Showcase: Into The Light

Note: I received a complimentary copy from Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours  and enjoyed the book so much that I purchased a copy. Look for my review very soon.

Into the Light

by Darcia Helle

on Tour February 1-28, 2019

Synopsis:

Max Paddington refuses to go into the light until he finds his killer. This presents a dilemma, since Max is even less competent as a spirit than he was as a live person. No one sees or hears him and he can’t manage to get anywhere or do anything on his own.

Joe Cavelli is a private investigator, living an ordinary life. Then one day he walks across a parking lot, gets yelled at by a ghost, and his life only gets stranger from there.

Max and Joe team up to find Max’s killer. In the process, they form an unlikely friendship and change each other’s lives in ways they never expected.

 

Book Details:

Genre: Paranormal Suspense
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: July 14th 2011
Number of Pages: 250
ISBN: 146364020X (ISBN13: 9781463640200)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Audible

Read an excerpt:

Joe fumbled with the lock on his door. Once inside, he flipped the deadbolt and headed straight for his bedroom. He didn’t bother with lights, didn’t undress. He sprawled face down on the rumpled sheets and exhaled a long sigh.

Mysterious voices and dead people. This night could not get any crazier. Lydia must have spiked his drink with some sort of hallucinogenic. Maybe she thought he’d enjoy the trip. Or maybe she was crazy. He should call Chris, make sure he was okay.

“Not a bad place, Joe. You live alone?”

Joe shuddered, a tiny shriek escaping his lips. He sounded like a scared girl. Jesus. “Don’t do that!” he shouted.

“Sorry,” Max said. “I forgot that you can’t see me. I’m still here. Ain’t that cool? I wasn’t sure. Thought I might get stuck in your car, like I was stuck in that awful parking lot. But I blinked and here I am, in your place.”

“Perfect.”

“So have you thought about it? Will you help me?”

“Help you what? You’re not even real!”

“I am real. Well, like we discussed before, I’m as real as any dead person could be.”

“Go away.”

“I can’t. I mean, even if I wanted to, I don’t know how. I can’t figure this ghost thing out.”

“There is no dead guy in my house.”

“Hey, you must have a computer, right?” Max said. “Everyone has a computer these days. Look it up. Even us nobodies have to make the news when we get murdered. You’ll see. I’m real!”

Joe flipped over and stared into the darkness. Nothing there. Not even a tiny blip. No weird shadows, no floating orbs. So much for what they claimed on all those ghost-hunter programs.

Before he could give it much thought, Joe found himself grabbing his laptop from the top of his dresser. He sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for it to boot up, and thinking about how crazy this all was. He hadn’t watched the news last night or at any time today. Someone could have been murdered in that parking lot yesterday.

But a ghost, following him home? Crazy.

As he opened a browser page, that nasally, disembodied voice said, “Max. Max Paddington. I was at Chili’s. Then I got shot in that bank parking lot.”

Joe typed the name into a Google search. He found the story on TBO.com. He scanned the article, not sure whether he should be happy or mortified. A man named Maxwell Paddington had been murdered in that parking lot last night. Shot in the head by an unknown assailant. The police had no leads, though they believed it might have been a carjacking gone bad.

“Carjacking,” Max sputtered. “How ridiculous is that? It wasn’t about my car! That person shot me. Just shot me!”

“What person?” Joe heard himself ask.

“I don’t know! Someone in a ball cap. Or a cap, anyway. I don’t know if it was a ball cap or some other kind of cap.”

“Someone wearing a hat shot you.”

“Yes! Because of my wife. She was mad about those golf clubs.”

Joe dropped his head into his hands. “No. Stop talking.”

“But—”

“Stop. Talking.”

The room fell silent. Joe waited a moment, then did what he always did when he was in trouble. He dug his cell phone from his pocket and called his big brother.

“Jimmy,” he said when his brother picked up. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Jimmy said. “What’s up?”

“I think I might have lost my mind.”

Jimmy chuckled. “That’s not news. You lost that years ago.”

“I’m serious, Jimmy. I’m hearing voices.”

“Voices? What kind of voices?”

“Well, not really voices. A voice. One voice.”

“One voice? What the hell are you talking about?”

Joe quickly filled his brother in on Max. He heard the desperation in his own voice and forced himself to slow down. This was crazy. He was crazy. That was the only explanation.

