FEATURED AUTHOR: EMILY WINSLOW

ABOUT THE BOOK

Lilling might seem like an idyllic English village, but it’s home to a dark history. In 1976, a teenage girl named Annalise Wood disappeared, and though her body was later discovered, the culprit was never found. Decades later, Annalise maintains a perverse kind of celebrity, and is still the focus of grief, speculation, and for one young woman, a disturbing, escalating jealousy.

When DNA linked to the Annalise murder unexpectedly surfaces, cold case detective Morris Keene and his former partner, Chloe Frohmann, hope to finally bring closure to this traumatized community. But the new evidence instead undoes the case's only certainty: the buried body that had long ago been confidently identified as Annalise may be someone else entirely, and instead of answers, the investigators face only new puzzles.

Whose body was unearthed all those years ago, and what happened to the real Annalise? Is someone interfering with the investigation? And is there a link to a present-day drowning with eerie connections? With piercing insight and shocking twists, Emily Winslow explores the dark side of sensationalized crime in this haunting psychological thriller.

Book Details:

Title: Look For Her

Author: Emily Winslow

Genre: Psychological Thriller,  Keene and Frohmann series #4 |

Publisher: William Morrow (February 13th 2018)

Paperback: 304 pages

Touring with: Partners in Crime Book Tours

INTERVIEW WITH EMILY WINSLOW

Emily, tell us about your series. Is this book a standalone, or do readers need to read the series in order?

My four crime novels are a series set in Cambridge, England. The same detectives are in all of them, and there's an overall story arc in their personal lives, but each mystery stands alone. Genuinely, you can start with any one of them. I usually tell people: The Whole World is about a missing graduate student, two American undergrads with a crush on him, and a blind professor obsessed with her mother. The Start of Everything is about big-bang scientists at the Institute of Astronomy, an unidentified body found in the fens, and an autistic young woman determined to deliver a misaddressed letter. The Red House is about music, memory, and an engaged couple who might actually be brother and sister. Look for Her is about a cold case investigation of a famous missing teenager, and a young woman in the present who is jealous of the famous victim. If you read them in that order, you follow the main detective's injury and subsequent struggles on the job. But you can also just start with whichever one draws you the most.

Where did you grow up?
I grew up in Maplewood, New Jersey, an idyllic New York City commuter town. We had the stimulation and culture of nearby New York, and the quietness, charm, and green spaces of a gentle suburb. I was very lucky to live there.

Where is your favorite library, and what do you love about it?
The children's room of my hometown library had a life-sized stuffed toy lion to climb on, a detailed doll house, and even a secret room behind a bookshelf-door for storytime! And we had the best children's librarian in the world (Pam Gosner), and really creative summer programs. That setting was a perfect introduction to the magic of books.

What is the most daring thing you've done?
I was convinced I wanted to be an actress when I was young, to the point that I studied at a non-academic conservatory for college. After four years there doing nothing but acting, I wanted out, but I felt embarrassed to stop. The rest of my class were headed to New York and Los Angeles with excitement. Changing my career aspirations felt humiliating, even shameful, as if I were admitting I couldn't handle it (which may have also been true) instead of that I didn't want it anymore. I wanted to write and went to grad school instead. Looking back now, it was absolutely the right decision, but at the time it felt like an enormous leap of faith.


How did you meet your spouse?
My best friend had a semester abroad at Cambridge. She met a great guy and spent the next five years trying to set us up (which took that long because we lived on different continents). Once she finally got us in the same room together, we hit it off and married eight months later. That was twenty years ago.

What do you love about where you live now?
Cambridge, England is exactly what dreamy Americans who have never actually been to England imagine it to be. The architecture is sublime. Art and music are everywhere, often free. It's a 50/50 chance that anyone you bump into will be a world-class expert in some arcane subject. This is where I live and where I set my books. The city is an inspiration.

Are any of your characters inspired by real people?
I try to be pretty careful about this. My novels are set in and around real Cambridge colleges. When the characters are just “students” or “fellows” I'm in the clear, but more specific roles (like “chaplain” or “Director of Music”) clearly indicate real people (which happened mostly in my book The Red House). I always get permission, even if I'm not using their names. Usually people are delighted to be part of a story.

Is your book based on real events?
This novel isn't, but the book I wrote immediately before it is. Jane Doe January is my memoir of involvement in a real-life court case. It was harrowing.

What makes you nervous?
I find it really stressful to cook for people. I'm just not confident in the kitchen. But my husband is a terrific cook and actually enjoys it, so when we throw dinner parties I do the inviting, the cleaning, the setting up. He makes something wonderful. We're a good team.


Do you have another job outside of writing?
My husband and I homeschool, so that takes a lot of our time and attention. We swap: I get to write in the mornings while he teaches our son, then he works in the afternoons. I've also started teaching creative writing at Cambridge's Institute of Continuing Education, which is wonderful. The classes are held in a gorgeous mansion just outside the city. The students are adults of all ages, and really want to be there. It's a pleasure.

Where and when do you prefer to do your writing?
My top priority for writing time is to be completely alone. Sometimes I write in a guest room, if it's empty, or I hide away in our bedroom if the house is full. I also prefer a stretch of several hours. So, whenever I know the kids are occupied or otherwise looked after is the right time!

What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received about your writing?
A recent reviewer called this new book “beguiling.” What a lovely adjective!

How did you find your publisher, and how long did your query process take?
I queried agents for a few months before I signed with my wonderful agent Cameron McClure at Donald Maass. This was through an ordinary query letter; no “who you know” or secret handshake involved. She got me my first book deal a few months later. It's been wonderful being with Random House, HarperCollins, and Allison & Busby. I love working with such talented editors, designers, marketers. Their support means a lot.

READ AN EXCERPT

From Chapter One

Annalise Williams (Wolfson College),
University Counselling Service,
recorded and transcribed by Dr. Laurie Ambrose

My mother picked the name Annalise for me because of a girl who was killed. Her name was Annalise Wood, and she went missing when she was sixteen. My mother was the same age when it happened. Annalise was lovely, much prettier than my sister and I ever became. She was the kind of girl you look at and think, "Of course someone would want to take her."
Don’t look at me like that. I know that what happened to her was awful. It just seems a very fine line between being the kind of person that others want to be with and be like and treat well, and being the kind of person that some others, just a few, sick others, want to take for themselves. That’s the same kind of person, isn’t it? The loved and lovely. Isn’t that from a poem somewhere? That’s what she was like. That’s the risk when you’re the kind of person who’s wanted. Good people want to be close to you, but the bad people want you too.
There were two photos of her that the media used most: her most recent school portrait, and a snapshot of her laughing, with the friends on either side cropped out. Taken together, they presented the two sides of a beautiful and perfect person: poised and thoughtful, and spontaneous and bubbly. The kind of person who deserves help and attention.
Realistically, if they wanted these pictures to help strangers identify her if they saw her out and about with the bad man, they should have used photos of her frowning or looking frightened. Either there weren’t any (which may well be the case; who would take a photo of that?), or they couldn’t bring themselves to advertise a version of her that was less than appealing. The narrative is important. If you want the “general public” to get worked up, you have to persuade. Attractiveness and innocence must be communicated, even if emphasising those traits makes the real person harder to recognise.
In the end, she was already dead, so it’s a good thing, I suppose, that they used the nice photos. They’re the images that everyone remembers. My mum was a teenager when those pictures were in the paper every day for weeks, then weekly for months. Annalise Wood was the most beautiful girl in the world. Everyone cared about her. It’s what any mother would wish for her child, to be the kind of person that everyone would care about and miss if she disappeared.
It wasn’t until Mum was over thirty that what really happened to Annalise Wood was discovered.
***

Excerpt from Look for Her by Emily Winslow. Copyright © 2018 by Emily Winslow. Reprinted by permission of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Winslow is an American living in Cambridge, England. She trained as an actor at Carnegie Mellon University’s prestigious drama conservatory and earned a master’s degree in museum studies from Seton Hall University. For six years she wrote for Games magazine, creating increasingly elaborate and lavishly illustrated logic puzzles. She lives with her husband and two sons. She is the author of four novels and a memoir.

Connect with Emily:

Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads

Buy the book:
Amazon  | Barnes & Noble 

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FEATURED AUTHOR: JOHN D. MIMMS

ABOUT THE BOOK

Death is the closest thing to omnipotence we will experience in our brief time on this planet. It is an all-encompassing power, binding everything, and providing a cold certainty to an otherwise uncertain existence. The firm grip of this assurance reaches much further than the extinguishment of life; it greedily claims the hope and happiness of those who remain. It is a definite ending, but is it also a provable beginning?

