Featured Author: Andy Gavin

Today I'm excited to bring you Andy Gavin and his novel, Untimed, a YA time travel book, published by Mascherato Publishing. In addition to answering my inane questions, Andy treats us to a guest post and an excerpt from Untimed.

About the book:

Charlie’s the kind of boy that no one notices. Hell, his own mother can’t remember his name. So when a mysterious clockwork man tries to kill him in modern day Philadelphia, and they tumble through a hole into 1725 London, Charlie realizes even the laws of time don’t take him seriously. Still, this isn’t all bad. Who needs school when you can learn about history first hand, like from Ben Franklin himself. And there’s this girl… Yvaine… another time traveler. All good. Except for the rules: boys only travel into the past and girls only into the future. And the baggage: Yvaine’s got a baby boy and more than her share of ex-boyfriends. Still, even if they screw up history — like accidentally let the founding father be killed — they can just time travel and fix it, right? But the future they return to is nothing like Charlie remembers. To set things right, he and his scrappy new girlfriend will have to race across the centuries, battling murderous machines from the future, jealous lovers, reluctant parents, and time itself.

Interview with Andy Gavin:

Andy, Untimed is your second book. How long have you been writing, and how did you start?

I’m a lifelong creator and explorer of worlds. As far back as first grade, I remember spending most of the school day in one day dream or another. I had a huge notebook stuffed with drawings, story bits, and concepts for an elaborate Sci-Fi/Fantasy world I cobbled together from bits of Star Wars, Narnia, and Battlestar Galactica. By fourth or fifth grade not only was I loosing myself in every fantasy or Sci-Fi novel I could, but I was building Dungeons & Dragons castles and caverns on paper. Then from 1980 on the computer.

Over the following decades I wrote dozens of stories and created and published over a dozen video games all set in alternative universes. And as an avid reader (over 10,000 novels and who knows how many non-fiction volumes) it was no surprise that I eventually decided to write some books of my own.

Wow. That's quite a background. How did you come up with the title Untimed?

I wanted a single-word title, and I wanted it to imply time travel, so I bounced words and phrases around in my head until I came up with Untimed. It seemed pretty good immediately.

How did you create the plot for this book?

Typically, Untimed began from a fusion of ideas. Lingering in my mind for over twenty years was a time travel story about people from the future who fell “downtime” to relive exciting moments in history (until things go wrong). I worked out a time travel system but had no plot or characters. Separately, in 2010, as a break from editing The Darkening Dream, I experimented with new voice techniques, especially first person present. I also read various “competition.” One of these was The Lightning Thief (the first Percy Jackson novel), which has an amazing series concept (if a slightly limp execution). I love mythology and history, and liked the notion of something with a rich body of material to mine. I wanted an open ended high concept that drew on my strengths, which brought me back to time travel.

Some of the mechanics from my earlier concept merged well with a younger protagonist, voiced in a visceral first person present style. I started thinking about it, and his voice popped into my head. I pounded out a chapter not too dissimilar from the first chapter of the final novel. Then the most awesome villain teleported into the situation. I can’t remember how or why, but it happened quickly and spontaneously. Tick-Tocks were born (or forged).

Do you outline, write by the seat of your pants, or let your characters tell you what to write?

Personally I find the two different modes: plotting vs. just writing, to use different sides of the brain, and therefore useful to stagger. I can only handle a few days of plotting before I need the release of getting it out there. There really isn’t any rush in writing as good as just pounding out a great scene that’s already gelled in your head, and it’s even better when the scene and characters take on a life of their own and bring something novel to the process. Looking back on it, I realize that as a computer programmer I took this same exact alternating approach (between designing the algorithm and just coding) and that the rush and rhythm were nearly identical.

Did you have any say in your cover art?

The cover photo-illustration is by award-winning fantasy artist Cliff Nielsen. I found him originally for my first novel, The Darkening Dream. Back then, I combed through the more recent books in my 10,000 novel collection and put aside ones with covers I liked. Going through those I found like eight (including the new edition of Narnia!) with covers by Cliff. But it was really the Map of Time cover that totally sold me. I had to have him do mine. So I called. With Untimed it was natural to go back to him, as the first cover rocked. I had the Tick-Tock image in mind all along, still he read the book and then we talked. It was instant agreement, had to be Rapier.

Untimed also has interior illustrations by Dave Phillips. I could tell looking at his portfolio that he was an amazing artist. I have a lot of experience judging art, my mother is an oil painter, I half grew up in museums, and video games are all about art. Dave’s figures had an emotive quality, a correctness of proportion, and a sense of motion that only good artists can evoke. I picked twenty-one scenes from the book that seemed to cover the most characters and iconic moments while being fairly well spaced out and then wrote up detailed descriptions. I had really specific images in my head, so I included reference images, particularly costumes and props. Dave did rough drafts of each and pretty much nailed them all. We made a few tweaks and he popped out awesome finished versions. It sounds simple, but it took a few months as he has a day job and twenty-one detailed illustrations takes a while.

Are any of your characters inspired by real people?

Perhaps, but I’m not telling. Really, like most authors, I just borrow bits and pieces of traits from people I know and even from characters in other books and movies. Literary tradition (I include TV and film here) supplies a lot of rough templates.

What song would you pick to go with Untimed?

I’m not sure, but while writing it I listened a hell of a lot to the Daft Punk Tron Legacy album. It seems to fit.

Who are your favorite authors?

I have so many, but to start: George R. R. Martin, Dan Simons, Tim Powers, Orson Scott Card, Guy Gavriel Kay, Sherri S. Tepper, Octavia Butler, Ian M. Banks, Jack L. Chalker, Robin Hobb, Stephen King, Gene Wolfe, Katherine Kurtz, and Vernor Vinge.


Do you have a routine for writing? Do you work better at night, in the afternoon, or in the morning?

My work space is extremely messy but with a great view of Santa Monica and the Pacific Ocean. I write on a 12 core Mac Pro with two Apple 30” monitors. Yeah, I’m a computer geek, and an Apple weenie to boot. I write in Scrivener which is a totally awesome writer’s word processor. Any writer still using Word is crazy.

I just have to interrupt to say I agree on both counts: Apple and Scrivener are awesome! Also, I'm extremely jealous of your view of the Pacific Ocean. Okay, please continue.

Unless something distracting is going on I try to have my butt in the chair by around 10am (after working out) and more or less keep it there until around 6pm. If drafting new prose I try to do about 2000 words a day. I write, then I do a polish pass. If I had to rewrite significantly during that pass I’ll do a third sweep to cleanup.

