$20 GC – Death In St George’s by M A Monnin @partnersincr1me

Death in St. George's by M. A. Monnin Banner

DEATH IN ST. GEORGE’S

by M. A. Monnin

July 29 – August 23, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Death in St. George's by M. A. Monnin

The Intrepid Traveler Mystery series

 

When Stefanie and Thomas meet in Bermuda for time alone away from the demands of the Artifact Retrieval Team that Thomas heads, their romantic rendezvous is waylaid after an archaeologist requests their help to recover an emerald bracelet that’s been stolen from his site.

Thomas is reluctant, but Stefanie can’t resist the lure of buried Spanish treasure. Then one of the archaeologists is murdered, and they find themselves on the suspect list. Spanish gold isn’t the only thing uncovered. Secrets can be deadly, and Stefanie and Thomas must find the killer before it’s too late.

Praise for Death in St. George’s:

“Monnin’s story has echoes of Agatha Christie’s work, making the most of a large group of suspects and red herrings galore.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Death in St. George’s, the third in M. A. Monnin’s Intrepid Traveler Mystery series, will treat readers to the sensory pleasures of the subtropics while dipping their toes in danger. Monnin’s writing is as crisp and sensual as fresh ironed linen. Readers are in for a delight and will hop on board wherever Stefanie travels.”
~ Sara E. Johnson, Author of the Alexa Glock Forensics Mysteries

“What a treat! Memorable characters, a tropical setting, and intricate plotting. A binge-worthy read!”
~ Joan Long, Agatha Award-nominated author of THE FINALIST

“A charming mystery with twists I didn’t see coming, Death in St. George’s is a treasure in itself.”
~ Jules Parker, Wild Rose Press author

“A contemporary cozy with the timeless charm of a classic whodunnit, Death in St. George’s feels like a refreshing rum swizzle on a warm Bermuda evening. Archaeology and mystery buffs alike will root for Stephanie and Thomas as they unravel two intertwined mysteries—one archaeological, one modern.”
~ Megaera Lorenz, author of The Shabti

“Murder, romance, a splendid setting, engaging characters, buried treasure… M.A. Monnin’s latest mystery has them all, and may just be her best and most engrossing novel yet.”
~ Tom Mead, author of Death and the Conjuror and The Murder Wheel

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 14, 2024
Number of Pages: 264
ISBN: 9781685126483 (ISBN10: 1685126480)
Series: An Intrepid Traveler Mystery Series, Book 3
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

“I don’t believe you’re the kind of woman who craves peace and quiet,” Thomas said, holding Stefanie’s hand in the back seat of the taxi.

His handsome face melted her heart yet again. She drank in the welcome sight of him, from the strong jaw beneath the stubble of a beard to his chestnut brown hair. The sun-bleached streaks she’d teased him about in Greece would return after a week in Bermuda, she’d bet.

Having arrived in Bermuda earlier in the day, she’d met him at the airport, and they were on the way to rent a car in the Town of St. George.

“A week alone sounds blissful to me,” she countered. “No trying to discover who ran us off the road in Crete or chasing after Borgia Peacocks in Venice.” And no former girlfriends, she thought. But she’d learned enough to not say that aloud. “No calls from René.”

“René knows that I am not taking his calls for a full week,” Thomas said.

René Renault, his boss, and therefore ultimately hers at Interpol’s Cultural Heritage division, didn’t willingly recognize personal time. Thomas, as the head of Interpol’s Artifact Retrieval Team—ART for short—could dictate his own projects. So far their time together had been a non-stop whirlwind of undercover investigation in an effort to reclaim stolen objects that had been reported to Interpol. A little downtime was in order.

“We could lock our cell phones in our suitcases until next Monday,” she suggested.

He smiled. “Is that really what you want?”

What she really wanted was to decide on their future living situation.

There was no question that they would be together. But would she move in with him at his place in Munich? Or keep her apartment in St. Louis and fly to Europe when she couldn’t bear to be apart from him any longer? Asking so soon might go to his head, and she couldn’t have that.

The taxi driver took a sharp curve a little too fast, then swung in to avoid a red scooter speeding from the opposite direction whose driver drove as though both lanes were his.

Stefanie shared a smile with Thomas as they listed from one side to the other with the motion of the taxi.

“I suppose we need the phones to look up places to explore,” she said. “And

I need photos for my travel blog.”

That reminded her to take in the sights, something other than Thomas.

She tore her gaze away from him, but kept her hand in his. The streets of St. George’s were narrow, barely wide enough for two lanes, and in some places, not even wide enough for that. Low garden walls butted right up against the road. Sidewalks, where they existed at all, fit snugly between the road and the series of one- and two-storied houses.

Most of the houses were small and compact, as if hunkered down for impending storms.

“These buildings have been here since the 1690s or early 1700s,” she said, charmed by their low profiles and the wooden shutters that adorned nearly every structure.

In no time at all, the taxi driver pulled up to the car rental.

As he paid the driver, Thomas’s face blanked in disbelief at the tiny electric cars lined up for rent.

“The bigger cars must be in back,” he said, taking his black leather bag, his only piece of luggage, out of the open Ford trunk.

The taxi driver grinned. “Not in Bermuda. It’s the law. Tourists can only rent scooters or electric cars.” Still grinning, he gave Thomas a business card. “Call me if you want me to take you anywhere.”

When Thomas’s gaze brightened on the row of scooters,Stefanie protested.

“No scooters,” she insisted. “I’ve seen how people drive here. Driving on the left will be challenging enough.”

“No problem,” Thomas said. “I’ve driven in England.”

He bypassed the Twizy models, which had a single seat in front and a single seat in back.

“I want you at my side,” he said. “Not behind me.” “Or you behind me,” she countered.

His mouth quirked up. “That would not happen.”

Oh, how she missed the little games they played. It had only been a week since they’d parted at the Milan airport, but those seven days felt like a year.

After inspecting several small, square Italian Tazzaris, which had two front seats, Thomas grudgingly chose one in red.

“I didn’t think I’d be driving a toy car,” he said as they folded themselves into the Tazzari.

She laughed. “Admit it, you’ve always wanted a red Italian car.” She buckled her seatbelt with difficulty due to his leather duffle on her lap, which was too large to cram into the minuscule storage space behind their seats.

Resting her arms across the duffle, she entered their address into the GPS on her phone. “We’re lucky Greg wasn’t using his house this week. A whole house to ourselves is so much nicer than even the best hotel.”

Her former bank client, Greg Edwards, had often urged her to stay at the house whenever she wanted. Greg, the dedicated owner of Riverboat Rum based in St. Louis, only made it to Bermuda occasionally. Usually when corporate finances and Bermudian law dictated. The bungalow stood on a cliff on the outskirts of the historic Town of St. George. Painted peach, the two-bedroom cottage had an intimate covered patio at the rear that faced the glassy Atlantic—a perfect place to write her travel blog and enjoy the sun.

