Category: Guest Author

Guest Author ALINE TEMPLETON

WELCOME ALINE TEMPLETON

ALINE TEMPLETON

Aline Templeton grew up in the fishing village of Anstruther, in the East Neuk of Fife. She has worked in education and broadcasting and was a Justice of the Peace for ten years. Married, with two grown-up children and three grandchildren, she now lives in a house with a view of Edinburgh Castle. When not writing, she enjoys cooking, choral singing, and traveling the back roads of France.
Connect with Aline at these sites:

WEBSITE    

Q&A with Aline Templeton

 
Writing and Reading:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
Both, I suppose, though only in a general way. I never put people I know in my books, though I might see someone who suggests a character. For instance, I once passed a very old lady standing hunched over, smoking, her face wrinkled as a walnut, very shabby, wearing what looked a man’s old tweed jacket and trousers. But she was wearing a bright purple crocheted hat with a bunch of pink, white and purple flowers on it. I didn’t know anything about her but she made a great character in Lamb to the Slaughter.

I don’t write directly about current events but sometimes a news story prompts an idea. The case of Louise Woodward, the nanny convicted of killing her charge, prompted a ‘what-if’ story that was the starting point for Cradle to Grave.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the
beginning and see where the story line brings you?

Somewhere between the two. When I start I usually think I know what the ending will be and I set off towards it. But I could well be wrong – I’m a great believer in letting the story develop. I write because I’m telling myself a story and I want to see what happens. If I knew it all too definitely, I would get bored. In fact, in one of my early books, Past Praying For, I reached the second last chapter and realized I’d got the murderer wrong! I thought, ‘Of course! That’s who did it,’ and went back to change the story to fit – then found that it was all there. It’s amazing what the subconscious can do without you noticing.

Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
Very boring, I’m afraid. I go to my desk at 9.30 and write until just after 1.00. No coffee break – I just make a mug and take it back to my study. In the afternoon I revise and do all the housekeeping related to emails and posts – and a bit of housework as well!

Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
Yes, it has been for many years.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
In crime, Louise Penny, PD James, Andrea Camilleri. In the classics Jane Austen, of course, and Henry James and Emily Bronte; poets Browning, Kipling, TS Eliot, Robert Frost – and dozens of others. Modern fiction; Tracy Chevalier, Elizabeth Jane Howard, Barbara Kingsolver, Jane Smiley

What are you reading now?
Sashenka by Simon Sebag-Montefiori. It’s a compelling, moving and impressively-researched story about Russia under Stalin.

Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
It’s the next in the DI Marjory Fleming series. It begins with a group of hedonistic young people whose excesses end in tragedy when one dies of a drugs overdose and one leaves a suicide note at the edge of a cliff. But two years later a car is found stranded on a mudflat in the Solway Firth after a high tide and the murdered body found in it is that of the man believed to be dead.

Fun questions:
Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
DI Fleming would have to be an actress with a Scottish accent – there’s nothing I hate more than a fake attempt at one – so that rather limits the field. Emma Thomson is English but she spends a lot of time in Scotland so she would probably do it quite well and she’d make a good Big Marge.

Manuscript/Notes: hand written or keyboard?
Notes hand-written every time. If I’m starting a book, or if I hit a sticky patch, I always seize one of my trusty Bic fine-point pens and write in longhand – I feel it gets me closer to my characters sometimes.

Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
I love to cook – mainly French influenced, I suppose. Cookery books are my favorite indulgent reading.

Favorite meal?
A light, elegant cappuccino soup like artichoke, roasted roe deer venison, a dessert of three or four minute ‘themed’ puddings – like lemon tart, lemon mousse, lemon sorbet and limoncello jelly. You can tell I take a lot of holidays in France!

ABOUT THE BOOK

This moody and arresting thriller is perfect for fans of Tana French.

On a beautiful, eerily quiet May morning, a girl is found brutally bludgeoned to death. When Detective Marjory Fleming arrives, the silence of the scene is broken only by the ringing of the girl’s cell phone. The nearby community is small and close-knit, but the veneer of contented prosperity conceals nasty secrets and deep betrayals. When another corpse is discovered, Fleming quickly realizes she must watch her own back while she searches for the link between the murders. As she uncovers layer upon layer of intrigue and deceit, it becomes apparent that, while the dead can’t tell lies, the living most certainly can.

READ AN EXCERPT

The wind had dropped with the sunrise. It was a beautiful May morning, with the soft, pearly light so typical of the south-west corner of Scotland, but it was cool still; vapour clung to the tops of the trees and there was a sweet, damp, earthy smell after a heavy dew. He got up to have a chilly shower – he must see if something couldn’t be done about the hot-water supply – then dressed in his working jeans and checked shirt and went down the rickety staircase and across the living room to open the door.

The wooden shack, his home since he was freed on licence six months ago, had walls weathered by time and the elements to a soft silvery grey. It stood in a clearing surrounded by rough grass studded with the stumps of felled trees, crumbling and mossy now. Beyond that, a tangle of undergrowth formed a natural enclosure: at this time of year the grass had feathery seed heads and thecreamy flowers of hawthorn and cow parsley gleamed against the lush dark green of nettles and docks. From a snarl of brambles, a robin was shouting a melodious challenge to all comers. Sitting down on the dilapidated bench outside the back door, he drank in the peace and freedom which remained a novelty still.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Witness Impulse, an imprint of HarperCollins
Publication Date: 2/11/2014
Number of Pages: 513
ISBN: 9780062301758

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Guest Author ROB WHITE showcase & giveaway ENDED

WELCOME ROB WHITE


ROB WHITE

Rob White is a philosopher, storyteller, author, and inspirational speaker. He’s also a pretty funny guy to listen to. Rob inspires folks to look at their lives through the lens of transformational opportunities which leads them back home to their naturally curious and ambitious nature.

From an early age Rob was dissatisfied with his life, and became an imaginist, dreaming of living a grander life than what his environment was offering.  Rob calls it “inspirational dissatisfaction” that took him from a mill town kid destined to work in a local factory, to a teaching career in a major city, to careers as a highly successful real estate developer and restaurateur with holdings in Massachusetts and California. Most recently, he became an essayist and book author. He is the author of 180: A Guide to Achieving “Inner Strength and Outer Freedom” and A Second Chance at Success: Remarkably Simple Ways to Open Your Life to Opportunities and Turn Past Mistakes Into Lasting Confidence, Happiness and Success.

Rob is regularly featured in the Huffington Post and his unique articles are published in dozens of print and online publications. Most recently, Rob has become a National Spokesperson for Hilton Garden Inn and is an adjunct professor at Northeastern University.
Connect with Rob at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

From humble beginnings, Rob White went on to become very successful in the real estate and restaurant business. At the same time that he began enjoying material wealth, he experienced a deepening feeling of inner emptiness. So he sought out world-class gurus to help him understand better how to live a full, rich life. However, he eventually discovered that the most helpful gurus aren’t necessarily bestselling self-help authors, world-famous keynote speakers, or famous workshop leaders — they’re unassuming gurus that everyone encounters on their journey through life. These “everyday” teachers awakened Rob to powerful insights and life lessons that are superb starting points for a new life.