Then I print and run to my wife for instant feedback. Next, I email it to my mom and my “story consultant” (one of my friends who reads it right away). Feedback is good. I find that I’ll often redraft a chunk on the basis of these early comments.

You read a lot. What three books have you read and would recommend?

Anubis Gates by Tim Powers. Powers has ability to bring to life the fey in a grounded yet truly otherworldly way, and Gates is the best of his many books. It’s totally zany with time travel, werewolves, ancient sorcerers, Romantic poets, and more, yet it totally works.

Hyperion by Dan Simmons. A space opera roughly based on the Canterbury Tales? It’s got not only a massive scope and impressive world building, but repeated and genuine pathos.

A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin. Martin has this uncanny ability of making his gigantic cast of characters feel developed and above all, human. He plots like a demon too as the number of twists and reversals is out of control. But fundamentally he really makes you care about the people.

What’s one of your favorite quotes?

“Think of it as evolution in action” is pretty good, but in light of this being about Untimed, we could use a favorite Ben Franklin saying, “Three men can keep a secret, if two of them are dead!”

Gotta love Ben Franklin. What are you working on now?

Yep. Right now, I’m writing two more novels and adapting Untimed into a screenplay. The new books are the Untimed sequel and a totally separate short novel that involves old school fairies and iambic pentameter.

Sounds intriguing. Come back and tell us about them when they're published!

Guest Post by Andy Gavin:

Games, Novels, and Story

Storytelling, the old fashioned way

Modern man has a wide variety of "pure" storytelling mediums, like film, long form television, and novels. While these have some very significant differences they all share the same basic focus on plot and character. Typically at least, good stories introduce a character with problems, get you to like them, then chronicle the struggle as they are compelled to change and adapt to overcome these problems. In the end, they either do so, or are defeated to teach us a lesson (a variant we call tragedy).

These elements: character, plot, and transformational arc, are completely central to the normal story (I deliberately ignore weird experimental storytelling). Really, they are the core of what makes a good film or novel.

                                     
Roman mosaic showing comedy (right) and tragedy (left)

But with a game, this whole business is secondary. The primary focus of a game is fun. And fun through gameplay. Does Tetris have any character or plot? Did even Doom? No. But they were fun games. Really fun.

Games such as Naughty Dog's Jak & Daxter or Uncharted strive to bridge these gaps by offering both. This is very difficult because they don't really serve each other.

The gameplay in Uncharted 2, for example, has three primary modes: survival gunplay, platforming, and puzzle solving. The player must assess the layout of the level, learn it, and navigate it without getting killed. This involves anticipating the enemies and taking them out first. You use the weapons at your disposal, the mechanics, and the terrain provided to do so. With platforming you need to come to understand what the character can do physical, find your way, and successfully traverse the route.


Some games do focus on story

When these are done well, when the design is varied, the levels pretty, the enemies cool, and the challenges measured, challenging and above all, doable - it's fun. Uncharted 2 is such a game.

It also has a pretty darn good story which is woven in with the design of the levels and the challenges. This adds to the whole thing. Watching the next segment of story becomes part of your reward for finishing a segment. There is a tremendous level of art that goes into getting both of these to work at the same time, but certainly each is constrained at times by the needs of the other.

Content in games is expensive and difficult to make. Therefore it needs to repeat. You really do need to shoot the same enemy hundreds of times. Otherwise the enemy isn't providing enough mileage to justify the labor involved to create him. The player is also in control and therefore the consequences of his play affect success or failure.


My first novel

But in storytelling, success and failure are the carefully monitored heartbeat of any good story. You bring the protagonist up, dash him down, grind him into the ground, lift him up, slam him sideways. I knew this intuitively when writing my first novel, The Darkening Dream. I've read so many books and watched so many films and shows that it seemed "obvious." But at the same time, it turned out to be far from easy. Writing a good story has less constraints than making a good game, but it's still extremely difficult. You need to be constantly balancing the issues of character, motivation, the logic of the plot, and the need to seesaw the dramatic tension. In the end, stylistic concerns sometimes overwhelm dramatic ones (to the reader's detriment).

In a game, it's even more complicated, and there is barely a chance of hitting all the right dramatic notes. The player has a lot to say about this natural up and down pacing, so the story-based game tries to separate how well you are really doing from the actual plot. Usually death or failure in the game causes the player to merely repeat some segment of the game (and hence the story), when they finish the level and get the next segment of storytelling, they'll get it regardless of whether they died once or 100 times. The better player merely proceeds faster.

This is different, but even more problematic in a less linear game such as World of Warcraft. There, the mechanics of the game heavily distort the conceits of storytelling. The story is even broadly linked to the chronological evolution of the game in real time. For example, in December of 2009 Blizzard released the Icecrown Citadel patch of Wrath of the Lich King, making it possible for players to finally reach and confront the ultimate boss of the expansion (the titular Lich King). But the fact is, in order to properly maintain the reward mechanics of endgame raiding, each character was and often did, progress through this segment of the story once, or even twice a week.



The Lich King

Now, two years later, the Lich King has been defeated, the world of Azeroth has been broken, yet it's still possible to go back to Icecrown and take on Arthas again. And again. Ditto for any of the several hundred even older bosses. Players accept that they have random access to a long and convoluted story. In fact, the need to generate so much gameplay in WOW has created a body of lore that gives the Silmarillion a run for its money. But the way in which it's experienced mutes the emotional intensity.

What really provides the excitement in WOW (and many other games), isn't the question of whether the dragon queen Onyxia lives or dies, but the - shall we dare say - drama of whether she does tonight, for us, the group fighting her. And more importantly, will she drop the Nemesis skullcap (arbitrary cool piece of loot) one has been trying to get for six months.

Excerpt from Untimed

“You think me daft, do you?” the girl in the refuse pile says. “You’re from the future.”

Living the last hour in a high-budget documentary has made me a time travel believer, so I’ll take her word for it.

“How do you know?”

“Boys always be from the future. What’s me name?”

“Yvaine?” I say.

Her smile is so genuine it startles me.

“There you go. I haven’t never heared that since I was a wee bit.”

I know how she feels even if I only mostly understand what she says.

“Help a lady up, Charlie.”

I take the hand she extends, pull her upright, then kick my feet into the dirty pair of shoes I took off when I ran after her. Her scruffy outline stands out with unnatural clarity.

This cinches it. I know how to spot the historically homeless!

Dad’s history books, all his lessons, swirl in my head. He totally knew! If us extra-in-focus-no-names are time travelers, and he and Sophie have been off visiting the Crusades or whenever, why’d they wait till right before the clockwork cop showed up before trying to tell me?

“Are you from the future too?” I ask.

