriller
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Ed Earl Burch Novels, 1-4

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

When a man gets hit by a .45 ACP Flying Ashtray or three, by all that’s ballistically holy, he ought to get dead and stay dead.

All manner of official paperwork swore he was dead. All of it based on a bogus death certificate filed by parties unknown in the Cuervo County Coroner’s Office, with copies popping up like blowflies on a cow carcass. Even the federales had him playing poker with the Devil, his prison mugshot tucked away in ATF and DEA files, DECEASED stamped across his face in bold, black letters.

The con was slick and easy. Money changed hands, files were swapped or ditched, reports were shredded or faked. Somebody else’s corpse became him. The relentless power of bureaucratic incompetence and inertia did the rest.

Yessir. According to all that yellowing, lawdog paper, he was nobody they had to worry about no more. Finito. A shade. A ghost who said adios. A good thug now that he was a dead thug. Muerto.

Not hardly.

That’s what John Wayne said to all those hombres who thought he was dead in Big Jake. With a growl and a scowl.

Not hardly.

He liked that. Matter of fact, he just trotted out the Duke’s line to a guy he used to be tight with. Caught up to him climbing the three cinder block steps to the front door of his desert double wide.

Tapped him on the shoulder, saw the wild-eyed fear when the dude turned and saw who the finger belonged to. Blurted out: “You’re supposed to be dead!”

Not hardly. Said it with a growl but no scowl. Then grabbed him by a greasy hank of raven black hair, yanking his head back and cutting a crimson smile across his throat from ear to ear. With a bone-handled straight razor. His favorite.

Threw the guy into the sand at the side of the steps. Listened to the choking gurgle and death rattle. Then licked the blood off the blade.

Not hardly. He tilted his head back and laughed. Savored the kill. Alone and alive. An endless dome of stars glittering in the midnight sky above the rocky desert outback near Radium Springs, New Mexico. No moon. A dead man at his feet. Used to be a member of his crew. Frankie Sheridan.

Met him at Pelican Bay. An Alice Baker brother doing a long stretch for bank robbery. Had a shamrock tattooed on his chest with the initials AB in capital letters—Alice Baker, Aryan Brotherhood. Blood in, blood out. Ex-Army. Knew his way around diesels, alarm systems, and weapons.

Sent him a ticket to Texas when he got out. Made him a member of his crew, smuggling guns and drugs out of a ranch north of Faver, the Cuervo County seat, a bent outfit that ran cattle for cover and fleeced bitter and gullible white trash while promising them the return of the Republic of Texas for Caucasian Christians only, a New Zion based on God, guns, guts, and the Good Book. Niggers, Jews, Arabs, and Spics need not apply.

Bad move. Frankie was a ratfuck snitch. Uno chivato. Not to the lawdogs. Just as bad, though. Frankie sold him out to a rival outfit of gunrunners and drug smugglers. Kept them one step ahead of him as they chased a third outfit that held a cache of stolen military hardware everybody wanted.

Rockets, bloopers, mortars, and full-auto carbines and rifles. Bang-bangs that could tip the scales on both sides of the river. All in the hands of a crew fronted by a flashy woman in jeans, tall boots, a bolero jacket, and a blonde wig. A wet dream for the pendejos she hustled.

La Güera. Just the thought of her caused his molars to grind. He wanted her dead. No, he needed her dead. She and her lover were the reason his life got flushed into the sewer, his crew dead, his stash of guns and drugs long gone. Had him climbing out of the shitter, clawing to the top of the dung heap. Again.

He caught the lover. Sliced off his manhood. Slit his throat. Then chopped off his head and butchered his body to stuff into a giant barbecue smoker. Tucked the man’s jewels into his mouth as the crowning touch to a cannibal’s mesquite-smoked delight.

Not the same. Didn’t have her. She still needed to feel his blade, feel his eyes boring holes into hers as he gave her that crimson smile. He needed to lick her blood off that sharp stainless steel. Taste it. And grin. Only then would the circle be complete. He’d be whole again.

Well, not completely whole.

His right eye was gone, blown out by a glancing hit from one of those .45 ACP slugs that also shattered the orbital bones. Nothing extensive plastic surgery, bone implants and a new glass eye couldn’t cure. Had to stack plenty of cash up front to repair damage that severe.

Gave that part of his face a waxy texture straight out of Madame Tussauds. But it sure beat wearing an eye patch and the lopsided face of a Dick Tracy cartoon villain.

His left knee was also shattered, replaced with a titanium joint that allowed him to walk with only a slight limp. Another five-figure hit to his stash of greenbacks.

The man who fired those rounds was also on his payback list. An ex-cop. Big-ass older fucker with a gray beard. Said to be a washed-up Dallas P. I..

Beg to differ, sir. Sumbitch sure kept him from getting to her during that clusterfuck in the West Texas desert. A real Wild West shootout between rival drug gangs wanting the blonde bitch’s bang-bangs.

He was oh-so-close to grabbing her up, dodging bullets and bodies, closing the gap between him and Ol’ Dude, who was carrying the bitch draped over his right shoulder. He screamed her name and leveled an M-16A1 at the both of them.

“La Güeraaaaaaa! I got you, bitch! Got you now! Gonna slice you wide open and watch you bleeeeeeed!“

Ol’ Dude spun on his heel and emptied a 1911 mag at him offhand. Yelled this: “Not today, you cockbite motherfucker. Not in this lifetime or the next.” A lefty. On target without dropping the bitch. Only thing that kept him alive was a Kevlar vest that caught the Flying Ashtrays that would have shredded his chest.

Washed-up, my ass. The man wrecked me. His time was coming, though. Count on a reckoning. Soon. But not now. He was working his way up the ladder of a list he kept in his head. One body at a time.

Frankie was the bottom rung. La Güera was at the top with Ol’ Dude second. Five other rungs between Frankie and them.

Time to get gone. And get busy.

***

Author Bio:

Jim Nesbitt has the perfect radio face, bionic knees that can grind coffee beans and tell time and a cat who poaches his cigars and uses his cellphone to place bets on British soccer. He is also a recovering journalist who once chased politicians, neo-Nazis, hurricanes, rodeo cowboys, plane wrecks and the everyday people swept up in a news event who gave his stories depth, authenticity and a distinct voice.

A lapsed horseman, pilot, journalist and saloon sport with a keen appreciation of old guns, vintage cars, red meat, good cigars, aged whisky without an ‘e’ and a well-told story, Nesbitt is also the award-winning author of five hard-boiled Texas crime thrillers that feature battered but relentless Dallas PI Ed Earl Burch — THE LAST SECOND CHANCE, THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER, THE BEST LOUSY CHOICE, THE DEAD CERTAIN DOUBT and THE FATAL SAVING GRACE.

A diehard Tennessee Vols fan, he now lives in enemy territory — Athens, Alabama — with his wife, Pam, and is working on his sixth Ed Earl Burch novel, THE PERFECT TRAIN WRECK. When he’s off his meds, he’s been known to call himself Reverend Jim and preach the Gospel of Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction.

Catch Up With Jim Nesbitt:

www.JimNesbittBooks.com
Jim’s Substack – @edearl56
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @edearl56
Instagram – @edearl74
Threads – @edearl74
Facebook – @edearlburchbooks

#AuthorInterview with Jim Nesbitt:

What was the inspiration for this book?
A perverted sense of charity for the main character of my hard-boiled Texas crime thrillers, cashiered Dallas homicide detective Ed Earl Burch. For two decades, he’s been wandering the peephole wilderness of a private detective, longing for the sense of calling and higher purpose he had when carried the badge he lost. I wanted to give him what he wished for and see how he copes with life as a resurrected lawman, forced to take orders and work with people after living life as a loner and semi-outlaw for a long time. It’s not everything he hoped it would be, as is often the case with magnificent obsessions. Too many rules, too many people, too many years as a lone wolf and semi-outlaw unfettered by rules. I also wanted to show the hard miles he’s racked up, giving him the aches and pains of middle-aged tough guy without turning him into a cripple or a poster child for Geritol. He’s still tough, profane, ornery and reckless. And he’d still just as soon shoot you as look at you — if you’re a bad guy in need of killin’. But it’s harder for him to get out of bed in the morning.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?
Getting started. I come from a long line of hillbilly storytellers who taught me the importance of knowing where you’re from and who your people are. Seems like I’ve always had a book in my hand and started writing at a very early age. Had some talent and was able to parlay it into a fairly successful journalism career for nearly forty years. I was lucky to break into journalism when long-format stories that used the tradecraft of fiction writing was in vogue. I was also a hard-boiled crime fiction junkie, a faithful follower of Chandler and Hammett and others who broke free from the confines of the English cozy mystery and amateur sleuths, giving crime back to the criminals of the gritty urban underworld. Wasn’t a huge leap for me to tackle my first hard-boiled crime thriller. But I’m a lazy bastard so it took me way too long to start. Wish I’d cranked it up twenty years ago. Make that twenty-five.

What do you absolutely need while writing?
Used to be George Dickel Tennessee whisky (spelled without the e), preferably hundred proof bottled-in-bond, and a damn good cigar, waiting for me at the end of a writing session. These days, it’s more likely to be cornbread and iced tea, to poach a line from Hank Williams, Jr. And a cushion for my butt.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?
I’m not really strict about anything and I hate routine. That said, I know the key to writing a book is the discipline to keep your butt in the chair for hours at a time and writing even when the words don’t flow. If you wait on those mystical ideas to flow, you’ll never get anywhere. I don’t punch a clock or slavishly do periodic word counts but I do put in the time it takes to write a good story. I just don’t brag about it on Facebook or my blog.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?
Rhonda Mae Mutscher. She’s just as tough and unsinkable as Ed Earl Burch. Maybe tougher. Quicker to shoot somebody, maybe. Very much like many of the women in my books, she’s smarter than most men, Burch included. But there’s a bond between her and Burch based on the earlier experience of him helping her escape from cartel sicarios and gunrunning rivals, including the serial killer of this book, a nasty piece of work named Cleve Chizik, who Burch thought he killed during a desert shootout four or five years ago described in The Dead Certain Doubt. Because of that bond, she thinks of Burch when Dixie Mafia gunsels sent by her incestuous father chase her out of the small Colorado town where the feds stashed her as a protected witness. She also has a five-year-old son she has to protect and doesn’t trust the feds to keep her or him safe. West Texas feels safer because Burch and the family of her son’s dead father are there.