After a brief silence, Jimmy said, “A ghost named Max followed you home? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Yeah. I don’t feel crazy, Jimmy. I swear. But crazy people don’t ever really know they’re crazy, do they?”

“You’re not crazy, Joe.”

“The guy is real. Not real, like I can see him. But he was alive yesterday and now he’s dead. How the hell can this be happening?”

“Do you remember having invisible playmates when you were a kid?”

“This is not an invisible playmate!”

“I know that.” Jimmy paused, cleared his throat. “You heard voices when you were a kid. All the time. I’d walk into the room and you’d be holding a conversation with someone I couldn’t see or hear. At first, you’d do it only at home. Mom and Dad thought you had an invisible playmate, like a lot of kids do.”

“I remember that,” Joe said. “Vaguely. Felt real to me then.”

“Maybe because it was.”

“What?”

“Pretty soon you didn’t just do it at home. We’d be out at a store or a restaurant and you’d start talking to invisible people. Tell us their stories. Freaked Mom out. Dad thought you were schizophrenic. Made Mom take you to a shrink.”

“Jesus. I don’t remember that.”

“You were young. Maybe four.”

As Joe listened to Jimmy talk about the ghosts from his childhood, fragments of memories surfaced. All those voices talking to him. He’d thought it was normal, that everyone could hear them. Soon he’d realized how wrong he was, and he’d tried to keep them secret. His father, then the psychiatrist, had insisted there were no spirits talking to him. All of it was his imagination. His father had demanded he stop pretending and acting like a baby. The psychiatrist had scared him with his constant questions and disapproving eyes. Not long afterward, the voices had faded away.

“You’re saying I really heard the voices of dead people?” Joe said.

“That’s what Mom always thought.”

“She told you that?”

“Not directly. I heard her talking to Aunt Jeannie a few times.”

Joe sat with the phone pressed against his ear. He could find no words. Which was worse, being crazy or having real conversations with dead people?

“You should call Mom,” Jimmy said.

“She’s in Vegas. Left this morning with a bunch of her friends.”

“You want me to fly down there? I could take a few personal days.”

“No. Thanks. I’m okay.”

“This ghost, what’s he saying to you?”

Joe gave a humorless laugh. “He says his wife killed him over some golf clubs.”

“Well, there you go.”

“What?”

“He needs Joe Cavelli, Super Sleuth, to solve his murder.”

***

Excerpt from Into the Light by Darcia Helle. Copyright © 2019 by Darcia Helle. Reproduced with permission from Darcia Helle. All rights reserved.

 

Darcia Helle

Author Bio:

Darcia Helle is a Massachusetts native, who escaped the New England winters to write in the Florida sunshine. She lives with her husband in a home full of spoiled rescue animals and an occasional stray lizard. She writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative.

Catch Up With Darcia Helle On:
darciahelle.com, Goodreads, Twitter, & Facebook!

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

02/01 Showcase @ Waterside Kennels Mysteries
02/02 Showcase @ tfaulcbookreviews
02/03 Review @ Book Reviews From an Avid Reader
02/04 Review @ Nesies Place
02/05 Showcase @ Eclectic Moods
02/06 Interview/showcase @ CMash Reads
02/07 Review @ Wall-to-wall books
02/07 Showcase @ Im All About Books
02/08 Review @ Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!
02/08 Showcase @ The Bookworm Lodge
02/09 Showcase @ Just Books
02/10 Guest post @ Mythical Books
02/11 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
02/12 Interview @ Cozy Up WIth Kathy
02/13 Review @ Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!
02/14 Guest post @ Loris Reading Corner
02/15 Interview @ BooksChatter
02/16 Review @ Life at 17
02/18 Showcase @ Lisa-Queen of Random
02/19 Review @ Stacking My Book Shelves!
02/21 Review @ JBronder Book Reviews
02/22 Interview @ Crack A Book Cafe
02/26 Review @ Instagram – Love My Dane Sailor
02/27 Review @ A Room Without Books is Empty

ENTER TO WIN:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Darcia Helle. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on February 1, 2019 and runs through March 1, 2019. Void where prohibited.

Enter to win: Rafflecopter Giveaway

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

Kids, Dogs, and Mysteries!

Long-time readers of this site know I like to support and promote other writers. Today’s post introduces Deborah Taylor-French and the first in her Dog Leader mystery series.  Deborah is an active arts educator, writer, and blogger.  Read on to learn more about this author and her mystery series.

What do you and your sleuth have in common?