“You know nothin’, dinna you?” Yvaine cuffs me on the arm. “Boys are from the future, girls are from the past.”

“Where? I mean when? And when is now?”

“Let’s cosy someplace warm.” She tugs me toward the alley entrance. “We’ll be lucky not t’catch cold.”

“That’s what my mother would say.”

“I’m not your mother.”

Check out the book trailer for Untimed:

About the author:

I’m an unstoppable storyteller who studied for his Ph.D. at M.I.T. and founded video game developer Naughty Dog, Inc. at the age of fifteen, serving as co-president for two decades. There I created, produced, and directed over a dozen video games, including the award winning and best selling Crash Bandicoot and Jak & Daxter franchises, selling over 40 million units worldwide. I sleep little, read novels and histories, watch media obsessively, travel, blog (a million hits last year!), and of course, write.

Connect with Andy:
Website | Blog | Facebook | Goodreads | Twitter | Amazon | sample chapters 

Featured Author: Dan O'Brien

Welcome to the third day of the Bitten blog tour. It will run until July 16th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, character interviews, and a casting call by the author.

About the book:

A predator stalks a cold northern Minnesotan town. There is talk of wolves walking on two legs and attacking people in the deep woods. Lauren Westlake, resourceful and determined F.B.I Agent, has found a connection between the strange murders in the north and a case file almost a hundred years old. Traveling to the cold north, she begins an investigation that spirals deep into the darkness of mythology and nightmares. Filled with creatures of the night and an ancient romance, the revelation of who hunts beneath the moon is more grisly than anyone could have imagined.

A few questions for the author:

Do you ever write naked? 

I have never sat down and thought, “Man, it would be great to work on this novel naked.” That being said: yes. 

Who would play you in a film of your life? 

I would love to say John Cusack, but he is older than me and it would be weird. Jack Black would make for a funny version, though he would suddenly have to decide he wanted to do triathlons. 

What are the most important attributes to remaining sane as a writer? 

Knowing why you got into writing in the first place. Sometimes expectations are what drag you down. If you are writing because you want people to read your books and you love to write, then you will never be disappointed. If you expect to make a living wage right out of the gate, you might find that the fruit has soured. I have been at this for a little over a decade now and it finally feels like I am hitting some kind of stride.

Have you ever read or seen yourself as a character in a book or a movie? 

There is always a character in a movie who resonates with me, though it is often the cunning villains and the loner-type characters. Perhaps getting into writing was the right profession? Californication on Showtime might be the closest thing to really connecting with a character, minus all of the character defects….

Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:

Chapter III

Sheriff Montgomery looked at the frozen, mangled body of Madeline Leftwich and could not seem to conjure up remorse. Two grisly murders in the span of two days were enough to plunge the emotions of a small town into a nexus, a black hole of sorts. The woods seemed harmless during the day, better resembling a Robert Frost poem than a horrific murder scene. 

Tufts of thick brown hair escaped from the wool cap he wore. A heavy face that was accented with a thick beard made him appear a lumberjack or dock worker as opposed to a civil servant. Pale brown eyes surveyed the scene with a kind of absent criticism. He knelt down, the heavy material of his pants cracking as if they were frozen solid, which was not far from the truth. 

Reaching out with a gloved hand, he touched the ghastly face. Locke experienced a murder once a decade and often it was someone not from Minnesota, but some vacationer. Maybe they were from California or some damned warm place that didn’t have the decency to just appreciate the tall green trees that clouded the distance and the gripping cold that took the breath from you even in July. Shaking his head, he stood again. His heavy frame had begun to thicken in the middle with age. 

“Sheriff, we got some tracks over here,” called out the young deputy, a thin reed of a boy. Everyone was a boy to Montgomery since the big five-zero had rolled around last spring. The young deputy’s hazel eyes were the kind about which women dreamed. Though what was behind them was little more than a vapid afterthought.

Montgomery walked over the frozen earth, making sure to walk around the partially covered remains of Ms. Leftwich, or rather what remained. The tall pines watched the sheriff pass, branches swaying slightly in the morning breeze. 

The deputy was standing over heavy indentions in the earth. Matthews was the consummate northerner. Heavy Nordic brow and cheekbones made him look like a Viking warrior displaced. The sloppy grin across his face belied the gruesome scene he and the sheriff overlooked. “Looks like they might be from an animal, hey,” he mumbled, pointing down at the ground. 

Squatting down, Montgomery touched the firm earth with his gloved hands. Already the soil was cold again despite the horror that had no doubt transpired hours before. “Looks like it could be bear tracks, but the narrow arch could be human. No claws, just heavy prints. Not definitive.”

“Could it be a monster, hey?”

Montgomery looked at him with a grim look. 

“You making a joke, deputy?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Looking past the marks, there was damage to the brush as well. Pushing past hard spiny branches, the sheriff saw where Madeline Leftwich had hid before her assailant got the better of her. Part of her coat rested on the crawling, thorny brush that was located only a few feet from the murder scene. 

“Looks like this is where the victim was hiding.”

“Hiding, Sherriff?”

Montgomery stood, surveying the scene with a critical eye. Pointing down at the brush, he began. “I believe Ms. Leftwich was out in the woods here for some reason. Walking home from the train station, I suppose.”

“She was a bit batty, hey.” 

Montgomery did not bother to chastise his deputy with words. Instead, he directed a dark glare his way. It was sufficient. Walking forward, pointing farther down the trail, the sheriff continued. “For whatever reason, she felt compelled to enter these woods at night. Wild animals aside, this trail has proven dangerous in the past. Something or someone was waiting for her. Maybe she saw it coming, maybe it chased her.”

The deputy watched quietly. 

“Either way she hid in this bush until whatever got her, dragged her free.”

Ms. Collins, local medical examiner, in all her burlesque glory on the cold bitter morning, walked over to the sheriff and deputy. Her hands were covered in black gloves. Bright orange lipstick accented her face; the bee hive she wore so proudly was streaked with black and white. 

“I think your assumption might be correct, sheriff.”

Montgomery looked at her with a stone face. “Is that so? What makes you so agreeable this morning?”

Collins stiffened her back and walked toward the body. They followed, the three of them soon overlooking Madeline’s frozen corpse. “There are bruises along her upper arms, and if I am not mistaken, there is tendon and muscle damage consistent with a dragging scenario. We won’t know more until I get her on the table, but I think it is a reasonable assumption.”

The sheriff knelt again, this time inspecting the wound carefully. Tracing a finger over the gashes, he grimaced. “Strange wounds,” he began and then making hooks with his fingers. “Looks like a claw or some kind of garden tool.”

