In the Middle

May 3rd, 2022

In the Middle by Carin Fahr Shulusky Banner

In the Middle

by Carin Fahr Shulusky

May 3, 2022 Book Blast

 

Synopsis:

In the Middle by Carin Fahr Shulusky
Carrie Young had it all. She was a successful account executive for a small advertising agency and still managed to be a loving wife and dutiful mother until her mother fell suddenly ill. As the middle child, Carrie was never that close to her mother, but now she was needed to help with the overwhelming task of taking care of her seriously ill mother. The demands of hospitalization, doctors’ appointments and daily care throw her once prefect life in near chaos. Disagreements with her siblings, her boss and her mother make her resentful of this new responsibility. The one bright spot is the chance to know her mother’s stories of the depression and post war struggle as she never had before. Even as her once perfect life falls apart, she finds a purpose in it all.

 

Book Details

Genre: Fictional Memoir
Published by: Fossil Creek Press
Publication Date: January 18, 2021
Number of Pages: 198
ISBN: ‘9781736241707
Purchase Your Copy Today: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads

 

Read an excerpt:

By this time, Mom was mobile enough to get to the doctor, or at least so the insurance company determined. This meant we could no longer get home visits paid by insurance, so Maria, John, and I had to find a way to get Mom through the gauntlet of doctors.
Each organ of Mom’s body had its own doctor: cardiologist, neurologist, urologist, gynecologist, optometrist, dermatologist, podiatrist, and dentist. Everything was failing and in need of repair. I actually think we could take Mom to a different doctor every day of the week. As it was, we managed the most urgent needs and hoped for the best with the rest. Maria took Mom to the cardiologist, who was managing her medications and needed to take regular blood levels. I took Mom to the urologist because she was having urinary tract troubles, possibly caused by the medications prescribed by the cardiologist. John took Mom to the physical therapist, who could also no longer make home visits on insurance. Physical therapy was prescribed by the cardiologist to help her get more mobile.
Each trip out required us to call her multiple times to remind her of the appointment, then we had to arrive nearly an hour early because she would invariably not be ready. Getting Mom ready for a doctor visit required finding clean clothes, inserting hearing aids, and getting her false teeth in place—and making sure she made a bathroom visit. Before leaving we would have to locate her insurance card, her checkbook, her purse, scarf, and coat.
I’d pull my car up to her front porch through the lawn so Mom would have the least number of steps from house to car. Getting into the car was difficult to the extreme. Once I had Mom in the car, I’d load her walker and cane in the trunk.
When we got to the doctor, we would have to reverse the process: get the walker out of the trunk and Mom in the door and find a place for her to sit while I parked the car. I’d run back in before Mom decided to try to find her own way up the elevator to the doctor’s office or some thoughtful person decided to help and I’d lose her.
I thought it would be easier when we were finally in the doctor’s office until the nurse said she’d need a urine sample and handed Mom a cup. The idea of this eighty-two-year-old lady, who could hardly use the toilet herself and missed it most of the time, managing to actually get urine in a cup was so ludicrous I just burst out laughing. The nurse was not amused. She gave me an incriminating look, put the cup back and held up a “hat” that fit over the whole toilet seat. Still chuckling despite my best efforts to stop, I shook my head in agreement and lead Mom to the bathroom. The rest of the visit went fairly normal.
Before I could go in with my mom, the nurse had to ask her if it was okay that this person—me—could come into the exam room. Mom looked puzzled. The nurse muttered something about privacy laws and we went in. No one noticed that I was holding my breath. I was terrified that Mom would say no.
No one knew what would come out of her mouth next. If I didn’t go in, the doctor would surely get incorrect information and whatever the doctor told Mom would be lost. She could hardly remember having a doctor visit, much less what he said. But I couldn’t argue the point. What was I supposed to say? Hey guys, she’s half crazy. Why are you asking her? Not only would that get me nowhere, it would hurt Mom’s feelings. Whoever proposed the privacy laws surely doesn’t have aging parents. Fortunately, she said yes, so I could enter.
The doctor discussed why she was having frequent urinary tract infections, which I’m sure went right over her head. Then he said, “We should see you back next month.”
I want to shout, No, please no, but I said, “Is it necessary? I have to take a day off work to get her here,” I pleaded.
Mom caught that too well and said, “I’m sure Maria will be glad to bring me.”
Now, the thing I was trying so hard to avoid was out. I made a great effort to hide from Mom my frustration and anxiety over losing a day’s work. I didn’t want her to think my work was more important than her. I didn’t want to think that either, but there it was, always under the surface, in the deep dark places of my ambition.
I had taken a half day off, left at noon, and didn’t plan to return to work. My boss would never understand this.
Shopping with Mom on the Internet didn’t work out too well. Visualizing an item in one dimension just wasn’t working for her, so I thought we would try the old fashion way. I knew Mom wanted to go to Penney’s so I thought we would start there. I told Mom the mall had wheelchairs we could borrow, but she was so negative on that idea that I quickly let it drop. Even with Mom’s handicap parking pass, we couldn’t get close enough to the store, so I pulled right in front, got the walker from my trunk, and helped her in the store. It would have worked well if the store had any place to sit, but there was nothing.
I told Mom to go on in the store and I’d catch up with her. By the time I had parked and caught up, she had already found two items she wanted: one for Maria and one for Katie. She next wanted to buy John a pair of shoes, so I helped her to the shoe department and she quickly found a pair of work shoes that she wanted. I made sure we had all the receipts tucked neatly in her purse. She wanted to find a new blouse for Christmas, so we made our way to an elevator and up to the next floor. She walked a small way and suddenly stopped.
“I don’t think I can go any further,” Mom said. “I’m just worn out.”
I knew this was a stretch, but I was hopeful. I asked the sales lady if there were any chairs in the store. To my surprise, she found a folding chair from the storeroom and brought it out for Mom. While Mom rested comfortably—more or less—in the chair, I brought her several styles and colors of shirts. She picked one and I purchased it for her.
“We could go to another store if you would let me get a wheelchair,” I offered.
“No,” she said firmly. “It’s not time for a wheelchair yet. I’ll get Maria to take me another day. I think I need to go home.”
On the way home, we passed our favorite soft-serve ice cream store.
“How about an ice cream cone?” I asked.
“That sounds lovely,” Mom said. We could always agree on ice cream. We had a wonderful time eating our ice cream. I suppose I inherited my passion for the stuff from Mom. With the happy ice-cream high, we parted cheerfully. I carried all her purchases to her bedroom as directed and promised to return to help with Christmas decoration.

