ABOUT THE BOOK
Ruth Mosby is the VP of operations at Serenity Acres, where the privileged elite go to die. For a hefty fee, wealthy retirees can live the good life in this posh Santa Barbara community—even after they outlive their money. Ruth thinks this is a fine arrangement, but the savvy new boss has a new rule: if you can’t pay, you can’t stay.
Ruth is deeply disturbed when destitute residents start dying at an alarming rate, as if on cue. Even more troubling, a macabre note accompanies each departed guest. Surviving guests whisper about an “Angel” who assists with suicides. Ruth has another word for it: murder.
Ruth enlists her neighbor, an ex-detective named Zach, to discover the Angel’s secret identity. However, the two have a painful history, and Ruth has dark secrets all her own. To solve the mystery, Ruth must descend from her golden tower—but can she bear the consequences of revealing her own sinister truths?
Book Details:
Author: Catharine
Riggs
Genre: psychological suspense
Series: Santa Barbara Suspense
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
(September 10, 2019
)
Print
length: 343 pages
On tour with: Partners in Crime Book Tours
LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH CATHARINE RIGGS
A few of your favorite things: books, books and more books.
Things you need to throw out: size 6 jeans that haven’t fit in a decade.
Things you need in order to write: my writing computer which is banned from the internet.
Things that hamper your writing: excessive noise & social media.
Things you love about writing: my characters’ voices.
Things you hate about writing: the business of writing.
Easiest thing about being a writer: crafting new worlds.
Hardest thing about being a writer: isolation.
Things you love about where you live: beauty, peace & quiet.
Things that make you want to move: the need for more social interaction.
Things you never want to run out of: toothpaste & toilet paper.
Things you wish you’d never bought: the candy hidden in my closet.
Words that describe you: motivated, perceptive, caring.
Words that describe you but you wish they didn’t: anxious, pessimistic, judgmental.
Favorite foods: great sushi.
Things that make you want to throw up: mayonnaise.
Favorite music or song: indie folk.
Music that make your ears bleed: jazz.
Favorite beverage: iced tea & a good chardonnay.
Something that gives you a pickle face: whisky & dark beer.
Favorite smell: freshly mown grass.
Something that makes you hold your nose: fragrant laundry detergent.
Something you’re really good at: writing.
Something you’re really bad at: writing.
Something you wish you could do: fly.
Something you wish you’d never learned to do: self-deprecate.
People you consider as heroes: underpaid nonprofit employees who are working to make a difference.
People with a big L on their foreheads: corporate hucksters.
Last best thing you ate: Oreo cream cheese pie.
Last thing you regret eating: Oreo cream cheese pie.
Things you’d walk a mile for: a good concert or play.
Things that make you want to run screaming from the room: jazz.
Things you always put in your books: complicated characters.
Things you never put in your books: graphic violence.
Things to say to an author: I loved your book!
Things to say to an author if you want to be fictionally killed off in their next book: I only read male authors.
Favorite books: well-written fiction of any genre.
Books you would ban: Fahrenheit 451.
People you’d like to invite to dinner (living): Sandra Cisneros, Alice Walker, Margaret Atwood, Louise Erdrich, Gillian Flynn, Brandy Carlile, Megan Rapinoe, Misty Copeland.
People you’d cancel dinner on: Certain extended family members.
Favorite things to do: hiking, running, walking.
Things you’d run through a fire wearing gasoline pants to get out of doing: interview before a TV camera.
Things that make you happy: people who show compassion and concern for those less fortunate.
Things that drive you crazy: politics.
Most embarrassing moment: 14, trying to impress a boy and falling into a Jacuzzi, fully clothed.
Proudest moment: The day I realized my daughters had developed into strong, caring, and independent women.
Best thing you’ve ever done: raised two incredible daughters.
Biggest mistake: take said daughters on a packhorse trip into the Sierra, underprepared.
Most daring thing you’ve ever done: writing my first (never-to-be-published) novel.
Something you chickened out from doing: quitting my job to write full time.
The last thing you did for the first time: zipline in Hanalei, Kauai.
Something you’ll never do again: river raft anything greater than stage 3 rapids.
EXCERPT FROM WHAT SHE NEVER SAID
RUTH MOSBY
ONE
Monday, May 6
My goal each day is ten thousand steps. A Fitbit monitors my progress. One. Two. Three. Four. This morning I’ll reach six thousand steps. Only four thousand left after that. It’s nice the days have grown longer. I’ll walk the harbor loop after work. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. I speed up the slope of Orpet Park through the grove of moth-eaten oaks.
At the summit of the steepest hill, I catch a peek of ocean gray. The islands are invisible today, shrouded in waves of lowering fog. June gloom. That’s what the locals call it, although we’ve barely stepped into May. Locals? I am a local. Or should be after thirty-some years. But oh no. Not in Santa Barbara. You can’t be a local unless you’re born here. Ridiculous but true. Sometimes I wonder why I stay. But at my age, where would I go?