Thomas’s claim about driving on the left was justified. He had no problem acclimating, and in short order, they’d gone the less than a mile to Greg’s house.

After changing into swimsuits to lounge in the warm Bermuda sunshine, Thomas poured them each a glass of pinot grigio, and they settled onto the chaise lounges in the backyard.

The smoky scent of a neighbor’s wood fire mixed pleasantly with the tang

of sea air. Stefanie glanced around the yard and patio for a fire pit they could use but didn’t see one.

“Bermuda is more colorful than I expected.” Thomas’s gaze went from the low wall painted to match the peach house color to the neighboring bright blue cottage beyond, with its white stepped stone roof. He shifted his gaze from the neighbor’s house to her. “The view is stunning.”

She smiled and set her wine on the small metal table between them.

“Just you and me,” Thomas said. “Alone.”

“Alone,” she agreed. “With our peace and quiet. But you never know,” she teased, “maybe it was the adventure that drew us together.”

Swinging his legs off the chaise lounge, he sat up with his feet planted firmly in the grass and took her hand. “Is that all?”

No, but Thomas found the excitement of the chase irresistible. She smiled as he massaged her palm with his thumb, but didn’t move closer to make it easier for him. Keeping him on his toes was delightfully entertaining, something that he enjoyed as much as she did.

“Where should we go tomorrow? A boat tour to spot sea turtles?” she asked.

Still holding her hand, he said, “Let’s go snorkeling. Tobacco Bay. The fish and coral there are supposed to be worth seeing.”

“I’ve never been snorkeling,” she admitted. “I planned to try it in Crete, but there wasn’t time. Have you?”

“At the Great Barrier Reef.”

Australia. That didn’t surprise her. As the son of the owner of Germany’s largest publishing firm, he’d probably gone all over the world and done all kinds of activities that she’d never tried. Never tried because she’d dedicated all her time to working at Markham-Briggs Bank. That wasn’t happening anymore.

“There’s nothing to it,” Thomas said. “You’ll love it. And after we’ve done Tobacco Bay, we’ll snorkel above shipwrecks. Bermuda is surrounded by them. Until then,” he said, “I want you all to myself.”

She gave in and swung around to a sitting position facing him. Bending forward, she lifted her lips toward his, stopping a breath away. “You have me.”

A discreet throat-clearing intruded on their moment. It came from the direction of the blue house next door. Reluctantly, Stefanie pulled back.

On the other side of the peach-colored wall, a thin man of about five foot eight or nine, tanned and with receding blond hair, peered at them from between two large palm trees. He’d changed from the sweat-stained blue polo and dusty dark grey knee-length shorts he’d worn when she’d met him two hours before and was dressed as colorfully as the houses in a pastel plaid shirt above coral Bermuda shorts.

Stefanie hid her disappointment. “It’s Jeffrey Fitzsimmons,” she said in a low voice. “I picked up the keys from him when I got here this afternoon.”

She scooted further back on the chaise lounge and slipped her arms through her linen cover-up. Chatting with neighbors while dressed only in a skimpy bikini put her at a disadvantage.

“Good afternoon,” Jeffrey called to them. “Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt.” Thomas observed him without replying.

“Good afternoon,” Stefanie called back as she stood up. Greg had cautioned her about always including a polite greeting when she visited Bermuda. “The locals are sticklers about common courtesy,” she told Thomas. “We’ll be outcasts if we forget that.”

“Always the customer service vice president,” he remarked.

“If I’d gotten that promotion,” she said, “we never would have met.”

He leaned in and kissed her. “A tragedy averted.”

She smiled, then glanced at the neighbor. “Jeffrey’s the kind who likes to talk. I had to make excuses so I could meet you at the airport in time. Luckily, the taxi was waiting.” She gave Thomas’s bicep a gentle squeeze. “We don’t want to get on his bad side. We might want to use this house as a getaway again.”

“Neutral territory?” he asked. “Conveniently located between the U.S. and Europe?”

“Something like that,” she said, then turned back to Jeffrey.

The neighbor indicated the wall that separated the properties. “May I?”

“Yes, of course,” Stefanie answered.

Jeffrey stepped over the wall. He’d come prepared, bringing his own bottle of beer.

There were only two chaise lounges, but two metal chairs at a small table against the house were available. Stefanie gestured toward them.

She and Thomas dragged their lounges around to face the patio rather than the ocean.

“Welcome to Bermuda,” Jeffrey said to Thomas.

Thomas must have worried that the neighbor was settling in for an evening of conversation.

“Thank you,” he replied. “We’ll be trying your local cuisine at dinner soon.”

“Here on St. George’s Island? I can recommend places,” Jeffrey offered as he pulled out a pink metal chair. “The Wahoo Bistro has fantastic fish.”

“Hamilton,” Thomas said, mentioning Bermuda’s capital city on the main island.

Jeffrey nodded. “More nightlife there.”

Thomas pointed a finger at Stefanie’s empty wine glass. “Another?”

“Yes, please.” She turned back to the neighbor. “Do you live here yearround, or part-time, like Greg?”

“Year round,” Jeffrey said. “I’m with the National Museum of Bermuda. The lead archaeologist.”

“Are you?” She perked up. “Thomas has a degree in archaeology, and I once interned at a dig on Crete. I didn’t go into archaeology as a career, though.”

“Oh, I know you’re in banking,” Jeffrey said. “Greg’s told me all about you.”

Thomas caught that last piece of info as he returned with the half-empty bottle of pinot grigio.

“Has he?” Thomas asked, filling Stefanie’s glass.

She was surprised at that news, too, but didn’t clarify that she wasn’t in banking anymore. Her work with ART was confidential.

“Yes.” Jeffrey turned back to Stefanie. “Greg told me about your involvement with the Akrotiri Snake Goddess in Greece.”

Stefanie and Thomas exchanged glances. She hadn’t mentioned her part in it to any of her former colleagues at Markham-Briggs. In fact, other than those directly involved, she hadn’t even talked to anyone about the theft of the Akrotiri Snake Goddess. That had been left to the news media and whatever details the Greek police gave out. Thomas never boasted about his accomplishments. It was counterproductive to future cases.

“Jeffrey’s an archaeologist here in Bermuda,” she told Thomas.

The neighbor leaned forward, beer bottle in hand, elbows on knobby knees. “I’m hoping you can help me.”

So he’d had something specific in mind when she brushed him off to get to the airport.

With that news, Thomas seemed even less receptive to the intrusion. He concentrated on pouring wine into his own glass. “Yes?”

Jeffrey gave him a brief smile but focused on Stefanie. “It’s your help I want.”

Stefanie and Thomas exchanged another look, one of surprise that time and amusement. Thomas had put in the major investigative work in their endeavors. She’d simply used the customer service skills she’d learned at Markham-Briggs Bank to her advantage. Yet Jeffrey approached them because of her reputation, rather than Thomas’s stellar career. One point to her.

His eyes bright with humor, Thomas lowered himself onto the chaise lounge. Sipping his wine, he let her have the spotlight.