Excerpt from In the Middle by Carin Fahr Shulusky. Copyright 2021 by Carin Fahr Shulusky. Reproduced with permission from Carin Fahr Shulusky. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Carin Fahr Shulusky

Carin Fahr Shulusky was born and raised in west St. Louis County. She attended the University of Missouri, Columbia, where she received a B.J (Bachelor of Journalism). After college she worked in advertising for GE and Monsanto. She was the first professional woman in her division of each. After 25 years in Marketing, she created her own firm, Marketing Alliance. She was president of Marketing Alliance, from 2002 – 2014. She is a past-president of the Business Marketing Association of St. Louis. Carin Fahr is married to Richard Shulusky. They have two grown children and one marvelous granddaughter. Grandma Carin has a life long love of cooking, even writing her own cookbook. In 2014 Carin retired to devote full time to writing. Her first book, In the Middle was inspired by her own battle to care for her beloved mother, Dorothy Fahr. Many of the stories Carrie Young’s mother tells her in In the Middle came from Carin’s mother. Carin is a lifelong member of, Pathfinder Church in Ellisville, Missouri, where she volunteers in early childhood.

Find Carin Online:

carinshulusky.com
Goodreads
Instagram – @cshulusky
Twitter – @shulusky
Facebook

 

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Murder, Sweet Murder

May 3rd, 2022

Murder, Sweet Murder by Eleanor Kuhns Banner

Murder, Sweet Murder

by Eleanor Kuhns

April 11 – May 6, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Murder, Sweet Murder by Eleanor Kuhns

Will Rees accompanies his wife to Boston to help clear her estranged father’s name in this gripping mystery set in the early nineteenth century.

January, 1801. When Lydia’s estranged father is accused of murder, Will Rees escorts her to Boston to uncover the truth. Marcus Farrell is believed to have murdered one of his workers, a boy from Jamaica where he owns a plantation. Marcus swears he’s innocent. However, a scandal has been aroused by his refusal to answer questions and accusations he bribed officials.

As Will and Lydia investigate, Marcus’s brother, Julian, is shot and killed. This time, all fingers point towards James Farrell, Lydia’s brother. Is someone targeting the family? Were the family quarreling over the family businesses and someone lashed out? What’s Marcus hiding and why won’t he accept help?

With the Farrell family falling apart and their reputation in tatters, Will and Lydia must solve the murders soon. But will they succeed before the murderer strikes again?

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Severn House Publishers
Publication Date: February 1st 2022
Number of Pages: 224
ISBN: 0727850091 (ISBN-13: 9780727850096)
Series: Will Rees Mysteries #11
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

ISLAND BREEZES

Will and Lydia Rees find themselves in Boston trying to prove her father innocent of murder. But is he?

Murders keep happening but there’s too many suspects who want these people dead.

This book kept me guessing until the surprise ending. Just like it kept Will and Lydia guessing until the end.

I have really enjoyed all the Will Rees Mysteries that I have had the pleasure to read. You can check them out here and here.

Thank you, Ms Kuhns. I’m looking forward to more Will and Lydia Rees adventures.

***Book received without charge from PICT.***

Read an excerpt:

After regarding Rees for several seconds, Mr Farrell extended his hand. Rees grasped it, painfully conscious of his rough hand, calloused by both farm work and weaving. ‘Please attend me in my office,’ Mr Farrell said. ‘We are expecting a few guests for dinner tonight so we will have little time to talk then.’ Turning, he strode away. Rees started to follow but, realizing that Lydia was not by his side, he turned back. She stood hesitantly by the table, her hands tightly clenched together. Rees glared at Mr Farrell’s back and then, reaching out, he pulled one of her hands through his elbow. Together they followed her father into his office.

As Farrell moved a stack of papers from the center of the desk to one side, Rees looked around. A large globe on a stand stood to the right of Farrell’s desk and one chair had been drawn up to the front. A seating area, with additional chairs, were arranged by the window that looked out upon the front garden. A table in the center held an intricately carved tray with a crystal decanter and several glasses. Shelves of books lined the wall behind and adjacent to the desk, on Rees’s right.

The room was chilly although the fire was burning. Newly laid, it had been lighted, no doubt by some anonymous servant.

Farrell looked up and his eyes rested on Lydia in surprise. Rees felt his wife shrink back, intimidated. He was not going to stand for that. He pulled a chair from the window grouping and placed it in front of the desk. She hesitated for a few seconds and then, lifting her chin defiantly, she sat down. Once she was seated, Rees lowered himself into the opposite chair. After one final dismissive glance at his daughter, Farrell looked at Rees.

‘So, you are a weaver.’

‘That is so,’ Rees said, adding politely, ‘I understand you are a merchant.’

