Does It Meet The Hype? It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover @colleenhoover

Amazon / Audiobook / Goodreads

Does it meet the hype? Romance is not at the top of my favorites list, but It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover met all the requirements of a romance, with a little extra. I want to warn you of there is a trigger, domestic abuse.

Colleen Hoover’s writing is so good, she could probably write a menu and everyone would want to read it. Even though the story was predictable, I enjoyed it. The characters were interesting and I do like an author that spreads the flaws around.

If you are a romance lover, I can’t help but think It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover will hit all the bases for you.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Sometimes it is the one who loves you who hurts you the most.

Lily hasn’t always had it easy, but that’s never stopped her from working hard for the life she wants. She’s come a long way from the small town in Maine where she grew up — she graduated from college, moved to Boston, and started her own business. So when she feels a spark with a gorgeous neurosurgeon named Ryle Kincaid, everything in Lily’s life suddenly seems almost too good to be true.

Ryle is assertive, stubborn, maybe even a little arrogant. He’s also sensitive, brilliant, and has a total soft spot for Lily. And the way he looks in scrubs certainly doesn’t hurt. Lily can’t get him out of her head. But Ryle’s complete aversion to relationships is disturbing. Even as Lily finds herself becoming the exception to his “no dating” rule, she can’t help but wonder what made him that way in the first place.

As questions about her new relationship overwhelm her, so do thoughts of Atlas Corrigan — her first love and a link to the past she left behind. He was her kindred spirit, her protector. When Atlas suddenly reappears, everything Lily has built with Ryle is threatened.

International and #1 New York Times bestselling author of romance, YA, thriller, women’s fiction and paranormal romance.

I don’t like to be confined to one genre. If you put me in a box, I’ll claw my way out.

My social media username is @colleenhoover pretty much everywhere except my email, which is colleenhooverbooks@gmail.com

Founder of www.thebookwormbox.com charity and Book Bonanza.

Website

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Giveaway – Bearer Of Secrets by Nupur Tustin @dollycas


Bearer of Secrets: An Art Heist Mystery
(Celine Skye Psychic Mystery Series)
by Nupur Tustin

About Bearer of Secrets


Bearer of Secrets: An Art Heist Mystery (Celine Skye Psychic Mystery Series)
Psychic Mystery
3rd in Series
Setting – Where does your book take place? Paso Robles, CA and Boston, MA
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Foiled Plots Press (June 27, 2024)
Print length ‏ : ‎ 397 pages
Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0D5PCCSDR

SIZZLING SUSPENSE: Based on the True Story of Boston’s

 Gardner Museum Theft!

Could a stolen Degas unravel a cold-case art heist? Celine must find out before murder closes in . . .
Shattered by a journalist’s death and sensing danger to his mother, Clara, psychic art sleuth Celine Skye struggles to focus on the

 Gardner Museum theft. Until a stolen Degas taken eight years after the heist surfaces—along with new clues and visions of Clara in peril.

Compelled to investigate, Celine has a startling revelation linking Clara to a Gardner Museum insider. Could Clara’s son have uncovered evidence implicating her friend in the theft?

With the threat to Clara escalating, Celine must find the truth before murder finds them both. . .

About Nupur Tustin

Nupur Tustin is a former journalist who misuses a Ph.D. in Communication and an M.A. in English to paint intrigue and orchestrate murder. She is the author of the Joseph Haydn Mystery series set in eighteenth-century Austria and the Celine Skye Psychic Mysteries about a psychic art sleuth who takes on the still unsolved

 Gardner Museum theft of 1990. She also writes the Sophie’s Adventure series about an art sleuth who recovers stolen art as an undercover tourist. For more about her and her books, please visit https://ntustin.com

Author Links

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$25 GC – The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeanette de Beauvoir @partnersincr1me

The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeannette de Beauvoir Banner

THE HONEYMOON HOMICIDES

by Jeannette de Beauvoir

June 17 – July 12, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeannette de Beauvoir

A Sydney Riley Provincetown Mystery

 

Despite an unforeseen disaster ruining her carefully planned wedding reception, hotelier Sydney Riley is undaunted as she and her brand-new husband Ali leave for their honeymoon in the dunes of Cape Cod’s National Seashore. But even in this deserted location, Sydney uncovers clues that might have a bearing on the wedding fiasco. Despite hoping for a new life, she’s drawn into yet another murder investigation—this time to protect Ali, who’s been called away on a secret and dangerous assignment.

Can Sydney find the murderer(s) before Ali is harmed, or will a week in the dunes be her only memory of their married life?

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy with an edge; Amateur Female Sleuth.
Published by: Homeport Press
Publication Date: June 13, 2024
Number of Pages: 188
ISBN: 9798986865447
Series: Sydney Riley (Provincetown) Mystery, 10th in a Series of Stand-Alone Books
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

The victim generously waited to be murdered until the final vows had been spoken and we were officially declared married. And that’s pretty much the best thing I can say about my wedding.

Not that it hadn’t begun auspiciously. I used to be wedding coordinator at Provincetown’s Race Point Inn—of which I was now co-owner—and so I had considerable experience wrangling vendors, petulant family members, and weather forecasts. And my partner Ali and I had reached an uneasy compromise with my mother in terms of the size and lavishness of the affair—no small feat, as my mother is abnormally addicted to big weddings. We were in addition juggling two religions and two cultures, as Ali is Muslim and his parents and extended family are all Lebanese. And we had somehow navigated all that.

What we hadn’t reckoned with, of course, was the body falling through the awning onto the terrace and, of course, the screams that followed.

***

“Sydney, you are not going to make this stop you,” was what Mirela said.

“Stop me from doing what?” I probably sounded distracted, mainly because I was distracted. The police, in the persons of a bunch of uniformed officers and my sometimes-sort-of-friend Julie Agassi, who was the head of Provincetown’s small detective unit, were swarming all over the place, putting up tape and directing people away from the immediate area. The rescue squad was there, too, though what they thought they could do to help a man who seemed to have broken every bone in his body and spread a great deal of his viscera around the patio was unknown. The wedding guests, in various stages of shock and occasional hysteria, had allowed themselves to be herded into the inn’s restaurant, already set up for the wedding dinner.

My mother was demanding loudly how such a thing could have been allowed and asking about suing the owners, apparently forgetting for the moment that I was one of them. My newly minted husband, Ali, was dealing with his parents, who’d seen more than enough of this kind of violence before they’d permanently fled Beirut and were dealing with some sort of PTSD shock.

And now my best friend Mirela was giving me… what? A pep talk?

“You should go now,” she said. “Leave for the honeymoon. You and Ali. There is no dinner. There is no dancing.”