Cresting the final hill, I catch my first glimpse of the mission bells. They’re a sad reminder of my walks with Carlyn and the chats we had every day. She thought the Queen of the Missions was a sign of God’s blessing on our tony beachside town. I wonder what she thinks of God now. I wonder what she thinks of me.
I continue past the mission lawn, verging on parched and dry. The agaves look weathered and dusty; they’re wilted at the tips. A handful of elderly tourists snap photos of the iconic scene. Their foreign chatter disrupts the calm, so I cross the street to the rose garden and follow the rutted trail. A lone dog shoots into view, and I slow my rapid gait. The golden Lab jumps, twists, and barks, nabbing a Frisbee in his mouth.
“Morning,” his master calls to me, a smile gracing his youthful face.
“Morning.” I lock my gaze on my running shoes. How did he miss the DOGS ON LEASH signs staggered every twenty feet? Or maybe he didn’t but somehow believes he’s above the city’s rules. I make a mental note to call animal control and continue on my way.
I pick up my pace for the final ten blocks, feeling better than I have in weeks. Turning down my narrow driveway, I cringe at the sight of my neighbor standing on his porch.
“Morning, Ruth,” he calls.
“Morning, Zach.”
Zach limps down his steps and through his drought-stricken garden, a frown rumpling his grizzled face. He’s dressed in board shorts and a tattered T-shirt, mended flip-flops shielding his feet. “You hear those kids partying last night?” he asks.
“No,” I lie. “Was it loud?”
“Hell yeah. I can’t believe they allow short-term rentals in our neighborhood. We’ve got to put a stop to that.”
“Well, kids will be kids.” I fail to mention I called the police at ten sharp. That’s when the noise ordinance kicks in.
“I’m going to complain at today’s city council meeting. Want to come along?” The breeze shifts, and I catch a whiff of spoiled milk. Zach has taken to strategic bathing, which results in an occasional stench.
“I would, but I have to work.”
“Bummer. There’s a better chance if we complain together.”
I nod, thinking he’d have a better chance if he made an effort to clean himself up. When we moved into the neighborhood decades ago, Zach had been a handsome man with an easy smile and a mop of thick black hair. A homicide detective whose pretty wife, Tina, taught art at the nearby elementary school. The perfect neighbors on a perfect street of tiny Craftsman homes. Then their son died in a tragic accident, and Tina passed soon after that. A broken man, Zach took early retirement and nearly drank himself to death. He’s in recovery now and has replaced the booze with an obsession for neighborhood affairs. “What about my petition?” he asks. “You plan on signing that?”
I bite my lower lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Construction begins next week.”
“I wish I could, but . . .”
Mumbling under his breath, he eyes me with a frown. He’s also taken to talking to himself. Is dementia creeping up? “But what?” he asks.
“I don’t think it’s wise for someone in my position to take a political stance.”
“Your position?” He rolls his eyes. “You work at an old folks’ home.”
“I work in a life-care community.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
His frown deepens into a crevasse. “So, you’re okay with those homes coming down?” He nods at the four vacant bungalows located directly across the street. They’re slated for demolition, to be replaced by a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion with an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Our future neighbors are a flashy young couple with toddler twins and an army of well-groomed staff. Seems our former middle-class neighborhood is attracting the fashionable Hollywood types.
“I’m not okay with it,” I say, “but what can we do? The planning commission has made their decision. We’re not going to change their minds.”
“But if we don’t take action, it won’t be long before people like us can’t live in this town.”
“At least we’ll make a mint when we sell.”
“You’re not thinking of moving, are you?”
“Of course not.” Although I might if the price is right.
Zach sniffs and takes a swipe at his nose. “I just wish we could stop these assholes. They even complained about my new picket fence.”
I hold my voice steady. “They did?” Last month, Zach replaced his aging fence with a synthetic version that lists from side to side.
“Hell yes. City says my fence is four inches too tall, and I’ve got one month to replace the thing.
Where the hell am I going to get that kind of money? My pension only goes so far.” He searches my face with his electric-blue eyes. They’re the only part of him that haven’t aged.
“That’s terrible,” I say, dropping my gaze and backpedaling down the driveway. “Got to get to work. Have a nice day.” I hurry through the gate, swimming through waves of guilt. What if Zach finds out I turned him in? He’ll be angrier than a cornered wasp. But by the time I step out of the shower, I’ve pushed away all my self-doubt. Is it my fault his fence is too tall? For God’s sake, rules are rules.
***
Excerpt from What She Never Said by Catharine Riggs. Copyright © 2019 by Catharine Riggs. Reproduced with permission from Catharine Riggs. All rights reserved.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Catharine Riggs lives and writes on California’s central coast. Before her dive into thrillers, Riggs worked as a business banker, adjunct college instructor, and a nonprofit executive.
What She Never Said is the second novel in her loosely linked Santa Barbara Suspense series. The first,
What She Gave Away, was published by Thomas & Mercer in September of 2018.
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