This book recaps twenty one of Rob’s awakening moments in inspirational, warm, and entertaining stories. You’ll read about a grade school student who, with one simple question, helped Rob gain a deeper understanding of the true meaning of life. You’ll meet a Maasai mother who demonstrated that we’re much more than we dare to imagine. And you’ll meet a former peanut vendor who turned medical wisdom on its head by simply deciding that he wasn’t going to die.

And Then I Met Margaret demonstrates that life is always supporting you by sending the right and perfect person to help you learn what you next need to know in order to grow. Rob wrote this book to alert you to the many unexpected teachers who can help shatter the myths that keep you from you experiencing life to the fullest and achieving your dreams and goals.

After reading And Then I Met Margaret, you’ll never see the world the same way. You may even recognize an unexpected guru or two as you travel the journey of your life

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Non-Fiction
Published by: Mind Adventure Press
Publication Date: Jan 14th, 2014
Number of Pages: 2296
ISBN:978-0980229967

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I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 

Guest Authors FLORENCE STRANG and SUSAN GONZALEZ showcase & giveaway ENDED

WELCOME FLORENCE STRANG & SUSAN GONZALEZ


Florence Strang, B.A., B.Ed., M.Ed., is a Registered Psychologist with more than twenty years of experience in the fields of Education and Psychology.   Through her counseling practice, she has taught people to use the power of positive thinking to heal their troubled minds.   After being diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer, Florence began to blog “The Perks of Having Cancer”, as a way to help her stay positive through difficult cancer treatments.  Little did she know when she began this blog, that she would be helping thousands of others to find hope and inspiration.  Florence’s story of battling cancer with an unwavering faith and an unbeatable positive attitude is told in Woman’s World Magazine (April, 2012), and Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Power of Positive (©2012.)

Florence lives in scenic Lewin’s Cove, Newfoundland, with her daughter, Kaitlyn, and sons, Donovan and Ben.

Susan Gonzalez, R.N., BSN, earned her nursing degree in New York in 1986 and has been helping people “get well” ever since.  But no matter where her nursing career path led her, it was empowering patients with knowledge that she loved the most.

Diagnosed with cancer in 2005, Susan had a unique perspective on the disease, being a nurse in the patient’s role.  (something nurses are terrible at, by the way) She took that knowledge and her passion for finding natural cures to fight disease and started writing a blog for those who wanted to make simple changes for healthy living with an emphasis on avoiding cancer.   With 100 Perks of Having Cancer plus 100 Health Tips for Surviving It, Susan hopes to reach many more people with the message that making small lifestyle changes can lead to achieving optimum health and happiness.

Susan currently lives in Atlanta with her husband and two daughters

Connect with Florence and Susan at these sites:

On January 20th, Susan and Florence were interviewed on “Because Hope Matters Radio”.  To listen to the broadcast, click HERE.

WEBSITE        TWITTER

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

How often do you hear the words “healthy”, “happy” and “cancer” mentioned in the same sentence? That is precisely what gives 100 Perks of Having Cancer (Plus 100 Health Tips for Surviving It) its unique character. Its authors not only “talk the talk” of living a healthy lifestyle with a positive attitude on the cancer journey, they also continue to “walk the walk”.

Florence’s perks, which are a combination of inspirational and humorous anecdotes, have made her audiences laugh and cry. Susan’s tips are sought after because of their educational content with a witty twist. Together they provide a valuable resource which will inspire and motivate their readers, while keeping them smiling.

Watch the trailer

BOOK DETAILS:

Paperback: 500 pages
Publisher: Basic Health Publications; 1st edition
Publication Date: August 2, 2013
ISBN-10: 1591203562
ISBN-13: 978-1591203568

PURCHASE LINKS:

          

THANKS TO SAMI AT JKS COMMUNICATIONS,
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HAVE FIVE (5) COPIES TO GIVE AWAY.
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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 

Guest Author TILIA KLEBENOV JACOBS

WELCOME TILIA KLEBENOV JACOBS

TILIA KLEBENOV JACOBS

Tilia Klebenov Jacobs holds a BA from Oberlin College, where she double-majored in Religion and English with a concentration in Creative Writing. Following an interregnum as an outdoor educator with the Fairfax County Park Authority in Virginia, she earned a Master of Theological Studies from Harvard Divinity School and a Secondary School Teaching Certification from the Harvard Graduate School of Education. Tilia has taught middle school, high school, and college, and has won numerous awards for her fiction and nonfiction writing. She is a judge in the Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition, and she teaches writing in two prisons in Massachusetts. Tilia lives near Boston with her husband, two children, and two standard poodles.
Connect with Tilia at these sites:

WEBSITE       

Guest Post

Without Burt Lancaster, Wrong Place, Wrong Time would not exist.

Let’s start with the basics.  I am mad for Burt Lancaster, whether I am drooling over him in his early roles (so manly and heroic!) or sighing at the depth and grace of his later performances (Field of Dreams, anyone?).  So perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised when he helped me write my first novel.

It all started with The Flame and the Arrow, a jolly, Robin Hood-esque movie starring Burt Lancaster as Dardo, a hunky guy in tights who kidnaps a woman in order to rescue his son, who is being held by Count Ulrich, the evil Hessian overlord.  (Film buffs will not be surprised to know that the hostage is played by Virginia Mayo, a lovely blond who is reliably in peril by the second reel of any movie she appears in.)

Part of what makes this movie so much fun is that Mayo’s character, Anne of Hesse, is never afraid of Dardo.  He is unquestionably bigger and stronger than she; but she stands up to him at every encounter, and during the course of her durance vile she never stops trying to get away.  Reluctantly, Dardo finds himself respecting her, and the film ends on a kiss and a fade-out.

Alas, however, the movie is very much a product of its times, and although Anne refuses to be cowed by Dardo, she also never effectively fights back.  The kidnapping scene is particularly egregious in this regard:  removing her from her bedroom presents all the mechanical and logistical challenges of hoisting a sack of potatoes.  Watching the movie (repeatedly), I wanted her to hit him!  Hard!  Even if she  lost, I wanted her to fight.

Which got me thinking.

What if she did fight back?  And actually knew how to?

What if she didn’t fall in love with him?

What if instead she were married, and loved her husband very deeply?

What if she had a couple of kids?  And were fortysomething instead of twentyish?

What if she were Jewish?  Popular culture only knows two kinds of Jews:  Woody Allen-style neurotics and Holocaust victims.  Neither of these lives in my neighborhood.

What if this happened in real life?  I’d have a thriller with a happily married fortyish Jewish mother of two young children at its heart, that’s what. I know a lot of women like that  in real life, but I don’t see them in fiction.

So I named my heroine Tsara, and set to work.

The next piece of business was Burt’s character, Dardo the mountain man, an antihero morally superior to Count Ulrich, the ostensible keeper of law and order in the wilds of Lombardy.  In Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Dardo morphed into Mike, a former Marine with a criminal record.  Mike is a bruised soul, a man’s man who will risk all to do what’s right.

Mike is a good guy.  But he’s not always a nice guy.

Mike and Tsara have a lot in common, much more than their movie counterparts.  Both are fighters.  Both are parents of young children who are about the same age.  Most important, they share an unwavering moral compass.  These are not people who take ethical shortcuts.