“We weren’t doing dancing anyway,” I said blankly. After the initial shock, it was dawning on me that I was standing twenty feet from a corpse, wearing a bloodied wedding gown, and realizing—priorities being priorities—that I was not going to have, after all, a wedding feast catered by Adrienne the diva chef, who kept our restaurant’s Michelin stars intact and who has made P’town a destination for world-class dining. “This,” I said to Mirela, “is the worst wedding I’ve ever planned.”

She tossed the blonde hair escaping from her up-do—not that she looked any less gorgeous a little bedraggled—and peered at me. “Are you feeling all right?”

“No,” I said.

She took my elbow and turned me away from the scene unfolding on the terrace. “What you need,” she said firmly, “is a drink.”

“What I need is fourteen drinks,” I said. “But I should check on my mother—”

“The last thing you do is check on your mother,” she said. Mirela and my mother are not what you might call simpatico, mostly due to my mother’s criticisms of Mirela’s single status and her underappreciation of Mirela’s art (which earned her grudging respect only when she learned that the work routinely sold in the six-figure range).

“It doesn’t look like anything,” was her response to the abstract paintings that were now exhibited worldwide, and, “I don’t understand why she can’t find a husband.”

Mirela steered me to the bar area, already filling up with wedding guests in various stages of shock and all, apparently, requiring alcohol. She caught the bartender’s eye—a skill all the Bulgarians I’ve ever met have perfected—and he uncorked a bottle of wine and handed it across to her. She grabbed it without letting go of my elbow, and pulled me out of the restaurant and over to the small lounge area that had the advantage of having a door, which she closed behind us right away. “Here,” she said, handing me the bottle, and rooting around in a cupboard for a glass.

I was looking at the label in some dismay. “This is Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” I protested.

“Of course it is.” Her voice was brisk. “You need a drink.”

“A deplorable reason to drink this,” I insisted. It’s my favorite wine ever.

“Even more deplorable, sunshine,” said Mirela, “is that your guests will drink it if you do not.”

I sat down on the couch. I was understanding what romance writers were talking about when they used terms like “crumple.” I took a swig of wine straight out of the bottle, heaping blasphemy on blasphemy. “Where’s Ali?”

“He will find us.” She gave up trying to locate a glass and slanted a look over. “You are regaining color,” she informed me.

Which was more than we could say about the fellow out on the inn’s patio.

When the door opened, it wasn’t Ali standing there, but Julie, officious and sharp, her blonde hair and blue eyes making her look, always, like some kind of ice princess. “I thought you might be hiding somewhere,” she said.

I gave a weak gesture with the wine bottle. “Join the party,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“Not yet.”

“Then hold off.” She half-turned and spoke to someone behind her, and another cop came in, pulling the door closed behind him. He looked around the room, fast, the way cops do when they go anywhere, and found a straight chair and pulled out a notebook.

I know about what cops do. My husband is one of them. “It’s an odd word, isn’t it, husband?” I said. “Sounds sort of like a thump.”

Julie ignored me and said to the uniform, “Interview Sydney Riley, eight-fifteen pm.” She sat on a chair she pulled over close to the couch, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Focus, Sydney,” she said.

I sighed and put the bottle on the floor. Not too far away, just in case.

She still wasn’t sure of me. “Can you go find Ali?” Julie asked Mirela, who nodded and slipped out the door. Even Mirela knows not to argue with her. “Tell us what happened here,” said Julie.

I was having some trouble focusing on her. How can you feel drunk on one swig of wine? “I got married,” I said. “Somebody died.” I paused. “Who was he?”

“Not one of your wedding guests,” Julie said, almost absently. She was looking at a list, probably supplied by Mike, the Race Point Inn’s co-owner. He’s frighteningly competent. “Unless he was a last-minute addition? Do you know someone named Barclay Cargill?”

“That can’t be a real name,” I said automatically, then realized she was serious. “No. No, I’ve never heard of him.”

“He was staying at your inn.”

I stared at her. “We have eighty rooms,” I said. “I’m not the manager. You really think I know everybody?”

“You may remember him.” She produced her iPhone, flipped around a bit, then extended it to me. The man in the photo had dark hair and a beard that were starting to turn gray; what was most remarkable was that he was wearing a three-piece suit. People in P’town don’t wear three-piece suits.

Some people in P’town don’t wear much at all.

Julie retrieved her phone. “He’s an attorney,” she said.

She’d gotten her information remarkably quickly. “Okay,” I said. “So did he jump, or was he pushed?”

She was unamused. “You’re being remarkably flippant about someone’s violent death.”

“I’m remarkably flippant about anyone who gets murdered in the middle of my wedding.” I plucked at my ivory lace overskirt. “Just thought I’d remind you, in case you thought I was wearing this for a costume party. If he weren’t already dead, my mother would have killed him by now.”

She sighed. Julie sighs a lot when she’s around me. She’s even been known to refer to me as Provincetown’s answer to Miss Marple, and she doesn’t mean that in a good way.

It’s not exactly my fault that when someone gets murdered I end up having something to do with figuring it out. Julie thinks there’s some sort of cause and effect, but there really isn’t. I just know a lot of people—and it’s a small town.

But having a murder committed during my wedding? That was taking this whole amateur sleuthing thing just a little too far.

As though reading my thoughts, Julie said, “All right. You don’t know this man. Good. Can I take it that you won’t be trying to figure out what happened to him?”

The events of the past hour were starting to turn nasty on me, and I really wanted to be with Ali, not Julie. “No more than you are,” I said sweetly. It was a jab, of course: in Massachusetts, possible homicides are investigated by the state police, not the local force. I knew it was a sore spot with Julie, who thinks she’s better at it than they are. She can secure the scene, take preliminary statements, and assist the Staties when they arrive. “Is that all? Because—”

The door swung open and I’ve never, I think, been happier to see anyone. “Are you all right?” asked Ali. He didn’t even wait for me to respond. “She can give her statement later,” he said to Julie.

“She needs to do it while it’s fresh in her mind,” Julie said.

“Like most of our guests, she didn’t see anything until the individual was already on the ground,” said Ali. “She doesn’t need this now.”

“Maybe you two could stop talking about me like I’m not here?” I asked, my voice sharper than I’d meant it to be. Ali came and sat beside me, carefully moving the bottle of Châteauneuf aside so he wouldn’t knock it over. He knew I’d need it later; it wasn’t exactly an occasion for Champagne, despite all the Veuve Clicquot that Martin, the maître d’, had waiting for us on ice.

Not that Ali drank alcohol, anyway.

I slid my hand into his; for all my rather aggressive petulance, I was feeling a little lost and a little sad. It was finally dawning on me that someone had died. At my inn. At my wedding.

Ali looked, of course, wonderful. He annoyingly always does. He has beautiful dark eyes and beautiful olive skin and dark hair that curls ever so slightly and is always just a little too long, and designer stubble that makes him look sexy and a little dangerous.