“My help?” Stefanie asked. “I’m not in banking anymore.”

“Greg says you’re known for your discretion.” Jeffrey leaned even further towards them, sitting on the edge of his seat. “And from your time at the bank, that you have an eye for potential trouble.”

You never knew what people would remember. She’d entertained Greg once with a description of what she noted about each person when they entered the bank, watching for signs of potential robbery.

Thomas’s grey-blue eyes sharpened.

“Something has disappeared from the site I’m working on.” Jeffrey spoke in hushed tones despite the fact that they were in the backyard, with the Atlantic on one side and empty yards on the others. “The theft hasn’t been reported yet, and we—I,” he emphasized, “hope it can be recovered before anyone has to know that it’s missing.”

She peered at Jeffrey. He’d gotten awfully close to their actual jobs. Disconcertingly close. “I’m not sure how discretion and an eye for potential trouble will help after the fact,” she said.

Thomas was leery, too. “Why didn’t you report the theft?”

“The homeowners didn’t want the publicity if it could be avoided. I went along with that to protect our reputations.” Jeffrey’s gaze darted between Stefanie and Thomas. “If we don’t get it back, our professional reputations are shot. Each one of us working the site.” “What kind of site?” Thomas asked.

“It’s on privately owned land. There’s a garden renovation going on at Carmichael House here on St. George’s,” Jefferey said. “The owner, Marlene Carmichael, our Minister of Economy and Labor, wants to make it a showplace. When a dead tree in the existing garden was removed, a small chest was exposed under the roots. That prompted a call for an archaeological assessment of the area to see if anything else was buried in the vicinity.”

“A chest?” Stefanie asked, giddy as a child with an unwrapped present as she pictured a metal-strapped wooden treasure chest filled with gold and jewels.

Jeffrey held his hands about ten inches apart. “A small one. Brass and steel.”

She cocked her head. “What was in it?”

A short laugh escaped Jeffrey’s lips. “Nothing.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows at that. “Any idea how it ended up here?” Jeffrey sat back. “Most likely a Spanish shipwreck in the mid to late 1500s. Spanish and Portuguese sailors occasionally washed up on Bermuda before the Sea Venture wrecked in 1609 and we British settled here. We believe the ship this chest came from was on its way from Cartagena to Spain.”

An exciting find. But the chest was empty. That was disappointing. And now it was missing. Having a reputation for discretion was nice, but the investigation should be carried out by the authorities, not two vacationers with few resources.

“I’m a travel blogger now, and Thomas is an assistant professor of archaeology,” she said, using their completely legitimate cover occupations.

“What you’re describing sounds like a job for the police.” Thomas agreed.

Jeffrey’s brows drew together, disappointment written in every line of his features. “We can’t have another Tucker’s Cross. We can’t.”

A spark of excitement flickered deep within Stefanie’s chest. She’d read the story of Tucker’s Cross in the guidebook she’d brought on the flight from the States.

“The emerald and gold cross that was recovered from the San Pedro,” she said. “Replaced with a forgery, which was discovered just in time for Queen Elizabeth’s visit in 1975.”

Thomas set his wine glass on the table. “Stolen.”

“When the archaeological record gets lost, the whole island loses. It can’t happen again,” Jeffrey said, his voice rising in desperation. “It can’t.”

Surely that emotion on his face wasn’t for a small brass chest, even one that was 450 years old.

Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “It isn’t the chest that’s missing, is it?”

***

Excerpt from Death in St. George’s by M. A. Monnin. Copyright 2024 by M. A. Monnin. Reproduced with permission from M. A. Monnin. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

M. A. Monnin

M. A. Monnin is the author of the Intrepid Traveler Mystery series, including Agatha Best First Novel finalist DEATH IN THE AEGEAN. Her 3rd in the series, DEATH IN ST. GEORGE’S, came out May 2024. She also writes the St. Killian, PI and the Hawk Hathaway, Time Traveling Troubleshooter short stories. Mary’s short stories have appeared in Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, and numerous anthologies. A member of ITW, MWA, SinC, and SMFS, an avocational archaeologist and USAF veteran, Mary is a trustee of the Kansas City Archaeological Society and treasurer of Mid-America Romance Authors. She lives in Kansas City, MO.

Find M. A. Monnin at:
www.mamonnin.com
www.CuratorsofCrime.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @monninma
Instagram – @m.a.monnin
Twitter/X – @mamonnin1
Facebook – @MAMonnin

 

 

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$20 GC – Gone Crazy by Terry Korth Fischer @TerryIsWriting @partnersincr1me

Gone Crazy by Terry Korth Fischer Banner

GONE CRAZY

by Terry Korth Fischer

July 23, 2024 Book Blast

Synopsis:

Gone Crazy by Terry Korth Fischer

A RORY NAYSMITH MYSTERY

 

A formal declaration of love scares the bejesus out of small-town Detective Rory Naysmith. As Valentine’s Day approaches, he evaluates his relationship with bookkeeper Esther Mullins, and decides to take her on a romantic date that ends with a poet’s murder. Assigned to the case, Rory pushes his private life aside. Things gets tricky after Esther is appointed Executrix for the estate—then rumors start that place a priceless item among the poet’s many possessions.

The race is on to unearth the treasure and solve the murder, but it leaves Rory wondering if Esther will live long enough to become his Valentine—or end up as the murderer’s next victim.

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery, Cozy Crime
Published by: The Wild Rose Press
Publication Date: July 22, 2024
Number of Pages: 251
ISBN: 9781509255986 (ISBN10: 1509255982)
Series: A Rory Naysmith Mystery, Book 3
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

After a full hour devoted to hob-knobbing, everyone finally headed to the presentation room and the ceremony began. The Guild members sat at the front tables. A particularly distinguished looking gentleman stood at the podium. Rory held Esther’s chair as she took her seat. “What is it that you are so anxious to tell me?” she asked.

“In a moment,” he said, “Do you have the program?”

Esther pulled the pamphlet from her bag and handed it to him. “What are you looking for?”

“A woman in a tuxedo.” He opened the program and scanned the contents. It contained a short bio for each featured poet, including an author photograph. Phoebe Sheehan, retired librarian, Winterset Community College graduate, would read two selections from her chapbook. Her photograph was more glamor shot than portrait—and dated because her locks were more brunette than white.

Perry Benson, Winterset Library Poet-in-Residence, would present two works from his collection titled, Midwest Muddle. His picture revealed both arms tattooed from forearm to wrist, giving him the appearance of a shouting Prisoner-in-Residence at a state penal institution.

And last but not least, Lillie Anderson, comparative literature professor, Winterset Community College, reading from her published work, Wildfire Lies. Professor Anderson’s author shot confirmed she was the tuxedoed assailant—but not why she’d threaten Phoebe.

