The Last of Lady Lansdown (ISBN: 978-1-60381-818-6, $15.95, 308 pp.), is the newest Regency Romance by Shirley Kennedy, who has published several novels in that genre with Ballantine and Signet.
“I loved the controversy in the book between the family and the countess. It made me feel like I was in the story. I think Douglas should have just asked her to marry him and then things wouldn’t have been so difficult. Well written and I enjoyed the entire book.”
–The Pen and Muse
“This is a warm and enjoyable Regency romance starring two likable protagonists … Readers will relish the plot as Jane struggles between her countess image and a chance for love.”
–Harriet Klausner
In the dawn of the Regency era in Northern England, precious few mourn the sudden and shocking passing of the Earl of Lansdown. Certainly not Jane Elton, the young and beautiful widow whose life he made a misery. After her initial relief, Jane must contend with an unexpected and devastating reality: because she is childless, she and her family must descend several rungs down the social ladder. One hope remains. Could she be pregnant? A son would inherit; otherwise the title and estate will go to the Earl’s slightly younger twin brother, his greedy wife, and many unpleasant offspring. Jane must also contend with the unrealistic hopes of her bitter and ambitious mother and dowerless sister. Enter Douglas Cartland, a notorious rake with a tragic past. During these first months of widowhood, Jane’s conduct must be above reproach, but she cannot keep her distance. Especially when Cartland contrives to turn up everywhere she looks. Is Cartland really the scoundrel everyone believes him to be? Will Jane forfeit her title, her family’s fortunes and her reputation for the sake of forbidden desire? Fate—and Cartland—have many surprises in store.
Says Kennedy, “Although the Regency period lasted only a short time, I, like many authors, am drawn to those fascinating years in British history. In Lady Semple’s Secret I explored the sad plight of servants. In Three Wishes for Miss Winthrop my plot involved a cruel judicial system in which hanging was the punishment for over 200 offenses. In my latest release, The Last of Lady Lansdown, the complex rules of inheritance result in suspense, conflict, and a whole lot of problems for my heroine. The complex code of manners and morals, the writers and poets, fabulous fashions, and captivating historical characters provide limitless inspiration for the novelist.”
Shirley Kennedy has published Regency romances for both Ballantine and Signet. Born and raised in Fresno, California, she has lived in Colorado, Texas, California, Bogota (Colombia) and Calgary (Alberta, Canada), where she earned a BS in Computer Sciences. Before returning to her first love, writing, she worked as a computer programmer/systems analyst for several years. Shirley currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada where she belongs to The Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Las Vegas Writers Group. Her historical romance Heartbreak Trail was published by Camel Press in 2011. Click here to find Shirley online.
The Last of Lady Lansdown is available in a 5×8 trade paperback at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores as well as online at Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, and Amazon Japan. It is also available in Kindle. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Libraries can also purchase books through Follett Library Resources and Midwest Library Service.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
With the swiftness of a snake, his arm shot out and grabbed her foot. With one swift tug, he pulled her shoe off and cradled her foot in his hand. “Trying not to awake my base desires? You know how men are.” He gave a devilish grin. “Who knows? One more glimpse of your ankle and I might not have been able to contain myself. You could have been ravished on the spot.”
Despite herself, she started to laugh. “You are outrageous.” She tugged at her foot,which he still held tightly. “Unhand me.”
“Don’t you mean, unfoot me?”
She laughed harder. “Just give me my foot back.”
“Not just yet. Hmmm…” He directed his attention to her foot, holding the heel in one hand and lightly tracing his fingers over the top with the other. “Do you realize, my dear countess, you may have the most beautiful foot in all of England? Small…slender…beautifully arched.” He shook his head in regret. “What a pity it’s enclosed in ugly black.” He gazed up at her. “What is the latest fashion in mourning these days? Are you all in black? Dress, shoes, stockings…does that also include your drawers?”
She should be outraged, appalled, but she wasn’t. In fact, she could not suppress a giggle. If he thought she would act like a squeamish schoolgirl, he was mistaken. She grew serious and shot a cool gaze at him. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“Did I not just finish telling you that?” He cupped her foot with both hands, obviously in no hurry to let go. “Lean back and close your eyes.”
“I shall do no such thing.”
“Yes, you will. Foot massage is an excellent way to relax. You need to have your eyes closed.”
She closed her eyes.
He began rubbing her foot slowly, the warmth of his hands penetrating through her stocking. A delicious, tingling feeling spread along the sole of her foot from her toes to the back of her heel. The more he rubbed, the better it felt. His fingers slid to her toes where he began massaging. Umm…that felt good. She leaned her head back against the tree trunk, thinking she really ought to tell him to stop, and she would…in just a little while. So good. Too good. His fingers moved again. This time his thumbs massaged in a tantalizing circling motion over her arch. “How does that feel?”
She opened her eyes. “Not bad.” Perhaps it was the warmth of the sun on her face, or maybe the brandy spreading its magical comfort throughout her insides. Whatever it was, she had never felt so relaxed in her life or so utterly powerless. He continued the massage. Do not let him get above your ankle, a little voice inside her warned. If his hands slid higher, what would she do? She didn’t know. All she knew was, nothing had ever felt so good. She closed her eyes again, wondering what she would do if his hands roamed higher. Surely they would. He was a man, wasn’t he? She would stop him when the time came but right now…
It took her a moment to realize his hands had dropped away. Her eyelids flew open. He was looking at her, his eyes sharp and assessing, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. “That’s enough for one day.” He reached for her shoe. “I’ll do the other foot next time.”
“No, you will not.” What on earth had she been thinking? She, who had just vowed her independence, who had decided never again to bow to the dominance of any man on earth. Not only that, she could guess what Sir Archibald would say. “There will not be a next time.” She grabbed the shoe from his hand and slipped it on. Standing quickly, she busily brushed at her skirt. “I must get back. I’ve been gone much too long.”
In silence, they cleared up the remains of the picnic, storing them back in Douglas’ saddle bag. She untied Beauty and led her back to the path.
“Need a leg up?”
Without thinking, she responded, “I can do it myself.” How could she? She had no mounting block. If she were dressed in something light, she could possibly gather her strength and sling herself over the horse, but her bombazine mourning gown was anything but light. “All right then, I need help.”
Keeping a very straight face, he bent and laced his fingers together. She placed her foot in his clasp, her hand on his shoulder. “Ready.”
“Up you go, Your Ladyship,” he said in a teasing tone. She seated herself firmly in her saddle. “I shall be gone a couple of days, but when I come back, we shall go riding again.”
From atop Beauty, she gazed down at him. She liked what she saw: his compelling brown eyes so full of life, the set of his chin that suggested a stubborn streak, the humorous lines around his mouth. She liked his massive, self-confident presence, too. In fact, what about him was there not to like?
Plenty. Whatever attraction she might feel for Douglas Cartland must end right here. “I cannot go riding with you, ever again. In fact, because of certain circumstances, I should not be riding at all.”
“You mean, in case you’re carrying the earl’s child.” His reply was so matter-of-fact it took a moment for his shocking words to sink in.
“Ladies do not discuss those matters.”
“Unfortunately, they don’t—not in this shallow, artificial society,” he countered with a gleam in his eye. “What a shame pregnancy and birth are not to be discussed except behind closed doors. They are both in truth natural events, more to be celebrated than censored.”
She could see his point but had no wish to argue. “Be that as it may, I won’t be riding for a while, not with you or anyone else.” Wanting to move away, she flicked the reins, but he held fast to Beauty’s harness.
“How do you feel? Do you want the child?”
Strangely, no one had asked her that question before. She should remain silent, yet she wished to answer because she sensed his genuine concern. “There are many reasons why my family would rejoice if I had a child. We could continue to live in Chatfield Court. Millicent could have her dowry…all sorts of good things. Whereas, if I am not with child, our lives will be rather bleak. On the other hand,” she pondered, biting her lips, “do I wish to carry the offspring of a man I despised? No, I do not. Now, let go of the harness.”
He complied, and she flicked the reins again. Beauty leaped away, carrying her back down the trail in a satisfying, soothing gallop.
Murdock Cracks Ice, by Seattle-based novelist Robert J. Ray ($14.95, 262 pages, ISBN: 978-1-60381-881-0), first published in 1992, is back in print. Fans of the hard-boiled but soft-hearted detective Matt Murdock will soon be able to obtain Ray’s other books in the much-acclaimed mystery series: Bloody Murdock, Murdock for Hire, and Dial “M” for Murdock. Murdock Cracks Ice the only book of the series that takes place in Seattle.
“Hard-nosed P.I. fare, with romance singeing the edges while our hero tries to toe the no-commitment line. Good reading, with frisky Chen and Hana definite scene-stealers.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The novel, crammed with action, moves rapidly on Ray’s smooth prose and strong characterizations. Unlikely as it may be, Ray and Murdock make it believable.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“For all the violence of the drug scene, the lean, rich characterizations provide a break from the grim realities that feels very much like life, in which love and the companionship of others bring relief and hope. Then, too, the plot moves briskly, with a kind of spare clarity that reflects Murdock’s personality.”
—Cape Cod Times, Hyannis, MA
“Robert Ray has woven a complex web of crime and intrigue that is sure to snare the reader and keep him hooked. And Murdock’s chili recipe is a good one, too!”
—Mostly Murder
“A welcome addition to the ever growing ranks of fine Seattle mysteries.”
—Seattle Times/Seattle Post-Intelligencer
A deadly killer has iced Rollie Nielsen, a smart college kid with a brain for chemistry, and his dad wants to know why. Enter Matt Murdock, a tough-and-tender PI who is willing to get his hands dirty in search of the truth. Rollie had a weakness for classy women and easy money, a combination that led him to found a drug lab. No one knows exactly where he was working and what he was cooking—presumably “ice,” the street name for methamphetamine hydrochloride. Rollie pissed off a lot of bad guys on both sides of the law, who are busy messing up Murdock’s already messy life. Leaving behind a few bodies—some of them friends—Murdock departs smoggy Newport Beach, California, for cloudy Seattle, Washington, where he hopes to unearth Rollie’s lab. With the help of wannabe detective Louie Chen and a sexy female acquaintance of Rollie’s, he just might succeed—and find a little romance along the way. That is, if he can keep his hide in one piece. Not easy, when you’ve got the biggest drug kingpin in Seattle on your tail.
Says Ray, “Matt Murdock is a hard-boiled private eye driven by two opposing needs: first, the need to set things right; second, the need to survive. Leaving the palm trees and smog of Southern California, I brought Murdock to Seattle where early on we met Earl Emerson. Earl advised me to use the mountains, rain and trees of the Northwest for Murdock Cracks Ice, my fifth mystery. So I focused on landscape, rain-slick streets, gray skies and silvery mountains.
“Murdock was right at home breathing the rain-fresh air. He discovered that not all victims had to be bikini-clad sun-tanned starlets–UW grad students can go just as wrong as blond beach bunnies and bad guys live on Puget Sound in gated estates behind stone walls while they plot their evil. And Murdock’s got to set things right.
“Resurrected by Camel Press, Matt Murdock, P.I., has settled in and he’s revving up again.”
ROBERT J. RAY is the author of seven previous novels: Cage of Mirrors, The Heart of the Game, Bloody Murdock, Murdock for Hire, The Hitman Cometh, Dial “M” for Murdock, and Merry Christmas, Murdock. A sixth Matt Murdock mystery—Murdock Tackles Taos—in in process. Ray is also the author of a popular non-fiction series on writing, The Weekend Novelist, and he shares writing techniques on writing on his blog. A native of Texas, Ray holds a PhD from the University of Texas, Austin. Tuesdays and Fridays, he writes at Louisa’s Bakery and Café in Seattle.
Murdock Cracks Ice is available in 5X8 Trade Paperback and Kindle on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr and Amazon Japan. Bookstores and libraries can order wholesale through info@camelpress.com or Ingram. Libraries can also purchase books through Midwest Library Service or Follett Library Services.
Read on for an excerpt:
“You know my name,” I said. “I don’t know yours.”
She shifted down for the climb. “My last name’s St. Cloud. It’s French Canadian. My initials are … H.L.”
What do they stand for, the initials?”
“The H stands for Hana. It’s pronounced Hah-nah. The L stands for Lakota. Kids in school made fun of me, calling me Hey-nah and Tonto Stupid and other less creative variations, so I made them call me H.L.”
