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2.When I was in elementary school, I was obsessed with reading and books.
I feel anxious about states opening up the economy.
My lucky number is 0 since I don’t have a lucky number.
April was not a good month of reading for me. The reason: COVID-19. When our Governor shut down the state, except for essential employees and signed an executive order to stay-at-home, I thought, GREAT!!!! I will breeze through books that I am so backlogged with. However, that didn’t happen. Instead, it caused me to read less. I just couldn’t stay focused. After reading a few pages, I would stop and check my feed for any updates not only for RI, but for both states that my sons live in since it seemed that things were changing minute to minute.
How did you do with reading this month? Did COVID-19 hinder your reading like it did mine?
I did accomplish one task that needed to be done and that was to organize my office, aka my reading room. I had books everywhere and was running out of storage options. A few months back, I added a 2nd bookcase but that filled quickly and another bookcase was not in the budget at this time. So I purchased 2 under the desk carts and they soon were over capacity and the books were now piling up on my desk.
I follow quite a few book sites on Facebook and someone posted an image of how adding a 2×4 on the shelf could double your storage. My husband needed a project, at least that’s what I thought he needed, and put him to work. Not only did he cut the dividers, but he also covered them with shelf paper that looked like wood.
And the finished product!!! I still have some shelves that aren’t completely filled. But I’m sure once this health crisis is over and publishers will be shipping again, I will have space for them. And the carts under my desk are empty and waiting for new books.
Mailbox Monday
Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.
Monday:
The First To Lie by Hank Phillippi Ryan ~ eBook from Macmillan-Tor/Forge via NetGalley
The Apartment by K.L. Slater ~ eBook from Thomas & Mercer via NetGalley
Thursday:
When He Vanished by T.J. Brearton ~ eBook from Joffe Books
Friday:
Loss Lake by Amber Cowie ~ eBook from Lake Union Publishing via NetGalley
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I would choose _________ over _________.
_________ doesn’t matter in the long run.
If I couldn’t live in my country, I would live in Aruba.
I wish I had kept my Barbie Dolls’ collection from my childhood.
I would choose to stay at home until it is safe over testing positive and having COVID-19.
Worrying doesn’t matter in the long run.
After 25 years on the job, Detective Roscoe Conklin trades his badge for a pair of shorts and sandals and moves to Bonaire, a small island nestled in the southern Caribbean. But the warm water, palm trees, and sunsets are derailed when his long-time police-buddy friend back home, is murdered.
Conklin dusts off a few markers and calls his old department, trolling for information. It’s slow going. No surprise, there. After all, it’s an active investigation, and his compadres back home aren’t saying a damn thing.
He’s 2,000 miles away, living in paradise. Does he really think he can help? They suggest he go to the beach and catch some rays.
For Conklin, it’s not that simple. Outside looking in? Not him. Never has been. Never will be.
When a suspicious mishap lands his significant other, Arabella, in the hospital, the island police conduct, at best, a sluggish investigation, stonewalling progress. Conklin questions the evidence and challenges the department’s methods. Something isn’t right.
Arabella wasn’t the intended target.
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: April 7, 2020
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 1608093832 (ISBN13: 9781608093830)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
My family members have always been epic storytellers. I regularly wrote short stories in high school and college and, later in life, freelanced several articles for trade and industry publications. For years, the idea of writing a novel bounced around in the back of my mind, but never found its way out of the darkness.
My wife, Leslie (Double L), and I have visited the island of Bonaire nearly 30 times over the past 20 years, many of those trips for extended periods. The island is a perfect setting for the style of novel I wanted to write. Yes, the book would be a murder mystery, but I needed a laid-back, slightly exotic setting. And I wanted the book to partially center around scuba diving, an activity Les and I enjoy together as often as possible.
During the Spring of 2010, with mild coaxing from friends and family, the concept of Diver’s Paradise came to fruition. However, after close to a year of writing, I gave up, not touching the story for almost six years. In the Spring of 2017, I pulled out the tattered manuscript, rewrote and edited till blue in the face, then endured daily heart palpitations, waiting for submission responses from agents and publishers.