Well, he is an agent for Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The danger is real.

Julie was giving up. She jerked her head towards the other cop, who closed his notebook, stood up, and left the room. “You may be needed later on,” she said to me. “Both of you, in fact. Should the state police have any questions about the individual.” Oh, yeah, I’d hit a nerve.

I liked that business about the “individual.” I’d come way too close to saying something about him crashing the party. It must have been the shock; I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to account for it.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” I said.

“You can’t—” she started, automatically, and I interrupted her. “Honeymoon,” I said firmly.

“We’ll be back next week,” said Ali.

Even Julie Agassi knows when she’s beaten. She gave us one last stern official look, and fled.

“Well,” said Ali, putting his arm around my shoulder. “How do you like married life so far?

***

Excerpt from The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2024 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Jeannette de Beauvoir

Jeannette de Beauvoir is the author of mystery and historical fiction—and novels that are a mix of the two—as well as a poet who lives and works in a cottage beside Cape Cod Bay. She is a member of the Authors Guild, the Mystery Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, and Sisters in Crime.

Catch Up With Jeannette de Beauvoir:
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Facebook – @JeannettedeBeauvoir

 

 

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Giveaway – A Seasonal Song by Dan Shaskin & Deb Wesloh @XpressoTours

A Seasonal Song
Dan Shaskin, Deb Wesloh
Publication date: March 21st 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Discover love and music in the sultry streets of Miami with “A Seasonal Song.”

Clarissa Bianchi, a talented violinist, lands her dream internship with the Miami Orchestra, but little does she know that she will also discover the love of her life. Jack Williams, a rugged rock guitarist with a broken heart, meets Clarissa and is instantly drawn to her beauty and passion for music. Despite their different musical backgrounds, their mutual love for music brings them together on a journey filled with passion, growth, and unforgettable memories.

As the summer draws to a close, Clarissa and Jack must navigate their intense feelings for each other and determine if their love is strong enough to withstand the distance between Miami and Boston. Will their hearts play a different song, or will the romance come to an end?

“A Seasonal Song” is a love story that will leave you humming a sweet tune long after you turn the last page.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

Current Year

Clarissa gazed at the horizon as she sat on the beach. The breeze provided little relief from the oppressive heat and humidity. Her cotton shirt clung to the contours of her body as sweat dripped down the back of her neck. The wind and humidity disheveled her long brunette hair.

She paused and whispered under her breath. “Here I am, again. Back in Miami.”

They say history repeats itself. From her perspective, she concurred.

So much heartache, so much love, and such beautiful memories. The smell of the ocean brought a tear to her eye. The tear slowly trickled down her cheek, dropping from her chin into the ocean.

She smiled as she thought of her last summer in Miami. Some would categorize it as a summer fling, but the passion and intense emotions they shared were real.

Jack was twenty-seven and designed custom yachts. She was twenty-one, a sophomore at Berklee College of Music. An unlikely pair, but perhaps their paths collided for a reason.

She strolled to the water’s edge. The sand stuck to her feet, leaving deep imprints on the beach. The waves crashed against her legs, throwing her slightly off balance. She steadied herself as she walked back to her towel.

Her mind drifted back to her job last summer at the Purple Penguin Café. Where it all began.

As she remembered when she first met Jack, her heart pounded in her chest and her breathing became slightly labored.

Last summer at 6:30 p.m. on June 25th Jack walked into The Purple Penguin. She chided her silliness for remembering the exact date and time, but she did, and the memory was as crisp as if it had happened yesterday.

Last year

All teal chairs and tables were occupied at the eclectic-furnished café. Loud conversations inundated the room.

Several people waved, trying to get her attention. She was exhausted, and her feet ached. She wished her shift would end.

As she served a table, he entered the café and waited to be seated.

A table soon opened, and the hostess assigned him to her section. She finished serving her current table and approached him, greeting him warmly.

“Hi. My name is Clarissa. What can I get for you?”

His warm brown eyes glanced up from the menu and met hers. “Hi, nice to meet you, Clarissa.”

It surprised her to hear her name. Although she always introduced herself, the customers rarely repeated her name.

“What’s in that silver penguin shaker thing I saw you take to the other table?”

“Shake Your Penguin, our signature cocktail. It’s a mix of Absolut Vodka, pomegranate juice, lime soda, and berries. It’s very popular and tastes great. I should know. I’ve sampled a few of them.” She winked and laughed.

He smiled. “I’ll take your word for it. Let’s start with one of those Shaky Penguin things.”

She returned a few minutes later with his drink.

He took a sip. “Wow, this is good!” Jack continued. “Listening to your accent, you don’t seem to be from around here. Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want.”

Clarissa laughed, “It’s okay. The short answer is, I’m from everywhere.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Well, when I was growing up, I was an Army brat. Between the ages of two and nineteen, I lived in eight states, and three years in Stuttgart, Germany.”

Jack smiled at her. “Sie müssen dann fließend Deutsch sprechen?

Clarissa smiled. “Yes, I speak German, but fluent is an exceptionally strong word. Let’s just say I can converse in German with few errors.”

She found him intriguing. Perhaps it was the warm manner he talked to her. She calculated he was slightly older than her, maybe in his late twenties. He had a sincere smile and kind eyes.

“Most of our clientele are tourists and stay at the Purple Penguin Hotel next door,” she said. “We don’t get many locals. Are you from around here?”

“I’m originally from Boerne, Texas, just northwest of San Antonio. I’ve lived in Miami for five years. A business client is staying at the Penguin Hotel. I just dropped him off, saw the restaurant, and here I am. Never been here before.”

“How’d you get from Texas to Miami Beach?” she asked.

“I’ve always loved the ocean. Growing up, I spent my weekends in Aransas Pass hanging out on the beach. I’m experienced in construction, saw an opening in Miami, and here I am.”



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Giveaway – When The Smoke Cleared by Bill Powers @ireadbooktours


 

Book Details:

Book Title When the Smoke Cleared (A Murder Mystery in Malden) by Bill Powers
Category:  Adult Non-Fiction (18 +),  400 pages
Genre:  True Crime
Publisher:  PowersCourt Press
Release date:  Oct, 2022
Content Rating:  PG-13 Some violence some profanity
Book Description:

There is no greater distinction or responsibility for a law enforcement officer than to be selected to investigate homicides. The same is true for a prosecutor. It is analogous to a call up to the big leagues where the curveballs or slapshots are frequent and more challenging, the lights are brighter, the audience larger and louder, and the scrutiny and demand for perfection can at times be a bit overwhelming.