“Made them how?”
She showed me a fist. “I was a scrappy kid.”
“Lakota, that’s Indian, right?”
“It’s a Sioux language. My grandmother’s maiden name was Mary Hana Lakota. My father, he was French Canadian, decided it would test me to go through life with a name that sounded Indian.”
“You look Indian.”
She smiled at that, a secret smile, and in the streetlight I saw teeth and a tightening of her chin and throat. There was a rip in her parka, along the shoulder seam on the right. A strand of dark hair hung down along her cheek. I was aware of her legs, the strong thighs firm and round inside the faded jeans, and I wondered, as she made a left onto her street, how she would look with the hair let down, riding on a white horse, naked, through the streets of a medieval town.
Dream on, Murdock.
“You say what you mean, don’t you, Murdock?”
“Saves time.”
“In answer to your implied question, I’m one-quarter Indian, mostly Sioux, with probably some Chippewa and Algonquin from my father’s wide-reaching roots. He was a liar and a storyteller who tailored truth to fit his mood. Here we are, home again.”
Inside now, out of the rain, she parked in carport number 307 between a Dodge minivan and a Jeep Cherokee topped with ski racks. We climbed out. She directed Louie Chen to a visitor slot and she laid down some law about our prisoner.
“I don’t want him in my house. He can stay until we get Mr. Murdock bandaged. Then he’s out of here. Understand?”
Shore Excursion (ISBN: 978-1-60381-874-2, $13.95, 242 pp.), is a cozy mystery by debut novelist Marie Moore about a New York-based travel agent whose senior citizen charges are being targeted by a killer. Shore Excursion is the first book in a new series featuring amateur sleuth Sidney Marsh.
“An appealing heroine tangles with murder and romantic interludes gone wrong in a tartly funny take-off on tour travel, with more twists than a conga line. Readers will be enthralled.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of the Death on Demand series
“I love a good mystery and this debut mystery of Marie Moore is just that … a really good book and I give it a 5, so Marie you have a bestseller on your hand as I see it. Keep putting those mysteries out there. Love this book.”
—Edna Tollison’s Reviews
“Beware all mystery writers. Marie Moore has now joined your genre with her well-told tale, Shore Excursion … This cleverly written mystery with its elaborate attention to detail will catch your imagination within a few pages …. I would highly recommend this suspenseful mystery to readers looking for a well-written who-done-it …. It is hard to believe that Shore Excursion is Marie Moore’s first mystery. Read this eerie tale. Like me, you will surely anticipate her next one.”
—Regis Schilken, Blogcritics
Travel agents may be a vanishing breed, but Sidney Marsh, a New York transplant from Mississippi, is holding her ground—at least on land. She is the tour leader on a cruise through Scandinavia to Russia for a group of eccentric senior citizens who call themselves the High Steppers. Sidney expects her days to be filled with long meals, shopping expeditions and visits to museums, churches and fjords. But this cruise is anything but routine. There is a killer on board, targeting the High Steppers and quite possibly herself. After the first suspicious death, the captain and his crew are grimly determined to carry on as usual. Disgusted with their inaction, Sidney decides to take matters into her own hands and launch her own investigation. She enlists the halfhearted help of her friend and business partner, the flamboyant and fun-loving Jay Wilson. Suspects abound. What about those two handsome young men who stay mysteriously aloof? One of them has his eye on Sidney. So does another passenger, far too charming and again too young to fit the “High Stepper” mold. Then there’s Captain Vargos, the arrogant ladies’ man whose plans to thwart Sidney’s investigation might include seduction. Who is that crew member shadowing Sidney? Is the theater really haunted? Even the High Steppers themselves are not as predictable or harmless as they seem. The closer Sydney gets to the truth, the less she understands.
“I have always loved to write,” says author Marie Moore, “beginning in the third grade with poems scribbled in my Blue Horse notebook. I continued to write stories and poems, but most of them ended up in the bottom drawer. Love, life, and responsibility took precedence. I was always busy, too busy. For a time, a job writing for a newspaper and some awards garnered in that work stirred the old embers, but not enough to create much of a flame. As time passed, the idea of writing a novel began to seem ridiculous, a silly dream that I was embarrassed to mention. Then one day my very special husband gave me a gift, a book about pursuing old dreams in midlife. That burning desire, long banked, rekindled. I got down to business, made myself write, made the time to work, snatching fifteen minutes here, thirty minutes there. Before I knew it, a book was taking shape. The Sidney Marsh mystery series is the result.”
Marie Moore is a native Mississippian. She graduated from Ole Miss, married a lawyer in her hometown, taught junior high science, raised a family, and worked for a small weekly newspaper—first as a writer and later as Managing Editor. She wrote hard news, features and a weekly column, and won a couple of MS Press Association awards for her stories. In 1985, Marie left the newspaper to open a retail travel agency, which she managed for the next fifteen years. Much of Shore Excursion was inspired by those experiences. She and her husband now live in Memphis, TN, and Holly Springs, MS. Click here for more information.
Shore Excursion is currently available for pre-order on Amazon. After April 1, it will also be available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores as well as Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram, Baker & Taylor or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions will be for sale on Smashwords, BN.com, Google eBooks or at any of the major online ebook stores.
More Praise for Shore Excursion:
“I really enjoyed this book. It was a quick read. I really liked learning about the travel agency business …. In case you were wondering, I did not figure out who had done it. I was blown away once I found out what was really going on. A lot of times, I have a fairly good idea of the motive behind the murder. But this one, not a clue. This is a good first novel by the author. I’m looking forward to seeing Sidney develop as a character in future mysteries. There are going to be further books right, Marie?”
—The Bluestocking Guide
“Shore Excursion took me on a cruise filled with danger, secrets, excitement and intrigue. I can’t wait to go on another trip with Sidney.”
—Carol’s Notebook
“I have to say for a first time book, this was really good. Marie Moore is used to writing, having been a reporter for many years. Add in her career as a travel agent, and she has married her love of travel and writing into a great excursion. I think you might really enjoy reading this one.”
—Lenore Webb, Theysayimnuts.blogspot.com
“Shore Excursion is the first book in this new mystery series….one that will keep you on edge, waiting for the next to arrive …. This is a highly entertaining and fast-paced read. This first book of Marie Moore is sure to be a great seller and leaves you highly anticipating the next mystery!”
—Lauri, KnitsandReads.blogspot.com
“Graced with humor, a striking cast of characters, masterful deception and really good writing, I can’t wait for the next in this appealing new series!”
—Mindingspot.blogspot.com
“This was a satisfying mystery novel. The plot unfolds smoothly and I loved the varied cast of characters …. I enjoyed the book and am curious where Sidney’s next mystery/adventure will take her ”
—MyTowerofBooks.blogspot.com
“Throw in some great settings and more than a little bit of real travel advice and all together Shore Excursion is a very nice and very promising start to a new cozy mystery series, a fast, fun read. I know that I will be traveling along on the next adventure!”
—CaitesDayattheBeach.blogspot.com
“Shore Excursion is a fun and intriguing mystery! I loved the different characters – you can envision every one of them vividly. Shore Excursion has, as all good mysteries should, a number of twists, turns, and red herrings along the way. I admired Sidney’s determination to solve the mystery regardless of her safety. Flamboyant and feisty, Shore Excursion is the first in what will be an excellent mystery series!”
—Bibliophilic Bookblog
“This was a delightful little mystery that will amuse most lovers of the cozy mystery genre and of Agatha Christie’s stories …. a great beach read.”
—Carabosse’s Library
“An exciting suspense/thriller with all the ingredients to keep readers at the edge of their seat. It has romance, adventure and quite a bit of mystery all tossed into one huge, compelling story.”
—Socrates Book Review Blog
“If you enjoy travel, especially to different countries you will enjoy this book. It is light and funny, filled with enjoyable experiences. There is a bit of suspense and danger as well, but it does not overshadow the sense of fun imbued with the telling. A few red herrings are thrown in to keep you guessing, so you find it hard to second guess the culprits…. A fun summer or vacation read, with just enough teeth to keep you interested while lounging and enjoying the experience along with the characters.”
—Leslie Wright, Blogcritics.org
“Growing up a fan of Nancy Drew, I really love a good mystery with a few twists, and Marie Moore pulls it off wonderfully. I recommend this book to any mystery fans, especially those of us who grew up on Nancy Drew.”
—Unabridged Bookshelf
“If you love mysteries and want to take a ride on a cruise ship (not literally of course) to solve a murder mystery or two, then you definitely need to read this book.”
—Book Lovin’ Mamas
“I love the idea of a cozy-mystery set on a cruise ship with a travel agent protagonist. And with a flamboyant, fun best friend as her sidekick is even better. Shore Excursion is pure fun, it’s a mystery, it’s travel and it’s getting to know interesting characters of all ages. To me that made it a very original and fun book.”
—My Reading Room
Keep Reading for an Excerpt:
I was awakened again at 6:15 by Jay, pounding on the door and shouting my name.
“Okay, okay, calm down, I’m coming,” I said, unlocking the door. “Come in. What is it?”
He burst into the cabin and grabbed me by both arms, nearly lifting me off the floor.
“Just get dressed right now. It’s awful. I don’t know what we are going to do, Sidney. Ruth Shadrach is dead.”
I sank back down onto the bed.
“Dead.” I stared at him. “What do you mean, dead?”
“I mean dead,” he said, “real dead, as in not alive. So stop asking dumb questions and get dressed.”
He opened my drawer and started throwing underwear and t-shirts at me.
“Here, put this on. No, not that, that’s tacky, this.”
I grabbed my clothes away from him.
“I can dress myself, thank you!” I yelled. “Stay out of my stuff. How is she dead? Where? When?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He ran his hands through his red hair until it was sticking up all over. “All I know is that the room steward saw the other old ladies going to the Early Riser’s Breakfast this morning and thought Ruth was with them. So he knocked on the door. When there was no answer, hewent into Ruth’s cabin to make up the bed, and there she was. Dead. As a hammer. Someone’s killed her. Dr. Sledge, the ship’s doctor, is there now and the purser and they want you. So hurry up, Sidney, for God’s sake, put your shoes on, and let’s go!”
Strangely, we didn’t meet anyone as we rocketed up the stairs to the Continental Deck where poor Ruth Shadrach, afraid to room with a stranger, had booked a single.
She looked so pitiful, lying there in the new pink nylon travel pajamas that she’d bought especially for this trip. Twice she’d told me about them and the matching robe, its sleeves now securely knotted around her throat.
“Oh, my God!” I turned away from her and buried my face in Jay’s big chest.
Dr. Sledge pulled the sheet back over her.
“Miss Marsh,” said the purser, “I know what a terrible thing this is for you. It is terrible for all of us. But could you please inform your group of Miss Shadrach’s passing while Mr. Wilson comes with me now to the bridge to speak with the captain? Dr. Sledge will stay with Miss Shadrach, and Anthony will guard the cabin.”
****
How we got through the rest of that day, I’ll never know. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life was to gather the High Steppers together and tell them about Ruth Shadrach. They were stunned and saddened. Many were in tears.
“Who would do such a thing?” Mrs. Weiss said, shaking her head. “No one had any reason to harm her. No one knew her but us.”
She looked around the room at the others. They were no longer the jolly band of High Steppers, but frail individuals, peering at each other with closed, suspicious, fearful faces.
“We don’t know.” I said. “We don’t know anything yet. And at this point we don’t know what the procedure will be or what the captain will do. He will let us know when a decision has been made. Each of you will probably be questioned to see if you can provide any helpful information.”
“Will they bury her at sea?” blurted Mrs. Murphy, who was obviously more curious than distraught. “I’ve never seen a burial at sea.”
“NO, Gladys, they will NOT!” Jay shouted. He had just entered the back of the room, and he looked all in.
“Now, please, everyone, go on to lunch if you can,” he continued. “It’s open seating, and if you can’t, just go to your cabins and order room service or lie down or something and let us try to sort things out. When we have further information, we will share it with you. Right now, they are saying there will be no alterations in the day’s activities, but if you choose not to participate, believe me, everyone will understand.”
After they were gone, Jay and I went back to the conference room on the Promenade Deck. He had no new information from the captain.
Jay was pacing, couldn’t stand still, couldn’t sit, like a big cat. He ran his hands through his red hair again and again.