“So we’re looking for a gardener?”

Montgomery shook his head. “Perhaps his tools, deputy,” answered the sheriff sarcastically. Looking into the distance, he continued. “You think this is related?”

Collins raised a painted eyebrow. 

“To the woman at the lake?”

The sheriff nodded. 

Watching the still forest around them, he listened for an abnormality like a druid of the old world. “Two murders in the span of two days, similar conditions. Women alone attacked and left in the cold. Certainly something to think about.”

The deputy scratched his head in confusion. 

“But the two crime scenes are miles apart.”

“Mile, maybe mile and a half.”

“Seems bit far for collusion between the two acts,” offered the deputy, looking away as the sheriff took note of his word choice. Even Collins in all her macabre glory looked at him with a skeptical eye. “What? I can evolve.”

Montgomery did not even bother commenting. “There are marks along her chest very similar to those of our Jane Doe in the morgue. What’s this?” Collins leaned in, the powerful grip of her perfume rankled the sheriff. “You mind taking a step back, Ms. Collins. For posterity, of course.”

She looked at him over dark-rimmed glasses and smirked. “Some men find me intoxicating, sheriff.”

“Not one of ‘em,” he replied. Pulling back the tarp, he continued. “She is missing a patch of skin.”

“What?” 

The deputy leaned in, his eyes wide. 

The remains of Madeline Leftwich were indeed missing a large piece of skin, the size of two hands just above her hips. Collins, despite the weight of her massive hair arrangement, ducked into see what the sheriff was referring to. The cold air embraced their collective breath, a strange orgy of evacuated clouds. 

“Looks like it was ripped clean,” spoke the deputy in revulsion. 

Collins reached down with a gloved hand, pushing in the skin and inspecting the wound with a critical eye. “Looks post-mortem. Could be unrelated, scavengers or another assailant perhaps?”

Montgomery shook his head. 

“Unlikely.”

The deputy stood up. 

He looked pale. 

This was the first time in his limited service to the city of Locke when he had witnessed such heinous acts. The urge to vomit rose to the surface, stifled with tight lips and wide eyes. “There wasn’t anything like this on the Jane Doe,” he managed through clenched teeth. 

Montgomery nodded absently. “We didn’t see anything, that’s true. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t anything there though.” He turned to Collins. “You notice anything like this on the other victim?”

“I wasn’t really looking for that. We still have her on ice. Toxicology is still out and swabs from the wounds were sent down south for processing. Gonna still be a little while yet, hey.”

The sheriff nodded, his mouth twisting. 

“What do you think happened?” asked the deputy, taking a few steps back as the bag was re-zipped once more. The crime scene crew, which is to say Collins and an awkward intern, carried away Leftwich. 

Montgomery stared at the wilderness again: stillness. 

The bitter lethargy of winter was in full bloom: gray skies, salt and pepper earth. “I think whoever or whatever did this isn’t done.”

“Yeah.”

“And I think maybe things are going to get worse before they get better.”

*

Lauren opened her eyes slowly. 

The night before had been a blur, drinks led to more drinks. She remembered Dominic, but not the events that led to her lying on her back as she was. White walls were marred slightly with yellowish stains from smokers past. 

What did I do? 

Her thoughts drifted as she rose, pushing back the stiff, yet warm covers that enveloped her torso. Looking to the other side of the bed, it was undisturbed. He had not come home with her. 

*

It walked through the shambles of the shed that served as its home. Rusted implements of maim and death hung about it like ghoulish trophies of a world forgotten. The gray day lent little luminance in its shack. 

The smell should have been acerbic, overpowering. Were it summer, the stench of the flesh would have overpowered the air for miles. Yet in winter there were no smells, locked up in a prison of the mind. Boards erected overtop one another in meaningless patterns; scattered holes that revealed the cold and gray outside. 

It no longer felt the cold. 

Its mind, as its body, was numb. 

A table was at the center of the room, of its home. It reached out, grasping the two hands of flesh torn from Madeline Leftwich. 

Not always had it been like this: the curse, the bite. 

It was an animal. 

Now it was forced to hunt, driven by the moon to kill. 

A dead wolf hung in the cabin; the head was still intact. The body had been torn to pieces, fur and foot missing from the torso. 

It walked past a gap in the walls, its arms revealed. 

Wolf fur sewn into flesh. A piece of human flesh pulled and stretched like it wished to make leather, teasing the elasticity of it, testing it. Needles scattered about, bound already in flesh and blood. 

Its face was shadowed, hidden from the world. 

It had begun to fear men, fear their scent and judgment. Werewolf: the word floated through its mind like downed branches in a raging stream. Though there was little life left in its mind: madness, hatred, the hunt. That is what remained. 

Wild hair pulled back from its scalp, long fingers; nails dirty and broken. It stretched the skin down on the table, pressing its dirty hand along the flesh; blood on the hand of the seamster and on the fabric. Its hand reached out and grasped the needle. 

There was no noise in the morning air. 

The trees remained silent in fear of what haunted the shack. It placed the skin on top of its arm. The first time through the blood oozed as the needle attached its trophy to its skin. It used wolf fur, drawn thin like fishing line to seal the wound, to make a quilt of its body: to become a monster. Each time through the flesh drew taut, becoming a part of the map of its descent into madness. 

Soon, it had patched together what had once been Madeline Leftwich’s flesh into its own flesh, a coverlet work of insanity. It sat down on the floor. It looked up at the ceiling and into the gray sky above, waiting for the embrace of night when it would hunt again.

*

Lauren Westlake looked out at Locke, Minnesota and grimaced. She felt the slight grip of a hangover: heavy eyes, throbbing mind. The landscape was bleak. The gray skies looked as if they were ready to bury the locals in a distant, forever sleep. 

Pulling her coat around her neck tightly and gripping the edges of her wool cap, she lowered her head into the wind. She recalled the map of the small town. The inn was very close to the cross street where the police station was located. 

She hoped that she was not too late. 

Before, the attacks escalated in quick succession. Where there was one, suddenly there were many until it culminated in a mass murder and then nothing; the balance restored, suburbia recalled. 

The streets were clean, maintained in a way she was not used to. The storefronts were as bleak as the air around her. Stone-faced people, neither smiling nor courteous, watched her with suspicion as she passed. There were few cars; most were parked, only a rundown Chevy passed by. Its sputter could be heard far off in the distance. Lauren passed a coffee shop on her right with For Lease written crudely on a piece of white-backed cardboard. 

The remnants of an auto mechanic shop; an old-time bed and breakfast boarded and rundown: Locke was not a booming place. It suffered as all small towns suffered. Tourism was fickle, even more so when the majority of people were broke and holed up in their shrewd lives. 