Linda Granger did not see death coming.

Sleep shielded her from the unfolding horror. The looming headlights and the panicked screams of her husband were beyond her conscious state. When her head shattered the windshield, the dream about her son ended, sending her into what’s next. Linda was gone before the car rolled seven times and wrapped around a large oak tree. Her husband, Stephen, was not as fortunate. He died two minutes later. Linda had fallen asleep from emotional exhaustion. She died with regrets.



Book Details:

Title: Death Theory

Author’s name: John D Mimms

Genre: mystery, thriller, paranormal

Publisher: Draft 2 Digital
Publication (January 30, 2018)

Paperback: 320 pages

Touring with: Partners in Crime Book Tours

INTERVIEW WITH JOHN D. MIMMS

John, what’s the story behind the title of your book?
I used to be involved in paranormal research several years ago. The idea of “the death theory” has been out there, but I though what would happen if that theory were tested?

Tell us about your series. Is this book a standalone, or do readers need to read the series in order?
Standalone.

Where’s home for you?
Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas.

What do you love about where you live? 
Beautiful view and secluded

.

Where did you grow up?
Conway, Arkansas.

If you had an extra $100 a week to spend on yourself, what would you buy?
Items for my train collection.


What’s the dumbest purchase you’ve ever made?
Buying a pool.


What’s the most valuable thing you’ve learned? 
Put your life in God’s hands.

What dumb things did you do during your college years? 
Skipped class.

What is the most daring thing you've done?
Scuba diving
.

What’s one thing that you wish you knew as a teenager that you know now?
The value of study.

Do you have another job outside of writing?
Own an insurance agency.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where in the world would it be?
Besides Arkansas, I would live in Virginia.

What would you like people to say about you after you die?
He was a good man who loved people and put God first.

What would your main character say about you?
Dude … why?

Who are your favorite authors?
C.S. Lewis, JRR Tolkien, Charles Dickens, Dean Koontz, HG Wells.


What book are you currently reading and in what format? 
Life Expectancy by Dean Koontz in audio book.

What’s one pet peeve you have when you read? 
Bad editing.

Where and when do you prefer to do your writing?
In my office at home in the evening.

What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received about your writing?
"It made me cry (in a good way)."

What's the worst thing someone has said about your writing? How did you deal with it?
"Amateurish." Ignored it.

BOOK TRAILER

READ AN EXCERPT




Death is the closest thing to omnipotence we will experience in our brief time on this planet. It is an all-encompassing power, binding everything, and providing a cold certainty to an otherwise uncertain existence. The firm grip of this assurance reaches much further than the extinguishment of life; it greedily claims the hope and happiness of those who remain. It is a definite ending, but is it also a provable beginning?




Prologue

Linda Granger did not see death coming.



Sleep shielded her from the unfolding horror. The looming headlights and the panicked screams of her husband were beyond her conscious state. When her head shattered the windshield, the dream about her son ended, sending her into what’s next. Linda was gone before the car rolled seven times and wrapped around a large oak tree. Her husband, Stephen, was not as fortunate. He died two minutes later. Linda had fallen asleep from emotional exhaustion. She died with regrets.




Chapter 1

Jeff’s sheets were drenched in sweat. He strained to hear because he wanted to continue the conversation he had been having. The bass drum of his pulse throbbed in his ears, making hearing impossible. He sat up and glanced about frantically. Where had she gone?



As sleep gave way to the waking world, dread filled him. He remembered the terrible truth. These muddled conversations with his mother had become nightly occurrences since his parents’ accident. The last words he shared with his mother were over the phone, and they were harsh. The next time he picked up the phone, mere hours later, it was the Missouri State Police asking him to come to the hospital. It has been over a year since the terrible night, yet the pain had not gone away. In some ways, it grew worse.



Jeff rolled on his side as tears streamed down his cheeks. In his dream, he told his mother he loved her. He wondered if she could hear him. Somehow, he believed it might be possible. His grieving heart longed for a way to communicate with his late parents.



Jeff rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. It was impossible. He eventually got up and opened the blinds. It rained last night and a steamy mist shielded the street from view. This was the perfect morning to stay in bed and he almost did if not for two things. His sheets were soaked and he was excited about today. Even though he needed extra sleep, since he would be staying up all night, he just couldn’t hold back the excitement of investigating with his fourth paranormal group in as many months. Missouri Spirit Seekers claim to do purely scientific investigations, but the three previous groups he joined did as well. He hoped this time would be different.



They would be investigating Pythian Castle tonight, the most ‘haunted’ location in Springfield, not too far from Jeff’s alma mater, Missouri State. The castle was a very cool historical site, but to Jeff, it was another opportunity to find answers for life’s greatest mystery -death.



Although the investigation was still twelve hours away, nervous anticipation consumed him. He hoped this was not another séance based, sage burning, ghost hunt like most of the others. His previous groups were as far away from science as one could get.



Jeff brewed a pot of coffee and microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal, before sitting down to watch his recording of the show which started him on the path to paranormal investigation. He viewed it often, but it had become a ritual to watch on the day of an investigation. If Jeff were counting, this would be his eighty-third time to watch.



The show starred two men, who were electricians by trade, investigating haunted places using the scientific method. They gathered measurable scientific evidence in their investigations. In this particular episode, they were investigating the catacombs underneath an old church in Baltimore.



What peaked Jeff’s interest were the Electronic Voice Phenomenon the men captured on their digital recorders. He wondered if EVP’s are actually the voices of the dead. The guys on the show didn’t commit one way or the other, they just presented the recordings.



“You up above,” a disembodied voice said.



“The way through,” another one whispered.



The most eerie utterance of them all said, “Come down here among us.”



Jeff’s reaction was the same every time he watched; chills intermingled with hope and fear ran up his spine.



Jeff reached into a box under the coffee table and retrieved his digital recorder. He held it in his hands as if it were an object of holy veneration. Jeff recorded his own EVP one night several months earlier at the scene of his parent’s accident. Short, incredible, and heart-breaking; his mother seemed to call his name from beyond. The EVP was still on his recorder, even though he had backed it up to a dozen sources. He would never delete it from any device. Never.



A loud thud rattled the blinds on the front door. Jeff jumped, almost dropping the recorder. His alarm lasted only a moment when he recognized the sound of the newspaper carrier’s rattle-trap station wagon puttering up the street. He peeled back the blinds in time to see the tail lights disappear into the mist. Jeff was still in his underwear with a gaping fly, but he figured his rural setting, coupled with the fog, would spare him any indecent exposure charges.



Jeff scooped up the paper, almost losing his balance on the wet concrete, and then backed through the door. He plopped down on the sofa and began to unfold the massive log of news. He was heading straight for the sports section when an article caught his eye. The title read:



Springfield … the Most Haunted City in Missouri?



The Kansas City Royals box scores could wait. Jeff dove right into the article. The ghosts of Phelps Grove Park, Bass Country Inn, Drury University, Landers Theater, Springfield National Cemetery, University Plaza Hotel, and Pythian Castle were all mentioned prominently by the author. Jeff had investigated Phelps Grove Park with one of his previous groups. One of the members claimed he saw the infamous spectral bride near the bridge, but Jeff had no such luck. He never had success when it came to firsthand experiences. Either everyone else is lying or perhaps Jeff is walking ghost repellent. He didn’t think they were lying, at least not everyone who made a paranormal claim. His recording of his mother was enough to keep faith in the paranormal.



He read the claims of Drury University with great interest. There were allegedly several ghosts, in a few buildings, which had taken residence there since the school’s founding in 1873. The saddest one was a little girl who died in a fire. Her phantom laughter could be heard from time to time in one of the women’s dorms.



Jeff enjoyed a good ghost story since he was a kid, but these were more than merely a spectral yarn. Each story offered a small glimmer of hope.



He didn’t read about Pythian Castle; there was no need. He had spent so much time researching it the last couple of weeks, he could recite the history word for word. The shadow spirits who allegedly resided in the basement intrigued him the most. They had been reported so often over the years, there was little doubt that something unusual was occurring in the depths of the castle.



Jeff finally checked the box scores, lamenting another loss by his favorite team. He scanned the comics before tossing the paper on the floor. He trudged to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Afterward, he put on a fresh pair of boxers and a T-shirt before stretching out on the couch. He fell asleep watching Netflix. If he dreamed of his parents again, he did not remember.