Tell us why we should read your book.
Because it bristles with relentless action, has a pulse-racer of a plot, a solid storyline, and a colorful cast of characters. It’s hard-boiled detective fiction at its finest, centered on a protagonist like no other, the deeply flawed but wildly compelling Ed Earl Burch. It’s a taut, tense, uncompromising tale of revenge and redemption — a damned good story exceptionally well-told.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?
To give myself a little more literary license, I created two West Texas jurisdictions that are both figments of my imagination: Cuervo County, because crows are smart and fascinating birds, and the town of Faver, the county seat, named for the pioneering cattle baron of the Big Bend Country, Milton Faver. Faver was an interesting character who is mostly forgotten today. Like a lot of newcomers to Texas, both before the split from Mexico and after, he was escaping something unsavory back east. He killed a man in a duel in Missouri and fled, first to Mexico, where he worked in a flour mill than as a freighter hauling goods over the Chihuahua and Santa Fe trails, surviving an Indian attack that left him severely wounded. Although hazardous, the freighting business was profitable enough for Faver to start a general store in Ojinaga. In 1857, he moved with his wife and only son to the frontier of the Chianti Mountains in the Big Bend Country, bought land around three springs and established the Cibolo Creek ranch, building herds of cattle and sheep as well as fortress houses to repel attacks from raiding Comanche and Apache. He ruled his ranches with an iron hand and meted out justice by his own lights. He didn’t believe in credit and stood at the gate during a cattle sale, taking silver coin for each cow, steer or sheep as it passed into the corral. He died in 1889.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?
Like my earlier books, The Fatal Saving Grace is the polar opposite of a cozy mystery. There isn’t a lick of cuteness in it. It’s a hard-bitten tale told in the hard-boiled style of Chandler, Hammett and later-day writers like the late, great James Crumley. It’s raunchy and violent with no punches pulled or euphemisms used to protect delicate sensibilities. And most of the people rambling around the stark, harsh beauty of West Texas have been honed, beaten and shaped by this land. They’ve all got some hard bark on them. And even the good guys have a mean streak and do bad things to get the job done according to what they think is right. It’s country that demands rough justice and Ed Earl Burch has been given a badge again to deliver just that.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
The Irish say that writers are failed talkers — guilty as charged since I always tell people it’s a damn good thing I write better than I talk because the way I talk is a curious mixture of 40s and 50s tough-guy jargon and cowboy lingo. I was born up North, near Philadelphia, but my parents were both North Carolina hillbillies from around Asheville. My sister and I weren’t Yankee-raised and we spent a lot of time with the country cousins when we were young during extended summer road trips. I was a journalist for almost forty years, nearly twenty of that spent as a roving correspondent for newspapers and wire services, parachuting into big stories of the moment, from presidential campaigns to hurricanes, and chasing big trends like the ongoing battle over public land use in the West, a vicious and long-running fight about grazing rights, mining and logging, or the rise of neo-Nazis and Christian Patriots in the mountain West. That experience taught me to look for the telling detail and listen for the voices of the people swept up in an event. I was also fascinated by the features of the land where people lived and the impact of that place as they tried to extract a living from it. That fascination is very much a result of my parents instilling in me a keen sense of place — knowing where you’re from and who your people are — something I believe is vitally important in storytelling. The place where you set your story should be as alive and vivid as you can make it — a character unto itself, not a one-dimensional stage flat in a play.

What’s next that we can look forward to from you?
I’ve been accused of writing thinly disguised Westerns and, truth be told, that’s a strong undercurrent that threatens to break the surface in all my books. Ed Earl Burch doesn’t wear a white hat, but he has a code he tries to live by and a strong sense of right and wrong. I’ve decided to let him rest a bit and resume writing a Western set in the 1920s in one of the rowdy oil boomtowns of the Texas Panhandle. I’ve created a character I think fans of Ed Earl Burch will like, a morally ambiguous gypsy lawman named Charley Mack Kincaid, whose been a cowhand, a deputy, a Texas Ranger and a Pinkerton agent, tapped by a Ranger styled after the legendary Frank Hamer to go undercover and help bust open the ring running the town. I’ve also got two more Ed Earl Burch novels rattling around my brainpan that I’ll get around to writing after I finish this Western, tentatively titled Boomtown Blood, which is the most unambiguous and straightforward title I’ve ever created. Gotta do something about that.

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The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth | #AuthorInterview

GHott February 24, 2026 3 Comments

THE FIRST TO DIE

by Suzanne Trauth

February 9 – March 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Connie Tucker, a free-spirited beach bartender, has been estranged from her family in New Jersey ever since her actress mother, Simone, disappeared one night during a violent storm at the theatre where she was rehearsing. Uncontrollable and in a rage at the loss of her parent, fifteen-year-old Connie is exiled to California, due to her delinquent behavior, to live with an aunt she doesn’t know. Now, fifteen years later, Simone’s murdered remains are discovered at a construction site and Connie returns to the east coast for the funeral—she owes it to her mother. The cold case unit will take over now and solve the crime. But then she discovers a message her mother left behind. It feels like a dispatch from the grave. Connie must face her tortured past, the guilt of concealing a devastating secret, and the part she played in her mother’s disappearance. Unearthing buried family history and childhood demons, she confronts the agonizing reality that she doesn’t know where she belongs, where to call home. Who to trust. When a second suspicious death occurs, Connie races to unravel the events of the night Simone disappeared. Her mother was the first to die…but not the last.

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Between the Lines Publishing
Publication Date: November 18, 2025
Number of Pages: 334 (Pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-965059-65-4
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Between the Lines Publishing

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Now

“They found Mom. You need to come home.”

Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.

Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.

She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.

The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.

Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest.

42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before.

Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family.

Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast.

The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her.

“Connie Tucker!”

She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared.

“Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen.

She’d aged. And not well.

Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.”

Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years.

“Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.”

Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.”

“Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?”

The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—”

Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her.

Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere.

Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt.

Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish.

The door swung open.

With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect.

A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air.

Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother.

A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night.

***

Author Bio:

Suzanne Trauth is a novelist and playwright. Her novels include The First to Die, What Remains of Love (a first-place winner in Women’s Fiction, Firebird Book Awards; a finalist in General Fiction, American Book Festival; and a finalist for the Hemingway Prize) and the Dodie O’Dell mystery series–Show Time, Time Out, Running Out of Time, Just in Time, No More Time and Killing Time. Ms. Trauth has co-authored Sonia Moore and American Acting Training and co-edited Katrina on Stage: Five Plays. She is a former member of the theatre faculty at a university and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dramatists Guild, and the League of Professional Theatre Women.

Q&A With Suzanne Trauth:

What was the inspiration for this book?

I first got the idea for the book several years ago when I heard a story about an elderly woman. The details about the woman were interesting and I thought she’d make a great character. But as I wrote and rewrote—and received editorial feedback—the murder mystery morphed and the woman, who initially was a witness to a killing, became a background character. Though the plot changed over a number of drafts, the elderly woman hung around! With a name and nationality change by the final version of The First to Die, she remained in the story and helped provide clues and move the plot forward. But she triggered my initial thinking about the story.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?

I find the first drafts fun…just letting my imagination go and playing with characters and story, knowing that most things will change in the revision process. For me, the revision process is more challenging, less freewheeling, more structured, and requires more attention to detail. Staying patient with the project and letting it develop more deeply can also be challenging for me. Early on, it was challenging to find time to write while I was still working full time. I had to carve out certain hours of certain days; once I had projects completed, the challenge was finding publishers. It took years and hundreds of query letters to finally get a publisher with my first mystery series. I was fortunate to find publishers who believed in my projects.

What do you absolutely need while writing?

I’d like to say I need a clear workspace, but unfortunately, that’s not true! My desk is overflowing with papers, notes, books, to-do lists, and post-it notes. Though it’s rather messy, somehow I am able to keep order in my creative imagination as I work. And I need my mug of tea…usually some herbal blend.

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

I am not a 5:30 a.m. writer like some authors I know. I tend to spend the mornings doing life chores and busywork unrelated to writing; then I settle in in the afternoon and write—often rereading yesterday’s work before tackling new material or new revisions. I write most days to keep on a self-imposed schedule, especially when I have a publisher deadline. It’s great to work when the ideas are flowing, but sometimes discipline requires showing up at the computer even when ideas are only coming in fits and starts.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

I have a couple of favorite characters. Of course I love my protagonist, Connie Tucker. She is obsessive about finding her mother’s killer and who can’t identify with someone so committed to a goal? So willing to pull out all the stops in achieving her objective. I also love the elderly woman I mentioned earlier—the one who hung around and wouldn’t go away. Her name is Deirdre O’Shaughnessy and she provides a bit of humor in the story.

Tell us why we should read your book.

I feel that The First to Die is entertaining, providing the reader an experience that combines both a suspense story and a family narrative. There is certainly a “whodunnit” element to the novel, but also a “whydunnit,” and, at the same time, there is a story about a family and how it handles the crime at the core of the book. I want my readers to go on a journey with the characters, especially my protagonist, and feel into the story. That may mean laughing or crying, empathizing with the characters’ wants and needs and challenges.

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

I used a town near where I live as a model for the setting in The First to Die. It was a perfect location for the action of the mystery. I loved a particular house on a lovely street as one of the homes my characters inhabit. I would pass this house whenever I was in the town and it was my favorite. Fast forward to last month and I am discussing the book with a local library group. We had barely begun the discussion when one participant announced, “I recognized the town you used as a model in the book.” I was impressed! Then she went on to add, “In fact, I know the exact house you also used.” I was flabbergasted…she was correct.

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

Thanks for the opportunity to talk about The First to Die—in my experience, authors love to discuss current projects. We spend so much time by ourselves with characters and plot points in our heads that it’s great to be able to share the process of creating the novel and the writing life. While all of my murder mysteries take place in New Jersey, the state really is a lovely place to live. And stay alive…

Tell us a little about yourself and your background.

I started writing novels full time when I retired from teaching at a university in the theatre program here in New Jersey, so theatres figure prominently in my mysteries. I started out with a cozy mystery series: the Dodie O’Dell Mysteries, and wrote six of them before I switched genres and published a women’s fiction/historical romance based on a true story and set in part in WWII. But for my recent novel, The First to Die, I returned to the mystery genre and wrote psychological suspense. Before the novels, I wrote screenplays and plays, both of which helped me with structure, creating characters, and writing dialogue.

What’s next that we can look forward to from you?