The next corner retained the only stop light in all of Locke and it merely blinked red, cautioning the limited traffic to be wary of other drivers. A wind picked up, blowing against her slender frame. She cursed her persistence, her need to understand. Once again, it had driven her to the edge.

The police station came into view, or rather a stone building devoid of marking except a grouping of black letters that spelled out Locke Police Station. A lone patrol car was parked out front, a frost-covered monstrosity that looked as if it would need to be pushed to start. 

The door was tinted, a strange thing to do in a place with no sunshine. Lauren pulled on the handle hard, grumbling as it was slow to open. The cold was bitter on her face, clawing at her lips and nostrils as she entered the building. The station was a long room cut in half by a plain counter. There was a distant desk and a glass door covered in blinds. 

“Hello,” she spoke with slight irritation in her voice. 

There was some shuffling. For a moment, she had the strange sensation to reach for her gun. 

A woman appeared. 

Huge hair, clear frames, and bright red lipstick announced her. She wore a pantsuit the likes of which would have been appropriate on a femme fatale half her age and size in a soap opera much dated. “How can I help you, hey?” she spoke with what could have been considered a completely different dialect. 

Lauren took a cautious step forward, following the woman as she made her way to a part of the counter equipped with a blank clipboard and a rusted iron handbell. 

She removed her identification while maintaining eye contact with the visual train wreck that was the receptionist. “Agent Lauren Westlake, I am here about the murder.”

“The murders?” repeated the woman, the parroting slightly odd.

Lauren replaced her identification and looked deeper into the station. “Where is the sheriff, Ms…?” Her voice lingered, searching for the woman’s name. They had spoken on the phone the day before, albeit briefly. 

“Mrs. Meadows, if you please. And Sheriff Montgomery is at the crime scene. He will be back after a while. Can I offer you some coffee, hey?”

Lauren placed her hands on the counter. “Crime scene? I thought the Jane Doe had been removed already and was in the morgue. That is why I am here, to inspect the remains.”

There seemed to be sudden recognition in the receptionist’s eyes. “Right. You are that nice city gal who called yesterday inquiring about the murder. The murder on the lake.”

Lauren nodded. “Precisely.”

The receptionist’s heavily painted lips pursed. She leaned forward as if she were telling a secret. “We did bring her in, but there was another murder. A local. Sad story really. Sheriff Montgomery and the deputy are out there right now.”

Lauren leaned back. 

Pulling off her wool cap, she allowed her hair to fall free, unrestrained. Despite sleeping off a rather interesting bender, she still looked more the part of prepared city girl than overworked country gal.

And the receptionist was quick to notice. “Damn girl. You look too good for it to be this cold, hey.”

Agent Westlake looked at her with an arch of her sculpted eyebrows. Naturally sculpted of course, she was lucky that way. “You said the Sheriff is out at the crime scene?” she asked, her attention only slightly affected by the strange comment. 

The receptionist had already disappeared to the back of the station, where she busied herself making coffee. Lauren followed her along the counter. Mrs. Meadows returned, a coffee mug in each hand. Placing one down in front of Lauren, she cupped hers, snuggling with it really. “Sheriff is out there alright, must have been right after dawn. Poor thing got the call at home.”

Lauren moved forward as if to speak. Mrs. Meadows looked to the coffee mug and Lauren picked it up with a sigh. “Where did this happen?”

Mrs. Meadows sat into a comfortable chair, the heavy material of her pant suit making a mockery of her femininity. “Not that far from here, in the woods just the other side of the train station.”

“I know the area.”

“Really, I though you just got here.”

Lauren took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. “Do you have any sugar?” she replied. “I got in early this morning on the train.”

Mrs. Meadows nodded and made a funny little sound. Pointing to where she had retrieved the coffee, she motioned. “Help yourself, hey. Don’t get many female law types here in Locke. Not much girl talk in the station.”

Lauren smiled weakly and moved behind the counter. 

“I guess if you consider all the shenanigans of the young boys around here, then there is some discussion about women. But certainly not in the capacity I like to have.”

Lauren tore open a packet of white sugar and poured it into the mug. Sticking in a long, slender finger, she stirred the hot coffee. 

“So this crime scene, the one near the train station…”

Mrs. Meadows closed her eyes. Doing so made her appear both fearsome and festive. “Another woman, like I said. This one a local, a bit of a town personality.”

“A local?”

“Crazy woman, pardon me saying so. She didn’t have all her marbles, ya know.”

Lauren searched her mind and recalled distantly the run-in she had with the woman at the train station. Could that be the same woman? Her mind swam slowly as the hangover was proving to be a greater barrier than she had anticipated. “The other woman wasn’t a local? The one from the lake?”

“No, sugar. That one was a transient, a traveler through our wonderful green, cold country.” She leaned forward. “Maybe even one of our friends to the north, hey.”

Lauren pondered that. 

The chime at the station rung; every sound crawled in the north. Montgomery entered, the deputy a step behind. They both looked the part of cold, grumpy men who had just come from a gruesome crime scene. “Darlene, any calls? We get anything back on…” He stopped in his tracks as Agent Westlake walked out from behind the counter. 

“Sheriff Montgomery, I presume?” she spoke. 

Montgomery looked at her, his uncertainty worn on his sleeve. “Yes?”

Lauren removed her identification. 

It was an act to which she had not only grown accustomed, but she had as well begun to enjoy the confused response on men’s faces when they met a female agent. It was empowering and embarrassing in one smooth motion. “I’m Agent Westlake. I called about your Jane Doe yesterday.”

Montgomery looked at her. He was not used to assertive women in positions of authority. Not confidence in general, as he had seen many women who had found their aggressive nature amidst a bender. 

Lauren waited a moment, watching the sheriff carefully. “I told your receptionist, Mrs. Meadows, that the preliminary report sounded very similar to a case I have been working. I was hoping I would be able to take a look at the body and maybe shadow you and your deputy for a few days, see what I can glean.”

“Glean?” echoed the deputy, his voice cracking. 

Lauren’s gaze shifted to the tall, young deputy. “To learn by casual observation. I assume you are the good sheriff’s deputy?”

He nodded, his Adam’s apple bouncing comically. 

Montgomery shook his head. Clicking his tongue, he wiped at his boot absentmindedly. “Shadow? You mean interfere with my investigation. There is no federal jurisdiction on this. I have received…”

Lauren stepped forward, placing down her mug of lukewarm coffee. “Nothing like that, sheriff. I am here in a personal capacity. There is no formal federal inquiry at this time. I was given a short leash to do some of my own investigation and that is what I intend to do. I am looking simply for some professional courtesy.”