Jeff arrived at Pythian Castle an hour before dusk. The rainy morning had given way to a perfectly clear early evening. The ghostly apparition of the full moon glowed in the eastern sky as the sun began to dip. The large tower on front of the castle cast a long shadow over his truck as he pulled in and parked. He ascended the stone steps onto an expansive porch where a very large woman with a mystical fashion sense met him at the front door.



“Hello … Jack?” she said.



“Jeff,” he corrected. “You must be Swoosie.”



Swoosie half-nodded and half-bowed. She reminded him of a fortune teller he visited one time, just for kicks.



“Would you like a charm for protection tonight?” Swoosie asked, reaching into a velvet bag and retrieving what appeared to be a tiny silk pillow.



“No, thanks … I’m good,” Jeff said. He couldn’t help smirking a little.



Swoosie noticed.



“Suit yourself,” she huffed. “Spirits can pick up on those less experienced in this field. They tend to prey more on them.”



“Good,” Jeff said. “Maybe I will get some good evidence.”



Swoosie narrowed her pudgy eyelids and motioned for a man who was milling about awkwardly, studying old pictures on the wall. 
“Preston,” she called with a snap of her fingers.



He was a middle-aged man with a greasy ring of dark hair circling a large bald spot. His clothing was a mish mash of suit pants and a Molly Hatchett T-shirt. The shirt and pin stripe pants were riddled with stains.



“How are you?” Preston asked breathlessly. It seemed his pot belly was a strain for him to carry.



“Fine, Preston,” Jeff said. “Nice to meet you.”



“Oh … I think Mr. Leach is preferable,” Preston said. “I could be your daddy.”



“Not likely,” Jeff thought.



“I’m putting the two of you together tonight since you are both new to this,” Swoosie said. “You know … strength in numbers.”



Both men’s puzzled expressions testified their bewilderment of Swoosie’s logic as if to point out that it would make more sense to put them with an experienced investigator.



“I’m a fairly experienced investigator,” Jeff said. “Tonight, makes my twentieth investigation.”



Swoosie’s condescending smile let him know she still considered him a novice. She turned and then waddled over to a sofa in the foyer where her daughter and a couple of other men waited. Their familiar banter showed them to be a clique.



“Okay, Mr. Leach,” Jeff said. “Where should we start?”



This group didn’t set up night vision cameras or environmental equipment as he hoped. Each member was only armed with a flashlight, digital recorder, and maybe a camera. Jeff was sure most of them carried a silk charm pillow in their pocket.



“I think they want us to go the basement,” Mr. Leach said impatiently. “Didn’t you hear what Swoosie said?”



Swoosie was much larger than Mr. Leach, yet she seemed a bit more agile as he watched his partner shuffle down the corridor.



“Okay,” Jeff mumbled before following him down the stone stairs to the basement.



They picked a far corner in the dark, dingy basement, and then set their digital recorders on a wooden table. The musty smell of old buildings had become synonymous with ghosts in Jeff’s mind. Even though he knew better, he sometimes entertained the idea of it being a ‘ghost odor’.



The sun was beginning to set through one of the basement windows, so they agreed to wait until full dark before beginning their session.



“Hey … you know this used to hold POWs during World War Two?” Jeff said, nodding at the old cells across the room. The iron doors had been removed many years ago on all but one.



“It was an orphanage at one time, built by the Knights of Pythias,” Mr. Leach countered.



“Really?” Jeff said, a little confused at why an orphanage would be more interesting than a POW prison.



“Yeah, can you imagine how many kids died here?” Mr. Leach mused.



Jeff’s stomach twisted. His partner seemed a little too gleeful about dead children.



“Yeah,” Jeff said distantly. He watched the last rays of the sun disappear behind the shrubbery outside. When it was completely dark, he said, “Well, shall we get started?”



Jeff jumped when a flashlight beam flared in his eyes.



“Can I ask you something, Jeff?” Mr. Leach asked, lowering his flashlight.



“Sure.”



“How did you get into paranormal stuff?” Mr. Leach asked.



“Curiosity,” Jeff began and then anger began to simmer. He didn’t know why the question upset him so, it was benign and practical. Perhaps it was his partner’s tone. “It’s really nobody’s business,” Jeff snapped.



“Fair enough,” Mr. Leach said. “What did your fiancée say about it?”



Jeff glared at Mr. Leach in the darkness. How did he know he had a fiancée?



“What makes you think I had a fiancée?” Jeff asked, pointedly.



“I know things,” Mr. Leach replied. His coy response echoing from the darkness sounded like the prelude to a horror movie.



Jeff was angry. Mr. Leach seemed to have no boundaries. Jeff’s fiancée was a sore spot. She had been a former fiancée for almost a year.



“Why don’t you tell me her name?” Jeff said, a little too loud. Shushes hissed from deep in the darkness as his voice echoed off the stone walls. It seemed the whole building heard his question.



There was a very long pause. Jeff almost thought he was alone until the answer startled him.



“I can’t see that,” Mr. Leach answered. “Only events and feelings.”



“What are you … some kinda Jedi Master?” Jeff asked.



“I’m psychic,” Mr. Leach wheezed. His last word echoed about the basement, bringing more shushes from around the building.



“Oh,” Jeff whispered. He had encountered these people before; every paranormal group seemed to have them. Out of the dozen or so self-proclaimed psychics Jeff had known in his life, there was only one he believed legitimate. An old shut-in, who he delivered prescriptions to while in college, told him some interesting things about his life that came to pass a short time later.



“So, where is my fiancée?” Jeff asked.



There was a long silence before Mr. Leach replied flatly. “With another man, I’m afraid.”



Jeff didn’t say anything. He knew she was with another man now. Lurid images filled his head as to what they may be doing right now. Acid boiled in his guts and his heart began to pound. He didn’t expect this answer; he was looking for more of a geographical location. She had been with this schmuck for six months, two weeks, and three days, but he wasn’t counting.



“Does that shock you?” Mr. Leach whispered.



“You’re the psychic … you tell me,” Jeff barked. “Look, I just want to focus on the investigation, can we do that now?”



More shushes ensued followed by a booming female voice asking them to be quiet. Swoosie had some lungs.



They were so engrossed in their argument, neither man noticed the single cell door slowly swing open and a black shadow dart down the passageway. The air grew thick and uncomfortable, but both men thought it was from their awkward conversation.



Mr. Leach didn’t answer. A moment later, Jeff heard the beep of a digital recorder turning on. The small red recording light resembled a one-eyed demon in the complete darkness. Jeff knew he hurt the guy’s feelings, but he didn’t care. Mr. Leach had trodden on areas of Jeff’s life where he wasn’t welcome. In fact, no one was welcome. His fiancée had been the last living member of anything resembling family for Jeff. She had tried to get him to see a shrink to cope with his parent’s death, but he refused. Thus, the wedge between them was forged.



On the surface, Jeff seemed to recover. He tried to move on with his life. His preacher once told him that time is a river, washing away all pains and transgressions. Yet, for those who grieve, time is often an ocean. It ebbs and flows, sometimes exposing the pain lurking beneath the surface of our consciousness with each experience.



“Truth,” Jeff thought.



He finally turned on his digital recorder and began to alternate questions with Mr. Leach.



“Is anyone with us?”



“Are you angry?”



“What is your name?”



“How old are you?”



“Why are you here?”



“When did you die?”



They repeated this process several times in different areas of the building. They never heard anything. Hopefully, there would be some evidence on the recording.



Jeff found it difficult to focus. Of course, he was tired, yet it was much more than fatigue. Mr. Leach had upset him, there was no denying it. The thing bothering him the most was the image running through his head; His fiancée and some faceless man with a Chippendale’s body were in bed together. He tried to push it aside and focus on the reason he was here. When he turned his thoughts to his parents, it did not help. He kept seeing the make-shift white cross memorial at the site of his parents’ crash. The same cross where he had recorded his mother’s voice. It wasn’t only the mental image distracting him. His mother’s one-word response echoed in his head after every EVP question – “Jeff”. A few times he thought he heard her voice coming from the darkness – “Jeff”.



Jeff knew it was fatigue, it had to be. If not, Mr. Leach would have heard something.



Jeff left Sunday morning frustrated. He sat in his truck and watched the last act unfold in what had been an all-night circus. Swoosie, her daughter, Mr. Leach, and a few other men sat in folding chairs arranged in a circle on the front lawn. They had asked Jeff to join them, but he respectfully declined. They burned sage while performing a cleansing ritual.



“We can’t have any spirits following us home,” Swoosie’s daughter proclaimed. “This’ll keep ‘em put.”