Although I am not the protagonist of my book, there are a few similarities. Born and raised in Northern California I lived in a few small towns. My heroine, Nevada, lives in a small fictional town in that geographic area. The best part of my young life happened while living along the Avenue of the Giants. In my early teens, my Uncle Scott gave me a horse. Due to a need to exercise my mare, Mischief, I gained enormous freedom. We left our small town to explore trails beyond the Eel River. In comparison, Nevada’s grandmother gives her a rescued keeshond dog to raise. Due to the need to train and exercise her dog, Nevada also begins to revel in her able to roam farther and farther afield.

In contrast to Nevada, I had trouble keeping friendships in junior high. I needed strength to withstand the loneliness, and the social rejection of those years. Nevada fights for her friendships. So, I admire her loyalty and determination.

 

Tell us about Red Sky At Night.

This novel entertains, excites, and shows readers, realistic young teens. Nevada and friends, Lee and Amy, run their own investigation. Each one must find ways to gain freedom and take chances to be more independent. On the way, they find adults who can be trusted with secrets, plus adults who behave badly. Like children everywhere these friends try to keep his or her parent from freaking out as their take bigger risks.

On their way tracking a criminal, each fifth-grade student must hide their deeper resolve to stop the wildfires. The three friends also struggle to trust each other. Naturally, parents, school work, and other pressures add to their individual and group trials. Close calls plague all three kids as they dive deeper into the mystery of the fires.

What do reviewers say?

“Dogs, horses and a 12-year-old animal lover with justice in heart is the core of this engaging mystery.”

“Nevada…is independent, smart, and compassionate.”

“Fell in love with Nevada. She’s a smart cookie!”

“Fantastic book to give to middle schoolers and enjoy yourself!”

***

To purchase a copy, click here.

 

Holiday Giveaway! Simply sign up for Deborah’s email list for the drawing held on December 31st. Win one of three paperback copies of her book.

***

About the author:

Deborah Taylor-French, Photo by Cindy Pavlinac

Deborah Taylor-French is the author of Red Sky at Night: Dog Leader Mysteries. She blogs at Dog Leader Mysteries. Her stories brim with action, dogs, positive dog leadership, and animal rescue.  The true story of Sydney’s adoption, “Punk Rocker with A Poodle Brain” was published in “Vintage Voices Four Part Harmony.” Her fiction and memoir has been published in over a dozen volumes of the  Redwood Writers Anthology, Changing Hurt to Hope, and in the North Bay Business Journal.

As an arts educator, Deborah has led over a hundred residences and teacher workshops. An active member of Redwood Writers, Deborah continues to serve as Author Support Facilitator. Redwood Writers is the largest branch of the California Writers Club.

Read an excerpt:

I stood between Lee and Amy as we peered down the long driveway we believed led to Morton’s house. Enormous cypress trees lined the drive, the twisted trunks forming an opening to another world. Dead branches jutted over the dirt driveway, which seemed to go on forever. Thick dust cloaked everything as if no one had been here in ages. Dust slept on tangled tree roots and low branches. Dust clustered on top of the split-rail fence. The wood fencing stopped after four sections, giving way to rusted barbed wire strung between the trees, hammered into the aged trunks. The place had an eerie look. Broken branches like broken bones seemed to warn, Stay back—or you’ll be sorry.

“You’re wrong,” Lee grumbled. “Nobody lives here. We ran here for nothing.”

I muttered, “Um, we followed the map. Right?” I twisted the loop on Henry’s leash.

Hands on hips, Amy said, “It’s got to be the place.”

“Yep,” I said. “Lee, this matches the number on Morton’s envelope.” The numbers on the mailbox at 1505 Cider Springs had faded, and each missing numeral had left outlines in rust. That was not our problem.

On the way here, Amy had set a brisk pace. Complaining he didn’t like feeling sweaty, Lee had lagged behind the whole way. Now the three of us stood facing a sign: Private Property, No Trespassing. The freshly painted, all-caps letters had been underlined in red marker. A smaller Keep Out sign was tacked below, the letters sloppy and dripping.

In the dark cypress shade, I felt lost. Was there a house somewhere at the end of the drive? The driveway bent, leading out of sight. Then I spied tire tracks in the dirt, and my gut spun like a hamster on a wheel.

Lee ended our silence. “Too desolate. I say we go back.” He squinted at me from behind his rectangular glasses, which perched askew on his nose. “Race to the park gate?”