Montgomery moved back toward his desk. 

The deputy mirrored the movement, an exact carbon copy of the sheriff. Leaning back into his squeaky chair, Montgomery placed his dark boots on the table and thumbed his wedding ring. “I am willing to extend courtesy your way, if you are willing to send some mine.”

Already there was bartering; already the presence of her badge and authority alone was not sufficient to warrant his respect. She would remedy that before all was said and done. 

“Anything I can do, sheriff. I would like to help with the investigation any way I can.”

Matthews looked at the large eyes of Agent Westlake and could not help but let the bright, boyish smile creep through like so much oil through cracks. Montgomery watched his deputy and shook his head. “You can begin by telling us why you thought our Jane Doe was a part of a larger investigation.”

About the author:
A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.

Check out Dan's books:

Bitten (US)
End of the World Playlist (US)
Cerulean Dreams (US) 
The Journey (US)
The Path of the Fallen (US)
The Twins of Devonshire (US)

The End of the World Playlist (UK) 

Bitten (UK) 

Cerulean Dreams (UK)

The Journey (UK) 

The Path of the Fallen (UK) 

Connect with Dan:

Blog | Twitter | Facebook  

Would you like to win a copy of Bitten?

All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Bitten.

Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!

Featured Author: Leti Del Mar

I'm welcoming back to my blog Leti Del Mar, to tell us about her newest release, Land of the Unaltered, published by Rambaldi Press. Leti was here in December to talk about her novel, The Inadvertent Thief, and to contribute a guest post. I'm happy to have her back today.

About the book:

Rose comes from the capital of the Confederation of Cities where its citizens live in luxury and the greatest fashion statement of all is being Altered. People change everything about the way they look as often as they do their hairstyle but Rose is different. Her position of privilege has made her an outcast and led her to suspect that something sinister is happening to the citizens and flees the capital along with a past that imprisons her in search of a fresh start in the Land of the Unaltered.

Flynn lives in the Land of the Unaltered and hates the capitol and everything it stands for. So when a spoiled capital girl is assigned to work with him, he wants nothing to do with her and is prepared to make her life miserable. But Flynn was not prepared for someone like Rose. She doesn’t fit the mold he expected and finds himself strongly attracted to her. As she continues to surprise and outwit him, they begin to forge a bond that is tested when they discover a secret that could change everything they know about Land of the Unaltered.

Land of the Unaltered is a Dystopian Romance and is the first installment of the The Confederation Chronicles.




Interview with Leti Del Mar:

Leti, this is your second published novel. How long have you been writing, and how did you start?

I’ve always tinkered around with writing but it wasn’t until 2009 that I sat down and wrote my first novel, The Inadvertent Thief.  After a very long time of looking for an agent, sending away my manuscript, getting rejected, doing it all over again, followed by even more time waiting; I decided to self-publish in 2012. The last year has been an incredible journey from which I have learned so much. I now find myself much more business savvy and ready to promote my newest novel with a strategic marketing plan.

Do you outline, write by the seat of your pants, or let your characters tell you what to write?

I am an obsessive compulsive organizational freak when it comes to writing. I create character charts, plot charts and checklists before I start writing. When I finish my first draft, I go back to these charts and lists and see what needs to be improved upon. I’ve made all of my tools available on my website under the “Author Resources” tab. Feel free to check them out and use them.

I will. Thank you! Did you have any say in your cover art?

As an obsessive compulsive organizational freak, I have a lot of trouble handing over the reigns in any part of the creative process. My covers are all mine. For my recent book, I knew I wouldn’t be able to create the exact cover I had in mind so I got help from the very affordable Digital Donna.

Do you have a routine for writing?

I am a big believer in checklists and calendars. I like to give myself a deadline for when I want my completed product to be finished by. Then I break it down into all the steps I need to do to make this happen and assign them smaller deadlines. That way each week, and even each day, I know what I need to accomplish.

Do you ever get writer’s block? What do you do when it happens?

Writer’s block and I are old friends. We go way back. My solution is to stop writing. Instead, I switch gears and do something else that is productive. Sometimes I focus on the business side of writing. The point is to switch gears until I feel the creative juices flowing again.

Leti's Guest Post:

As a self-published Indie Author, I’ve learned a thing or two about this business from other professional in the publishing industry, fellow authors and book bloggers. This know-how has really paid off. The publishing and promoting of my second novel has gone so much smoother and has seen greater results. Looking back, I think I can consolidate it into 5 tips that I wish I knew before self-publishing.

#1- Market your book before it is even published

If you wait until your book is published, then you have waited too long. By telling people, readers, bloggers about your book before it is even done, you start to build a platform for potential readers. I wish I had done this with my first novel. I published it and then wondered, “Now what?” The key is to have a solid marketing plan in place and begin working on it while you finish writing and publishing your book.

#2- Network

Gaining contacts is golden in this industry. Find and meet fellow authors. I have been amazed by the results. These friendly people have pointed me in the direction of resources that have helped me immensely. Search blogs and blog directories. When you find a blog that looks helpful and interesting, follow it and comment frequently. Read their books and build real connections with these people. I have also directly emailed other Indie Authors with brief questions and those emails have led to wonderful exchanges of tips and ideas. You will get back just as much as you give. I promise.

#3- Choose quality over quantity

It sounds easy to tweet and post daily about your book. But no one likes a commercial, much less a persistent one. If you have something worthwhile to say, then tweet it, post it, ect. For example, while visiting a Kindleboards forum, I posted a question about using KDP Select and had a great discussion there. It was meaningful and helpful to me and in the end, one of the guests told me she just purchased my book! Not all online discussions will lead to a purchase, but you will have a better chance of selling your work if stop trying to sell your work with every breath you take.

#4 Learn your craft

I’m not talking about the craft of writing (although the same advice goes for that), I’m talking about the craft of selling your books. Keep looking for great sites, sign up for informative newsletters, join communities, read books by those who have made this work. This is a business after all, and you should be invested in doing it to the best of your ability.

#5 Write more

You’re a writer, so write. It can be easy to get caught up in the business side of being a writer, but you need a quality product before you can sell it. I have learned two things about successful Indie Authors. They write series and they have a huge back list of titles. This didn’t happen overnight. So if you feel discouraged and think it is never going to happen, then write another book. Keep writing those books, preferably write them as part of a series. It may not happen this year, or next, but it will happen. Believe in it!

From the author:

I live in sunny Southern California with my husband, daughter and abnormally large cat. When I'm not writing, reading or blogging, I am teaching Biology and Algebra to teenagers. I'm also a classic film buff, passionate about Art History and love to travel.