This story follows an extraordinary murder investigation from the crime scene through to the arrest and into the courtroom. It is narrated by retired Detective Lieutenant Bill Powers, the former commander of the State Police Detective Unit for the Middlesex District Attorney’s Office in Massachusetts: 

“When the smoke from the fire cleared and the water level receded, it was visually evident that a violent struggle, quite possibly a homicide, had preceded the fire. But where was the victim? The waterlogged bloodstains in the function room told us it wasn’t likely they stood up and walked out the door. We were confronted with an unusual dilemma. We not only had to investigate what happened and develop probable cause to make an arrest, but we also had to locate the poor soul who had spilled so much of their blood.”

Walk the path of the investigation with Bill and his team, and then follow in ADA Adrienne Lynch’s footsteps as she guides the trial from opening statements through to the final verdict; a truly unique accounting with a bird’s eye view.

Beyond a police and courtroom procedural, this story is about the personal struggles in the victim’s life and how her death impacted her family’s lives in ways no one could have foreseen. It is a love story that grew from unspeakable tragedy.

Bill Powers writes from the heart because he spent twenty years living the life of a homicide investigator. He went to literally hundreds of death scenes and, while each made its mark, none had more of a personal effect on him than this case.
Buy the Book:
Amazon.com 
add to goodreads
Meet the Author:

Bill Powers has been active in the Massachusetts law enforcement community since he joined the Massachusetts State Police in 1974. Over time he rose through the ranks and was promoted to the rank of Detective Lieutenant. He commanded the State Police Detective Units (SPDU) in both Middlesex and Suffolk Counties, where he had direct oversight and involvement in more than one hundred homicides. His State Police career came full circle when he was named Commandant of the Recruit Training Academy. He retired as the director of the Media Relations Section. Following his retirement, Bill was appointed as an Assistant Professor in the graduate program for forensic sciences at the Boston University School of Medicine (BUSM). For the next seven years he lectured on criminal investigation and expert testimony to the graduate students. In addition, he produced training seminars for police investigators covering a wide variety of topics. Following his tenure at the BUSM he returned to the law enforcement profession as the Director of Public Safety at Wentworth Institute in Boston. Bill earned an undergraduate degree from Northeastern University with a major in Criminal Justice and a Juris Doctorate degree from the New England School of Law.

He resides South of Boston with his wife Jane. Their two daughters and their families live nearby. He has been blessed with five remarkable grandchildren who sparkle like bright stars in the night sky.


connect with the author: website ~ facebook goodreads




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Giveaway – Painted To Death by Sarah Vernon @XpressoTours

Painted to Death
Sarah Vernon
Publication date: January 10th 2023
Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

Sam Green is an art student with some pretty creative habits when it comes to solving mysteries, in this new series from author and artist Sarah Vernon. It’s the coldest part of a Boston winter when her friend Catherine is found dead in the painting studios one evening. The police are quick to rule her death a suicide, but Sam knows that something doesn’t seem right. Despite the protests of her friends Rebecca and Stephanie (although — happily — with the help of her crush Arun), Sam starts to poke around the old art department building. Peering into the dark corners of studios and underneath piles of musty art supplies, Sam soon uncovers some surprising suspects and motives behind Catherine’s death, in an art department simmering with artistic jealousy, resentment, and more relationship drama than a daytime talk show could handle. The only question is, will Sam be able to find out who killed Catherine before that person finds Sam?

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo

EXCERPT:

It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, for real. That’s how I’m starting, because why mess with what works?

Also, it really was dark and stormy the night this all started, the wind bursting in through all the tiny cracks around the old, barely insulated windows of our triple-decker apartment. I say started, but this was actually a couple of weeks after Catherine had died. I just thought I’d start right in the middle of it, because we all know the worst Agatha Christies are the ones where Poirot doesn’t even come into it until page seventy-five, and you have to first get through hours and hours of slow English family drama, or worse, a bumbling English inspector.

We were huddled in the living room, with Benny on the floor leaning against the coffee table, and Rebecca, Mel, and me on the couches, mugs of mulled wine steaming in our hands. We would have all preferred to be outside smoking, the distraction of a cigarette easing the conversation, but there’s that dark and stormy night again. Plus, our landlord had recently made it harder to disarm the smoke alarm, so no more smoking inside either.

So here we were, trying to have a casual conversation about a topic that defies casual conversation. Mel – the kind of roommate we weren’t quite close to yet, who still attached herself to any kind of group activity at our apartment – was trying hard to make everyone smile, telling unfunny jokes and keeping the wine topped up. Rebecca had taken the comforting aunt approach, keeping her hand on Benny’s shoulder while he told us about his afternoon.

“I just feel like they weren’t even asking the right questions,” he was saying. “It’s like, the cops didn’t ask about her family much at all – what kind of mood she had been in. All they wanted to know was things like, did she have a boyfriend?” Rebecca tutted and leaned down to pat his back. “I mean, what is this, twenty years ago? Do they still only go for the boyfriend?” Benny frowned into his cup, the steam blurring his glasses.

In fairness, people are still most often killed by their immediate loved ones. And twenty years ago is not all that long ago. But forgive Benny’s nearsightedness; in fairness, at twenty-two, it was essentially a lifetime to him.

“What did you tell them?” Mel wanted to know.

Rebecca and I shot her a sharp look, but she was innocently fiddling with her hair, short and newly dyed lavender, and wouldn’t meet our eyes. Benny had called us as soon as the police had finished interviewing him, desperate for our company and already on his way over. We had all agreed it would be best not to ask for specifics, but Mel was apparently determined to be as annoying as ever.

“Obviously the truth,” Benny replied. “That she had dated a few different people so far this year, but none was particularly serious. And really,” he continued indignantly, “even if someone had been a serious boyfriend, how can they actually think that proves anything? All that shows, I think, is how easy it was to love her.”

Benny’s chin dropped to his chest and Rebecca was immediately on the floor next to him, her arm around his back. I swear she actually said, “There, there.”

“Sam, maybe you can get out some extra blankets? Benny, why don’t you just spend the night here, on the couch?” Rebecca looked at me expectantly.

“Of course,” I said, a clap of thunder accentuating my voice. “It’s way too stormy out for you to go anywhere, anyway.” I got up, dragging Mel with me. “Mel, help me get the blankets down.”

She followed me, obviously reluctantly, out into the hall. I opened the door to the hall closet, still holding onto her arm.

“Sam, what’s up? Let go of me,” she whined. I rolled my eyes.

“What was all that back there?” I hissed. “We agreed we weren’t going to ask him for specifics. Benny’s been through enough as it is – we don’t have to make him relive everything.”

Her eyes grew wide, an expression of innocence we were familiar with, as Mel always proclaimed that she was never the one who left dirty dishes out or forgot to buy toilet paper. It was frankly gross that she would try to pull the same crap here, in the middle of a murder investigation.