Farrell smiled. ‘I see your wife has told you very little about me or my profession.’ Since responding in the affirmative seemed somehow disloyal to Lydia, Rees said nothing.

Farrell took a box from his desk drawer and opened it to extract a cigar. ‘Would you like a smoke?’

‘No thank you,’ Rees said.

‘Or a glass of rum? Or whiskey if that is your tipple.’ When Rees declined again, Farrell put away the cigars and walked to the fireplace to light a splint. The end of the cigar glowed red and the acrid scent of burning tobacco filled the room. Puffing, Farrell returned to his seat. ‘I suppose one could say I was a merchant. But I do so much more. I own a plantation as well as a fleet of ships that sail between Boston, the West Indies and Africa. In Jamaica they take on sugar and molasses which are returned to Boston. Some of it is transformed into rum in my distillery. I export the liquor overseas, both to England and to Africa where the proceeds are used to purchase slaves.’

Sick to his stomach, Rees glanced at Lydia. She was staring at her hands, her face flaming with shame. Although she had alluded to her father’s profession, she had not told him the half of it. She had not told him of her father’s pride in it. Rees understood why she hadn’t.

‘Most of the slaves are brought to the sugar plantation,’ Farrell continued, seemingly oblivious to his daughter’s distress, ‘but some are sold in the Southern states. And you needn’t look so shocked. Why that upstart Republican with his radical ideas, Mr Jefferson, owns slaves. And he may be the next President. I suppose you voted for him.’

Rees did not respond immediately. Although many of Mr Jefferson’s ideas were appealing, Rees had found in the end that he could not vote for a slave holder. Instead, he had voted for Mr Adams. But that gentleman had not placed; the election was a tie between Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr. Sent to the House for resolution, Jefferson had won by one vote.’ No,’ Rees said carefully, keeping his voice level with an effort, ‘I voted for his opponent.’

‘Well, that makes us kin then. Although you will meet a few slaves here in Boston, in this very house.’ He grinned and Rees thought of Morris and Bridget with their tinted skin. ‘But few, very few. Neither the Africans nor the Spanish Indians adapt well to this northern climate and they quickly die.’ This was said with indifference as though he spoke of a broken chair.

Farrell flicked a glance at his daughter and smiled. With a surge of anger, Rees realized that Farrell fully understood the effect his speech would have on her and was enjoying her misery. Rees gathered himself to rise from his chair. Lydia reached out and grasped his sleeve.

‘This is for Cordy,’ she whispered. Rees sat down again, his body stiff.

‘But you did not come to listen to me natter on about my profession,’ Farrell said, watching the byplay with interest. ‘Shall we discuss that ridiculous murder, the one of which I am accused?’

Rees looked into Lydia’s beseeching eyes and after a few seconds he relaxed into his seat. God forgive him, a part of him hoped Marcus Farrell was guilty.

‘Go on,’ Rees said coldly. Marcus smiled.

‘Permit me to save you both time and effort,’ he said. ‘I did not kill that boy.’

‘Then why do people think you did?’ Rees asked. Puffing furiously, and clearly unwilling to reply, Farrell took a turn around the room.

‘Did you know him?’ Lydia asked, her voice low and clear. ‘This Roark?’

Farrell stood up so abruptly his chair almost tipped over. ‘Yes, I knew him.’ He glanced at Rees. ‘We were seen, Roark and I, arguing down at Long Wharf.’

‘Arguing about what?’ Rees asked.

‘It is not important. He was a nobody.’ Farrell glared at Rees, daring him to persist. Rees waited, never removing his gaze from the other man. Sometimes silence made the best hammer. Finally, Farrell said angrily, ‘He wanted a rise in his wages. I said no. He disagreed. That was all there was to it.’

Rees glanced at Lydia and found her staring at him. He knew, and he suspected she did too, that her father had just lied to them.

***

Excerpt from Murder, Sweet Murder by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2021 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Eleanor Kuhns

Eleanor Kuhns is the 2011 winner of the Mystery Writers of America/Minotaur first mystery novel. Murder, Sweet Murder is the eleventh mystery following the adventures of Rees and his wife. She transitioned to full time writing last year after a successful career spent in library service. Eleanor lives in upstate New York with her husband and dog.

Catch Up With Eleanor Kuhns:
www.Eleanor-Kuhns.com
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Twitter – @EleanorKuhns
Facebook – @writerkuhns

We’re also having an insta-party! Visit Instagram – #eleanorkuhns to join us!
 

 

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Hidden in Darkness

April 30th, 2022

Therefore do not judge anything before the time — wait until the Lord comes. He will bring to light things hidden in darkness and also make clear the motives of the hearts. Then the praise for each one will come from God.

1 Corinthians 4:5 TLV

Not Your Child

April 26th, 2022

Not Your Child

by Lis Angus

April 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Not Your Child by Lis Angus

When Ottawa psychologist and single mother Susan Koss discovers that a strange man has been following her twelve-year-old daughter Maddy, she fears he’s a predator. But it’s worse than that. The man, Daniel Kazan, believes Maddy is his granddaughter, abducted as a baby, and he’s obsessed with getting her back.

Susan insists on a DNA test to disprove Daniel’s claim, but the result is one she can’t understand or explain: it says she’s not Maddy’s mother.

Then Maddy vanishes. Susan’s convinced Daniel has taken her, but he has an alibi, and two searches of his house turn up nothing. The hunt is on—police are on full mobilization, and Susan fears the worst.

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense
Published by: The Wild Rose Press
Publication Date: April 18, 2022
Number of Pages: 308
ISBN: 978-1-5092-4118-7
Book Links: Amazon.com (Amazon.ca) | Barnes & Noble | AppleBooks | Goodreads

ISLAND BREEZES

Susan begins to fear a delusional man who insists Maddy is his missing granddaughter. He begins following Maddy and engages her in conversation whenever he can.