The obese Swoosie sat with her back to him. Her butt dangled on either side of the stressed chair as the legs sank into the soft and dewy sod. She swung a burning leaf around her head, making her resemble an elephant trying to douse the flames of a burning tree.



Jeff realized the only way he would get anywhere is starting his own team. He turned the ignition, causing his lights to fall on the group. They turned and glowered as if he farted and belched in church. He smiled and waved as he shifted the truck into gear.



Missouri Spirit Seekers,” Jeff muttered as he left the gate, “seems more like shit seekers.”



***



Excerpt from Death Theory by John D. Mimms. Copyright © 2017 by John D. Mimms. Reproduced with permission from John D. Mimms. All rights reserved.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John D. Mimms is a business owner, paranormal researcher and author. John served as the Technical Director for a TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society) family paranormal research group in Central Arkansas. During his four-year tenure with the organization, he helped supervise over 100 investigations and wrote more than sixteen technical articles. Paul Bradford, of Ghost Hunters International fame, read one of John's articles titled "A Christmas Carol Debunked" live on the air of the Parazona Radio program on Christmas Day 2009. John also wrote a definitive technical/training manual, which is a comprehensive guide on equipment usage, investigation protocol and scientific theory for paranormal research.



In 2009, John decided to couple his knowledge of paranormal phenomena with his lifelong love of literary fiction. John's first published work, The Tesla Gate, is the first installment of a three-part, heart-wrenching, sci-fi/paranormal drama. 
Book 1 of this unique, ground-breaking story released July 2014 through Open Road Media. In January 2016, Open Road Media released The Tesla Gate Book 2: The Myriad Resistance. Book 3: The Eye of Madness released September 27, 2016. Though fictional, the trilogy is based on scientific, paranormal theory. 



Publishers Weekly declared about The Tesla Gate in the March 3, 2014 issue 
"...touching sci-fi story that takes the reader on an unlikely road-trip adventure...a fast read with some entertaining ideas and a real emotional core in the relationship between father and son."


The Examiner proclaimed in June 2014
, "Entertaining as well as poignant, this book is extremely imaginative in its basic premise as well as the many colorful and emotionally compelling events that take place."



John resides and writes on a mountaintop in central Arkansas with his wife and two sons.

Connect with John:
Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |   Goodreads

Buy the book:
Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble 

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MURDER WITH LEMON TEA CAKES/BETTER DEAD TOUR

MURDER WITH LEMON TEA CAKES

A Daisy's Tea Garden Mystery
by Karen Rose Smith
Genre: Cozy Mystery

In an old Victorian in the heart of Pennsylvania's Amish country, Daisy Swanson and her aunt Iris serve soups, scones, and soothing teas to tourists and locals--but a murder in their garden has them in hot water . . .

"... readers are immediately drawn to main character, Daisy Swanson, and her beloved Aunt Iris."
- Suspense Magazine

Daisy, a widowed mom of two teenagers, is used to feeling protective--so when Iris started dating the wealthy and not-quite-divorced Harvey Fitz, she worried . . . especially after his bitter ex stormed in and caused a scene at the party Daisy's Tea Garden was catering. Then there was the gossip she overheard about Harvey's grown children being cut out of his will. Daisy didn't want her aunt to wind up with a broken heart--but she never expected Iris to wind up a suspect in Harvey's murder.
 
Now the apple bread and orange pekoe is on the back burner while the cops treat the shop like a crime scene--and Daisy hopes that Jonas Groft, a former detective from Philadelphia, can help her clear her aunt's name and bag the real killer before things boil over . . .
 
Includes delicious recipes for Iris's Lemon Tea Cakes and more!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After writing romances for twenty years, Karen Rose Smith is excited to see her Caprice De Luca home-stager mystery series published. Her sleuth reflects many of her interests: interior decorating, cooking, retro fashion, gardening, and, most of all, taking in stray animals. Married to her college sweetheart, Karen has convinced her husband that felines can make  purr-fect housemates. They share their home in the Susquehanna Valley of Pennsylvania with their three rescued cats. For more about Karen, please visit her website.

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BETTER DEAD

A B&B Spirits Mystery
by Pamela Kopfler
Genre: Cozy Mystery

As the owner of a charming Louisiana bed and breakfast, Holly Davis believes in Southern hospitality—but she draws the line at welcoming the ghost of her cheating husband . . .
 
Burl Davis checked out of this life a little earlier than expected—before Holly could serve him with divorce papers over his extramarital flings. Unfortunately, it was not before he nearly bankrupted her beloved B&B, Holly Grove, a converted plantation that has been in her family for generations. Holly would never wish anyone dead, but three months later she's feeling a lot more relief than grief.
 
Until Burl's ghost appears as an unwelcome guest. Before his spirit can move on, her not-so-dearly departed needs Holly’s human help to bust up the drug smuggling ring he was involved with. She has reservations, to say the least, but agrees to assist him if he’ll make a show of haunting the B&B to draw in visitors. But when Holly’s former love, Jack McCann, mysteriously resurfaces in town and checks in, she has to wonder if her B&B is big enough for the ghost of her husband and the very real physical presence of her old flame . . .

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Kopfler is a novelist, Southern-fried and sassy. She writes award-winning humorous mysteries with a kick of Southern sass. Her debut novel, Better Dead, is the first in her B & B Spirits mystery series, to be followed by Downright Ded, and Hog Wild Dead (Kensington Books). She is a four-time Golden Heart® finalist and a Daphne du Maurier award winner.
She can stir up a roux, mix a cocktail, and loves swapping stories. Putting words on the page keeps her alligator mouth from overloading her hummingbird heinie in real life. She marks her time on earth by the lives of the dogs she has loved–who often show up in her stories. 
Pamela lives in South Louisiana where the spirits are restless, the food is spicy, and the living is divine.



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FEATURED SERIES: THE POPPY MCGUIRE MYSTERIES

Details:

Series: The Poppy McGuire Series

Author: Anina Collins

Genre: cozy mystery, amateur sleuth

Books in series: 7

Touring with: Silver Dagger Book Tours

EXCERPT FROM THE ELEVENTH HOUR

I inhaled the delicious smell of my favorite coffee. The man certainly knew how to come bearing gifts first thing in the morning. But then it dawned on me. We'd never had coffee together, so how did he know this was my favorite? Lucky guess?

Taking it from him, I asked, "How did you know how to get it?"

Alexander gave me a sly smile that somehow made him even more attractive. "I'm a detective. It's my job to know things like that."

Oh, he was entirely too confident.

I offered him a seat at my kitchen table and took a drink of the dark roast coffee made exactly as I liked it—two sugars, three creamers, and ice. In fact, the temperature told me he'd gotten the number of ice cubes right too. Three. But how?

"So Mr. I'm a Detective, how did you know to get it just the right temperature and exactly the way I take it? I'm a pretty particular coffee drinker."

Another smile, but this one was slow to spread across his face and so charming I almost looked away, worried I might blush at any moment. Almost. I didn't look away, though, because I wanted the answer to my question.

"I pay attention to what goes on around me. I was sitting in The Grounds one morning when you came in and ordered that very particular cup of coffee. It stayed with me from that day."

Still quite shocked at his even being there in my kitchen, I leveled my gaze on him and tried to determine if he was telling the truth or just trying to charm me. "So you're telling me that you remembered the exact way I take my coffee, even though you didn't know me from a can of paint…when did you hear this anyway?"

"A week or so ago."

"From a week ago, when I was a perfect stranger to you and simply some person ordering a coffee, you remembered that this morning and got me my coffee just like I like it?"

He chuckled. "Yes, and the girl behind the counter knew how you took your coffee when I told her it was for you. I'd forgotten how many ice cubes, if we're being honest."

I took another sip of coffee and couldn't help but smile. He probably charmed the pants off Jennie. And he probably didn't have to remember anything about how I took my coffee because he just told her it was for me.

Detective indeed.

"So what are you doing here, Alexander?"

The smile slowly faded, and after taking a drink from his cup, he lowered his head slightly and looked me directly in the eyes. "I came to apologize for what happened last night."

This guy had the most delicious brown eyes I'd ever seen. Brown like expensive milk chocolate, and at that moment, I felt myself getting lost in those eyes.

Snap out of it, Poppy! This isn't some high school date. If he's willing to make peace, maybe you can get his help on the case, so get your head out of the clouds and say something!

I turned away to break our shared gaze and then looked back at him. "I guess I should apologize too. I should have handled that differently. I'm sorry."

"I am too. I shouldn't have pulled my gun on you, and for that, I'm truly sorry. I have no excuse."