“Sorry, I didn’t think it was prying just to ask what he answered to one question,” she said, still in her most exasperating whine. “And come on, Sam, it’s not like you’re not curious. Benny was her best friend. Basically her brother! Who else is going to know what’s really going on?”

“But you don’t need to know what’s going on,” I said, reaching up to the top shelf for an extra quilt. “If the police want to call you up and tell you everything they’ve found out in the past two weeks, they’ll do that. You don’t have to ask Benny for the recap.” I pushed the quilt into her arms, turning back for sheets.

“Fine,” Mel said. “I’m sorry. But for the record, I’ve heard you and Rebecca whispering. I know I’m not the only one who wants answers.” This last word she delivered in a true crime podcast-perfect whisper.

Author Bio:

Sarah Vernon is an author and artist based in Massachusetts, where she writes the Triple-Decker Mystery Series.

Website / Goodreads / Instagram


GIVEAWAY!



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New Release – Helltown by Casey Sherman @caseysherman123

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Helltown: The Untold Story of Serial Murder on Cape Cod

Amazon / Goodreads

MY REVIEW

Well, this wasn’t quite what I thought it would be. I love reading about serial killers, suspense and thriller fiction and nonfiction. Helltown seems to be a cross between them. It reminds me of the way recreations are done on TV, and I did do some web searching to check on some of the facts. It covers more than the murders. It’s about the 1960s, Cape Cod, Provincetown, the drug culture, hippies…

I have been traveling to the Cape for more than twenty years and I love it. You know exactly where you are by your surroundings, a unique and beautiful place. So many familiar places, I couldn’t help but smile as we drove the roads, ate in the restaurants and…

Can definitely see how far we have advanced when it comes to investigating a murder and how many more tools we have at our disposal.

The police, Kudos to them. Once they established a murder had taken place, they worked together tying the knot around Costa’s neck.

Even though there were fictional elements thrown in, I loved the way it was written. Easy to read, flowing smoothly.

I think a lot of people may have trouble with the recreations and suppositions, and that is why I didn’t rate this higher. It is supposed to be true crime, but it was written like a fictional novel. It was more about the times and the Cape than only a serial killer.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of Helltown by Casey Sherman.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
3 Stars

GOODREADS BLURB

1969: The hippie scene is vibrant in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Long-haired teenagers roam the streets, strumming guitars and preaching about peace and love… and Tony Costa is at the center of it all. To a certain group of smitten young women, he is known as Sire―the leader of their counter-culture movement, the charming man who speaks eloquently and hands out hallucinogenic drugs like candy. But beneath his benign persona lies a twisted and uncontrollable rage that threatens to break loose at any moment. Tony Costa is the most dangerous man on Cape Cod, and no one who crosses his path is safe.

When young women begin to disappear, Costa’s natural charisma and good looks initially protect him from suspicion. But as the bodies are discovered, the police close in on him as the key suspect. Meanwhile, local writers Kurt Vonnegut and Norman Mailer are locked in a desperate race to secure their legacies as great literary icons―and they both set their sights on Tony Costa and the drug-soaked hippie culture that he embodies as their next promising subject, launching independent investigations that stoke the competitive fires between two of the greatest American writers.

Immersive, unflinching, and shocking, Helltown is a landmark true crime narrative that transports us back to the turbulent late 1960s, reveals the secrets of a notorious serial killer, and unspools the threads connecting Costa, Vonnegut, and Mailer in the seaside city that played host to horrors unlike any ever seen before. New York Times bestselling author Casey Sherman has crafted a stunner.

ABOUT CASEY SHERMAN

Casey Sherman

Casey Sherman is a New York Times Bestselling Author of 13 books including The Finest Hours (now a major motion picture starring Casey Affleck & Chris Pine), Boston Strong (the basis for the film Patriots Day starring Mark Wahlberg), Animal & Hunting Whitey.
Sherman is also the author of 12, Search for the Strangler, Animal, Bad Blood, Black Irish, Black Dragon, Above & Beyond and The Ice Bucket Challenge.
Sherman is a contributing writer for TIME, Esquire, Washington Post, Boston Herald and Boston Magazine and has appeared as a guest an analyst on more than 100 television news programs.
Sherman is a graduate of Barnstable High School (Cape Cod), Fryeburg Academy (Fryeburg, Me.) and Boston University.

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New Release Review – And There He Kept Her by Joshua Moehling #NetGalley @PPPress

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I would like to thank NetGalley and Poisoned Pen Press for the opportunity to read and review And There He Kept Her by Joshua Moehling.

And There He Kept Her

Amazon / Audiobook / Goodreads

MY REVIEW

I found the characters for And There He Kept Her by Joshua Moehling very interesting, a gay policeman, a missing girl with diabetes…and what happens when two kids break into a man’s house to steal his prescription drugs….

Seems there are a lot of secrets for a small town. But, we all know, sooner or later, they will be exposed. In the meantime, some will do anything to protect themselves.

The clock is ticking and time is running out.

I love watching the characters as they walk through the pages, some worse than others. They remind me of how fragile live is. Is everyone either good or bad? I love villains that make me wonder…and we have many to choose from. The whys are intriguing. Nature or nurture seems to come up when dealing with drug addiction, murder, serial killers…

I didn’t take many notes as I read, but I will commend Joshua Moehling for a job well done for his first novel. I look forward to watching him grow and develop his writing. I foresee good things for him.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of And There He Kept Her by Joshua Moehling.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

GOODREAD BLURB

“A dark and complex mystery that will consume you, starring a protagonist who is equal parts quirky Milhone and steady Gamache.”—Julie Clark, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Flight

They thought he was a helpless old man. They were wrong.

When two teenagers break into a house on a remote lake in search of prescription drugs, what starts as a simple burglary turns into a nightmare for all involved. Emmett Burr has secrets he’s been keeping in his basement for more than two decades, and he’ll do anything to keep his past from being revealed. As he gets the upper hand on his tormentors, the lines blur between victim, abuser, and protector.

Personal tragedy has sent former police officer Ben Packard back to the small Minnesota town of Sandy Lake in search of a fresh start. Now a sheriff’s deputy, Packard is leading the investigation into the missing teens, motivated by a family connection. As clues dry up and time runs out to save them, Packard is forced to reveal his own secrets and dig deep to uncover the dark past of the place he now calls home.

Unrelentingly suspenseful and written with a piercing gaze into the dark depths of the human soul, And There He Kept Her is a thrilling page-turner that introduces readers to a complicated new hero and forces us to consider the true nature of evil.

ABOUT JOSHUA MOEHLING

This is Joshua Moehling’s debut novel. I was unable to find any information at this time.