“They’re stonewalling, Sidney. I couldn’t find out anything. Everyone that I spoke with said they would get back to us later.”
I sank into a conference chair and put my head down on my arms on the cool gleaming wood of the table, thinking about it all, turning the whole terrible thing over in my mind.
“Did you actually speak with the captain, Jay?” I asked without moving my head. I thought if I didn’t move it, it might stop aching.
“No. The First Officer, a guy named Avranos, said that Captain Vargos was in a meeting and could not be disturbed. But what about the High Steppers, Sid? When you told them, what did they say? How did they take it? Pretty bad, I bet. Did anyone say if they saw or heard anything?”
I looked up at him. He had stopped pacing and had perched on the big table, staring at me with a grim look in his brown eyes.
“Oh, Jay, it was awful. Poor little Hannah just cried and cried. Even old Mr. Bostick was honking away into his handkerchief. But, no, no one mentioned hearing or seeing anything. Ruth had that single cabin on the port side, remember, and the rest were all on the starboard. So if they were all in their rooms sleeping when it happened, it’s not surprising that they didn’t.”
“So no one truly knows what happened.”
“No. No one except the…”
I just couldn’t say the word.
“Murderer,” Jay said, finishing the awful thought for me.
Moonlit Desire (ISBN: 978-1-60381-872-8, $14.95, 280 pp.), an historical romance by Carolann Camillo, takes place during the U.S. Colonial period and culminates in the Battle of Quebec
** Click the cover image to order the 5×8 trade paperback **
5 Cups of Coffee: “Positively a heart-warming gem with all the makings of a great book. Indeed a journey worth traveling in every page.” Read more …
–Cherokee, Coffeetime Romance & More
[Coffeetown Romance awarded Moonlit Desire this additional addition of actually deserving more than 5 cups of Coffee (their highest rating)]
“A riveting historical romance, not to be overlooked …” Read more …
–Midwest Book Review/Small Press Bookwatch
“This is an exciting late Colonial Romance starring an intrepid hero and a woman with plenty of mettle as she adjusts to a life far different than what she had in London or expected with Jeremy. Fast-paced from the moment of the kidnapping and never slowing down, sub-genre fans will appreciate this engaging tale.” Read more ….
—Harriet Klausner
“Moonlit Desire contains everything a reader could ask for: strong characters, a page-turner plot, and a heart-warming romance. A highly entertaining read from first page to last.”
—Shirley Kennedy, author of Heartbreak Trail, The London Belle, and The Last of Lady Lansdown
“Camillo’s historical romance has it all: action, adventure, suspense, and, of course, a great love story. The author makes you feel as if you’re there in time and place. Unputdownable!”
—Phyllis Humphrey, author of Cold April
“I loved how the story had so many different turns of events.”
—The Pen and Muse
In 1759 Catherine Bradshaw travels from London to the colony of New York to join her future husband, Jeremy Flint, a man she barely knows but already fears. Immediately after the wedding ceremony, their coach is waylaid by Rive St. Clair, a French Army captain who has sworn vengeance against Flint. Rive abducts Catherine and heads north, confident that Flint will pursue. Sixteen years earlier, Flint instigated a massacre at an Indian village, and now Rive intends to lure him back to that same village and see justice done. As Rive forges a path through the wilderness, Catherine’s indomitable spirit and resilience are put to the test. She is frightened of her surroundings and the man who holds her fate in his hands. Rive makes no secret of his desire for her, and she is determined to resist her own growing attraction. Their journey will take them to Quebec City, the French stronghold where Rive must make a final stand against the British. Will Rive lose his life just as Catherine realizes her true feelings for him?
Says Camillo, “Ever since I read The Last of the Mohicans, I wanted to write a novel that takes place during the period of the French and Indian War. James Fenimore Cooper’s classic totally captured my imagination. My goal with this book was to make that conflict come alive for a new generation.”
Carolann Camillo is the co-author of a contemporary romance novel as well as a woman-in-jeopardy type mystery. She was a past winner of the Foster City International Writing Contest and a finalist in the Windy City Writers Four Seasons Contest. She lives in the San Francisco Bay area with her college professor husband. Click here to visit her website.
Moonlit Desire is currently available on Amazon.com in 5×8 trade paperback and Kindle eBook editions. It can also be purchased at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores as well as Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, and Amazon Japan. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Libraries can also order through Follett Library Resources or Midwest Library Services.
Read on for an excerpt:
He had moved very close to her. Too close. His restless gaze shifted over her body as if, mentally, he were stripping away her few garments. Although modestly clothed, she was gripped by the feeling of standing naked before him. Her pulse quickened and an odd sensation of heat settled deep inside. A sensation she had never before experienced, but whose meaning even a woman of sheltered upbringing could fathom. The knowledge that he could bring this about horrified her.
“Catherine?”
She took a moment to collect her senses. “The kindling …” Then she turned and hurried away.
“Don’t wander from my sight. Make certain the wood is dry and a decent size. I have a most fearsome appetite this morning.”
His last words sent her off with even quicker steps.
Seconds later, she skirted the edge of the meadow. The forest loomed thick with towering fir and pine trees, along with a smattering of maples. She yearned to run, but a glance over her shoulder confirmed that he was keeping a watchful eye. She did feel almost faint from hunger. The thought of rabbit roasting on a spit had her almost licking her lips. Common sense dictated she would not venture far before he tracked her down. She must first regain her strength and then wait for him to become careless.
The freshness of the air mingled with the woody scent of bark and foliage. She noted that they were in a hilly, even mountainous region and tucked that bit of information away. In the future, it might prove useful.
She tried not to torture herself with worries about the future: the peril to her family if a disaster were to befall Jeremy Flint. Perhaps he had already decided he valued his life far more than his desire to possess her. What past involvement with Rive had induced him to abduct her? By now, her husband might have sent word to his agent to cease subsequent deposits to her father’s account.
What if she confessed everything right now—the circumstances that had led her to marry Flint and how the man had endeavored to win her hand?
They had met at a piano recital given by Catherine’s only pupil. Flint, passing the Season in London, had introduced himself and thereafter never strayed from her side. Although polite, there was something disquieting in his demeanor. It went beyond his braggadocio and all too familiar manner. When the hour grew late, he insisted on escorting her home in his carriage.
Social invitations followed, each met with polite, but cool, refusals. Shortly thereafter, she began to encounter him in the street with alarming frequency.
He would show up at her home, uninvited, each time bearing gifts of wine and sweet cakes, cheese or fresh fruit—luxuries her parents could no longer afford since her father’s failing eyesight had forced him to abandon his surgeon’s practice. For their sake, Catherine tolerated it.
The night before he sailed for New York, he paid his final call. The moment her parents retired, he made clear his intentions.
His inquiries had confirmed her family’s financial distress. He could alleviate it, should she consent to become his wife. The thought of being bound to Flint was repugnant, but she was left with no other recourse. She agreed to the marriage; however, when she refused to set sail with him the next day, he made one concession: she would follow on his ship, West Wind, due to leave for New York in a month.
Would Rive set her free if she were to confide in him? Would he even care? He hated Flint. No, he would never free her.
Pine needles covered the ground and muffled her footsteps as she went about the task of collecting the kindling. Other than a darting squirrel, she neither saw nor heard another creature. City-bred and used to throngs of people, bustling markets, street performers and vendors, she was frightened by the isolation almost as much as the man who held her prisoner.
Her supposition about a stream proved true. Clear water gushed over rocks worn smooth by its flow. Fierce sunlight glinted off the surface. Was it possible the stream led to a not too distant town? She stepped closer, listened, but heard only the softly burbling water.
Dead and Not So Buried, by James L. Conway (ISBN: 978-1-60381-866-7, 336 pp., $15.95) introduces a new hard-boiled detective: Gideon Kincaid. Gideon’s stomping ground is Hollywood, with its egomaniac directors and producers, pampered stars (and their pets), and at the bottom of the pecking order: the almost-rans–the actors who just didn’t get the breaks. Now one of them is out to break some faces and much, much worse.
Gideon is the only one who can stop him.
**BUY IT AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR ONLINE BY CLICKING THE COVER IMAGE **
Also available in Kindle and in other eBook formats on Smashwords.
To schedule an interview with James L. Conway, please contact Jen Richards at Over the River Public Relations: Jennifer@otrpr.com, (201) 242-9637.
“VERDICT Screenwriter Conway hits the ground running with this entertaining, debut Hollywood potboiler with a likable PI and tongue-in-cheek humor. It’s a clever mystery with one more satisfying twist at the very end. Great fun.”
—Library Journal
“Mr. Conway’s Hollywood is alive with betrayal, greed, lust, and all the basilar passions that have typified Tinsel Town since the first silent film. His characters breathe on the page and are enlivened with emotions and desires that are nearly palpable. Add frequent plot twists that are capped by a satisfying ending, and you have a mystery novel of the hardboiled school that is sure to keep even the most ardent reader guessing.”
—The New York Journal of Books
“A corpse to some, is worth killing for. Dead and Not So Buried is a fast paced thriller mystery from James L. Conway, following Detective Gideon Kincaid as he must search down the remains of a dead movie star of decades ago and find the people who want it. An unusual plot that sprawls all throughout Hollywood, Dead and Not So Buried is an excellent pick for community library suspense and thriller collections.”
—The Midwest Book Review/Small Press Bookwatch
5 out of 5 Stars: “Dead and Not So Buried is a non-stop detective thriller. It’s entertaining, it’s creepy and it will have you turning pages to see what will happen next. I loved the character of Gideon and hope to see more of him in the future…. Dead and Not So Buried gave me everything I could have wanted from a PI/detective thriller. If I had to do comparisons, it’s darker like a Harry Bosch novel by Michael Connelly and it’s really good like those too, but yet it has comedy to it as well.” Read more …
—Crystal, My Reading Room
“Dead and not so Buried” is a quirky, fun read. A true who-dun-it with off the wall characters and just enough humor thrown in to make it different from other mysteries …. This mystery has all the markings of a bestseller. James L. Conway proves with his first novel that he knows how to write a great mystery with a likeable lead character that leaves his readers wanting a sequel or maybe a series following the antics of Gideon Kincaid.”
—Jodi Hanson for Suspense Magazine
“Conway is to the ego-crazy world of Hollywood what Carl Hiaasen is to Florida’s wacky underbelly. The exploits of Gideon Kincaid explode into an action-packed page-turner that is nothing short of hilarious.”
—Rick Berman, writer & executive producer of Star Trek
“Dead and Not So Buried is good and goofy, comfortable as an old shoe and fresh as a daisy…I raced right through it, never quite knowing where Conway would take me next, laughing all the way.”
—David Jacobs, creator of Dallas and Knotts Landing
“A fabulous read! If you loved L.A. Confidential or are a fan of Hammett, Chandler and Spillane, you are going to love this thriller—a page turning tour de force that combines mystery, murder and mayhem with razor-sharp humor. Conway’s ingenious plot with its show business milieu has more twists and turns than a bent corkscrew and his shocking dénouement will leave you begging for a sequel.”
—E. Duke Vincent, author of Mafia Summer, The Camelot Conspiracy
Hollywood is rocked after the remains of one of the most idolized movie stars of the ’60s are stolen. The thief chooses Gideon Kincaid to deliver the ransom, forcing the PI and ex-cop to unravel a master plan that will include extortion, blackmail and murder.
While trying to stay one step ahead of his nemesis, Gideon is led on a harrowing roller coaster ride through sun and sin-drenched Hollywood. The dead beauty is not Gideon’s only concern; he must also contend with a few live ones. First there’s the tough-as-nails cop assigned to the case—Gideon’s bitter ex-wife. Then there’s the gorgeous starlet he must protect. Unfortunately they have a history that puts her in jeopardy. Finally there’s Gideon’s assistant, the adorable and adoring Hillary, whose involvement in the case endangers them both.
As the body count mounts and the madman’s crimes grow ever more audacious, Gideon finds himself in a desperate race against time. Can he put a stop to this crime spree before Gideon himself ends up dead and very buried?