Something in those eyes of his told me he did have an excuse but he wasn't going to tell me. All the better because I sensed hurt lay behind how he acted.

Extending my hand, I offered my own olive branch. "No harm, no foul. Maybe if we pretend like we're meeting for the first time we can put those other times behind us. Hi, I'm Poppy. Nice to meet you."

That slow smile returned, and he took my hand in his to shake it. "Hi, Poppy. I'm Alexander, but my friends call me Alex."

"Hi, Alex."

And with those two words, everything between us changed. I didn't know why or how, but suddenly I had a feeling that he would become one of the most important people in my life. At the same time, I felt like I'd known him my entire life, even though I'd just met him days before and this was the first time we'd ever spoken more than a handful of civil words to each other.

Strangely, our conversation came to an abrupt halt after reintroducing ourselves to one another. He seemed content to sit there next to me and drink his coffee in silence, so I took the opportunity to study him as he seemed to have studied me already.

He was definitely a good looking man. I didn't need to spend much time studying him to see that. Dark, thick hair and those delicious brown eyes that told anyone who looked into them that there was a story in his past gave him an exotic feel. With the last name Montero, he was likely Italian or maybe Greek. Sunset Ridge didn't have many citizens with those ethnic backgrounds, which made him stand out even more.

I let my gaze drift over him as he sat there silently and couldn't help notice his hands. Strong looking, they were bigger than even my father's working class hands and had long fingers. I'd noted that he wasn't married the first time we'd met because of the lack of a wedding band, but now that I sat right next to him, I could see the lighter skin where it had sat on his ring finger until recently.

So where was Mrs. Montero? Was she the woman I'd read about in the obituary from nearly five years ago? Possibly, but if that was the case, why was the mark where the wedding band had been still so clear? Five years was a long time to wear a wedding band for a wife who'd died.

I wanted to ask about his wife, if only to say I was sorry because it seemed like I should and if that wedding band mark was any indication, he still hurt. But I didn't. Alex and I were practically strangers, and strangers didn't pry like that.

At least this stranger didn't.

If he was sitting with one of those committee ladies and they had any inkling of a wife in his past, the poor man would now be dodging questions left and right about her. Those Founders' Day ladies were nothing if not nosy. 

The thought of Alex stuck in a room with those four made me smile, and I looked up from staring at his hands to see he had seen where I was looking. Quickly, I turned away to avoid his gaze, feeling oddly embarrassed.

"You have a nice house here. Very cozy."

I turned back to see him scanning my kitchen, as if he were studying it like I'd been studying him. "Thank you. I like it."

"It's a big house for just one person." I wanted to ask how he was so sure I lived alone, but he didn't even have to be a half-way decent detective to know that. A few minutes with my father the other night at the bar and he likely had my entire life story.

"I guess," I mumbled, sort of hating how awkward things had gotten between us already.

He didn't continue the conversation, but that seemed to be the type of person he was. Talk about opposites. I was what my father had always called a Chatty Cathy, but Alex parsed out words like they cost him money every time one came out of his mouth.

Sitting quietly for a few more minutes, the question that had been on my mind earlier before I got lost in those eyes of his and the idea that his past was some kind of tragedy came back to me.

Why was he here?

Breaking the uncomfortable silence, I asked, "Alex, why did you come here today? I mean, you could have just apologized and then left or simply called me to say you were sorry. Instead you come here and say you're sorry and then say little else. What are you doing here?"

I cringed at how blunt that sounded. I never meant to phrase things so succinctly. They just came out that way. Before I could apologize, though, he nodded and began to speak again.

"I like how forthright you are, Poppy. That kind of frankness is refreshing, so I'll return the favor. I've heard a number of things about you, and all of them point to someone who's smart. You're different than everyone else I've met in this town. I also know this is the first time you're working with Derek on one of his cases. To be honest, I know why he likes to have you around, but I have to believe you want to work with him on this Geneva Woodward case because you're a detective in your heart and not because you have some secret love for the brother of our police chief."

A mixture of stunned disbelief at how much Alex knew about me and amusement at the thought of my having any romantic feelings for Derek washed over me. My brain felt like it short-circuited, and not knowing what to say, I let out a laugh as the thought of Derek and me settled into my mind.

"Did I say something funny?" Alex asked, his gaze intently focused on me now.

"No. I guess I just got sidetracked by the idea of Derek and me together since, to be honest, I felt a little exposed by the rest of what you said."

"So no secret romance between you and him?" he asked with a smile that told me he was trying to make things less uncomfortable.

I shook my head and screwed my face into an expression that was meant to show my distaste for anything like that with Derek Hampton. "No. He's nice, but he's not my type."

"I had a feeling. As for the other things I said, I didn't mean to make you feel like I've been prying into your personal life. Your father loves you a great deal and he likes to brag about you. I will admit I checked into what he said and found he wasn't exaggerating. Your job at The Bottom Line might be beneath you, but you're good at it. See? You are a detective in your heart."

The Eleventh Hour

Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 1
196 pages


Poppy McGuire has always been a curious soul, but it's her life that's usually the topic of conversation in the small town of Sunset Ridge. But now one of the town's most important citizens has been found murdered, and everyone's life is suspect. 

What begins as a friendly wager with her old friend Officer Derek Hampton soon becomes far more for Poppy, and she turns to Alex Montero for help, but the enigmatic former Baltimore cop's quiet way hides as many secrets as each suspect they encounter. 

Everyone in Sunset Ridge has something to hide, but Poppy and Alex are determined to uncover the identity of the murderer. They just have to watch that they don't become the next victims. 

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After Hours

Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 2
202 pages

While life in Sunset Ridge is quaint and charming during the day, what happens after the sun goes down might shock the citizens of this small town. Things are heating up in Poppy McGuire's home town, and it isn't just the July weather. 

Poppy and her new partner Alex have their eyes opened to the realities of Sunset Ridge after dark when a traveling salesman is murdered in his room at the Hotel Piermont, a common destination for cheating spouses on the outskirts of town. When they find out what he sells, the mystery gets even more interesting. 


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Top of the Hour

Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 3
204 pages

Controversy sells as much as sex, and nobody knows that better than the local radio morning DJ who loves to talk politics. His shows enrage people, but who hated Lee Reynolds enough to shoot him point blank and leave him for dead in the woods outside of town?

Poppy and Alex have no shortage of suspects and for once aren't at odds on who they like for the crime. But all is not well between the partners. This time, murder has brought with it a new love interest for Poppy, but Alex isn't happy with this turn of events. 

Will he lose Poppy, the one person he trusts in Sunset Ridge? 


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The Darkest Hour

Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 4
210 pages

Poppy and Alex come up against their toughest case yet, and they may never be the same again.

When someone close to both Poppy and Alex is found brutally murdered, all the clues point to Alex as the killer. But Poppy knows in her heart that her partner could never commit such a heinous crime. As the evidence begins to mount against him, Poppy must race against the clock to prove that the man she trusts with her very life isn’t the murderer, even as everyone around her is convinced of his guilt.

But if Alex isn’t the killer, who is? As the mystery unravels, the past and present finally meet in Sunset Ridge.

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Happy Hour

Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 5
266 pages

Poppy and Alex are back for another mystery in Happy Hour, the fifth book in the Poppy McGuire Mystery Series!

Springtime brings warm weather and murder to Sunset Ridge, and for Poppy, this particular case strikes close to home.

Antiques dealer Marcus Tyne is found dead in the front seat of his friend’s car outside of McGuire’s after a Cinco de Mayo celebration, but at first glance, there’s no reason why he’s dead.

Until the coroner finds out he’s been poisoned.

When a second man is poisoned, Poppy and Alex are thrust into a mystery that threatens to tear them apart. While they struggle to solve the case as their differences become more apparent, a murderer walks free in Sunset Ridge and may have another victim in their sights.

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The Witching Hour

Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 6
207 pages

In the middle of a late summertime heatwave, a woman Poppy interviewed for an article on paganism is found with a dagger buried in her chest in the woods out near Alex's house. Initially, Stephen and Craig are given the case, but when Derek determines that this murder shouldn't be their first big case together, Alex and Poppy are brought in to help.

But Stephen has never liked Poppy, and tensions quickly begin to run high between the two sets of partners. The Sunset Ridge police force can't afford to have infighting if they want to solve this case before a fear of witches takes hold in town.

It doesn't take long before everyone reaches their breaking point and Alex wonders if he will be a Sunset Ridge police officer for much longer. Life is about to change for him and Poppy, but will that change mean the end of his time in town?