And yet, they are on opposite sides of the law.  That creates a tension between them that fuels the book even as Mike and Tsara bond through joining forces against a mortal enemy.  This tension is the rocket fuel for the book—any scene with Tsara and Mike in it is my favorite, because even when they’re on the same side, they are enemies with a common goal.

And that was the font of my inspiration.  I started with The Flame and the Arrow with its jolly, irreverent tone, and ended up with a high-stakes thriller.

Thank you, thank you, Burt.  I owe you so much.

ABOUT THE BOOK

When Tsara Adelman leaves her husband and two young children for a weekend to visit her estranged uncle, she little dreams he is holding several local children captive on his lavish estate. Mike Westbrook, father of one of the boys, kidnaps her to trade her life for the children’s. Soon Tsara and Mike are fleeing through New Hampshire’s mountain wilderness pursued by two rogue cops with murder on their minds.

BOOK DETAILS:

Number of Pages: 406 pages
Publisher: Linden Tree Press; 2 edition
Publication Date: October 1, 2013
ISBN-10: 0989860116
ISBN-13: 978-0989860116

PURCHASE LINKS:

           

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DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Guest Author YAEL LEVY

WELCOME YAEL LEVY


YAEL LEVY

A freelance illustrator and journalist, Yael Levy has been published in numerous venues, including The Jerusalem Post during her three-year stay in Israel just east of the bustling capital city of Tel Aviv.

She holds a degree in Illustration from the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City. But it’s the questioning journalist inside her that has launched a new career in writing literature. Her debut novelBrooklyn Love (Sept. 17, 2012, Crimson Romance) hones in on Levy’s interest in the underlying thoughts and expressions of the Orthodox Jewish culture. She followed up with the quirky rom-com Starstruck (Feb. 25, 2013), and later with a paranormal romance called Touchdown (Dec. 9, 2013).

A native New Yorker, Levy currently writes for The Times of Israel about her experiences as a Jewish mother now living in Atlanta. She is also studying for a Masters in Law at Emory University.
Connect with Yael at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

ABOUT THE BOOK

New York socialite Goldie Fischer seems to have it all: wealth, beauty, and a fiancé to die for. Until she’s murdered on her wedding night by a jealous witch and instantaneously loses everything. Angry and seeking revenge, Goldie becomes a dybbuk– her soul possesses the body of Southern football hero Clay Harper and she refuses to join the light until the wrongs are rectified.

Only Clay has issues of his own and doesn’t take kindly to a petulant New Yorker in his head, interfering in his already messed up life. When Goldie promises to leave if Clay helps her break up the wedding between her fiancé and the witch who killed her, Clay reluctantly agrees. Only neither of them are prepared for the chain of events that follow.

Through the journey of two disparate people on a quest to make things right, Touchdown is a funny yet heartbreaking look about what it takes to truly know another soul and what it means to love.

BOOK DETAILS:

Number of Pages: 216 pages
Publisher: Crimson Romance
Publication Date: December 9, 2013
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
ASIN: B00GM304P0

PURCHASE LINKS:

       

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

Guest Author MARGARET BARNES showcase & giveaway ENDED

WELCOME MARGARET BARNES

MARGARET BARNES

Margaret Barnes is a retired barrister who splits her time between Notting Hill in London and Exton in Devon. During her career Barnes represented many defendants in high-profile cases including the death of fashion designer Ossie Clark, who was murdered by his lover Diego Cogolato in a drug induced psychotic state of paranoia. Barnes also represented Janet Griffiths who abducted a baby from St Thomas’s hospital. Retirement moved Barnes to study for an MA in Creative Writing course at Exeter University, where she was encouraged to write crime novels. Barnes is also a member of a local writing group which has published a book of short stories called Rammblings, inspired by items in the Royal Albert Memorial Museum in Exeter. She also organises a regular literary supper book club which invites a writer to speak about their work; past guests have included Philip Hensher and Frances Fyfield.
Connect with Ms. Barnes at these sites:

WEBSITE     

Q&A with Margaret Barnes

Do you draw from personal experience and /or current events?
Personal experience plays a big part in my writing. Writers are often told to write what they know about and as I was a criminal defence barrister for many years, I was almost compelled to write about the English Criminal Justice system.  On the other hand there is so much on television and in the newspapers about issues involving the criminal law, that I also can incorporate current events into my writing. Crucial Evidence concerns the question of mistaken identity and the second Cassie Hardman novel will look at the issue of self defence when a shop owner kills a thief. That’s very topical.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story leads you?
I start with the plot which follows the course of a trial, so that comes first. Then I weave the secondary story line around the first. Having said that, sometimes the characters’ reactions to the trial surprise me, and the story goes off at a tangent.

Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
When I was working I was usually in court during the day and did paperwork in the evening and I’ve retained that work pattern. However as I never had fixed routine, I can work virtually anytime and anywhere.

Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
I’m retired now and so finally I have the opportunity to write, something I had very little time for when I was working as a barrister.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
It tends to change and I love whoever I’m reading at the moment, but more of that later. I was impressed by and wanted to write a novel like those of Scott Turrow or an early John Grisham and of the UK writers who write about the English Legal system I like Frances Fyfield, who was a solicitor.

What are you reading now?
I’m reading a novel by the journalist and biographer Andrew Wilson called ‘The Lying Tongue.’ It’s a gripping mystery story with an unreliable narrator who wants to write a novel. He gets a job in Venice as a PA to an elderly writer who having written a hugely successful first novel never writes again. The narrator decided he will write a biography of his employer and his research takes him into a very dark place. I will say no more as I don’t want to deny others the pleasure of reading and following this macabre narrator.

Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little bit about it?
Crucial Evidence is the first of three novels charting the career of barrister Cassie Hardman from successful junior into silk. A little like the Martha Costello character in the TV programme Silk. In the second novel she is being stalked by a stranger while she fights to establish the innocence of a shop keeper charged with the murder of a young man who stole from the shop.

Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
That’s really difficult. I think Laura Carmichael, who plays Lady Edith in Downton Abbey would be a good Cassie. She would have to be able to do a soft Lancashire accent. Detective Constable Alex Seymour is a glamorous woman in her mid thirties and perhaps Maxine Peake could play the cop instead of the lawyer.

Manuscript?Note: hand written or keyboard?
Notes by hand and manuscript on the computer. I always wrote jury speeches out in full and by hand, even though other documents I prepared on the computer. I think it was because the address to the jury was to be spoken and everything else was to be read. Writers are advised to always read their work out to check for grammatical mistakes, but there is something about the slowness of reading aloud that enables one to think about the effect of the words, and I think writing by hand does the same thing.

Favorite leisure activity/hobby
I love the theatre and when we are in London we try to get to at least one production. In the country I enjoy walking and as we have a Springer Spaniel so we take him out every day –it’s good exercise for me as well.