I snorted. “You think you might beat Amy? Or me?” I choked back a laugh because I needed his help. “Lee, aren’t you a tiny bit interested to see if Morton lives here?” I bent and gave Henry a splash of water from my bottle. “You said you wanted to have him arrested for animal abuse.”

Once I’d straightened, I smiled. “Don’t you think a no-trespassing sign is an invitation to adventure? Grand has ignored no-trespassing signs dozens of times to save abandoned pets.” Listening for any sign of interest, I noticed Amy standing motionless, squarely facing the gate. At least she was game.

Lee slouched on a gatepost. “Aw, you just made that up. No grown-up thinks that.”

I said with forced confidence, “Come on. Have a look.”

“Let’s not,” he said, flattening his stand-up hair.

Amy hissed, “Sure, stay here.” Then she ducked under the bar of the gate. “Nevada, let’s go.”

“No way am I going to stay behind,” he said hotly. “Here’s a plan: we keep to the trees and dodge out of sight if … if needed.”

“Okay, Professor. Let’s be invisible,” I said, sliding sideways under the bar of the locked gate. On leash, Henry followed under the bottom rail. Then Lee ducked low. All of us walked by the no-trespassing sign and into the trees.

I shivered in the chilly shadows as pinpricks of blue-green light dappled our faces. We wove our way around trees, over roots and dead branches. Then Amy said, “It’s odd that whoever lived or lives here didn’t take care of these …” I nodded, helping Henry around fallen tree trunks and low, sharp branches. A thicket of deadwood under old trees was a huge fire hazard. Even the fields to our left had not been mown as a fire-prevention precaution. The summer-dried grasses were as tall as Amy.

At last, the long drive ended the way I had hoped. “Hey, this is the place I told you about. Remember, I saw it from the cliff? A box-shaped house, a shed, and busted trucks. But where are the horses?” I didn’t see the starving dog or the blue van either.

Lee froze. “Did you hear that?”

“Sure,” Amy said, angling her chin toward a trickle of water that was slowly filling an old bathtub. The trickle built into a small stream and cut a gully through the pasture. As I listened to the spring, a short blowing noise made me jump.

“Ouch!” Lee yelped as I landed on his foot.

“Since when, Nevada, are you scared of horses?”

“Oh.” I turned and saw a skinny white horse. Ears pointed, riveted in our direction, the colt stood alert among the trees as if he were keeping out of sight too. After a minute, his ears flicked, and he relaxed, chewing a mouthful of grass. I gave a long exhale, relaxing too. Then I turned to my friends. They were studying the rundown house. A dense vine hung dangerously low over the front steps. I could only see the bottom of the doorway. Walls of cracked brown stucco and peeling trim boards made me think no one had been here for half a year.

Someone must have been here, though, because someone had slapped turquoise paint on a section of house trim and then left the paintbrush to stiffen. The bright color stuck out on the dead grass.

Fresh-cut firewood was stacked between the house and the shed. The shed’s door jutted open. Inside, a jumble of gas cans, stacks of junk, rags, and piles of newspaper made me gasp. “Those things—there—fire setters use them.” I pointed. “See? Right there.”

I brought Henry as I walked toward the shed to investigate.

When a dog snarled, Henry and I whipped around. Morton’s starving dog slunk out of the trees not far from the skinny white colt. The dog!

“We found the dog!” I cried.

The dog dashed toward the open front door. He made a pitiful spectacle, snarling and cringing. After circling Henry and me, he cowered. Too afraid.

Henry’s ears pricked. His nose pointed behind us.

A man charged out of the house. “What the hell?”

Morton.

For a long moment, we froze in place.

Morton yelled, “Hell and damnation!” Hobbling toward the dog, he unleashed a string of swear words.

Henry burst into intense barking. The starving dog ran from Morton, cowering behind the woodpile. As the poor dog stood frozen in fear, Henry and I sprinted toward him. As we charged, I reminded myself that running at a scared dog was a stupidly dangerous thing to do. The hair on the dog’s back rose as he bared his fangs. Three feet from the woodpile we stopped. My heart banged a crazed rhythm.

Instead of biting, the starving dog flipped on his back. Whimpering, belly up, he seemed to say, Don’t hurt me.

“You can’t starve him anymore!” I yelled at Morton. “I’m rescuing him.”