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Fall River’s Filth – Unbalanced by Jason Parent @AuthorJasParent

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Jason Parent is one of those authors whose stories I eagerly anticipate and Unbalanced did not let me down. The cover does go with the story, giving a glimpse into Jaden Sanders despair.

Unbalanced

Amazon / Audiobook / Goodreads

MY REVIEW

I love the character of Royo, and his life partner, Rickie, who is a bit flamboyant. I read about his purple Lycra pants and smiled at the picture that formed in my head. It reminds me of a couple of gay friends I had when I lived in Michigan. I have been reading about more diverse characters in the past year and am glad I have expanded my reading genres. Royo is incorruptible and loves nothing more than putting the pieces of a crime together, like a jigsaw puzzle.

Jaden lives across the hall from the dead woman. There is so much to Jaden’s story that I am not even going to try and tell it. I will tell you, my heart aches for him. His sister is his sole support system, since the death of his girlfriend. The more I read, the more I fear for his sanity. He is Unbalanced, but I do not see him being the cause of her death…but ya never know. Does he take his medication? Is it helping or harming him? I am so suspicious of the doctor, but I won’t tell you why. You will have to find out for yourself, and I do recommend doing so.

Prosecutor Heather Laughton is out to make a name for herself and is throwing Jaden to the wolves, when he kills the men who invaded his home. I felt disgusted and angry.

As more is revealed, I bounce back and forth about Jaden. Something wicked is going on and I need more pieces of the puzzle. My heart was in my throat through most of the book. The suspense, pacing and my need to know drove me on, searching for answers, wanting to protect him and take down those who wished him harm.

I read so many great books it’s hard for me to get so riled. I am only halfway through and I am so poed for him. I cannot imagine what I would do in Jayden’s place, but I doubt I could keep from standing up and losing it in front of one and all.

At times I felt Royo was like Columbo, bumbling and tenacious, like a dog with a bone. He won’t stop until he has the answers. I felt he was on Jayden’s side, but why doesn’t he follow the questions he has? What’s taking him so long to open his eyes, see their importance? I feel Jason Parent is torturing me…and Jaden. LOL He sure knows how to get my blood pumping, my heart pounding. Even when I had doubts, I felt Jason Parent was leading me where he wanted me to go.

Officer Megan Costa is a new recruit who Royo remembers from the a class he taught at the Academy. She is bright, diligent, not afraid to share her opinion. I would love to see more of her. Royo, I liked even more at the end. I know Jason Parent does stand alone novels and I have only seen him do one series, the Cycle Of Evil, but…

What do you think Jason? Could there be another story for Royo and Costa?

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of Unbalanced by Jason Parent.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
5 Stars

GOODREADS BLURB

By-the-book Detective Asante Royo can only clean up Fall River’s filth for so long without getting dirty. When he’s called to an apparent suicide at an apartment complex notorious for its prostitution and drug trade, he doesn’t shed a tear for the life wasted. Yet something about the scene haunts him, and when his investigation gets swept under the rug, he has a hard time living with the stain.

Jaden Sanders is an unstable loner who lives across the hall from the crime scene. When three men break into his apartment, Jaden is ready for a fight. He kills two of his attackers in self-defense then stalks and stabs the third in the back. Jaden is soon arrested for murder.

With no clear motives for the home invasion or Jaden’s violent response, Royo must uncover the true story before more people get hurt. His only leads are derived from the version of events extracted from a truly unbalanced mind. Is Jaden a victim being steamrolled by cold justice or a murderer capable of killing again?

ABOUT JASON PARENT

Jason Parent

In his head, Jason Parent lives in many places, but in the real world, he calls New England his home. The region offers an abundance of settings for his writing and many wonderful places in which to write them. He currently resides in Southeastern Massachusetts with his cuddly corgi named Calypso.

In a prior life, Jason spent most of his time in front of a judge . . . as a civil litigator. When he finally tired of Latin phrases no one knew how to pronounce and explaining to people that real lawsuits are not started, tried and finalized within the 60-minute timeframe they see on TV (it’s harassing the witness; no one throws vicious woodland creatures at them), he traded in his cheap suits for flip flops and designer stubble. The flops got repossessed the next day, and he’s back in the legal field . . . sorta. But that’s another story.

When he’s not working, Jason likes to kayak, catch a movie, travel any place that will let him enter, and play just about any sport (except that ball tied to the pole thing where you basically just whack the ball until it twists into a knot or takes somebody’s head off – he misses the appeal). And read and write, of course. He does that too sometimes.

Please visit the author on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJasonP…, on Twitter at https://twitter.com/AuthorJasParent, or at his website, http://authorjasonparent.com/, for information regarding upcoming events or releases, or if you have any questions or comments for him.

MY JASON PARENT REVIEWS

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Giveaway – Dead In The Water by Jeannette De Beauvoir @JeannetteDeB @partnersincr1me

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Dead In The Water: A Provinctown Mystery

Dead In The Water

by Jeannette de Beauvoir

April 27, 2021 Book Blast

Book Details:

Family Can Be Murder

Sydney Riley’s stretch of planned relaxation between festivals is doomed from the start. Her parents, ensconced at the Race Point Inn, expect her to play tour guide. Wealthy adventurer Guy Husband has reappeared, seeking to regain her friend Mirela’s affections. And the body of a kidnapped businessman has been discovered under MacMillan Wharf!

Sydney is literally at sea (by far not her favorite place!) balancing these expectations with her supersized curiosity. Is the murder the work of a regional gang led by the infamous “Codfather” or the result of a feud within an influential Provincetown family? What’s Guy Husband’s connection, and why is it suddenly so important that her boyfriend Ali come for a visit—especially while her mother is in town?

Master of crime Jeannette de Beauvoir brings her unique blend of irony and intrigue to this humorous—and sometimes horrendous—convergence of family and fatality.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: HomePort Press
Publication Date: May 1st 2021
Number of Pages: 309
ISBN: 9781734053371
Series:Sydney Riley Series, Book #8 | Each is a stand alone Mystery
Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt from Dead In The Water:

Chapter One

It was, I told myself, all my worst nightmares come true. All at once.

I may live at Land’s End, out at the tip of Cape Cod where the land curls into itself and for centuries foghorns warned of early death and disaster; I may have, yes, been out on boats on the Atlantic waters, laughably close to shore; but no, I’d never gotten used to any of it. I like floors that don’t move under my feet. I like knowing I could conceivably make it back to land on my own steam should something go wrong. (Well the last bit is a fantasy: without a wetsuit, the cold would get me before the fatigue did. But the point still stands.)

I was having this plethora of cheerful thoughts for two reasons. I had allowed myself to be persuaded to go on a whale watch. And the person standing beside me on the deck was my mother.

