FEATURED AUTHOR: JUSTIN M. KISKA

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

Parker City, 1984 . . .

Three years after the Spring Strangler case rocked the historic Western Maryland city nestled at the foot of the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, life has returned to normal for Detective Ben Winters and his partner, Tommy Mason. With a new chief now leading the department and the city slowly crawling out of its economic distress, everything seems to be moving in the right direction. Until one sweltering summer day, a killer begins targeting police officers. Ben and Tommy find themselves once again leading an investigation the likes of which Parker City has never seen. The detectives quickly come to realize that until the shooter is found, everyone wearing a badge is in danger.

To complicate matters even further, when a recently unearthed skeleton mysteriously connects to the string of police homicides, Ben and Tommy begin to think their current case may be tied to events twenty years earlier. But how could a skeleton buried two decades ago hold the key to solving their current case?

    Book Details:

Title: Vice & Virtue

Author: Justin M. Kiska

Genre: traditional mystery/police procedural

Series: Parker City Mysteries
, book 2
Publisher: Level Best Books (February 15, 2022)

Print length: 288 pages


LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH JUSTIN M. KISKA

Things you need in order to write: a nice hot cappuccino, quiet, and time.
Things that hamper your writing: BritBox! There are just too many great shows to get sucked into!


Things you love about writing: I’m a bit of a control-freak, so I love to have complete control of everything that happens in the story.
Things you hate about writing: making sure that the things I want to happen in the story make sense. One of the things I say to my wife all the time comes from my favorite television show: “Don’t ruin my story with your logic.”

Easiest thing about being a writer: for me, coming up with the stories and the mysteries that go along with them. But sometimes I have too many ideas, so it’s also hard paring it down and picking one good mystery to write. 

Hardest thing about being a writer: finding the time and discipline to actually sit down, focus, and write.


Favorite foods: I could probably eat pizza every day if my wife and doctor would let me. Same with Krispy Kreme Donuts!
Things that make you want to throw up: peppers! I don’t care what color they are or where they come from, they are all evil!  

Favorite music: as a theatre producer, I listen to showtunes all the time. Thankfully, I like showtunes. I always have. I’m also a fan of oldies. Golden oldies from the ‘50s and ‘60s, to be precise. I realize the definition of “oldies” is changing.
Music that make your ears bleed: I wish I could say I was one of those people who like all music, but I’m not. Heavy metal . . . not my thing.

Favorite beverage: caramel iced coffee.  I’m addicted. 

Something that gives you a pickle face: I know it isn’t a drink, but celery. I just don’t see the point.

Something you’re really good at: sarcasm. I have an advanced degree.

Something you’re really bad at: making pancakes. I always burn them. Always.


Things you always put in your books: since my background is actually as a theatre producer, I always like to have a line or two from a play or musical in my books as a little Easter egg to theatre-lovers or performers who’ve been in a show I’ve directed or produced. 

Things you never put in your books: over-the-top, gratuitous violence. I’ve never been a fan of slasher/horror films or unnecessary blood and guts.

Things to say to an author: “I really enjoyed your book. You had me guessing who the killer was up until the very end.”

Things to say to an author if you want to be fictionally killed off in their next book: “What you should have done is . . .”

Favorite places you’ve been: New Orleans. I loved the city, the food, the atmosphere.

Places you never want to go to again: New Orleans. No city should be that hot and humid!

Favorite genre: good old-fashioned mysteries.

Books you would ban: young adult fantasy fiction . . . don’t get me started.

Favorite things to do: first and foremost, travel. I would live on a cruise ship if I could. But if we’re talking about favorite things to do on a daily basis . . . at the end of the day I love to relax by reading a good book. 

Things you’d run through a fire wearing gasoline pants to get out of doing: watching Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel.

Best thing you’ve ever done: married my wife.

Biggest mistake: married my wife before I found out how much she loved Christmas movies on Hallmark.

EXCERPT FROM VICE & VIRTUE

Tall and athletic, Tommy Mason always reminded Ben of Tom Selleck’s Magnum P.I. character from television. Tommy always had that whole ruggedly handsome thing going for him. Mixed with a little bit of a “bad boy” vibe and he drove the women wild.

Next to Ben’s clean-cut, buttoned-down appearance, their pairing caused many to do a doubletake. At first glance, they appeared to be complete opposites. But as one got to know them, they were very much alike. Each brought out the best in the other and at the end of the day, it was all about getting the job done. Sure, each had his own style, but that’s what made them such a formidable team.

Tommy’s apparent willingness to skirt the rules was always offset by Ben’s ability to find ways to use the rules to their benefit. Just as Ben’s refusal to play the internal politics game allowed Tommy to use his charm to keep too many feathers from getting ruffled amongst the powers-that-be. They each knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses and how to adapt them to their own, which is why they’d been so impressive in getting the PCPD’s Detective Squad off the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked, more than a little surprised to see his partner.

“Shirley from Dispatch called me. She thought I’d be interested,” Tommy explained. “And before you say anything about what I’m wearing, I just want to remind you, it is our day off, so I didn’t think I needed to get dressed up to come to a potential crime scene. Especially when we don’t actually know this is a crime scene yet.”

He was referring to the fact he had on a T-shirt and comfortable pair of jeans, as opposed to the full suit and tie Ben was wearing.

“Besides, now you don’t have to worry about getting your fancy suit muddy. I have no problems getting down there in the dirt,” Tommy smiled, pointing at the fresh mud stains on his knees. With that, he knelt back down to take another look at the exposed skeletal remains under the floorboards.

“So, tell me. What do we have?” Ben asked, crouching next to Tommy so he could get a better look.

“You can see there’s a pretty big cavity here under this part of the floor,” Tommy pointed out. “It’s got to be a good ten by ten area where the ground has been eaten away, even though it’s not too deep, less than a foot in some places. It’s definitely because of water…there’s a lot of mud down there. As the earth under the floor eroded, it uncovered the skeleton. Partway, at least. Of course, no one could see what was happening under here until our friend Mr. Haggarty had the unfortunate experience of stepping on a board that was rotted through and it snapped, sending him falling through the floor. You can see where he landed in the mud.

“And right there,” Tommy pointed, “you see the skull and top portion of the skeleton sticking out of the ground.”

“You came face-to-face with that thing, man?” Tommy looked over at the construction worker who was leaning against the wall. “Not a good way to start the day.”

“Yeah. You’re telling me,” Haggarty answered.

Turning back to the skeleton, Tommy said, “I’m no expert, but that hole in the skull right there…see it, it looks like it could be a GSW from a pretty heavy caliber gun.”

Leaning down and twisting his head so he could try and get a better look at the skull, Ben saw the hole and wondered if his partner was right. Finding a skeleton buried under the floor was one thing. Finding a skeleton buried under the floor with a bullet hole in its skull was something else. It took everything to a different level.

Standing and stretching their legs, Tommy said, “When Shirley first called me, I thought this was going to have been some kind of prank. Some kids snuck into the site on a dare and left a skeleton for the crew to find.”

“You thought kids somehow buried a skeleton under this building in the hopes someone would fall through the floor and find it?” Ben asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not to mention having to figure out how to bury the thing under the floor?”

“In my defense,” Tommy started, raising a finger and shaking it at his partner, “I didn’t know the skeleton was buried under the warehouse. I just knew they’d found a skeleton at the warehouse.”

The first thing that needed to happen was to get the skeleton out of the ground. That would be up to the crime scene techs. Even though he could easily reach in and pull the skull out to get a better look, Ben didn’t want to disturb anything more than it already had been when Lance Haggarty crashed through the floor. Thankfully, he hadn’t actually landed on the skull itself.

“So much for our day off,” Ben said, looking at his watch, wondering where the crime scene guys were.

***

Excerpt from Vice & Virtue by Justin M. Kiska.  Copyright 2022 by Justin M. Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M. Kiska. All rights reserved.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  


When not sitting in his library devising new and clever ways to kill people (for his mysteries), Justin can usually be found at The Way Off Broadway Dinner Theatre, outside of Washington, DC, where he is one of the owners and producers. In addition to writing the Parker City Mysteries Series, he is also the mastermind behind Marquee Mysteries, a series of interactive mystery events he has been writing and producing for over fifteen years. Justin and his wife, Jessica, live along Lake Linganore outside of Frederick, Maryland.



Connect with Justin:
Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads 

Buy the book:
Amazon 

FEATURED AUTHOR: KELLY IRVIN

ABOUT THE BOOK

When her best friend is murdered the same way her brother was, who can she possibly trust?

