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THE HISTORY WE CARRY by Margaret Whitford

GHott August 4, 2026 1 Comment

THE HISTORY WE CARRY

A Daughter’s Memoir

by Margaret Whitford

July 27 – August 21, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The History We Carry by Margaret Whitford

For fans of Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died, a memoir for daughters who recognize that to truly understand themselves and the patterns of their lives, they must first understand their mothers and the forces that shaped these women.

When Margaret Whitford’s mother was dying, she told those present that her daughter “had her history.” This was true; Margaret had conducted interviews with her mother during the last decade of her life. But this didn’t end their estrangement, and Margaret chose not to return to her mother’s side during her final days.

In this memoir, Margaret confronts this decision by unearthing in her mother’s traumatic history the roots of the emotional distance between them. She explores how a history marked by the devastation of World War II in Europe, a violent childhood home, and sexual assault accumulated into complex PTSD that shaped her mother and the way she parented Margaret as her firstborn and as a daughter—and, in turn, how Margaret carried her mother’s trauma forward in her sense of self, in her relationships to others, and in the ways she navigated her world. Indeed, Margaret not only had her mother’s history—she embodied it.

Ultimately, The History We Carry confronts the legacy of intergenerational trauma with wisdom and compassion, revealing how familial history shapes each of us but need not be wholly determinative of whom we become and how we choose to live.

Praise for The History We Carry:

“An unflinching, well-rendered memoir that generously encompasses love, trauma, and the fraught relationship between a mother and daughter.”
~ Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Margaret Whitford’s compelling memoir—a reflection on her family history, her relationship with her mother, and trauma that spans generations—is clear-eyed, compassionate, and often startling in its insight and originality. I was engrossed from beginning to end.”
~ Clifford Thompson, author of Jazz June: A Self-Portrait in Essays

“Rarely have I finished a memoir understanding how our histories, both personal and generational, live and breathe within us in the present. By unearthing the complicated and poignant relationship she has with her mother, Margaret Whitford also powerfully speaks to the collective soul-searching so vitally necessary during these trying times. Written in elegant, luminous prose, this is a memoir that will stay with you long after the story is told.”
~ Ken Harvey, author of The Book of Casey Adair

“Despite Tolstoy’s famous quote—families are generally neither happy nor unhappy—they are complicated, like Whitford’s. This important memoir delves into sibling conflict, parental infidelity, and substance abuse. Overlying these familial tensions is geopolitical upheaval and the effects of successive world wars, almost unwanted family members themselves. The History We Carry seats them together at its literary table and gives each their due in courageous, precise, and ultimately both urgent and forgiving prose.”
~ Sue William Silverman, author of Selected Misdemeanors: Essays at the Mercy of the Reader

“An exhilarating mix of memoir and deep personal research, The History We Carry explores a mother’s complex history and a daughter’s lifelong struggle to understand and connect with her mother. In clear prose that never presents simple answers but rather digs to discover unknown truths and questions even her own long-held narratives, Margaret Whitford has written a robust story of love and trauma.”
~ Sheryl St. Germain, author of 50 Miles

“All our parents live lives before we arrive, lives that come to bear on our own. In this new memoir, Margaret Whitford bravely ventures into her mother’s past to better understand her own present and future. The History We Carry is a gorgeously written book about generational trauma and the intersections of love and grief. It’s a stunning debut.”
~ Lee Martin, author of Pulitzer Prize finalist The Bright Forever

Book Details:

Genre: Dysfunctional Families, Motherhood, Bereavement
Published by: She Writes Press
Publication Date: June 2, 2026
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 9798896363224
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | She Writes Press | Simon & Schuster

Read an excerpt:

A World of Two

I picture my mother lying on her hospital bed, the same one she has occupied for the last twelve days. The space is in shadow, the only light coming from the hallway. The room smells empty. No flowers or scented candles—she wouldn’t have wanted those. The sound of retreating footfalls in the corridor or a muffled voice from another part of the hospital occasionally interrupts the silence. Her breathing is shallow, until the moment it stops altogether. It happens so quietly, no one notices at first.

When my mother died in Concord, I was an ocean away, in a Paris hotel. Another day had already started. That remove feels familiar—geography and time following an established pattern.

In the morning’s early hours, I lay next to my husband, Tom, on a king-sized bed in a room of marble-inlaid tables and still-life paintings in gilded frames, the walls covered in red-and-gold-striped paper. I heard only the sounds of the night, a faint breeze moving through the magnolia trees in the courtyard and an occasional car gliding along the boulevard. While Tom slept, I lay awake, thinking about my mother. I had started to understand that we wouldn’t make it back in time. My mother would either be dead or so unresponsive that there could be no last words between us.

Tom read my brother Billy’s email while I was taking a shower. I knew from the way he walked into the bathroom, but he still had to say the words: “Your mother is dead.” Years from now, I thought, I will be able to replay this moment in my mind. He stood there, naked, looking both vulnerable and strong, his hand on the shower wall ready to reach for me.

My brothers and sister wanted to touch our mother after she died because she had not welcomed that while living. She would allow a hug or a kiss in greeting or farewell but shrugged you off if you lingered in the embrace.

Henry would have stroked her sparse hair, cut short after she could no longer shape it into a twist. He might have teased her about finally being able to touch her hair, something she loathed. Lydia might have rubbed her feet, those odd feet, with such high arches her toes curled to reach the ground. Her feet shaped by childhood polio and old age, missing the little toe on one foot, removed because of frostbite suffered during the Second World War. She could never find comfortable shoes, so she wore Birkenstock sandals year-round, donning socks with them in winter.

Billy would have rested his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers travel the length of her arm. He might have held her hand, bent at strange angles by arthritis and with the bones loose under the skin. Had I been there, I would also have been drawn to her hands, so small that they reminded me of a child’s. She kept her nails short and immaculate, a habit she’d adopted in medical school, and one I try to emulate. I might have traced the line of her aquiline nose and the contour of her jaw, fondled her cheek and pressed my fingers to her high cheekbones, a sign of her Slavic heritage, she once told me.

Her sandals and the pair of socks she last wore with them are mine now, safeguarded in a box in the back of my closet. Those Birkenstocks, the insoles shaped over time by the pressure of her feet, her navy-blue socks. I wanted the last of her clothing, something that had touched her. I run my hands over the smooth cork, hold the socks to my cheek, the much-washed cotton soft. I thought the socks might retain the cool, dry scent of her.

Our plane to Massachusetts departed in the afternoon, so Tom and I filled the morning with small errands—the purchase of a journal of good paper with a red ribbon to mark my place—and one last view of Notre-Dame. Each gesture, every step I made, accompanied by a voice in my head repeating, Your mother is dead.

The air smelled of diesel fuel and wet earth. My left arm entwined with Tom’s right, I rested my hand on his steady forearm, eavesdropped on the conversations around me, catching only phrases. I thought how these strangers knew nothing of my grief and I nothing of theirs. A rare winter’s morning, fresh with rain-washed skies, and sunlight bathing the bone-colored stone of centuries-old buildings. I noticed the quality of the light, its unusual clarity. Tom and I had introduced my mother to Paris on a trip years before. She will never see it again, I thought, trying to absorb its beauty on her behalf.

***

Author Bio:

Margaret Whitford served in leadership positions within the nonprofit world for twenty years, including ten years in the social justice field, before turning to writing. She is fascinated by the ways in which we all seek to create places of refuge for ourselves, both in a metaphorical and a physical sense. The History We Carry is her first memoir. An avid Francophile, Margaret, with her husband, divides her time between a small village in the South of France and her home in Concord, Massachusetts.

Catch Up With Margaret Whitford:

MargaretWhitford.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram – @margaretwhitfordwriter
Bluesky – @margaretwhitford.bsky.social
Facebook

Q&A with MARGARET WHITFORD

What was the inspiration for this book?
When my mother died, I was in Paris, an ocean separating us. In the aftermath of her death, I realized that the distance between us involved far more than geography. It fit a familiar pattern. Understanding the origins of that pattern proved to be the inspiration for the memoir. That led me to an exploration of my mother’s past and its influence on our relationship.

What has been the biggest challenge in your writing career?
I do not think of my writing in terms of a career, though I continue to be ambitious about my craft. And because I can always get better at the craft of writing, the challenges continue to evolve. That said, one challenge I continue to encounter relates to my discomfort with uncertainty. I sometimes impose conclusions prematurely, rather than waiting for the narrative to reveal them. I need to allow the material I am exploring to surprise me.

What do you absolutely need while writing?
I need uninterrupted time, solitude, and quiet.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?
I do not have a specific writing routine, other than to write on a daily basis in a journal. That effort is as much for my own peace of mind as anything else. When I am working on a specific writing project, I engage with it on a daily basis as much as possible to keep the ideas fresh and to allow my subconscious to work even when I am not.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?
My husband, Tom, is my favorite character, though he makes rare appearances in the book. Writing about him and our relationship introduced an element of joy. I also hope his presence on the page revealed that the narrator avoided some of the destructive patterns of her parents’ marriage.

Tell us why we should read your book.
You should read the book as a reminder that your family’s story is your story, regardless of whether or not you wish that to be true. Understanding your familial legacy helps you understand your own life with greater clarity. And that clarity enhances your ability to live as fully as you can.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?
A reader recently commented that though she thought she understood the history of WWII, she had never considered what the war meant for civilians living under armies of occupation. My book gives the reader a sense of that world, as my mother’s native Latvia was occupied first by Soviet Russia and then Nazi Germany. She had personal experience of what it meant to live under two totalitarian regimes.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?
First, thank you for taking the time to read the book. I hope that my story encourages you to explore your own, however you choose to do so.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I served in leadership positions within the nonprofit world for twenty years, including ten years in the social justice field, before turning to writing. At age fifty, I went back to graduate school for an MFA. Writing is, for me, a way of making myself more present in my own life. I write regardless of whether or not my work is published.
I started studying French at age twelve and went to France for the first time when I was sixteen. That experience transformed me into a dedicated Francophile. With my husband, Tom, we divide our time between our homes in Concord, Massachusetts and in France.

What’s next that we can look forward to?
I am in the early stages of a book exploring my husband’s and my misadventures with the United States Peace Corps in Kenya.

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A History You’ll Want To Carry

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MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWN by David Woo & Margalit Shinar #AuthorInterview

GHott July 28, 2026 1 Comment

MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWN

by David Woo & Margalit Shinar

July 20 – August 14, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Merry-Go-Round Broke Down by David Woo & Margalit Shinar

A novel of nine linked parables about globalization, ambition, hope, love, and greed spanning two decades and eight countries.

Fall 2008. The Waldorf Astoria New York. Two armed men storm the hotel’s famed bar and hold the occupants hostage: an American corporate raider, a Chinese tycoon, a British hedge fund manager, a Japanese housewife-turned-celebrity, a Mexican undocumented worker, a Wall Street bond salesman, and a Norwegian environmentalist.

Who are these terrorists? What do they want? And what ties them to their captives?

Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a genre-breaking novel that explores globalization’s “butterfly effect”: how choices made in one corner of the world ignited an unstoppable chain of consequences that upended lives across continents.

