Monday, December 16, 2024
The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year by Ally Carter
Thursday, December 12, 2024
Final Cut by Marjorie McCown
FINAL CUT
by Marjorie McCown
November 18 - December 13, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:
The Hollywood Mystery Series
Every day on the set of a big budget Hollywood movie is full of surprises. But the last thing key costumer Joey Jessop expected to find on the first day of principal photography was the body of a fellow crew member. And she immediately becomes a suspect -- not only because she found the body on the beach in Malibu where they're shooting the movie, but because the victim, second assistant director Courtney Lisle, was seeing Joey's ex, first assistant director Eli Logan.
When the press takes hold of the story and social media begins to run with it, Joey watches her well-ordered life behind the scenes of the movie business become front and center tabloid fodder. But that isn't even the worst of it. In addition to her new and unwanted stardom, Joey must also contend with the reckless behavior of the movie's predatory director and producer, Marcus Pray, who churns out blockbuster hits while subjecting his movie crews to a toxic work environment. As a result, Joey finds herself embattled both personally and professionally.
With tensions building on set and a murder investigation looming over her life and future, Joey takes it upon herself to clear her name. Will she be able to uncover the truth before it's a wrap?
Praise for Final Cut:
"[A] keen sense of what it’s like to work on a Hollywood production."
~ Kirkus Reviews
"A fun and unique story . . . Readers will love FINAL CUT."
~ Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
"Expertly showcases [McCown's] genuine flair for original and the kind of narrative driven and unexpected plot twists that make for a riveting story."
~ Midwest Book Review
"Engaging, with twists and turns."
~ Red Carpet Crash
"A must-read movie mystery packed with juicy details from a Hollywood insider, FINAL CUT gets my nomination for best debut."
~ Ellen Byron, Agatha and Lefty Award Winner, USA Today bestselling author
"FINAL CUT is both an insider look at what it’s like to work on Hollywood’s biggest blockbuster and a surprising, timely mystery about a murder on the set . . . The story is a pop culture lover’s dream. I’m already lining up for the sequel."
~ Kellye Garrett, Agatha, Anthony, and Lefty Award winning author of Like a Sister
Book Details:
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: Crooked Lane Books
Original Publication Date: June 2023
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 9781639107285 (ISBN10: 1639107282)
Series: The Hollywood Mystery Series (Joey Jessop), Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Penguin Random House
Read an excerpt:
JUNE 21 8:10 pm
Joey felt frustrated that she was late getting back to the shoot. By this time, nearly an hour after wrap, most of the movie crew had packed up and gone home after what had been a long, discouraging day. As key costumer, Joey usually started the morning on set, then ended her day at one of the specialty shops that made clothing for the film, or one of a dozen other tasks that went with her job. But tonight was different.
She’d made the long drive back to the shooting location in Malibu because she wanted to talk to Courtney in person, and even though she wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, she wished she’d made it back before wrap. The second AD hadn’t answered her texts, and now Joey worried she’d missed the chance to do timely damage control, to smooth over the tension between them after their flare-up on set earlier that day. The hectic pace of the movie had everybody on edge, but their confrontation could threaten the costume department’s entire working relationship with the assistant directors. If she couldn’t talk to the second AD without starting a fight, it was game over.
Determined not to let that happen, Joey bypassed the wardrobe truck and headed straight to the AD trailer as soon as she got back to location. She’d seen firsthand the problems that came from bad blood between departments.
On one of her first films, the costume supervisor had gotten into a feud with the transportation captain. After that, the wardrobe trailers were permanently parked in base camp Siberia, as far from the actors’ trailers as possible. The time it took to travel those extra yards added up fast when you had to cover them many times each day. Then drivers suddenly became unavailable to do runs of any kind for the costume department, no matter the urgency. That might not sound like a big deal, but transpo can be a lifesaver when you’re up against an impossible deadline by making an important pickup or drop-off when everybody in your department is too slammed with work to do it, which can happen several times a week on a busy film.
Getting on the wrong side of the AD department was even worse. Assistant directors are like air traffic controllers on a movie. Without them, everybody crashes into everybody else, literally and figuratively. Alienate the ADs and you’re just asking for trouble.
The costume department already had enough problems on this movie between the lack of prep time, late casting, and a director with an ego as big as his box office grosses. Making an enemy of the second AD wasn’t an option. The thought sent a shiver through Joey, and she picked up her pace.
When she didn’t find Courtney in the AD trailer, she continued her circuit of the movie’s base camp, asking everyone she passed if they’d seen the second AD.
“She was by the cafe set last I saw her, but that was a while ago,” one of the grips said.
Joey headed for the Paradise Cove Cafe up by the beach. All the actors’ trailers,
nearest the set, were dark and locked up for the night. She tried the back door of the cafe, but that too was secured, so she peered through the windows. A single work light remained on, but there was no sign of anyone inside, the cafe apparently deserted now that the day’s filming was done. The sun was low in the sky, dipping toward the ocean.
The longest day of the year, and that’s exactly what it felt like to Joey.
She’d run out of places to look. Anxiety tugged at her. Her relationship with Courtney was complicated, like it is whenever your ex is dating somebody new. And she needed to be honest with herself about the way her personal feelings may have clouded their interactions.
With daylight dying over the water, she stepped onto the beach, hoping to feel a scrap of the serenity she always found in the natural rhythm of the breaking waves, like a favorite refrain, a golden oldie that just gets better with time.
At the water’s edge, she noticed a pile of clothing, buffeted by the incoming tide scudding across the sand. Her first thought was that one of the extras had abandoned their costume, but that didn’t make any sense. As the sun dropped out of the sky, she took a few steps closer to investigate, at the same time as a larger wave swept aside what she’d taken for coils of kelp swirling around that bundle of fabric.