Nine months after my first submission, and after agonizing through a boatload of rejections, Oceanview Publishing—to my good luck—offered a contract. I would be a published author.
Diver’s Paradise launches on April 7, 2020 in Hard Cover and eBook, followed later in paperback.
I enjoy being outdoors when the weather is nice. I don’t particularly like snow and cold weather, which can be problematic dwelling in the frigid, midwestern state of Wisconsin.
Exercise is a passion of mine, although I don’t do it as intensely as in past years. Running, biking, and swimming are my favorites. As of several years ago, golf and I decided that we can no longer be friends.
Through high school and college, I played violin in the orchestras and community ensembles. Much to the chagrin of those close to me, around the age of sixteen I was struck with an uncontrollable desire to play the 5-string banjo. And play I did.
Hours and hours a day.
Everyday.
In 1992, the band I played with at the time, travelled to the Ukraine and performed in the International Kiev Music Festival. I’ve also performed on radio, TV, and recorded on several albums.
I’m 58 years old and live in Madison, WI. Originally from Rockford, IL, I went to college at Arkansas State University in Jonesboro, AR., graduating with a degree in Computer Science. I’m married and have one daughter and one stepson, both grown.
Professionally, I have roughly 30 years’ experience in the technology industry and currently manage a group of software developers for a local, mid-sized company. In the past, I’ve owned several small businesses, worked as an aerial photographer, a semi-professional banjo player, a flight instructor, and a real estate investor.
Future Plans: Continue the Roscoe Conklin series, hopefully, for a long time.
1. Hates vegetables. He’ll eat some corn or peas occasionally, but vegetables are off the menu. Loves almost all fruit, though.
2. Doesn’t eat anything that comes from the ocean. Not allergic to seafood, just doesn’t like it.
3. Never played high school sports. He thought sports was a waste of time and that he was too cool to be involved. He despises bodybuilders and tough guys. To this day, he still doesn’t watch sports on TV or follow any teams.
4. Doesn’t drink hard liquor. He loves beer and partakes regularly, but doesn’t drink whiskey, scotch, vodka, gin, etc. The few time he did in the past, didn’t work out well. It revealed a side of him he didn’t like. That no one liked. He swore it off for good.
5. Doesn’t listen to rap music or anything with an exaggerated bass beat. Prefers 70’s rock, mellow country, or bluegrass.
6. Astute at odd jobs. Even though he’s a procrastinator and prefers to relax as often as possible, Roscoe is very adept as a handyman. He personally renovated his old house in Rockford, IL. Reluctantly, and with excessive prodding from Erika, the office manager, he performs most of the maintenance at the YellowRock Resort.
7. Killed a man in the line of duty. Unlike most other law enforcement officers, Roscoe once pulled his service weapon in the line of duty. He had to shoot and kill a man in order to protect /save a hostage. He’s never talked about it, not even to Arabella. He regrets the incident but understands it was the only option. He was cleared of all wrongdoing.
8. Knows he has an anger management problem. Roscoe has attended several anger management classes, both in a professional and personal capacity. His anger doesn’t turn violent, but he struggles sometimes to control it. His “ten counts” are a personal reminder to get control and not go over the edge.
9. He’s been a regular visitor to the island. Before retiring, moving to Bonaire, and purchasing the YellowRock Resort, Roscoe made multiple trips to the island as a tourist. He enjoyed the scuba diving and the laid-back atmosphere of the island. Upon retirement, he decided to make Bonaire his home. But he knew he couldn’t scuba every day, so he bought the resort to stay busy, have a purpose, and be involved with the local community.
10. Has a two-year college degree. Roscoe graduated at the top of his high school class but wasn’t interested much in secondary education. He worked odd jobs in the Rockford area for a few years, eventually enrolling in the local junior college where he received an associate’s degree in criminal justice. At the age of 24, he was accepted for training by the Rockford Police Department. He graduated from academy and field training, then went on to complete over 25 years of service. He took an early retirement at the age of 50.
With the windows down and the top off, the warm Bonaire-island breeze flowed through the cabin of my four-door Jeep Wrangler. I glanced right, across the sea, savoring the salt-filled air. A brilliant shade of blue—one found only in the Caribbean—filled the cloudless sky.