Praise for Merry-Go-Round Broke Down:

“What a fantastic tapestry of wordsmithing and storytelling! It left me with a much better understanding of how the world was woven so tightly by globalization, all through the dramatic stories of fascinating cultures and characters that are relevant to this day.”
~ Paul Tudor Jones, Chief Investment Officer of Tudor Investment Corporation

“You might think that it would be impossible to write a novel that helps the reader put her arms around the complex issues raised by globalization. Yet, David Woo and Margalit Shinar have done precisely this. The result is most engaging and insightful. It is also one that even globalization experts such as myself can profit from.”
~ Jagdish Bhagwati, University Professor of economics and law at Columbia University, author of In Defense of Globalization

“Merry-Go-Round Broke Down depicts the key socio-economic developments of the last quarter-century. It brings to life the people who put them into effect, as well as those who were affected by them. Few were untouched.”
~ Howard Marks, the co-founder and co-CEO of Oaktree Capital and international best-selling author of The Most Important Thing

“A timely portrait of a world bound together by the pursuit of profit.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

“An ambitious thriller with rich characterizations and a heart-pounding pace, Merry-Go-Round Broke Down also offers a stark, on-the-ground vision of globalization’s devastation.”
~ Booklife by Publishers Weekly

“David Woo and Margalit Shinar have perfectly illustrated how even a tenuous connection between individuals can have a profound, far-reaching effect across the world that could never have been predicted.”
~ Reader’s Favorite

“Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a contemporary fiction novel with the propulsion of a financial thriller. It’s fiction, but it wants to explain the world while it entertains you… If you want a story that makes you look up from the page and think, “Wait, is this how it really works?,” then it delivers.”
~ Literary Titan

Merry-Go-Round Broke Down Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Financial Thriller
Published by: Regalo Press
Publication Date: March 31, 2026
Number of Pages: 288
ISBN: 9798895655801
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Simon & Schuster

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 4

TOMOKO WATANABE
Tokyo, Japan, January–July 2005

“Low interest rates punish savers.” —Bill Gross

THE HOUSE IN KASHIWA, CHIBA Prefecture, southeast of Tokyo, was a two-storied box with aluminum windows and clad in white mosaics. It had a grey-tiled roof and a tiny front garden. The wind was howling outside as Tomoko struggled to get up from her bed. It was six o’clock in the morning and still dark, and everybody in the house was asleep. She was loath to abandon the warmth of the heavy duvet, but today was her husband Akihiro Watanabe’s birthday, and she wanted to surprise him with a special breakfast.

Tomoko shivered as her feet, encased in thick white socks, trod silently on the tatami mat covering the floor. It was cold, even for January, and this was one time she wished there was heating in the bedroom upstairs. She put on her slippers, pulled on a heavy cardigan over her fleece pajamas, and went down to the kitchen.

The kitchen, Tomoko’s kingdom, was small, but she ran it like a tight ship, every utensil and small appliance kept in its assigned place.

She began to prepare her husband’s favorite menu: clam miso soup and omelet rolls. There was smoked fish left over from the previous night, as well as cooked rice.

After turning on the small heater and quickly swallowing a cup of hot tea, she put on her old blue-checked apron and set to work.

Poor Aki, she was thinking, as she removed from the fridge the asari clams she had bought the previous afternoon; he really deserved some cheering up. Only eight months ago he had lost his lifelong employment, the first serious crisis in their marriage of twenty-two years. The electronics company he had given his all to for over thirty years had gone bankrupt after its main customer decided to outsource to China.

She rinsed the clams in cold water, rubbed them clean with a dishcloth, and set them aside to soak in salt water. She then filled a pot with water from the sink and blanched a leaf of kelp. When it had softened, she removed it with chopsticks and then put it back in the pot to boil for a minute or two before taking it out again.

Though Aki had found a new job quickly enough, Tomoko was worried. It not only paid a third less than his previous salary, it was a temporary job, with a contract that had to be renewed every six months. While Tomoko was, by nature, someone who took life’s setbacks with a pragmatic optimism, she felt helpless in the face of the loss of their financial security. As she added dried bonito flakes to the boiling water, she shook her head and pursed her lips at the injustice of it.

When the fish was cooked, she passed the broth through a fine sieve lined with a cloth. Discarding the scum, she sieved it again. And again. Inspecting the liquid for any telltale specks, she repeated the process until she was satisfied the broth was perfectly clear. She now reached out for the clams, soaking in their bath of brine.

Usually, Tomoko loved the ritual fuss of birthdays, especially her husband’s—the shopping for presents, the paper decorations and cards, the candles on the cake—but this year there wasn’t much cause for celebration.

She rinsed the clams and tipped them into the broth. Bringing the liquid to a boil, she skimmed it patiently. Once the clams had opened, she mixed in the miso paste, squeezing it through a small sieve with a spoon. The soup was ready.

Now for the omelets. What was more worrying, she thought, breaking eggs into a bowl with a deft flick of her wrist, was that his pension was gone. And the new job offered no pension at all. The bleakness of their future agitated her as she whisked the eggs with more vigor than necessary and poured them into the frying pan.

The omelets were done. When they had cooled a bit, she rolled them up into narrow, finger-shaped wraps and put them aside. Then she arranged the fillets of cold smoked fish in the middle of a long rectangular plate, which she decorated in one corner with a dollop of daikon radish infused with ponzu sauce. Finally, she heated up the rice and took out some nattō, fermented soybeans, everyone’s favorite.

She looked out the window above the sink. The heavy night darkness was lifting, and she could make out the falling snowflakes and the leafless branches of the cherry tree in their garden bending in the wind. A cold grey light was beginning to infiltrate the kitchen. She switched off the overhead lamp, figuring she could do without it now.

A brown Formica-top table with six chairs stood in a nook just off the kitchen. Poor Aki, she repeated to herself as she began to set it. At the age of fifty-three, there was little chance of his finding steady employment again. Although they never talked about it, she knew that, ashamed and frustrated, her husband was unraveling. His drinking binges had become more frequent, and he had taken to coming home at all hours. He was also becoming moody and short-tempered.

Only last week he had flown off the handle when she told him she was thinking about looking for a part-time job. He wouldn’t hear of it, he had responded angrily. Their son was still at school and needed her. Besides, what would their neighbors think? It was out of the question.

Though Tomoko knew his objections had more to do with his pride, she didn’t bring up the subject again. She vowed to herself she would find another way to help. But how?

Tomoko put down a small flower arrangement, teacups, bowls, and chopstick supports on the table. She had to find a way to help Aki. Whereas she could still take comfort in little things, he had just lost his entire world. She took a moment to align the chopsticks just so. Taking a step back from the table, she viewed the result with satisfaction.

Tomoko glanced at the kitchen clock squeezed between the toaster oven and a shelf. It was seven-thirty and all was ready. Plenty of time left for a leisurely meal before Aki left for the office and their son, Nishio, left for school. What a pity her daughter, Keiko, wasn’t there.

Tomoko brushed that regret away, together with a lock of her permed black hair that had strayed onto her forehead, and stood meekly at the entrance of the kitchen, waiting. She could hear her family coming down the narrow wooden stairs.

She bowed to her husband and her mother-in-law as they appeared, her face faintly flushed from her efforts, her shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly. “Ohayō gozaimasu,” she said, with the politest of greetings.

But Aki only grunted a barely discernible thank-you as he viewed the mini-feast she had prepared and sat down, noisily pushing back his chair.

Then he buried his face in the morning newspaper that Tomoko had laid, neatly folded, to the right of his chopsticks.

He was followed by Nishio. At fifteen, he was a tall and gawky youth, with a few wisps of dark downy hair on his upper lip and chin. He advanced towards the table and sat down in silence. He sat there sullenly, looking down under lowered eyelids, not once making eye contact with his mother. He consumed his soup in a few rapid gulps and hurriedly shoved some rice into his mouth. Then with a curt, barely mumbled good-bye, he got up and was gone.

“Don’t forget your bento box,” Tomoko’s voice rang out after him, “you must eat lunch!”

The third person at the table was Mishimo, Tomoko’s mother-in-law. It was she who owned the house, and after the death of Akihiro’s father some ten years before had given over most of the space to her son’s family, keeping only one room for herself. It was a situation not without friction. She had never liked Tomoko and was of the opinion that her handsome son could have found a better match than the daughter of a taxi driver. Or, at the very least, a prettier one. Though their exchanges were invariably on the right side of civil, Mishimo inevitably found fault with everything Tomoko did. But this morning was different. She spooned down the soup slowly, savoring every sip. “Excellent, Tomoko,” she remarked loudly. “Well done.” A compliment! Tomoko was touched to the bottom of her heart.

She then turned to her husband.

“Anata,” he said, using a Japanese term of endearment. “I hope you’ll be home on time for dinner. I bought a cake for tonight. And there will be eel as a main course.”

Aki didn’t shift his eyes from the newspaper. “No. I’m eating out.

Client dinner. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back late.”

If Tomoko was disappointed, she showed no sign of it.

“Akihiro-san. I also bought you a small gift,” she announced timidly. She had bought it out of her personal savings and had hoped to give it to him at the evening meal. She would have to give it to him now instead.

She went to the living room where she had hidden it. Coming back, she bowed respectfully and held out the package in her two open palms like an offering, saying “Happy birthday” in English.

Aki finally deigned to lower the newspaper and stared at the box wrapped in delicately folded bright blue paper, tied with a slender red-and-gold string. He reached out to take it. But instead of opening it, he put it in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Have to rush now,” he said dismissively.

“It’s the lighter you always wanted,” said Tomoko. But Aki responded with a dead gaze of bitterness at the wall behind her. Suddenly, he jumped up from his chair with such violence that it crashed to the floor.

“Baka! You stupid woman! Kono ama, you bitch!” He exploded in an inexplicable fit of rage.

Tomoko shrank back.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to waste money?” he yelled. “Don’t you see the situation we’re in?”

Without warning, he grabbed the cast-iron teapot from the table. He seemed ready to hurl it straight at her. Tomoko raised her arm to defend herself. He had hit her before, and she thought she knew what to expect.

At the last moment, however, perhaps in response to a whispered word from Mishimo that never reached Tomoko’s ears, he changed the direction of his aim and the heavy pot went flying toward the kitchen. Spurting tea, it smashed loudly into one of the kitchen cabinets.

In the silence that followed, Tomoko couldn’t move. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. But she didn’t say a word. Out of the corner of her eye, she was just in time to catch the expression of icy disapproval on Mishimo’s face.

***

Excerpt from MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWN by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Copyright 2026 by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Reproduced with permission from David Woo & Margalit Shinar. All rights reserved.

David Woo:

David Woo is a renowned global macro strategist, widely recognized for his bold and prescient calls on some of the biggest economic, political, and geopolitical stories over the past quarter century. Bloomberg called him “one of the most outspoken voices on Wall Street,” while Business Insider named him among “the twelve smartest people on Wall Street.” His views have shaped debates across markets, policy circles, and the global media. David began his career at the International Monetary Fund before going on to hold senior positions at Bank of America, Barclays Capital, and Citigroup. He earned a PhD in economics from Columbia University and a bachelor of arts in mathematics from Tufts University. A true product of globalization, David was born in Pittsburgh, raised in Taiwan, and educated in the United States. His career has taken him from Washington DC to London and New York. He is fluent in English, Chinese, and French.

Catch Up With David Woo:

www.davidwoounbound.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Facebook

Margalit Shinar:

Margalit Shinar is an architect. Margalit was born in New York, the daughter of French émigrés. She has a master’s degree in art history from Tufts University and a bachelor of arts in architecture from the Technion, Israel Institute of Technology. She has edited a history book on ancient Israel. She is fluent in English, French, Hebrew, and Italian.