A decade ago, Delaney Broward discovered her brother’s murdered body at the San Antonio art co-op he founded with friends. Her artist boyfriend, Hunter Nash, went to prison for the murder, despite his not-guilty plea.

This morning, Hunter walks out of prison a free man, having served his sentence.

This afternoon, Delaney finds her best friend dead, murdered in the same fashion as her brother.

Stay out of it or you’re next, the killer warns.

Hunter never stopped loving Delaney, though he can’t blame her for not forgiving her. He knows he’ll get his life back one day at a time, one step at a time. But he’s blindsided to realize he’s a murder suspect. Again.

When Hunter shows up on her doorstep, asking her to help him find the real killer, Delaney’s head says to run away, yet her heart tells her there’s more to his story than what came out in the trial. An uneasy truce leads to their probe into a dark past that shatters Delaney’s image of her brother. She can’t stop and neither can Hunter—which lands them both in the crosshairs of a murderer growing more desperate by the day (hour?).

In this gripping romantic suspense, Kelly Irvin plumbs the complexity of broken trust in the people we love—and in God—and whether either can be mended.

Book Details:

Title: Trust Me

Author: Kelly Irvin

Genre: romantic suspense

Publisher: Thomas Nelson (February 8, 2022)

Print length: 384 pages

   

LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH KELLY IRVIN


A few of your favorite things: my heated blanket and flannel pajamas, my copy of The Secret Garden, the 2,000-piece Lego typewriter my son and daughter-in-law gave me.
Things you need to throw out: the clothes in my closet that I keep because I might gain back the weight I lost, as well as the ones I keep in case I lose that additional 10 pounds.


Things you need in order to write: a quiet room, a fast computer, time to daydream.
Things that hamper your writing: health issues, loud music, barking dogs.


Things you love about writing: when new characters/plot twists appear out of nowhere.
Things you hate about writing: realizing I’m 10,000 words over my contracted word count and still have story to tell.

Easiest thing about being a writer: spending time with my characters every day.

Hardest thing about being a writer: bad reviews.


Things you love about where you live: my office’s big windows, the view from my office of an open field with lots of trees, no traffic, the bay window in the kitchen that allows me to eat my breakfast while watching the Cardinals and hummingbirds eat theirs at the birdfeeders.
Things that make you want to move: the long drive into town, barking dogs.


Things you never want to run out of: crunchy peanut butter, apple-cinnamon-spice tea, patience, story ideas.
Things you wish you’d never bought: nothing comes to mind.


Words that describe you: writer, novelist, introvert, creative, a daydreamer.
Words that describe you but you wish they didn’t: disabled, cancer patient, impatient.

Favorite foods: my husband’s homemade pizza, chicken enchiladas in green sauce, tater tot casserole, praline sweet potato pie.
Things that make you want to throw up: kale, hominy, liver and onions.

Favorite music: Zach Williams and Dolly Parton’s “There Was Jesus.,” country music, Fleetwood Mac, Bryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, contemporary Christian music.
Music that make your ears bleed: heavy metal, rap.

Favorite beverage: decaf iced tea, decaf coffee with almond milk & stevia.

Something that gives you a pickle face: any soda.

Favorite smell: because of health issues, I have no sense of smell. I miss the smell of cilantro, fresh cut grass, popcorn, and coffee brewing.

Something that makes you hold your nose: I don’t miss beer breath, bathroom smells, and the smell of my cats’ litter box.

Something you’re really good at: making up stories.

Something you’re really bad at: math.


Something you like to do: read, eat, sleep.

Something you wish you’d never done: drank one too many beers one too many times.

People you consider as heroes: oncologists, cancer researchers, ALS patients, ALS caregivers and researchers, young people such as Greta Thurberg, Simone Bile, and Amanda Gorman who step up for what they believe in in a big way, first responders and healthcare professionals who continue to work tirelessly as we begin year three of this pandemic.

People with a big L on their foreheads: conspiracy theorists, journalists who perpetuate fake news, people who sue social media to beat up others for their beliefs, racists, bigots, white supremacists, misogynists, and people who would ban books because they don’t agree with their content.



Last best thing you ate: my husband’s homemade chicken and dumplings soup.

Last thing you regret eating: too many roasted brussel sprouts–bad bellyache!

Things you’d walk a mile for: if I could walk a mile (unfortunately I can’t): spending time with my 3 grandchildren and my daughter. They live on the east coast while I’m in South Texas.
Things that make you want to run screaming from the room: reality TV, especially The Bachelor & The Bachelorette.

Things you always put in your books: my characters almost always have pets, using dogs and/or cats, I try to represent characters with disabilities in my books.

Things you never put in your books: graphic sex scenes.

Things to say to an author: What a great fulltime job. You must be living your dream.

Things to say to an author if you want to be fictionally killed off in their next book: What a fun hobby. I’d write a book too, but I don’t have time. Or “you must be rich now.”

Favorite places you’ve been: Costa Rica and Maui.

Places you never want to go to again: Florida.

People you’d like to invite to dinner (living):  Michael Connelly, Laura Lippman, John Sanford, Sara Paretsky, James Lee Burke, Meg Gardiner, JA Jance, William Kent Krueger. (I’d have a potluck with mystery/suspense writers and we’d sit around and talk writing all night so I could pick their brains and soak up their knowledge. It would be fun to see what dishes they bring too.)

People you’d cancel dinner on: without getting political, a number of politicians from both sides of the aisle, but especially those currently representing my adopted home state of Texas.

Favorite things to do: read, play with my grandkids.
Things you’d run through a fire wearing gasoline pants to get out of doing: going to parties given by people I hardly know.

Things that make you happy: watching movies with my husband, reading, writing.

Things that drive you crazy: waiting forever in waiting rooms for doctors’ appointments.

Proudest moment: when I saw my first published book on a bookstore shelf and then on a library shelf.
Most embarrassing moment: I worked as a newspaper reporter covering city hall in Laredo, Texas. One night the zipper on my sundress broke and my dress gaped open from the back so everyone behind me could see.


Best thing you’ve ever done: married my husband. Decided to get serious about writing on my 45th birthday and wrote a novel, got an agent, & then a publisher.

Biggest mistake: Waiting until I turned 45 to start seriously writing fiction.

EXCERPT FROM TRUST ME

CHAPTER 1

APRIL 22, 2010
SAN ANTONIO ART CO-OP
SOUTHTOWN, SAN ANTONIO

The cloying stench of pot told the same old story.

With an irritated sigh Delaney Broward quickened her pace through the warehouse-turned-art-co-op toward her brother’s studio at the far end of the cavernous hall. On his best days Corey had little sense of time. Add a joint to the mix and he lost his sense not only of time but of responsibility. It also explained why he didn’t answer his phone. When he got high and started painting, he wanted no interruptions. His lime-green VW van was parked cattywampus across two spaces in the lot that faced Alamo Street just south of downtown San Antonio. He might be physically present, but his THC-soaked mind had escaped its cell.

Marijuana served as his muse and taskmaster. Or so he’d said.

The soles of her huarache sandals clacking on the concrete floor sounded loud in Delaney’s ears. “Corey? Corey! You were supposed to pick us up at Ellie’s. Come on, dude. She’s waiting.”

No answer.

At this rate Delaney would never get to Night in Old San Antonio, affectionately known to most local folks as NIOSA. Everyone who was anyone knew it was pronounced NI-O-SA, long I and long O, the best party-slash-fundraiser during the mother of all parties where her boyfriend would be waiting for her. “Hey, bro, I’m starving. Let’s go.”

Delaney’s phone rang. She slowed and dug it from the pocket of her stonewashed jeans. Speaking of Ellie. “I’m at the co-op now. He’s here.”

Share as little info as possible.

“He’s stoned again, isn’t he? I’m sick of this.” Ellie’s shrill voice rose even higher. “I swear if he stands me up again— ”

“Us. Stands us up.”

“Stood us up again. That will be it. I’m done. I’m done waiting around for him. I’m done playing second fiddle to his self-destructive habits. I’m done with his starving-artist, free-spirit, pothead schtick. The man is a walking stereotype. I’m done with him, period.”

Delaney mouthed the words along with her friend. She knew the lyrics of this lovesick song by heart. The childish rejoinder “It takes one to know one” stuck in her throat. “We’ll be there in twenty. You can tell him yourself.”