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The Finest Hour

Poppy McGuire Mysteries Book 7
194 pages

Join Poppy and Alex for the final Poppy McGuire mystery!

For three years, Poppy and Alex have worked together solving cases in their small town of Sunset Ridge, first as just co-workers but later as partners in nearly every sense of the word. Now they're about to take the final step and become husband and wife, but in the midst of getting ready for what folks around town are calling the wedding of the year, the murder of someone involved in the preparations makes their plans go awry. 

Samuel Morrow, the kind man who has run Morrow's Jewelers for over twenty years, is found murdered in an apparent break-in, and there's no shortage of suspects who may have had a reason to kill him. Oddly enough, something very valuable to Poppy and Alex is missing from his store too. Is the theft connected to the murder? 

As they hunt for Samuel's killer, carefully eliminating suspect after suspect, they must juggle cake tastings and reception planning, as all the while someone's watching their favorite amateur sleuth. Will Poppy and Alex solve the case and reach the altar, or will the killer make their ever after far less than happy? 

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About the Author

Anina Collins has always loved a good mystery. As a child, her favorite books were Nancy Drew books passed down from her grandmother, and as she grew up, she moved on to Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and their famous detectives. She currently lives in North Carolina and writes her Poppy McGuire Mystery series.

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Follow the tour HERE for exclusive content and a giveaway!

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GUEST POST WITH TRICIA L. SANDERS' CECELIA CAVANAUGH

ABOUT THE BOOK

When Cece Cavanaugh’s husband empties their joint bank account, steals her designer luggage, and runs off with a younger woman, Cece must decide whether to ask her manipulative mother-in-law for a handout or get a job. Choosing the easier path, Cece lands a job cleaning a crime scene where a high school coach was murdered. When his wife is implicated—a young woman Cece practically raised—Cece finds herself mopping floors, balancing an empty checkbook, and ferreting out a killer.

Amid all this messy business, Cece bumps heads with a handsome detective. She tries to ignore her growing attraction to the detective, but he gives new meaning to the term “hot flash.”

After she stumbles onto a clue that could vindicate her friend, her elation turns to panic when she haphazardly confronts the killer. Through the danger and romance, Cece discovers self-reliance and inner strength.

And that crime—at least, someone else’s—does pay the bills.

Book Details:

Title: Murder is a Dirty Businiess

Author: Tricia L. Sanders





Genre: Cozy Mystery,
 1st in series

Publisher: Soul Mate Publishing, LLC (November 15, 2017)


Print Length: 254 pages
Touring with:  Great Escapes Book Tours

GUEST POST BY TRICIA SANDERS

' CECELIA CAVANAUGH

Hi, I’m Cecelia Cavanaugh, but my friends call me Cece. So, Cece it is. We’re officially friends, right? I’ve been through a lot these last several months. My husband left me for a floozie the same age as our daughter. He also cleaned out our joint bank accounts and left our mortgage six months in arrears, but I’m not going to dwell on the negative as I have positives for which I am thankful.

I have a great many blessings like my two daughters, well one anyway. Jessie, my eldest, is a nurse and my rock. I can count on her. She’s more like me physically and emotionally. Michelle, sixteen, is still a work-in-progress and more like her father. She periodically shows signs of adulthood, but often, she’s rolling her eyes, or sticking her tongue out at my advice. I can’t complain. The rolling eyes thing she got from me. I know, I know. I set a bad example, now I’m living with it. Recently she dyed her beautiful blonde hair black and went Goth on me. I’ll be honest, for a minute I wanted to slap the crap out of her, but good sense won out. I yelled and stomped my foot a few times. She took the hint.

Another blessing is my neighbor Angie. Truth be told, she’s my guardian angel, but she’s also a big pain in my neck. Since my separation from Phillip—my cheating husband—Angie has been by my side providing emotional support. The flip side is she’s also intent on fixing me up with this hot detective who I recently met when I accidentally became involved in a murder investigation—which by the way I helped solve. Not bragging. Just fact. I almost got myself killed in the process, but details, schmetails.

Angie and I have been friends since elementary school—a long, long time. We’re both of ‘hot flash’ age, if you know what I mean. I usually always follow her advice, but the one time I didn’t . . . Well, that’s how I wound up with the cheating, soon-to-be-ex-husband. Angie has never liked Phillip. I guess you can say, she saw through him, while I was blinded by love. Took me almost 30 years to see him for who he really is. Again, no dwelling. I’m moving on.

And speaking of moving on, that brings me to a few more blessings. I’ve already mentioned the hot detective, Detective Alder. He is Hot with a capital H. At this point, I am not, N-O-T ready for a relationship. I keep reminding Angie, and she’s keeps ignoring me. But when I’m ready, if I ever am, Detective Alder might be the answer. He’s easy on the eyes, and he has a stubborn streak, but not overbearing. We’ve flirted, and there might have been a kiss involved. A very passionate kiss I might add. But I’m not that kind of girl, but apparently, I kiss and tell. So, don’t tell anyone, okay? My life is swirling around the drain. Until my divorce is final, and I can stand on my own two feet, I cannot drag anyone else into my circle of hell. Besides, I have this mother-in-law—a close relative of Satan—who is intent on making me the pariah of our community. Wickford is a small town, and gossip is the mainstay for the country club set. I cannot give her any fuel for the rumor mill she rules over.

I can’t fail to mention Grant Hunter, my knight in shining armor. He’s a building contractor who swooped in and rescued me from financial ruin. He’s also a bit sweet on me. Personally, I think he’s lonely, but he is a dear and has provided me with steady work cleaning condos at his latest project, Hunter Springs.

There are many things I’m finding to be thankful for and each day shines a new light on another. Like I said earlier, I’ve been dealt some blows, but I’m still out there swinging and will continue to hold my head up. As I see my marriage in the rearview mirror, I’m learning to view Phillip as a blessing. He did give me my two girls. In the broader perspective, our separation has enabled me to see myself as an individual and to value my self-worth.

Finally, I hear that my author, Tricia L. Sanders, is continuing my story. I’m hoping my blessings continue, but I imagine she’s going to make me sweat it out a couple of times. But I’ve got news for her, you can’t keep Cece Cavanaugh down for long. Bring it on.

P.S. Look for your blessings. Even in adversity, they are all around.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tricia L. Sanders writes about women with class, sass, and a touch of kickass. A former instructional designer and corporate trainer, she traded in curriculum writing for novel writing, because she hates bullet points and loves to make stuff up. And fiction is more fun than training guides and lesson plans.

When she isn’t writing, Tricia is busy crossing dreams off her bucket list. With all 50 states checked, she’s concentrating on foreign interests. She’s an avid St. Louis Cardinals fan, so don’t get between her and the television when a game is on. Currently, she is working on a mystery series set in the fictional town of Wickford, Missouri. Another project in the works is a women’s fiction road trip adventure.

Her essays have appeared in Sasee, ByLine, The Cuivre River Anthology and Great American Outhouse Stories; The Whole Truth and Nothing Butt. She is a proud member of The Lit Ladies, six women writing their truths into fiction.


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FEATURED AUTHOR: LESLIE JONES

ABOUT THE BOOK

The next action-packed thriller from the author of Night Hush, Bait, and Deep Cover…

When former hacker turned FBI cybersecurity specialist Hadley "Lark" Larkspur is asked to analyze a piece of malware, she never imagines the simple task will put her on the radar of underworld criminals. After armed gunmen try to abduct her outside a nightclub, though, it’s suddenly clear she’s in way over her head.

Delta Force operator Thomas "Mace" Beckett is in Boston awaiting his next assignment when he witnesses an attempted kidnapping. His training forces him to intervene, but then the woman pulls a gun on him. Mace isn’t sure what to make of the spitfire holding him hostage, but he quickly discovers that Lark is an innocent pawn in a dangerous game. Someone has framed her for the theft of millions from the mafia, and they want her to pay . . . in blood, if necessary.

With only days to find the funds, Lark and Mace scramble to track the real culprit. But their investigation unexpectedly leads straight to the heart of a terrible plot, one that could mean death for thousands. The criminals have stolen something far worse than money… and it’s about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Book Details:

Title: Framed
Author: Leslie Jones
Genre: Mystery
Published by: Witness Impulse (January 30, 2018)
Paperback: 384 pages
Series: Duty & Honor #4
Touring with: Partners in Crime Tours

INTERVIEW WITH LESLIE JONES

Leslie, what’s the story behind the title of your book?
Framed follows the story of Hadley “Lark” Larkspur, who is framed by an unknown entity for the theft of millions of dollars of mafia money, and they want her to pay . . . in blood, if necessary. That’s just the beginning, though. With only days to find the funds, Lark and Delta Force special operator Mace Beckett scramble to track the real culprit. But their investigation unexpectedly leads straight to the heart of a terrible plot, one that could mean death for thousands. The criminals have stolen something far worse than money . . . and it’s about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Tell us about your series. Is this book a standalone, or do readers need to read the series in order?
My Duty & Honor series consists of four standalone books: Night Hush, Bait, Deep Cover, and my newest, Framed. Secondary characters in earlier books become the protagonists in later books, but they do not need to be read in order.