This man turns into a full fledged stalker and maybe more.

But Susan’s DNA should prove she is Maddy’s mother. Susan knows she gave birth to this child.

DNA is never wrong, is it?

Thank you, Ms Angus. I truly look forward to reading more from you.

***Book provided without charge by PICT.***

Lis Angus is a Canadian suspense writer. Early in her career, she worked with children and families in crisis; later she worked as a policy advisor, business writer and editor while raising two daughters. She now lives south of Ottawa with her husband.

Catch Up With Lis:
LisAngus.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @lisangusauthor
Instagram – lisangus459
Twitter – @lisangus1
Facebook – @lisangusauthor

Paradise Cove

April 19th, 2022

Paradise Cove

by Davin Goodwin

April 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Paradise Cove by Dave Goodwin

Every day is paradise on Bonaire—until something unexpected washes ashore

On the laid-back island of Bonaire, every day is paradise until a seaweed-entangled human leg washes ashore. Combing the beach, retired cop Roscoe Conklin examines the scene and quickly determines that the leg belongs to the nephew of a close friend.

The island police launch an investigation, but with little evidence and no suspects, their progress comes to a frustrating halt. Then, thanks to a unique barter with the lead detective, Conklin finds himself in possession of the case file. He can now aggressively probe for his own answers.

Sifting through the scant clues, eager to bring the killer to justice, Conklin struggles to maintain forward momentum. He has all the pieces. He can feel it. But he’d better get them snapped together soon.

Otherwise, the body count will continue to rise.

Praise for Paradise Cove:

“An intriguingly gruesome beginning, sexy location, and a supremely satisfying ending. Paradise Cove is a terrific read.” —Marc Cameron, New York Times best-selling author

Paradise Cove is a wonderful thriller with a great story . . . what makes it special are the perfect descriptions of Bonaire and life on the island.” —Nicholas Harvey, author of the AJ Bailey Adventure Series

“Grab a beer and revisit Bonaire with Roscoe Conklin as your guide in Paradise Cove. A rich cast of characters and an intriguing plot guarantee an exciting trip you’ll long remember.” –Shawn Wilson, author of Relentless

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: April 5th 2022
Number of Pages: 304
ISBN: 1608094855 (ISBN13: 9781608094851)
Series: Roscoe Conklin Mystery #2 | The novels in the Roscoe Conklin Mystery Series stand on their own and can be read in any order.
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

ISLAND BREEZES

Roscoe is still in Paradise but it’s anything but peaceful. He has let his PI license expire and is just enjoying himself running his little hotel.

Than tragedy struck too close to home and he once again gets involved in another case. Even the head cop wants him in on it.

There’s lots of action in this book and it’s going to keep you guessing until nearly the end.

Thank you, Mr. Goodwin. I’m looking forward to more of R’s adventures in Paradise.

***Book provided without charge by PICT.***

Read an excerpt:

Finished with my morning swim, having pushed myself hard the last quarter mile, I sat on the end of the pier with my legs dangling over the edge. No clouds in the typical Caribbean-blue Bonaire sky and a faint hint of salt floated in the air. The wind shoved waves, larger than normal, against the shore.

An iguana lay a few feet away, basking in the sun, overweight from gorging itself on the remnants of the near-by garbage can. It sat motionless, one eye tilted in my direction, the other skewed over the edge of the pier at the water. It was a resident of the area and joined me regularly on the pier after my swims.

I had taken to calling it Charlie.

As I towel-dried my arms and hair, I noticed two teenaged boys using a stick to poke at an object near the water’s edge, a stone’s throw south of the pier. The object had washed ashore and was covered with random strands of dark seaweed.

I watched the boys take a few steps forward, jab the stick at the object, then retreat, as if expecting something to happen. Nothing did, so they repeated the process several times with the same result.

Some younger children ventured forth, staying well behind the brave teenagers. Wide-eyed, high-pitched streams of Papiamento—the native language of Bonaire—filled the air as they half-talked, half-screamed. They gawked at the object, the raced back up the beach to their mothers, sitting on beach blankets.

One mother stood, nodding her head, and, appeasing the child, walked toward the water. She stopped a few feet shy of the shore. Her eyes widened and she shuffled backward to the other women, grabbed her cell phone, and, with a shaky hand, put it to her ear. She pointed at the object and spoke, her Papiamento not as high-pitched as the child’s, but every bit as excited. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand a word they said, my Papiamento being only slightly better than my Klingon.

The base of my neck tingled.

I no longer carried a badge, but nearly three decades as a law enforcement officer, specifically with the Violent Crimes Division of the Rockford, Illinois, police department, had trained my curiosity to remain on high alert. Of the hundreds of traits, quirks, and ticks conditioned into my psyche during those years, the sense of inquisitiveness, along with a constant need to know and understand, were the most deeply engrained.

I shook my head, stood, and walked down the pier to the beach. This was something I probably needed to see.

My sudden movement startled Charlie and he darted to the other side of the pier, both eyes now pointed in my direction. I gave him a shallow wave. “Sorry, Charlie.”

The water surface on the west side—or leeward side—of the island remained consistently flat, almost glasslike, aided by a solid wind from the east. The wind also swept most of the seaweed, litter, and other debris out to sea. Few items floated ashore on the leeward coast of Bonaire.

Except during wind reversals. Over the last few days, the easterly wind had changed direction and blew in from the west, bringing with it all kinds of surface floaties.