Connect with Leti:
Facebook | Twitter | Google+ | Linkedin | Mailing list | Goodreads


Buy the book:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Smashwords |




Leti's tour schedule:

Busy Moms Book Reviews- July 1

A Book So Fathomless- July 2

Writing Belle- July 3

Punya's Reviews- July 4 

Jodie Pierce's Ink Slinger's Blog- July 5

MaMa's Book Corner- July 8

A Blue Million Books- July 9

Curse of the Bibliophile- July 10

Read Between the Lines- July 11

Nette's Bookshelf- July 12

Laurie's Thoughts and Reviews- July 13

Tangled Up in Books- July 15

Notebook Blogairy- July 16

Rosie Amber- July 17

Smart Girls Love Sci-Fi- July 18 

Dream Big...Read Often- July 19



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Featured Author: Jacqueline Lynch

I'm happy to feature another cozy mystery today. This one is Cadmium Yellow, Blood Red, by Jacqueline Lynch.

About the book:  

A post-World War II “cozy” mystery about a museum heist, a missing child, a murder, a recent ex-con and an even more recent widow. In Hartford, Connecticut, 1949, Juliet Van Allen, a museum administrator, discovers that her artist husband is having an affair with another woman. Elmer Vartanian, recently released from prison for a museum robbery, is coerced into helping scout the museum for a heist by a gang that has kidnapped his daughter. Juliet’s husband is found murdered. Elmer signs on as her alibi in exchange for something he wants. Together, dogged by the scandal-monger newsman, the shrewd police detective, and scrutinized by the even more judgmental eye of Hartford’s elite, the rich widow and the ex-con try to outrun them all in a 1948 Lincoln Cosmopolitan, in world where Modern Art meets old-fashioned murder.

Interview with Jacqueline Lynch:

How long have you been writing, and how did you start? 

I wrote as a child for fun, but I started getting paid for my work over thirty years ago in high school when I wrote for the local weekly newspaper. Over the years, I worked a succession of assignments as a staff newspaper/magazine writer/editor, and later freelance. Later I branched out into plays and novels.

How did you create the plot for this book? 

Like most novels, it starts out when you’re innocently washing the dishes or weeding the garden and suddenly a thought pops into your head: What if? What if an art museum heist was interrupted by the heiress to a fortune whose artist husband was just murdered? You rinse the plate and take it from there.

Do you outline, write by the seat of your pants, or let your characters tell you what to write? 

It depends on what I’m writing. I work on a number of projects simultaneously, which include non-fiction historical writing, as well as plays. For those two, detailed outlining is a must. For this cozy mystery series, I outline very lightly and then most of it is seat of the pants writing.

Did you have any say in your cover art?

Since this series is self-published, I have total control over the art, but I relinquish that to a wonderful artist named Casey Koester, who comes up with terrific designs in the vector graphic style. I wanted something distinctive, and something to reflect on not only the art world of the story, but to bring to mind those great old 1940s pulp novel covers—with a modern twist. I love her covers, and I can’t wait to see the next one.

Have you ever bought any books just for the cover?

I don’t think I’ve ever brought any book just for the cover, but a great cover certainly makes you examine the book more closely. 

What do you do to market your book? 

I’ve posted information on my two blogs: Another Old Movie Blog, and New England Travels, Facebook, Twitter, sold paperback copies at book signings. I’ve also delivered talks to historical societies, women’s clubs, and libraries on my books. I’ve recently started a Pinterest page specifically dedicated to the Double V Mystery series. Cadmium Yellow, Blood Red is the first book in this series, and on this page you can see images of the locations where the stories take place in New England, and you can even get a look at Juliet’s car, a Lincoln Cosmopolitan in some really swell old illustrated advertisements.  I’m also looking forward to connecting with new readers through your blog.

Do you have imaginary friends? When do they talk to you?

I used to have an imaginary friend when I was a child, but we weren’t really best friends; he was just my colleague. We would solve crimes together. He was my stupid sidekick. I needed to have an imaginary stupid sidekick because I didn’t know any real people who were stupider than me. He had a wife and two children: a boy and a girl. They were all pretty homely. But nice, simple people. They lived in a trailer and ate Twinkies for supper, and sometimes they’d have me over for dinner. But that was a long time ago. I never hear from him anymore. I think he retired to Florida. You’d think he’d send a postcard, or one of those family newsletters on the holidays. 

When you start a new book, do you know what the entire cast will be? 

I always think I know who the entire cast will be, but then after a chapter or two new people come through the door. There’s not much you can do but welcome them and get them something to eat.

I’m constantly on the lookout for new names. How do you name your characters? 

The two principal characters, partners in the stories, are Juliet and Elmer. I like both names for their irony. “Juliet” represents something innocent, yet precocious, a romantic ideal unattainable for us—mainly because Shakespeare killed his Juliet. My Juliet is also precious, not really innocent—she’s pretty street savvy for a ladylike heiress, but she is romantically unattainable for Elmer. At least for now.

Elmer is a cool, street-smart, ex-con who could be a romantic hero except for that name.  That’s what I love about it. It doesn’t really fit him. Cool guys are always given cool names in books. Elmer’s got this funny name to live down.

What song would you pick to go with your book? 

"I’m a Fool to Want You," sung by Jennie Smith. Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Peggy Lee and others all covered the song, but Jennie Smith’s version is the one I hear for this book.  I was thinking about the plot of the book one day while in the car, it was raining – a good Film Noir pelting of rain – and this song was playing on my car CD player. 

Which author would you most like to invite to dinner?

I’d like to invite Jane Austen to an American Thanksgiving dinner because I’d love her conversation, and because I’d love to see her put it in her next book, which I’m pretty sure she would. You can come over, too. Bring pie.

Ooh, I love pie! What book are you currently reading and in what format (e-book/paperback/hardcover)?

I’m reading Chain of Fools by Trav S.D. in paperback. It’s a history of silent comedy stars that I will review on my blogs. He’s a terrific writer, and I’m a fan of his blog, especially his tales of vaudeville days.



Name one thing you couldn’t live without.

Peanut butter.

Would you rather work in a library or a bookstore? 

I worked in a library part-time when I was a teenager and I enjoyed it very much.  Bookstores are libraries are still my favorite places.

You won the lottery. What’s the first thing you would buy?

Milk. I just noticed I’m out.

Do you ever get writer’s block?

Not really. I work on so many projects simultaneously, that if I get stuck on one, I just tinker with another project for a while and bring that along. Or I clean the bathroom. 