Catch Up With Margalit Shinar:

Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads

Q&A with DAVID WOO & MARGALIT SHINAR

Can you tell us a little about yourself and your background?
David: I am an economist by training. I spent most of my career on Wall Street, where I became known for my out-of-consensus calls on some of the biggest stories over the past 20 years. For what it’s worth, Bloomberg calls me as “one of the most outspoken voices on Wall Street.” Born in Pittsburgh, raised in Taiwan, and now living in Israel, I am a product of globalization, and that experience shapes the way I see the world. I’ve always been drawn to big, ambitious novels about sweeping societal change. It was only after 25 years of researching international finance and economics that I understood the world well enough to embark on my first novel. Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa didn’t start working on The Leopard until he was fifty-eight. Some novels only arrive after you’ve lived them. That’s how I feel about Merry-Go-Round Broke Down. Margalit: I am an architect by training and a mother of two daughters. Instead of pursuing a career in architecture however, I pursued further study and graduated with an MA in Art History from Tufts University. That is where I met my second husband. I was born in New York to European émigré parents, both intellectuals. What I learned around the dinner table about Western culture was the equivalent of another university degree! French was the language spoken in my home. David and I have been married for 20 years and we live in the foothills of Jerusalem with our 2 standard poodles. I speak fluent English, Hebrew and French, and some Italian

What was the inspiration for this book?
David: Globalization has become one of the most divisive ideas of our time. In many circles, it has become a political scapegoat for rising inequality, economic insecurity, and the resurgence of protectionism. Yet behind these debates are the lives of millions of people whose stories are rarely told.
Merry-Go-Round Broke Down grew out of a desire to tell the story of globalization in a way that anyone could understand and, more importantly, relate to. We chose to write a novel because globalization is ultimately a web of human stories about ambition, hope, greed, luck, and fear. We wanted to show how individual lives, separated by continents and cultures, become bound by forces far beyond their control.
In The Plague, Camus examines how people respond when the world around them begins to break down. We wanted to ask a similar question in the context of globalization: how it shapes our lives, draws us together across borders, and, at times, pulls us apart. Ultimately, the novel is about how ordinary people, each pursuing a better life, unknowingly set in motion a chain reaction that transforms one another’s lives—and, ultimately, the world they share.

How did you come up with the title?
Merry-Go-Round Broke Down was the theme song of the Looney Tunes cartoon series. Written in 1937, during the Great Depression, it evokes a world that has spun out of control—a feeling that resonates strongly today.
When our daughter, Adi, suggested it as the title of our novel, we immediately knew it was the perfect fit. The phrase “Merry-Go-Round” also echoes the 1950 French film La Ronde, based on Arthur Schnitzler’s play, whose circular narrative structure inspired the architecture of our book.
Above all, the title reflects our deepest concern: the world we are leaving to our children and grandchildren. Through this novel, we wanted to explore how the forces that shaped globalization also created many of the challenges they will inherit. To navigate the future, they first need to understand how the world became what it is today.

Can you give us a glimpse into the research that went into writing this story?
There is a reason Merry-Go-Round Broke Down took ten years to write. We devoted the first five years to research, including traveling to every location where the story unfolds. The novel spans ten cities across eight countries, and we wanted each setting to feel as authentic as possible. From the very beginning, we knew we were attempting something ambitious. We also knew that readers would hold us to a high standard. Our goal was simple: to ensure that every character, every setting, and every moment felt real. We wanted readers to feel as though they were truly there—whether in a factory town in China, on a trading floor in London, or walking the streets of Havana.

Excluding the main character, who is your favorite character from the book, and why?
Margalit: my favorite character is Tyler. He represents the tragic outcome of globalization. I feel for him. He is a decent person who suffers misfortune after misfortune and is helplessly buffeted by huge forces that are beyond his control.

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Posted in Author Of The Month, Excerpt, Gina, Giveaway, Guest Author, Guest Author, Interview, Showcase

Have You Seen Him by Kimberly Lee #AuthorInterview

GHott July 23, 2026 3 Comments on Have You Seen Him by Kimberly Lee #AuthorInterview

HAVE YOU SEEN HIM

by Kimberly Lee

July 6 – 31, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

What if everything you believed about yourself was totally wrong?

For David Byrdsong, life is a series of daily obligations. An attorney, he lacks both ambition and the ability to commit to a long-term relationship with his girlfriend, Gayle. Abandoned by his family at an airport when he was eleven, he learned to blunt his feelings, despite his subsequent adoption by a loving couple.

Until one day, when David discovers his own face in a missing child ad. Suddenly driven to uncover the truth about his past, he is forced to tap into his inner strength as he encounters corporate conspiracies, murdered bystanders, and distressing suspicions about the only family he’s ever really trusted. David enlists Gayle’s help—and the help of an unlikely stranger with secrets of his own—as he attempts to find his true family, whoever they are.

Have You Seen Him is a story of lost identity, dangerous secrets, and a deeply personal pursuit of the truth.

Praise for Have You Seen Him:

Next Gen Indie Gold Award winner and IBPA Silver Award winner, Have You Seen Him has earned praise from readers and reviewers alike.

“Lee debuts with a dazzling maze of courtrooms, kidnappers, and unsolved mysteries in this substantive thriller, boasting a rich ensemble cast.…Have You Seen Him is consistently sincere, never losing sight of its spirit, and always ensuring readers are both challenged and charmed right up to the final page.”
~ BookLife

“…a slow-burning, emotional thriller that explores identity, trust, and the ripple effects of secrets long buried….This is a debut worth reading!”
~ Natasha Reed

“I loved the numerous reveals, and some made me gasp out loud! I won’t give any spoilers, so I won’t ruin it for you. If you love to be kept guessing until the end…give this book a try.”
~ Julie Kodama

“…delivers enough action to trigger a fight-or-flight response. The sparse touch heightens suspicion, palpable dread, and tension, fueling the overall pace….[E]veryone will stay engaged.”
~ C. Elyse, A Sip, A Shout Out, and a Sentence

“Cleverly written and thoughtfully crafted, Lee’s debut is action-packed and entertaining with enough emotion and depth to hook you. Gayle was my favorite character—she kicks ass.”
~ Mystery Manon, The Cluesletter

“…an impressively engaging, cleverly scripted, and simply riveting read from start to finish. Especially recommended for fans of unique suspense thrillers….”
~ Midwest Review

“The plot contains action, mystery, murder, secrets, and lies. There’s potential here for a sequel, and I’ll be one of the first in line to read it.”
~ Stephen Christopher, Readers’ Favorite

“The action and the mystery kept me reading. I had to know why he was missing.”
~ Briana Fitzpatrick

“This book was one that definitely pulled me in as twists and turns unravelled. Overall it was a twisty search for truth, tangled in corporate secrets, buried trauma, and family drama.”
~ A.D.

“I really enjoyed the author’s style of writing, the chapters were short and to the point and even though the storyline was intricate and multi-dimensional, it all came together.”
~ Jameelah Deleon

HAVE YOU SEEN HIM Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Suspense, Mystery
Published by: Butterfly Effect Press
Publication Date: July 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 270
ISBN: 9798991867214
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Powells

Read an excerpt from HAVE YOU SEEN HIM:

Author Bio:

Kimberly Lee, JD, is a versatile writer, workshop facilitator, and editor with a passion for nurturing the imaginative spirit and helping others reveal their creative gifts. Kimberly holds degrees from Stanford University and UC Davis School of Law, along with certifications from Amherst Writers & Artists, SoulCollage®, Guided Autobiography, and the Center for Journal Therapy. Recent collaborations include Esalen Institute, Omega Institute, Hollyhock Retreat Center, and The Huntington. Kimberly’s stories and essays have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, and she has served on the staffs of Literary Mama, F(r)iction, and Carve magazines. She lives in Southern California with her husband and three children.

Catch Up Kimberly Lee:

KimberlyLee.me
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @kimberlyylee
Instagram – @klcreatrix

Q&A with KIMBERLY LEE

Can you tell us a little about yourself and your background?
Although I practiced law for a decade, writing always called to me, like a giant cane from those old-time theaters, wrapping around me and pulling me back to the page. I remember creating a neighborhood newspaper when I was nine, with stories about which family had gotten a new puppy, who was selling Girl Scout cookies, who’d just returned from a trip to Disneyland. I remember trying to teach my dolls and stuffed animals how to write when I was in kindergarten and was just learning to write myself. In high school I had a teen column in the local newspaper. Stephen King said “books are a uniquely portable magic,” and I think I’ve always believed in that power. I worked as a public defender and later in private practice, all the while dreaming of writing a novel. I took many writing classes and workshops and eventually had several short pieces published, then began writing a novel. In addition to my own writing, I now lead creative and writing and arts workshops, helping others find their voice and express the stories they hold.

What was the inspiration for this book?
Soon after we meet the book’s main character, David, he’s sifting through his mail and sees a missing child ad with his own face. The inspiration for the book is a scenario kind of similar to that—I was sorting my mail and saw an ad for a child who went missing when he was 10. The computer-progressed image showed him at 40-something years old. I thought about how this boy’s family had been searching for over three decades, never giving up hope. The faces haunted me, especially the eyes. I tore the ad out and carried it around in my bag for a while, then sat down to write a story.

Excluding the main character, who is your favorite character from the book, and why?
Definitely Gayle, David’s girlfriend. She’s brave, no-nonsense, and full of integrity. She somehow pulls out the best in everyone who crosses her path, and she refuses to give up on David, despite his flaws. She puts her hair in an up-do to feel confident and powerful. Gayle was inspired by my mother and my aunt, who were both teachers.

What’s an interesting or fun fact about the book that readers might not know?
Much of Have You Seen Him was written while I was sitting behind the wheel of my car, waiting for my kids at extracurricular activities. I’d grab whatever free moments I had and write, usually by hand. Although I have a home office all decked out for writing, being in the car seemed to lower the stakes and silence the inner critic. I’d write for 10-15 minutes, and over time, it evolved into the full manuscript.

What’s next for you—what can readers look forward to?
Have You Seen Him is the first in a trilogy, so it’s back to my notebook to work on the second installment. Pen to page. I’m headed to a writing residency this summer for a couple of weeks to get some momentum on it. A few people have asked me what’s going to happen with the characters. Gayle and her friend Violet are nosy and will take the lead in a new adventure. David will be coming to terms with his past and figuring out his future, while still on the run. But I’m not sure how it will all unfold. Robert Frost said, “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.” We’ll all be surprised with the next developments–stay tuned!

Tour Participants:
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Have You Seen Him… And This Giveaway?

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Kimberly Lee. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
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Posted in Excerpt, Gina, Giveaway, Guest Author, Interview

SHADOWS OF FRENCHMEN by Michael Rigg #AuthorInterview

GHott July 7, 2026 Leave a Comment on SHADOWS OF FRENCHMEN by Michael Rigg #AuthorInterview

SHADOWS OF FRENCHMEN

by Michael Rigg

June 22 – July 31, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Jonathan Gray, M.D. Mystery

On a frosty Sunday morning in February, Dr. Jonathan Gray, Coroner of Orleans Parish, faces a gruesome sight. A dead man splayed against the circular steel and cut-glass blocks of the city’s AIDS memorial in Washington Square Park has strange symbols carved into his forehead and chest. A coded note—a cipher—has been placed under one hand. The body mutilation and note are hallmarks of a serial killer dubbed by the news media as the “Mardi Gras Sweeper,” because he strikes during Carnival season and leaves coded manifestos taunting police and giving hints about his next victim.

Hoping to avoid a panic during the city’s most profitable season, Mayor Max Jamerson asks Gray to investigate the murder “on the sly,” without formal assistance from the New Orleans Police Department. Time is of the essence as Gray races to figure out the cipher and track down the Sweeper in order to prevent additional killings—and save Mardi Gras.