Says Conway, “For a villain I chose someone from the “other” side of Hollywood—the angry resentful side. For every famous TV and movie star there are scores of other actors passed over, rejected, fired. Like our villain Roy Cooper. I know Roy Cooper. I’ve worked with many actors just like him. Best looking guy in high school. Star of all his college plays. Then he gets to L.A. and goes to his first casting call. The room is filled with guys who look just like him. Just as handsome. Just as talented. Just as full of themselves. And they look around and think, WTF?! They don’t get that first role. Or the next. They go to acting classes. They network. Do everything they’re told to do. And finally get cast. This is it, they think. My big break. But no. That great role leads to nothing. Back to the cattle calls. The agents who never call back. Often they leave show business and get real jobs. And in this case one of them finally does what most of them dream about. He decides to get even.”
James L. Conway has enjoyed a long and distinguished career in Hollywood as a writer, producer, director and studio executive. James lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two daughters. Dead and Not So Buried is his first novel. You can find him on the Web at Jameslconway.com.
Keep Reading for an excerpt:
Once a castle stood here, battlements reaching into the California sky. Next to a London train station. And a French farmhouse. And an African village.
Twentieth Century Fox’s back lot was home to a thousand movie sets and a million dreams. Bad times forced the studio to sell most of its back lot in the sixties, and now it’s home to office buildings, hotels, shopping centers and condominiums.
I couldn’t drive into Century City without remembering the sword fights, barroom brawls, pratfalls and ankle-raised kisses that were Hollywood. Not without wishing I could turn back the clock.
Winslow’s building was thirty-eight stories of expensive glass and steel. On a clear day I’m sure you could see from the ocean to the downtown skyline. From my one-bedroom unit you could see a Taco Bell and Phil’s Office Furniture.
I had pulled into the circular drive, rolled down my window, and was hoping to talk the doorman into letting me park my car in front when I heard it.
The scream. Shocked. Desperate. Final.
I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye, followed by a pulpy thud.
The body landed only a few feet from my car. I leaped out and rushed to the broken, bloody mess. The jumper landed face down. But I knew who it was. I recognized the snakeskin cowboy boots and luau shirt.
The doorman, a young redheaded kid, muttered “Jesus fucking Christ,” and threw up in a bed of roses. A moment later the security guard—early twenties, officious, cop wannabe—came running out to see what happened. He didn’t puke, but he turned ghost white and leaned against a tree for support.
I scanned the building; saw nothing suspicious on any of the balconies. Not that I expected to. The only way to know if it was suicide or murder would be to get into that condo. I slipped past the still reeling doorman and security guard and into the lobby.
There’s no directory in these high-class buildings, but a list of the occupants could usually be found on the security desk. I found it beneath a well-thumbed Hustler magazine. Winslow was in 2808. I pressed the up button and waited. There were three elevators. Above each elevator was an indicator telling you what floor it was on. Elevator one was on nine, going up. Elevator two was stopped on thirty-one. Elevator three was on six, headed down.
As I waited I saw Elevator two start to move. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-eight …
It was stopped on twenty-eight. Was someone getting on? Someone from Winslow’s apartment? It started moving again. Twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five …
DING. Elevator three arrived. The door slid open. It was empty.
Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two …
Winslow’s high dive could have been a simple suicide. Especially if he realized I was on to him and he was afraid of going to jail. Or it could have been a murder, in which case, time was of the essence. Someone could still be in Winslow’s apartment. I should get on the waiting elevator and get my ass up there.
Twenty-one, twenty, nineteen …
Besides, the cops could show up any second. If I had any chance to check out the condo before the boys in blue slapped up the yellow police tape, it was now or never.
Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen …
Or someone could be on Elevator two. The one who pushed Winslow out that window.
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen …
The one who kidnapped Christine’s bones, stole my car and owed me big time.
Twelve, eleven, ten …
I let the door to Elevator two close.
Nine, eight, seven …
I pulled my Glock out its holster, took up a position beside the elevator.
Six, five, four …
I never shot anyone on an elevator before, but there was a first time for everything.
Three, two, one …
The door opened. I spun into the doorway, gun ready. It was empty.
I hate when that happens. All that wasted adrenaline. All those extra heartbeats. I punched the button for twenty-eight and began the ride up.
Why had it stopped at twenty-eight? Had someone gotten on at thirty-one and off at twenty-eight? Had they called the elevator at twenty-eight and changed their minds? Had it really stopped at twenty-eight at all? Maybe I just thought it had stopped because I was so focused on Floor twenty-eight.
DING. The door opened. I stepped into the corridor. It was empty. I hurried to 2808, tried the door. Locked. The lock was a Schlage—a simple pin tumbler type—and I picked it in about twenty seconds. Pulling my gun again, I stepped into the dead man’s condo and listened.
I heard the ticking of a clock. But no footfalls. No clothes rustling. No voices. Nothing suspicious. I closed the door and stepped into a large living room.
There was a leather couch that looked comfortable and two Art Deco chairs that didn’t. In the center of the coffee table was a sculpture of a naked woman spread-eagled over a martini glass. Two of my favorite things, I’ll admit. But this thing was way too in your face for me.
A bookcase covered the far wall. A cursory glance revealed everything from Molière to the latest Lee Child. And multiple copies of Winslow’s three books.
The centerpiece of the room, though, was a truly spectacular view. I could see from the ocean to Orange County. The sliding glass door was open. I stepped out on the patio and looked down to see Winslow’s splayed body directly below. This was his launching pad. I looked around and saw nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle. In the distance I heard the whine of an approaching police car. I didn’t have much time.
I did a quick search of the dining room and kitchen. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for. But if Winslow had killed himself, he might have left a suicide note—or so I hoped. Or Christine’s bones. Or the two million bucks.
Winslow must’ve had a great cleaning lady or was totally anal. Maybe both. The place was spotless. I followed a hallway past very cool movie posters of some of my favorite mystery classics: The Maltese Falcon, The Thin Man, Double Indemnity. And then I heard it. A THUNK. Like something being knocked over. The sound came from an open doorway ahead. Then another noise, a CREAK. Someone was in there.
Maybe someone with a gun, like me. I decided to go in low. I took a deep breath to steady myself then I dove into the room, rolled, came up Glock first and found myself face to face with a pair of eyes. Yellow eyes. Set in a gray face. A cat’s face. Sitting on a desk in the middle of the room. But he didn’t sit for long. All four of his feet started spinning, his claws skating over the desk’s polished mahogany; then he was airborne, flying over my head and out the door.
Feeling foolish, I rose to my feet and surveyed the room. The desk was flanked by two filing cabinets, and the walls were hung with more movie posters. Christine Cole posters: Deadly Ransom. Femme Fatale. Never Again. Blue Moon.
There was a computer on the desk. It was on. Words glowed on the monitor, begging to be read.
I’m sorry. Forgive me.
Not much of a suicide note from a man who made his living writing. If he had written it. Anyone could have typed in those words.
I wanted to search the desk and filing cabinets, but first I wanted to make sure no one else was in the condo. I left the office and followed the hallway to Winslow’s bedroom.
This guy must’ve been a real lounge lizard. He had a mirrored ceiling, king-sized bed and emperor-sized TV. A bureau sat next to the big screen. On it was an alarm clock, nothing more. Across from the bureau was another bookcase holding a vast collection of DVDs. It looked like Winslow also owned copies of all his shows. There were a ton of Payback tapes and two other DVDs, Dead Run and Shadow Chaser, which I assumed were pilots or Movies of the Week he wrote.
Like so many Hollywood types, he had a wall lined with eight-by-tens of him and every famous person he could round up.
I hit pay dirt in the master bath. A huge marble tub dominated the room, and the tub was filled. Not with water, but bones. The bones were arranged to form a skeleton. There was a necklace around the neck, a bracelet around a wrist and a diamond ring on a finger. Nice to finally meet you, Christine.
Okay. Bones, suicide note … If I could find the money we’d have a pretty strong case for suicide. But before I had the chance to look farther, I heard the sound of the front door opening and a voice saying, “No, he lived alone.”
The doorman or security guard. Shit.
A second voice, tired and male, said, “He have any visitors tonight?” A cop’s question. That was actually good news. The first cop to arrive is only supposed to secure the scene and then tape the door until the detectives arrive.
I stepped back into the bedroom as the doorman or security guard answered, “Not that I saw. But I only came on duty half an hour ago. You want, I’ll call Ned. He had the security desk before me. Maybe he saw someone.” Okay, it was the security guard.
I slipped into the walk-in closet, silently slid the door shut as the cop said, “Just give me his number. One of the detectives will call him.”
Second Chances, ($14.95, 264 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-876-6), by Jeff Erno, is a gay science fiction romance about a dying billionaire whose consciousness is transferred into the body of a young man.
** Click the cover image to order the 5×8 paperback **
A+: “Very gripping, some amazing scenes (not least of all the love scenes) and I got everything I wanted from this story. It was one of those tales that made me want to go out and change the world when I put it down.” Read more …
—Jamie, Man oh Man Reviews
“Jeff Erno is a wonderful writer and I can tell you that because I have read seven of the eight books he has published …. There are several motifs here—romance, passion, emotions, life and death and there is a villain …. If you have not yet taken a chance on Erno, now is the perfect time to start.” Read more …
—Amos Lassen
“Second Chances has everything a good book should have, good guys, bad guys, a
storyline with plenty of twists and turns and of course a love story. To boot, it was entertaining to read!”
The author of eight novels, Jeff Erno has a major following. Here is a sampling of his reviews:
Dumb Jock: “If someone were to tell me I had to spend three months on a deserted island and I could have ten books … Dumb Jock would be one of those books.”
Puppy Love 2: “Jeff has done a splendid job …. One of my favorite gay series.”
—Three Dollar Bill Reviews
Bullied: “These stories … made me think and broke my heart …. Excellent job, Mr. Erno.”
—Book Wenches
Harold Wainwright is dying. At seventy-nine, stricken with cancer, the billionaire insurance mogul has much to regret. In his youth he rejected his only true love, Jacob, because the young artist was distracting him from the pursuit of wealth and success. Now Harold is alone, rich beyond his wildest dreams … and his life is over.
Doctor Timothy Drayton has found a way to prolong human life. He has created a computer chip that can be implanted into the human brain, allowing consciousness to be transferred from a dying patient into the mind of a donor subject.
Jesse Warren is eighteen years old. He’s a track star, model student, and the typical all-American kid. Then tragedy strikes. After a terrible accident, Jesse is pronounced brain dead. His devastated family is ecstatic when Dr. Drayton offers a “new treatment” for brain injury. Convinced that God has sent a miracle, the Warrens are overjoyed when their son wakes from his coma. They hope and pray the amnesia is not permanent.
But the real Jesse is gone, his consciousness replaced by Harold Wainwright’s. Will Harold make the same mistakes this time around? Or will he take advantage of this rare second chance to find the love that was missing from his former life?
Says Erno, “About two years ago, a story idea came to me. It was such a light bulb moment that I had to rush to my office and lock myself inside. I wrote out a synopsis for a science fiction story: The Rebirthing Project. I’ve been a reader and fan of sci fi for many years, but I never expected to be able to come up with the technical and scientific details necessary to build a sci-fi plot. I decided to give it a shot. Once the characters began to come alive for me, I knew that the novel would have to include romance. I chose a different title … Second Chances.
“What if we could be young again? Would we do it right the second time, or would our characters lead us down the same path as before? I believe that human beings want to be better. All of us make mistakes, and for many of us, the biggest fear is that we will reach the end of our lives and look back with only regret.
“This novel includes many of the elements my work is known for: romance, emotional intensity, scenes of intimacy and passion. But this story also features a thriller plot, an evil villain, and a fantastical premise I hope readers will embrace. Second Chances may be aptly named for more than one reason. I hope it will give readers a chance to see another side of me and my writing.”
Jeff Erno became a published author in 2009 with his first novel, Dumb Jock. He has written a total of eight novels to date. He currently lives in Michigan and writes full-time. You can find Jeff on the Web at www.jefferno.com.
Second Chances is available on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram and Baker & Taylor, or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com, Google eBooks or at any of the major online eBook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
Jesse’s heart continued to beat rapidly as he stared up into the eyes of his friend—this one who bore such a striking resemblance to the only man he’d ever loved. The only man Harold Wainwright had ever loved, that was. It was all so bizarre. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he could possibly encounter this remarkable soul in not just one, but two lifetimes.
“Are you okay?” Phillip asked him. The soothing and compassionate tone of his voice aided Jesse greatly in his efforts to calm himself. He nodded.