I am a couple of drafts into a new mystery that again takes place in a small town in New Jersey. The story involves four sisters and includes a historical element; I’m not completely sure whether this is a cozy mystery or a thriller. We’ll see…

Catch Up With Suzanne Trauth:

www.SuzanneTrauth.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads, @suzannetrauth
BookBub, @trauths1
Instagram, @suzannetrauth
Facebook, @suzanne.trauth.2025
Facebook, @SuzanneTrauth (Author)

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Hard Headed Woman by Howard Gimple #AuthorInterview

GHott February 17, 2026 1 Comment

HARD HEADED WOMAN

by Howard Gimple

February 2 – 27, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

No one but Hannah Johansson believes her father was murdered. Not even her mother. The doctors say he had a stroke, but Hannah knows he was poisoned. She just doesn’t know who did it or why. One thing she does know is that the answers can be found at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, a pristine 9,000 acre nature preserve where her father was superintendent.

When she goes back to the Refuge, instead of answers, all she finds are more questions. Ominous questions. Where are all the birds? Why is there a heavily armed guard at the gate? What’s in the mysterious bundles being dropped off there in the middle of the night? When the police won’t investigate, Hannah is determined to find the answers herself, and she won’t quit until she learns the truth. Not even after she is shot at, thrown in jail, and beaten up by a 300-pound lesbian biker.

Praise for Hard Headed Woman:

“A gamesome detective story, dramatically absorbing and intelligently wrought.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

“Hard Headed Woman is a refreshingly original story, free of many of the tropes often associated with mystery novels. That alone makes it deliciously difficult for the reader to guess who did what, and that makes this story one of the better mysteries we’ve read recently.”
~ The Mystery Review Crew

“The writing was exquisite, with vivid descriptions of all the events. It was a gripping read, especially with all the changes happening in the wildlife refuge. I found the story thoroughly enjoyable and was engrossed until the final page. The conclusion was a major surprise, and I did not expect it at all.”
~ Readers’ Favorite

Hard Headed Woman #AuthorInterview:

What was the inspiration for this book?
Much of the action in Hard Headed Woman takes place at the Jamaica Wildlife Sanctuary, a place I have visited many times. It’s a 12,000-acre forever-wild marshland in the middle of New York City, right across the bay from JFK Airport. I thought it would be a great setting for a mystery-thriller. It always struck me that an ingenious way to smuggle contraband out of the airport would be to ferry it across the bay to the Refuge.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?
As a copywriter and creative director on Madison Avenue, with a wife and young daughter at home, it was difficult to carve out time to write. Sometimes, after a long day of sitting, thinking, and writing at a computer, doing the same thing for several more hours was the last thing I wanted to do when I came home. I had to fight the urge just to veg out in front of the TV, then drag myself, mentally kicking and screaming, down to my basement office. Thankfully, once there, the writing adrenaline kicked in.

What do you absolutely need while writing?
I need a few hours with zero distractions. Sometimes I’ll listen to music while working, jazz or classical, but no vocals. The only words I want to hear are the ones in my head.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing, or write when the ideas are flowing?
I don’t have a strict routine, but it’s because I’m waiting for a chunk of time, as opposed to waiting for ideas. Many of my most interesting ideas come when I’m nowhere near my computer or even a notepad, like on a walk or while driving. I’ll yell the idea out loud to myself two or three times to help me remember it, which makes for some strange stares from people who are walking near me. Then, when I get a chance, I’ll write it on an index card or sticky note. Hopefully, once I’m at my desk, the note that I wrote to myself will still make sense.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?
I really enjoyed writing about Hannah’s sidekick Bette, who is struggling through some major life decisions about her career, her sexuality, and her entire identity. That being said, sometimes a minor character pops up and turns out to be more interesting and fun to write than I first thought. Two examples from TV that come to mind are Klinger on MASH, who was only supposed to be in one or two episodes and became a co-star, and Robin Williams as Mork from Ork, who was on a single episode of Happy Days, and wound up with his own show. That character in Hard Headed Woman was Salazar. She’s a wisecracking EMT who was a combat medic in Afghanistan. She was supposed to be a minor character in a scene, and she wound up dominating it. Don’t be surprised if she turns up as a major character in the next Hannah Johansson story.

Tell us why we should read your book.
Hard Headed Woman is a fun and exciting read with plenty of thrills and laughs. Hannah and Bette are unique characters who you won’t find in most mysteries. I also think most readers will be surprised to learn about the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. The book deals with some serious topics on family dynamics, including but not limited to what happens when a headstrong adult daughter has to move in with her elderly but still vital mother. There are also some facts that I discovered about the aftermath of the Iraq War that will intrigue many readers.

Give us an interesting, fun fact or a few about your book.
Hannah Johansson, the Hard Headed Woman of the title and main character of the book, is based on my wife, Chris. Like Hannah, Chris grew up on the Jamaica Wildlife Refuge, where her father was superintendent. She lived there with her mom and dad until she left to attend college. It was from her that I learned what it was like to spend your formative years in an isolated semi-wilderness, miles away from your school and your friends in New York City. Of course, Chris never had the exciting, death-defying adventures that Hannah experiences.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?
I’d like to thank everyone reading this for loving books. In today’s multifaceted media landscape, along with attention spans that are ever dwindling, as an author, it’s comforting to know that there are still a good number of people out there willing to devote the time, effort, and energy it takes to read an entire novel.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background.
My daughter wrote this about me when she was 11. She’s now in her mid-thirties. I think it still works.
‘Howard Gimple is a parent to Rebecca Johnson Gimple. He is husband to Christine Johnson. Howard is tall and has big feet. He has a large nose and a beard, and a mustache. He is bald but has hair on the back of his head. Howard has big ears and usually wears weird Goofy clothing in his free time. Howard is very humorous. He tells many jokes all the time. Howard is great fun. He makes things into games. He lets me water ski on his legs and plays games with my friends and me. He makes jokes EVERYWHERE! He likes rock music, and I have to fight with him when we decide what to listen to in the car. He likes the Beatles, Kinks, and Rolling Stones. Howard Gimple is my dad.’

What’s next that we can look forward to from you?
I have a lot of story ideas floating around in my head right now. I’m jotting down ideas for the next adventure of Hannah and Bette. I’m also thinking about a story featuring Mercutio, my favorite character in Romeo and Juliet. In Shakespeare’s play, he dies at the beginning of Act 3. In my version, he is only slightly wounded, fakes his death, and goes back to Florence, where he gets into more mischief, gets involved in a civil war, and wreaks havoc among the young women of the city. I’m also toying with my version of a modern picaresque novel like On the Road, about two young wannabe hippies hitchhiking from New York to San Francisco in 1969, the year of Woodstock, Altamont, and the first lunar landing.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystromedy (a mystery comedy)
Published by: MYSTROMEDY BOOKS
Publication Date: June 22, 2024
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 979-8990761513
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Hannah Johansson stood at the lectern in front of 300 people staring at her, waiting for her to say something heartfelt and meaningful. She looked around the room. A room that was unfamiliar to her even though she’d been in it thousands of times. But that was when it was the multipurpose room at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. She played in the large barn-like structure as a child with her dolls and toys and electric trains. She practiced her jumpshot here when her father put up a hoop after she made her junior high team. And when she was a little older, it was where she came when she needed to be alone with her thoughts and her guitar.

But the room that Hannah knew was gone. It was now the Axel Johansson Memorial Auditorium, renamed to honor her father’s memory.

Every seat was filled. The first two rows were reserved for relatives and VIPs. Hannah’s aunt Gilda and cousins Catherine and Phillip were sitting in the middle of the front row, flanked by officials from the Mayor’s Office, the New York City Parks Department, the National Parks Service and local assemblymen and state senators. The second row held representatives from a half-dozen environmental organizations including the Sierra Club, the National Audubon Society and the World Wildlife Fund.

The rest of the packed hall was crammed with children from neighborhood schools, birdwatching enthusiasts from all over the city and beyond, and men and women of all ages and ethnicities who loved the beauty and tranquility of the Refuge and wanted to show their appreciation and gratitude for the man who created and nurtured it.

Michael Leigh, the president of the east coast chapter of the National Environmental Conservancy and the organizer of the event, had just finished the last of a dozen tributes to her father, the man who transformed a rat infested, garbage strewn swamp into one of New York City’s environmental treasures.

Before Leigh left the stage he said, “Our final speaker, Superintendent Johansson’s daughter Hannah, would like to say a few words.”

On one side of the podium an easel held a portrait of her father in his khaki superintendent’s uniform, surrounded by a snowy egret, a great blue heron and a glossy ibis, painted by the celebrated wildlife artist Arthur Singer. On the other side was a wrought iron plant stand, but in place of a plant it held a hand-enameled aluminum urn containing her father’s ashes.

Tiny pearls of sweat formed on Hannah’s forehead. She gripped the lectern for support.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, fighting to maintain composure. “I know my father meant a lot to you. He meant everything to me. He was my hero. My mentor. My best friend. I loved him more than I could ever possibly say.”

Her face contorted. Her eyes welled up.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I killed him,” she wailed.

***

Author Bio:

Howard Gimple was a writer at Newsday, the editor of a newsletter for the New York Giants football team, and a copywriter and creative director for several New York ad agencies. He has written English dialogue for the American releases of Japanese anime cartoons, reviewed books for the Long Island History Journal, and written movie scripts for a pay-per-view television network.

Howard was Chief Creative Officer at TajMania Entertainment, a film and TV production company dedicated to creating socially conscious programming. He wrote the award-winning documentary, ‘The Garbageman,’ about a waste management executive who helped save the lives of more than 50,000 children with congenital heart disease. He was a writer and sports editor for the Stony Brook University alumni magazine. He also taught two seminars at the university, ‘Rock & Relevance,’ about the political influence of 60’s rock & roll and ‘Filthy Shakespeare, ‘ exploring the dramatic use of sexual puns and innuendos in the Bard’s plays and poems.

He grew up in Brooklyn, lived in Manhattan and Long Island, and now lives in Glendora, California, with his wife and goldendoodle.

Catch Up With Howard Gimple:

howardgimple.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @howardgimple
Facebook – @authorhowardgimple

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Giveaway: Murder, Mayhem, and a Hard Headed Heroine

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Bait the Devil by Winter Austin #AuthorInterview

GHott February 11, 2026 3 Comments

BAIT THE DEVIL

by Winter Austin

February 2 – March 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS

In bounty hunting, clean jobs are a myth. Dot knows—she’s seen the blood.