Where’s home for you?
I found my forever home in Phoenix, Arizona. There aren’t many who understand my love for the raw, primal beauty of the Southwestern desert. It teems with vitality. It boils life down to its essence. Survive, or don’t.

Where did you grow up?
I spent my first years roaming the back of beyond in Alaska. I loved the freedom of the forests, animals, fish, and glacier-fed lakes. We moved to the Lower 48 when I was 11, to a farm in Vancouver, Washington. Taller pines, cows and sheep, my pet goat, and a variety of fruit trees. I went to Seattle for college, was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant in the Army, and moved around the world from there.


Wow! What’s the most valuable thing you’ve learned?
Writing is a passion. It’s an art. But it’s also a business, and you have to treat your writing as a job. That’s distasteful to a lot of writers, who like to rely upon their Muse for inspiration. When Thomas Edison said that it all boils down to 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration, he meant that you must BIC-HOK (Butt in Chair-Hands on Keyboard) every single writing day. For me, that’s the distinction between being a hobbyist and a serious author.

How did you meet your spouse? Was it love at first sight?
We met when I arrived at my new assignment with the 202nd Military Intelligence Battalion at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. I’d just reported in to my commander, who told me to write up a brief bio for myself. Kim walked into the Adjutant’s office, saw me, and came right over. “I’m Kim Jones,” he said. “Welcome to the unit. Are you all settled in?” I told him I’d literally just walked into the battalion headquarters. He claims I yelled that at him. I didn’t. From that moment on, we were best friends. Twenty-six years later, he’s still my best friend.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where in the world would it be?
London, definitely. I love the accents, the food, the architecture. I love when the woman tells us to “Mind the gap, please” when the Tube stops. I love the rich history at the Tower of London, the art hanging in the National Gallery, and the many unique bookshops on Charing Cross Road. I can’t drive there, though. I might forget to drive on the left.

What’s your favorite line from a book?
My favorite line is actually the tagline for The Princess Bride by William Goldman. “What happens when the most beautiful girl in the world marries the handsomest prince in the world – and he turns out to be a son of a bitch?” How could you not read it after hearing that? The Princess Bride is one of the most entertaining books I’ve ever read.

I love The Princess Bride! How did you create the plot for this book?
Framed has a complex plot that was very challenging to write. I always start a book by developing my heroes and villains. Then I brainstorm different scenarios, accept or reject plot ideas, and try to go beyond the obvious to something unique and exciting. While my books aren’t inspired by real-world events, I strive to create believable scenarios that will make readers say, “Boy, I hope that never really happens!”

Are any of your characters inspired by real people?
Lark, the female protagonist in Framed, was inspired by my best friend. Lark has a vibrant personality all her own, with quirks and mannerisms that are unique and entertaining. I enjoyed writing her the most of any of my characters. My BFF says I nailed it!

What’s one pet peeve you have when you read?
Inaccuracies drive me nuts. I love reading military romantic suspense, for example, but there are comparatively few authors who are truly able to capture the feel and flavor of the military mindset, or understand the military culture if they haven’t served. I’ve read books where NCOs salute other NCOs, where soldiers abandon their posts in the middle of a firefight, and where the author did not understand the difference between a First Sergeant and a Sergeant First Class. Those mistakes show a lack of proper research, and it’s enough to make me put the book down and not pick it up again. Details matter!

So true! What are you working on now?
I’m excited to be starting a brand-new series, tentatively called the Hard Chargers. The 1st book, Kill Zone, is about a joint Delta Force/85th Military Police Battalion training mission that takes a deadly turn when convicts bound for the United States Disciplinary Barracks overrun a Fort Huachuca, Arizona prisoner transfer facility. I’m thoroughly enjoying figuring out how to torment my heroes!

READ AN EXCERPT

Lark came even with an idling taxi, unaware of the danger as the two men stopped on either side of her. She half-turned, surprise and then alarm filling her face as she finally noticed them. A puff of white escaped her open mouth. She wrenched open the door of the taxi to escape, but one of the men yanked her away, pulling a Colt M1911 and pressing it into her stomach.


Mace came in fast and low, catching the second gunman around the waist and riding him down hard. The man’s head smacked against the pavement. Mace tore the semiautomatic from his hand, already rising and turning to the man holding Lark. The taxi driver yelled something Mace couldn’t hear and burned rubber as he raced away from the violence. Fucking coward.


He forced himself to ignore the blind panic on her face, instead focusing on the threat.


“What the fuck?” said the gunman. “Who the hell are you?”


Mace felt his expression go cold. “I’m the man who’s goan kill you if you don’ let her go.”


The man’s eyes narrowed and his grip on Lark tightened. The two gunmen—Dumb and Dumber—wore clothing almost identical to his own. Black jackets over T-shirts, military pants and black boots.


Dumb frowned as he looked Mace up and down. “Did Palachka send you? We got this covered, man. Get lost.”


“Let her go. Now.”


Dumb shook his head, anger growing in the depths of his eyes. “I got my orders. Palachka wants to have a chat with her, so I ain’t going to hurt her none.”


Damned straight he wasn’t. These men were muscle, just following orders. Palachka’s orders.


Who the hell was Palachka?


He glanced at the crowd. A small group watched them, grinning and nudging one another. As long as they thought theirs was simply a drunken brawl, no one would bother to call the police.
Lark hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle, but the whites of her eyes showed and he could feel her terror. She, too, looked at the line outside the nightclub.


He took a risk with a bald-faced lie. “Palachka tol’ me to take over. He said to tell you to head back and leave her to me. I’m the one’s goan to chat with her.”


Dumber picked himself up off the pavement and staggered over to his partner. “Lying prick. He’d’ve called us. And I don’t know you.”


“Best you don’ know me. I’m who Palachka calls when fucks like you bungle it.” Mace snorted. “What, you think he don’t have nothing better to do than deal with the likes of you? He’s waiting for you, though. Don’t want him pissed, do you?”


Both blanched. Mace walked casually over and tugged on Lark’s arm. Dumb hesitated, looked into Mace’s icy eyes, and finally loosened his grip. Mace lifted the Colt he’d taken from Dumber, pointing the barrel at the sky.


“This registered anywhere?”


Dumber felt the back of his head for the lump that must be forming. His fingers came away red with blood. “Nah, man. It’s clean. Why’d you wallop me, man?”


“Get out of here. We’re attracting attention.” He stared pointedly at the line of people outside the Promenade. “I’ll check in with Palachka when I’m done with her.”


Mace settled the matter by tightening his grip on Lark and dragging her toward the parking lot. Dumb and Dumber followed, exchanging a look.


“I’d better check in with him,” Dumb called. “Make sure you’re on the level.”


Mace forced an uncaring shrug. “Your funeral.”


They reached the edge of the deserted lot. Mace paused, raising his eyes pointedly. The two men hesitated, then shrugged and started in the opposite direction.


Stupid fucks.


Lark wrenched her arm so abruptly he lost his grip, and she took off like a rabbit back toward the nightclub. How could she even run in those ridiculously high heels? He caught her in three strides. Sure, she’d be safe inside—for now. But what happened when the two gunmen realized Mace had clowned them? They’d be back, and they would be furious.


“Wait,” he said. He pulled her to a stop.


She swung her huge purse like a brick. He pulled back just in time to avoid being clocked in the head. She dug into her bag, scrabbling around inside. Maybe she really did have a brick in there.


“Come on. We have to get away from here. It won’t take those idiots long to figure out I’m not one of them.” He risked a glance behind.


When he turned back a second later, she had dropped her purse and now pointed a Smith & Wesson .38 Special at him, backing off several steps to gain distance. Her hands shook so badly he feared she’d drop it. He looked hard at it, then had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the laughter that threatened.


The cylinders were empty; the revolver wasn’t even loaded.


Clearly, she was no criminal mastermind. So why were those men after her?


He needed to get her somewhere safe. Then he could get the answers he wanted. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he punched in the code to unlock it.


“Put it down!” she nearly shrieked. “Put down the goddamned phone. Drop it right now!”