Ellie would and then Corey would kiss her until she took it all back. With a final huff Ellie hung up.

The door to his studio— the largest and with the best light because the co-op was Corey’s dream child— stood open. “Seriously, Corey. Think of someone besides yourself once in a while, please.” Delaney strode through the door, ready to ream her brother up one side and down the other. “You are so selfish.”

Delaney halted. At first blush it didn’t make sense. Twisted and smashed canvases littered the floor. Along with paints, brushes, beer bottles, and Thai food take-out cartons.

Wooden easels were broken like toothpicks and scattered on top of the canvases. Someone had splattered red paint over another finished piece— a woman eating a raspa in front of a vendor’s mobile cart, the Alamo in the background.

Delaney’s hands went to her throat. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the odor of human waste gagged her. A fiery shiver started at her toes and raced like a lit fuse to her brain. Her mind took in detail after detail. That way she didn’t have to face the bigger picture staring her in the face. “Please, God, no.”

Even He couldn’t fix this.

She shot forward, stumbled, and fell to her knees. Her legs refused to work. She crawled the remainder of the distance to Corey across a floor marred by still-wet oil paint, beer, and other liquids she couldn’t bear to identify.

He sat with his back against the wall. His long legs clad in paint-splattered jeans sprawled in front of him. His feet were bare. His hands with those thin, expressive fingers lay in his lap. Deep lacerations scored his palms and fingers.

Her throat aching with the effort not to vomit, Delaney forced her gaze to move upward. His T-shirt, once white, now shone scarlet with blood. His blood. Rips in the shirt left his chest exposed, revealing stab wounds— too many to count.

Delaney opened her mouth. Scream. Just scream. Let it out.

No sound emerged.

She crawled alongside her big brother until she could lean her shoulder and head against the wall. “Corey?” she whispered.

His green eyes, fringed by thick, dark lashes that were the envy of every woman he’d ever dated, were open and startled. His skin, always pale and ethereal, had a blue tinge to it.

Delaney drowned in a tsunami of nausea. “Come on, Corey, this isn’t funny. I need you.”

Her teeth chattered. Hands shaking, she touched his throat. His skin was cold. So cold.

Too late, too late, too late. The words screamed in her head. Stop it. Just stop it. “You can’t be dead. You’re not allowed to die.”

Mom and Dad had died in a car wreck a week past her eighth birthday. Nana and Pops had taken their turns the year Delaney turned eighteen. Everybody she cared about died.

Not Corey. Delaney punched in 9–1–1.

The operator’s assurance that help was on the way did nothing to soothe Delaney. She sat cross-legged and dragged Corey’s shoulders and head into her lap. She had to warm him up. “Tell them to hurry. Tell them my brother needs help.”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re en route.”

“Tell them he’s all I’ve got.”

CHAPTER 2

TEN YEARS LATER
NASH RESIDENCE, SAN ANTONIO

Real men didn’t cry. Not even during a reunion with a beloved truck.

Swallowing hard, Hunter Nash wrapped his fingers around the keys, concentrating on the feel of the metal pressing into his skin. He cleared his throat. “Thanks, Mom. For keeping it all these years.”

His mom didn’t bother to try to hide her tears. She wiped her plump cheeks on a faded dish towel, offered him a tremulous smile, and bustled down the sidewalk that led from the house on San Antonio’s near west side where Hunter had grown up to the detached two-car garage in the back. It had housed his truck for the past eight years. Almost ten if he counted the two years it took for his case to go to trial. He had no place to go in those years when he’d allegedly been innocent until proven guilty. His friends no longer friends and his job gone, he had no need for transportation.

The door to the garage was padlocked. Mom handed him the key. “My hands are shaking. You’d better do the honors.” She stepped back. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“I did my time, Ma.” As a model prisoner he’d earned time off for good behavior. It was easy for a guy to behave when he spent his days and nights scared spitless.

“I know. All those nights I’ve lain in bed worrying about you in that place, whether you were safe, if you were hurt, if you were sick.” Her voice broke. “I can’t believe it’s over.”

“Me neither.”

It wasn’t over. In fact, it was just beginning, but she didn’t need to know that. His determination to prove his innocence would only worry her more. A divorced mother of four, she’d raised her kids on a teacher’s salary and an occasional child support check from the crud-for-brains ex-husband who showed up once every couple of years in an attempt to make nice with his kids. She deserved a break.

The aging manual garage door squeaked and protested when Hunter yanked on the handle. He needed to do some work around here, starting with applying some WD-40. The smell of mold and old motor oil wafted from the dark interior. Hunter slipped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. A layer of dust covered the 2002 midnight-blue Dodge RAM 1500, but otherwise it remained in the pristine condition in which he’d left it the night he said goodbye and promised he’d be back. “My baby.”

More tears trickling down her face, Mom chuckled softly. “After you finish reintroducing yourself, come back inside. I’m making your favorite chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, pineapple coleslaw, and creamed corn. Your brother and sisters are coming over after work. Shawna’s bringing a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Melissa’s contribution is three kinds of ice cream, including rocky road. She said it seemed appropriate. I hope you haven’t lost your sense of humor. And you know Curtis. He’s all about the beer.”

The last thing Hunter wanted to do was celebrate with his sibs. Mel and Shawna had visited faithfully at first, but less as the years rolled by. Curtis never showed, even though Fabian Dominguez State Jail was only a few miles down the road from San Antonio.

Nor did Hunter want to explain why he’d sworn off alcohol. The conditions of his parole included monthly pee tests— no alcohol or drugs, but that part of his life was over anyway. It had been easy to comply in prison, obviously. Whether he could maintain his sobriety in the beer drinking capital of the country remained to be seen. He’d do AA if necessary. “Mom— ”

“No buts. They’re family. They love you. You need to live life, enjoy life, make up for all you’ve missed. You haven’t even met most of your nieces and nephews. Did you know Mel is expecting another baby in August?”

“Yes, I— ”

“Today we celebrate your new job and your new life.”

His bachelor of fine arts with an emphasis in drawing and painting from Southwest School of Art might once have allowed him to teach art in one of the school districts, but not anymore.

It didn’t matter. The prison chaplain had hooked him up with Pastor James. The preacher ran a faith-based community center that served at-risk youth. He’d hired Hunter to teach art to those who’d already had their first brush with the law. He figured Hunter could teach life lessons at the same time he introduced them to art as a way to channel their anger at the hand life had dealt them. Learning what happened when a guy got off track would be the lesson.

Even though Hunter hadn’t gotten off the track. He’d been shoved off it. By an eager-beaver, newbie detective; a green-as-a-Granny-Smith-apple public defender; and an assembly-line justice system.

He would get by in this world that had hung him out to dry. Especially knowing Mom had his back. She had that don’t-mess-with-me teacher look in her burnt-amber eyes. Like her sixth graders, Hunter knew better than to argue. It felt good to know she remained in his corner. When everyone else had hit the ground, scattering in opposite directions, she never budged in her belief that son number two could not be a murderer. She’d brought him up better than that.

“You’re right. Give me a few minutes.”

She patted his chest and stretched on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. Her lips were chapped, and the wrinkles had deepened around her mouth and eyes. Her long hair had gone pure white during his years away. “Take your time, sweetheart.”

Hunter gritted his teeth. After years of looking over his shoulder, bobbing and weaving around hard-core convicts who’d as soon shank a guy in the shower as look at him, he didn’t know how to cope with nice. With sweet. With love tempered with wisdom and a hard life.

“One day at a time.” That’s what the prison chaplain had told him. “Get through the next minute, the next hour, the next day.” That’s how he did eight years at Dominguez. This couldn’t be any harder. He opened the truck’s door and slid into the driver’s seat. The faint odor of pine air freshener greeted him. And citrus.

More likely that was his imagination. Delaney’s perfume simply could not linger that long. Move on. She has. She did. To her credit Delaney held on as long as she could— until the guilty verdict. Then she was forced to move on. She couldn’t be blamed for that.

Hunter picked up the sketch pad on the passenger seat. In those days he kept one everywhere. Just in case. The first page. The second. The third. All drawings of Delaney. Sweet Laney eating a slice of watermelon at a Fourth of July celebration. Laney rocking Hunter’s newborn nephew in a hickory rocker on the front porch. Laney in a bathing suit sitting on the dock at Medina Lake. Laney with her soulful eyes, long sandy-brown hair, and air of sad vulnerability worn like a pair of old jeans that fit perfectly. That too-big nose, wide mouth, and pointed chin. Corey might have been the angelic beauty— totally unfair— but Delaney’s face had character. She had a face Hunter never ceased to want to draw and paint.