He turned to Esther. “I overheard Lillie Anderson and Phoebe Sheehan in the bar. Anderson accused Sheehan of plagiarism and following in her father’s footsteps, whatever that means. She said that if Phoebe didn’t admit her fraud, she, Professor Anderson, was willing and able to expose her.” Esther’s face clouded as he continued. “It sounded more like a disagreement about Phoebe being considered for tonight’s award than to the actual plagiarism. I’m guessing it wasn’t Lillie’s poetry in question.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And Professor Anderson manhandled Phoebe Sheehan.”

“What does that mean?”

“Grabbed her by the arms and retained her against her will. You know, manhandled.”

“To be politically correct you should use the term strong armed.”

Rory opened his mouth but decided it was better to remain silent.

The waiter appeared, lit the candle on the table centerpiece, then took their orders for wine. When he stepped away, Rory said, “I’ve always heard the academic world can be vicious but didn’t believe it. Plus, this Lillie Anderson is dressed like a man.”

“How does a man dress?” Esther asked.

Rory cleared his throat and studied the program.

“There’s Phoebe now,” said Esther gesturing to the white-headed woman making her way up front to join the dignitaries by the stage. She stumbled, then reached out to a nearby table to steady herself. “It looks like she’s drunk.”

“She wasn’t an hour ago,” he said, “but a couple stiff ones…”

“She’s having a hard time finding her way.” Esther stood, hesitating and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I think I’ll see if she’s okay. It might just be nerves.”

Rory let her hand slip away. Patrons milled around in a confused manner, taking time to find their assigned seats, and seemingly reluctant to end conversations they’d started in the bar. He watched Esther thread her way through the tables and make her way to Phoebe. With an arm the poet’s shoulder, Esther helped her take a seat by the temporary stage and sat next to her, their heads bent in conversation. He wondered at the exchange. Soon she returned.

“Well, is she drunk?”

“No. But she isn’t feeling well. She says she started to feel ill this afternoon.”

“Presentation jitters then?”

The man at the podium tapped the microphone and a loud thump exploded from the overhead speakers. “Looks like we might be starting,” Rory said.

Esther fingered her pearls. “I think it’s more than being nervous or simple stage fright. Phoebe looks pale and if she complained that she felt nauseous…after all, she was in the bar trying to get a soda to settle her stomach. Which she didn’t manage to do. You were there along with the crowd, it was chaos. I think I’ll order her a hot tea.”

Esther waved at a waiter as he passed. Failing to get the waiter’s attention, she stood. “They’ll be a minute getting started. I’ll just pop into the bar, order the tea, and be right back.” Before Rory could object, she was gone.

The guests slowly took their seats. The man at the podium thumped again. “Testing. Testing. Can everyone hear me?” The guests at the tables quieted. Those roaming made for their seats.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Winterset Literary Guild Awards banquet. I’m George Martin, Guild President.” There was some modest clapping, and more chair scraping. “We have a lovely evening planned for you. Our State Poet, Adeline Yost will open, followed by three Winterset distinguished poets: Phoebe Sheehan, Lillie Anderson, and Perry Benson. From these talented poets, one will end the evening as the first Winterset Poet Laureate.” Gentle applause followed. “But first, let me introduce the literary board members.” He motioned for the front row to stand, and one-by-one introduced them, followed by more clapping. Rory hoped Esther would hurry. He didn’t want her to miss the presentation.

George Martin introduced Adeline Yost who, along with him, had a seat by the podium on the stage. Still no Esther. The overhead lights dimmed, and Adeline read a poem about open space and shooting stars that ended in glowing horizons. Rory was impressed with her melodic voice but thought poetry ought to rhyme. Less along the lines of “By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water”, and more “high-diddle diddle, the cat in the fiddle.”

Where was Esther? Should he check on her?

Yost finished and introduced Lillie Anderson. The professor mounted the stage with encouragement from the crowd, then confidently crossed the stage to join Adeline at the podium where she accepted the accolades with grace. Her tuxedo clad figure was a stark contrast to Adeline’s simple long skirt and flowing tunic top. In Rory’s mind the long coarse hair falling past Lillie’s shoulders was ubiquitous in academia, her suit a blatant statement against the role women played in a male dominated world. He recalled the menace in her voice as she accosted Phoebe Sheehan in the bar. Professor Anderson would make a formidable enemy.

As the spotlight highlighted the poet, Adeline Yost explained the structure for the piece Lillie had selected to read. “From her chapbook, Wildfire Lies, Professor Anderson will read a villanelle.”

Villanelle? It sounded as menacing as her accusations in the bar. Rory listened but continued to be more concerned by Esther’s absence.

“The villanelle,” Yost explained, “is a most difficult poetic form. Many artists avoid them, as it can be quite intimidating. The form has nineteen lines, adheres to a particular structure, and offers a rhyme scheme.”

Good. A rhyming poem. Right up my alley.

Adeline continued, “Five three-line stanzas, followed by a four-line stanza. You will notice the first and third lines are repeated three more times throughout the poem at dictated locations. Composing a villanelle is no easy feat. It is so difficult to write that I, myself, have only done so, once. And, I have no intention to attempt a second.” There was mild laughter. She paused for effect, then announced, “Professor Lillie Anderson, reading The Plains Echo.”

Adeline stepped from the spotlight, allowing Anderson to step to the microphone. She looked out over the room and waited for a silence to settle over the audience. When all was quiet, she took reading glasses from where they were tucked into her cummerbund, put them on, situated her printed page on the podium, and began.

Rory wasn’t impressed, but what did he know? Anderson had a stage presence and a flair for the dramatic. And Adeline Yost had set the tone by announcing the piece’s excellence. It was as Anderson raised her voice in the required repeated first stanza line that he saw Esther step into the room. Moving deftly through the tables with a large mug between her hands, she threaded her way to the front tables where Phoebe sat and drew the audience’s attention as she advanced. So intent was Esther in keeping the sloshing contents within the mug that she didn’t notice the disturbance she created.

Her advance, however, didn’t escape Anderson’s notice. The professor’s reading glasses slid down her nose and she glared over the rims. Clearly flustered, she said to George Martin. “Mr. President, are you going to allow this interruption? Must I ignore this blatant attempt by Phoebe Sheehan to undermine my poetry reading?”

Red-faced, Mr. Martin stood and stammered, “I a…assure you. Th…this is not the conduct expected from our members.” His focus on Phoebe, he demanded, “Miss Sheehan, are you quite finished?”

Phoebe, taking a gulp from the mug, froze. From Rory’s position at the back, he watched her rise. Once on her feet, she swayed and put a hand on Esther’s shoulder, and steadied herself. Esther took the mug from her hand.

“George…” Phoebe croaked, drifting to the left before righting herself. “George…” She fell forward and collapsed into a heap before the stage.

The audience gasped. A black clad waiter appeared from nowhere and rushed to the crumpled poet. He bent over her for a moment then announced, “Call an ambulance.”

George Martin took over the microphone. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

Wide-eyed, Esther met Rory’s gaze.

The detective nodded. Then reached for the light switch and flipped on the overhead lights.