What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

I like to watch old movies. But then I end up blogging about them on Another Old Movie Blog, so I guess that’s out. I like to travel, but if it’s travel in New England, it ends up on my New England Travels blog. A lot of what I do ends up in writing somewhere along the way. It’s how I digest thoughts and experiences.

What are you working on now?

Dismount and Murder, the third book in the Double V Mystery series, and a nonfiction book on a 19th century sculptor and bronze founder, and another historical novel. I’m also trying to finish a two-act comedy play that’s lying around here somewhere. Double V, incidentally, comes from Juliet’s and Elmer’s surnames: Van Allen and Vartanian.

Thank you very much for the opportunity to visit your blog and chat. I like what you’ve done with the place.


Thank you so much! It's been a pleasure having you here. Stop by again soon! And bring Elmer and Juliet.

Except from Cadmium Yellow, Blood Red

“The last spring of the 1940s.”

Juliet said it out loud this time, with equal parts anticipation and regret. Drumming slender white-gloved fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the light to turn green, giving it her warmest smile as a thank you, she made a left-hand turn onto Asylum Street.

Past the fashionable Bond Hotel, she stomped her brake hard, with heart-pounding, if momentary, panic on discovering the large and dirty tailgate of the Hampden Ale truck in front of her. “You Get More Out of Hampden.”

Stopping just in time, nearly getting more out of Hampden than she wanted, she chuckled a mea culpa at the motto when the flow of traffic resumed, given a reprieve by still being alive.

Juliet sometimes looked for signposts in her life, more supernatural than what was normally found on beer truck advertising or cooperative traffic lights, and invented them when they were not really there. Only dimly aware of this trait, she would have balked had someone accused her of needing some existential hand-holding. Proud and somewhat vain about her independent streak, nevertheless a vague sense of being imprisoned gnawed at her lately.

Perhaps it was her approaching thirtieth birthday, though Juliet told herself she did not care.

Making love on her free afternoon was all she cared about right now.

She left the car for the parking attendant and shot a glance at the upper floor of the apartment building. Kurt was not expecting her, but she knew he preferred surprises.
Hartford, Connecticut breathed easy, in its own self-superior way, and the sun-warmed sidewalk, flecked with the reddish droppings of buds from the maple trees with their tentative crop of tiny new leaves, seemed to indicate that the winter landscape had all been a mirage.

The trees in front of their apartment house were something that she would have painted. But Kurt would dismiss the idea, with derisive laughter, as a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover, and move onto deeper subjects in his conversation and in his art. Juliet entered the apartment house lobby. Mr. Percy, the desk manager with the paunch and the jet-black dyed fringe of hair around his bald head said good afternoon. She would have painted Mr. Percy, too, if only for the novelty of his dyed fringe of hair. When she joked about it to Kurt, he suggested with his own peculiar effortless sarcasm that she ask Mr. Percy to model for her nude.

Mr. Percy looked up at her smiling, as if pleasantly surprised, on cue. Juliet stifled a chuckle, invariably reminded of Kurt’s nude remark, which is all she thought of now whenever she saw Mr. Percy.

The officious desk manager, unaware of her comic fantasies, certainly was surprised, for she usually worked until at least six, sometimes later. It was only four o'clock. Juliet considered announcing she had come home early to make love with her husband, but Mr. Percy was just too easy to fluster. She wondered, with what Kurt might say was disingenuous flippancy, if it mightn’t kill him.

Juliet took the elevator to the fourth floor apartment. The elevator operator, a tall, thin, young black man about twenty named Tommy also gave her a somewhat smile of unexpected pleasure. She wondered if this was indicative of a very well-trained and polite staff or if she really had been so hidebound in her habits. And if anybody, actually, could be that pleased to see her. She hoped Kurt would be.

“Did you take your car off the blocks, yet, Tommy?”

He caught her eye with a conspirator’s look.

“This weekend. I can’t wait.”

“I’m surprised you’ve been stalling. Winter’s got to be over by now.”

“You can stop teasing me. I needed a tire.”

Tommy brought her to her floor. When the doors opened, he wished her a good afternoon.
“Thank you, Tommy.” Her footsteps echoed in the empty hall, and she touched the key to the keyhole.

She opened the door quietly, with no shouts of greeting. Surprising him was one thing, disturbing his work was another.

Juliet hoped that Kurt was continuing with the series on the Modern Woman. She put her keys in her purse and placed her purse down on the credenza against the wall, above which there was a mirror here in the alcove before the living room. A half wall with a wrought iron railing, which always made the person looking through the balusters seem as if he were in prison, separated the alcove from the living room. She turned and looked into the mirror to remove her hat, a soft, small peach-colored cap that matched her suit and clung to the crown of her light brown hair. She lifted her arms to reach for the hatpin with her right hand and hold her hat with her left, when her eyes were diverted by the flickered reflection of activity in the living room behind her.

She became only then just aware of a low muffled voice or more like a series of human noises. Lowering her arms slowly, pivoting with a gracefulness as if it had been rehearsed, Juliet looked through the thin, ironwork balustrade into the living room.

She noticed for the first time that the furniture was pushed aside. The two couches were pulled away from each other and the coffee table had been moved against one of them, leaving a large clear area in front of the fireplace. She gripped the wrought iron bars like a prisoner in jail, stood on tiptoe and pulled herself up a couple inches and looked down over one of the couches. Of the two naked people vigorously making love on a blanket on the living room floor, she could recognize Kurt, but not the woman whose face was hidden.

About the author: 

Jacqueline T. Lynch’s novels are available as ebooks and in print. Several of her plays have been published and produced around the U.S., Canada, and one of which, Child’s Play, was translated into Dutch and performed several times in the Netherlands. Her drama One Good Turn premiered as a winner of the 2011 Northern Kentucky University Y.E.S. Festival. Her one-act comedy In Memory of Trixie Gazelle was chosen as a winner in the 2010 Nor’Eastern Playwright’s Showcase of the Vermont Actors’ Repertory Theatre in Rutland, Vermont. She has published articles and short fiction in regional and national publications, including the anthology 60 Seconds to Shine: 161 Monologues from Literature (Smith & Kraus, 2007), North & South, Civil War Magazine, History Magazine. She writes Another Old Movie Blog and New England Travels blog. A native New Englander, she lives in Massachusetts.


Connect with Jacqueline:
Website | Another Old Movie Blog | New England Travels Blog | Facebook | Goodreads | Twitter |

Buy the book:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Pinterest and Pinterest Specifically for the Double V Mysteries – here you can see images and locations that are mentioned in my mystery novels (including what a Lincoln Cosmopolitan looks like)