Favorite meal
Virtually anything that’s cook by somebody else.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Retired successful barrister offers chilling but revealing insight into the English Criminal Justice System in fast-paced courtroom drama. ” Lenny Barker is standing trial for the murder of a call girl. Unfortunately, his own barrister, Cassie Hardman, believes he is guilty. That is until the weekend before the trial, when Cassie discovers there may be a witness who can provide a compelling alibi for Barker, testifying that he was, in fact, somewhere else at the time of the murder. Ambitious but cautious, Cassie is reluctant to do anything that might jeopardise the case or, more importantly, her career; no barrister in their right mind would go chasing after a key witness. Cassie’s overriding sense of justice stands firm, and she begins an almost forensic search for the missing witness, a man known only as ‘Hinds’. Cassie’s search for Hinds leads her to a seedy night club where she is unceremoniously arrested during a police drugs raid. Facing the prospect of major professional embarrassment, Cassie calls in a favour from DC Alex Seymour, a recent social acquaintance from a friend’s dinner party. Cassie learns that DC Seymour is also on the hunt for Hinds, and the two women form an unconventional alliance to track him down. But things don’t run smoothly and the trial hangs on a knife’s edge. With both women putting their lives, and their careers, at risk, will they get their hands onto the crucial evidence that is needed to give Lenny Barker the fair trial he deserves?

BOOK DETAILS:

Publisher: New Generation Publishing
Publication Date: January 14, 2014
Number of Pages: 352 pages
ISBN-10: 1910162396
ISBN-13: 978-1910162392

PURCHASE LINKS:

       

THANKS TO KATY AT AUTHORIGHT,
I
HAVE THREE (3) DIGITAL COPIES TO GIVE AWAY.
EBOOK~~OPEN TO ALL
FILL OUT RAFFLECOPTER ENTRY FORM BELOW
GIVEAWAY ENDS FEBRUARY 22nd AT 6PM EST

WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN BY RAFFLECOPTER AND NOTIFIED
VIA EMAIL AND WILL HAVE 48 HOURS TO RESPOND
OR ANOTHER NAME WILL BE CHOSEN

a Rafflecopter giveaway

YOUR JAVA SCRIPT MAY NEED TO BE UPDATED
IF YOU AR EXPERIENCING DIFFICULTY
USING THE RAFFLECOPTER ENTRY FORM

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 

Guest Author CHRISTOPHER MEEKS

WELCOME CHRISTOPHER MEEKS

CHRISTOPHER MEEKS

Christopher Meeks was born in Minnesota, earned degrees from the University of Denver and USC, and has lived in Los Angeles since 1977. He’s teaches English and creative writing at Santa Monica College, and has taught creative writing at CalArts, UCLA Extension, Art Center College of Design, and USC. His fiction has appeared often in Rosebud magazine as well as other literary journals, and his books have won several awards. His short works have been collected into two volumes, “The Middle-Aged Man and the Sea” and “Months and Seasons,” the latter which appeared on the long list for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award. He’s had three plays produced, and “Who Lives?: A Drama” is published. His focus is now on longer fiction. His first novel is “The Brightest Moon of the Century,” and his second, “Love At Absolute Zero.”
Connect with Chris at these sites:

WEBSITE        TWITTER   

Q&A with Christopher Meeks

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
Truth springs from the personal. Other people’s stories that I’ve loved have felt naked and truthful, and their points thundered home. Perhaps I first saw that as a teenager reading the poetry of Richard Brautigan and then Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Even though both authors used humor, I felt their truths. As I writer, I needed to be the same. My short fiction was always based on personal experiences, and I aimed for emotional truth.

My first two novels, The Brightest Moon of the Century and Love at Absolute Zero revolved around situations I’d been in. One example is when I did everything I could to take my junior year abroad in Denmark to live with my Danish girlfriend. When I arrived, she was living with another guy. It seemed funny years later—just not at the time.

Once I ran out of major events in my life, I thought of things that could happen. Blood Drama is a “What if?” It came from my correcting student papers daily at a Starbucks in the lobby of a bank. The elegant and comfortable setting enveloped me, but then I thought, “This bank could be robbed. What if I were taken hostage?”

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
In writing short fiction, I never know where a story is going, but if I go off course, I’ve only lost ten or twenty pages at the most. A novel is different. You don’t want to write 300 pages of a novel and say, “Whoops. I took a wrong turn on page twenty,” and then throw out 280 pages. A novel takes planning.

What’s great is that thinking is far faster than writing. I see scenes in my mind in fast motion.

I start at the beginning but quickly consider what the arc of the story might be. Where will it go? Then I spend a lot of time considering all the possible steps. The great thing about this approach is an outline may be as little as a few pages. Once I have something down on paper in terms of structure, I can push things and consider other possibilities.

Plenty changes when I write, but an outline is not etched in copper. My outline changes as I write. When I take an interesting left turn, I return to the outline, imagining how this new event might change things down the line. If the change isn’t good, I don’t need to keep pursing it. If I like the new event, I change the outline so that I know where I’m now going.

Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
My idiosyncrasies have changed. Do you know the short story “Harrison Bergeron” by Kurt Vonnegut? In a future world, everyone is equal. To make that happen, really great dancers have to dance with lead weights attached so that they lumber like regular people; smart people have a little beep go off in their heads about every twenty seconds. The beep makes them forget their train of thought. Now I feel I’m in that world. My cellphone will vibrate or ring, and it instantly knocks off my train of thought. In fact, it’s ringing now…

I’m back. Where was I? Oh, right. My routine now is to NOT look at email the first thing in the morning, to NOT answer the phone necessarily when it rings. Staying focused is a challenge today for most people. It is for me. It takes focus to write. Now, late night and early morning are my best times. I usually aim for the latter.

Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
I have a wonderful balance in my life. I teach creative writing and English, which helps force me to read. Each semester, I always teach new stories or books. I feel challenged and refreshed teaching new things. In my creative writing classes, I also offer new exercises in my continual search to find what inspires. The students’ writing and our discussions feed me.

In turn, as I write new stories, I can relate some of my challenges to their challenges. An interesting thing is my students are almost always nineteen or early twenties, while I keep aging. Yet, I get to stay current with our culture through my students. I couldn’t do that always holed up at home. Also, my teaching schedule makes me be efficient with my writing time.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
Margaret Atwood, Kurt Vonnegut, Tim O’Brien, Lorrie Moore, Raymond Carver, Mark Haskell Smith, Michael Connelly, Robert Crais, and, since last year, Stephen King. I always eschewed King’s novels as I don’t like horror, but then I read 11/22/63 and Joyland—great stuff.

What are you reading now?
Pete Townsend’s biography, Who I Am. I never liked memoirs until a friend recommended Patti Smith’s Just Kids, and now I’m hooked. I taught Smith’s book last semester along with David Sedaris’s Me Talk Pretty One Day.

Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I just finished my next novel, A Death in Vegas. It’s about a man who sells beneficial bugs such as ladybugs to organic gardeners, and when he wakes up one morning in his hotel at a convention, he finds a naked dead young woman in his room. He’s in trouble—and his wife isn’t happy either.

I’m about to start my third collection of short stories, which follows The Middle-Aged Man and the Sea and Months and Seasons.

Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
Scarlett Johansen. She should be in every one of my novels. Anyone from the cast of American Hustle should, too. Man, that film offers stunning acting.

Manuscript/Notes: hand written or keyboard?
Ask my ghostwriter. Actually, I was once a ghostwriter. Keyboards.

Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
Drinking hard and shooting guns. (No. That’s my answer after my telephone rang again.)

I like skiing, watching mesmerizing movies, and taking and printing photographs. This was always a question for Playboy Playmates. I’m glad to see we’re all equal now.