And kiss.

He turned the pages slowly, allowing the memories to have their way with him. Meeting at a party Corey had thrown when Delaney was a senior in high school. Their first date, ribs and smoked chicken with heart-stopping creamed corn, potato salad, coleslaw, and jalapeños at Rudy’s Country Store and Bar-B-Q followed by dancing at Leon Springs Dance Hall.

She had danced with the abandon of a small child. As if she didn’t care who watched. Her face glowed with perspiration. Her green eyes sparkled with happiness. His two left feet couldn’t keep up, but she didn’t mind. She twirled her peasant skirt as she flew around him, her hands in the air, her curves beckoning.

Hunter closed his eyes. Her softness enveloped him. Her sweetness surrounded him.

He needed to see her again. He needed to talk to her. Somehow he had to prove to her that she was wrong about him. Whatever it took. He laid the sketchbook aside. “Come on, dude, let’s take a ride.”

He stuck the key in the ignition and turned it.

Nothing. Not even a tick-tick-tick. He tried a second time. Nada. “I’m an idiot.” He patted the steering wheel. “Not your fault, man.”

The truck hadn’t been driven in years. The battery was dead. He might be able to jump it, but more likely he’d need a new one. Batteries cost money.

One thing at a time. He’d waited this long.

Hunter slid from the truck and eased the door closed. “I’ll be back when I get my act together.”

In the kitchen Hunter found his mom peeling potatoes. She pointed the peeler at him. “You can’t imagine how good it feels to have you home.”

“You can’t imagine how good it feels to be here.” He landed a kiss on her soft hair. She smelled of Pond’s cold cream. The same old comforting scent. Life had changed but not her. “I’m gonna take a walk. I need to blow the prison stink off.”

“Enjoy. They redid the walking trail at the lake and installed new outdoor fitness equipment.” She waved the paring knife in the air. “But don’t stay too long. You have company coming.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pantomimed a mock salute and headed for the front door.

One thing at a time. One step at a time. That’s how he’d get his life back.

***

Excerpt from Trust Me by Kelly Irvin. Copyright 2022 by Kelly Irvin. Reproduced with permission from Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.

 



ABOUT THE AUTHOR  


Bestseller Kelly Irvin is the author of thirty books and novellas, including romantic suspense and Amish romance novels. Publishers Weekly calls her latest release, Trust Me, “a whirlwind romantic thriller,” and “an emotional rollercoaster.” The two-time ACFW Carol finalist worked as a newspaper reporter for six years writing stories on the Texas-Mexico border. Those experiences fuel her romantic suspense novels set in Texas. A retired public relations professional, Kelly now writes fiction full-time. She lives with her husband, photographer Tim Irvin, in San Antonio. They are the parents of two children, three grandchildren, and two ornery cats.




Connect with Kelly:
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GIVEAWAY

FEATURED AUTHOR: BOB RICH

ABOUT THE BOOK

From Depression to Contentment: A Self-Therapy Guide is a course of therapy in your pocket. You can be your own therapist, changing the way you see yourself and your world. Not only does this save lots of money, it also is 100% confidential. The book starts with first aid, provides an understanding of the nature and causes of suffering, instructs you in research-based techniques for dealing with your problems and, finally, teaches you an actual cure for depression.

•    Every tool in this book is based on research, but presented in an easy to understand, easy to apply manner.
•    With homework assignments, you will find your inner strengths, uncover the true source of happiness and develop great resilience.
•    Learn how to put the philosophies of all great religions to practical use, even if you are an atheist.
•    This program can help you start a new life - one of meaning, positivity and purpose.
•    Unlike instructional books, this book is not only useful but also enjoyable.

"If you're depressed and need someone who 'gets' you, who has been there and who can walk you through the journey toward a life worth living, then From Depression to Contentment will be your new best friend. Bob meets you where you are and can lead you home to yourself."
-- Petrea King, CEO and founder of Quest for Life Foundation

Book Details

Title: From Depression to Contentment: A self-therapy guide
Author: Bob Rich, Ph.D.
Genre: psychology self-help
Publisher: Loving Healing Press 2019
Print length: 155 pages


INTERVIEW WITH BOB RICH

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

I became a writer because in 1980 a bunch of teenagers kidnapped me. They were playing a boys vs. girls soccer game, and needed one more male, so told me I had to help out. I was making mudbricks (adobe) at the time, and went with them, muddy boots and all.
Not surprisingly, I slipped and tore the cartilage in my knee. Let me tell you, that’s not a good idea.|
In hospital, I was bored out of my mind, so borrowed the office typewriter, (remember those?) and wrote a how-to article for Earth Garden magazine and became their owner-building expert, with a byline column for 40 years. This led to my first book, The Earth Garden Building Book: Design and build your own house. That went through 4 editions and sold hundreds of thousands of copies between 1986 and 2018.
|Later, I decided to train as a nurse, and this meant 5 nights a week in a nurses’ home where gorgeous 18-year-olds surrounded me. I had to choose between making a fool of myself or doing something creative, so I wrote short stories. The first I entered won a prize—and I was hooked. You can read this story here.

What inspired you to write this book?

I was born with the ability to heal with words. It is a karmic thing. Even in school, all the kids with problems cried on my shoulders. Trouble was, I had too much empathy, and often worried more about other people’s problems than they did.
Nursing toughened me up (the first lesson in nursing is: “It’s not your pain. You are not there to share it, but to relieve it.” In therapy, it’s even further: you are there to empower your client to relieve it.)
So, in the late 1980s I did an additional course, and I then had a psychotherapy practice until 2013.
It may shock and surprise you, but relieving suffering gives me great joy. I am odd that way. Since about 1999, I have been answering cries of desperation posted on various websites, and now people track me down thanks to many of my q&a posts in the public domain.
In fact, one of my earlier books is 50 such single-session email therapy exchanges .
I may have grown old, but I am still silly enough to be idealistic, and to make a difference. My book From Depression to Contentment: A self-therapy guide is a tool for transforming your life. I want it to work for as many people as I can.

How long did it take you to write this book?

Fiction is far more fun to write than nonfiction. I knew I needed a book to help with depression 15 years ago, and sort of started it, but it gathered dust inside my computer, with me occasionally adding to it. Then once I decided to, I whipped it into shape in 3 months, and sent it off to my publisher.
It was 95,000 words long, and he told me (well, emailed me) that people won’t read self-help books above 50,000 words. So, he forced me to amputate much of it. I managed this in two ways: in the book I set homework tasks (you change your life by DOING, not by KNOWING), much of which includes additional reading, and I used the excised parts as the start of a companion volume, Lifting the Gloom: Antidepressant writings.

What do you hope readers will get from this book?

It is a course of therapy in your pocket. If you faithfully and conscientiously do the program, you will grow spiritually (which is the purpose of life), gain immense inner strength and resilience, and survive anything, even Bob Rich’s humor.

How did you come up with the title of your book?

I am a fan of Carolyn Howard-Johnson and her how-to books on writing. I have edited most of them, which is a very frugal way of reading. Her advice on titles for a nonfiction book is to have it brief and pithy saying exactly what the book is about, then have a long subtitle that includes the keywords your target audience is likely to use in searches.

How did you come up with your cover art?

It’s actually designed by my publisher’s cover-art expert, but the concept is mine.
Birds are among my favorite people on this planet, and the wedgetail eagle is the favorite of favorites. You can read a guided imagery script about her here.
So, that’s what I wanted on the cover. But the only print-quality pic we could find was of a foreigner: an American bald eagle. (Actually, I am far more bald than they are.)

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

I participate in a monthly round robin organized by a wonderful lady who teaches writing at a university, Rhobin Courtright. One of my essays is exactly on this topic.

Name one thing you couldn’t live without.

Oxygen.

Where do you call home?

I am a citizen of the Universe. All sentient beings are my family. Right now in this life I live on a tiny rock planet in orbit around a below-average yellow dwarf star in a fairly typical galaxy.
This planet is mostly water, and there are magnificent, intelligent aquatic creatures, but no, I am not one of them, but a land crawler. Most of the land on this mudball is currently in its northern hemisphere, though the blobs of land do move around. However, the best part is in the south, called Australia, which means Southern Land in some language.
There is a place called Melbourne, which has a population of about four and a half million land crawlers (as distinct from the cetacean owners of the planet). This is an outlying settlement of Healesville, which is 50 miles to its east. That gives me magnificent sunsets, thanks to the air pollution so many people cause.