“Yeah. I don’t know why I’m having these horrible dreams …”
“Oh Jesse,” the boy reassured him, “you’ve been through so much. It’s probably normal. Were you dreaming about the accident?”
“Jacob,” he responded.
“The one you talked about earlier?”
“He looks like … or you look like him. Like he used to look.”
“Jesse, where did you know him? It’s so weird, because you never talked about him before.”
“Where are my parents?” he asked, changing the subject. “What time is it?”
“It’s like around seven o’clock. They went home to eat, but they’re going to come back to pick me up and check on you … unless you want me to stay. I know I can stay all night with ya. I’ll just go talk to the nurses. I’m sure they’ll let me.”
“Really?” Jesse asked. “No … I don’t want you to have to do that.”
“I want to!” he exclaimed. “Jesse, you’ve been away for so long. You were in a coma. I wanna spend as much time as I can …”
“But I’m back now, and both of us need our rest.”
“What if you have another nightmare? I wanna be here for you.”
Jesse smiled up at him. “Thank you,” he said, “but it’s okay. It was just a dream. Everything’s going to be fine now. It’s gonna be perfect.”
His friend returned the smile and gently placed his hand on Jesse’s arm. A shiver traveled through his body in response to the tender touch. “Have we always … um … been close like this?”
Phillip’s face suddenly looked flushed. “I’ve … um … well, I’ve always cared about you. Like I said, we’ve been best friends for years. I’m sure you’ll remember soon.”
“Maybe you can remind me,” Jesse said. He sensed there was more. He could see it in the boy’s eyes. He knew that Phillip wasn’t telling him everything.
“Are you hungry? They brought you your dinner.”
“Didn’t I just eat?”
Phillip laughed. “Dude, that was like seven hours ago. It was your lunch, and you’ve been sleeping ever since.”
“I have to use the bathroom,” Jesse confessed.
“I don’t know how to tell ya this, man, but … um … you have a catheter in ya. It’s like a tube that goes into your bladder. If you feel like ya gotta go, just let ’er rip.”
Jesse cracked up. “You’re not serious!”
“I am! Man, I’m sorry. I know it’s gross. I’ve had that before myself, when I was in the hospital. You get used to it though. It sorta feels like you gotta go all the time.”
“That nurse earlier, she told me I’d be able to get out of bed today and walk around.”
“I think they decided to let you sleep. I bet they’ll take out your catheter tomorrow and let you get up. You just had brain surgery, ya know. You should just chill.”
“No more chilling! I’ve been chilled for the past … well, since God knows how long.”
“Twelve weeks. You’ve been in a coma all that time. It’s a miracle you survived the accident.” Phillip’s voice cracked slightly, and his eyes were moist with tears.
“Thank you,” Jesse whispered. “Thank you for caring so much. I can’t tell you what it means to me …”
This time Phillip boldly grabbed his friend’s hand and squeezed it. “Like I said, I care about you. I … um …”
“W-what’s for dinner?” Jesse asked, knowing his new friend was struggling to say something and wanting to spare him the discomfort.
Phillip pulled away and turned to the tray beside him. “Let me see. I think it’s probably cold by now. It’s been sitting there awhile. Looks like tuna casserole.”
“Oh dear God,” Jesse said.
“Oh dear God?” Phillip repeated. “I can’t believe some of the expressions you use … you’re so funny.”
“I didn’t used to talk like this?”
“It’s cool, man. It’s like you’ve become so grown-up all of a sudden. I guess maybe it was from being unconscious. You matured in your sleep or something.”
“What else is on that tray? Any vegetables?”
“Green beans, it looks like.”
“Okay, I’ll have them.”
“Seriously?” Phillip asked. He laughed as he pushed the cart closer to his friend. “I guess your taste has changed, too. You used to hate vegetables.”
“You can have the casserole if you want,” Jesse offered.
“I had pizza from the cafeteria. I was gonna bring you some …”
“This is fine,” Jesse assured him. “So tell me about us. How did we meet? How’d we become such close friends?” And why do you look so damned much like Jacob Klein??
“I don’t exactly remember when we first met,” Phillip said. “Seems like we always knew each other. I’ve lived in the same house all my life, and I think you have, too. You’ve been my neighbor for as long as I can remember.” Phillip stepped over to the other side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, allowing Jesse to continue to eat.
“You used to have really big birthday parties. I think you were like eight or nine the year you had a huge outdoor party. Your birthday is in the spring, and it was really nice weather. It was a slumber party, and we slept outdoors in tents. You and me slept in the same one, and I got scared in the middle of the night. This is kinda embarrassing …”
“Please go on! Don’t be embarrassed … please.”
“Well, I was crying, and I wanted to just go home. I was gonna get up and go back across the street to my house, but you wouldn’t let me. You told me to crawl inside your sleeping bag with you.”
“I did?” Jesse smiled. “And did you?”
Phillip smiled back at his friend and nodded. “Yeah. It was so warm, and you made me feel so safe. I think that was when I first knew …”
“What do ya mean?” Jesse asked.
“I mean … um … well, that’s when I first knew we were gonna be best friends. It always felt like you kinda looked out for me. You were always the one who was so fearless. You never seemed to be afraid of anything, and just knowing you made me feel braver.”
“So you were kind of insecure, then? I mean, when you were on your own.”
Phillip paused a moment before answering. “Yeah, I guess I was, actually. I just think you were the outgoing one. I was always a little more cautious, but you were the daredevil. You had so much confidence. I’m the type who wants to do a lot of different things, but all I really do is think about them. I’m a dreamer, I guess. For you, though, to imagine something is to do it. Once you decide you want it, you will eventually get it. I always admired that about you.”
The boy’s honesty was tugging at Jesse’s heartstrings. As he looked into his friend’s big brown eyes, he felt the sincerity of his words. He wanted to touch him. He had to, and he reached out and gently took his hand into his own as the boy continued to talk.
“Jesse, the day of your accident, I saw you right before it happened. I saw you as you ran by my house on your way to practice. You waved at me, and I decided something. I knew I had to tell you how I felt, and I planned to do it that night.
“I was too late though. When I found out about what had happened, I was afraid I’d missed my chance.” Big tears streamed down Phillip’s face as he squeezed Jesse’s hand. “Jesse, I love …”
Phillip immediately pulled his hand away as he heard someone enter the room. He turned to see Margo in the doorway. Paul was behind her. “Someone’s awake?” she asked.
Big Leagues ($14.95, 274 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-870-4), by Jen Estes, is a mystery featuring a female sportswriter who doesn’t realize her exciting new high-profile job is fraught with danger. Big Leagues is the first book of a new series featuring sportswriter Cat McDaniel.
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Also available in Kindle and other eBook editions on Smashwords.
“Jen Estes has hit it out of the park with her first mystery!”
—Shelley Glodowski, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review/MBR Bookwatch
“If you want to know what really goes on behind the scenes in baseball, and also be entertained by a wickedly funny, juicy mystery, Big Leagues is your ticket to the ballpark. Cat is the kind of character you’ll want to see a lot more of. She’s brilliant but flawed, awkward yet graceful, strong but endearingly vulnerable. I rooted for her, feared for her and in the end fell in love with her. As a sportswriter who covered the Yanks and Mets for 19 years, I can say without question Jen Estes covers all the bases in showing fans a world they never get to see. She throws high hard ones at players, flaks and front office big wigs—and it all rings true. I can’t wait to see what Jen Estes has on deck for us in the next book in this series. Big Leagues is a walk-off home run!”
— Nat Gottlieb, Reporter, HBO Sports
“Jen Estes hits a scorching home run with her debut novel, Big Leagues, and proves baseball isn’t the nation’s only pastime. So are corporate greed, blind ambition, conspiracy and murder. Readers will cheer plucky hero, Cat McDaniel, as she risks her career and her life, determined to maintain the integrity of the game she loves and unravel a web of mystery and deceit through the final pulse pounding pages.”
—Michael Murphy, Mystery/Suspense Novelist
Rookie sportswriter Catriona McDaniel is on deck in Sin City for the job of a lifetime with baseball’s hottest team. The Las Vegas Chips have the best record in baseball, snagging two trophies in their first three years. Two men are vying for the position of “boyfriend of summer.” Her new boss, Erich König, is a German wunderkind and the Desert’s most eligible bachelor. Then there’s her neighbor—a biology professor whose fetal pigs know more about baseball than he does. Not all the men admire Cat. As the team’s junior reporter, Dusty Carlyle was on-deck for her position. Now he’s desperate to get her out of the lineup. Save for the scheming coworker, Cat has everything she ever wanted … until a star outfielder’s heart stops. Suspecting that his death was no accident, she starts nosing around, becoming the newest player in an extreme game of hardball. Will Cat become the next member of the team to be taken out of the lineup?
Says Estes, “Why do I love baseball? The heartwarming stories, the behind-the-scenes gossip, and the journey from Opening Day to the trophy. The idea for this series came to me in the offseason. As usual, my Cubs’ season had ended sooner than the fans wanted and I was staring at my bookshelf, looking for something to fill my afternoons. I’m a mystery lover as much as a baseball fan, and it dawned on me that not many novels combine the two. So, instead of reading a book, I wrote one. As far as plotlines go, I didn’t have to look far for inspiration: every season the scandals come to us.”
Born and raised in Illinois, Jen Estes started her writing career as a baseball blogger in 2007 and expanded to freelance sports writing in 2009. She is an active member of the Society of American Baseball Research (SABR), Springfield Poets & Writers and the National Writers Union (NWU). Big Leagues is Jen’s debut novel and the first in a three-book series featuring sassy sports writer Cat McDaniel. When she isn’t writing, Jen enjoys running, yoga, traveling and watching baseball with her husband and cat. You can find Jen on the net at www.jenestes.com and on Twitter @jenestesdotcom.
Big Leagues is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram, Baker & Taylor or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions will be for sale on Smashwords, BN.com, Google Ebooks or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
She thumbed through the package Lynette had sent her. The guard in the booth opened his window and smiled, revealing a pair of stained dentures. “What can I do for you, little lady?”
“Uh, hi there. I’ve got a parking pass in here somewhere, just a sec.”
“Oh! You must be our new reporter. You certainly are a lot prettier.” His face fell. “Sure was awful what happened to the last one, a damn shame. You don’t even listen to the rumors, you hear me?”
“Oka— Wait, what rumors?”
He waved his hand nonchalantly. “People like to stir up trouble. Got nothing better to do than turn a tragedy into a scandal. Maybe it helps them cope, I don’t know. But you don’t mind them none, just do your job and I’m sure you’ll be fine here.”
“Oh uh, okay.”
His face lightened up. “Now I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. McDaniel something, wasn’t it?”
Cat returned his kind smile. “Uh-huh. I’m Catriona McDaniel. I just got into town, and I was kinda anxious to see my new office. Is that okay?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled again. “Of course, dearie. You can park anywhere in the lot. Do you know where you’re going?”
Cat blushed. “Not really.”
“Well, don’t fret none. That’s what I’m here for. Now what you’re gonna wanna do is go through those doors right there.” He pointed to a set of double steel doors. “Now those don’t open without a key code. You have to punch in your employee number before they’ll unlock. Did they give you your employee number yet?”
“Uh …” Cat fumbled through her pile of paperwork. “Ah, here we go.”
He nodded. “Okay, good. Punch that in the keypad; then you’ll hear the door unlock. Follow the tunnel on through ’til you get to a hallway. You’ll go past, oh gee, I believe it’s four doors. They’re labeled ‘groundskeeper,’ ‘maintenance’ and so on. I’m sure you know the drill.”
He stopped. She nodded confirmation, and he smiled.
“Then you’ll come to the hallway. There’s a set of elevators to the left, just before the clubhouse and player areas. Take the elevator up to the fourth floor. That’s where you’ll find your office.”
“Thank you so much, Mr., uh …”
“Oh, dearie, you can call me Winston.”
“Winston. Nice to meet you.”
He hit a button in his booth and the striped gate lifted. They exchanged a wave as she passed through.
The elevator doors opened with an echoing ding. Cat gingerly stepped into the fourth floor lobby. The lights were off and there wasn’t a single person in sight.
Okay, kinda creepy.