***

Excerpt from Gone Crazy by Terry Korth Fischer. Copyright 2024 by Terry Korth Fischer. Reproduced with permission from Terry Korth Fischer. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Terry Korth Fischer

Terry Korth Fischer is the author of the Rory Naysmith Mysteries, a cozy-crime series featuring a seasoned city detective relocated to small-town Nebraska. Transplanted from the Midwest, Terry lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband and two guard cats. When not writing, she loves reading and basking in sunshine, yet, her heart often wanders to the country’s heartland, where she spent a memorable—ordinary but charmed—childhood.

Catch Up With Terry Korth Fischer:
TerryKorthFischer.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @terrykorthfischer
Twitter/X – @TerryIsWriting
Facebook – @TerryIsWriting

 

 

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$20 GC – The Light Beside The Sea by Connie De Marco @partnersincr1me @AskZodia

The Light Beside the Sea by Connie di Marco Banner

THE LIGHT BESIDE THE SEA

by Connie di Marco

June 3-28, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Light Beside the Sea by Connie di Marco

The Zodiac Mysteries

 

So many deaths . . . An elusive shaman, a creature of the underworld, Here to unleash evil? Or bring justice to the wronged?

San Francisco astrologer Julia Bonatti has been haunted for years by the hit and run death of her fiancé, Michael Sefton. The driver of the vehicle was never apprehended. The lone witness to the accident spoke to no one and now is dead. Even the cold case detective assigned to the case died before any resolution was found. Every time Julia thought she might be getting close to an answer, each clue led only to a dead end.

Michael, a graduate student, had just returned from an archeological dig in Guatemala when he was killed. But why did he mail his journal to Julia for safekeeping before his return home? What was he afraid of? Why did another graduate student fall to his death on that trip? And now, another man connected with that journey has been murdered closer to home. And the murderer hasn’t finished.

When Julia finally finds the courage to delve into the journal Michael sent to her years before, she learns of the undercurrents, jealousies and anger between members of the group. She begins to understand the pressure and fear her fiancé was coping with and his suspicions of their University mentor who was most likely engaged in unethical and illegal behavior.

But events soon take a darker turn when Julia finds a likeness of the Maya god Hunhau, god of death and the underworld, on her doorstep. A strange man covered with markings and tattoos keeps appearing to her but no one else seems to see him. With guidance from another professor she’s introduced to a world she never knew existed.

Is the man she sees human? And is he under the sway of the Maya god of death?

Will he unleash evil or is he here to right a wrong done to his people?

Julia must move quickly or her death will be the next.

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional mystery
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: May 6, 2024
Number of Pages:370 est
ISBN: 979-8989009596 | eBook 9798989009589
Series: The Zodiac Mysteries, Book 5
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Rafael was silent on the drive along Market Street. He turned south at Van Ness and followed that wide boulevard until we reached the corner of Folsom and 21st. We were away from the fog in the western part of the city and the sun had dipped below the horizon. The dash lights cast his face in long shadows. I was starting to regret accepting his invitation but his curiosity was contagious. I wanted to know as much as I could about this collection of tiny bones and what it could mean. Mostly, why it was dumped on my doorstep and why was I seeing things no one else could see. “You seem to really know your way around the city,” I remarked. “Angelenos usually hate driving in San Francisco.”

He turned his head and broke into a wide smile. “I grew up in the Mission. Long before it was a trendy place to live. It’s certainly changed a lot over the years, but I know the place like the back of my hand.” He pulled to the curb in front of a well-maintained rather plain two-story Victorian painted a soft blue. “This is the place. This lady’s name is Manuela. She has . . . certain talents.”

“Do you think she’ll see us now?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve known her most of my life. I planned to visit her on this trip to the city anyway.” He climbed out of the car and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door for me. I followed him up the long wooden stairway where he knocked and rang the bell. A lamp was lit at the front windows and through the curtain I could see a light burning at the end of a long hallway, a kitchen light. A few moments later, a figure appeared backlit by the light. The door opened to reveal a stout woman somewhere in her sixties, with a smiling round face and a mop of gray curly hair. She wore a long colorful dress with bright patterns of red, green and orange.

Ay,” her smile became wider. “Mijo, how are you?” She spoke in heavily-accented English.

“I’m fine, Doña Manuelita.” He leaned over and gave her a warm hug. “I hope it’s okay, I brought a friend who has some questions. This is Julia,” he said. “I’m hoping you can help her.”

Si, si, of course, of course, come in.” We stepped inside the entryway. Manuela turned to me and took my hands in hers. She closed her eyes for a few moments as she held tight to my hands. “Si, okay,” she said. I felt as if I had just passed an inspection. She turned and without another word led us through an archway into a central room where the windows were covered with heavy drapes. She switched on a small lamp at a side table and sat down. She waved a hand to indicate we should sit and Rafael and I sat on either side of her.

“Julia, show Manuela the talisman you received.”

I pulled the narrow box out of my purse and pulled the top off. I pulled back the cloth covering and left the figure of bones resting in its bed. I pushed it across the table to Manuela. She moved it closer and gazed at it for a long moment. She held a hand above the bones without touching them. A faraway look came into her eyes. She sighed deeply then stood and reached for a heavy candleholder from the credenza. She lit the candle and turned off the lamp. Other than the flickering flame, the room was completely dark. Rafael sat silently, watching her. She placed her fingertips gently on the bones and leaned back in the chair, her eyes closed. Her breathing became heavier. I was reminded of Zora and the way she appeared when going into a trance state.

“Aaahh,” she breathed a long sigh and began to tremble. She moaned and began to mumble in words I couldn’t make out. Then she uttered a long stream of words in a language I didn’t recognize, peppered with a few words in Spanish. After several minutes of this, she finally fell silent and opened her eyes, glancing first at Rafael and then at me. She spoke rapidly in Spanish to Rafael. He nodded in acknowledgment and turned to me.

“Manuela says there is great danger. That someone has come here from far away. He is human, like a shaman, and he is in the sway of terrible forces we cannot understand. No harm is aimed at you. He is here to cure something, to right a wrong, like . . . lancing a boil. She doesn’t know what he intends to do but it has something to do with his culture, with righting a wrong against that culture. You must be very careful that you are not near those who have done wrong otherwise you would not be safe. Your death could also result.

I took a deep breath. “Is that all she said?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

Manuela grasped my hand. “This,” she said, indicating the talisman, “is to tell you he is here. Bad things will happen.” She turned to Rafael. “You explain better to your friend.”

“I will,” his face was quite serious. He turned to Manuela, “I’ll come back for a real visit. Tomorrow?”

Her face lit up. “Si, come then.” She stood and turned the lamp back on, blowing out the candle. She made the sign of the cross on her breast and took my hands in hers once more. “Tenga cuidado, señorita.

I had been present at psychic readings and seances, but there was something about this evening that chilled me to the bone. I followed Rafael out to the front door and turned to Manuela. “Gracias, Manuela.”