What’s one of your favorite quotes?

Only one? That’s harsh. Being constitutionally unable to follow instructions, I give you a selection from the people I admire the most:
Dalai Lama: “My religion is kindness. The aim of enlightenment is to be of service.”
Mother Teresa: “Help one person at a time, and start with the one nearest to you.”
Greta Thunberg about the Glasgow climate talkfest: “Blah blah blah.”

For what would you like to be remembered?

Only two things matter in life: what you take with you when you die, and what you leave behind in the hearts of others. Everything else is Monopoly money.
What can you take with you: Lessons learnt, gained wisdom--or the opposite: hate, bitterness, blame and the like. So, you either advance in spiritual development, or go backward, or of course a bit of each. Look after the heart, the Love, and you can let go of everything else.

What scares you the most?

We are NOW in the 6th extinction event of Earth. When we have unraveled the web of life, we also fall though the hole. This is why I have been an environmental activist since 1972.

Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

Whatever organization I join, I soon become the convener of the Antisocial Committee, which refuses to meet, as a matter of principle.
For some lucky people, conversation is lubrication. Then there is my kind. For us, it is information. Tell me to have a chat with Amy and I’ll sit beside you like a dummy, unless you ask the right questions.
I am the genuine, patented party-pooper.
In answer to your question, I give you three guesses.

What is the most daring thing you've done?

Being born. In a past-life recall, I’ve learned that in this life, either I am doomed to witness the extinction of humanity, or be part of the team saving us. This is set out in my fictionalized autobiography, Sleeper, Awake.

What is the stupidest thing you've ever done?

See previous answer.

What are you working on now?

Much of my work is environmental, humanitarian and political activism. I am here to change the world, and am doing my best. So, I am very active in the political party The Australian Greens. Australia’s voting laws are different, and voting for a small party does not prevent you from still choosing among the two dinosaurs. One are conservatives, mis-labeled “Liberal,” the others are Labor, whose policies are Liberal Lite.
Part of this is a fundraising activity for the Greens candidate in my local electorate. I currently run weekly online sessions in positive psychology, training participants to use the tools within From Depression to Contentment and Lifting the Gloom.

Oh, you mean WRITING projects?
I am well into a book on grief, working title If You Have Lost a Loved One: How to cope with grief.
I have posted snippets on my blog already. Sadly, it is greatly needed.
Four short stories, and one partly finished, are ready for a new anthology, REAL Human Nature, focusing on all that’s good about people.
My publisher has a series of “101 tips about...” and wants me to write one on depression, so that’s on the way.
There is the start of a book focusing on positive psychology, Above Normal, and several unfinished short stories that don’t fit the specs of the anthology-in-waiting.
But my major project is a 5-volume science fiction series, "The Doom Healer.” I am currently pestering agents and publishers with the first volume. All I want to say about it here is that my hero, Bill Sutcliffe, will one day be beside Harry Potter.

Finally, from Bob:

I will make sure to answer any comments, and one week after publication date of this interview, will randomly select one commenter to receive a free electronic copy of a book. Again, you have three guesses regarding title.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bob Rich, Ph.D. earned his doctorate in psychology in 1972. He worked as an academic, researcher, and applied scientist until “retiring” the first time at 36 years of age. Later, he returned to psychology and qualified as a Counseling Psychologist, running a private practice for over 20 years. During this time, he was on the national executive of the College of Counselling Psychologists of the Australian Psychological Society (APS), then spent three years as a Director of the APS. He was the therapist referrers sent their most difficult cases to.

Bob retired in 2013, but still does pro bono counseling over the internet. This has given him hundreds of “children” and “grandchildren” he has never met, because many of these people stay in touch for years. His major joy in life is to be of benefit to others, which is why he wrote a book that’s in effect a course of therapy.

You can get to know him well at his blog, Bobbing Around.

Connect with Bob:
Website  |  Blog  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads

Buy the book:
Amazon  |   Barnes & Noble  |  More

FEATURED AUTHOR: PJ PETERSON

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

A major business deal is disrupted by murder.


But a young physician has the key to the case . . .

A dying man’s last word whispered in her ear: “. . . mushroom . . .”


When medical internist Julia Fairchild receives an invitation to Paris from her long-distance beau, Josh, she packs a bag, grabs her sister Carly, and jets off for the City of Lights. But once they arrive, death and suspicion take the place of champagne and escargot. Josh’s business partner is dying in the hospital, and the gendarmes are convinced Josh is behind it.


Naturally curious and driven to seek justice, Julia jumps at the chance to clear Josh’s name - but he doesn’t seem interested in proving his innocence. Is he hiding something? Will Julia uncover the true murderer and salvage what’s left of her Paris vacation, or is she next on the killer’s hit list?


If you love Louise Penny, Laura Child, and Sue Grafton, you’ll enjoy reading this fun-filled cozy mystery! Find out why fans say “It’s a must read!” Don’t wait . . .

Book Details:


Title: Pickled Pink in Paris


Author: PJ Peterson    


Genre: cozy mystery


Series: Julia Fairchild Mystery Series, book 3


Publisher: Finngirl, LLC (August 2021)


Print length: 258 pages

    


LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH PJ PETERSON

A few of your favorite things: my grand piano, a pencil drawing of Barbra Streisand, my grandpa’s ancient typewriter with Finnish characters.
Things you need to throw out: clothes that never get out of the closet, let alone the house. 


Things you need in order to write: a list of ideas for future scenes in a novel, a notepad and pen to jot down ideas that happen randomly, a neat desk, a window.
Things that hamper your writing: meetings and interruptions.


Things you love about writing: creating something with just a nugget of an idea, whether it’s a short story, or a scene/chapter in a novel.
Things you hate about writing: getting through the middle of the book!

Easiest thing about being a writer: I get to write what I like to write, I’m my own boss, and I’m not on a time-line except one that’s self-imposed.

Hardest thing about being a writer: being patient through the process of getting ready to publish--the back cover copy, the perfect cover, lining up the launch process.


Things you love about where you live: Southwest Washington state has a temperate climate. We enjoy mild summers and winters, a long Indian summer, and have many rivers and lakes.  
Things that make you want to move: weather from November through February. Lots of dreary “drismal” days. I saw that word in a Reader’s Digest years ago as a description of weather in western Washington and Oregon.


Things you never want to run out of: ideas for the next story or chapter in whatever I'm writing, time to write.
Things you wish you’d never bought: time shares! I only have one week left. I’d give it away to the first taker.


Words that describe you: accountable, sincere, introvert who’s learned to function as an extrovert when needed.
Words that describe you but you wish they didn’t: being naturally bashful causes some people to believe I’m arrogant.

Favorite music: almost anything by  Josh Groban or Barbra Streisand.
Music that make your ears bleed: hard-core country western.

Favorite beverage: mellow smooth red wine (like a nice cabernet sauvignon).

Something that gives you a pickle face: tomato juice.

Favorite smell: “Knowing” by Estee Lauder.

Something that makes you hold your nose: musk perfume (Shalimar!).

Something you’re really good at: listening (from my years practicing medicine).

Something you’re really bad at: bicycling, though I promise myself I'll get better. Some day!


People you consider as heroes: those who help others without expectation of a reward.

People with a big L on their foreheads: people who have to be the center of attention.

Last best thing you ate: homemade apple pie.
Last thing you regret eating: Mongolian beef with way too much onion!

Things you always put in your books: some kind of medical twist.

Things you never put in your books: sex! I didn’t want my father to read my (original) book and see anything like that coming from my pen.

Things to say to an author: I couldn’t put your book down! When is the next one coming out?

Things to say to an author if you want to be fictionally killed off in their next book: I didn’t like how you handled . . . in that last book. Are you going to rewrite it?

Favorite places you’ve been: the British Virgin Islands, Australia, Paris, Finland.

Places you never want to go to again: Hong Kong.

Favorite books: mysteries and thrillers.

Books you would ban: hokey westerns, but somebody must be reading them.

Favorite things to do: playing my piano, working 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles, creating quilt tops.

Things you’d run through a fire wearing gasoline pants to get out of doing: cleaning the gutters of this big house.

Things that make you happy: music, walking around the lake one block away, playing golf with my good friend as we solve the world’s problems and enjoy the beautiful outdoors.