Dot Ybarra doesn’t bluff. Fresh into her bounty hunting career, she’s already earning a reputation for results. But when a “routine” rogue bounty—taken as a favor to her lawyer cousin—turns lethal, she’s staring down a case with international reach, bodies in its wake, and the stench of power.

Her business partner, T.J. Roman, is hiding a secret. If Dot finds out … well, she can’t find out. It would end the effective partnership they’ve built. But the trail won’t wait. What should have been a clean pickup of a fellow military veteran spirals into a hunt through the shadows, where one wrong move could see them both buried in an unmarked grave.

To stop the predators at the center of a violent trafficking ring, they’ll have to go straight into its core—and make themselves the bait. Every step makes them vulnerable to each other as well.

The devil’s coming for them.

Dot plans to be the one still standing after he bites.

Bait the Devil Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Modern Western Thriller
Published by: Tule Mystery
Publication Date: January 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 285
ISBN: 9781969218651 (ISBN10: 1969218657)
Series: A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS, Book 2 {Amazon, Tule}
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Apple Books | Goodreads | BookBub | Tule Mystery

Bait the Devil #AuthorInterview:

What was the inspiration for this book?
I don’t think I really had any inspiration. This series, A Bounty of Shadows, is more about where the characters lead me, and Dot Ybarra is running the show. If there was any real inspiration, it was to bring forth more about the plight of U.S. veterans and their silent warfare.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?
If we’re talking about the very start of my publishing career, it was gaining traction and readers. It’s very hard right out of the gate to get as many interested readers as possible and hold them. Once you build that backlist and connections, those readers come easier and more often.
It’s also hard to make the right connections at first. But if you stick with it and network in the right circles, you will make the connections that will help drive up visibility.

What do you absolutely need while writing?
Being left alone. I’m at the point in my life where I have an empty nest, but I still have to send my husband out the door in order to focus, or he’ll drive me nuts while he’s goofing off and watching videos and such online. Course, during football season, that becomes even more difficult, but I find ways around it.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?
Routine? What’s that? The only thing routine for me is the day job four days a week and the farm chores I need to handle on a daily basis. I try to get writing in early in the morning before I leave for work, and on the weekends. Most of the time I’m looking down the barrel at a deadline and that’s when the butt in chair has to happen and then the words come. Otherwise, I’m such a pantser that most of the writing hits me in spurts.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?
I love Dot, I really do, but the precocious Bethany has really taken over. Her interactions with Dot and T.J. are some of my favorite scenes in the book. If things progress as I hope, Bethany will be to Dot what Wonder Girl was to Wonder Woman. Bethany got a rough start to her life, but her newly adopted aunt in Dot has changed her path drastically and that girl will have her own starring role if ya’ll help keep the series alive. 😉

Tell us why we should read your book.
If you love anything western, thriller, mystery, and action driven, these books are right up your alley. And if you truly love having a female lead who can kick some serious bad guy butt, then you’ll really love Dot.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?
Dot’s love of cigars stems from some wonderful women in my life who have taken up cigar smoking. In addition to being a cigar consignor, Dot does not drink. She might have a beer on a rare occasion, but her preferred drink of choice is coffee. Dot has a few other neat quirks that you’ll need to read in Ride a Dark Trail and Bait the Devil to learn what those are.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?
If you enjoyed reading the book, liked it, or even loved it, please let the author know in some form or fashion. If that means reaching out to the author directly or leaving a rating/review for the book. We can’t do this without the readers.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I’m Midwestern by birth and still. I’m a Jane of all trades kinda woman with a burning desire to run my own homestead with a huge herd of goats while I pour out more thrilling books. All of my writing education came at the feet of learning from other successful authors and professionals in the publishing industry and still learning as I grow. I love to pay it forward and when given the opportunity, I teach workshops for the younger/budding writers.

What’s next that we can look forward to from you?
I’m finishing up the 5th book in my police procedural/mystery Benoit and Dayne series and gearing up to write book 3 in the Bounty of Shadows series. I’ll be making appearances at a lot of local or Iowa-based bookstores when I can with a run out to Chicago for a one day mystery conference in April. And digging in for the upcoming show goat season with my nieces that will round out with our county fair and the Iowa State fair shows.

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

Two hours later, they had managed to corral the quickly sobering Freddy into the back of the Suburban, with no more eventful chases, and turn him over to the county jail. Freddy’s bail bondsman paid out their fair share of the bond and a huge tip after some hard pressing on T.J.’s part about the circumstances leading up to Freddy’s apprehension. Once the check was cashed, a celebratory late lunch at one of the best Basque eateries Dot had found in Boise was the best way to top off a successful day of bounty hunting.

Parked behind the Bar Gernika, she and T.J. sat in the back end of the Chevy Suburban with the hatch up eating chorizo sandwiches with smoked cod croquetas and a bowl of green olives dripping in garlic olive oil. Dot slurped down half of her Coke, then shook the ice in her cup.

T.J. pointed the remains of his smoked beef chorizo at her. “We should register for the SHOT show in Vegas.”

“Why?”

“Because we can.” T.J. pulled his duh face.

Dot rolled her eyes and bit into her sandwich.

“Have you ever been there?” T.J. asked.

She shook her head, wiping smokey chorizo juice from the corner of her mouth.

“The woman raised to be a hunter and a firearms collector has never been to the great SHOT show?” He lowered his reflective sunglasses and eyed her over the top of the rims. “Never?”

“You do realize my family wasn’t made of money.” Dot popped one of the croquetas into her mouth. “And that’s in the dead of winter, when we couldn’t just up and run off while we were in the middle of lambing season.”

“All the more reason you should go now.” T.J. grinned. “A lot of the best bounty hunters meet up there.”

Dot scowled at her partner and sometimes bunk buddy. “Lemme guess. You wanna show off your shiny new partner to the boys?”

“Maybe.” His grin turned devilish. “Or maybe I wanna see you kick their asses.”

Dot wadded up the sandwich wrapper and chucked it at T.J.’s head. “I’m not a toy.”

The crumbled ball of waxed paper bounced off his forehead and landed on the Suburban floor between them.

“Really? Then why are you so easy to wind up?”

“You sonofa—” Dot lunged for his throat but was quickly subdued.

Their moment of levity was interrupted by a shrill ring from T.J.’s phone.

“Damn it,” he snapped and patted down his body in search for his cell.

Dot found it lying on the makeshift floor behind his hulking frame. She snatched it up and checked the screen. She batted her eyelashes at T.J.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled.

She pressed the green icon to answer the call. “Well, hello, cousin dearest.”

Lawyer-extraordinaire and covert purveyor of information, Vivian Montgomery was Dot’s second cousin. And apparently had earned a spot on T.J.’s contact list under the moniker of Hot Ass Lawyer.

“Dot? When did you start taking business calls?” Vivian asked, her brisk tone underscored by the sound of her heavy breathing.

“What are you doing?” Dot asked. “You sound like you’re saving the horse and riding a cowboy.”

“Oh, grow up. I’m on a treadmill. Put T.J. on the phone.”

“You shouldn’t run on those things. They destroy your knees and back,” Dot chided.

“When I want health advice from a cigar smoker who jumps from helicopters for fun, I’ll call.”

“I don’t jump from the helo. Unless it’s crashing. Even then, that’s sketchy shit.”

T.J., giving a rumbling growl, jerked the phone from Dot, and pressed it to his ear. “Vivian, what do you need?” He waited a moment, then with another low growl, pulled the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. “You’re on speaker.”

“I need a huge favor from the two of you.”

“When you say huge favor, how huge are we talking?” Dot asked.

“You know, I think I liked you better when you were a brooding, isolated eremite whose main goal in life was equal parts trying to piss off her mother and keep her out of trouble,” Vivian shot back.

“Love you too, coz.”

“Now shut up and let me finish.” The whining sound of the treadmill belt slowing echoed over the phone connection. “I just got a call from one of my colleagues. She had a client fail to appear today.”

“Shouldn’t the defendant’s bail bondsman be calling us?” T.J. asked.

“It’s … complicated.”

Dot smiled as T.J. groaned.

“Vivian, every time you rope us into one of your firm’s problems with their unruly children, we’re out money, time, and patience. We’re called bounty hunters for a reason. Bounty is in the name.”

“Roman, if you keep up the condescending behavior, I’ll expose your dirty little secret.”

“Dirty secret, huh,” Dot piped in. “What’s that?”

He thrust a finger at her nose. “None of your business. Vivian, if you so much as breathe out of line, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Will you do me the favor?”

T.J. stared at Dot, who shrugged as if to say, Why not?

“Fine. Mark my words, I’ll be cashing in on this huge favor sooner than you think.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, expect the guy is a veteran, and you two being veterans yourself, I figured he’d be more likely to work with you than anyone else.”

“What’s on his file?” Dot asked.

“That’s the complicated part. Officially, his file says he was picked up a third time for carrying with the intent to sell. Unofficially, he’s … classified.”

Dot frowned as she and T.J. locked eyes. As a former army ranger who spent a lot of time flying in and out of forward operating bases in Afghanistan, T.J. knew all about classified situations. Dot, as the main helicopter pilot shuttling him and his team back and forth, though never read in on his actual missions, typically was under strict orders of her own.

“Vivian, I’m not getting fuzzy feelings about this,” T.J. said.

“Neither am I. It’s why I’m calling the two of you in. The judge wants to issue a bench warrant. My colleague was able to ask for a delay before it’s submitted. She was given three hours to present her client or the warrant is released. If you’d rather, you could consider this job PI work instead of fugitive recovery.”

The shingle hanging outside their business office did say private investigators. At this point, that title belonged to T.J. and T.J. alone.

“Still not selling me on this,” he said. “If there’s no bench warrant, there’s no cash for catching him.”

“Hang on.” Vivian spoke to someone, her voice muffled, then she was back. “The firm will pay you a finder’s fee.”

T.J. continued to stare at Dot. She could sense what he was thinking. He was torn. Take this off-the-cuff job and cash in on the favor department with Vivian to help a fellow veteran? Or say fuck it and play hooky for the rest of the day like he’d planned?

Dot didn’t really have much of a say in the business dealings of their partnership since she was eight months into the training phase as a fugitive recovery agent and she wasn’t a licensed PI. It didn’t stop T.J. from pressing her for her opinion, who argued that, because she was about to start taking bounties on her own, she needed to take the reins more often.

“If it helps you make a decision, I’ve got his last known address and a phone number along with a photo,” Vivian said. “This won’t be a hard catch.”