I plodded through the sand, closing the distance to the water’s edge. Most likely, an unfortunate tuna or tarpon had met its demise. But based on the actions and behaviors of the children, and the concern of the mother, I quickly changed my mind. A fish washing ashore was too common an occurrence and wouldn’t generate the reactions I’d just witnessed.

Then I remembered the epidemic affecting the green moray eels. For some reason, a strange parasite was attacking the green morays, causing the deaths of many. The occurrence was so rare that a group of marine biologists had recently arrived on the island, and with the help of local researchers, were studying the phenomenon. The situation was declared serious, possibly affecting the entire green moray population of the local reefs. When a dead eel washed ashore, the researchers wanted to be informed so they could harvest the carcass for study.

The teenagers moved back a few steps as I worked past them and stood over the object. It wasn’t a tarpon or tuna. Or a diseased moral eel. I turned back toward the beach and scanned the area, noticing the increased crowd size. I admit, the word crowd is relative on a small island like Bonaire, but, even so, a small horde of lookie-loos had gathered. Some vied for a better view, meandering closer to the water’s edge.

But not too close.

I sighed and shook my head. Few things draw a crowd to the beach faster than a human body part washing ashore.

***

Excerpt from Paradise Cove by Davin Goodwin. Copyright 2022 by Davin Goodwin. Reproduced with permission from Davin Goodwin. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Davin Goodwin

Davin Goodwin is a graduate of Arkansas State University and works in the technology industry. He’s been a small business owner, a real estate investor, an aerial photographer and flight instructor, a semi-professional banjo player, and a scuba diver, often seen on the island of Bonaire. Paradise Cove is the second novel in his Roscoe Conklin Mystery Series and he intends to continue writing the Roscoe Conklin series set on Bonaire. Goodwin lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife, Leslie.

Catch Up With Davin Goodwin:
DavinGoodwinAuthor.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @dgoodwin7757
Instagram – @davin_goodwin_author
Facebook – @authordavingoodwin

 

 

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He Is Risen!

April 17th, 2022

because He poured out His soul to death, and was counted with transgressors.

For He bore the sin of many, and interceded for the transgressors.

Isaiah 53:12b

Just Knock

April 16th, 2022

Ask, and it shall be given to you. Seek, and you shall find. Knock, and it shall be opened to you.

For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it shall be opened.

Matthew 7:7, 8 TLV

At Any Cost

April 12th, 2022

At Any Cost by Andrea Kane Banner

At Any Cost

by Andrea Kane

March 21 – April 15, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

At Any Cost by Andrea Kane

Aimee Bregman had the perfect life. She had an enviable job as head of marketing for an up-and-coming CBD-infused beer that was taking the tri-state area by storm. She had cultivated a massive social media following that showcased the beer at college campus parties and alumni events – and had fun doing it. She had an attentive, steady boyfriend and friends who believed in her. Everything was going right.

But when her long-time mentor, Rita, sets up a business meeting with an important influencer – her life crashes all around her. The casual meeting over drinks suddenly devolves into a shouting match between all parties, and any chance of a new business relationship is over before it begins. Hours later, when the NYPD shows up at Aimee’s apartment, questioning her about Rita’s abrupt disappearance – foul play suspected – Aimee realizes she’s in way over her head.

Fearing that Rita has been murdered, and that she may be next, Aimee hires Forensic Instincts to keep her safe and figure out what’s really going on.

Forensic Instincts, a brilliant investigative firm who walks the fine line between legal and illegal, solves challenging and high-profile cases when the bureaucratic restrictions imposed on law enforcement get in the way of achieving results. But neither Aimee nor Forensic Instincts realize how ruthless, how connected, their adversaries are. As dangerous and powerful people are threatened with exposure, anyone is fair game for elimination. And when multiple victims die at the hands of a sociopathic serial killer, it gets harder and harder to tell where the battle lines are drawn… and who might die next.

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense Thriller
Published by: Bonnie Meadow Publishing LLC
Publication Date: March 22nd 2022
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 168232043X (ISBN13: 9781682320433)
Series: Forensic Instincts #9 | Each Can Be Read as a Stand Alone Novel
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

ISLAND BREEZES

Aimee was on top and happy with her life. Then the big blowout happened and her mentor and friend disappeared.

Not long after an important influencer was no longer in the picture. Now Aimee began to fear for her life.

She turned to Forensic Instincts for protection and answers.

I always enjoy the Forensic Instincts books. One of the reasons is the fact that I like learning something new in the books I read. FI provides that.

I waffled around a lot trying to figure out who was the ultimate bad guy. Not easy to do when there’s several of them.

Thank you, Ms Kane. I hope you’re already working on your next FI book. If we’re fortunate, we won’t have long to wait.

***Book provided without charge by PICT.***

Read an excerpt:

1

Brightington University
Birchmont, Westchester County, New York
Eight years ago

A kill for a kill.

Weeks of watching and waiting. Plans devised. Soon to be meticulously executed. Mid-November. Football season nearing its peak. Thursday night. Nine p.m. Campus in early-weekend party mode. Undergrads drinking. Smoking up at the frat houses. Athletic building deserted.

Nearly deserted.

His target was there. Alone. Thursday night was his late night during football season. That’s when he reviewed his game strategy and player weaknesses. That’s when he targeted the next eager kid to torture until he broke.

The bastard wouldn’t be breaking anyone ever again. Not the way he’d broken Hank.

As the star quarterback in high school, Hank had gotten a full-ride Division 1 scholarship. Since he’d come from a dirt-poor family, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. A first-rate college education with a shot at the NFL. It was supposed to be a life-changing event.

Instead it turned out to be a death sentence.

His executioner had been Pete Rice. Football coach? Bullshit. Rice hadn’t coached Hank; he’d tortured him, driven him—until he’d blown out his knee on a rain-soaked football field junior year, ending his college career, his dreams. And in the end, his life.