She smiled widely, “De nada.”

***

Excerpt from The Light Beside the Sea by Connie di Marco. Copyright 2024 by Connie di Marco. Reproduced with permission from Connie di Marco. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Connie di Marco

Connie di Marco is the author of the Zodiac Mysteries featuring San Francisco astrologer Julia Bonatti, a woman who never thought murder would be part of her practice. The Light Beside the Sea is the fifth novel in the series. Earlier books are The Madness of Mercury (Zodiac #1), All Signs Point to Murder (Zodiac #2), Tail of the Dragon (Zodiac #3), Enter a Wizard, Stage Left (an e-book prequel novella), and Serpent’s Doom (Zodiac #4).

Writing as Connie Archer, she is also the author of the national bestselling Soup Lover’s Mysteries from Penguin Random House: A Spoonful of Murder, A Broth of Betrayal, A Roux of Revenge, Ladle to the Grave and A Clue in the Stew. You can find her excerpts and recipes in The Cozy Cookbook and The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook. Visit her website at ConnieArcherMysteries.com. Facebook.com/ConnieArcherMysteries and X/Twitter@SnowflakeVT.

Connie is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Crime Writers Association (UK) and Sisters in Crime.

You can learn more about the Zodiac Mysteries and read excerpts at:
ConniediMarco.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @Connie_di_Marco
Instagram – @Connie_di_Marco
Twitter/X – @AskZodia
Facebook – @connie.di.marco.author

 

 

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Giveaway – How Deep is the Darkness by Mary Anne Edwards @maedwards58 @partnersincr1me

.

How Deep Is The Darkness by Mary Anne Edwards Banner

 

 

How Deep is the Darkness

A Charlie McClung Mystery

by Mary Anne Edwards

December 17, 2019 Book Blast

Synopsis:

How Deep is the Darkness by Mary Anne Edwards

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery
Published by: Sellem Books
Publication Date: December 2, 2019
Number of Pages: 247
ASIN:B081MYBYG8
Series: The Charlie McClung Mysteries Book 6
Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

This story begins on Monday, June 20, 1983, in Lyman County, Georgia

Chapter 1

Chief Charlie McClung stared at the pale, bloated body of Myron Wagstaff lying next to his own swimming pool. He’d seen enough bodies to know when dead is dead. And Myron was dead.

McClung glanced at his wife standing near the diving board at the far end of the pool. Marian’s white tee shirt clung to her body and her wet hair was plastered to her head and neck. Hugging herself, she managed a pitiful grin.

Not only was Myron Wagstaff a neighbor and the president of their Homeowners Association, but he was also Marian’s archnemesis.

McClung knelt beside Myron, grabbed his thick wrist, and checked for a pulse. His fingers sank into doughy flesh. Myron’s waterlogged polo shirt looked as if it had been spray painted on his belly, now bloated more than normal.

While McClung held his fingers in place waiting for a beat, he scanned the area. The patio furniture was jumbled together with the garden hose, snaking between the chairs, and stopping at the spot where Myron lay.

That, combined with the fact there weren’t any signs of bruising on Myron, perhaps meant this was an accidental drowning.

“Boss?” Sergeant Thayer asked as he stood behind McClung.

He shook his head as he moved aside for the paramedics to perform their magic. But McClung realized not even Doctor Frankenstein could reanimate poor Myron.

As the emergency team worked on Myron, Charlie hurried toward Marian.

“Are you okay?” He kissed her forehead and pulled her into his arms.

Marian’s body trembled against his chest.

“Thayer! Get Marian a blanket.”

The young sergeant ran full blast and quickly returned.

“I’m okay just, um, just, um.” Marian fought hard to keep her tears in check.

“Here.” Thayer’s breath pounded the back of Marian’s neck as he laid the blanket across her shoulders.

Charlie released Marian, secured the blanket then blotted a tissue under her eyes and nose. “Here’s a clean one.”

“Love the magical tissues.” A weak chuckle tumbled from Marian as she pulled the blanket tighter. “You’d think I’d be sweating in this June heat.”

“Well, it’s not even ten o’clock. It’s cloudy, and you’re soaking wet.” Charlie glanced at her feet. “Where are your shoes?”

“They were muddy, so I took them off before I went into Myron’s house to call 9-1-1 after I failed with CPR.” Marian sighed. “I was afraid that if Myron survived, he’d send me a bill to have the muddy floors cleaned.”

Pointing at the patio doors, she winced. “My shoes are over there.”

“What’s wrong?”

Marian massaged her lower back. “I guess I hurt my back getting Myron out of the water. I’ll be okay.”

Charlie squeezed her hand. Ever since Marian had the terrifying encounter with the Paper Heart Stalker and fell from a second-floor balcony last year, he worried about her health.

When McClung came face to face with the Paper Heart Stalker, Marian almost lost her life to save his but unknowingly sacrificed their unborn child.

He crossed over to the diving board and beckoned for her to follow. “Sit down. Here. Back toward me.”

She eased down on the hard plank.

Charlie’s strong hands ran across her shoulders and down her back.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not really.”

“I guess nothing’s broken, dislocated, or cracked.”

He crossed over the board and sat down. “When I get home tonight, I’ll give you an intense massage once you’ve soaked in a tub of hot Epsom salt water.”

“Sounds good.” Marian watched the paramedics work on Myron.

The team’s jaws were tight as they knelt over Myron’s body. One paramedic rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in defeat while the other one closed Myron’s eyes and pulled a blanket over his face.

“I didn’t think they’d have much luck reviving him. I’d hoped, but…” Marian’s voice trailed, her head heavy as she leaned on Charlie’s shoulder.

“You did everything by the book. I still don’t see how you got Myron out of the pool.”

Marian sighed. “I did what I had to.” She studied Charlie’s face, then swallowed hard and grimaced. “I tried to revive him. CPR but maybe if—.”

“Don’t even go down that path.” Charlie scratched his eyebrow. “Dispatch said you saw a man run from the scene.”

She sat up. “Yeah. Do you think he had something to do with this?”

“Possibly, but we won’t know for sure until we’ve gathered the facts.” Charlie shrugged. “To me, every death is suspicious. Been fooled before but never again.”

A year ago, two weeks after Charlie McClung had moved to Lyman County, he was called to the scene of a fatal shooting, Dianne Pannell. Without an investigation, the then chief of police ruled Dianne’s death a suicide, but Charlie proved it was murder after Dianne’s irritating neighbor, his now-wife, Marian, pressed him to look further into the case.

“Yeah.” Marian murmured.

Charlie stood. “Could be the guy got spooked when he saw Myron in the pool and ran away.” He held out his hand. “Come with me. The paramedics need to give you a quick check.”

“Why? My back isn’t hurting that bad.”

His hand cupped her cheek. “Sweetie, please just humor me.”

Marian avoided looking at Myron and let her husband guide her to the ambulance.