Praise for Shadows of Frenchmen:

“A chilling, razor-sharp mystery set against the explosive energy of Mardi Gras. This cat-and-mouse hunt fuses cryptic clues, relentless suspense and rising terror into a tale that gives us a horrifyingly intimate glimpse into a killer’s mind. Dr. Jonathan Gray is a hero you won’t forget—and the Mardi Gras Sweeper is a nightmare you won’t escape.”
~ Kathleen Antrim, Bestselling Author, President-Outliers Writing University

“Michael Rigg does it again, with another thrilling mystery that you won’t be able to put down featuring New Orleans Coroner Jonathan Gray. Shadows of Frenchmen takes readers into the darkest corners of New Orleans’ lush settings and spooky cemeteries as Gray and his colleagues hunt for a possible serial killer, all against the backdrop of raucous Mardi Gras celebrations. Rigg’s love for this extraordinary city shines through on every page, even as danger lurks among the Spanish moss and above-ground tombs.”
~ Ellen Byron, USA Today Bestselling & Agatha Award Winning Author

“As a coroner, Dr. Jonathan Gray is the new Kay Scarpetta. In Shadows of Frenchmen, author Michael Rigg skillfully uses beads, beignets, bullets, bombs, and bodies to make New Orleans vivid and alive.”
~ John DeDakis, Former CNN editor, writing coach, and author of the Lark Chadwick mystery-suspense-thriller series, at johndedakis.com.

“Great action from the get-go! Atmosphere, characters, and all the right ingredients. A great read by Michael Rigg!”
~ Heather Graham, New York Times Bestselling Author

“Featuring smart and complex characters, Shadows of Frenchmen pulses with energy, taking the reader on a breathless chase for a serial killer terrorizing the city in the days leading up to a city-wide Mardi Gras celebration. Fans of the intrepid New Orleans coroner Dr. Jonathan Gray will not be disappointed!”
~ K.L. Murphy, Author of the Detective Callie Forde Mysteries, The Great Forgotten, and the award-nominated Her Sister’s Death

Shadows of Frenchmen Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Medico-Legal (Coroner) Thriller
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 5, 2026
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 979-8898202354
Series: A Jonathan Gray, M.D. Mystery, Book 2
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Alpha and Omega
Sunday, February 1, 2015 – 1:47 a.m.

Twenty-plus years with the Orleans Parish Coroner’s Office taught Jonathan Gray to expect the unexpected. But Washington Square Park had always been a tranquil haven on the fringe of the French Quarter. So crime-scene tape draping the square’s wrought-iron fence presented the visual equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. Moonlight filtering through stately live oaks cast eerie—almost funereal—shadows, adding to the dissonance.

Fluttering in the nippy midwinter breeze, the neon-yellow ribbon communicated

a mute warning. On this side, normalcy. On the other, insanity. Stepping into the dysfunction never got easier. Regardless, turning back wasn’t an option. As if speaking the incantation aloud would immunize him against the unfolding drama, he repeated his trite pre-crime scene mantra: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” His breath lingered in the frosty air before evaporating.

After checking in with the uniformed officer monitoring access, Jonathan angled toward floodlights illuminating a temporary canopy above the city’s AIDS memorial. More tape—red as opposed to yellow—identified the innermost “Do Not Cross” perimeter. Crime scene technicians in white Tyvek protective suits busied themselves measuring and photographing what must be the reason he’d been summoned. A male corpse sitting upright on the ground—its arms and legs twisted at seemingly impossible angles—leaned against the memorial’s circular cut-glass and steel panels surrounded by a pool of thick, dark-crimson liquid.

A curved, nearly rectangular piece of wood with brass edges—most likely a knife handle—protruded from under the right side of the dead man’s rib cage. A portion of his intestines spilled out of the wound. A second knife—its handle and part of its blade visible—had been thrust downward into the soft tissue between the left collarbone and neck.

Cause of death seemed too obvious to require someone of Jonathan’s seniority. A first-year med student could have made the call. But markings carved into the dead man’s forehead and chest hinted at something more sinister. No wonder Mitch Broussard from NOPD had called him in the middle of the night. The man’s heavy flannel shirt lay open, exposing his chest and a series of

capital letters etched into his skin. The letters—G I D I A I D I V—made no sense, at least not in English. A folded piece of paper with similar letters and other symbols, not quite readable from that distance, lay under the man’s left hand. Lack of blood covering the letters in the chest signaled they had been added postmortem. Jonathan focused on two marks in the man’s forehead. An uppercase “A” and what looked like an upside-down horseshoe—the Greek letter Omega—apparently cut while the victim was still alive.

It couldn’t have been two years already. But there it was. Alpha and Omega. Jonathan bit his lip and cursed under his breath. Then, a silent prayer. Looked like the nightmare was about to begin—again.

One of the CSTs stood and raised her clear face shield. “Hey, Doc. Welcome to Funsville.”

Excerpt from SHADOWS OF FRENCHMEN by Michael Rigg. Copyright 2026 by Michael Rigg. Reproduced with permission from Michael Rigg. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Agatha and Anthony-nominated author Michael Rigg, a lawyer for more than four decades, writes mysteries and thrillers set in two very different locations: Virginia Beach (where he lives) and New Orleans (which he visits as often as possible “for research,” including participation in three Mardi Gras Krewes). He is a retired Navy Judge Advocate and a retired civilian government attorney, formerly working for the Department of the Navy Office of the General Counsel. He is a member of International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America, and both the Sisters in Crime national organization and its Southeastern Virginia Chapter—Mystery by the Sea.

Catch Up With Michael Rigg:

www.MichaelRigg.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @michaelrigg716
Instagram – @michael.rigg716
Threads – @michael.rigg716
X – @MDR102030
LinkedIn
Facebook

Q&A with MICHAEL RIGG

What was the biggest challenge you faced in beginning your writing career?
The biggest challenge I faced as I started my career as a fiction writer was to unlearn what I’d learned about writing in the decades I’d been a lawyer, dedicated to writing “just the facts, ma’am.” Both legal writing and fiction writing share a common goal: in both, you’re writing “for effect.” In legal writing, you want to convince someone (a judge, an opposing attorney, or your client) that your legal position is true and correct and should be adopted. In fiction writing, you want to make a reader believe they are in the story, that they’re part of the action, that a fictional situation is “real.” You want to swing them to your (and your protagonist’s) point of view. Similar goals. Different techniques.

Can you give us a glimpse into the research that went into writing this story?
Because I write a mystery series, and other stories, set in New Orleans, I thought I needed a better understanding of Mardi Gras and its part in New Orleans and Louisiana culture. Since 2018, I’ve paraded annually with three Mardi Gras krewes. Those experiences provided important background for my other works (short stories, a novelette, and a debut novel), which dealt only tangentially with Mardi Gras. Shadows of Frenchmen, on the other hand, is knee-deep into the Carnival season. Shadows of Frenchmen involves the possible return of a serial killer who has terrorized Mardi Gras every other year. This will be the so-called “Mardi Gras Sweeper’s” third visit. Detailed knowledge of how Mardi Gras parades come together proved critical to drafting an effective, and believable, narrative.

Are you currently working on your next novel? If so, can you share a little about it?
For most authors with a series, the next one is always in the works. I’m two books into a three-book contract with Level Best Books, so, yes, I’m working on my next novel. Like Voices of the Elysian Fields and Shadows of Frenchmen, it’s set in New Orleans, with Jonathan Gray as the protagonist. Currently, the next novel involves several characters from the large Vietnamese community in what’s called “New Orleans East.” There may or may not be an outbreak of a contagious disease that threatens to spread from New Orleans to the Gulf Coast and beyond. Stay tuned. It’s early. Let’s see where the characters and circumstances take us.

What are some of your favorite leisure activities or hobbies when you’re not writing?
My wife’s the fiction reader in our house. She reads constantly. Until I started writing fiction, I mostly focused on non-fiction—remember, I was an attorney for a lot of years. For pleasure reading, I often turned to history and biography. And I’ve long been “a Civil War guy.” Since I was a very young kid, I’ve liked reading about the American Civil War. And, if I had my choice of leisure activities, it’d be walking a Civil War battlefield. Despite living in Virginia, life (translated: work and raising a family) always interfered. But I take advantage of opportunities when they arise. For example, one of my daughters went to college in a town just north of Richmond. When I went to pick her up for a holiday break one year, I left home earlier than required and visited the “The Seven Days Battles” in reverse. IYKYK.

Do you have a message or anything specific you’d like to say to your readers?
I’d like to say a simple “Thank you.” I first thought about writing a novel in my mid-fifties, as I scouted for something to keep me busy once I retired. Reading excerpts from books my wife was reading, I thought, “I can do this.” How better to impress someone who reads fiction than by writing a novel? After all, I reasoned, “How hard can it be?” Okay. You got me there. Famous last words. It’s very hard. But once the writing bug bit, I couldn’t stop. Little did I know how much readers would reward my efforts. My debut novel, Voices of the Elysian Fields, garnered nominations for an Agatha and an Anthony in the Best First Novel category. Didn’t win the Agatha (go figure, four cozies and a coroner procedural). But now I’m Calgary bound. And it’s all thanks to readers. So, if you’re headed to Bouchercon, please keep me in mind.

Tour Participants:
Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win!

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Beads, Beignets & Bookish Bounty

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Michael Rigg. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
SHADOWS OF FRENCHMEN by Michael Rigg | Gift Cards
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Posted in Excerpt, Gina, Giveaway, Guest Author, Interview

TRAFFICKING IN MURDER by Jeannette de Beauvoir #AuthorInterview

GHott June 25, 2026 1 Comment on TRAFFICKING IN MURDER by Jeannette de Beauvoir #AuthorInterview

TRAFFICKING IN MURDER

by Jeannette de Beauvoir

June 8 – July 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:
SYDNEY RILEY PROVINCETOWN MYSTERY SERIES

When a Boston TV crew comes to Provincetown to shoot a segment at the Race Point Inn, owner Sydney Riley takes it in stride… until one of the producers mysteriously disappears. The missing producer soon winds up murdered, miles away, the corpse gruesomely displayed in a Wampanoag graveyard. Worse, a bizarre note on the body implies Sydney is responsible!

Meanwhile, a beautiful young Wampanoag woman has also gone missing. Ali, Sydney’s husband and a DHS counter-trafficking agent, is assigned to look into her disappearance. And Sydney needs to investigate who killed the TV producer and left that horrifying note. Are the two cases connected? Has Sydney’s past come back to haunt her—and threaten the people she loves?

TRAFFICKING IN MURDER Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Beckett Books
Publication Date: May 22, 2026
Number of Pages: 322
ISBN: 979-8992594256
Series: Sydney Riley Provincetown Mystery Series, #11 | Each is a Stand Alone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

“Americans,” said my goddaughter, licking cheese and tomato sauce off her fingers, “eat twenty-three pounds of pizza every year.”

I looked at her suspiciously. There’s no doubt in anybody’s mind that Lily is precocious for a seven-year-old, but she also sometimes falls prey to what in artificial intelligence is known as hallucinations, and makes things up if she believes they’ll create a better story. “I don’t eat twenty-three pounds of pizza,” I said, even though we were in fact sitting at the Provincetown House of Pizza and contributing to the statistic.

“Not every American,” Lily conceded. “It’s an average.” She brightened. “So that means, some people eat way more than that!”

“That’s a lot of pizza,” I agreed. The truth is, I do regard it as a treat of sorts. I am part-owner of the Race Point Inn in Provincetown’s East End, and pizza is never featured on our Michelin-starred restaurant’s menu.