It was first down and goal.

Rice was about to find out the true meaning of payback.

The campus grounds were soggy, leftover patches of wet leaves and an endless span of slick grass, made worse by the cold, steady rainfall. The bare trees swayed as rain pounded their branches. A wet mess. Treacherous, like a wet football field.

Slugging through the debris, he approached the athletic building, pausing yards away to don the black ski mask. He then tugged his hood back into place. No point in taking chances. Security cameras were everywhere. He didn’t need his face to be captured. Other than the mask, he could be any college student. A waterproof parka that swallowed up his body. Jeans and combat boots. Standard college garb.

He reached the building and slid Hank’s ID card into the entry slot. The card still worked. Too soon for it to be deactivated.

He was in. He wriggled into his latex gloves.

The office door was unlocked. Rice was at his desk, files spread across it. He was scribbling something on one of them, brows knit in concentration, totally focused on his work.

Clueless that he was about to die.

In one fluid motion, he was inside the office, the door closed behind him. Rice leapt to his feet, snatching the heavy football trophy on his desk as he rounded the front of it to defend himself against the intruder.

Without a word, the killer whipped out a pistol and fired two bullets, one into each of Rice’s kneecaps. Rice howled, collapsing to the floor in pain. The trophy hit the floor beside him with a thud.

The assailant moved quickly—four long strides until he was behind Rice, dragging him back to his chair and heaving him into it. He shoved a rag in the coach’s mouth to stifle his screams, then moved behind him, wrapping a strong arm in a choke hold around Rice’s throat. He pocketed his pistol, pulled out a zip tie, and leaned down to cinch the writhing man’s ankles together. That done, he slapped a digital voice recorder on the desk, with the record feature on. He yanked the rag out of Rice’s mouth, tossed it aside, and anchored his forearm against the left side of the coach’s neck, using his free hand to pull as tight against the carotid artery as he chose to—for now.

A rush of power surged through him. He could taste victory.

But there was work to be done before the final play.

“You killed Hank Bishop,” he growled. “I want details.”

When he got no answer, only a violent trembling of Rice’s body, he tightened the pressure around his neck. “Talk.”

“Car crash…” the coach gasped. “I didn’t…”

“Wrong answer.” His grip tightened still more, enough so Rice was on the verge of losing consciousness. The coach struggled in vain, his struggles weak and fading.

His soon-to-be executioner eased the pressure the tiniest fraction. He knew just what it would take. And he wasn’t ready. Not until he got what he wanted.

“Wanna die?” he asked in a flat tone that was chillingly devoid of emotion.

Terrified, blood oozing down his legs, Rice gave a feeble shake of his head.

“Good. Because this is what it will feel like.”

He increased the pressure until Rice passed out. Slowly, he eased the choke hold until the scumbag came to.

“Now I’ll ask my question again,” he said calmly. “Why is Hank dead? Why was he in that car crash? This is your last chance. I want to hear it all—what you did, how you did it, what you drove him to.”

Rice was drenched in sweat, his entire body shuddering, choking sounds coming from his throat.

No further coercion was necessary.

Between gasps for air, the coach spilled his guts, revealing everything he’d done, everything that had happened—plus a whole lot more that was happening still.

Interesting stuff. Some of which he knew about. Still more of which he didn’t. It was even bigger than what he’d come here to learn. But frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He’d originally planned to take the voice recorder with him to relive Rice’s agonized confession whenever he chose to. But it really didn’t matter. He’d committed the bastard’s words to memory. So instead, he’d leave the recorder here, let the cops hear the entire confession, including the big-picture part that had nothing to do with Hank but that would send their investigation in the entirely wrong direction—a direction his employer wouldn’t appreciate, but that was his problem.

His adrenaline pumping, he tightened his choke hold into a death grip, pressing against the carotid artery, closing it off and squeezing the life out of his victim.

A minute later, Rice was dead.

***

Excerpt from At Any Cost by Andrea Kane. Copyright 2022 by Andrea Kane. Reproduced with permission from Andrea Kane. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Andrea Kane

Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty-one novels, including seventeen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles. With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night.
Kane’s first contemporary suspense thriller, Run for Your Life, became an instant New York Times bestseller.

She followed with a string of bestselling psychological thrillers including No Way Out, Twisted and Drawn in Blood.

Her latest in the highly successful Forensic Instincts series, At Any Cost, showcases the dynamic, eclectic team of investigators as they square off against a criminal organization with a serial killer as a hit man. The first showcase of Forensic Instincts’ talents came with the New York Times bestseller, The Girl Who Disappeared Twice, followed by The Line Between Here and Gone, The Stranger You Know, The Silence That Speaks, The Murder That Never Was, A Face To Die For, Dead In A Week, No Stone Unturned and At Any Cost.

Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include My Heart’s Desire, Samantha, Echoes in the Mist, and Wishes in the Wind.

With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages.

Kane lives in New Jersey with her family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan.

Catch Up With Andrea Kane:
AndreaKane.com
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BookBub
Instagram – @authorandreakane
Twitter – @andrea_kane
Facebook – @AuthorAndreaKane

 

 

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True Love

April 9th, 2022

For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.

God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through Him.

John 3:18-17 TLV

Hush Hush

April 5th, 2022

Hush Hush by Gabriel Valjan Banner

Hush Hush

by Gabriel Valjan

March 21 – April 15, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Hush Hush by Gabriel Valjan

Shane Cleary is living a comfortable life. He has money. He has a girl.

But a visit from a friend shakes up his status quo. Chess may be the metaphor, but the case is one that lifts the lid on problems nobody in Boston wants to talk about.