They met officers Willard and Marsh at the gate. Photographer Sam Goldstein wasn’t far behind.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” Marsh’s voice quivered, and his eyebrows drew together.

Marian looked at him for a moment. “I’m fine. Just a bit damp.” She bit her bottom lip and blinked several times. “Maybe a little shaken.”

Both officers were like sons to Marian.

A tentative smile eased the furrow between Marsh’s eyes. “Thank goodness.”

Willard scratched his head. “Where are your shoes, ma’am?”

McClung answered. “They’re outside the patio door. One of you get them for Marian.”

“Consider it done, Boss.” Willard took off.

“Marsh, I want you and Willard to help Thayer process the scene.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Willard returned a few minutes later, holding the less-muddy sneakers. His hands were filthy. “Here you go. I cleaned them up the best I could.”

“Thank you, Willard.” Marian took the shoes.

“No trouble.”

“You two. Go assist Thayer.” McClung barked.

“Wait.” Marian held up her hand. “I scratched the running guy’s tag number on the sidewalk.”

“Marsh go find it. Willard, you report to Thayer.” McClung directed his trusted men.

The two young men hurried off on opposite paths.

“Sam, how did you know I needed you?”

The silver-haired man tapped his temple. “Didn’t take me long to figure you out. You’re a cop that sees murder everywhere.”

“But Sam, how did you know to come here?” Marian blurted.

Charlie and Sam answered. “Police scanner.”

Marian frowned. “Just anybody can have one?”

“Yep!” Charlie sighed. “In this case, it’s a good thing but mostly it’s not.”

Sam coughed. “I’ll just take a picture or two of that tag number.”

“Yeah, do that. Plus, there’s a lot going on behind the house.” Charlie watched the older man trudge down the sidewalk. Camera bags banged against Sam’s body with each step he took.

One of the paramedics joined McClung and Marian at the ambulance.

“Ma’am don’t fret. There wasn’t a thing you could’ve done for that guy.” The bear of a man shook his head. “I ain’t no coroner, but I’ve been at this job for a long time. He’s been dead too long to be revived.”

The reassurance that she wasn’t a factor in Myron’s death didn’t make Marian feel any better.

“Mel, do you mind giving my wife a quick once-over to make sure she’s safe to go home?” Charlie stroked Marian’s back as he spoke.

“Sure.”

Mel removed his latex gloves and put on a fresh pair. He tilted his head toward the rear of the ambulance. “Just sit there.”

“Boss.” Thayer called to McClung from the open gate.

Charlie looked at Marian.

“Go on. Do your job.” Marian kissed her husband’s cheek.

He didn’t move from her side.

“I’m fine, just a tweaked back. Besides you’re making me nervous watching me like a hawk.”

“Boss.” Thayer repeated more urgently.

Charlie smiled and gave her a casual salute. “As you wish.”

McClung hurried toward Thayer. “Found something?”

“I think I figured out what happened.”

McClung disappeared behind the fence.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

“What is it, Thayer?” McClung followed him into Myron’s house as he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “I was hoping I could go a whole year without having to use these.”

“Makes for a mundane job.” Sergeant Thayer said flatly. “Here sir, in the kitchen. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey and one glass.”

McClung arched an eyebrow as he leaned over to study the bottle of Four Roses Single Barrel Bourbon Whiskey. About three fingers of liquid was left inside the bottle, a few drops coated the bottom of the tumbler.

He walked to the sink and smelled the drain. No lingering odor of alcohol. Then he carefully picked up the tumbler. “Thayer, flip on the overhead light.”

The fluorescent tubes buzzed to life.

McClung held up the tumbler to the harsh light. On the rim, was a faint lip print. “Hmm, make sure you dust this for prints and bag it.” He set it back in its original position.

Marsh squinted as he entered the kitchen. “Boss, put me to work.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“Taking pictures of the deceased before they cart him away.”

McClung rubbed his earlobe. “Tell Mel to instruct the hospital not to release the body until I say so. I want Jack Jackson to do the autopsy, if he’s available.” He snapped his fingers. “And tell Sam I’ll need him in here when he’s finished.”

“Will do.” Marsh headed outside.

McClung studied every inch of the kitchen: the floor, inside the cabinets, oven, and refrigerator. He examined everything as he searched for possible clues. There was no hint to what may have led to Myron’s death.

“Boss, I don’t think it’s murder.”

McClung raised an eyebrow and replied sarcastically, “Yeah? Well then, enlighten me with your hypothesis of poor Wagstaff’s watery demise.” He strolled toward the open patio door and headed for the pool.

As Thayer spoke, McClung studied the jumbled furniture.

“Myron was drunk, got tangled up in the patio furniture, stumbled around, and then fell into the pool. He was too drunk to get himself out of the water.”

McClung pushed out his bottom lip and nodded. “Hm. He was in the shallow end. All he had to do was stand up.”

Thayer rubbed the top of his head. “Maybe he hit his head on the bottom. Knocked himself out.”

McClung wandered around the pool. He stopped where the garden hose lay beside the pool.

The concrete was soaked, and the grass drenched to the point that a small stream had flowed down the incline, out the gate and onto the street.

“What do you think Myron was doing with the hose?”

Thayer hunched his shoulders. “Topping off the pool?”

“Yeah, sounds right.” McClung pointed to the water-logged grass. “The hose had to be on for a long time to have created that miniature creek rolling down the hill and into the street.”

“That goes to show I’m right. He was drunk standing here. The hose got tangled in the furniture. He yanked it. Lost his balance. Dropped the hose. Hit his head on the concrete and fell into the pool. Accidental drowning.” Thayer crossed his arms and grinned.

McClung pulled on his bottom lip. “Plausible.” Something on the concrete caught his eye.

“What does this look like to you?” McClung knelt close to the spot.

“It looks like blood. Must be where he hit his head.”

“Yeah, and what about this?”

McClung touched a hard, yellowish, rectangular-shaped chip, like a half of a Chiclet. He looked around for Sam Goldstein.

The EMTs were talking to Sam as he photographed Myron’s body.

McClung yelled over his shoulder. “Sam, get over here.”

The paramedics began moving Myron’s body.

“What do we have there?” Sam held the camera to his eye, snapping pictures as McClung pointed toward the areas.

“That appears to be blood.” McClung pointed to the yellowish object. “And that, my friend, doesn’t belong here. Possibly a clue.”

Thayer knelt beside McClung. “Yep, could be. It looks like old ivory?”

McClung thought the odd chip looked familiar, but the vague memory faded away.

Sam zoomed to get a few tight shots of the chip and the blood spatters.

McClung glanced at the EMTs. “Thayer, bag it and look for more spatters and anything else in this area. I want a chat with Mel.”

“Mel, where’s Marian? Is she all right?” McClung moved out of the way of the paramedics while they loaded Myron onto the stretcher.

“She’s fine. Just hurt her back. Understandable.” Mel groaned as they lifted Myron’s body. “Even for me this guy is hefty. I’m surprised your wife got him out of the water. She’s a tiny lady. What 5’3’ and 125 pounds?”