Living on Bonaire, I never worried about traffic lights or big city hustle and bustle. With fewer crowds and more locals, I considered this tiny island my undiscovered paradise, not yet spoiled by restaurant chains, high-rises, or all-inclusive resorts. Scooters and bicycles were primary transportation for many, while others walked, greeting each other with smiles and waves. The culture, best described as laid-back with an unhurried pace, continued to have that slow, relaxed feel of the old Caribbean.
Unhurried, unspoiled, unforgettable.
My phone rang as I turned left, heading north on the road called Kaya International, toward Kralendijk. Even island life has its flaws.
Damn cell phones.
“Hello, Erika,” I said.
“Hello, R. You are on your way back?”
My full name is Roscoe Conklin. However, most folks refer to me as R. “Yes. Do you need anything?”
“It is Friday,” she said. A Bonaire native, and having lived on the island her entire life, Erika spoke English as a third, maybe fourth, language. As with most of the local population, her speech contained a hint of Dutch accent and reminded me of someone who wanted to sound formal and correct, but sometimes placed words in the wrong order.
“Yes, it is Friday… all day,” I said.
“I must leave early today.”
She had reminded me three times since noon. I smiled, downshifting around a curve.
“I know, I know. You must have a wonderful boss.”
“I did have a wonderful boss. Now I work for you.”
“Yes, you do.” I sighed. “Need anything?”
“I need a raise.”
I shook my head. “Anything else?”
“I do not think so.”
“See you soon.”
A few turns later, I stopped for a road-crossing iguana, or tree chicken as they’re called on Bonaire. It stood in the middle of the lane and swiveled an eye my direction which I considered a gesture of gratitude for saving its life. Even so, this guy had better quicken the pace. Many locals considered iguanas a food source, and one this size—maybe three feet long from head to tail—would be a prized catch.
We studied each other a moment or two, then I beeped the horn, ending our one-sided standoff. The iguana scurried away and found refuge in the roadside underbrush.
I pulled into the parking lot of the YellowRock Resort, which I owned, courtesy of my life savings and a large chunk of my pension. The Resort part, however, was a bit of a misnomer. It was a 10-unit ma-and-pa type hotel with a front reception area and a small apartment upstairs where I lived.
Guilt shot through me knowing the roof leaked in several units, and, scattered along the path, yellow flakes of paint reminded me of some much-needed upkeep. Bonaire is an island for water lovers and, most days, I wished for more time in the sea. Retired, and in no hurry to overwork myself, I struggled to stay ahead of the repairs. Erika seemed her happiest when keeping me busy.
I’d be lost, though, without her.
Before going into the office, I walked around the side of the building. Mounds of dirt, a cement mixing tool, and several wooden forms laid haphazardly around a partially repaired section of the foundation. The mess had cluttered the small side yard between the YellowRock and the building next door for several weeks. Neither the contractor responsible for the work nor any of his crew had bothered to show for work in several days. He wanted more money to finish; I wanted the job completed before paying him another cent. A stalemate like this on Bonaire—on island time—could last for months. Shaking my head, I walked into the guest reception area, which also doubled as the office, on the first floor.
Erika sat behind an old gray desk that reminded me of something from a 1960’s secretarial office. I did my work on an identical one against the back wall, and a third, stacked high with papers and other junk, gathered dust in the corner. The place needed an upgrade, but the retro decor of our cozy office served our function and suited us well.
Erika punched away at a computer keyboard, acting as if she hadn’t seen me enter. Her yellow polo, embroidered with YellowRock Resort on the upper left shoulder, deepened the tint of her dark skin. She refused to tell me her age, but insisted she was older than me “by several years.” I loved her like a big sister, and most of the time, she treated me like a little brother.
With black-rimmed glasses perched halfway down her nose, she rolled her eyes as I walked by her desk. “There are still some papers on your desk that still need your signature,” she said, turning back to her work.
“Hello to you, too.”