Murder. Race. Class. It’s all Hush Hush.

Neither the crime nor the verdict is simple, and yet it is Black and White.

Shane will need more than a suit of armor if he wants to play knight. Can Justice be found? And at what cost?

Praise for HUSH HUSH:

HUSH HUSH is filled with biting wisdom, savory dialogue, and the authentic flavor of 70’s Boston.”
— Cheryl Head, author of the Charlie Mack Motown Mystery series

“Inspired by real events, ‘HUSH HUSH’ shines a harsh light on Boston’s seedy underbelly, exposing an ugly past on racial injustice and media coverage. And Valjan and his protagonist Cleary get better at every turn. With compelling characters, sharp prose and wit, and a slew of historical facts, Valjan weaves a clever and twisty mystery that will linger long after you turn the last page.”
— Marco Carocari, author of BLACKOUT

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 11th 2022
Number of Pages: 230
ISBN: 9781685120436
Series: Shane Cleary Mystery, #3
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

ISLAND BREEZES

He’s a retired PI. At least that’s what he told himself and his girlfriend Bonnie. He even let his license lapse. But the lure is still there when an old friend gets him involved with someone who needs his expertise.

He decided he could help out by doing “research” instead of investigating. It turns out to be a very hot case. More than one person wants to do him bodily harm.

His research leads him to people who want him and his research to disappear. Bonnie’s not crazy about all of it either. How is he going to reconcile all this? You need to get involved and read this book to find out. You might also want to pick up the first two Shane Cleary books, Dirty Old Town and Symphony Road.

I’m ready for the next one. I hope Mr. Valnan is a fast writer.

***Book received without charge from PICT.***

Read an excerpt:

I pulled the door open to Charlie’s Sandwich Shoppe. The spelling might’ve been from Middle English and seemed as medieval as Robin Hood, but a Greek owned the place. On any given day, Arthur the proprietor was Art or Artie and, like his old man before him, he worked the grill. Charlie’s was open twenty-four a day, seven days a week, including all the major holidays, Jewish or Gentile.

I’ve eaten breakfast countless times at his counter. The place did have tables, but it was designed for food on the move, men on the job, and people on the make. Walk into the shop and it was sometimes cops on one side of the room, gangsters on the other. Peace was a meal until everyone returned to the pavement outside, and there was no one-way streets about it: the South End was trouble. Charlie’s eggs, hash, bacon, and stiff coffee worked harder than the UN.

Charlie’s dated back to the Twenties. Framed photographs, some of them signed and some not, hung on the wall and told a history most Americans had forgotten, and why I supported the place. The Negro Motorist Green Book in hand told jazzmen and other itinerant talent that Charlie’s was a safe haven. In all of Boston, this was the one place where they could eat and, for a time, one of the few places where they were allowed to eat. Segregation ruled Boston until 1973, when public housing and schools were desegregated.

Sammy Davis, Jr. hoofed outside Charlie’s door for change, and he performed with his family at The Gaiety Theatre, which is now in the Combat Zone. Barred from the vaudeville stages in town, black talent played the burlesque houses. Audiences in these naughty houses were integrated. Some of the acts were women-owned and they managed acts that toured the TOBA circuit. TOBA stood for Tough on Black Asses.

There were no police officers in the place when I sat next to a familiar face at the counter. People called him Charcoal. He was thin as a stick and dark as his nickname. We sat on stools covered in cracked vinyl, and opposite wooden refrigerators there since Charlie’s opened its doors in 1927. Eggs sizzled, bacon puckered and sputtered, and conversations tumbled in and out like the tide. Arthur could hear above the din and asked me what I wanted, and I told him. “Turkey hash.”

A waitress placed a cup and saucer before me and poured caffeine. Charlie’s coffee was unleaded, and dark as unchanged oil and stiffer than Niagara starch. While I waited, I sipped and stared out the window. Life on Columbus Ave was a steady traffic of folks to and from the trains at Back Bay station around the corner.

There was another slice of history. Back Bay was the epicenter of the Pullman Porter Strike, conducted and carried to victory by the first black union, the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. Their office was above Charlie’s Shoppe. Membership was comprised of black men from the south. They traveled throughout the homeland for the union’s cause for better wages and working conditions. I doubt they slept a wink on the train through Jim Crow territory.

I was two forkfuls into my turkey hash, and Charcoal was on his third cup of joe when a burgundy Cadillac, with all the trimmings, rolled up to the front of Charlie’s. The man driving it wore large sunglasses and passed for a thinner version of Isaac Hayes. He wore business threads, and his head was shaved and glistened like a chocolate bullet. He had his back to the car and was facing us when a car stopped parallel to his parked car. Boston Police.

Arthur stopped and worked a washcloth over his hands. Every head was turned to the spectacle. Our Isaac Hayes heard a cop call him out. There was glass between us and him, but it wasn’t hard to guess the conversation on the street. Patrons of Charlie’s had seen this Movie of the Week and they knew the script. The question was whether Isaac stuck to his lines or improvised. The cop was almost out of the car, his head visible over the roof of the patrol car. He yelled, “Hey, Boy.”

Isaac hadn’t heard him until he’d seen the reflection of the officer and the cruiser in Charlie’s window. He stopped, removed his glasses, and turned around. A customer leaving Charlie’s propped the door so we could eavesdrop.

“Hands where I can see them.”

“Is there a problem, Officer?”

“We ask the questions, not you.”

Isaac stood his ground. The cop, out of the vehicle now, walked around the back of his car. His partner exited the passenger side. I expected a citation for being double-parked.

The cop jabbed his finger. “What are you doing?”