Like all stories that involve me and my mother, this one started with guilt. I’d had, safe to say, a rough year. I’d broken my arm (and been nearly killed) at an extremely memorable film festival here in Provincetown in the spring, and then during Women’s Week that October had met up with another murderer—seriously, it’s as if my friend Julie Agassi, the head of the town’s police detective squad, is right, and I go looking for these things.

I don’t, but people are starting to wonder.

Meanwhile, my mother was busily beating her you-never-call-you-never-write drum and I just couldn’t face seeing her for the holidays. My life was already complicated enough, and there’s no one like my mother for complicating things further. She’s in a class by herself. Other contenders have tried valiantly to keep up, before falling, one by one, by the wayside. Not even death or divorce can complicate my life the way my mother manages to. She perseveres.

On the other hand, circumstances had over the past year given her a run for her money. My boyfriend Ali—who after several years my mother continued to refer to as that man—and I had become sudden and accidental godparents to a little girl named Lily when our friend Mirela adopted her sister’s unwanted baby. And the godparents thing—which I’d always assumed to be a sort of ceremonial role one trotted out at Christmas and birthdays—had become very real when Mirela was arrested, incarcerated, and investigated as to her parenting suitability last October, and suddenly we were in loco parentis. I took the baby to Ali’s Boston apartment and we holed up there for over a month. Mirela had joined us for the last week of it and I can honestly say I’ve never been more relieved to see anyone in my life.

I was trying, but motherhood was clearly not my gig. Maybe there’s something to that DNA thing, after all.

What with one thing and another, it was this January before I was thinking straight. I’d gone back to my life in P’town and my work—I’m the wedding and events planner for the Race Point Inn, one of the town’s nicer establishments, though I do say it myself—and really believed I was finally feeling back to what passes for normal again when my mother began her barrage of guilt-laden demands. Had I forgotten I had parents? I could travel to Boston, but not to New Hampshire?

It hadn’t helped that, because there was absolutely nothing on the inn’s events calendar for February, Ali and I decided to be the tourists for once; we’d taken off for Italy. Okay, let’s see, the short dark days of February… and a choice between snowy New Hampshire and the charms of Venice. You tell me.

Which was why I’d run out of excuses by the time my mother started taking about being on her deathbed in March. (She wasn’t.) And that my father had forgotten what I looked like in April. (He hadn’t.)

I couldn’t afford any more time off—Glenn, the inn’s owner, had already been more than generous as it was—and there was only one thing to do. I had a quick shot of Jameson’s for courage and actually called my mother, risking giving her a heart attack (the last time I’d called was roughly two administrations ago), and invited her and my father to come to Provincetown.

Which was why I now found myself on the deck of the Dolphin IV, looking for whales and listening to my mother read from the guide book. “The largest living mammal is the blue whale,” she reported.

“I know,” I acknowledged.

“The humpback whale doesn’t actually chew its food,” she said. “It filters it through baleens.”

“I know,” I replied.

She glanced at me, suspicious. “How do you know all this?”

“Ma, I live in Provincetown.” It’s just possible one or two of the year-round residents—there aren’t that many of us, the number is under three thousand—don’t know about whales, but the possibility is pretty remote. Tourism is our only real industry. Tourists stop us in the street to ask us questions.

We know about whales.

She sniffed. “You don’t have to take an attitude about it, Sydney Riley,” she said. Oh, good: we were in full complete-name reprimand mode. “You know I don’t like it when you take an attitude with me.”

“I wasn’t taking an attitude. I was stating a fact.” I could feel the slow boil of adolescent-level resentment—and attitude, yes—building. I am in my late thirties, and I can still feel about fifteen when I’m having a conversation with my mother. Breathe, Riley, I counseled myself. Just breathe. Deeply. Don’t let her get to you.

She looked around her. “Are we going to see sharks?”

I sighed. Everyone these days wants to see sharks. For a long time, the dreaded story of Jaws was just that—a story, something to watch at the drive-in movie theatre in Wellfleet (yeah, we still have one of those) and shiver deliciously at the creepy music and scream when the shark tries to eat the boat. But conservation efforts over the past eight or ten years had caused a spectacular swelling of the seal population around the Cape—we’d already seen a herd of them sunning themselves on the beach today when we’d passed Long Point—and a few years later, the Great White sharks realized where their meals had all gone, and followed suit.

That changed things rather a lot. A tourist was attacked at a Truro beach and bled out. Signs were posted everywhere. Half-eaten seal corpses washed up. The famous annual Swim for Life, which once went clear across the harbor, changed its trajectory. And everybody downloaded the Great White Shark Conservancy’s shark-location app, Sharktivity.

The reality is both scary and not-scary. We’d all been surprised to learn sharks are quite comfortable in three or four feet of water, so merely splashing in the shallows was out. But in reality sharks attack humans only when they mistake them for seals, and usually only bite once, as our taste is apparently offensive to them. People who die from a shark attack bleed out; they’re not eaten alive.

“We might,” I said to my mother now. “There are a number of kinds of sharks here—”

The naturalist’s voice came over the loudspeaker, saving me. “Ah, so the captain tells me we’ve got a female and her calf just up ahead, at about two o’clock off the bow of the boat.”

“What does that mean, two o’clock?”

He had already told us. My mother had been asking what they put in the hot dogs in the galley at the time and hadn’t stopped to listen to him. “If the front of the boat is twelve o’clock, then two o’clock is just off—there!” I exclaimed, carried away despite myself. “There! Ma, see?”

“What?”

The whale surfaced gracefully, water running off her back, bright and sparkling in the sunlight, and just as gracefully went back under. A smaller back followed suit. The denizens of the deep, here to feed for the summer, willing to show off for the boatloads of visitors who populated the whale-watch fleet every year to catch a glimpse of another life, a mysterious life echoing with otherworldly calls and harkening back to times when the oceans were filled with giants.

Before we hunted them to the brink of extinction, that is.

“This is an individual we know,” the naturalist was saying. “Her name is Perseid. Unlike some other whales, humpbacks don’t travel in pods. Instead, they exist in loose and temporary groups that shift, with individuals moving from group to group, sometimes swimming on their own. These assemblages have been referred to as fluid fission/fusion groups. The only exception to this fluidity is the cow and calf pair. This calf was born eight months ago, and while right now you’re seeing her next to Perseid, she’s going to start straying farther and farther away as the summer progresses.”

Now that my mother was quieter—even she was silent in the face of something this big, this extraordinary—I recognized the naturalist’s voice. It was Kai Bennett, who worked at the Center for Coastal Studies in town; he was a regular at the Race Point Inn’s bar scene during the winter, when we ran a trivia game and he aced all the biology questions. “And we have another one that just went right under us… haven’t yet seen who this one is,” said Kai.

The newcomer spouted right off the port side of the boat and the light wind swept a spray of fine droplets over the passengers, who exclaimed and laughed.