I laid a plastic bag on my desk and retrieved a bottle of water—or awa as it’s called in the native language of Papiamento—from the small fridge in the corner. I sat and put my feet on Erika’s desk, playing a game with myself by blocking out most of her face with my size eleven sandals. Her modest afro formed a dark halo around the tops of my toes.
“You still have not fixed the problem with that bathroom light.” She continued to gaze at the computer, not giving me the satisfaction of showing the least bit of aggravation.
I didn’t say anything and hoped she’d look over and see the soles of my sandals.
“The light?” she said.
I decided I’d better answer. “Which unit?” I glanced at the bags I’d placed on my desk. They contained several packages of light bulbs.
“You know which unit.”
“It’s just a light bulb.”
“Then it will be easy to fix, yes?”
“I’ll get it tomorrow.”
She moved her head to look around my sandals. “That is what you said last month about the paint.” She grabbed a small stack of papers, slapped my feet with them and turned back to her work, muttering “hende fresku.”
My Papiamento wasn’t good, but I got the gist of what she said. “What would I do without you?” I lowered my feet to the floor.
Knowing how far to push was most of the fun.
“Don’t forget you have some friends arriving on tomorrow afternoon’s flight,” Erika said. “You’ll need to meet them at the airport.”
“Yup, I remember. Tiffany and her boyfriend.”
She removed her glasses, laid them on the desk, and leaned forward resting on her elbows. “And how does that make you feel?”
I knew what she trolled for but didn’t bite. Tiffany and I had met during a case many years ago and were friends long before I moved to the island. She had visited me on Bonaire in the past and decided to bring her new boyfriend along on this trip.
“I feel fine about it.”
“You know what I mean.” She leaned back in her chair. “When do you plan to introduce her to Arabella?”
“Tiffany is a friend. That’s all she’s ever been. Nothing more, nothing less.” I took a swig of water and wiped my mouth with the back of my arm. Letting out an exaggerated “Ahh,” I concentrated on screwing the cap on the bottle before continuing. “Erika, you think you know more than you actually do.”
“Uh-huh.” She put her glasses back on, grabbed the stack of papers, and walked to the filing cabinet.
Wanting the conversation to end, I stood and headed up the stairs leading from the office to my apartment. “I’m going to take a shower. Have a nice weekend and don’t forget to lock up when you leave.”
Entering my apartment, I went straight to the fridge for a cold beer, my favorite being an Amstel Bright. The advertisements described it as a “Euro Pale Lager,” whatever that meant. Most of the bars and restaurants served it with a slice of lime wedged atop the bottle’s neck. At home, I didn’t waste time slicing limes.
Unlike Jeff “The Big” Lebowski, I liked the Eagles and Creedence, so I popped the Eagles Greatest Hits, Volume 1 into the CD player and sat in front of my computer to check email. Twelve new messages. Eleven went straight to my junk folder, but one had a recognizable address—Marko Martijn, the contractor responsible for the unfinished foundation work. Before I clicked it open, my cell phone rang.
“What’s up, Bella?” I said.
“Hey, Conklin, happy birthday.”
I laughed. “Thanks, but you’re a little early.”
“I know, but since it will be the big five-oh, I thought your memory might slip and needed a reminder.”
“Yeah, that’s funny.” Arabella was from the Netherlands, and I’d found sarcasm doesn’t always work on the Dutch.
“I thought so. I called to see how you are doing.”
“Well… I’m about to take a shower. Want to join me?”
“I wish I could, but I am on my way to work. They called me in to work the desk tonight.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yes, for both of us. It is that new inspector, Schleper. He thinks we are at his beck and call.”
I walked out on the balcony and sat on a lounger facing the sea. “Yup, sounds familiar.”
“Ach. You think he would give me more respect.” She exhaled a short, hard breath. “I’ve been a cop for ten years on this island. Longer than him!”
Changing the conversation, I asked, “We still running tomorrow morning?”
“You bet. Eight kilometers?”
“If you mean four point nine miles, then yes.”
She laughed. “No, I mean eight kilometers.”
“Ah, forgive me. My measurements are still strictly American.”
“I will forgive you. You are drinking a beer right now?”