There was distance between the officers and the young man, but they were closing in fast. I understood what they were doing. They were asserting dominance and they wanted to spark a reaction. With enough space between them, if Isaac ran, one of the policemen could sprint and catch him from an angle. They’d talk smack as they approached, looking for an excuse to cuff him. If Isaac answered wrong, used the wrong tone of voice, they would ride him.

“I asked you what you’re doing.”

Isaac was smart. He raised his hands. Now came the dilemma because nothing he said mattered.

“Did I tell you to put your hands up?”

“No.”

“You going to answer me?” The tone of voice was sharp as a knife’s edge. “I asked you what you’re doing here.”

“Here to pick up a sandwich before work, Officer.” He glanced over his shoulder.

I hear courtesy and respect in the answer. Cops heard sarcasm.

“A sandwich, is that right?”

“Yes. A sandwich before work.”

“You have a job?”

Another lure, an insult disguised as a question. When cops testified in court, they’d tell the jury that they repeated answers as a way to verify information, but nobody asked them how they asked their questions.

The partner walked around the Cadillac. He used his foot to test the fender. He aimed to test a man’s pride in his set of wheels. His hand touched the rear light and he ran his hand over the body as if he checked for dirt. “This your car?”

“Yes.”

The cop closest to Isaac said, “You sure about that?” He glanced over his shoulder. “We run those tags and we won’t hear it was stolen.”

“No.”

“No what? What are you trying to say? I don’t understand you when you mumble.”

Another classic strategy. Isaac spoke clear as sunlight and kept his answers trimmed to simple. The more you talked, the more your own words were used against you. If he denied mumbling, he’d look defensive, and the cops would consider Isaac as dangerous as the third rail.

I waited for them to ask Isaac what his job was and where. They’d look at the Cadillac while he talked. Their looking at the car implied they didn’t believe the job matched the income to purchase a luxury vehicle, or that a Cadillac was a pimpmobile. The two cops might then tag-team Isaac with questions. Cops counted on confusion and if Isaac so much as stuttered, they would accuse him of being drunk, drugged, or agitated.

Isaac answered, “The car is mine. Registration is in the glove compartment.”

“License?”

“On me, but you can reach into my breast pocket for it.”

“On you?” the lead cop said. The smirk showed teeth.

“In my wallet, where I keep my cash so I can pay for my sandwich.”

The partner chimed in. “Glove compartment include proof of insurance?”

“Registration and insurance are in the glove compartment, yes.”

Now the lead cop was less than a foot away from Isaac. “Now, let me understand you right. You’re giving us permission to search your car?”

“Registration and insurance are in the glove compartment.”

“That’s not what I asked you, son.” The officer was eye-to-eye with Isaac. Any closer and it was a date. He turned and pointed to the car. “We won’t find anything else inside?”

Charcoal next to me said. “I think young blood could use some help from the community, right about now.” He got off the stool and walked to the open door. Other men followed him and formed a line in front of Charlie’s Sandwich Shoppe. I joined them.

The cops’ disposition changed immediately when he counted us.

“You folks go on back inside. This doesn’t concern you.”

A long hard minute passed and not a word was said. There was nothing but hard, tired stares. Isaac had not put his hands down and he hadn’t moved from where he was standing. Arthur appeared, a brown bag in his hand. He handed it to Isaac. “Breakfast is on me, and I hope the experience doesn’t stop you from visiting Charlie’s again.”

“This is a police matter,” the cop said to Arthur.

“And this is my business, and this young man is a customer.”

The cop moved in on Arthur. “This does not concern you.”

Charcoal stepped forward. “I suggest you officers either search the car, or call it a day.”

“You suggest?”

“Indeed, I do—and I advise you to heed my advice.”

The cop approached. When he did, the men behind Charcoal took one step forward and held the line. The cop stared into Charcoal’s face. “Heed your advice, and who the fuck are you?”

Charcoal flinched a smile. “I’m an attorney, labor and civil rights among other things, and I’d be happy to provide you with my card.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“What’s the matter, Officer? You’ve never met a Negro lawyer or thought a black man might have more education than you and your forebears combined.”

“You know nothing about my forebears.”

“Oh, but I do, son. I do.”

The senior cop reassessed the situation. He looked at each man behind Charcoal, including me. Cops did this to save face. The pair backpedaled and got into their car. Arthur stood next to the opened door and thanked each of his patrons as they entered his shop. Charcoal and I were the last in the long line. I asked Arthur if I could make change for a phone call.

Arthur said I could use the house phone and pointed me to where I could find it. I called John and he answered. I said I’d be down to his place to talk with his friend, the kid’s father. “You’ll take the case?”

“I didn’t say that. I want to talk the man first, and John?” He waited. “What was with the chess metaphor and all?”

“I wasn’t about to talk street, in front of your lady.”

“You showed up unannounced. How did you find me?”

John said Bill’s name and, “Did something change your mind?”

“Change, no. More like I saw something that made me reconsider.”

“Watched something on television?”

“That’s make-believe. I’m talking about real life.”

***

Excerpt from HUSH HUSH by Gabriel Valjan. Copyright 2022 by Gabriel Valjan. Reproduced with permission from Gabriel Valjan. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Gabriel Valjan

Gabriel Valjan is the author of the Roma Series, The Company Files, and the Shane Cleary Mysteries. He has been nominated for the Agatha, Anthony, Silver Falchion Awards, and received the 2021 Macavity Award for Best Short Story. Gabriel is a member of the Historical Novel Society, ITW, MWA, and Sisters in Crime. He lives in Boston.

Catch Up With Gabriel:
GabrielValjan.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @gvaljan
Instagram – @gabrielvaljan
Twitter – @GValjan
Facebook

 

 

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