Instead of answering, Morton hurried stiff-legged into the shed. When he strutted back out, he was carrying a shotgun. Red and purple lines spread over his shrunken apple of a face.

“Now I’ve got you, you little witch.” Pointing the shotgun at me, he laughed.

A part of me left my body, flying into the blue sky. This was crazy. Would Morton kill me? Over a dog? I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t budge.

“Get back,” he snapped, swinging his weapon toward Lee and Amy. Jerking the gun muzzle back at me, he said, “Get over there with them.”

“Okay.” Amy’s voice rang high-pitched. “We’ll leave now.”

“Too late. Can’t any of you morons read? This is private property.” Morton walked toward me. “Dammit. Move back, back with them.”

As he advanced, I walked backward, matching each of his steps with one of my own. Never taking my eyes from his weapon, I steadily pulled Henry’s leash. Henry was straining against the leash so much that he was suspended from his harness, his front paws hanging in the air, his muzzle fixed on Morton. My face flushed, and I stopped. Henry had the right idea.

I started walking toward Morton. “You won’t shoot.”

“Nevada,” Amy warned, “d-d-don’t be reckless.”

Morton grunted. I grunted back. Risking a sideways glance, I stumbled. Lee’s eyes stayed fixed on the shotgun. Before I knew what to do, Morton fired. The pellets hit the woodpile, sending pieces flying.

Morton chuckled as I raced to Amy and Lee. I urged, “Quick, into the woods.”

My ankle twisted, and I fell headlong into Amy and Lee. We all hit the ground together. My head landed on Lee’s arm, and my knee hit the hard pasture between Amy’s sprawled legs. The leash, looped over my wrist, dragged Henry on top of us.

Lee moaned, “Oh no, you broke my arm.” His face contorted in pain.

Again, a blast hit something. Not such a long way off.

Don’t shoot!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot anymore.”

Amy untangled her leg from mine. Henry kept pulling tighter, struggling to get free. My ankles buckled. At last, I broke free, the leash stretched tight around my knees. Two seconds later, Morton walked out of the house, holding his weapon low in one arm. With the other hand, he pressed a phone to his ear. “Yes, I’ll wait for the officer,” he said with a crooked smirk.

***

Excerpt from Red Sky At Night by Deborah Taylor-French. Copyright © 2018 by Deborah Taylor- with permission of author. All rights reserved.

Holiday Reading Magic

Long-time readers of this blog will remember I’ve previously featured award-winning author Susan Kroupa. (If you haven’t discovered her Doodle series, you’re in for a real treat!) I’m delighted to report the award nominations from the Dog Writers Association of America continue to roll in.
Sue has earned three nominations in the DWAA Writing Competition. The first is her blog about losing Shadow, Fly Away Home .  She earned another nomination for her serialized memoir-in-progress about raising a very independent Shadow in DoodlewhackedAnd the third nomination is for her short story Balance DueCongratulations, Sue!
And that’s not all. Sue’s Christmas Doodle book Bad-Mouthed is included in the Sisters in Crime  Book Club Central Holiday reads list (Sue says she sent the application in a might-as-well-try moment).
Bad-Mouthed is currently on a Kindle Countdown sale that runs through Friday, Dec 14th.
Read on for a sample of great writing by this terrific author!

Walter’s Christmas-Night Music

A little magic, a little Mozart, an unexpected miracle on Christmas Eve. . .

Nothing has gone right for Walter Gunther since his wife died. He had to sell his music store to pay her medical bills and take a job as a clerk in Disks Galore, a big box music store. His manager bullies him and knows nothing about the classical music Walter has cherished all his life. The man can’t even pronounce Mozart’s name correctly. But when Walter is forced to work late on Christmas Eve, he receives a musical gift beyond his wildest imagining.

Originally published in Realms of Fantasy (December 1997), “Walter’s Christmas-Night Musik” was hailed for its “affectionate musical expertise and good-natured charm,” by Locus reviewer Mark Kelly, who also chose it as the best story of that issue. A warm and wonderful story sure to delight music lovers everywhere.

 

A Most Magical Christmas

Brimming with hope. Touched by magic. . .

A collection of five Christmas stories by award-winning author Susan J. Kroupa. A hapless clerk working late on Christmas Eve, a telemarketer who starts receiving mysterious calls promising a once-in-a-lifetime offer, an airline mechanic trying to prevent a disaster, and a pair of dogs who show that second chances can come wrapped in fur, all find a little Christmas magic when they need it the most.