“I wish they’d jump more out of the water,” my mother complained. “You have to look so fast. and they blend right in.”

My mother is going to bring a list of complaints with her to give to Saint Peter when she assaults the pearly gates of heaven. I swear she is.

Kai’s voice on the loudspeaker overran my mother’s. “Ocean conservation starts with connection. We believe that, as we build personal relationships with the ocean and its wildlife, we become more invested stewards of the marine environment. Whales, as individuals, have compelling stories to tell: where will this humpback migrate this winter to give birth? Did the whale with scars from a propeller incident survive another year? What happened to the entangled whale I saw in the news?”

“Look!” yelled a passenger. “I just saw a blow over there! Look! I know I did! I’m sure of it!”

Kai continued, “For science, unique identifiable markings on a whale’s flukes—that’s the tail, folks—and on the dorsal fin allow us to non-invasively track whale movements and stories over time. By focusing on whales, we bring attention to the marine ecosystem as a whole and the challenges we face as a global community.”

“He sounds like a nice young man,” my mother remarked. “He sounds American.”

Don’t take the bait, I told myself. Don’t take the bait.

I took the bait.

“Ali is American,” I said. “He was born in Boston.”

“But his parents weren’t,” she said, with something like relish. “I just wish you could find a nice—”

I cut her off. “Ali is a nice American man,” I said.

“But why would his parents even come to America?” my mother asked, for possibly the four-thousandth time. “Everyone should just stay home. Where they belong.”

Breathe, Riley. Just breathe. “I think they would have liked to stay home,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “There was just the minor inconvenience of a civil war. Makes it difficult to enjoy your morning coffee when there’s a bomb explosion next door. Seriously, Ma, don’t you hate it when that happens?”

“You’re taking a tone with me,” my mother said. “Don’t take a tone with me.”

Kai saved me yet again. “That’s a good question,” his voice said over the loudspeaker. “For those of you who didn’t hear, this gentleman just asked how we know these whales by name. Of course, these are just names we give to them—they have their own communication systems and ways of identifying themselves and each other! So as I said, these are whales that return to the marine sanctuary every summer. Many of them are females, who can be counted on to bring their new calves up to Stellwagen Bank because they can feast on nutritious sand lance—that’s a tiny fish humpbacks just love—and teach their offspring to hunt. Together with Allied Whale in Bar Harbor at the College of the Atlantic, the Center for Coastal Studies Humpback Whale Research Group runs a study of return rates of whales based on decades of sighting data. So, in other words, we get to see the same whales, year after year. The first one ever named was a female we called Salt.” He didn’t say what I knew: that Allied Whale and the Center for Coastal Studies didn’t always play well together. For one thing, they had totally different names for the same whales. I managed to keep that fact to myself.

“Your father will wish he came along,” my mother said.

My father, to the best of my knowledge, was sitting out by the pool at the Race Point Inn, reading a newspaper and drinking a Bloody Mary. My mother was the dogged tourist in the family: when we’d gone on family vacations together, she was the one who found all the museums and statues and sights-of-interest to visit. She practically memorized guide books. My father, bemused, went along with most of it, though his idea of vacation was more centered around doing as little as possible for as much time as possible. Retirement didn’t seem to have changed that in any significant way.

“You’re here until Sunday,” I pointed out. “You can take him out.”

She sniffed. “He doesn’t know anything about whales,” she said.

“Then that’s the point. He’ll learn.” Okay, come on, give me a little credit: I was really trying here.

“Maybe,” she said darkly. “What are those other boats out there?”

I looked. “Some of them are just private boats. And a lot of the fishing charters come out here,” I said. “And when there are whales spotted, they come and look, too. Gives the customers an extra thrill.” I knew from Kai and a couple of the other naturalists that the whale-watch people weren’t thrilled with the extra attention: the private boats in particular didn’t always maintain safe distances from the whales. Once a whale was spotted and one or two of the Dolphin Fleet stopped to look, anyone within sight followed their lead. It could get quite crowded on a summer day.

And dangerous. There had been collisions in the past—boats on boats and, once that I knew of, a boat hitting a whale. Some days it was enough to despair of the human race.

Kai was talking. “Well, folks, this is a real treat! The whale that just blew on our port side is Piano, who’s a Stellwagen regular easy to identify for some unfortunate reasons, because she has both vessel propeller strike and entanglement scars. This whale is a survivor, however, and has been a regular on Stellwagen for years!” Amazing, I thought cynically, she even gave us the time of day after all that.

“I didn’t see the scars,” said my mother.

We waited around for a little while and then felt the engines start up again and the deck vibrate. I didn’t like the feeling. I knew exactly how irrational my fear was, and knowing did nothing to alleviate it. I’d had some bad experiences out on the water in the past, and that vibration brought them all back. I’d tried getting over it by occasionally renting a small sailboat with my friend Thea, but—well, again, I always thought I’d be able to swim to shore from the sailboat if anything went wrong. Not out here.

And then there was the whole not-letting-my-mother-know side to things. If she did, she’d never let me hear the end of it.
At least when we were talking about whales we weren’t talking about her ongoing matrimonial hopes for me, the matrimonial successes of (it seemed) all her friends’ offspring, and the bitter disappointment she was feeling around my approaching middle age without a husband in tow. That seemed to be where all our conversations began… and ended.
And I wasn’t approaching middle age. Forty is the new thirty, and all that sort of thing.

“The captain says we have another pair coming up, folks, off to the port side now… I’m just checking them out… it’s a whale called Milkweed and her new calf! Mom is traveling below the surface right now, but you can see the calf rolling around here…” There was a pause and a murmur and then his voice came back. “No, that’s not abnormal. The baby’s learning everything it needs to know about buoyancy and swimming, and you can be sure Mom’s always close by. We’re going to slowly head back toward Cape Cod now…” And, a moment later, “Looks like Milkweed and the baby are staying with us! Folks, as you’re seeing here, whales can be just as curious about us as we are about them! What Milkweed is doing now—see her, on the starboard side, at three o’clock—we call it spyhopping.”

“Why on earth would they be curious about us?” wondered my mother.

“That,” I said, looking at her and knowing she’d never get the sarcasm, “is a really good question.”

Just breathe, Riley. Just breathe.

***

Excerpt from Dead In The Water by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2021 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Jeannette de Beauvoir

Jeannette de Beauvoir didn’t set out to murder anyone—some things are just meant to be!

Her mother introduced her to the Golden Age of mystery fiction when she was far too young to be reading it, and she’s kept following those authors and many like them ever since. She wrote historical and literary fiction and poetry for years before someone asked her what she read—and she realized mystery was where her heart was. Now working on the Sydney Riley Provincetown mystery series, she bumps off a resident or visitor to her hometown on a regular basis.

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