Besides, I like spending time with my goddaughter. When my best friend Mirela brought Lily back from Plovdiv in Bulgaria—where her sister had regarded the baby as an inconvenience and readily signed adoption papers so Mirela could bring Lily to the States—I hadn’t been quite as enthused. (To be fair, neither had Mirela: if there were ever someone who manifested zero maternal instincts, it’s her. As a mother, she’s something of a work in progress. That had not, however, stopped her from once becoming the fiercest mother bear ever out in the dunes when the baby’s life was threatened.)

In my defense, there aren’t that many non-parents who can truly embrace the demands of a baby, which morphed into the demands of a toddler, which finally metamorphosed into the very smart conversations one could now have with the girl sitting at the table with me.

“Did you know,” she said, “that some indigenous people call the earth Turtle Island?”

“I did not,” I said. She knows the word indigenous. Of course she does. “Are you going to eat that piece?”

She shook her head, intent on her thought. “The way the turtle shell is curved works okay for half the earth,” she said. “That makes sense. But what about the bottom half? And where does the turtle sit, or stand, and how come people don’t fall off the turtle? And if we’re on Turtle Island, why don’t we just float away? But if we did, what would we be floating on top of?”

“Good questions,” I said. Somewhere in the back of my mind an expression flitted by, turtles all the way down, but I couldn’t remember who said it or what it meant, and didn’t want to further complicate the conversation. I picked up the last slice of pizza and took a bite. “You could look them up and see.”

“Aunt Sydney,” she said to me with dramatic excessive patience, “I already did. I know how to do research! But no one knows.”

When I was seven, I probably didn’t even know the word research. I sighed. Maybe she could make it her dissertation topic. At the rate she was going, that was probably going to happen sometime next year. “It’s their story,” I said. “Lots of cultures have stories to explain how things work.”

“But if everybody’s got a different story, how do we know which one is true?”

We’d gone from alimentation to geography to metaphysics in under four minutes, which had to be a record of some kind. I was rescued by the arrival of my husband. “I see you didn’t save me any pizza,” he said, sitting down at the table and reaching over to tousle Lily’s hair.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” I said.

“Uncle Ali,” said Lily, “How do we know whose story is true?”

“Story?” He raised his eyebrows, amused, and gave me a smile, which always—even after twelve years together—takes my breath away. Ali is Lebanese-American, and is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

“Origin myths,” I told him. “Turtle Island.”

He said to Lily, “Truth can be different from facts, you know? Different stories are true for different people. In my religion, we don’t think the world started with a turtle. We think Allah created it, and did it in seven days.” He paused. “Does that sound like a fact to you?”

She shook her head. “My mom can’t even do a painting in seven days, sometimes,” she said.

“So they’re not facts, our stories, but even if we know they’re not factual, they tell us some truths about who we are,” he said.

“What truths does your story tell?”

He considered the question. Ali always treats Lily like a miniature adult. It works okay more often than not. “Well, it tells me that Allah is good, because the earth is good. It tells me Allah pays attention. It reminds me that he wants me to live in a way that I pay attention, too. And I think that people who tell the story of Turtle Island must be very close to the earth and nature, and the turtle reminds them of that.”

“Okay.” She was probably filing it all away to ask Mirela about later. “Are you going to order a pizza?”

Ali smiled. “I think not,” he said. “I was just passing and saw your Aunt Sydney’s car here so thought I’d stop in to say hello, because I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“It hasn’t been forever, Uncle Ali,” Lily said seriously. “It was last week.”

“Well, it feels like forever,” he said. “What are you ladies doing after lunch?”

“I don’t know about Lily,” I said, “but this lady has work to do.”

“You have to take me home first,” Lily said.

“I know.”

“My mom gave me the key,” Lily said.

“I know. She told me. And you haven’t lost it?”

She made a face. “Of course not, Aunt Sydney. I’m responsible.”

“You certainly are,” I said, smiling. I stood up and began clearing the table. “Want to help me with this? What time’s your mom coming home?”

She finished her soda, sucking noisily on the straw. “When she’s done at the gallery.”

That could be anytime. Mirela isn’t just any artist; even in Provincetown—itself an important art colony, the oldest continuous one in North America—she’s one of the town’s hottest artists. She came to P’town from Bulgaria one summer to work, back when Bulgarian students came here in droves; they still come, but in somewhat smaller numbers; Provincetown is changing. She spent that first summer waiting tables at Joon Bar and The Mews, driving a pedicab, and painting seascapes, mostly of the harbor. The paintings sold, and she stayed on, eventually becoming a US citizen; but over those years her style changed. Now she creates abstract works that sell for tens and even hundreds of thousands of dollars. She’s also marginally psychic, and some of her paintings carry eerie messages that scare the hell out of me.

Lily is, of course, her loudest critic, and often complains that her work doesn’t look like anything in particular; I privately agree with that assessment.

Very privately.

Ali stood up and opened his arms for a hug. “I’ll see you soon, habibi,” he said. It’s an Arabic endearment he reserves for Lily. He generally uses Italian ones with me. He thinks they make him sound sexy.

He’s right.

Lily duly deposited at Mirela’s house in the West End, Ali and I returned to the Race Point Inn, which was doing its usual brisk business. It was late June, the start of the tourist season, when Provincetown’s population makes the switch from three thousand residents in the winter to eighty thousand in the summer. The inn’s open year-round, and we’re generally booked up completely from April to December. I’ve been part of the inn now, one way or another, for over fourteen years, and yet am still absorbing what that entails: people, people, and more people.

Ali disappeared into our residence, which is the penthouse on the top floor of the inn, and I went in search of Wendy, the inn’s manager and—I could swear—magician. She soothed ruffled feathers, dealt with crises, handled difficult people, all the things I’m not terribly good at. We all have our areas of specialty.

Mine is murder.

***

That’s not really true, of course; I haven’t actually killed anybody yet, though I’ve come close a few times. In my fantasies, anyway. No; as Julie Agassi, the head of the Provincetown Police detective unit, tells it, if there’s a dead body anywhere in town, I’m going to be the one to have found it. Or known about it. Or been somehow involved with it. And it’s true that I seem to have a Jessica Fletcher/Miss Marple-level of amateur connection to crime.

It started one summer morning when I went to take an early dip in the Race Point’s pool—at the time, I was employed as the inn’s wedding coordinator—and found the body of my boss floating in the water with me. A thousand times ick, as well as a sorrow I’ve never really gotten over: Barry had been the kindest, gentlest man I’d ever known.

So of course I wanted to be part of bringing his killer to justice.

After that, it felt somehow natural for me to be on the scene of other crimes. Provincetown isn’t very big, and my work brings me into contact with a tremendous number of people, so it’s logical, really, that I’d have more success in figuring things out than would the State Police, dispatched from up-Cape to investigate homicides and not necessarily all that familiar with our little quirks down here.

And quirky doesn’t even begin to describe Provincetown. The town is a vibrant art colony. It’s also a gay-resort destination. And an old fishing village that still retains the remnants of the commercial fleet, along with the Portuguese families who worked it. Once upon a time, one of the whaling capitals of the world. And before that, the summer home of an indigenous population. All that history, all that mix makes for people who most decidedly do not do things by the book. Some outsiders find that disconcerting.

I find it… home.

Wendy was sitting in the empty restaurant drinking coffee and going over the evening’s menu with Martin, the maître d’. “It doesn’t matter; she says we have to take it off,” he was saying.

I pulled up a chair. “Take what off?”

“The salmon en croute,” said Martin. “She is not pleased with the quality of today’s delivery.”

Wendy was shaking her head. “Seriously? I don’t get it. Everybody likes salmon,” she objected. “Even people who don’t like fish, like salmon. She’s got it; for heaven’s sake, what else does she want to do with it?”

Martin made a face; I could only imagine what “she” had said to do with it. She was, of course, Adrienne the diva chef, by whose graces we had earned and kept our Michelin rating. She also had absolutely no care for anybody’s feelings; staff had been known to quit their first night of service because she’d completely terrorized them. My co-owner, Mike, seemed to be the only person who took her tantrums in stride. “It is not a local fish,” Martin was saying, his French accent somehow making the remark more persuasive. “And she has two other piscatory dishes on the menu…”

Wendy snorted. “For heaven’s sake,” she said again, but she said it with resignation. We all knew the truth: what Adrienne the diva chef wanted, Adrienne the diva chef got. “I’m going to have to reprint the menus.”

“Such is the nature of our curious enterprise,” said Martin, shrugging; he knows which battles to fight. He turned to me. “Sydney? Was there something you needed?”

“I wanted to check in with Wendy about the TV crew,” I said. We were being featured on one of the local-things-to-do, early-evening programs out of Boston, which was both a Good Thing—it helps to be known as a Weekend Waypoints destination—and also was going to be disruptive of staff and guests alike.

“Arriving tomorrow morning,” she said, changing gears briskly and seemingly effortlessly. “Mike wants you to do the interview, did he tell you?”

“He did.” Mike and I had become co-owners of the inn when its former owner gave up Provincetown for Amsterdam and his new love. Mike had been the manager, so he slipped easily into the role of keeping on top of the practical side of things, whereas once I gave up coordinating weddings, I tended more toward the public-relations side of ownership, attended business guild meetings, helped organize events, went off-Cape to conferences… and, apparently, did interviews for Boston television stations.

I also valued Wendy’s impressive organizational skills. “Where do you suggest it will disrupt people the least? The interview, I mean? The part I’m doing?”

“You’re doing the whole part,” she corrected me. “You’re going to have to stick with them, and take the producers to lunch here, I have a table for you at one o’clock.” She pulled out her smartphone and started scrolling. “Juliet Mills and Bruce Peterson,” she read. “And rooms thirty-four and eighteen will be empty and prepared for the cameras, but you have to be out of eighteen by lunchtime because we have an early arrival for it.”

I raised my eyebrows ever so slightly. “Thirty-four? Do you think that’s a good idea? You know they’ll have done their homework.” I could still hear Lily’s voice saying she knew how to do research; there was absolutely no way television producers didn’t.

It wasn’t that thirty-four is a bad room—it’s actually quite nice, with antique furnishings and a window overlooking the largest of our patios, the one with the arbor. It had been two years since Ali and I had stood on that patio exchanging wedding vows when we were interrupted by a man’s body falling very nearly on top of us.

From room thirty-four.

“They requested it,” said Wendy. “It adds a little pizzazz, knowing a murder happened here.”

Two murders, in fact, if you counted the body in the pool years before that. My instinct was to downplay that particular facet of the Race Point’s claims to fame. But Wendy leaned into it, and her decision had proved successful. There was even talk, sometimes, of a possible haunting. And people liked that. “Your call,” I said, making a face.

“I’ve put together a schedule,” Wendy went on, her voice brisk. Potential ghosts weren’t playing into her agenda—for the day, at least. “They’ll spend the morning shooting the inn, then after lunch they’ll go down Commercial Street, do shots of the town. They call it B-roll. Back here for a wrap-up before dinner service starts. Nine of them in all: producers, director, the on-air talent, and cameras and sound.”

“Okay.” I knew better than to argue: Wendy knew what she was doing. Nothing could go wrong.

Which just goes to show how little I understand about fate, or life, or anything.

***

Excerpt from Trafficking in Murder by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2026 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Jeannette de Beauvoir is the author of historical and mystery/thriller fiction and a poet whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She has written three mystery series along with a number of standalone novels; her work “demonstrates a total mastery of the mystery/suspense genre” (Midwest Book Review) She’s a member of the Authors Guild, the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and the Historical Novel Society. She lives and works in a seaside cottage on Cape Cod where she’s also a local theatre critic and hosts an arts-related program on local community radio.