Of course. He was the idiot. She now thought he worked for the same man who’d sent thugs after her. Interestingly enough, she’d demanded he drop the phone, but not the pistol he still carried. He bent down and set both on the muddy slush of the asphalt, stepping away from them and raising his arms from his sides to show her he meant her no harm.


“Look, that was just—”


“Shut up,” she snapped, narrowing her eyes. He guessed she was trying to cow him, but she seemed as threatening as a baby kitten. “If you don’t do what I say, I’ll…I’ll shoot you.”


********

Saturday, February 18. 12:35 a.m. The Promenade. Boston, Massachusetts.

Lark tightened her grip on the gun, her mind a blank. Her life had been threatened. Why? And what the hell was she supposed to do now?


“I’m calling the police.” She tried to reach her right front pocket with her left hand, but it shook so badly she couldn’t manage it.


“No.”


“What?” She stopped fumbling with her phone out and stared at him.


“No. I can’t allow you to call the police. Either I’ll have to vacate the area or they’ll arrest me. Either way, I can’t protect you.”


He seemed so calm. Did he know she wouldn’t shoot him? The gun Kaley had insisted she buy felt heavy in her hand. In fact, Kaley had all but dragged her to the gun store, explaining to the owner that Lark often worked late at night, when Chelsea was dark, deserted, and dangerous. The box of bullets in the bottom of her purse made it worse than useless, but she’d barely had time to register for a class in how to use the gun, let alone load it. Not that she’d admit such a thing to him.


His words finally penetrated her panicked mind. “You should be arrested. Attacking defenseless women on the street? Kidnapping? You should be in jail.”


“I did none of those things.” Mace nodded toward the nightclub. “This is too public. Someone is going come into the parking lot soon. Someone will have called the police by now. We need to get out of here.”


She snorted. “So you can protect me?”


“Yes.” He remained maddeningly calm.


“Bullshit.” Call the police, her rational mind told her. Let them handle it. It was their job, after all. But some buried instinct agreed with him. In her experience, the police were the enemy. You’re not a hacker any more. You’re legit. You work for the FBI. You have nothing to fear.


Except maybe being arrested for carrying a gun in her purse without a permit. She’d worry about that little detail later.


But old habits died hard. If Mace were arrested, the odds that the cops would share information with her were minimal, and she would still be in the dark. And it pissed her off that her big brain couldn’t find a logical solution to her current dilemma. “We’re going to walk to my car. If the police show up, so be it. You become their problem. Get your hands up higher, and walk in front of me.”


Common sense dictated she force him to leave. To get into her car and drive away. To call 911 and hope for the best. But she’d still know nothing. Mace was clearly working with those other men with guns, and she needed him to tell her what was going on. That meant keeping him with her. Not her smartest idea ever, since he’d been sent to kill her. But what choice did she have?


She’d make him spill the beans. Somehow.


Right now, she needed to get out of this neighborhood before any more black-clad thugs came within grabbing distance of her.


“Move,” she said, deepening her voice and snapping off the words. Hopefully he couldn’t see the tremors in her hands. Thankfully he obeyed, strolling down the line of cars as though she didn’t have a gun trained on him. She scooped up her purse and followed.


“Go to the left. Down this row. There…no, stop. The orange Jeep Liberty.”


He paused beside her car. “Good God. You actually drive this thing?”


It had been her first purchase after getting her Master’s degree, even before the FBI hired her. She’d been so relieved to ditch her junker and drive a new-ish car, and she’d gotten a smoking deal on it. Her hackles rose, and for a moment, she forgot to be terrified.


“It’s a sweet ride. What do you know?”


He grinned at her. “Whatever you say.”


For a moment, she wished she’d gone through agent training with the FBI, instead of as a computer scientist. She’d know, for instance, how to shoot her shiny new gun. Computer scientists received training at Quantico, sure. But in reverse engineering of malware, digital forensics, and intrusion detection. Administrative processes. She’d received no training in firearms, tactics, or taking smokin’ hot men prisoner.


Who else could she call for advice? Trevor’s mobile was number five on her phone’s favorites tab. It would be, what? Nine in the morning in London, assuming he wasn’t on assignment. She put a hand to her head. Her gun hand, she realized, as it thumped her temple. “God damn hairy ass wrinkly old man balls!”


Mace laughed. “You don’ mess around, do you? Dat was an impressive bit of cussing.”


“Gee, thanks.”


“Lark, I’m serious. It won’ take those yahoos long to come back. We need to be long gone by then. Please trust me.”


First thing first. Before her innards melted from his honeyed Cajun drawl, she switched the revolver to her left hand, keeping it trained on him as she fished her phone out.


“Please don’t call the cops,” he said again. “Say they show up. You tell them what happen’. I tell them what happen’. Maybe they take me down to the station, maybe they just put me in a squad car while they check me out. Either way, the cops will release me. But while all the fuss is going on, you might decide to just walk away. Bad people are gunning for you. Keep me with you.”


She shot him a warning glare and pressed Trevor’s number. It went straight to voice mail. Now what?


She swung her bag forward so she could scrabble inside for her keys. Damn it! She risked a quick look inside her purse and spotted them. Hooking the ring out with a finger, she tossed the whole thing to him. He caught it one handed.


“Get into the driver’s seat,” she commanded.


He obeyed, squashing his six-foot-three inch frame into the driver’s seat. “Gawd damn. This t’ing built for a child.”


He reached down and pulled the seat lever, sighing in relief as the seat moved back. He stretched his legs, reaching across to unlock the passenger door for her. She dropped her bag at her feet before easing inside, keeping the gun trained on him. He glanced at her and away. She could have sworn he hid a smile.


“Now what?” he asked.


She had no earthly clue. Putting a hand to her aching head, she made a sound of pure frustration. Only he could provide the information she needed.


She couldn’t take him to her home; that would be insane.


Would it?


It would have to be her room at the Hyatt Regency Cambridge. Kaley had insisted the entire wedding party stay at the hotel the night before the wedding.


“A hotel.”


“Good choice. I know one down by—”


“No,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere anyone knows you, or can find you.”


“All right. You’re calling the shots.”


Why did he seem so calm? She’d threatened to shoot him.


“Get on the freeway.”


He put the car into gear and drove on surface streets till he got to the highway, then took the entry ramp and merged with traffic. They headed northwest.


“Take this exit.”


“Why this one?”


“Just do it!” She couldn’t help the way her voice rose. “Turn left.”


Mace made a soothing motion with one hand, then returned it to the wheel. “Look, I know what I said back there. I played along to get them away from you. I’m not trying to hurt you.”


“Yeah, you’re just trying to kill me.” Anger replaced her fear. She lifted the gun and pressed it against his head. “Turn in here, asshole.”


Mace slowed and turned into the parking garage for the Hyatt Regency Cambridge. Lark cringed, already regretting her choice to bring him back here.


“What now?”


In for a penny, in for a pound. That sounded like something Trevor would have said. Remembering his cool competence steadied her. She squared her shoulders. “Park it.”


Mace did so. “Now what?”


Lark felt like tearing her hair out in frustration. How could she get him up to her room without him just walking away? “Now you tell me what’s going on. Now you tell me who the fuck Palachka is, and why he wants me dead.”


Surprise lifted his brows. “You don’t know?”


“Aagh!” She thunked her head against the headrest. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. All right. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to open your door and come out with your hands where I can see them. Is that clear?”


“Yes, ma’am.”


What would she do if he attacked her here, in the still, dark parking lot? He’d already caught her once because of her high heels. She could threaten all she liked, but, ultimately, she had no control over him.


“Stand by the hood and don’t move.”


When he’d complied, she dug frantically in her purse for the box of bullets. The store owner had shown her how to open the cylinder thingy so she could put the bullets into the holes, but hadn’t allowed her to load it inside his store. Pulling the box into her lap, she fumbled it open, spilling most of the bullets down her leg and onto the floor mat. Swearing and sneaking looks at Mace to ensure he hadn’t moved, she pressed the button to swing the cylinder open, and got it on the third try. Shoving some bullets into the holes, she pushed the cylinder closed again. According to the gun store owner, all she had to do now was pull the trigger. She reached down and scooped as many bullets as she could find back into her purse.


Time to face the music. Or the firing squad.


***


Excerpt from Framed by Leslie Jones.  Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Jones. Reproduced with permission from Leslie Jones. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Leslie Jones was an Army Intelligence officer for many years, and she brings her first-hand experience to the pages of her work. She resides in Scottsdale, Arizona and is currently hard at work on her next book.

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