So grab your e-reader, cozy down with a quilt, and celebrate the season with tales to warm the coldest winter night.

***

Both “Balance Due” and “Walter’s Christmas Night-Musik“, which made editor Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s Special Holiday Recommended Reading List, are in A Most Magical Christmas, and also available separately for $0.99. A Most Magical Christmas is priced at just $2.99 and it will be on sale on Kobo for 40% off Dec 12-17th. Find it on Kindle  and Nook and itunes and Kobo too!

In the Spotlight: Author AJ Waines

We’re hot on the trail of great reads this week, and today is launch day for a new psychological thriller from AJ Waines. I’m a big fan of her work, and this latest in the Samantha Willerby Mystery Series promises to be just as terrific as her other books.

AJ’s fiction is a logical extension of her 15-year career as a psychotherapist. Her professional expertise brings a rich authenticity to her writing, and the result is mesmerizing. Today, AJ gives us a glimpse into her world. Read on!

Tell us about your latest book:

Perfect Bones is a murder mystery and psychological thriller, all in one! It’s about psychologist and ‘amateur sleuth’, Samantha, who is given seven days by the police to coax information about a killer from the sole witness – a young student who saw the attack, but who’s been traumatised by it all and can’t say a word. When he finally makes a sketch, it’s not what anyone expects – but by then another murder has been committed…

What’s different about your novels?

I’ve published eight to date and as a former psychotherapist, I like to combine a murder mystery on the surface with darker, psychological tension underneath. My books contain very little violence, blood and gore, but plenty about the internal workings of the mind: revenge, secrets, lies, hidden motives. Readers also say there’s a poignant feel of humanity in my stories (my killers are never ‘monsters’) and there’s always a big twist at the end!

What’s your biggest claim to fame?

The title of one of my books got mixed up with a more famous one that was written a few years later: ‘Girl on a Train’ – sound familiar? That was my title (the one by Paula Hawkins is ‘The Girl on the Train’). The mix-up meant tons of readers bought my book by accident and while a few felt they’d made a terrible mistake (!) – others loved my version, too! As a result, I went to Number 1 in the full Amazon chart in UK several times, and also Australia.

 What does “home” look like for you? 

Home for me is five minutes from the water Hamble, Hampshire (UK) with the river on one side and part of the English Channel on the other. I love the house, because it’s so quiet.

Home includes a beautiful garden where we’ve just installed an arbour for reading and a fountain for lazy Sunday afternoons just sitting, watching the birds.

What are you reading now?

At the moment, it’s probably Belinda Bauer. Her writing is quirky, poignant and macabre with a brilliant injection of humour. How can anyone combine those elements in crime fiction and make it work? Belinda cracks it every time. I’ve just started reading Snap!, but Rubbernecker is my favourite so far. There are many threads to this story that interweave in a complex, refreshing and fascinating way, taking psychological thrillers to a new level. The author also manages to address issues such as communication, isolation, the assumptions we make about coma victims and empathy in a chilling page-turner. An absolute must-read!

***

About the author:

AJ Waines is a #1 bestselling author, topping the entire UK and Australian Kindle Charts in two consecutive years, with Girl on a Train. Following fifteen years as a psychotherapist, the author has sold nearly half-a-million copies of her books, with publishing deals in UK, France, Germany, Norway, Hungary and Canada.

Her fourth psychological thriller, No Longer Safe, sold over 30,000 copies in the first month in thirteen countries. AJ Waines has been featured in The Wall Street Journal and The Times.

Note: I received a complimentary advance copy of the book. I like it so much that I immediately pre-ordered a copy. You can order your own copy here. I don’t know how long the super-low price will last, so jump in now to get this terrific book!

I hope you’ve enjoyed this Q&A with AJ Waines. You can keep up with the latest news about this terrific writer via Facebook, Twitter, or her own website.

Book Blast Tuesday!

Moon Games

by Shelly Frome

Synopsis:

The Secluded Village Murders by Shelly Frome

At the outset, Miranda Davis has nothing much going for her. The tourists are long gone by October in the quaint Carolina town of Black Mountain, her realty business is at a standstill, and her weekend stint managing the local tavern offers little to pull her out of the doldrums. When prominent church lady Cloris Raintree offers a stipend to look into the whereabouts of a missing girl hiker on the Q.T, Miranda, along with her partner Harry (an unemployed features writer) agree.