Catch Up With Jeannette de Beauvoir:

jeannettedebeauvoir.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @JeannettedeBeauvoir
Instagram – @JeannettedeBeauvoir
Facebook – @JeannettedeBeauvoir

Q&A with AUTHOR

How did you come up with the title?
I have to just laugh—I try to show that each of my mysteries has a murder in it, so I use words like fatal, deadly, and so on. And since human trafficking as a crime was also involved, I came up with Trafficking in Murder. The silly part of it is that it’s absolutely technically meaningless—but it still sounded good, my publisher agreed, so we left it at that.

Can you give us a glimpse into the research that went into writing this story?
I generally spend two or three years researching the stories I write—once it’s in print, it’s forever, and I want to include everything that I can learn into my understanding, even though not all of it makes it into the original book. For Trafficking in Murder, there were a number of subplots that needed researching: the background to producing a weekly television program, the processes involved in human trafficking, and the history and culture of the Wampanoag tribe. So I was gathering a lot of threads together!

What is your inspiration?
Most of my books are mystery novels—what that means is at the most basic level, they’re about a crime, finding out how it happened, and resolving the aftermath in some way. And yet all of my novels, though they seem to be about solving crime, are at their core about respect and the non-“othering” of people who are different from us. And that will inevitably lead to exploring our own psyches, questioning why we believe what we believe about others, and figuring out whether we ourselves have room for growth. In exploring and sharing the world of the various different kinds of communities, I am hoping that readers will again enter emotionally into the lives of people they may never have thought about, and then go out and make the world just a little better, safer, and more joyful.

What’s next for you—what can readers look forward to?
I’m well into the research for the 12th Sydney Riley Provincetown mystery—this one will have a paranormal/metaphysical background (Provincetown has so many ghost stories, I couldn’t resist!). And I’m currently doing Draft Three of the next Abbie Bradford International mystery: after heading up to Base Camp in The Everest Enigma, she’ll be checking out some past espionage in England.

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Lights, Camera… Murder in Provincetown 🎬

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Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner #AuthorInterview

GHott June 16, 2026 3 Comments on Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner #AuthorInterview

WILDWOOD EXIT

by Joel E. Turner

May 25 – June 19, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A deadly family vendetta at a Jersey Shore restaurant finds John McGinty (aka Ginty) tailing his boss’s lying wife and junkie son into a dark world of embezzlement, drug dealing and murder.

Ginty has just stepped in as the manager of a Wildwood restaurant owned by his friend, Lou Scolletta, after Lou fires the old manager for dipping in the till.

Ginty starts out ordering rolls of salami and bottles of Galliano, but quickly becomes Lou’s consigliere, picking up questionable packages from sketchy associates; tailing Lou’s wife Concetta on her furtive trips to Cape May; scouring the Jersey Shore for Lou’s son, Davy, a junkie on the lam; and wondering why a possibly bent State Trooper keeps showing up everywhere he goes.

Things in Ginty’s world don’t improve when a drug shipment goes wrong, a blackmail note appears…and a body is found floating in Delaware Bay.

Ginty is now the unwilling-yet trusted-confidante of all the Scollettas, and realizes that everyone in this twisted family circle is in danger-including himself.

WILDWOOD EXIT is as sordid as it is comic, and should be on every beach towel from Asbury Park to Cape May.

Praise for WILDWOOD EXIT:

“A quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart”
~ Amy Rosenberg, Philadelphia Inquirer

“Funny, thrilling . . . a captivating crime story with a vivid Jersey Shore setting.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Amateur Sleuth, Noir/Hard Boiled, Crime fiction, Noir Fiction, Jersey Shore Noir, Literary Noir
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 6, 2025
Number of Pages: 329
ISBN: 9781685129729 (ISBN10: 1685129722)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books | Main Point Books | Wildwood Historical Society (Signed)

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

The car bumped hard, the undercarriage hitting the edge of the shoulder, as it careened off the Garden State Parkway, heading for a stand of trees. The bump woke me up, and I jammed on the brakes and fought the steering wheel, cutting it hard left, but it was too late. The car fishtailed as the front smashed into a tree, the rear swinging right as the brakes took hold and crashing into another tree. I was flung forward, my hands coming off the wheel and banging against the console.

My hands were cut and bleeding as I sat staring at the road, the car twisted at a forty-five-degree angle. Pain throbbed from my right temple, and I realized I must have hit the windshield or the roof. A heaviness pressed down inside my head above my eyes, and I felt an urge to close them and go to sleep.

I forced myself to stay awake and get out of the car. I knew I was still technically drunk, but the crash had pumped enough adrenaline into my veins that I was hyper-aware, despite the likely concussion. I tried to open the trunk, but it was stuck shut, the right fender crunched in and bent on the top where it met the hatch.

A car passed going north on the other side of the Parkway. I looked back up the south-bound lane and saw no traffic. I stepped onto the road and half-jogged across, stepping over the median and across the north-bound lane. I glanced back at the car, slanted cock-eyed in the grass just past the Exit 6 sign for North Wildwood, then hurried through the grassy stretch alongside the road and into the woods that bordered it.

My only thought now was to avoid getting a DUI. I could deal with the car later. What a disaster. I had just bought the damn thing yesterday afternoon from a guy in Buena with a badly running nose and a burning desire to take my cash and go meet someone to make him well. That’s what I got for taking a lead on a cheap car from a guy holding up the end of the bar at a beer-and-a-shot place down the street from my house. I could have asked Lou to hook me up, but the price was right, and I just wanted something to get me through the summer. So I hitched a ride to Buena from a buddy who was headed to Margate, where I met Drew, the guy with the dripping nose. Drew had that pressing business to attend to, so he was fine with giving me the uncompleted paperwork.

Drew said, “Just see Mitch at the title place here next week, he’ll handle it.”

I trudged through the patch of woods, distancing myself from the Parkway. I came to a two-lane road and ran across that into deeper woods on the other side. I was about ready to just sleep under a tree there, when through a gap in the branches I saw an open field.

I pushed forward to the perimeter of the woods and stopped, trying to make out where I was. If it was somebody’s back yard, I would have to be careful. But there were no lights, just a dark field spreading out before me. I looked to my left and saw a brighter patch on the ground and a hundred yards beyond that a low building, maybe a garage?

I walked through tall grass to shorter grass, and as I got closer to the bright patch, I realized what it was: a sand trap.

I was on a fairway of Wildwood Country Club, the home course of my friend Lou Scolletta, whose house I was supposed to have been at four hours ago. There was probably a caddie shack I could hide out in, but I opted for a makeshift bed in the grass of a hollow a few fairways over. I lay down and, in the brief period before I passed out, wondered if this was the best way to prepare for the first day on my new job.

* * *

There was no way I wanted a full-time job working for Lou. I knew just enough about Lou to know not knowing anything more was the prudent path. The fact that he had just fired the prior manager for dipping in the till did not make the opportunity more appealing.

But there was a crazy part of me that thought running a place—a restaurant, not McNabb’s Tavern, the decrepit neighborhood tappie in Southwest Philly where until last year I humped kegs, mopped up fluids, breathed a lot of smoke and told myself I was the “manager”—might be something I could do. Because I was nowhere right now. No degree, no trade—just fifteen years of bartending that had ended when the last McNabb standing decided—wisely—that this was no way to make a living. The new owners didn’t need a mug like me in the fern bar that McNabb’s was to become.

I knew The Seabreeze, the quintessential Jersey Shore restaurant. When Lou bought it six years ago, I helped out a few weekends bartending when some of the corner boys he had hired just disappeared on him. It wasn’t hard finding someone to cover for me at McNabb’s. Our weekends were slower in the summer anyway, with a lot of folks going to the shore.

Lou and I hung out more back then. He bought the place in 1977 when I was thirty and Lou maybe thirty-seven. It was sort of a vanity project for him; his main business was a Cadillac dealership in South Philly. The following summer, he showed up at my bar with his son Davy—guess the kid was sixteen. He wanted Davy to get a summer job. Could we take him on, washing dishes, whatever? I wondered why he didn’t hire him at the dealership, but I guess he wanted him to work for someone else.

So I hired him, and he was okay, typical teenager, hardly said a word. There really wasn’t that much to do—we had a kitchen and did some sandwiches, but it wasn’t much to keep a dishwasher busy.

I guess that was the first favor I did for Lou. And I did owe him big, seeing as how his dad got me out of the draft back in 1967. Plus, Lou got me my first restaurant job, which was really a pretty good gig at a nice South Philly restaurant. But with Lou, you never felt like he was looking for payback. He just came off as a great guy, not like he was some connected dude that you had to say yes to. I’m sure he sold a lot of cars seeming like a great guy.

I used to give Davy a ride home sometimes, which often led to Concetta—Lou’s wife—asking me in to eat. There was always food, loads of food. She’d give me a plate of pasta, red wine out of a jug—might be ten o’clock in the evening, but so what? Then Lou would show up, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash that I was there. Then he had me down to a little mom-and-pop restaurant near his dealership for dinner, and I met some of his friends. They were mostly older and had gone to Bishop Neumann or Southern, but a few knew guys from Kingsessing, my old neighborhood in Southwest Philly.

I thought about that pasta and how a mick like me was going to run a real restaurant, and, as I passed out in the wet grass at 3:30 AM, whether Davy was still having the same nose-dripping problems as Drew from Buena, a path I saw him starting down two and a half years ago.

* * *

The sound of a mower woke me up. The guy running it looked like he had seen worse. He pointed me to the caddy shack and gave me some coins for the payphone. Thank God Lou picked up, but then that’s Lou, he’s not surprised if some fuckup calls him at dawn. I washed up as best I could with cold water and no soap in the filthy sink in the shack’s bathroom, then waited outside the locker room, not wanting to meet up with anyone, until Lou arrived.

What a night. Blitzed out of my mind, drinking stingers like I was twenty in Somers Point, dancing with those crazy chicks, trying to teach me to moonwalk like Michael Jackson on that Motown show a couple of months ago. It was the Friday after a Monday Fourth of July, and it felt like the bar itself was stumbling under the strain of a week-long bender.

I had just stopped in for something to eat, then met these girls, three of them, late teens, which led to my dancing lesson. As it got late and the stingers took their toll, I figured maybe I’d just crash in the back seat for a couple of hours, then get breakfast somewhere, rather than roll in drunk at four in the morning and freak out Concetta.

Then two of the girls disappeared and the last one, Sharon, became glued to a chair at my table—that is, her butt was glued to the chair, but her face ended up stuck to the table itself, her long brown hair straggling out into the sticky remains of many ungodly drinks. At closing time, I struggled her to her feet and managed to get her to moan out where she was staying in Sea Isle City, a couple of towns south. After she vomited in the parking lot, I got her into the back seat and drove as carefully as I could, taking Route 9 to avoid the faster traffic.

I got the girl out of the car at her shabby rental duplex, leaving her sprawled on a chaise lounge in the screened porch. I banged on the door until one of her roommates appeared in a long t-shirt. We got her into bed and I talked the roommate through how to make sure Sharon didn’t choke on her own vomit.

I sat in my car, worrying about the girl. I was old enough to be her father, but being plastered in a Somers Point bar at closing time didn’t exactly qualify me to be in loco parentis. I was just a more experienced wastrel, a thirty-six-year-old failed bartender who would have been a disappointment to someone, if there was anyone left to fill that role.