Things that drive you crazy: having a meeting hijacked by someone with their own agenda and a chairperson who doesn’t know how to rein them in.

Most embarrassing moment: during a tap dance competition, the (crotch) snap of my leotard, which was holding my costume together, came undone at the very moment the music started and my sister and I were ready to turn around and face the audience. I danced anyway and hoped the attached skirt would stay in place. (It did.)                                                                                                
Proudest moment: earning my Doctor of Medicine degree.

Most daring thing you’ve ever done: self-publish my first book—no professional editing, no marketing plan—but it propelled me to want to write another one.

Something you chickened out from doing: joining my sister and a couple of other ladies with our Russian-speaking Finnish guide for an evening in Leningrad (it was still behind the iron curtain in 1983). They had an exciting adventure while I sat alone, worried and scared, wondering if they’d ever get back. They did, finally, at 2 a.m. and regaled me with stories of their evening.  I resolved to never turn down another opportunity that may not occur again.

The last thing you did for the first time: auctioned an offer to write personalized stories for children to three bidders at our school auction and raised $1050 for the school. It was a fun experience to interview the children and write a unique story. Someday I hope to publish them but for now they exist as “originals” with the three families. I have the copyrights however!

Something you’ll never do again: use a boutique or other publishing company. I’m happy with self-publishing now that I know more about marketing and promoting. And have a wonderful group of fellow authors who share their knowledge along the way.



EXCERPT FROM PICKLED PINK IN PARIS

Chapter One

Sunday

“Where could he be?” Julia asked Carly.  “Josh said he’d meet us after we cleared Customs.” She again searched the crowd of hopeful faces in the waiting area of the Charles de Gaulle airport. Her heart dropped at not seeing him, then raced wildly in her chest as she had a moment of anxiety about making the decision to meet Josh in Paris at all. 

She turned back to her sister. “Do you see him yet? Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe he’ll be sorry he asked me to join him. Maybe he won’t be here after all. Maybe…”

Carly rolled her eyes as she listened to her older sister. “You sure have a lot of doubts for someone who has to make split-second decisions regularly in your real life. Haven’t you two been staying in touch regularly? Everything will be fine.”

Dr. Julia Fairchild, now in her late thirties, had built a busy internal medicine practice in southwest Washington State over the ten years since she finished her residency. It was a challenge to take more than a week off at a time, but she had persuaded her new partner to cover for her while she made this big trip. She had met Josh Larson, a fortyish Washington D.C. corporate attorney who specialized in mergers, a few years earlier at an international hospital conference in Monte Carlo. They had reconnected the previous fall, when he had shown up in Amsterdam while she and Carly were there on a tap-jazz dancing tour. She’d been thrilled when he had invited her to meet him in Paris the following spring, where he had scheduled business meetings. Josh had explained that he would be busy with his company’s clients much of the time for the first several days of her trip, so Julia had suggested inviting her sister to keep her company. Now doubts clouded Julia’s thoughts.

“What if you don’t have a good time after I’ve talked you into coming?”

“Julia, calm down,” said Carly. “I’m sure we’ll both have a grand time here. How could someone come to Paris and not enjoy themselves?” She patted Julia’s hand, which was resting on the fence separating the arriving passengers from the greeters. “Maybe we got through Customs faster than he could get through the airport traffic,” she added. “Didn’t he tell you the congestion here was horrendous?”

“Yes, but—hey, I see my name on a placard.” Julia pointed to a line of livery drivers holding up signs identifying their intended passengers. “Follow me.”

Julia and Carly dragged their luggage through the throng of travelers, saying “Pardon” several times as they moved slowly toward the uniformed man. He was of smallish build, with graying black hair, a cleft chin, and small dark eyes. He smiled as Julia and Carly approached him.

“Bonjour. I’m Julia Fairchild,” she said, pointing to her name on his sign, “and this is my sister, Carly Pedersen. I don’t see Josh. Isn’t he here?”

“Welcome to Paris, mesdemoiselles,” the chauffeur said with a slight bow. “My name is Vincent. Monsieur Larson is unable to be here. Please allow me to take you to your hotel and you will learn more.” He took charge of their luggage and led the way to a gleaming black limousine.

Carly whistled. “Pretty fancy, sis. I should travel with you more often.” Carly Pedersen, a homebody at heart with a golden mop of hair, hazel eyes, and an effervescent smile, didn’t usually get the opportunity to travel to Europe and had jumped at the chance. Her husband, Rob, was quickly mollified by her promise to learn to prepare some French dishes at Le Cordon Bleu.

Julia flashed her a happy grin, pleased that Carly had agreed to come on this trip. As a physician dedicated to continuing medical education, Julia had traveled over the years to international conferences, but had not made it to Paris until now.

The chauffeur poured a flute of champagne for each of the sisters once they were settled in the limo. They toasted each other and Paris, then enjoyed the crisp bubbly drink in comfort as they motored through the city. Though disappointed that Josh hadn’t met her at the airport with a bouquet of flowers and a kiss, Julia was too enthralled with the thrill of visiting Paris for the first time to dwell on it.

Carly sighed. “Pinch me, Julia. I’m not sure this is real yet.”

“I don’t recall the last time I was in a limousine,” said Julia. “It wasn’t the ‘in’ thing when I went to our high school prom.”

“As if there even were any limos in our little town.” 

“That would be the other reason,” Julia agreed. She pointed. “Look straight ahead, Carly. I can see the Eiffel Tower from here. It’s so majestic. Let’s plan to go to the top.”

“I hope you mean by elevator.” Carly had never been the athletic type but served as a cheerleader for Julia’s efforts at running and tap dancing.

“Maybe we can walk partway up,” Julia said, “and take the elevator the rest of the way.”

The limousine stopped in front of an elegant older building, Hotel du Champs de Mars, which was nestled in the chic Gros-Caillou neighborhood of Paris. Julia had noticed a mix of embassies and other posh hotels and upscale restaurants lining the tranquil streets as Vincent drove through the area. She loved the welcoming “Old World” ambience of the entrance, where a debonair valet dressed in a gold-trimmed red and black uniform stood at the door, ready to help the new guests.

“Bonjour, mesdemoiselles. Welcome to Paris.” He bowed gallantly, longish brown curls framing his young face, then helped Julia and Carly alight from the limo.

“Bonjour and merci, monsieur,” Julia managed to say in her rusty high school French.

Julia and Carly grinned at each other and linked arms as they entered the foyer. Josh had told Julia he had arranged their stay at this hotel because of its location near the Eiffel Tower and other popular attractions. He had also told her that it was his favorite place to stay when he had business meetings in the city.

“Welcome to Hotel du Champs, Ms. Fairchild and Ms. Pedersen,” said the desk clerk.  “Mr. Larson left you a message, which you will find in your room. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” He motioned to the bellman, who had secured their bags on a cart, and who then led them to the elevators on his left, and on to their room on the fourth floor.

The bellman opened the door and stepped aside while Julia and Carly entered the suite. Julia stood still momentarily, gazing at the elegantly appointed room.  A small settee and chair graced the main room. The bed looked inviting, with layers of pillows and a lush comforter. “I feel like a princess in here. This is my favorite shade of blue. Look at the detail, Carly.” She plopped onto the bed. “I’m in love with Paris already.”

Carly peered out the window, which opened onto the street below. “It’s not far to the closest bistro either.”

After tipping the young man, Julia eagerly tore open the envelope, which she saw was written on high-quality ecru paper.

“What’s up with Josh?” Carly asked impatiently.

“His note says he has to entertain some important clients for dinner tonight.  He says to meet him in the lobby here at four o’clock for a glass of wine.” Julia checked her watch. “It’s two now. We can wander around a little before we meet Josh and unpack later. Is that okay with you?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Carly. “So does a warm cookie. I saw them downstairs in the lobby, but the bellman walked right on by before I could grab one.”

Julia smiled, knowing Carly’s fondness for sweets, especially fresh-baked cookies. “We can go down and get one on our way out the door.” She headed back out the door and waited in the lobby while Carly nabbed their treats.

“How many museums on the list this time, sis?” Carly asked as they started walking down the street, cookies in hand.

“Six, I think. We can do more if you like.”

“Six.” Carly groaned. “You know how much I loathe musty old museums. I saw my share of them on the last trip with you—as well as their storage vaults, art, and forgeries. I don’t want a repeat of that experience.”