But then it all backfires. A burly figure shambles down a mountain slope with a semi-conscious girl draped over his shoulder. Miranda’s attempts to uncover Cloris Raintree’s true motives become near impossible as she puts up one smokescreen after another, including a slip of the tongue regarding an incident in Havana. The local police keep stonewalling and Harry is of little help.

Tarot cards left on Cloris’ doorstep and arcane prompts on her e-mail only exacerbate the situation. Growing more desperate over the captive girl’s fate, Miranda comes across a link to a cold case of arson and murder. With the advent of the dark of the moon, she is summoned to “Tower Time” as this twisty tale continues to run its course.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Amateur Detective
Published by: Milford House
Publication Date: August 2018
Number of Pages: 264
ISBN: 1620061848
Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

The wind picked up yet again, joined by spatters of cold rain and the rustle of leaves from the encircling shrub.

All at once, the lantern flicked off, a scream cut through the wind and spatters. The cries became muffled, replaced by the grunts of a hulking figure clambering up the knoll, coming directly toward him with something writhing and flailing over its back.

For one interminable moment, he caught sight of her eyes, frozen, terrified, beseeching him.

Reflexively, despite every decent intention deep in his bones, Harry dropped the Maglite, turned and ran down the slope, tripping and stumbling, falling to his knees, righting himself, smacking into a brush that scraped his cheek. Rushing headlong now, smacking into more brush and banging his elbow, he kept it up, twisted his ankle but hobbled forward fast as he could until he reached his station wagon. Squirming behind the wheel, he fumbled for his keys, dropped them on the mat, groped around, snatched them up, grinded the ignition, set both front and back wipers going and shot forward hitting the trunk of a tree. He backed up into the hedgerow, turned sharply, not daring to flip on the headlights, scraped another tree and slid onto the narrow lane.

He switched on the low beams so he could see where he was going in the drizzle and fog and began making his way down. Dull headlight beams flashed behind his rear window and faded.

With his mind racing and the wipers thwacking away as the rain lashed across the windshield, he careened down the zig-zagging lane and thought of the car that was wedged under the branches parked on a downward angle and the hulking figure carrying his prey over his shoulder shambling toward it. And her eyes, those beseeching eyes.

He might have a few seconds lead before the girl was tossed in the trunk . . . or deposited in the cottage while the driver lying in wait exchanged signals and went after him. So many what-ifs? while some cowardly part of him only wanted a place to hide.

Then the dull, low beams flicked on again, glinting on his rearview mirror.

Straining to see through the wipers and beads of rain, he turned off down Sunset, then onto a flat, darkened stretch, then gunned it through an amber light over the tracks across brightly lit Route 70.

He drove away from the tracks where the girl doubtless had been tailed, came upon a T and swerved left onto a sign that said Old Route 70. In no time, he spotted a Grove Stone Quarry, but the gates were closed and he could swear the low beams tailing him flicked on again. If only he could stop veering all over the place, if he could get behind those humongous mounds of sand and stone.

Ignoring the traffic light, he cut to his right and swerved up a road bordered by a high wire fence demarcating a prison facility, sped past until he was hemmed in by walls of white pine. The walls of pine were intersected by for-sale arrows and a bright red banner. He killed his headlights altogether, swerved again into a cluster of model homes that formed a cul-de-sac, and coasted to a stop as the car stalled.

He got out and followed an exposed drain pipe that angled down until it cut off at a rain-slick paved drive onto a neighborhood of two-story houses, porch lights and street lamps.

His ankle gave way again as he became fixated on circling back to that massive, enclosed hiding place where he could try to get his bearings.

The cold rain beat down harder. Though the Blue Ridge range hovered in the near distance, it was shrouded in mist and offered no comfort.

***

Excerpt from Moon Games by Shelly Frome. Copyright © 2018 by Shelly Frome. Reproduced with permission from Shelly Frome. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Shelly Frome is a member of Mystery Writers of America, a professor of dramatic arts emeritus at the University of Connecticut, a former professional actor, a writer of crime novels and books on theater and film. He is also a features writer for Gannett Media. His fiction includes Sun Dance for Andy Horn, Lilac Moon, Twilight of the Drifter, Tinseltown Riff, and Murder Run. Among his works of non-fiction are The Actors Studio and texts on the art and craft of screenwriting and writing for the stage. Moon Games is his latest foray into the world of crime and the amateur sleuth. He lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina.

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