When I left the girl’s rental, I figured it wasn’t much farther to Wildwood, and what the hell, why not take the Parkway? But of course, that’s what impaired judgment is all about. So fatigue and drunkenness once more exacted their toll on a stupid Irishman, and here I was creeping around at dawn like an escaped convict.

***

Excerpt from Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner. Copyright 2025 by Joel E. Turner. Reproduced with permission from Joel E. Turner. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Joel E. Turner’s first novel, WILDWOOD EXIT, a noir tale set at the Jersey Shore, was published by Level Best Books in 2025. Amy Rosenberg of the Philadelphia Inquirer called it “a quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart”.

His second novel, BRENDA’S GREEN NOTE, forthcoming from Cynren Press in 2027, is a coming-of-age story about a young woman with synesthesia who harnesses her ability to see sounds as colors to become a key player in the vibrant music scene of the 1960s in Philadelphia.

His fiction has appeared in many US and UK journals. His website joeleturnerauthor.com, has samples/links to his work and posts about books, film and music. Articles he has written about Soul music have been featured on the UK-based Soul Source website, a major platform for news on the Northern Soul scene.

Mr. Turner splits his time between Philadelphia and White Cloud, Michigan.

Catch Up With Joel E. Turner:

JoelETurnerAuthor.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram – @bzturner
Threads – @bzturner
BlueSky – @joeleturner.bsky.social
Facebook – @joeleturner2

Q&A with JOEL E. TURNER

Can you tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I grew up in the Philadelphia suburbs, went to Catholic grade school and a Jesuit high school, then a small co-ed liberal arts college—no more single-sex, Catholic education, please! My degree was in English Lit and I wrote my first fiction then, lost (thankfully) in one purge or another. I considered academia but based on what I observed with teachers I admired being denied tenure, I decided it was not for me. I spent a few years working for the SSA and became interested in systems analysis, which led to me getting an MBA from University of Michigan—a truly brutal course of study, at least for me. That led to 30+ years as a consultant/data analyst/software developer in the banking industry.
I wrote fiction throughout that period and had my first story published by Ambit, a pretty avante-garde, or at least non-academic, literary magazine published in London UK. The fiction editor at that time was J. G. Ballard, and I still have the very nice response he sent to me when recommending the story to the mag’s publisher, Martin Bax.
My first published novel, Wildwood Exit, in 2025, was the third novel I wrote. The other two— maybe they’ll come out of the drawer some day, with pretty significant rewrites. My second novel publication, Brenda’s Green Note, is due out in October 2027. I am also working on a sequel to Wildwood Exit.
I also blog about books, music and films at joeleturnerauthor.com. I am a big fan of 50’s/60’s R&B/Soul. A couple of my pieces in that vein were published at Soulsource.uk.com, a major venue focused on the Northern Soul scene (a whole other story, as they say).
I am married with three grown children. I am a basketball fan and played until my knees gave out, then turned to golf.

Tell us why readers should pick up your book—what makes it stand out?
Wildwood Exit is a noir tale, but also a family drama. Ginty, the bartender-become-restaurant-manager-and-unwilling-consigliere is a bit of an everyman. He does things for Lou Scolletta, the restaurant owner who hired him, because Lou, through his dad (a doctor) helped him evade the draft, and got him jobs in the restaurant business. Ginty, in turn, hired Lou’s son, Davy—the addict on the run who is at the center of the story. Ginty has a sense of moral duty, to all of the Scolletta’s, which causes conflict and danger for him.
The book has a comedic aspect, particularly with the introduction of Pinto, a super-annuated South Philly corner boy, who becomes Ginty’s partner in sketchy assignments from Lou. Pinto is a wise guy who attracts trouble in a carefree manner. And there’s a bit of romance, as Ginty meets Pauline, a vacationing paralegal from a small town in Quebec, who charms and befuddles him with her unlikely attraction to him and her French-Canadian take on his activities, delivered with a Gallic (or more properly, Québécois) panache.

Are you currently working on your next novel? If so, can you share a little about it?
I’m in the editing process for my next novel, Brenda’s Green Note, due out from Cynren Press in October 2027. It is the story of a girl with synesthesia—she sees sounds as colors—who is also a talented musician and leverages these capabilities to become a sound engineer in the lively music scene in Philadelphia in the mid-1960s. She begins her journey under the guidance of an avante-garde composer/musician, who introduces her to his electronic soundscapes/installations and then becomes a protégé of a rock and roll promoter. Brenda undergoes a trauma that changes her life and leads her on a search for fulfillment. It’s a coming of age story. Contrary to the advice of several folks in the publishing industry, I haven’t “stayed in my lane” by sticking to crime or literary fiction.

What are some of your favorite leisure activities or hobbies when you’re not writing?
I play golf, collect records (esp. R&B/Soul 45s) and enjoy the company of my wife, kids and their families. I especially like spending time at our place in the North Woods of Michigan, and at my wife’s family’s cottage on Lake Michigan—that’s taken the place of the Jersey Shore for me!

What are a few of your favorite foods?
Soft pretzels, hoagies, tomato pie, pasta— hey, I’m from Philly.

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WILDWOOD EXIT by Joel E. Turner
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MAYBE YOU LIED by Jennifer Sadera #CoverReveal

GHott June 10, 2026 2 Comments on MAYBE YOU LIED by Jennifer Sadera #CoverReveal

MAYBE YOU LIED

by Jennifer Sadera

June 9 – 12, 2026 Cover Reveal

Synopsis:

Everything he knows about his life is. . . a lie.

Blindsided by the sudden death of his mother, 21-year-old Will Lockhart can no longer afford the rent or bear the haunting memories of their shared Massachusetts apartment. While packing up his mother’s belongings, he discovers his long-dead father’s deed to a house in upstate New York. With nowhere else to go, he settles there, intent on making a fresh start. But odd things happen as soon as Will moves in. He’s unnerved by evidence of fire damage in the cottage, and alarmed by the seizure his elderly next-door neighbor suffers upon meeting him. Most shocking of all are the rumors of a long-ago murder in his house. Now, trapped in a town full of strangers, unsure of whether local murmurings are true or simply small-town gossip, he’s determined to discover what really happened all those years ago, and how he’s connected to the chaos. The truth will set him free. Or get him killed.

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense, Domestic Suspense
Published by: Creative James Media
Publication Date: September 22, 2026
Number of Pages: 344
ISBN: 9781965648919 (ISBN10: 1965648916)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Author Bio:

Jennifer Sadera first worked in the publishing industry as a junior copywriter for NAL/Penguin. She has written and edited for newspapers and magazines as a freelancer and on the staffs of major women’s publications, Woman’s World and Redbook.

Catch Up With Jennifer Sadera:

JenniferSadera.com
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LinkedIn
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The Truth Might Be Deadly… This Giveaway Isn’t

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MAYBE YOU LIED by Jennifer Sadera | Gift Card
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Deadly Gold Rush by Landis Wade #AuthorInterview

GHott June 2, 2026 1 Comment on Deadly Gold Rush by Landis Wade #AuthorInterview

DEADLY GOLD RUSH

by Landis Wade

May 18 – June 26, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE INDIE RETIREMENT MYSTERY SERIES

Murder, mines, and missing millions—retirement just got interesting.

When a shady real estate developer is found murdered beneath Harriet Keaton’s family home—shot, stabbed, and surrounded by rare 1830s gold coins—her estranged twin brother Joey is the prime suspect. He insists he’s innocent…but won’t name the real culprit.

With Joey refusing to talk and millions missing from the retirement accounts, the future of the Independence Retirement Community is suddenly on the line. Now, whip-smart Harriet and her sleuthing partners—Craig Travail (savvy lawyer, reluctant romantic) and Yeager Alexander (conspiracy theorist, resident rabble-rouser)—must dig into the past to solve the crime.

Their best lead? A decades-old memoir from Harriet’s treasure-obsessed father and whispers of a long-lost gold hoard.

But treasure has a way of attracting trouble. As fortunes vanish and suspects multiply, the trio must untangle two decades of betrayal—before the killer strikes again.

Murder, mayhem, and the Carolina gold rush: welcome back to the Indie, where retirement is anything but quiet.

Praise for Deadly Gold Rush:

“Deadly Gold Rush is a satisfyingly complex entwining of events and personalities that proves hard to put down.”
~ Midwest Book Review

“Deadly Gold Rush caught my attention from the first sentence and kept me transfixed to the very end. Couldn’t put it down.”
~ Readers’ Favorite Reviews

“Lively mystery bubbling with unforgettable characters and historical spirit.”
~ Booklife Reviews

“Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

DEADLY GOLD RUSH Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Legal Thriller, Historical
Published by: Lystra Books & Literary Services, LLC
Publication Date: March 3, 2026
Number of Pages: 378 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 979-8992136357, Paperback
Series: The Indie Retirement Mystery Series, Book 2 | Each is a Standalone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Death in the Passage

The narrow alleyway walls muffled the gunshot as uptown Charlotte slept. It was one thirty in the morning on Tuesday, April 1.

The phone call didn’t last long.

“It’s me,” the caller said. “I need your help.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have a body.”

“Whose?”

“Chance Landry.”

“Where are you?”

“Lincoln Street. Inside the Rivafinoli Passage in South End. Next to the Queen Charlotte mural.”

“Anyone with you?”

The caller explained who else was still there.

“You leave. Tell them to stay with the body and wait for my call. I need to think.”

Three minutes later, the call was made to the only living person remaining in the passage who could help.

“I am going to text you an address.” Next, they explained what to do with Landry’s body when they got to the address.

“Are you kidding? He’s already dead.”

But the person giving instructions had no sense of humor. “Just do it.”

A text message followed with the address.

The person who received the message knew how to follow directions and did as they were told.

Chapter Two

Vengeance is Sweet

The 11:15 p.m. email on Craig Travail’s phone read: Your friends are about to suffer financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations. You have only yourself to blame.

What?

Travail read the email again, slower this time. He read it twice more. There was no author name. Just an unknown vengeanceissweet email address.

Travail exhaled. His email checking practice was a bad habit, a routine held over from his career when clients expected their lawyers to be available 24/7.

Nothing good ever came of his itch to scratch his email in-box for late-night messages, like now, when it would be twice as difficult to sleep after watching the late night local news—with its smorgasbord of crimes, collisions, and natural disasters—and reading this email.

One news story was about elder fraud, a reminder of how susceptible retirees are to financial fraud schemes. Was that what was coming for his friends at the Independence Retirement Community, which everyone called the Indie? Were the residents about to suffer financial ruin because of risky investments? If so, he’d be angry at the perpetrators for their heartless guile and frustrated with his friends for being so gullible.

The television show made the point, though, and he agreed, that adults spend most of their lives collecting assets to make retirement possible and the rest of their days worried if their accumulated treasure will last as long as they do, leading some retirees to make risky and uninformed choices with their nest eggs. Was that what his friends had done? Made bad choices with their money? Is that what the emailer taunted him about?

Travail’s instinct was to fire off a harsh response to the email with some choice lawyer-like words and warnings, but he ignored the bait—he suspected they wouldn’t respond anyway—and he punched the remote control instead.

The television screen faded to black, and his den fell silent, save for Blue’s rhythmic snores and his jerking legs. Travail’s black and tan coonhound must be dreaming, chasing ducks along the lake behind Travail’s cottage, as he was apt to do in real life, and as usual, failing to catch the waterfowl before they darted back into the water. Travail leaned over his club chair’s arm and let his free hand graze on Blue’s back until his pet stopped running in his sleep.