“Stop saying that. Every time you tell me it’s an easy one, it turns into a disaster,” T.J. snarled.

“He’s right,” Dot added.

“Okay, I retract my statement. But, please say yes. Huge favor to me. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

Dot glared at him.

“Within reason,” Vivian shot back.

“We’ll do it,” Dot said, tired of T.J.’s runaround. “Send us the four-one-one, and we’ll go check it out.”

T.J. glared at her; his dark eyes flashed a warning. Dot returned his glare with a smug look of her own that dared him to bring it.

“Thank you, coz. Hurry. There’s only two hours left before the bench warrant goes out. Then it’ll be a free-for-all.”

“You couldn’t have called us about this an hour ago?” T.J. groused.

“Shut your yap, Roman,” Vivian said. “There. Info sent.”

His phone dinged.

“His name is Cade Porter. He was a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps.” Vivian sucked in a breath. “Oooh.”

“Oooh, what?” T.J. insisted.

“If this is right, he was in an artillery unit.”

“Oh my God.” T.J. groaned.

Dot grinned. Not only did acting on a favor for Vivian chafe T.J. in the chaps, but doing it for a Marine with explosives expertise was going to make that chafe burn. Throughout their long, storied history, there had always been a deep-seated friendly animosity between the army and the Marines. Push came to shove, however, they still had each other’s backs.

“If that crayon eater blows us up, I’m going to haunt you,” he said.

“I look forward to the visits. Now get going.” Vivian ended the call.

T.J. shoved his phone in a side pocket of his cargo pants. “Tell me again why we let Vivian help us out?”

“Because,” Dot said as she scooted out of the SUV’s backend, “she’s good for the money. And I trust her intel more than I would some of your bail bondsmen.”

“You say that because you’re biased.”

“Nire familia da. Garrantzitsua da.”

T.J. paused before closing the hatch. “I speak Pashto, Arabic, some Spanish, and Oklahoman. I do not speak Basque.”

Dot chuckled. “Time to learn, Danger Ranger.”

“Load up and let’s roll.”

***

Excerpt from Bait the Devil by Winter Austin. Copyright 2026 by Winter Austin. Reproduced with permission from Winter Austin. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Winter Austin perpetually answers the question: “were you born in the winter?” with a flat “nope,” but believe her, there is a story behind her name.

A lifelong Mid-West gal with strong ties to the agriculture world, Winter grew up listening to the captivating stories told by relatives around a table or a campfire. As a published author, she learned her glass half-empty personality makes for a perfect suspense/thriller writer. Taking her ability to verbally spin a vivid and detailed story, Winter translated that into writing deadly romantic suspense, mysteries, and thrillers.

When she’s not slaving away at the computer, you can find Winter supporting her daughter in cattle shows, seeing her three sons off into the wide-wide world, loving on her fur babies, prodding her teacher husband, and nagging at her flock of hens to stay in the coop or the dogs will get them.

She is the author of multiple novels.

Catch Up With Winter Austin:

AuthorWinterAustin.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @WinterAustin
Instagram – @iasuspensewriter
Facebook – @author.winteraustin

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Posted in Author, Author Of The Month, Guest Author

Dying With A Secret by Tj O’Connor || #Interview

GHott January 29, 2026 2 Comments on Dying With A Secret by Tj O’Connor || #Interview

DYING WITH A SECRET

by Tj O’Connor

January 12 – February 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE DEAD DETECTIVE CASEFILES

Dying can bring out the best in people.
It can also bring out the worst of secrets.
If you want to know someone’s dirty secrets, kill them.
It works every time.

Oliver “Tuck” Tucker, the dead detective, is back—not just for another case, but from the dead—or vice versa. It all starts when a Federal Agent is killed by a mysterious force in front of dozens of witnesses—including Angel, his historian wife, and Tuck. Among the many suspects is a dark, clandestine Federal agency responsible for advanced research and weaponry, a university doctoral candidate who won’t stay dead, and the leader of a secret southern society bent on rekindling the Civil War. With the aid of a ten-year-old psychic and the spirit of Tuck’s Civil War grandmother—Sally Elizabeth Mosby—Tuck has to stay one step ahead of the Feds who are hellbent on capturing him—alive? But through all this, what’s a two-hundred-year-old lost fortune in gold got to do with dead agents, secret death rays, and rogue policemen?

DYING WITH A SECRET Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Paranormal Mystery, PI Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: December 9, 2025
Number of Pages: 324
ISBN: 979-8898201111 (pbk)
Series: The Dead Detective Casefiles, Book 4
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

The Dead Detective Casefiles

DYING TO KNOW
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
DYING FOR THE PAST
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
DYING TO TELL
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Q&A with Tj O’Connor

What inspired you to write this book?

Dying With A Secret is Book IV in The Dead Detective Casefiles. I penned it as part of the continuing saga of Oliver “Tuck” Tucker and his exploits. The plot(s) are part of my passion—Civil War history; secret government shenanigans; and the Beale Treasure. All of which are rooted in fact. Those facts inspired the plot.

What was the biggest challenge in writing this book?

As with the other Dead Detective Casefiles, the story melds different timelines. Dying With A Secret is present day and the Civil War. Keeping facts and dates straight, events in the characters past and when they could reasonably occur was a constant challenge. Even trying to stay true to real historical events such as Winchester, Virginia’s role in the Civil War and the history behind the Beale Treasure took spreadsheets and copious notes!

Give us a glimpse of the research that went into this book.

As a student of history and adventure, I spent considerable research on Winchester, Virginia’s role in the Civil War. I also researched John S. Mosby, of Mosby’s Ranger’s fame, and his exploits in Virginia. The use of beyond-state-of-the-art weapons is something I’ve followed for years so that played a tiny role in the story, too. And finally, the true history of the infamous Beale Treasure that began in the 1800’s and carries on to this day was important. All the historical elements of The Dead Detective Casefiles are based in facts and historical truisms. Sure, I take a few liberties here and there. But the research into the topics is critical.

How did you come up with the title?

Well, Dying something…. Is a series theme. Dying to Know, Book I, is literally that Tuck was dying to know who killed him. Dying for the Past, Book II, was focused on historical misadventures of key characters from past in the late 1930’s and early 1940’s. Dying to Tell, Book III, follows a famous World War II spy mission—Operation Salaam—and the characters need to tell that story to exonerate themselves. Finally, Dying With A Secret is about the cost of keeping the secret of the Beale Treasure hidden for so long.

Your routine in writing? Any idiosyncrasies?

No true idiosyncrasies. But my writing time is plagued with disruption. First, I work long hours as an anti-terrorism consultant. Writing means early mornings, lunchtime (and sometimes with an extended lunch), evenings and weekends—or combinations of these. I am also dad to three rescue dogs and two cats who demand time. I have a brood of grandchildren and three that are with me a lot—I love this!—and demand my utmost attention off the keyboard. Oh, yeah, there are my wife and adult children somewhere, too! So I write as often as I can. I have to reread a lot when I sit down to write anew. Too often, I end up off track after a short stint away and have to rewrite and readjust my story to regain momentum. Truly, though, that often gives me a better story outcome. And then there’s the characters—Tuck and Angel, Lowe Curran… they are demanding of me, too!

Tell us why we should read your book?

Writing is my escape. I believe most people read fiction for that reason—to escape the world and have an adventure on their own terms. My books offer that. They are based on my life’s travels and passions (with a whole lot of freelancing). I’ll give you a murder mystery with a dead detective that you’ll swear is real and could actually happen. All my characters are real-as-life—they are fallible, have quirks, have believable backstories, and above all, stick to plausible plots (well, except the being dead part in Tuck’s Dead Detective Casefiles). They deliver fun, exciting, and fast-paced stories.

Are you working on your next novel? If so, can you tell us a little bit about it?

Two, actually! I am finishing the first draft of The Dead Detective Casefile #5, Dying For the Truth now. Tuck and Angel witness a close friend murder a former CIA operative in their hometown. What lies ahead comes from Tuck’s past—his first homicide fifteen years ago and still unsolved—the appearance of his most mysterious long-lost relative, and the collision of Eastern and Western spies that make him question his own family heritage.

The second work is Book III in The Pappa Legacy series (title unconfirmed). That one is still in its infancy but will be ready to roll out after Tuck’s next casefile is done.

The question remains—when will I ever sleep?

Your novel will be a movie. You would you cast?

Easy!
Detective Oliver Tucker: Colin Ferguson. A brilliant, funny, and creative actor.
Professor Angela “Angel” Hill Tucker: The brilliant and glamorous Angie Everhart or Connie Britton.
Bear Braddock: No doubt, David Harbour. Big guy with a big “bearish” personality. Perfect.
Poor Nic Bartalotta: Has to be the late Abe Vigoda.
Doc Gilley: My former mentor, Wally F.
Colonel Smith: Ed Harris who plays a gruff, duplicitous and conniving character so well.
Sally Elizabeth Mosby: Renee Zellweger because of her role in Cold Mountain.
Bradley M. White: Tommy Lee Jones.
Young Kerrie Garcia: The young actress, Niki Garcia (in her pre-teen roles).

Favorite leisure activities/hobbies?

I love to cook and I’m a Harley Davidson pilot. I love hanging with my grands and dogs and playing games, sports, and bikes. I love putting on murder mystery cocktail parties for the family and travelling to book events to meet fans and talk books!

Favorite foods?

I love to cook so there are many: Greek: anything lamb, souvlaki (beef or lamb on a stick) and kotopoulo (Greek chicken on rotisserie), horiatiki, tiropita, and spanokopita. Italian: chicken cacciatori and cioppino; French: Coq au vin; American eclectic: steak chili, fried chicken, oysters, bacon wrapped scallops or cheddar scallops… shall I go on?

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. Oh, not only about the dead—sure, that’s when everyone starts whispering about the dearly departed. No, I’m talking about the secrets of the living who are left behind. Sometimes, those people get brazen about their dastardly deeds when someone involved in those deeds dies. They don’t always keep them well hidden. Often, too, a death sheds too much light on too many people. Light others would rather not be in—like Wyle E. Coyote’s oncoming train in the tunnel. It can be too revealing for some. Blinding for others. One secret often leads to another. Another death. And by another death, I mean murder.

So, if you want to know who your friends are, or what they’re truly up to, kill one.

It works every time.

What makes me so sure? Murder is my thing. I’m a homicide cop in the historic Virginia city of Winchester. Winchester has a hell of a murder rate that most don’t know about. I know because I’ve solved more than twenty murders in the last few years alone. Well, seventeen to be precise. Three deaths were accidents and suicides—not something I tell stories about. But the other seventeen—phew, what a rush. As you can see, I’m an expert on the dead.