Favorite meal?
If you haven’t learned it yet, as you age, your metabolism gets more efficient. At fifteen, I could drink chocolate malts and eat Oreos and never gain weight. I was incredibly thin. Now if I breathe the smell of baked beans, I gain a pound. Gaining weight is so much easier than losing weight, so I try to stay away from favorite foods all in one spot. Thus, favorite meals are more to be dreamed about than eaten.

I love a great steak, such as the filet mignon that Café Beaujolais makes with blue cheese. I love artichokes with hollandaise sauce. I soar with a great French Onion soup or Thai Tom Kah soup, the one with coconut milk.

ABOUT THE BOOK

“Blood Drama is wildly entertaining with fast-paced dialogue and plot twists caroming like a steel ball in a pinball machine.” -Linda Hitchcock, BookTrib

In the crossover thriller BLOOD DRAMA, graduate student Ian Nash, after losing his girlfriend, gets dropped from a Ph.D. program in theatre. When he stops at a local coffee shop in the lobby of a bank to apply for a job, the proverbial organic matter hits the fan. A gang of four robs the bank, and things get bloody. Ian is taken hostage by the robbers when the police show up. Now he has to save his life.

READ AN EXCERPT

Chapter One

“Coffee?” Ian said in the discomfort of Professor Cromley’s office. The place looked like a small book depository with a view and a Mr. Coffee machine.

“Ian… Ian… Look, Ian. I’m—”

“I just thought we were meeting with—”

“We met.”

“Without me? I don’t understand.”

“Coffee?” said the gray-bushy-haired man, pouring himself a cup. “Maybe some coffee would put you at ease.”

“But the committee—”

“So I’ll get to the point. We don’t think you’ve shown enough progress in your dissertation.”

“Two hundred pages?”

“You’re taking the wrong approach on Mamet.”

“It’s still a work in progress.”

“People are like gloves,” Cromley said. “And sometimes they don’t fit. It’s not just the dissertation. It’s your whole performance in the program.”

Ian felt a rage building, but that wouldn’t help. A better approach was needed. He calmed himself as best as he could, flattening the new blue silk tie he’d bought for the occasion against his blazer. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Maybe we’ve miscommunicated in the last few meetings. You’d given me certain dates, and I’ve kept to those dates.”

“We debated long and hard, Ian,” said the professor, sitting. The man looked toward Ian but not at Ian, as if delivering sad news to a war vet’s spouse. “Your research isn’t breaking new ground, and the recent problem with the class you taught—”

“I can’t help low enrollment.”

“I’m talking about your blow-up with that student—”

“Her rant against men—”

“No matter.”

The rest of the meeting felt like a slow-motion crash. He was out of the program, as easy as lights out at the end of a play. He stared out Cromley’s window at the wide view of campus, at modern buildings tucked into the green landscape, at trees still lush in October, their leaves blowing like moving fingers. The view was as if from Mt. Olympus. Was Cromley a god?

As Ian Nash drove his twelve-year-old Corolla the fifty miles north on Interstate 5 from the University of California Irvine campus back to his South Pasadena rental, he kept replaying the conversation. He was a glove? He didn’t fit the program? If it don’t fit, you must acquit, he thought. Ian had paid the tuition and taught. He attended the classes. Just because one undergraduate student was out of line was no reason to be thrown out of the program.

“Don’t think of it as failing,” Cromley had said. “Think of it as an opportunity to do something else.”

That was outright snide. What would he do now for money? What would he do now for his life?

He was so consumed with these thoughts, he missed the Marmion Way turnoff on the Pasadena Freeway, which, if you weren’t looking for it, came up so fast around a bend, you’d zoom by it as he did. Ian exited at Orange Grove, and, again so caught up in his thoughts, he drove without paying attention. He would need a job. What would he do for work without his degree? And what was to be learned here? After all, as David Mamet wrote in his book, Three Uses of the Knife: On the Nature and Purpose of Drama, “We have our ability to learn a lesson, which is our survival mechanism.” The lesson was he needed money to live.

On Fair Oaks Boulevard in South Pasadena, moments after he decided he could use a coffee now, Ian noticed the logo of Carrie’s Coffee on the Landwest Bank Building. He wondered would Professor Cromley call that a “deus ex machina,” a coincidental ending? An ending to what? His morning? No, sometimes coincidences happened.

The gold-painted brick building stood out from its neighbor, the pharmacy. Carrie’s Coffee paid well, he remembered one of his students saying in a directing seminar he’d taught. The small franchise had a health program and offered flexible hours. Amber, his former undergraduate student, made manager in no time at a Carrie’s and loved the place. Perfect. He turned into the open lot. Ian would apply to Carrie’s. He wasn’t the kind of guy to mope around. He wouldn’t let Cromley get the best of him.

Inside, Ian was surprised to see that Carrie’s was part of the grand marble-floored bank lobby. Potted plants, mahogany wainscoting on the walls, and the same wood was used for the open teller area and the Carrie’s counter. It gave the place a friendly feel. Tables and chairs were for the coffee drinkers, and comfortable leather seats were placed near the inset fireplace with burning gas logs. This would be a great place to work.

Ten minutes later, a Carrie’s application before him, Ian sipped his coffee and shook his lucky Cross pen hard in a swift metronome motion to force all the blue to hit the tip. The pen hadn’t been lucky for him with Cromley. Ian made incessant circles on the back of the application. He knocked the pen against his wrist and made circles again. The pen came back to life.

He glanced around. Bank business was brisk. A long line stretched all the way back to Carrie’s tables. It was a Friday, after all. People were cashing paychecks or getting money for the weekend. There were more people working than he expected.

Ian returned his attention to his application and filled out most of it. “Salary desired” said one of the last spaces. As an undergraduate lecturer, he’d been making over forty dollars an hour, but he couldn’t get that here. What was minimum wage these days? He didn’t know. Was fifteen dollars an hour too much to ask for? He wrote it in, scratched it out and wrote in sixteen. Maybe it should be less, and he scratched out the whole space. Now it was too sloppy. He folded the application in half and put it in his blazer. He’d ask for another. He laid down the pen, took a sip of coffee, and looked around again. It was a great place to watch people as they came from all directions.

Ian spotted a woman with a white scarf come from the hallway and restrooms to the left of the teller area. She sashayed toward him like a model, wearing tight jeans and a killer push-up halter-top in green, and, despite her sunglasses, Ian knew their eyes connected because she smiled. He smiled. Definite connection. She then fiddled in her purse, standing at the end of the banking line near him. Today was working out after all. Another possibility: she could be Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire. She was gorgeous, had that sense of intelligence, and might be looking for kindness from strangers. Maybe she would be the one, his one, the one who’d make the last relationship fiasco with Pierra just a stumble on his path—not to mention the vitriol from his female student, the one who’d gotten him fired. How could he get her attention again? He cleared his throat. Nothing. Then he sneezed really hard. She and a few others in the line turned around. “Gesundheit,” she said. Their eyes connected again.

“Thanks,” he replied. She returned to her purse and pulled out a gun. She shouted, “This is a holdup. Everyone lie on the floor. Shut your eyes!”

The tellers and everyone dropped. So did the people at Carrie’s. So did Ian. Only the music playing in the background, Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May,” kept going. Stewart said, “Oh, Maggie.”