McClung snorted as he nodded. “Yep, but she’s stubborn. If she’s got it in her mind to do something, consider it done.”

“Is Marian still sitting in the back of the ambulance?” McClung followed the gurney.

“No, sir. She’s sittin on the front stoop waitin on you.”

Officer Billy Crawford met them inside the gate.

McClung couldn’t help but smile at his oldest officer. Crawford was always in a jolly mood.

But not this morning.

“Boss, sorry it took me so long to get here.” Crawford wore a rare frown.

“What’s the matter?” McClung waved the paramedics to go on.

Crawford shifted the criminal investigation kit from one hand to the other. “Ah, the missus got news her favorite uncle isn’t doing so good and her dad’s not taking it none too well. If her uncle dies, my father-in-law will be the last one left in his family.”

McClung gripped Crawford’s firm shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure you should be here? Your wife needs you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not much help. Best thing for me is to stay out of her way.”

“Okay, but don’t be shy about asking for time off. Understand?”

“I appreciate that, Boss.”

“If there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.” He shook his index finger at his officer. “I mean it. Ask. Marian will make sure you’re fed, you got that?”

“Yes, Boss. But I saw her sitting out front, and she doesn’t look so good.”

McClung’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You didn’t know she’s here?” Crawford pulled back his head.

“Yeah, but she said she was fine.” McClung patted the officer’s back. “Let me go speak with her. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Charlie hurried to find his wife, but stopped a few yards away to observe her.

So many questions he needed to ask, but he was worried about her. Marian didn’t need this stress. Not now.

Marian looked like a triangular-shaped lump of coal. The dark gray blanket was wound tightly around her body and she was resting her forehead on her knees, which she’d pulled up to her chest.

Charlie wondered how she was able to breathe. He sat beside her and rubbed her back. “Sweetie?”

Marian’s head popped up. “Hey! I didn’t hear you come up. I must’ve dozed off as I was praying.”

“Yeah? Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so hot.” Charlie wrapped his arms around her.

Marian winced. “You’re such a sweet talker.”

Charlie released his embrace. “Sorry.” His fingers massaged her lower back.

“That’s okay.” Marian pulled off the blanket and neatly folded it. “I’m tired. I want to lie down. Is it okay for me to walk home, now?”

“Nope, it’s at least a mile and a half. I’m driving you home.”

She straightened her legs. “Might as well. These sneakers are ruined. Not good for anything but stomping around in the yard.”

Marian tucked the thin blanket under her arm. “What about the investigation? Aren’t you going to question me?”

“Your well-being is more important to me. Besides, Thayer’s opinion is this is an accidental drowning. My best team is on this. They don’t need me telling them how to do their job. And you can tell me what happened when you feel like it.”

“Now?”

“Do you honestly want to talk about it now?”

Marian whispered. “I need to, but—”

“But means later. Tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight.”

Charlie held her hand as they walked toward the gate. “Let me tell the guys I’m taking you home.”

McClung passed the EMTs as he disappeared behind the fence.

Marian shuddered as she watched the paramedics load Myron’s body inside the ambulance. “I’ve witnessed this scene too many times in the past year.”

***

Excerpt from How Deep is the Darkness: A Charlie McClung Mystery by Mary Anne Edwards. Copyright 2019 by Mary Anne Edwards. Reproduced with permission from Mary Anne Edwards. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Mary Anne Edwards

Born in Mercedes, Texas, Mary Anne has lived in Georgia for most of her life. A life-long fan of authors such as Agatha Christie, Anne Perry, Caroline Graham, and Elizabeth Peters, it wasn’t until a few years ago that Mary Anne listened to the voices in her head and began writing her own series of traditional mysteries featuring Detective Charlie McClung.

The first book in the series, Brilliant Disguise, was released to critical acclaim in January 2014. The next three in the series, A Good Girl, Criminal Kind, and Sins of my Youth were released soon afterward. The fifth book in the series, Flirting with Time, was released on June 30, 2017. The sixth book, How Deep is the Darkness, will be released on December 2, 2019. She is working on the seventh book, Complex Kid, with at least three more to follow.

Mary Anne and her husband live in Smyrna, GA with an ill-tempered Tuxedo cat named Gertrude. Mary Anne is a member of Sisters in Crime and sits on the advisory board of Rockdale Cares, a non-profit advocacy group for the developmentally challenged.

Catch Up With Mary Anne Edwards:
MaryAnneEdwards.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Instagram, Twitter, & Facebook!

 

 

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GIVEAWAY!!!!:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Mary Anne Edwards. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on December 17, 2019 and runs through December 27, 2019. Void where prohibited.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

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Cover Reveal & Giveaway for Criminal Kind by Mary Anne Edwards

Criminal Kind
by Mary Anne Edwards
Series: A Charlie McClung Mystery, #3
Genre: Traditional Mystery

Publisher: Sellem Books

Cover Artist: Michael James Canales

Release Date: June 30, 2015

 

 

It’s the perfect setting for a romantic getaway at sea: Caribbean breezes, clear blue skies, passionate nights, and murder? Not exactly what Detective Charlie McClung and Marian had in mind for their honeymoon. When one of their fellow passengers is murdered on her 35th wedding anniversary, Charlie and Marian get pulled into the investigation. Who would want to kill poor Tammy Ferguson in such a brutal way? As Charlie uncovers more sordid details about Tammy and her husband, Peter, it becomes clear that someone else has found the same skeletons in the Ferguson’s closet and Tammy has paid the price. Is Peter next?

Trapped on the ship with a killer, shadows seem more ominous and even the most innocent faces seem sinister. Has Charlie inadvertently put Marian in harm’s way? How long does Charlie have before the hunter becomes the hunted?

 

Haven’t started the series yet?

 

Book 1: Brilliant Disguise

 

Book 2: A Good Girl

 

 

Mary Anne was born in Mercedes, Texas, but has lived in Georgia most of her life.  She has had a variety of experiences in her life. Some were great and some, well let’s just say Mary Anne has learned many lessons the hard way.

Mary Anne has been married for nearly 35 years to the most practically perfect man. They have a newly adopted Tuxedo cat named Gertrude. They enjoy traveling and watching mysteries on TV. Mary Anne is active in Sisters in Crime Atlanta Chapter, Mystery Writers of America and sits on the advisory board of Rockdale Cares, Inc., a non-profit advocacy group for the developmentally challenged.

Although Mary Anne began writing in high school, she didn’t get serious about it until 1999. She writes traditional mysteries that are influenced by some of her favorite authors:  Agatha Christie, Anne Perry, Caroline Graham, and Elizabeth Peters.

Her first book in the Detective Charlie McClung mysteries, “Brilliant Disguise” was released on January 21, 2014. The next book in the series, “A Good Girl”, was released on September 23, 2014. Mary Anne is currently working on the third book in the series, “Criminal Kind”; there are seven more to follow .

 

 

 

 

 

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