More about that later.

At the moment, it was a beautiful August afternoon in Winchester, Virginia. As always on these beautiful August days in Winchester, it was hot as, er, … it was hot. Luckily, instead of being in the dog days of summer, I sat in the air conditioning atop a stack of wooden crates in our local library, ogling the beautiful woman working across the room from me. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a silk veil, and her green eyes sparkled even in the dark. At thirty-eight, she had the hourglass figure a twenty-year-old would die for—and today it was wrapped in jeans and a denim shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This lady’s charm and intelligence radiated an allure that stole my heart the moment I pulled her over for an undeserved speeding ticket back in the day. Sure, sure, it was unethical. Hey, I didn’t give her the ticket after securing a date.

Fortunately, the statute of limitations on cheesy pickup ploys expired years ago.

This lady was doing her best to ignore me—difficult as it was—though she wanted nothing more than to get lost in my affections. No, really, it’s true.

Full disclosure. This angel was formally Dr. Angela Hill Tucker, Assistant Dean and Chairwoman of History at the Mosby Center for American Studies, University of the Shenandoah Valley. Yep, my wife. Today, she was researching a new historical find in the Lower-Level Research Room at the Handley Library, a local historical landmark. The Lower Level is actually the library’s finished basement. Since it’s a classy place, they call it the Lower Level.

Angel sat at a cluttered wooden desk beside crates of documents discovered in a formerly undiscovered sub-basement at the Winchester Courthouse—another historic building. Yeah, I know, we have a lot of historic buildings in town. That’s because Winchester dates back to George Washington’s day, and we’ve played a big part in American history ever since. Anyway, she had just opened one of the six large, wooden crates to begin work. The first few items she took out were more of the same as many of the other crates—folded files tied with leather straps. There were a few land maps and surveyors’ drawings, and an old silver-plate photograph of a family standing around a horse carriage with grim, pasty faces.

Angel was in heaven—pardon the pun. She spent much of her life in rooms just like this one, doing what she was now doing—researching old stuff. Okay, it’s historically significant old stuff. The other part of her life she spent in pursuit of her real passion—trying to be a crack detective like me. Oh, I’m her real passion, too. But don’t tell her I said that. It’s our secret.

All day, I’d sat with my feet propped up on a crate, bored. I had on the same clothes as usual—blue jeans, running shoes, a blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. Angel once called my ensemble, ‘old guy sexy.’ I don’t know about the old guy—I’m only forty-one—but I’ll take the sexy part.

“Hey, Angel,” I said, stretching. “How about we go grab takeout?”

She ignored me. Not unusual. Not that she was so focused on her work, but because working at a small table across the room was her research assistant, Andy-somebody. She didn’t want to fluster him, so she just made believe I wasn’t around. We have this thing, you see.

“Hey, it’s a beautiful summer day. Maybe steaks on the grill and wine?”

She glanced up and gave me one of those “God, I want you” looks. Okay, maybe it was a “quiet, I’m working” look.

“Angela?” The thin, shaggy-haired assistant, Andrew Pellman, walked to the stack of crates beside her. He lifted one of the crates, grunted a little from the unexpected weight, and set it on the corner of her desk. “I’m done computerizing the inventory from crates one and two. Shall I get a head start on crate four while you finish crate three?”

“No, Andrew. We’ll keep to our process.” She saw his face melt into a pout. Me, I would have let him cry, but she was the kind soul in the family. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and begin. Follow our guidelines closely. One document at a time. Identify, inventory, and scan what you can. Photograph any that won’t stand up to the scanning process. Andrew, be careful—very careful.”

His face lit up. “Sure, Angela, I’ll be careful.”

Pellman was a meek kid in his mid-twenties. He was working on his doctoral thesis at the university, and Angel was his dissertation advisor. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I have a sixth sense about people. When he was around, my BS meter pings like it does with politicians and faux car warranty stalkers. Andy was a new class of “some people” that I hadn’t labeled yet.

“I think you should call me Professor Tucker,” Angel said with an easy tone. “Let’s keep this professional. Okay?”

“Yes, Professor Tucker.”

“It’s not personal, Andrew.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Angel flipped through a document and stopped. She retrieved another and did a comparison. Finally, she looked over at Pellman. “Have you seen any references to ‘M35W?’ Do you recognize it from anything you’ve done?”

“Why?” He walked to her worktable. “Is it important?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems out of place. Like some kind of acronym or citation. Can you check your new research engine tomorrow?”

“Sure, okay. It’ll give me a good test run on my changes to the algorithm.” His face beamed. “Thank you.”

Andrew’s doctoral studies used computers to perform detailed research traditionally done by historians and doctoral students. One day, that program he wrote would likely replace those researchers with keyboards and mice—the electronic kind, not the crumb snatchers. You know, like self-checkout machines at the grocery store. You do all the work, and they charge you the same price. Then, they’ll fire five clerks who the machines replaced. Great plan, Andy. I wonder how many historians you’ll replace with your gadgets.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Her cell rang, and she took the call. “Professor Tucker.” The caller had Angel’s complete attention. I knew that because she jotted some notes and checked her watch twice—all the while continuing to ignore me. So, it must have been really important, right? “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.”

“Professor Tucker?” Andrew asked.

She glanced over at Andrew as she tapped off the call. “We’re done for the day, Andrew.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I can help.”

“No, it’s fine. I have to meet someone up in the rotunda. We’ll start again in the morning.” She began straightening her papers and stuffing files into her worn, leather briefcase.

“Who?” he asked.

I said, “Never you mind, sonny-boy. You work for her, not the other way around.” I winked at Angel. “Millennials, right?”

She hefted her briefcase. “Something to do with our Apple Harvest research.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the crates of research. “Want me to gather up your research and get it to your car? There’s an awful lot here.”

“Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.” She gave him the keypad code for her Explorer. “Leave my briefcase and the files beside it here. The rest can go in my vehicle. Please make sure it’s locked when you’re done. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Professor Tucker.” His face lit up. “See you in the morning.”

I followed Angel through the Stewart Bell Jr. Archive Room, into the Lower Lobby, and up the stairs toward the main library entrance.

“I don’t like him, Angel. He’s shifty.”

“Shifty, Tuck?” Finally, she acknowledged me. I wore her down. “No one says ‘shifty’ anymore.”

“It’s coming back in style.”

She grinned and whispered, “Is that your detective-senses talking or because he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking?”

“He doesn’t stare. He ogles.”

“Yes, he ogles.”

“I can get Bear to check him—”

“No, Tuck. He’s fine. I don’t like it when you’re jealous.”

Me, jealous? No. It was purely a professional irritation I felt whenever Andy was around. Truly.

We reached the first-floor hall that led into the main library rooms. There, she made her way into the rotunda at the library entrance. She stopped beside a high-back wood bench where Library Lil—the bronze statue of a young girl reading a book—sat.

A tall, thin man about thirty stepped out of one of the meeting rooms along the west hallway. He glanced around before he headed our way. He wore dark slacks and a dark sport jacket over a white, button-down dress shirt that was untucked in that new-millennial style, and penny-loafers. He strode to us and looked around his entire trip.

“That must be Special Agent Kerns with the DOD,” Angel whispered. “He called just now.”

A fed? Interested in her research? I asked her that.

“I don’t know. He said it was about my Apple Harvest research and that it was classified. Go wait somewhere.”

“I am somewhere. I’m here.”

She gave me the evil eye, so I meandered to a bench nearby.

As Kerns approached, fingers began dancing up my spine—hot, pointy fingers. I didn’t like those fingers. Every time they did the mambo up my vertebrae, something bad happened in the next few beats.

Kerns reached Angel, proffered a hand, and said something with a serious, tight expression on his face. Then, he hooked a thumb toward the main entrance doors.

Angel shook his hand and smiled faintly, a sure sign she was unsure of him.

Those fingers reached the base of my brain and squeezed…

“Angel, get down!” I lunged forward and pulled her away from Kerns, down behind Library Lil’s bench.

Kerns stood there, frozen in an eerie mist. His arms shot out sideways, and he seemed to lift onto his toes. His face contorted into a stunned, painful grimace.

“Tuck?” Angel cried. “What’s happening to him?”

Hell if I knew.

Kerns’ entire body vibrated and shuddered. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. The lights above us flickered wildly and went out. The original iron, brass, and blown-glass chandelier swayed dramatically two floors overhead. Its lights flickered and went dark.

When I glanced back at Kerns lying on the floor, I cringed.

Blood flowed from his ears, nose, and mouth. It seeped from his eye sockets, where his eyeballs looked like soft-boiled eggs stewing in their sockets. His hands and fingers were dark red and bony. His face and neck had oddly sunk, and his skin looked like it had been draped over his bones as though someone had sucked the tissue and muscle from beneath. He looked like he had melted inside.

The only thing left of him was his clothes and a spreading pool of goo.

Kerns was dead, sure enough. He’d been murdered, too, right in front of Angel and a dozen people. I knew no one had seen anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything. Me included.

Well, that’s not true. I knew something. Special Agent Kerns didn’t die of a heart attack because of a poor diet. He wasn’t killed by a sniper with a silenced rifle, a knife-throwing ninja assassin, or by an Amazonian’s blow dart. He died of something else.

What killed him, I had no idea. But it scared the life out of me.

***

Excerpt from Dying With A Secret by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in antiterrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who are supplying a growing tribe of grands.

Catch Up With Tj O’Connor:

tjoconnor.com
Amazon Author
Goodreads
BookBub – @tj37
Instagram – @tjoconnorauthor
Twitter/X – @Tjoconnorauthor
Facebook – @TjOConnor.Author
YouTube – @tjoconnorauthor3905

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The Missing Corpse by Yasin Kakande | #Interview

GHott January 27, 2026 1 Comment on The Missing Corpse by Yasin Kakande | #Interview

THE MISSING CORPSE

by Yasin Kakande

January 12 – February 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE GENERAL’S PROJECT

The president is dead. His son’s pretending he’s not. And the corpse? Well, that’s missing.

When the CIA sniffs out whispers that an African general—who also happens to be the president’s darling son—may have murdered dear old dad and stashed the body like last week’s leftovers, they send in their best bloodhound: Agent Shawn Wayles. He’s good at two things—digging up dirt and getting shot at in places the U.S. swears it’s not involved.