Ian’s blood pounded so loudly in his ears, and his breath came with such difficulty, that he thought he might pass out. He shouldn’t have come here. Coincidence again? He could hear Cromley quoting Mamet from Ian’s dissertation: “It is difficult, finally, not to see our lives as a play with ourselves as hero.” He didn’t feel heroic in the least. Was this determinism at work? If he hadn’t missed his exit, he would have been home and would have missed this. We are what we do.

Ian could hear footsteps near him, one set, then another. Accomplices? Ian didn’t see any of the action because his cheek lay against the marble floor and his eyes were closed. Best to do what they wanted. He could hear movement in the teller area, then sounds of bank drawers opening.

Ian opened one eye. People lay around him like fallen mannequins, unmoving. The hold-up woman’s legs were like denim saplings. She wore tight boots with sharp heels.
A shot rang out, then another, and Ian squeezed both eyes so hard he’d hope it’d keep all bullets away. A man screamed in agony.

“Why’d you do that?” shouted the woman.

“He had a gun,” her male accomplice yelled back.

Ian looked. Who got shot?

“Help… me,” groaned a male voice.

Ian lifted his head. The woman pressed hard on the guard’s shoulder to stop blood, which covered his shirt and her hand. She looked upset about it, ripping the guard’s shirt to make a tourniquet. Two men were behind the tellers’ counter bagging money. One of them, a tall burly guy with perspired underarms, had a ski mask on, but the other, a thinner man, had no mask, only a thin mustache, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. No one else moved.

Ian quickly lay back down, but he was breathing faster. If he died, would anyone know to call his parents in Winnipeg? Would they care if he died? Did anything in his wallet say Winnipeg?

At least he was in his good blazer and pants. His mother had told him as a kid to always wear clean underwear in case he was found dead that day. Today might be the day, and he had not only clean underwear, but also a new silk tie from Macy’s, one he bought for the committee. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn good clothes and clean underwear. Maybe the grim reaper would stay away if he’d worn yesterday’s boxers and a dolphin T-shirt from Tijuana.

“Zetta,” shouted the gunman. “Leave him be. We gotta go.”

He said her name? That wasn’t bright, thought Ian.

“Keep bagging,” Zetta said back. In a softer voice she added, “You shouldn’t have done this.” Ian again looked up. He had to see. There was blood on the marble. Zetta, however, was twisting a tourniquet on the guard’s upper arm. The guard was totally immobile, breathing hard, and his eyes stared toward the ceiling. The man looked to be in shock, perhaps even close to death.

A siren broke the silence. No—there were sirens, plural.

“It’s past two minutes,” said the man with the mustache in a high voice and sweaty face.

“To the car,” said the woman, jumping up, and the two men bounded over the counter.
“A hostage,” said the burly guy. “Which one?” Ian kept low, thinking to himself, please no, please no.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“How about one of the tellers?”

“No.”

“The woman by your feet?”

“No,” said Zetta.

“Who then?”

Not me, not me, not me, thought Ian.

The woman said, “Him!” and Ian’s heart leapt, hoping it was someone else, but he was prodded.

“You!” said the ski-masked man who yanked Ian up. “Go!” The man shoved what had to be a gun into Ian’s neck. Ian stumbled forward, his mind whirling, wondering if he’d live out the hour.

“Hurry,” said the man.

Two people lying on the floor, a young man in blue jeans and a white T-shirt near the front door and a young woman, perhaps his girlfriend, in a yellow short dress, sprang up panicked as if this were their only chance. Stupid! Ian thought, and the gun behind Ian exploded twice more. The young woman fell with just a thud, her head now showing brains, and the young man shouted, his white T-shirt starting to turn red on the side. Shit, shit, they’re dead, I’m dead thought Ian.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Thriller/Suspense
Published by: White Whisker Books
Publication Date: June 1, 2013
Number of Pages: 240
ISBN: 9780983632962
NOTE: Graphic Violence

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Guest Author AILEEN G. BARON

WELCOME AILEEN G. BARON

AILEEN G. BARON

Aileen G. Baron has spent her life unearthing the treasures and secrets left behind by previous civilizations. Her pursuit of the ancient has taken her to distant countries—Israel, Turkey, Jordan, Greece, Britain, China and the Yucatan—and to some surprising California destinations, like Newport Beach, California and the Mojave Desert.

She taught for twenty years in the Department of Anthropology at California State University, Fullerton, and has conducted many years of fieldwork in the Middle East, including a year at the American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem as an NEH scholar and director of the overseas campus of California State Universities at the Hebrew University. She holds degrees from several universities, including the University of Chicago and a Ph.D. in Anthropology from the University of California, Riverside.

The first book in the Lily Sampson series, A FLY HAS A HUNDRED EYES, about the murder of a British archaeologist in 1938 in British mandated Palestine, won first place in the mystery category at both the Pikes Peak Writers conference and the SouthWest Writers Conference. THE TORCH OF TANGIER, the second novel in the Lily Sampson series, takes place in Morocco during WW II, when Lily is recruited into the OSS to work on the preparations for the Allied invasion of North Africa, Operation Torch. In THE SCORPION’S BITE, Lily is doing an archaeological survey of Trans-Jordan for the OSS.
Connect with Ms. Baron at these sites:

WEBSITE    TWITTER   

Q&A with Aileen Baron

Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
For A FLY HAS A HUNDRED EYES, I drew on my own experience as an archaeologist and on my passion for the mystique of Jerusalem. The story is based, in part, on an actual event. During the British Mandate of Palestine, in 1938, a famous British archaeologist, James Starkey, was murdered on his way to the opening of the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem. He was noted, incidentally, for his stinginess, his surly disposition, and lack of sympathy for his workers. The British police never bothered to find out who killed him, and the story going around was that he was so nasty that nobody cared. Eventually, failure to look into his murder became a standing joke among archaeologists. In the field, students working on sites in the Near East would sometimes say to their professors, “Don’t work us too hard, or we’ll pull a Starkey on you,” and start laughing. So for my first mystery, I had a ready-made murder to solve.

Jerusalem was in chaos in the summer of 1938. Terrorists roamed the countryside, the British were losing control of the Mandate of Palestine, and the atmosphere was fraught with conflict, as Europe prepared for World War II. With this backdrop of Palestinian and international tension, I changed the name of the murdered archaeologist, and let my imagination take off from there.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
I usually start by leading up to a critical incident, like Starkey’s murder, and try to find a satisfactory resolution, weaving in scenes, going back and forth in my mind until a story takes form.

Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
When I am into writing a book, wonderful words and phrases tumble into my head while I’m in the bathtub. Sometimes by the time I get out of the tub and dry off, the words and phrases are gone, or not as wonderful as I thought. On the other hand, I do my best thinking while on the freeway. I sort of zone out and drive automatically, just following the car in front of me.  Once I followed a car into someone’s driveway in Pasadena. I felt like a fool, looked around and said, “Where am I?” like someone coming out of a blackout.

Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
I began writing mysteries after I retired from my full time job as an archaeology professor at Cal State Fullerton.