“Yup. Need to drink away my sorrows before I shower. Alone.”
“Do not drink too much. I do not want to hear excuses for tomorrow’s run.”
“Maybe one more, then I have some paperwork to do. Or maybe change a lightbulb.”
“Yeah, right. You are drinking, so you will not do more work tonight.
“Hey…”
“I will see you tomorrow. Usual time?”
“Yup. Good night.”
She chuckled. “I will send you a text reminder.”
I seldom read text messages and never answered them, but the phone pinged as soon as I set it down. She’d included the words “old man” as part of the reminder about our run.
The sun had moved closer to the distant horizon, creating an orange aura behind the few low clouds. Palm trees and sunsets. Tough to find a more relaxing setting. I nursed my beer and watched the sparse traffic crawl along the one-lane road that ran between the YellowRock Resort and the sea.
I imagined Erika’s delight in arriving at work in the morning and finding the light fixed. It’d be easy—just a bulb. As I headed towards the stairs to retrieve the bags sitting on my office desk, the landline phone rang; the one used most often for off-island communications. It might’ve been a future guest wanting to make a reservation at the YellowRock or maybe an old friend from the States calling to chat me up about retirement in paradise.
Darkness was settling over the vast, smooth sea and I took a swig of beer, not interested in answering the phone, content with letting voicemail do its job. Besides, the Eagles were telling me to take it easy, and, regardless of the lightbulb, that sounded like a good idea. Arabella was right. I was drinking; my work finished for the night.
Second ring.
Nearby, my banjo sat on its stand. Erika had kept me busy enough lately that practice had eluded me. Picking some tunes sounded good.
Third ring.
Turning around, I noticed my old 7-iron propped in the corner. I hadn’t played golf since moving to Bonaire five years ago but still fed the urge to practice my swing. Make sure my elbow stayed tucked, and the clubface didn’t open.
Fourth ring.
Or I could swap the Eagles CD for Creedence, sit on the balcony, and drink another beer or two or three, watching the sun settle below the horizon. Maybe skip the shower, doze off early, and catch a few Zs to the rhythm of the waves.
Fifth ring.
I could’ve done any of those things but didn’t.
Instead, I went to my desk and answered the phone.
***
Excerpt from Diver’s Paradise by Davin Goodwin. Copyright 2020 by Davin Goodwin. Reproduced with permission from Davin Goodwin. All rights reserved.
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Mailbox Monday
Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.
Monday:
A Million Little Lies by Bette Lee Crosby ~ eBook from Bent Pine Publishing via NetGalley
Wednesday:
Magnolia Table Volume 2 by Joana Gaines ~ HC from Harper Collins
The Wife Stalker by Liv Constantine ~ HC from Harper Collins
A Good Marriage by Kimberly McCreight ~ HC from Harper Collins
Saturdayday:
The Safe Place by Anna Downes ~ Print ARC from Minotaur Books
Savannah Daniels has worked hard to build her law practice, to surround herself with good friends, and to be the loyal aunt her troubled niece can always count on. But since her ex-husband’s betrayal, she has trouble trusting anyone.
Jett Glover’s father committed suicide over a false newspaper report that ruined his reputation. Now a fierce champion of truth, Jett is writing the story of his journalism career—an international sex-trafficking exposé that will bring down a celebrity baseball player and the men closest to him, including Savannah’s ex-husband.
When Jett’s story breaks, tragedy ensues. Then a commercial airline crashes, and one of Savannah’s clients is implicated in the crash. Men connected to the scandal, including her ex, begin to die amid mysterious circumstances, and Savannah’s niece becomes an unwitting target.
Against their better instincts, Jett and Savannah join ranks to sort the facts from fiction. But can Savannah trust the reporter who threw her life into chaos? And can Jett face the possibility that he’s made the biggest mistake of his life?