Her frazzled nerves welcomed the quiet, albeit ominous, calm of the vacant department. She strolled down the corridor and eyed the various cubicles and desks. Each space was stacked with papers and decorated with photos of loving spouses, adorable kids and happy pets. As she stepped into the back corner of the floor, her eyes were riveted to the nameplate on the mahogany door.
Catriona McDaniel, Senior Reporter.
A small smile formed on her lips, and she brought her fingers up to the door to caress the polished brass.
My own office? I’ve never even had my own cubicle before.
Truthfully, she’d written most of her Bulldogs articles at home in her pajamas with John Fogerty blaring in the background, but Cat wasn’t about to turn down a corner office. Her fingers squeezed the doorknob. Fumes of fresh paint emanated from the beige walls. She forgot about the chemical stink and dull shade of paint when she spotted the splendor on the right wall—a window with a view of the field. The possibilities that window presented flooded into her mind.
No more guessing if the sluggers have started batting practice, wondering if the team is sporting their alternate uniforms, questioning if the seats are filling up or debating if we’re looking at a rain delay.
She watched the grounds crew tending to an extensive irrigation system in the outfield.
I guess that last one probably won’t be an issue.
“Boy you don’t waste any time, do ya?”
Cat shot up three inches and spun around at the sound of the voice booming behind her. A tall man with thick glasses framing a set of glowering brown eyes stood in the doorway. He crossed his skinny arms and gaped at her. She squinted through the faint daylight in the office and attempted to place his familiar face.
“Dustin Carlyle. Junior reporter.” He laced the junior with thick contempt, as though Cat had just carved the word into the rusty blade of a dagger and shoved it between his shoulder blades. His snotty tone triggered memories of their first meeting.
She cleared her throat. “Y-yeah. I believe we’ve met before.”
He ignored her. “If you’re wondering why there’s no welcome wagon waiting for you, the reason would be because everyone’s at Brad Derhoff’s wake.”
Her mouth formed a silent “oh.” She should have known there weren’t many reasons for an entire office to be empty at four o’clock in the afternoon on a gameday. That the reason might be Brad’s wake hadn’t even occurred to her. Suddenly she felt very much like the vulture Dustin was implying she was. Cat knew nothing about the deceased reporter, other than the impressive credentials listed in the team’s media guide. She’d met Brad Derhoff only once at the beginning of the season and he’d treated her, along with the rest of the minor league staff, with the same condescension affected by every other visitor from the Las Vegas team. Cat had excused his superior attitude since, given his status with the team, he was indeed superior.
“He’s a real reporter,” she’d prattled to Tamela after Brad turned up his nose at their break room coffee pot and requested that she fetch him a caramel macchiato.
Tamela was unimpressed by anyone from the parent club, unless his signature appeared on her weekly paycheck. “So are you.”
No. I’m just taking a break from slinging hot dogs.
Back then, Cat couldn’t have fathomed that the ace reporter might have been dealing with his own inadequacies too; that was shockingly clear now. Her eyes registered their concern for the sneering coworker in her new office.
“Uh, I’m sorry for your loss. Were you and Brad close?”
Dustin raised an eyebrow. “Close? Well, let’s see, Derhoff and I have been a team since the franchise formed. Worked together every day, side by side. I saw him as my mentor, and he was grooming me to one day fill his shoes as senior reporter. Guess he overlooked a minor league reporter with a whopping eight months of tenure. You never know. Since apparently Erich König likes to promote from below—er, I mean, within—maybe they’ll ask me to be general manager instead.”
Cat clenched her jaw upon hearing his insinuation. She got the message. Dustin was the veteran pitcher and she was a rookie slugger crowding his plate.
What Happens in Vegas, Dies in Vegas ($15.95, 302 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-868-1), by Mark Everett Stone, is a paranormal suspense thriller about an ex-government super-agent whose battles with the supernatural world take him first to Las Vegas and then back into the past to World War II Germany. What Happens in Vegas is the second book in the series: From the Files of the BSI (Bureau of Supernatural Investigation).
**CLICK THE COVER IMAGE TO ORDER**
**Also available in Kindle and in other eBook formats on Smashwords**
5 Stars: “Things To Do In Denver When Your Un-Dead was one of the most refreshing and original books I have read in a long time and the sequel is just as exciting as the first. In fact it may just be better than the first …. Exceptionally well-written and entertaining.”
“Vegas is non-stop action that will leave you with whiplash …. Stone leaves you gasping for breath by the end and of course, enjoys taunting the reader with the prospect of a third book in the series, which I will be waiting anxiously to read.”
—Shay Fabbro, award-winning author of the Portal of Destiny series
5 Stars: “No reader could possibly feel slighted when all is read and done. It is a cracking good yarn from first to final page, no question …. Mark has cemented himself solidly into the position of Master in my self-created niche of Paranormal Suspense Thriller writing. His command of his art grows exponentially with each work of his that I read ….Two very enthusiastic thumbs up for a job well and properly done.”
“Don’t expect a minute of down-time, for Stone is a zero tolerance taskmaster who brings a complicated plotline and well fleshed-out characters to heel and makes it look easy. What you can expect is for Stone to surprise you repeatedly, satisfy you completely and leave you wanting more.”
—AJ Aalto, author of Touched
After faking his own death, Kal Hakala is free of the Bureau of Supernatural Investigation and can finally focus his energy on destroying the monster that murdered his sister. With the help of trusted former teammates, he embarks on a quest to find an artifact to activate a magical Tesla Coil, the only device powerful enough to kill a legend. But wherever Kal goes, trouble isn’t far behind. It’s not easy to locate an artifact without alerting the BSI. Kal narrows his search to Las Vegas, where he and his friends encounter the greatest peril ever to threaten our world—a threat found only in Sin City but rooted in World War II Germany, site of the past’s most heinous crimes. Can Kal overcome an enemy so diabolical, so evil, that annihilating millions is merely one phase of its master plan? The task seems impossible, but for Kal Hakala, the best agent in the BSI’s history, the impossible only requires patience and careful planning. Patience is not Kal’s strong suit.
Says Stone, “I wanted to integrate aspects of the worst time in modern history (WWII) in this book because it is an era that people under forty are in danger of forgetting. It is too easy to let time numb us to the horrors of the past. For a few months during my research of Nazi Germany and the Final Solution, I felt like I had to shower just to scrub the evil off of my skin. I will carry some of the images that research planted in my brain to the grave. In the book, as in real life, I attempted to leaven the darkness with humor. I wanted to show that, even during their darkest hours, people can still laugh and spit in the eye of evil. Readers who enjoyed the first book will still see an emotionally damaged, cynical Kal along with some terrific monster ass-kicking.”
Born in Helsinki, Finland, Mark Everett Stone arrived in the U.S. at a young age and promptly dove into the world of the fantastic. Starting at age seven with the Iliad and the Odyssey, he went on to consume every scrap of Norse Mythology he could get his grubby little paws on. At age thirteen he graduated to Tolkien and Heinlein, building up a book collection that soon rivaled the local public library’s. In college Mark majored in Journalism and minored in English. Mark’s first book, Things to Do in Denver When You’re Un-Dead, was published by Camel Press in July of 2011. The Judas Line will be released in 2012. Mark lives in Denver with his amazingly patient wife, Brandie, and their two sons, Aeden and Gabriel. Check out Mark’s website and his blog.
What Happens in Vegas, Dies in Vegas is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order through Ingram or by contacting info@camelpress.com. Other electronic versions are for sale on Smashwords, BN.com, and any of the major online eBook stores.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
Nope. Not gonna happen. Kal was the only cat I knew who could eat nails and crap bullets, so he was gonna come back and do it soon. Yeah. Soon.
Unbidden, a welling of sadness, of raw fear and despair, began to rise up in my heart. With a force of will—will that had been iron-forged during years in the Bureau—I shoved those emotions down. Down into the dark recesses of my soul and buried them there. No time for weepy, girly shit, only stoic resolve.
Winch, God bless her, said nothing—letting me deal with my issues—and followed me back to the larger cavern. “Let’s check the crates.”
“No need, Canton,” Winch said through pursed lips. “My guess is that we’ll find modern weaponry that doesn’t use computer chips. Wouldn’t be surprised if there are chemical and bio weapons as well. Things that kill with the least amount of effort.”
I thought furiously. “The Nazis fought for about six months in Stalingrad before they were defeated. What do you bet that there are enough weapons here to tip the balance?”
“Crap.”
“You got that right.” I spied a silver briefcase wedged between two crates near a dead henchman. A heave tore it loose and I was surprised at how heavy it was. Flipping the catches, I opened the lid.
What the hell?
“Oh my God!” breathed Winch from beside me.
“What? What is it?” LED display, a keypad and a cylinder about a foot long and six inches wide. Didn’t look like much.
“I think …” she began. “I think it’s a nuke.”
I slammed the lid shut with a clang. Where the hell did they get a nuke? Not something you order from a J.C. Penney catalog.
Waitaminute! “How the hell do you know that?”
Her small, but strong hand smacked me on the back of the head. “Dope. Remember, I was CIA before Bureau. Geez, don’t you ever listen to me anymore?”
Oh, yeah, right … CIA, she could probably MacGuyver up a nuke from a paper clip and bubble gum. As for the listening part … well, to be perfectly honest, it wasn’t listening we’d been doing for the past few months, but even I wasn’t brave enough to say that out loud. She’d been trained to kill people with things like forks, spoons, toothpicks …
“Canton, hon,” she said with an edge to her voice that told me she’d read my mind … as usual. “We have to call someone about this.”
I frowned. “We ain’t calling anyone, kid. Not until Kal gets back.”
“Canton—”
“No!” My voice had turned savage. Hell, I liked Winch, maybe even loved her, but Kal was … Kal. The world was better with him in it.
“Canton, he might not come back.” No fool she. She’d figured it out.
“He will.”
“How do you know?” Those soft eyes bored into mine, pleading to be convinced.
“He’s my friend.”
“That’s an answer?”
I stared at the mass of crates with their deadly payloads, the aluminum case that could unleash hell, and searched my soul for a better answer, but there was none. “It’s the only answer I’ve got.”
Crack!
The shot took Winch down, but I didn’t have time to worry. Years of training had already set my body in motion. Pushing off a crate with my foot, I was airborne for a split second as I cleared the stack, drawing my Glock in mid air.
Crack! A bullet spun past the tip of my nose, nearly blistering the skin. I landed and rolled as more shots rang out … five, six, seven. From the sound of it, at least three different pistols. That meant more than one shooter. Damn. Wildly, I swung an arm toward the genny that was chugging away nearby. My fingers touched the power button. With an asthmatic rumble, the little machine died and the bulbs overhead slowly dimmed.
Lights out everyone, and Canton was in the house. I felt my lips part in an evil smile. I’d just leveled the playing field.
“He killed the generator, sir!” spat a high, clear voice.
“I can see that!” came the reply in a thick German accent.
Another German. Starting to really hate these guys.
“We should leave it off!” said another voice,
“Nein, the dark will help him,” the German answered.
That right, I thought. Keep talking. Adrenaline began to fizz through my veins as I carefully drew my Bowie from its sheath. Fourteen inches of razor sharp death. My people, the Mescalero Apache, had been the greatest guerilla fighters the U.S. government never wanted to face and it was about time I showed those assholes what that meant.
No time to worry about Winch. She was either dead or she wasn’t. If she was I’d mourn later. At that moment I needed to be cold, hard, emotionless. I needed to be iron and to do iron work.
The ambushers had stopped talking, maybe in an effort to locate me. It wouldn’t help them much. They were sly, but so was I.
I slipped a hand into the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out a quarter. Quietly I slipped out of my boots and pulled free my socks, then tossed the quarter high up over the crates to the left.
Tink … tink … tinkety-tink! Shots rang out and muzzle flashes strobed through the darkness as the men fired toward where the quarter had landed. I was already in motion, bare feet padding silently across the cavern floor.
The gunfire stopped and so did I. The air was thick with propellants and the stale exhalations of desperate men. I inhaled slowly, deeply. Underneath, the chemical smell and halitosis was the faint odor of … cologne. Flowery, soft and almost lemony.
Perfect.
I slid forward while sweat dripped from my eyebrows and stung my eyes. Blinking rapidly, I took another low, crouching step. The smell—the cologne—was closer and I could hear someone breathing harshly. Another clue to home in on.