This time, Shawn’s not alone. He’s paired with an LGBTQ couple who have more secrets than the Vatican and fewer moral brakes.

Their mission? Retrieve the dead president’s body from the general’s paranoid, trigger-happy security team.

Because in this twisted power struggle, it’s not the living who rule—it’s the guy in the coffin. And whoever has the corpse… controls the country.

Praise for The Missing Corpse:

“A work of fiction told with the force of truth.”
~ The Niche

“Right off the bat, I could tell this was going to be a dark read. There is a real sense of menace and threat from the get go… Thoroughly enjoyed this and will definitely be up for reading any future books.”
~ Donna Morfett, Goodreads Review

“I thought the plot was a fantastic idea and brilliantly written.”
~ Claire Ball, Goodreads Review

Q&A with Yasin Kakande:

What was the inspiration for this book?
The Missing Corpse is the second book in a trilogy where I try to imagine something rare in my part of the world: a peaceful transfer of power. I use fiction like an X-ray machine. It looks through shiny speeches and friendly handshakes and shows the damp, rotten halls of power running from Africa straight into Washington.

I wanted to imagine peace in my homeland, even though it now sounds like a fairy tale. The dictator has ruled for forty years—long enough to outlive most refrigerators and several generations of hope. His friends think he’ll rule forever. Biology disagrees. So instead of crying about dictatorship—which we’ve done for decades with no results—I chose to laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because dark humor is sometimes the only weapon left.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?
Finding the right home for my voice. I come from journalism. I’ve done investigations in the U.S., the Middle East, and Africa, and I’ve written nonfiction books about immigration and geopolitics. But fiction turned out to be my true hiding place. It lets me tell real stories without naming sources, defending footnotes, or knocking on doors that don’t want to open. In fiction, truth can finally breathe.

What do you absolutely need while writing?
Peace and quiet. I write best when the world isn’t screaming at me.

Do you follow a strict writing routine?
Not really. I write when ideas show up, which is often at inconvenient times. I carry a notebook so ideas don’t escape before I can catch them. When I sit down, I polish those ideas on my computer. I try to read and write something every day, but I don’t force it. I have another job that pays the bills. Writing is love, not rent.

Who is your favorite character and why?
Joanne. No contest. She begins as a sex worker and somehow becomes a lover, a mother, a lesbian, a hero, and finally a liberator. She collects identities the way some people collect fridge magnets. By the end, she’s wearing more crowns than the General, the CIA, and the entire government combined.

Why should people read your book?
A Nigerian news site, The Niche, called my work “fiction told with the force of truth.” That’s exactly it. The book is set in the present, and many of its stories will feel uncomfortably familiar. I want readers to pause and ask themselves: What if this isn’t fiction at all? And then look around the world a little differently.

Share a fun or interesting fact about the book.

I lost a literary agent because of it. She loved the manuscript—until she asked me to soften my portrayal of the CIA in Africa. She said no publisher would touch it as it was. I said no. We politely parted ways.

Is there anything you’d like to say to your readers?
Yes. Especially to readers dreaming of an Africa free from imperialism and dictator puppets. The ghosts in power want us to believe hope is dead and resistance is pointless. My novel disagrees. In its small way, it imagines ordinary people—like Joanne—standing up, breaking chains, and dragging dictators into the light. Hope is still alive. It’s just been hiding.

Tell us a little about yourself.
I’m a troubled investigative journalist who ran into fiction like it was a safe house. I’ve written for outlets like The New York Times, Thomson Reuters, and The Boston Globe. I’ve spoken on platforms like TED. One of my nonfiction books, The Ambitious Struggle, upset authorities in Dubai so much they fired me and deported me. These days, as I inch toward retirement, fiction gives me freedom—no editors flinching, no doors slammed shut. Just the truth, dressed as a story.

What’s next for you?
The third book in the trilogy, The President’s Funeral. It’s already teased at the end of The Missing Corpse, and things get much worse—global war worse. Superpowers rush into Africa, not out of love, but hunger for resources.

At the center is a ghost: President Joel Katila Muaji. He was drunk on power in life and even drunker in death. His ghost is haunting Washington, trying to stop his own burial.

Why?

Because he wants his job back.

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller
Published by: Black Writers Ink LLC
Publication Date: September 11, 2025
Number of Pages: 379
ISBN: 979-8990984448
Series: The General’s Project, Book 2
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Audible

Read an excerpt:

The General knew—like a rotting tooth you can’t stop tonguing—just how hard his old man had worked to hammer him into something resembling a real man, using boot camps, backdoor deals, and enough disappointment to fill a graveyard.

Before the president found Twitter—sorry, X—for him, he mostly just found disappointment. And not the subtle, quiet kind. No, this was loud, public, teeth-grinding failure. The kind that makes a father grip his whiskey glass hard enough to shatter it. The boy was dull. A wet match in a thunderstorm. The people ignored him like a pothole they’d grown used to swerving around.

The president, who fancied himself a blend of warlord and wise grandfather, had done all the right things—by dictator standards. He’d oiled the machinery, laid the bricks. He’d shipped the lad off to Sandhurst, the British womb for future coup-makers and ceremonial dictators. But the academy spat him out like a bad oyster after just one year. Reason? “Intellectual capacity insufficient for command responsibilities.” That’s British for “the boy was dumb as soup.”

Panic set in. The president, no stranger to coups or cover-ups, scrambled for another boot camp that would accept his undercooked progeny. And God bless Africa—it never disappoints. Egypt, under old mummy Hosni Mubarak, opened its arms. The president’s warning was clear as day and sharp as a bayonet: “If you fail here, don’t ever mention my name again.” The boy emerged months later with a piece of paper that said he could command a battalion. No one bothered to ask if it was his own handwriting.

Still not satisfied, Daddy rang his buddies in Langley. Mr. Taylor—CIA spook with a neck like a tree stump—hooked him up with a slot at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. That’s where the U.S. trained its foreign military friends—the ones that smiled for cameras by day and broke skulls by night. The General graduated. Barely. His grades so low they had to be excavated.

Back home, the president, desperate to turn the boy into something—anything—decided to mold him into a public figure. He hired speech coaches, media whisperers, ex-BBC anchors, even a former Miss Uganda who once read the weather on WBS Television. Still, every time the General opened his mouth in public, it was a horror show. His hands trembled like a leaf in a blender. He couldn’t pronounce words. Once, he called “sovereignty” soup-ver-nanny and the room went so silent you could hear careers dying.

But then came the miracle: Twitter. Well, X. Rebranded like a shady funeral home. The president’s advisors—witchdoctors in suits—pitched a bold idea: give the boy a Twitter account. Hire a comedian ghostwriter. Make him sound dangerous. Sexy. Unhinged. Like Idi Amin with a smartphone.

Enter the ghostwriter—a washed-up tabloid journalist who once faked an alien sighting in Karamoja and got sued by a Catholic bishop. The guy was perfect. He knew how to stir the pot with one tweet and have the country boiling by lunch.

The General gave him ideas—half-mumbled thoughts between sips of imported whiskey—and the ghostwriter turned them into gold. Tweets like: Kenya has two weeks left. Consider this your final warning. #WeMarchAtDawn

The country gasped. The president “fired” the General. He even sent an apology to Kenya. A public scandal. Oh no, Daddy can’t control his baby boy! The media gobbled it up like pigs at a buffet.

But behind the curtain, the ghostwriter kept churning out wild, headline-drenched tweets. The General was now lusting after Beyoncé and Ayra Starr like a horny war god in fatigues. He made bizarre threats about airstrikes on Tanzanian Bongo Flava concerts. People were horrified. People were entertained.

***

Excerpt from chapter 24 of The Missing Corpse by Yasin Kakande. Copyright 2025 by Yasin Kakande. Reproduced with permission from Yasin Kakande. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Yasin Kakande is an international journalist, TED Global Fellow, and author of several critically praised non-fiction books, including “Why We Are Coming” and “Slave States,” which offer fresh perspectives on immigration and geopolitics. His journalism career includes contributions to outlets such as The New York Times, Thomson Reuters, Al Jazeera, The National, and The Boston Globe. Yasin holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College and resides outside Boston.

Catch Up With Yasin Kakande:

Amazon Author Profile
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Threads – @yasikak
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THE MISSING CORPSE by Yasin Kakande | Gift Card

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Yes-YOU Matter, YOU Are Enough by Karin J. Lund

GHott December 2, 2025 Leave a Comment on Yes-YOU Matter, YOU Are Enough by Karin J. Lund

Yes-YOU Matter, YOU Are Enough

by Karin J. Lund

Synopsis:

The Power of You Series

Yes-YOU Matter, YOU Are Enough is about celebrating your life, understanding and creating your value, while building confidence and resiliency.

The cover was designed with interlocking and layering lines to illustrate the many interrelated paths in our lives that give us the opportunity to change our direction at any time. This design reflects a journey toward self-reliance and resilience, encouraging us to embrace our true selves and build a strong inner foundation.

This is the book that will always remind you that:

YES-I MATTER, I AM ENOUGH.

Book Details:

Genre: YA Self-Help
Published by: G-Power Global Publishing
Publication Date: September 23, 2025
Number of Pages: 241
ISBN: 9781949955125 (ISBN10: 1949955125)
Series:The Power of You Series
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | BookBub | Goodreads

Author Bio:

Karin J. Lund, Founder of G-Power Global Enterprises, works with corporations, universities, and non-profit groups, that want to embrace a compassionate, culture empowered, workplace environment. A culture that employees, and management, actively support, because the culture acknowledges personal and professional values, understands the importance of an inclusive work environment, and includes a corporate dedication to improving the local, and/or global community.
Karin was only the 3rd woman to be hired in Central Operation Sales for J & L Steel, in Pittsburgh, Pa. She later accepted a position with a Canadian steel company who was expanding operations into the United States. As a regional sales manager with an international territory, Karin managed a $140M sales territory, and saw firsthand how various steel mills, and manufacturer’s work culture and environments, impacted morale, productivity, and profits.
As an author, speaker, and facilitator, Karin was a civilian responder directly after 9/11, and Hurricane Katrina. Working with the children and families from Bay St. Louis, MS after Katrina showed her the expansiveness of loss, life events, and the resilience of this special community. Karin is an adult facilitator for Caring Place, where families can receive help after the loss of a spouse, parent, child, or extended family member.
Through these experiences she has witnessed how life events impact employees, and what employees need from management to help them adjust and move through these life events. Productivity and morale need not suffer if embraced appropriately.
Her online program, “Your Journey through the Islands of Grief and Loss,” encourages individuals and employees to confront issues related to their personal journeys around different aspects of life events and loss. Corporate comfort gifts, journals, and other products support this effort.