Book Details:
Genre: Political/Romantic Suspense
Published by: Thomas Nelson
Publication Date: April 7th 2020
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 078523327X (ISBN13: 9780785233275)
Series: This is a Stand Alone Novel
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
Cara Putman is the author of more than twenty-five legal thrillers, historical romances, and romantic suspense novels. She has won or been a finalist for honors including the ACFW Book of the Year and the Christian Retailing’s BEST Award. Cara graduated high school at sixteen, college at twenty, completed her law degree at twenty-seven, and recently received her MBA. She is a practicing attorney, teaches undergraduate and graduate law courses at a Big Ten business school, and is a homeschooling mom of four. She lives with her husband and children in Indiana.
1. Savannah Daniels is based on the woman who was my mentor in law school. Victoria made all the difference in that first year and then became a dear friend. She’s one of the people I still miss years after we left the DC area. I only hope I’m half the mentor to my students that Victoria was to me.
2. Savannah wants to be a good sister, but sometimes it’s really hard. I think she’s like a lot of in that respect. We want to be the person our family members need, but family has a way of putting us off balance.
3. She doesn’t want to be a loner, but she’s never sure where she fits. Even with the gals she mentors, she doesn’t quite fit…especially as their lives begin to look like the life she’d imagined but doesn’t have.
4. Savannah is stuck in the past, but hasn’t been willing to acknowledge it. That means she can’t move forward because she hasn’t released the things that have her trapped.
5. Her favorite idea of an evening is curling up with a good book from her favorite author.
6. If she could travel anywhere she’d start with Israel and then move to Budapest. There’s something about the birthplace of her faith that grabs her heart. And once she read that the castle in Budapest had been destroyed and rebuilt three times, it got added to her bucket list.
7. Savannah’s niece is the child she never had in so many ways. She’s grateful for the special relationship even when it adds tension to her relationship with her sister.
8. Savannah lives in the neighborhood we did when we lived in DC. It’s such a fun spot, basically a small town tucked inside the beltway.
9. Savannah finds too much of her identity in being excellent in all she does. That’s why her failed marriage is still a wound fifteen years later.
10. What Savannah doesn’t see in herself that those around her do is that she readily lends her strength to others. She is a rock for those who need her and will do anything for her people. That is a gift that makes her the mentor figure for the Hidden Justice heroines and for her niece.
The conversation flowed over the antipasti course and into the pasta della casa. Every bite of Savannah’s manicotti alla fiorentina was wonderful, the ricotta and spinach blending perfectly. Just when she knew she couldn’t take another bite and get anything done afterward, thanks to the food coma, a waiter came out with a slice of cheesecake. Her mouth watered as she took in the raspberries atop the homemade delight. She put a hand on her stomach and then smiled. “I hope you brought fresh forks for everyone.”
The handsome waiter flashed a bright smile. “Whatever the birthday donna wishes is my command.” He gave a slight bow and turned away. A moment later when he returned, a fist of forks at the ready, his demeanor had changed.
Emilie watched him a moment. “What’s wrong, Antonio?”
“There has been a horrible accident. It is on the TV in the office.”
“What kind of accident?” Savannah leaned toward him. “Does it involve someone you know?”
“No.” The man shook his head, and not one of his dark hairs moved. Yet his eyes were weighted with sadness and the shadow of something more. “It is a plane. It looks bad.”
“Oh no.” The memory of a plane careening by as she looked out a courtroom window in downtown Washington, DC, years earlier flashed through her mind. Savannah fought a shudder as she withdrew a credit card from her phone case and placed it on the bill, only for Hayden to slide it back to her and replace it with her own.
“Thank you.”
Please let this be a terrible accident and not the beginning of another 9/11.
Jaime’s head was bowed over her phone as she clicked the screen. “Looks like an isolated crash.”
All Savannah could think was that Jaime should add so far to her sentence. “That’s what we all thought on 9/11 too.”
Then a second plane careened into the Twin Towers. She saw the plane that hit the Pentagon, and a fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania, killing one of her fellow law students. She cleared her throat and stood, motioning the gals to join her.
“Let’s get back to work and see what we can learn.”
As they left her favorite restaurant, her phone buzzed and she paused to pull it out of her pocket. She glanced at the text message on the screen and her blood froze.
911. From Addy. Their emergency code.
***
Excerpt from Flight Risk by Cara Putman. Copyright 2020 by Cara Putman. Reproduced with permission from Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.
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