A low scuff of leather on rock, the soft rustle of fabric. Only a few feet ahead and to my left. My hand reached out and didn’t find wood. I must have just passed the crates.
Close … I crouched lower, slowly so as not to emit a sound. Whoever was breathing was trying to control himself, but I smelled panic-sweat under that soft cologne. He was scared.
Good. He or one of his butt-buddies had shot Winch and they would pay.
The Bowie leapt forward as if it had a will of its own, and my arm was only an extension of that will. An initial resistance, than a sudden give … all fourteen inches of blade sheathed itself in flesh and my hand became drenched in hot liquid. A muffled grunt and a body fell into my arms. A hand clawed at my shirt and I lowered the dead weight gently and quietly to the ground.
“Karl?” The voice low, barely slithering across my ears. Maybe four, six feet away. Sorry, Karl wasn’t here anymore, please leave a message at the beep and don’t bother waiting for a call back. Beeeep.
I stepped over the body, still at a crouch, the quiet drip, drip, dripping from the knife barely audible even to my trained ears. Closer … closer …
“Karl?” Again, with a bit more urgency. Keep calling out, I know where you are. Another step. Very close. No panic sweat from this one. He was cool as a cucumber, a trained killer.
Like me.
Once more I struck, but some sixth sense must have alerted him because the Bowie screeeeched across the length of a pistol and sheared off, missing the man by a fraction.
I dropped, only thing to do because I knew what would come next … and it did. Multiple flashes seared my eyes as the German fired four times, clean misses all, but the light was enough for me to see a pair of big feet in Italian leather not more than a foot away. Not one to waste an opportunity, I stabbed down and felt the Bowie slide, slide, slide into flesh and grate against bone.
It had the result I’d hoped for. A scream like a cat being strangled and the pistol clattered to the ground next to my ear. The scream became more high-pitched as I drew the Bowie down, cutting the foot in half lengthwise. It cut short to a gasping sob as I pulled the knife free and stabbed upwards. Teeth shattered and rained down on my face as the thick steel cut through tongue and back of throat before exiting out the man’s neck in a spurt of blood.
Two down, unknown number to go, but it was a good start.
From far back in the cavern, from beyond the crates, came an eerie green light, like the shining of damned souls.
5 out of 5 stars: “When reality television replaces justice, Danny Manning is forced to play the game. Death Island follows Danny as he’s sentenced to the Titular TV show, wrongfully convicted of slaying his wife. Facing psychopaths, TV hosts, the clergy, and much more, Danny’s struggle to survive is anything but normal. Death Island is a humorous and suspenseful novel, sure to entertain for hours.”
—Midwest Book Review
“The drama and action were well-mixed with the emotional aspects which resulted in an excellent book. Death Island will definitely be enjoyed by fans of reality shows, but it will appeal to adults of all ages.”
Death Island (ISBN: 978-1-60381-849-0, 232 pp., $13.95), by Joan Afman, is a suspense novel about a wrongly convicted prisoner who must fight for his life on a reality TV show.
“Be prepared for twists and turns—a psychologically complex plot that will keep you guessing what’s going to happen until the very end!”
—Award-winning Romantic Suspense author Mary Buckham
“Death Island is a fast-paced, engaging story with a riveting plot, well-drawn characters, and a premise that is sure to entertain. Ms. Afman has created a fascinating read that will keep you awake at night.”
—Patrice Wilton, author of Replacing Barnie and The Hero Collection
“Joan Afman has taken reality television to the next level, penning an intriguing tale guaranteed to keep readers on the edge.”
—Traci E. Hall, author of Boadicea’s Legacy
“Death Island grabs the reader from the onset, with an innocent man condemned to live out his life on an island for convicted criminals. The pace of the story never lets up, with heart-pounding action and drama, as Danny, an innocent man, faces unbelievable odds just trying to survive. In the meantime, a minister’s wife sets out to prove he is innocent, while unaware that the real murderer is stalking her! The drama builds to an exciting and surprising conclusion. This is one of those rare ‘can’t put it down’ books.”
—Tricia Lee, author of contemporary romances: A Caribbean Summer, Amorous Ambush and Colorado Destiny
Wrongly convicted of the brutal murder of his wife, Danny Manning is exiled to Death Island, the site of America’s favorite reality TV show. Death Island is Hell disguised as Paradise, a place where no one gets off alive unless the audience vote goes his way. Danny’s day-to-day survival depends on a brilliant and hilarious psychopath who knows the ropes. But his ultimate fate lies in the hands of a clergyman’s quirky wife, a smarmy TV host, and Death Island’s fickle home viewers. If voted “off the island,” he will be free, innocent or not. Can he stay alive that long? And will he ever discover the identity of the real murderer?
“I took the idea from something my mother once said,” says Afman, “that the government should take all the convicted rapists and murderers and drop them off on a deserted island to let them fend for themselves. As for choosing a minister’s wife as my heroine, I know something about that life, because I was one. I thought she would be the least likely to help a convicted felon, but also the most likely, if she had a strong sense of right and wrong.”
Joan Conning Afman grew up in central New York State and Western Massachusetts and attended schools in both regions. She has an AA degree from SUNY, Farmingdale, a BFA from the Hartford Art School, University of Hartford, and an M.A.Ed. degree from CCSU in New Britain, Connecticut. For sixteen years she taught art in the Hartford Public School System before retiring to Florida, where she taught as an adjunct for Northwood University. Joan now divides her time between painting and writing, enjoying the Sunshine State’s balmy weather and various social activities. The cover of Death Island is her art work. She has often been told that she “has quite an imagination,” and Death Island is certainly a testament to that. She has written one previous novel, The Last Time We Were Here. Joan has four wonderful children and six beautiful grandchildren, is thoroughly enjoying life, and continues to believe that the best is still ahead. You can find Joan online at Afman.camelpress.com.
Death Island is available in Kindle ($4.95) and paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, Amazon Japan, and at select Barnes & Noble and independent bookstores. Bookstores and libraries can order by contacting info@camelpress.com or through Ingram. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords, BN.com or at any of the major online ebook stores.
Keep Reading for an excerpt:
Charlie and the others laughed as the screen faded out, then blinked on again, showing a view of Death Island from space.
“There are the infamous red cliffs,” Charlie noted. The camera skimmed along the river, headed toward the cliffs like a bird heading home, then froze. A view of a cave carved into the cliffs appeared.
“Where is Danny?” asked Heather. “Didn’t he find the cave?”
The camera peered closer, probed the areas around the cave. Nothing, no one. It was obvious Danny Manning had eluded them. Charlie felt a nudge of apprehension. She just wanted a glimpse of him, just to know he was okay.
The camera skipped along until it came to a thread of a small meandering stream, thinly bordered by woods, with patches of brambles along its banks. A movement in one of the thickets caused the camera to pause.
“We’ve hit pay dirt!” Heather exclaimed.
It’s Tom,” Sarah said, leaning forward. “He’s pushing his way out of that bed of brambles he slept in.”
“Who cares about him?” Mindy asked. “We want Danny!”
There was a chorus of “yeahs,” but the women watched as Tom looked warily around, then made his way to the edge of the brook. He bent heavily, splashed water over his face and arms, cupped his hands and drank some of it. With effort, he straightened up and again looked around. Suddenly his face collapsed like a doughy cookie, and tears gushed from his eyes. He threw his arms up toward the sky and implored, directly into the tiny camera hidden in the tall, tropical palm tree, “Do you think I deserve this? To die all alone here, to be murdered in some horrible way for what I did? Was what I did so bad?” He lowered his arms and spread them wide, palms open. “Nobody got hurt. Not like Danny’s victims! I’m not like Danny! I don’t deserve to die here!”
Tom collapsed to the ground in a rumpled, rounded heap. Sobs shook his corpulent body. Fascinated, they watched him cry.
“This is good dip, Charlie,” Mindy commented. She dug a corn chip into the colorful mixture. “What’s in it?”
“Oh, cream cheese, chili sauce, onion—”
She was interrupted by Sarah. “Look! Over there, at the edge of the woods …”
The camera sought a slight movement in the trees. They caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s shape, but it drew back into the dark of the woods almost immediately.
“Danny?” breathed several of the women together.
Charlie wondered why she didn’t feel her usual thrill of satisfaction watching one of these pathetic guys getting just what he deserved. Instead, her apprehension about Danny grew. Was he all right? He seemed like such a nice guy—could they have made a mistake in branding him the killer?
They watched the camera shift back to Tom, who had blocked his eyes with his fists. As if sensing the figure in the woods, he swiveled around on his ample bottom, and gazed toward the tree line. Had he heard a sound, seen a hint of movement? He rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the trees. He picked up his knapsack and back-walked to the bramble patch, his eyes never leaving the woods. He tossed his backpack into the center of the thicket. Tom stood and gazed in all directions for several minutes. Then, shuffling like an old man, he began to retrace his steps.
Charlie, eyes glued to the screen, had only one thought: where was Danny? Was he all right?
“It’s kind of boring tonight,” Mindy said. “I think I’ll head out. I really have to have this recipe Charlie—”
She was interrupted by a combined whoop from Charlie and Sarah. “Look! There’s Danny!” Sarah leapt up and bounced around like the vivacious cheerleader she had once been. “Give me a D!”
A dark figure emerged from the woods, stood there and stared after Tom’s retreating figure.
It wasn’t Danny. They watched as the man inched his way out of the copse of trees and observed Tom as he trudged off in the direction he had trekked the day before. He strode easily to the brink of the little brook and, like Tom, bent down, cupped his hands and drank. They stared, entranced, as he stood, and for one mesmerizing moment, appeared to gaze directly into the camera lens.
Charlie gasped, and heard Mindy’s “Oooh,” a long sigh from Heather, and Sarah’s quick intake of breath all at the same time.
His golden hair crowned a chiseled face, and his sky-blue eyes stared defiantly into the camera. Tall, taut, and rangy, he was muscular but thin. His clothing was worn and shabby. A large rip exposed one brown shoulder, jutting through a hole that looked like it had been cut with pinking shears.
“Martin Sicilia, might have known,” Charlie said. “We haven’t seen him in a while.”
“I wonder why he doesn’t have a beard,” Heather mused. “How does he shave it off?” Her question went unanswered.
Martin hesitated a moment, then grinned, as if knowing he was being watched.
Slowly, pantomiming a striptease, he pulled off his shirt, moving in time to some unheard music. He raised one sinewy shoulder, than the other, turned slowly around, assumed a Greek statue pose, like a discus thrower, then another, like a hero accepting a laurel wreath.
The women laughed and clapped their hands. “He always puts on such a show!” Heather said.
Martin slowly, with great deliberation, removed his shorts. He wore nothing underneath. He stood there, preening, in his naked glory, his grin wide as all the earth, as he turned to show them all views of himself.
“Why do they always put a blur over the private parts?” Sarah asked with a tinge of irritation. “We’re all grownups here. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before, and besides, we paid for it.”
Mindy seemed to have forgotten about leaving. Heather sat with a hand over her mouth, appalled, but also laughing. Sarah and Charlie stared, fascinated.
“He’s gorgeous, just gorgeous!” Sarah breathed, and everyone else nodded in spellbound agreement.
Martin strolled over to the waterfall and let the cool water flow over the taut, muscled contours of his body. If anything, the water falling over his bronzed muscles made the scene even more erotic. Martin mimed for the camera, pretending to rub soap on his arms and legs then rinse it off. Pretended to shampoo his hair, lather it up, and rinse it off. It was only when he began to masturbate that the camera cut away, back to the show’s host in the studio.
“Well,” Pierre LeGrande said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smirk, “that Martin Sicilia, he never disappoints! Now, before we return to Death Island for tonight’s final glimpse into the lives of these unfortunate condemned men, let’s hear this important message from our sponsor.”
Heather flicked open the tab on her Diet Coke. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure they could use some blood pressure meds.”
** VISIT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR CLICK THE COVER IMAGE TO ORDER **
WINNER OF THE FOREWORD FIRSTS AWARD
Dancing with Eternity ($17.95, 416 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-810-0), by actor John Patrick Lowrie, is a sprawling galactic odyssey that takes Steel, Mo and the crew of the starship Lightdancer on an incredible voyage of adventure, self-discovery, and revelation.