Catch Up With Our Author:

g-powerglobal.com
Amazon Author Profile
LinkedIn
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Instagram – @lundkarinj
YouTube – @g-powerglobal
X – @GPowerGlobal
Facebook – @GPowerGlobal

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Yes-YOU Matter, YOU Are Enough by Karin J. Lund
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Sangrita by Kathryn Dodson

GHott November 25, 2025 Leave a Comment on Sangrita by Kathryn Dodson

SANGRITA

by Kathryn Dodson

November 17 – December 12, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Jessica Watts Southwest Suspense Series

A kidnapping scheme turns deadly when private investigator Jessica Watts becomes the hunted instead of the hunter.

Jessica Watts refuses to work with her nemesis Tomas Garcia—until his desperate wife arrives with their baby, begging Jessica to find Tomas’s missing father. Tres Garcia vanished after marrying his late wife’s cousin Letty in a secret ceremony, and now Letty claims he’s too sick for visitors. When Jessica discovers bloody medical supplies in Letty’s trash, someone knocks her unconscious and she awakens trapped in a nightmare.

Held prisoner for days with Tres’s life-support machine beeping nearby, Jessica realizes Letty is running a deadly operation with border coyotes—ruthless smugglers who eliminate witnesses. The kidnapping is part of an elaborate scheme to steal Tres’s fortune, and with the coyotes closing in with orders to kill everyone, Jessica must overcome her terror and escape before Letty’s greed destroys them all—but will the tough investigator she’s always been survive becoming the prey?

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction, Women’s Detective Fiction
Published by: Renegade Reads
Publication Date: November 21, 2025
Number of Pages: 220
ISBN: 979-8-9903577-7-8
Series: Jessica Watts Southwest Suspense Series, Book 4 | Each is a Stand-Alone
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Jessica let the mental exhaustion take hold for a minute, then shook it off. Eighteen months to go. If she survived that, she’d be a lawyer and hopefully move from the reception desk to the courtroom.

She settled into her chair. “I’m back,” she called to her boss. Linda owned the one person firm housed in a quaint old home turned law office in downtown El Paso. Jessica ran her fingers across the antique, inlaid cherry desk. She’d started here less than a year ago, but she already loved this place.

“Hey, how was the test?” Linda strode into the room and plopped down in front of her. A perfect-fitting Armani suit and a blonde blowout softened the toughness shining through Linda’s blue eyes. The creases in her face told the world she’d faced a few battles.

“Tough, but I’m pretty sure I passed,” Jessica said.

Linda smiled, then cocked her head, a question appearing in her eyes. “I bet your father would be proud.”

Jessica bristled, the ache returning to her shoulders and prickles of tension running across her skin. Linda hadn’t brought up Jessica’s dad since the first time they met.

Jessica hated how her father’s conviction for destroying evidence in a drug case shaded her pending law career. He’d been El Paso’s district attorney at the time. That embarrassment held Jessica back for too many years. She’d gotten past it, mostly, especially since her father’s passing.

She shrugged her shoulders in response then willfully changed the subject. “Has it been quiet here?”

“Surprisingly so. But who knows what will walk in the door next?” Linda glanced out the large window as if she expected to see someone trotting up the steps. She turned back to Jessica. “Do you have any new projects on the horizon? You know, human remains under a pecan tree or a missing heiress?”

Jessica’s reputation for finding things, missing people, murderers, had ratcheted up since she started working with Linda. She shook her head. “No more wild cases for me. I need to keep my head down and finish school. I keep getting waylaid by these other projects. It’s too hard to focus on law school and my work here when I’m off solving someone else’s mystery.”

Linda studied Jessica. “Maybe, but I think you like striking out on your own, solving someone’s problem, and coming back a hero. Practicing law is so different than that. It’s tedious and requires an extraordinary amount of patience while the wheels of justice turn.”

Did Linda doubt her aspirations? Not every case would be exciting, but lately, she could use a little less excitement in her life.

“Perhaps,” Jessica said. “But you’re a lot less likely to be confronted by people pointing guns at you or burning down the house you’re trapped in.”

“True. At least most of the time.”

Jessica wondered about her answer. “Is that why you left the police force and became an attorney?” She had heard about Linda’s first career from Jaime Castro, a lieutenant on the El Paso police force and one of her oldest friends. Based on the admiration in his voice, Linda had excelled as a police officer.

“Not really.” Linda’s gaze softened, as if remembering something from long ago. “The problem with police work is that you don’t get to choose your cases. When they don’t seem fair, it becomes hard to put your heart into the job.”

Jessica waited for an explanation. What kind of case would make someone as tough as Linda walk away? For a minute, Jessica thought she would say more. But instead, her boss changed the subject. “Why don’t we go over the upcoming cases?”

When they finished, Linda headed back to her office. Jessica had just turned to her computer when she spied someone coming toward the door. Someone she did not want to see.

Tomás Garcia loped up the steps and opened the door before Jessica could escape. If only her test had taken longer.

“Hi, Jessica. It’s good to see you.” He sat in the chair Linda had just vacated as if he owned the place.

He didn’t. And when he’d tracked her down at a party a few weeks ago, she’d told him she didn’t want to see him again. Yet here he sat. The audacity of rich men never failed to surprise her.

“Why are you here?” She threw all the surliness she could muster into her voice.

“Is that any way to treat a potential client?”

“Tomás, I made it clear that I would never work with you again. You do remember you tried to kill me the last time.” And the time before that, she’d almost died at the hands of someone he’d forgotten to tell her dealt drugs.

“I wouldn’t have killed you. I am not a murderer. I was just angry. I thought you had taken something I considered mine.”

“That something was a human being, and she didn’t want to be with you. You’ve lost your chance with me.”

He steepled his fingers and stared across the desk. “We have a long history, and we’ve worked well together in the past.” Arrogance wafted off him like a bad smell.

Jessica scanned her desk for something to throw at him or stab him with. Life was way too short to tolerate assholes like this.

He held his hands up in surrender, as if he could read her mind. “You’re right. That last time was horrible. I shouldn’t have done so many of the things I did then. I’m sorry. I promise I’m a different man now. And I need your help.”

Fire lit in her veins. She had already taken too many chances with Tomás. Jessica took a deep breath and tried to keep from spitting at him. “You need to leave. There is no way in hell you’ve changed enough in the last few years for me to consider working for you.” She wouldn’t physically attack him, but she tried her best to stare daggers into his soul.

“Please. Let me explain. I’m married to a wonderful woman now. We have a son, and he’s the most important thing in my life. Becoming a father changes a person. I’m a much better man today. Also, I lost my mother a year ago, and I’m worried about losing my father. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Of course, curiosity gnawed at her, but it wasn’t enough. She loathed this man.

“You do realize that waltzing in here expecting me to listen to you after I’ve already told you no means you’re still the entitled jerk you’ve always been.”

“I’m not. I swear. Please, just hear me out. I think someone is trying to kill my father.”

“So. Go to the police.”

“I have, but I can’t get anywhere with them. My dad remarried just a few months after my mom died. His new wife has completely denied me access to him.”

“Didn’t you hate your dad? How many times have you told me you wanted to build an empire even bigger than his? Maybe he just doesn’t want to see you.”

“Things are different now. After…after what happened with Doraliz, I had to change. I wasn’t a man I could be proud of, and I certainly wasn’t a son my mother could respect. But she didn’t give up on me. Instead, she helped me see what a terrible person I’d become and gave me a way to recover.”

“Whatever. I don’t care, and I want you to leave.” Jessica refused to buy his rich boy sob story. He should have ended up in jail.

He leaned forward, hands on his knees, blue eyes staring her down, probably his attempt at acting earnest. “I know how selfish and hurtful and conceited I was. I know, and I hate that version of myself. I understand why you don’t want to work with me, but my father’s life is on the line. You have a knack for solving mysteries. I’ve seen you do it. I need your help to save my father.”

“It’s not going to happen. And if you don’t leave, I’ll call the cops.” Jessica picked up her phone and hit the timer, then turned it to face him. “You’ve got sixty seconds to get out of this office.”

Exasperation crossed Tomás’s features. He sighed and started to say something. Then he shut his mouth, rose, and walked out the door. She hoped she’d never see him again.

Linda emerged the minute he left. From the look on her face, she’d heard the conversation.

“I didn’t know you had such a long, involved relationship with Mr. Garcia.” Linda sat in the probably still warm chair.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” Jessica said nothing more, hoping Linda would drop it. She preferred to avoid the whole sordid tale.

Linda watched Jessica for a long moment but didn’t press her for more information. “You do know that you’re always welcome to work on outside cases. Soon enough you’ll have your own legal cases.”

“I look forward to that, but not with him.”

“Fine. You should head home early tonight. Go celebrate finishing midterms with that handsome husband of yours.”

“Thanks.” She did want to celebrate, although she’d stayed up so late cramming, she’d require a second wind to do anything other than crawl into bed. Or maybe a shot or two of tequila to help her forget torts. And Tomás’s visit.

***

Excerpt from Sangrita by Kathryn Dodson. Copyright 2025 by Kathryn Dodson. Reproduced with permission from Kathryn Dodson. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Kathryn writes about women who have to become their own heroes – whether they’re solving a crime or figuring out the next phase of their lives.

She grew up writing and riding horses in far West Texas. She graduated from SMU in English/Creative Writing and went on to get an MBA from Thunderbird and a PhD from Clemson. Now she spends her days writing about women who become their own heroes.

She has worked on both sides of the US/Mexico border and has held jobs with governments, chambers of commerce, and other businesses. Kathryn loves to travel and has visited 30 countries and 44 states. This inspires her novels about interesting women in fascinating places.

Originally from Texas, Kathryn had the good fortune to live in Spain, Mexico, Tanzania, and several U.S. states, and the good sense to end up in Carlsbad, California. She loves travel, fiery food, hanging out with the neighbors in the front yard on Friday evenings, and reading.

Catch Up With Kathryn Dodson:

www.KathrynDodson.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @KathrynDodson
Instagram – @kathrynbdodson
Threads – @kathrynbdodson
LinkedIn – @kathydodson
Facebook – @kathy.dodson.31

Tour Participants:
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SANGRITA by Kathryn Dodson [Gift Card]
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