  Who are some of your favorite authors?
It’s hard to say. I like to read. If the book is well-written, I can get lost in it. I like Mark Twain, read everything he ever wrote. When I was a child, I adored Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-glass and laughed and laughed when I read them. I still love them. The first book I read all by myself was The Last of the Mohicans, and said nothing but Ugh! for the next two weeks because I was Chingachgook. After that, I read all of Cooper’s Leather-Stocking tales. Natty Bumpo became my hero, although I sometimes conflated him with Robin Hood, because both were heroes, were extraordinary marksmen, and lived in the woods. I seem to be the exception to the rule about woman mystery writers. Nancy Drew mysteries were not my favorite reading. The mysteries I read were in the pulp magazines that my father read on his commute into the city. The Shadow knows!

My favorite mystery writers from the golden age of mystery are Raymond Chandler, for his skill with words, and of course, Agatha Christie, because she is the patron saint of archaeologists. Of current writers, I like Lawrence Bloch and Ken Follett and Daniel Silva and Rhys Bowen and others too numerous to mention.

What are you reading now?
I  just started reading Dark of the Moon, a Virgil Flowers book by John Sandford.

Are you working on your next novel?  Can you tell us a little about it?
I just finished working on Return of the Swallows, the next book in the Tamar Saticoy series, in which Tamar, part-time archaeological consultant for Interpol, becomes mired in the devious world of museums and the antiquities trade, ranging from Thailand to California. Tamar was first introduced and recruited by Interpol in the mystery, The Gold of Thrace, published by Poisoned Pen Press in 2010.

In Return of the Swallows, Tamar finds a burnt body while working on the salvage excavation of a burnt mud-brick wall at Mission San Juan Capistrano. Tests reveal that the body is that of a contemporary murder victim, probably a native of the Khorat Plateau in Thailand, where an archaeological site is being looted. Tamar becomes embroiled in a labyrinth of deception and danger in her attempts to identify the body of the victim at the Mission and, working with Interpol, his link to the looted Thai site.

The looting of archaeological sites can be lucrative, and has resulted in murders, as well as connections with international contraband activities. The plot of Return of the Swallows is based, in part, on a real occurrence. I was personally aware of all the details, and knew all the principals, from the archaeologist whose site had been looted to the curators in the museums that received the stolen goods.  A Red Notice by Interpol involving the tie-in between the looted Thai site and several museums in the Los Angeles and Orange County areas resulted in Federal indictments.

ABOUT THE BOOK

In the summer of 1938, Jerusalem is in chaos and the atmosphere teems with intrigue. Terrorists roam the countryside. The British are losing control of Palestine as Europe nervously teeters on the brink of World War II.

Against this backdrop of international tensions, Lily Sampson, an American graduate student, is involved in a dig—an important excavation directed by the eminent British archaeologist, Geoffrey Eastbourne, who is murdered on his way to the opening of the Rockefeller Museum. Artifacts from the dig are also missing, one of which is a beautiful blue glass amphoriskos (a vial about three and a half inches long) which Lily herself had excavated. Upset by this loss, she searches for the vial—enlisting the help of the military attaché of the American consulate.

But when she contacts the British police, they seem evasive and offputting—unable or unwilling either to find the murderer or to look into the theft of the amphoriskos. Lily realizes that she will get no help from them and sets out on her own to find the vial. When she finds the victim’s journal in her tent, she assumes he had left it for her because he feared for his life.

Lily’s adventurous search for information about the murder and the theft of the amphoriskos lead into a labyrinth of danger and intrigue.

This impressive historical mystery novel has already won first place in its category at both the Pikes Peak and Southwest Writers Conferences in 2000.

READ AN EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE
Later, Lily would remember the early morning quiet, the shuttered shops in the narrow lanes of the Old City. She would remember that few people were in the streets — bearded Hassidim in fur-trimmed hats and prayer shawls over long black cloaks returning from morning prayer at the Wailing Wall; an occasional shopkeeper sweeping worn cobbles still damp with dew.

She would remember the empty bazaar, remember that the peddler who usually sold round Greek bread from his cart near Jaffa Gate was gone.

She would remember the crowd of young Arabs, their heads covered with checkered black and white kefiyas, waiting in the shade of the Grand New Hotel, leaning against the façade, sitting on window ledges near the entrance; remember them crowded under Jaffa Gate in a space barely wide enough to drive through with a cart, standing beneath the medieval arches and crenellated ramparts, faces glum, arms crossed against their chests, rifles slung across their backs, revolvers jammed into their belts. One wore a Bedouin knife, its tin scabbard encrusted with bright bits of broken glass. Only their eyes moved as they watched her pass. Lily remembered holding her breath, pushing her way through, feeling their body heat, snaking this way and that to avoid touching the damp sweat on their clothing. No one stepped out of her way.

She would remember the bright Jerusalem air, fresh with the smell of pines and coffee and the faint tang of sheep from the fields near the city wall; the empty fruit market, usually crowded with loaded camels and donkey carts and turbaned fellahin unloading produce, deserted and silent. Vendor’s stalls, looking like boarded shops on a forlorn winter boardwalk, shut; cabs and carriages gone from the taxi stand.

She would remember the pool at the YMCA, warm as tea and green with algae, and the ladies gliding slowly through the water, wearing shower caps and corsets under their bathing suits, scooping water onto their ample bosoms, gathering to gossip at the shallow end. She would remember swimming around them with steady strokes, her legs kicking rhythmically, and the terrible tempered Mrs. Klein, blowing like a whale, ordering Lily to stop splashing. A tiny lady holding onto the side of the pool and dunking herself up and down like a tea bag nodded in agreement; Elsa Stern, the little round pediatrician with curly gray hair, gave Lily a conspiratorial wink and kept swimming laps.

She would remember it all. Everything about that day would haunt her.

###

Lily Sampson was on her way to the new YMCA on Julian’s Way that morning, to catalogue pottery from the Clarke collection in the little museum being built in the Observation Tower.

She had stayed at the YMCA four years ago when it first opened in 1934 and reveled in its splendor, in its graceful proportions, in its arches and tiled decoration, its tennis courts and gardens, and the grand Moorish lobby paved with Spanish tiles. It had a restaurant, an auditorium where Toscanini played, and a swimming pool — the only one in Jerusalem. Tourists came to ooh and ah and told her this was the most beautiful YMCA in the world. They would climb the Observation Tower for a view of the city and look through telescopes into windows of apartments on Mamilla Street and Jaffa Road.

Lily went there to use the swimming pool three times a week when she was in Jerusalem, walking from the American School through the quiet lanes of the Musrara quarter, or cutting through the Old City.

At five minutes to nine, her hair still damp against her ears, her eyes stinging from chlorine, Lily climbed the six flights to where the little museum would be.

Sheets of glass and wooden shelving for cases were stacked against the wall in the corner of a large, bare room that held only an old table, two wooden chairs, pottery wrapped in newspapers and stowed on the floor in old grocery cartons, and a wall clock that said four minutes before nine.

Eastbourne had said he would be here around nine o’clock. Lily suspected that if Eastbourne agreed to help her today, he had reasons of his own. She was grateful that he recommended her for this job, grateful for the small windfall from cataloguing pottery during the short break in excavations at Tel el Kharub.

Lily stepped onto the balcony that opened off the museum, holding her breath at the sight of Jerusalem, creamy gold in the morning brightness. The great gilded cupola of the Dome of the Rock glinted in the sun. The Old City, its stone walls adorned with towers and battlements, steeples and minarets, loomed behind the King David Hotel.

She could see the crowd of grim-faced young Arabs she had passed this morning at Jaffa Gate, now grown to two hundred or more. The tops of their heads bobbled like so many black and white beach balls.