“Dancing With Eternity is about life and death. It is also about love and loneliness, pain and joy, and what could happen if those experiences and emotions wither away. Most of all, the book is about loss—loss of intimacy, of loved ones, and of connections to other people as a result of technology.
“Readers of the genre will likely recognize the influences of Olaf Stapledon, Fred Pohl, Cordwainer Smith, and other writers from the early years of American science fiction. Lowrie has taken those influences and kneaded them into his own life experiences to produce a story that is at once fantastic and recognizable, populated by real people with real dilemmas against a backdrop of stellar travel and adventure. This novel well deserves its selection as the inaugural ForeWord Firsts winner.”
—J.G. Stinson, ForeWord Magazine
Featured book recommended by New Myths’ authors: “In the best tradition of A.E. van Vogt’s Voyage of the Space Beagle …. The author explores human relations in a future without death–or nearly so. In some ways, perhaps unintentionally, the book conveys an almost religious message: Beliefs and sorrows spring from the past, and hope looks to the future, but only love transcends time.”
“Dancing with Eternity flows very well on the page and both the universe and the characters are revealed slowly with moments of tension, adventure, desperate situations and escapes, while twists and turns abound. The novel so impressed me that I had to reread it immediately after finishing it and then I appreciated even better the little tidbits whose full import the reader won’t realize until much later. Overall Dancing with Eternity (A++, top 10 novel of 2011) is a stellar debut that shows why science fiction is still the most interesting genre of today.” Read more …
—Liviu Suciu, Fantasy Book Critic
“This truly is a fascinating take on our future and is something I think many people will enjoy with John’s imaginative (and at times almost foreshadowing), expansive and engaging storytelling. Needless to say, the reader is in for a fast-paced, fun and intelligent ride that never seems to let up. With the witty characters and detailed story, it will keep anyone reading it engaged and wanting more. For a first-time author, Mr. Lowrie knocked it out of the park like a true veteran of the genre. I highly recommend this book to any fan of science fiction or a fan of adventure in general as it delivers on all fronts.” Read more …
—Mike Angileri, Rely On Horror.com
“Every once in a while, a new novel comes along that is both epic in scope and, at the same time, focused on a very personal, human drama. John Patrick Lowrie’s characters do indeed dance with eternity …. This dense story is far richer than a capsule summary can suggest. In the best tradition of the best science fiction, the galactic setting is painted with vivid, believable detail …. I suspect many readers will find themselves holding on to their copy so they can return to this adventure at least one more time. Dancing with Eternity can’t be fully absorbed in one go. You’ll want to re-boot yourself—back to the first page.” Read more ….
—Dr. Wesley Britton, BookPleasures.com
“Dancing with Eternity crackles on every page … Lowrie has written an amazingly bright and witty story about our distant future.” Read more …
—Chuck Sigars, Mukilteo (WA) Beacon
“Humorous and thoughtful, Dancing with Eternity [is] a fun read for science fiction fans with a strong interest in deep space travel and other elements of the far flung future.”
—Midwest Book Review
“As an ex-NASA tether specialist and consultant on the Shuttle tether missions, I found this a refreshingly accurate narrative of what it might be like to experience such life and related activities that [are] outside our normal realms.”
—Dave Lang
“This novel is lush and highly imaginative, and backed by the author’s encyclopedic knowledge of our world and his deep understanding of what makes us human.”
—Jerry Stubblefield, author of Homunculus
“A very thought-provoking novel of ideas. I spent many hours contemplating the moral, ethical and social challenges of ‘rebooting.’ Anyone who enjoys reading either Kim Stanley Robinson or Neal Stephenson will get a big kick out of this book!”
—Hugh Hastings, Actor
What would happen if Odysseus met Captain Ahab in the Fortieth Century? Only Captain Ahab is a beautiful woman named Steel who owns her own starship, and Odysseus is an unemployed actor named Mohandas who’s stuck on the backside of a backwater moon because he won’t pay his taxes. Oh, and everybody—well, almost everybody—lives forever, did I mention that? And there’s a telepathic Internet that allows the entire population of the galaxy to communicate at will and even experience the world from another person’s perspective.
John Patrick Lowrie and his wife, actress and voice artist Ellen McLain (the voice of GLaDOS in the video games Portal and Portal2) will read excerpts and sign books on the following dates/Washington locations:
As a man of many talents, John Patrick Lowrie has put considerable thought into the relationship between his skill sets. “The one craft that all of these arts share is listening,” John says. “Listening is central to the actor’s craft. It is vital to composers. And it is crucial to any writer who wants to illuminate human behavior. The task—the obligation of the actor, the composer, the musician, the writer—is to let the audience see themselves, laugh at themselves, grieve for themselves, applaud themselves.”
In Dancing with Eternity, Lowrie has created a thrill ride of adventure, space travel, new worlds, and hard science projections. This thought-provoking novel explores timeless philosophical questions that challenge our traditional beliefs about love, sex, and spirituality.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Patrick Lowrie was born in Honolulu and raised in Boulder. At 16 he left home to make his way as a singer/guitarist/flautist/ trombonist in a rock ‘n’ roll band, sleeping in parks and communes. After surviving the draft, he graduated with highest distinction
from the Indiana University School of Music and for a few years managed to make a living as a composer and guitarist in his acoustic fusion duo, The Kiethe Lowrie Duet, garnering critical acclaim. He then decided to become an actor because the pay was better and the work was steadier (truly!). He and his wife, Ellen McLain, now reside in Seattle where they divide their professional time between acting in live theater and voice-acting for computer games and radio dramas. You may know him as the voice of the Sniper in the computer game Team Fortress II. You can find John on the Web by visiting his blog or his website.
For review copies, please contact Catherine Treadgold at Camel Press: Catherine@camelpress.com, (206) 414-7673.
To schedule an interview, please contact Jen Richards at Over the River Public Relations: Jennifer@otrpr.com, (201) 242-9637.
Read on for an excerpt:
I could see her relax, like she’d just found out she wasn’t going to have to shoot her dog after all. It made me tense up. I wasn’t sure I liked being that important to her, or anyone.
I was already second-guessing myself. What kind of job was it that made a person act like that when they found someone to do it? I couldn’t read anything in those liquid eyes but relief—a lonely, exhausted relief propped up and propelled forward by an almost frightening determination. For a moment we just stood there with the wind massaging us and roaring in our ears, the moss green cliffs arcing away to the north and south, cut here and there by lacy cataracts and free-falling horse-tail flumes. I could barely hear the pulsing white noise of the surf—far, far below us. I wanted to say, “Listen, Cat-Eyes, why don’t we forget about your little project and set up shop right here? We could have a nice little surf ‘n’ turf place at the end of the rail and sell shells to the tourists that say ‘I saw the other Vesper—Nohili Point!’ when you hold them to your ear.” I wanted to say it. But I didn’t.
It was interesting to watch her compose herself. She was very efficient at it. One or two short breaths and poise slid back over her like a curtain. “I’d like to leave right away,” she said. “You don’t need to go back for anything, do you?”
I looked at my new boss, trying to bury any romantic fantasies. “No,” I said, “I imagine I can get along without anything I’ve left behind.”
“Good. We have about five hours of daylight left and I’d like to use it.” She gave me one look of generalized approval, turned and walked briskly back into the forest. Ham lumbered after her.
“I’ll just follow along, shall I?” I said to where they’d disappeared, and started walking.
I caught up with them at the entrance to the tube. It was just a few meters down the trail to the beach, right under the monorail platform. It descended inside the cliff to the desalinization plant at the foot of the point. You wouldn’t think they’d have to distill salt water right in the middle of a rain forest, but the magma sink heat exchangers had a thirst that matched the temperatures they dealt with. Cat-Eyes (I didn’t know if I could ever think of her as “Steel”) looked at me as I walked up.
“We’re under a fairly acute time constraint,” she said, and she looked at the tube entrance. Then that wry smile came back. “But I need to see what kind of shape you’re in. Come on.” She started off down the trail.
In a few meters we came to the edge of the gorge cut by the waterfall we’d ridden over. The trail switchbacked down the south wall. “Trail” may be an exaggeration. It dropped the thousand meters to the beach in just over a kilometer, a meter down for every meter forward. But some stretches were fairly level, which meant other parts were watch your feet and hope the root you’re clinging to doesn’t pull out of the cliff. It had never been built, just worn into the rock and jungle by the employees. This was before the syndicate, in its infinite mercy, decided to let them use the tube to go swimming. I guess they finally figured out that it was cheaper than re-booting them when they fell off the trail.
I’d been down and up it before—one of the things I did to keep healthy after I got kicked off the net. I didn’t know how she knew about it, I didn’t know why she wanted to use it, and I didn’t know why we were going down to the beach in the first place. All in all I felt the master of my own destiny.
The work started right away. To get over the lip of the gorge and onto the south wall you had to scramble fifteen or twenty meters, maybe the height of a six-story building, down a web of strangler fig roots to the first ledge. Twenty meters of root ladder can be kind of airy in any circumstances, but this one was at the top of a thousand meter drop, with a jet of water off to our right that we could watch falling and falling and falling, down and down until it shattered in a small pool that was still only a third of the way down. Then another long fall into another tiny pool and the final, timeless plunge to the minuscule strip of sand at the base of the cliff. The hammered steel ocean was softened at the shore by tiny white fingernails of surf.
Steel hesitated at the edge. “Wow,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She just stood there for a moment. I think she was hesitant to show any weakness to me. “When we came up this it was foggy. You couldn’t see anything but the route in front of you.”
“Why didn’t you take the tube?”
“I didn’t know about it.” Determination hardened her. “Let’s go.” She grabbed a handhold and swung down onto the web, picking her footing, but moving with speed and grace.
And why were you down there in the first place? And how did you get there? And where were we going, and why? And several other questions of that general ilk. I waited for her to get a safe distance below me and started to descend, Ham bringing up the rear.
Everything was still wet from the rain; it made the bark as slippery as a politician’s promise. There’s nothing quite like the rush you get when your feet start to slide with nothing under you but air. Your arches cramp, it shoots up your calves, through your inner thighs to your groin, your stomach does something very strange and then—POW! Your pulse rate triples, it zings down your arms, and your palms and inner wrists ache from how hard your fingers are gripping. I made it down to the ledge with my dignity fairly intact. Ham climbed like his arboreal progenitors. Of course, he had two more thumbs than I did.
The ledge at the bottom was comfortably wide and descended steadily but moderately for a while. Cat-eyes, or “Steel,” or “Captain Steel” led us downward, sometimes with staggering views of the falls and the ocean, sometimes burrowing through leafy tangles of shrubs and vines. As often as not we would be scrambling down root ladders or bare rock. The roar of the falls would crescendo as we approached, then recede when the trail switched back the other way, in a regular, soothing rhythm. Steel kept up an impressive pace.
The gorge enfolded us like a green womb. Each measured negotiation of a fractured rock face, each heart-pumping glissade down the grease-slick, ropy chaos of a root system pushed the lip of the falls farther above us. Each quiet, leafy tunnel, each thundering, misty turn behind the diamond column of water brought us closer to wherever we were going. As the silver ribbon of the monorail bridge receded above me so did the last ten months of my life. ’Burbs place and vacant idleness, Sheila’s room and the sad, mechanical physicality that never would have blossomed into intimacy, the oppressive, corrosive sterility of the ’works. Time had stopped for me in Spam-town, and Cat-eyes had started it again.
And what would I do with that time? Before Spam-town had been Shaughnessy and the show. We’d played forty cities on fourteen worlds in the last five years. And before that, other companies and other shows, other tours, other cities, other planets. I’d been an actor for most of the twenty years since I’d last re-booted in Palermo on Mondoverdi. Before that … Before that was the last time I’d been old, truly old.
The Last of Lady Lansdown (ISBN: 978-1-60381-818-6, $15.95, 308 pp.), is the newest Regency Romance by Shirley Kennedy, who has published several novels in that genre with Ballantine and Signet.
ROBERT J. RAY is the author of seven previous novels: Cage of Mirrors, The Heart of the Game, Bloody Murdock, Murdock for Hire, The Hitman Cometh, Dial “M” for Murdock, and Merry Christmas, Murdock. A sixth Matt Murdock mystery—Murdock Tackles Taos—in in process. Ray is also the author of a popular non-fiction series on writing, The Weekend Novelist, and he shares writing techniques on writing on his 
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