Maybe the email was a prank. Maybe, like him, a friend had become bored with life at the Indie. And yet, the email bothered him.

Whose lives—which friends’ lives—were about to be shattered? And how? And for that matter, why? And what did he have to do with it?

Since moving a year earlier into the Independence Retirement Community, Travail had made two best friends, Harriet Keaton and Yeager Alexander, and several other good friends. He’d met many other retirees, some whose company he tolerated and some whose company he could do without. Either way, he didn’t want to see anyone hurt. He certainly didn’t want his close friends to suffer, and he didn’t want to be the person responsible for their pain.

The flame on the candle he’d lit this morning was down to the base of the wick. He turned away from it, detesting the severe loneliness of March 31.

There was no logic for feeling so alone—what with all the crimes, court cases, and historic mysteries Harriet, Yeager, and he navigated since he arrived at the Indie and the time they spent together—but it was hard to control his feelings, especially the feeling of being by himself. A Jewish resident told him about the tradition of lighting a candle on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. It felt loving to strike the match in Rachael’s honor, but as day became night, Travail’s mood shifted. It had been three years to the day.

The flickering light had a strobe-like effect on the things that reminded him of Rachael: her furniture, her quilts, her artwork, her pictures. Travail missed Rachael’s kindness, her playfulness, her creativity, and the rituals they shared. The flicker made the past too present, making him long for another night and morning and day together. She was here, there, and everywhere, but nowhere at all.

Assertive is what he’d needed to be in the moment that changed everything. He and Rachael were in the mountains at a high-elevation rental for a getaway when a freak storm rolled in and dumped six inches of snow on the ground. Rachael decided to drive to the local general store to stock the pantry for their cozy weekend together. He had a work call and offered to go with her after he finished.

“It’s just snow,” she’d said.

“Okay, but be careful,” he’d responded.

“Always, dear.” Then she kissed him on the mouth, patted his bottom, and walked out of his life forever.

The news came in a phone call from the local police. First came the shock, then the grief, and then the Monday-morning quarterbacking. He should have insisted Rachael let him drive her. He should have done more to protect her. If he had, maybe she would still be here. Maybe the out-of-control delivery truck that hit the black ice would have killed him instead of her, or maybe Travail could have prevented the accident.

Spring in North Carolina was supposed to be about new beginnings, not endings, with the dogwoods and azaleas in bloom, but his eyes grew wet from the memories, and he felt a sudden heaviness in his body.

He looked at the email again and became resolute. For sure, he would not make the same mistake twice with the people he cared about. He would protect them.

But who was behind the email?

Whoever wanted sweet vengeance against his friends wanted vengeance against him too, because their pain would be his pain. The question for his lawyer brain—used to solving riddles for years—was: who despised them and him that much?

Like an unexpected electric shock, the answer startled him. This email was exactly the kind of plot his nemesis, Robert Elkin, would conjure. If Elkin hurt Harriet, Yeager, and his other close friends, he hurt Travail worse.

But wasn’t Elkin no longer a threat? They’d exposed his concealment of the truth about the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence, avoided death at the hands of his father, pushed him out of his Big Law leadership position, and seen to it that the state bar took his law license. Elkin no longer had big-time lawyer power. The only thing he had was anger, resentment, and a low-paying job as a paralegal with a former client, though Travail didn’t know the client’s name or their business. It was a sharp drop from the level of influence that had made the man dangerous, and yet, there was reason to be cautious. Elkin was cunning and would hold a grudge till death do they part.

Travail leaned his head back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, and pondered the text again: financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations.

Harriet was too smart to get caught up in a financial scam. Not so with Yeager. He was impulsive, likely to jump at the chance to possess something shiny because it might become shinier.

Travail pulled an olive-colored sweatshirt over his t-shirt, woke Blue, and took him into the backyard to do his business under the stars. While he waited, Travail glanced across Lost Cove Lake to Harriet’s cottage. He inhaled the fresh night air, and he marveled at the main building’s reflection on the lake’s surface. Harriet’s lights were out. She, an early riser, must be asleep.

Seeing Harriet’s peaceful cottage raised a question he’d been pondering. Should he ask her on a date? Carrie Roberts, the Indie Gossip Queen, thought so and often shared her opinion.

Most days, it seemed like the right decision not to ask Harriet—or anyone else, for that matter—on a date. Three years wasn’t that long, really, since Rachael died. And yet, here he was, caught in a web he’d spun for himself, trapped somewhere between what he no longer had and the companionship he wanted but resisted. Harriet was his friend. Should he keep it that way?

Harriet would most likely turn him down anyway. He was a project, and he knew it, starting with the lesson she’d had to teach him last year that retirement living is not life’s dead end but a fresh path forward. And now, with him being a sixty-six-year-old widower afraid to address his feelings, she’d be quick to beg off.

Blue finished up, and the two headed inside. His watch told him it was a new day. He blew out the dwindling flame on the candle and headed to his bedroom, where Blue was already curled up on the end of Travail’s queen-size bed. Wearing only striped boxers and a white cotton t-shirt, Travail pulled the covers up to his chin. With a good night’s sleep, he’d be fresh in the morning to put his effort into stopping Elkin. He still had his law license, after all, and as Yeager would tell him from time to time, “You ain’t dead yet.”

He closed his eyes and imagined tying a dry fly rig with two nymphs on a dropper line, the key to catching river trout on and below the surface at the same time. This falling-asleep system was better than counting backward from three hundred by threes. It worked its charm in less than five minutes.

Travail didn’t know when he dozed off that the murder train had left the station. He didn’t know when he began to snore that someone had already set the trap for his friends. And he didn’t know when he fell into a deep sleep that when the sun came up, he would ponder, and not for the first time, how he could have been so wrong to believe retirement living would ever be boring or lonely.

***

Excerpt from Deadly Gold Rush by Landis Wade. Copyright 2026 by Landis Wade. Reproduced with permission from Landis Wade. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Landis Wade is a recovering trial lawyer turned author who writes award-winning mysteries and legal thrillers with a historical bent. His publication credits include six works of fiction, eight non-fiction writing books, many short stories, and a podcast that produced 400 episodes of author interviews and writing discussions. His first novel in his Indie Retirement Mystery series, Deadly Declarations, won ten awards and Kirkus Reviews said of his second in the series, Deadly Gold Rush, that “Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees.” Landis splits his time between Charlotte, Durham, and the North Carolina mountains. He is the recipient of the 2025 Founders Award for service to the Charlotte Writers Club and the literary community.

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Q&A with LANDIS WADE

Can you tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I grew up in Charlotte, North Carolina, where my Indie Retirement Mystery series is set. After law school, I came back to Charlotte and practiced law for 35 years handling commercial and employment disputes in federal and state court. I was a private judge arbitrator and mediator for twenty of those years and I argued cases in state and federal appellate courts, including the North Carolina Supreme Court. I did extensive writing in my law practice, but the letters, emails, contracts, settlement agreements, and legal briefs were not as exciting to read as thrillers and mysteries. In my spare time, I volunteered as a Little League baseball coach and Commissioner of Pop Warner Youth football. When my children went to college, I took up fiction writing in my spare time, hoping this old dog could learn a new trick.

What was the biggest challenge you faced in beginning your writing career?
The biggest challenge at the start of my fiction writing career was learning how not to write like a lawyer. Lawyers have a tendency to use a 25 cent word when a 5 cent word will do. They also like to write in passive voice and are prone to use run on sentences in long paragraphs. Short and crisp is better in fiction and short paragraphs are helpful to readers. Lawyers also think they know more than they do and they resist feedback. As a lawyer turned fiction writer, I learned that critique of my writing is not personal but part of the writing process that improves the work.

What was the inspiration for this book?
The inspiration for Deadly Gold Rush was the Carolina Gold Rush of the 1800s, the first gold rush in the US. I focused on Charlotte, North Carolina because Charlotte was the site of the first branch of the US Mint in 1837, and Charlotte had more gold mines than any other county in North Carolina. I also learned that abandoned gold mines have a tendency to collapse. This gave me the idea for an early scene in the novel where we find a body in a collapsed gold mine covered in 1830s gold coins.

How did you come up with the title?
The first book in the series is Deadly Declarations. I stuck with the “Deadly” theme for book 2. Because the novel focuses on the 1830s gold rush, it naturally became Deadly Gold Rush.

Can you give us a glimpse into the research that went into writing this story?
I met with local Charlotte historians, librarians, archivists, and others familiar with Charlotte’s Gold Rush history, including a Charlotte expert in rare gold coins. I walked the land once minded for gold and reviewed sketches and maps of old gold mines in uptown Charlotte. I spoke with members of Charlotte’s Gold District where the major underground abandoned mines are located and I read books and stories about the Carolina gold rush, gold coins, gold mining, gold fraud, and the interesting foreigners who came to mine gold in Charlotte in the 1830s.

Excluding the main character, who is your favorite character from the book, and why?
One of the supporting characters at the retirement community is Carrie Roberts. She goes by the nickname The Gossip Queen because she knows everything about everybody. In this novel, she courageously battles cancer while remaining intent on helping the main characters solve the mystery. She adds humor to the page but more than that, she doesn’t let her circumstances get her down and becomes an inspiration to her friends.

What’s an interesting or fun fact about the book that readers might not know?
Old gold mines still exist under the tall skyscrapers of Charlotte, and every now and then, when a new building is constructed, the construction crew finds the remains of an old gold mine from the 1800s. When a construction crew came across an old gold vein in the 1990s, workers used hammers on their lunch break to chip away at the gold vein.

Tell us why readers should pick up your book—what makes it stand out?
This novel includes endearing amateur sleuths who get caught up in a fast paced mystery with twists and turns but with the added benefit of interesting facts about the first US Gold Rush, the first branch of the US Mint, and 1830s gold coins. The history in the mystery compliments rather than slows the pace of the story.

What does your typical writing routine look like? Any idiosyncrasies or rituals?
My formula for a novel is this: 1. Idea; 2. Research; 3 Writing; and 4 Editing. Each part of the process is important to me, so my “writing routine” initially includes a lot of thinking about the idea for the novel. I then shift to the research and after I compile enough information, I write a few chapters and think about a soft outline for the story. I don’t write every day. I am more of a binge writer who enjoys immersing myself in the world for long chunks and taking breaks to play golf, play with my grandson, travel, read, and fish. When I have a complete draft, I invite beta readers to offer feedback, I work with an editor, and then I finetune the story until I have a novel.

What do you absolutely need around you while writing?
I like quiet and good light when I write.

Are you currently working on your next novel? If so, can you share a little about it?
Yes, I am in the thinking stage for the idea and doing some soft research.

If your novel were made into a movie, who would you cast in the main roles?
Tom Hanks as retired lawyer Craig Travail. Susan Sarandon as retired business woman Harriet Keaton. Jeff Bridges (with his scruffy beard) as retired rabble-rouser Yeager Alexander.

What’s next for you—what can readers look forward to?
Another mystery for the amateur team at the Independence Retirement Community.

What are some of your favorite leisure activities or hobbies when you’re not writing?
Reading, walking, playing with my grandson, playing golf, visiting history sites, and travel.

What are a few of your favorite foods?
Eastern style chopped barbecue, Shepherd’s Pie (with ground beef, cheese, and mashed potatoes like my mother used to make it), pepperoni pizza, and my wife’s pineapple and cheese casserole.

Do you have a message or anything specific you’d like to say to your readers?
I am grateful to you for spending time with my characters. I hope you get as much joy reading the stories as I did writing them.

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