Smoke twisted from small fires in the Valley of Hinnom. Lily looked through the telescope toward Government House on the crest of the Hill of Evil Council. She could just make out the Union Jack, flopping limply from its tower.

In the street, a dapper American tourist in a Panama hat and seersucker suit came out of the King David across the way.

The ladies left the YMCA one by one — Mrs. Klein, still frowning, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, marched down the street; Dr. Stern walked toward the corner.

Lily heard Eastbourne enter the museum. “Let’s get to work.” He looked at his watch. “I don’t have much time.”

Full of his usual charm this morning, she thought. “I was watching for you,” Lily told him. “I didn’t see you in the street.”

“I had breakfast downstairs.”

“You actually ate here?”

“I was hungry for some good English cooking and a real breakfast.”

Of course you were, Lily thought. Good British housewives get up early every morning to cool the toast and put lumps in the porridge.

“You don’t have a cook at the British School?”

“He’s an Arab. This morning I had ham and eggs.”

Lily noticed the newspaper under his arm and twisted her head to read the headlines. Eastbourne folded it into a small packet and put it in his pocket.

“I haven’t finished with the paper,” he said, looked out at the street, and checked his watch again.

On the wall clock, it was exactly 9:00 a.m.

The sound of an explosion from somewhere in West Jerusalem rocked the air.

After a tick of silence, a shout of “Allah Akbar” erupted in a fullthroated roar from the crowd gathered at Jaffa Gate.

Lily rushed to the balcony, with Eastbourne close behind her. A mob spewed out of the Old City, propelled by the rhythmic chant, onto Mamilla and around the King David Hotel, and spread in a torrent toward West Jerusalem.

Five or six men carrying rifles ran down Julian’s Way and encircled a truck, rocking it back and forth until it turned over. At first the impassioned madness and destruction seemed strangely distant to Lily, choreographed and rehearsed, like a slow-moving pageant. She watched three men rush from the gas station at the turn of the road with full jerry cans, spilling gasoline on the street as they ran.

Waving fists, brandishing rifles, kefiyas flying in the wind, the horde swarmed into the warren of back streets with old Jewish shops and houses, down Jaffa Road toward Zion Circus. The blare of sirens, scattered shouts and screams carried from the direction of West Jerusalem on wind heavy with smoke.

Lily heard the crash of shattering glass and looked toward Mamilla to see a man with a jerry can splash gasoline through a shop window. A rumble of flames erupted and danced in the currents of heat from the rush of the blaze.

“It’s that bloody Grand Mufti, el Husseini,” Eastbourne said. His nostrils dilated with anger, and he wiped his hand across his mouth. “You can’t trust him. He must be orchestrating this from Syria, with the backing of Hitler and his crowd.”

The tourist from the King David, his back arched in a posture of fear, stood in the middle of the street now, tilted this way and that by rioters who swirled around him as if he were a lamppost. Eastbourne watched from the doorway, looking toward the tourist in the Panama hat, and glanced at his watch again.

Mrs. Klein advanced on the rabble like a tank, shouting and flailing her arms. The mob surrounded her while she punched and kicked and screamed. They pressed against her, pushing her back onto the road. She floated to her knees, her skirt billowing around her, falling to the asphalt, her hair undone and sticky with blood that began to puddle on the pavement.

Dr. Stern turned back, hurrying toward her friend splayed on the sidewalk. A man careened to face Dr. Stern, stepping into her path, thrusting a fist in her direction as if to greet her. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, and she staggered against him. He pushed her away and slowly, carefully, she plummeted straight down, silent, onto the sidewalk. Lily closed her eyes and turned away from the balcony back to the notebook on the table, back to the comfort of the past to count clay lamps, juglets, burnished bowls with turned-back rims. She picked up a lamp, the nozzle smudged with ancient soot, and put it down again, drawn back to the balcony with a horrified fascination.
The tourist in the seersucker suit, without his Panama hat, disappeared into the revolving door of the hotel.

“Get inside,” Eastbourne said. “This isn’t a peep show.” He looked at the street. “When this is over, they’ll cover the bodies, take them away, and hose down the streets.”

What will be left in two thousand years, Lily wondered? Just a thin layer of charcoal, without memory, without skeletons to mark the day, just one more level in the stratigraphy of Jerusalem?

People hung out the windows of the King David Hotel, one man with field glasses, others leaning against balcony railings, some aghast, some curious. A father led his small daughter inside, shut the door and pulled down the blinds.

The tourist in the seersucker suit was gone now.

Dr. Stern lay on her side in the street. Little rivulets of blood seeped from beneath her, flowing downhill and staining the pale blue cloth of her skirt. The little tea bag lady lay stretched out on the steps of the YMCA as if she were sleeping in the wrong place.

Mrs. Klein lay in a widening dark pool, her hair, beginning to mat with blood, loose and wild against the asphalt. She looked oddly peaceful, her frown gone, her jaw fallen open in death. False teeth lay beside her softened cheek. A man stopped, looked at the teeth on the sticky pavement, picked them up, wiped the blood on his sleeve, and put them in his pocket. He pulled a knife from his belt and, brandishing it, ran on toward Mamilla.

“The name Jerusalem means City of Peace, you know,” Eastbourne said. Shuddering, Lily edged back to the table. The haze of smoke from the fires, the blare of fire trucks, the sounds of sirens from ambulances, of sobs, of wounded and mourners, of shutters ringing down with a clatter, penetrated the room. Lily was drawn to the balcony, and back inside to the table, too mesmerized to stop, too terrified to watch, mourning for the ladies who would never again skim across the green water, for Canaanites and Jebusites, for Israelites and Judeans, for Crusaders and Mamelukes who fought in this city with its twisted streets, its strange mystique and power, its heritage of blood and vengeance.

“Go downstairs and get me a packet of Players,” Eastbourne said, reaching into his pocket. “Here are fifty mils. Bring me the change.”

Lily dropped the money when he held it out. Her fingers numb and shaking, she picked it up slowly. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking,” she said and turned toward the door.

In the lobby, the desk clerk looked at her dumbly, his eyes glazed, his face pale. A bushy mustache hid his mouth and quivered when he spoke.

“Rioting in the streets and you ask for cigarettes,” he said in a hushed monotone. “Cigarettes? Are you mad?”

“Players,” Lily repeated.

“I don’t sell them here. In the dining room.”

Lily went into the dining room. The desk clerk followed and placed himself behind the bar.

“Players,” Lily said again and put the money on the counter. He counted it and pushed back the change. “You cold-blooded English. You have no feelings. Here are your cigarettes.”

“I’m an American.”

“Crazy American. You’re all the same.”

Lily climbed the stairs, catching her breath at the landings, looking down empty halls at laundry carts stacked with fresh linens for unmade beds. She felt heat from hidden pipes radiate through the whitewashed walls, heard the elevator knock and clatter as it moved from floor to floor.

On the sixth floor, the museum was silent. The notebook was still open on the table; the clay lamp was where she had put it down. And Eastbourne was gone.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Aileen Baron
Publication Date: September, 2013
Number of Pages: 217
ISBN:
Mobi: 978-0-578-12887-0
epub: 978-0-578-12888-7
POD: 978-0-578-12956-3

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