Julia grimaced. Too true. Neither did Julia. In fact, Carly had been kidnapped because of Julia’s snooping around a murder in Amsterdam. Thankfully, with some help, Carly had been rescued. If anything, Julia owed her little sister a fabulous trip with no drama. “Agreed. Although you have to admit it was memorable.” Julia ducked as Carly pretended to hit her with her bag.  “Anyway, there are only a couple of absolute must-see museums here. We can’t leave Paris without at least going to the Louvre and Notre Dame.”

“I can tolerate visiting two of them.”

“And maybe Versailles.”   

“That’s three,” said Carly.

“One museum, one cathedral, and one palace,” Julia clarified as they negotiated crossing a busy street. “Think of them more as beautiful historical landmarks that happen to contain marvelous works of art.”

“Very clever, Julia. Where are we going now?”

“I want to get my bearings around this area.” Julia found their location on the map she’d accepted from the desk clerk. “The streets here are crazy, from what I saw in the guidebook. It reminds me of trying to find my way around St. Maarten.” Although Paris was a full-sized city compared to the small towns of the Caribbean island, both locations perplexed visitors with their seemingly haphazard layout. Julia tried to shake off the thought of that island vacation, another trip that went awry. Julia felt herself scowl. She’d taken that trip to meet up with Tony—and that certainly went sour. And here she was again, this time to meet up with Josh. Would Josh also prove to be not what—

“Where are the street signs?  They would be helpful right about now.” Carly interrupted Julia’s thoughts as they stopped at the street’s end, and Carly looked right and left. 

“Look on the corner of the building, about six or seven feet up.” Julia pointed out a plaque bearing the street name. “We probably shouldn’t wander too far away, since we’re meeting Josh at four.” She studied the map again, comparing it to her surroundings. “The Eiffel Tower is nearby,” she said, pointing toward the park surrounding the famous structure. “We can walk around the grounds for maybe half an hour, then turn around and get back to the hotel to change and freshen up.”

“Works for me. Lead the way.”

The stately buildings gave way to lush greenery as they approached the Parc du Champs al Mars, which surrounded the Eiffel Tower itself. All cares melted away for Julia as she absorbed the Parisian beauty. Trees and shrubs and lush green lawns covered the acres and acres of parkland. Julia had read that three hundred workers had built the tower from eighteen thousand pieces in two years, two months, and two days, finishing in time for the opening of the World’s Fair in Paris on May 15, 1889. 

“Oh my. C’est magnifique,” Julia said, snapping a few photos with her Nikon.

“It’s worth the walk, I’d say. How many steps did you say it is to the top?” Carly asked.

“One thousand seven hundred ten.  At the YMCA, there was a challenge to climb that many steps by doing one hundred eight round trips on the staircase.”

“Wouldn’t half of those be going downhill?  That seems like cheating, kind of.”

“But how else would you get back to the bottom of the stairs?” asked Julia, craning her neck to peer at the top of the tower. “Frankly, I agree that the elevator is a perfectly good option when we decide to go up. The website suggested going to the top in the late afternoon, and then staying to watch as the nighttime city lights turn on. That would be gorgeous, I’m sure.”  She sighed dreamily. “Then we could walk down.”

After a few more minutes of admiring the lush ground-level scenery, it was time to leave to meet Josh. “Okay, Girl Scout,” Carly teased. “Let’s see how you do with your directions back to the hotel.”

Julia turned the map upside down to help her retrace their steps. Then she raised her hand in the air, pointed her finger, and said “That way.” 

They passed a few tourists and several people walking dogs—not a French poodle among them. Several kiosks plastered with notices and handbills were scattered along the way. Julia suddenly stopped and grabbed Carly’s arm.

“What is it?  Why are you stopping?”

Tapping a handbill advertising tango lessons, Julia said, “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Tango lessons? Not on my bucket list,” Carly said, shaking her head.

“But we’re in Paris. What better opportunity to learn the tango than right here?” Julia hummed a sultry tune as she danced solo on the sidewalk.

“Uh, Julia. People are staring at you, if you don’t mind.”

Julia giggled. “Oops. I got carried away.”

Carly stood with her hands on her hips. “What would we do for partners if we went?”

“Josh, for me. Perhaps they have extra men who take these lessons.” She tore off one of the stubs with the phone number. “Wouldn’t hurt to call.”

Carly shook her head more vigorously. “Not me. I’d almost rather go to a museum. Let’s keep walking.”

Five minutes later they were in the hotel lobby, where they found Josh waiting. Julia felt her breath quicken at the sight of the dark-haired, blue-eyed man with his trim athletic build. He returned her smile with a huge grin of his own, then enveloped Julia in a big hug, winking at Carly, who pretended to be embarrassed by the public display of affection. She was mollified by her own welcoming hug in turn. The trio chatted and laughed as they sauntered to the private patio, where a young, buff waiter seated them and took drink orders.

“Julia, let me explain what’s happened since my last email to you,” Josh said as he took Julia’s hands in his own. “As you know, I was planning to stay at this same hotel so I would be close to you.”

“You did say this was your favorite place. Where are you staying instead?”

“The Marriott on the Champs-Élysées. Roger Westover, one of my business partners, had arranged for us to stay in a suite of rooms because several of our clients are from out of town.”

“I don’t get it,” said Julia. “Why do you have to stay together?”

“Here come our drinks. I’ll explain in a minute.”

Julia caught the waiter winking at Carly as he served the beverages. She smiled, recalling other moments when her adorable golden-haired younger sister had attracted a man’s eye. Their Finnish heritage provided them both with striking high cheekbones, although Julia was bestowed brunette locks and sparkly blue eyes, in contrast to her sister’s blonde curls and hazel eyes.

“First, a toast to two beautiful women who make Paris even more lovely.” Josh raised his glass, with the sisters following suit. “Salud.”

Julia tasted the delightful pinot grigio, which had been chilled to the perfect temperature, as Carly sipped her gimlet.

“Here’s the story, Julia.” Josh took a big breath. “Okay, normally we would meet our clients at local restaurants or in their own offices; but these men, except Pierre, came to Paris from other cities. It seemed easier to have our meetings in the hotel rather than trying to find a restaurant with a meeting room. Anyway, Roger told me a couple of clients had insisted that we stay at the hotel with them.”

“Does that mean I won’t be seeing you?” Julia asked.

“No, but it will be less of me for now,” Josh replied. “That’s why I’m glad you have Carly with you. I know you will find fun things to do. We’ll catch up after these guys leave town in a couple of days.”

Julia sighed and said, “I understand.”

“In the meantime,” said Josh, “I have instructed your concierge to take care of any tickets or excursions that you would like to do at my expense. And the limousine is at your disposal.”

“You don’t have to do all that,” said Julia, disappointed that he had made arrangements as though he had known he wouldn’t be joining them.

“Actually, my company can afford it, and they owe it to me, seeing as how they put us in this position in the first place.”

Julia kissed Josh on the cheek. “Thank you, but I’d rather see you.”

“You will in a couple of days. I promise.”

Julia smiled hesitantly. “I knew we would have to entertain ourselves for the first couple of days anyway, so we have a Cordon Bleu course scheduled for tomorrow, and we can work in some sightseeing while we’re waiting.”

Carly piped up. “Julia is hoping you will want to take tango lessons with her while you’re here.”

“She is, huh?” Josh said, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds interesting. That might be safer than your tap dance adventures last year.”

“I’m not planning to get involved in any murders this trip. Scout’s promise.” Julia raised her glass.

Carly snorted. “As if you could avoid them.”

“A cooking class at Cordon Bleu sounds safe enough to me,” Josh said as he finished his drink. “Just don’t poison anyone.”

***

Excerpt from Pickled Pink in Paris by PJ Peterson.  Copyright 2021 by PJ Peterson. Reproduced with permission from PJ Peterson. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  

PJ Peterson was a successful physician practicing internal medicine as her career for thirty-seven years. In 2018, a couple of years after she retired from her more-than-full-time doctor’s life, she dusted off the floppy disc that contained the digital version of a mystery she’d written thirty-five years earlier.

Fortunately a local computer service company was able to transfer all but one chapter (which she keyed in from the only printed copy of the novel) to a CD. Several years earlier PJ had learned about Create Space from a fellow author while  waiting in line at the Vatican to see the Sistine Chapel. She looked into it a little and opened an account which then sat idle for six more years. 

It took a chance meeting with a young man who had worked for Amazon in the Kindle division for her to take the giant leap of self-publishing that first novel, Blind Fish Don’t Talk. She knew nothing about professional editing, marketing, or having the right cover. She didn’t even know that her particular novel belonged in a genre called “cozy mystery.”

Once she became a published author, and the townspeople told her how much they liked her book, she knew she had to write more books. She’s on the cusp of releasing the fourth book in the Julia Fairchild Mystery series (One Will Too Many) and is at the halfway point of writing the fifth book.

She is thoroughly enjoying her second career as an author. And is happy to have fulfilled her promise to her father that she would eventually publish that novel, even if it didn't happen until twelve years after he died. She’s certain he’s applauding her from Heaven.

Connect with PJ:
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FEATURED AUTHOR: R.T. DOUGLASS

ABOUT THE BOOK

 
Jack Wellington moves from the big city to make a new start. He jumps at the opportunity to become a detective in Summerville.


A peculiar case is assigned to him as artwork has been stolen and a dog is missing. Fellow detective Charlie Finch, a man adorned with decades of service, uncovers clues with Jack. They become intrigued by the words and actions of a neighborhood boy and wonder how much he might know.


Clues are followed but it’s the kids in the neighborhood who provide the most relevant clues. As Jack gets closer to them with their questions, the pressure of the kids struggle unfolds.


A puzzling crime, a struggle to balance life, the challenges to succeed in a new department, in the little town of Summerville.

Book Details:

Title: The Little Town of Summerville - A Dog Named Chubby

Author: R. T. Douglass

Genre: cozy mystery / literary fiction

Published: November, 1, 2021

Print length: 200 pages

    


LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH R.T. DOUGLASS

Things you need in order to write: music playing in the background. Lots of variety, as long as it’s not too heavy.
Things that hamper your writing: getting too tired seems to dissolve good ideas.  Also, the corky things (a bad review, an unexpected bill, etc.) that can happen in life which may require some time to figure out and then I can get back to undistracted writing.


Easiest thing about being a writer: the freedom to express a story with only the boundaries that I have set in place.

Hardest thing about being a writer: finding the balance of showing enough detail so the intention cannot be misunderstood but not going so far it becomes boring. 


Things you love about where you live: it’s a quiet refuge for me: a small mid-west town surrounded by the farmlands. The local events are simple and the invites to backyard BBQs are often.
Things that make you want to move: the stores and restaurants are limited so a country drive is needed now and then.


Things you never want to run out of: coffee.
Things you wish you’d never bought: the 100 pack of floppy disks.


Words that describe you: short in stature, big in heart, someone who enjoys life. A husband and father with a son in college and a daughter in high school. Will plan carefully but not afraid to take risks.
Words that describe you but you wish they didn’t: usually good on the social side but sometimes lost for some reason and can become introverted, wishing I was writing so I could edit my next sentence forty times to get it to sound right.

Favorite foods: pies - any kind made fresh is fantastic. My favorite lunch is grilled chicken salad with an iced tea. BBQs on nights and weekends with sides of veggies also brings big smiles.
Things that make you want to throw up: Tuna Noodle Casserole. It’s an evil degradation of tuna. It’s so gross, I wouldn’t even serve it to a cat.

Favorite music: I did many road trips with Dad and eventually got addicted to big band music: Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Duke Ellington, etc.. There are no more road trips and I have Dad's big band collection now, but I still spin the albums and CDs. I also listen to just about every kind of music and enjoy lots of the new music.
Music that make your ears bleed: the heavy metal, the heavy rap, and the country music that is so syrupy sweet with its phony country accent and, no surprise, every song sounds the same. But don’t get me wrong—there’s plenty of country music that sounds great.

Favorite beverage: although it is a rarity to have one, old school Coca-Cola is my favorite.

Something that gives you a pickle face: Abraham Lincoln said it best. “If this is coffee, please bring me some tea; but if this is tea, please bring me some coffee.”

People you consider as heroes: people who make positive changes at the local level - in the local community (and yes, there are plenty of local communities in the big cities). It’s just my opinion, but that’s where I think the greatest impact resides to form a better society.

People with a big L on their foreheads: people who make big promises to form a better society but their history and personal life doesn’t match what they are saying.



Last best thing you ate: Triple Chocolate Layer Cake.

Last thing you regret eating: Triple Chocolate Layer Cake.

Favorite places you’ve been: the rivers and streams high up in the Colorado rocky mountains. It radiates with a natural beauty. There’s living creatures everywhere and at night you can see more stars than you ever dreamed existed.

Places you never want to go to again: I’m not much for the big cities, but I have lots of friends who live in the cities, so not trying to down it—it’s just not me.


EXCERPT FROM THE LITTLE TOWN OF SUMMERVILLE

Jack poured a coffee and reached the back door with mug in hand. He stepped onto the screened-in porch as the twilight of morning brightened the yard. He enjoyed the peaceful surroundings of the porch. It was completely different from the small apartment he left behind a few months ago. He had worked in the Saint Louis police department for five years and jumped at the opportunity to work in Summerville.

He settled into an old wicker chair he’d found at a garage sale and grabbed the tablet lying next to it to get caught up on sports and local news. He was on his second mug when the phone hummed away on the table. He noticed the number was from the police station.

“Hello, this is Jack.”

“Hi Jack, this is Captain Ottoman. I need you to get over to 28 Little Creek Lane. Someone was in the house during the night and the homeowner is very upset.”

The captain sounded tired and cranky with no patience for conversation, so Jack didn’t bother explaining it was supposed to be his day off.

“Yes sir. I can get over there right away.”

“Thank you,” and the captain ended the call.

Jack got back inside, buzzed the electric shaver over his face, jumped into some clean clothes, and was out the door quickly. He thought about the history of the town as he drove to the location.

Summerville had been founded during the railroad days of long ago. It was a crossroads of railway tracks built by the Summers Rail & Cargo Company. John Summers became so impressed with the area he established the town and moved his family to the beautiful location with its wide valley and soft hills. Blueprints were drawn for the town which included shops, neighborhoods, and parks, which would enjoy the modern luxuries of the era, and of course, the ability to travel by railway.

Today Summerville still enjoyed the shops of the downtown area, its many parks, and the atmosphere of its small college. A group of businessmen and a strong town council maintained the town with its modest Midwest economy. At times, a getaway for some of the city dwellers to get refreshed by the small-town charm. It was a pretty town, safe and friendly, and Jack Wellington intended to keep it that way.

Jack pulled up to 28 Little Creek Lane as the sun cast its long early morning shadows. Each lawn had its own style, with a tree or two in the front yard and shrubs along the side that acted like a fence. There were sidewalks on the narrow residential street which had gas streetlamps that would shine day and night.

He got out of the car and checked his dark hair in the reflection of the car window. He was above average height with a lean and strong build for a mid-twenties guy, but his collar was crooked. He shook his head, rebuttoned his shirt, and hoped no one was watching as he tucked it back into his pants. A quick check to make sure he had pen and notepad in his back pocket, and he took the walkway across the yard to the front porch entrance. Up the stairs, across the porch, and a few taps on the door. The homeowner opened the door.

“Hello. I’m Jack Wellington from the Summerville police department. Captain Ottoman asked me to come over this morning.”

The homeowner tried to smile, but her eyes were swollen with a sunken tainted darkness around them. Her sterling gray hair looked a bit out of place with a sadness upon her face.

“So, you’re a policeman?”

“Yes, I’m a detective,” and Jack showed her his credentials.

She gave a soft grasp of Jack’s hand, “I’m Elizabeth Ashley,” and she invited him into her home. They walked down the entrance hallway and dropped into the living room. Two couches and a couple of chairs formed a horseshoe with a coffee table in the center. The couches faced each other, and the chairs sat on the end with a straight view to a fireplace. She sat on the couch and Jack took a chair.

***

Excerpt from The Little Town of Summerville - A Dog Named Chubby by Robert Douglass.  Copyright 2021 by Robert Douglass. Reproduced with permission from Robert Douglass. All rights reserved.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR  



Robert has spent the majority of his life studying Theology. He also has an A.A.S. in Microsoft Networking Technology from Glendale Community College and is a Microsoft Certified Professional.


Robert likes reading, writing, and exploring natural wonders. His favorite pastime is telling tall stories around the campfire.


Other interests include driving old sports cars on country roads, watching baseball, college football and an occasional movie, but the main interest is writing a story more entertaining than the last one.


Connect with Robert:
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Buy the book:
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