Horror sliced through Joey like a scalpel; she stumbled and fell to her knees. Courtney Lisle lay motionless in the shallow water at the shoreline as the cold blue Pacific surf washed over her body.
FOURTEEN HOURS EARLIER
Chapter One
The first day of principal photography on a film is always a milestone in production, like opening night in the theater. After working mostly independently of each other for three months or more, all the different departments merge to become one big machine. No matter how many movies you’ve done, every new job is a blank slate. Each time, you ask yourself: Do I have what it takes to climb that mountain again, to create a new world out of whole cloth?
Put up or shut up time.
Joey slept poorly the night before, which was par for the course; but she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that dropped on her like a net as soon as she opened her eyes that morning. She’d had a bad feeling about this job from the start; she’d nearly passed on the movie for a number of reasons, both personal and professional. But the carrot of working so close to home was finally too tempting to resist.
The costume department had been prepping for months, but the schedule was rushed for a project so large and complex. Lots of special effects, stunts, and complicated costumes; lots of money and reputations on the line. Still, she felt her department was as ready as they could be, and her standards for readiness were high. So she tried to chalk up her misgivings to first day of shooting jitters. Later, she’d wonder if they’d been a premonition.
Just before sunrise, she pulled her car into the crew parking lot, about a mile south of base camp in Malibu. A shuttle van idled, waiting to ferry people to the set. It was empty save for the driver, whose head rested against his seat back. The teamsters were respon- sible for the setup of vehicles and equipment, so that all was ready for the shooting company when they got to work. They were the first in and last out every day, and most of them were expert at grabbing a few winks when they had the chance.
Joey gathered her purse and work satchel, then locked her car and pinned her keys to her waistband. She had keys to the costume offices and storage space for the movie as well as her personal keys, and this was the only sure way to keep them at hand throughout the day without losing them.
She trotted over to the van and pulled the side door open, startling the driver out of his catnap. A grizzled veteran in his late forties, he sat up with a frown until he saw who was climbing into his back seat.
“Joey Jessop! Girl, how you doin’?” A wolfish grin lit his face. “You are lookin’ fine as ever, Sweet Cheeks.”
Pete O’Neill was a relentless lech, and even though he was basically harmless, he could be tiresome, especially first thing in the morning.
“Pete, what a nice surprise,” she said, trying to hide her true feelings. “I didn’t see your name on the crew list.”
“We ran three weeks over on the last job down in Louisiana. Made it back in the nick of time to get on this one. Didn’t want to miss out on a big show in LA, for a change.”
“No kidding,” she said. “This is the first job I’ve booked in the past four years that’s shooting here. I’m thrilled to be sleeping in my own bed for the next six months.”
“You coming off location, too?”
“I’ve been back here prepping this one for a while, but before that I was out of town shooting a Western.”
“How’d that go?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You meet a lot of hunky cowboys?”
She managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “It was an education.”
“Never done a Western before, huh?” He gave her a knowing look. “Whole different animal.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Joey had been on dozens of location shoots, but the Western was a real eye-opener. From the wild temperature swings in the desert—25 degrees at night to over 100 in the afternoon—to the dust storm that took out their generators one day, or the flash flood that nearly trapped them in a box canyon on another, the experience had given her a fresh appreciation for the comfort of shooting on a studio back lot.
She stifled a yawn. “At least it was fast. Six-week shoot.” “Yeah?” His expression was skeptical. “Who was directing?”
“Clint Eastwood.” She smiled as she pictured the director on set, watching the shot in progress on a handheld monitor. Despite the difficult conditions, Joey enjoyed working with him.
Pete nodded appreciatively. “That man’s a class act, old school Hollywood.”
“Yes, he is,” she said. “A real filmmaker. We could use more like him in the business these days.”
“You got that right.” Pete checked his watch. “I don’t think I’ll be getting any more customers for a while. Crew call’s not for another hour. If you want, I’ll run you up to base camp now.”
“That’d be great.” She slid the door closed. “I can use some quiet time before everybody gets here.”
He dropped the van into gear. They turned north onto the Pacific Coast Highway as a pale watercolor wash of daylight began to spread across the ocean, sketching in the horizon line to the west. Joey took a deep breath, bracing herself for the nonstop activity the next sixteen hours would bring.
“Have you read the script for this one yet?” Pete glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“Didn’t have much choice,” she said lightly.
“That bad?”
“Not my cup of tea. I’m not a big fan of comic book movies.”
“’Bout all they make around here anymore,” he said, “if you want to earn a decent living.”
“Don’t I know it.”
The screenplay was 125 pages of special effects–driven gobbledygook, but Joey had no doubt it would play well with the movie’s crucial fourteen- to twenty-year-old target audience.
“I heard this one’s about some new superhero.” Pete caught her eye in the mirror again.
“It’s actually the Legion of Phenomenals, based on some underground comics that have a big cult following. Nothing new, but they haven’t been used in any movies so far.”
“Why not just call it that, instead of UMPP?” He was asking about the working title for the movie. “Sounds like a noise you’d make if you got punched in the stomach.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “It’s code for Untitled Marcus Pray Project. You know how paranoid the producers are. They’re trying to keep the fanboys in the dark.”
“Like that’s going to stop them. The director’ll probably be posting pictures on Instagram from the set, and the studio won’t say boo to him.” Pete leaned back to talk to her over his shoulder. “Marcus Pray’s no Eastwood, even if he is a big dog in the business right now. I’m taking care of his trailer, and I got a mile-long list of special stuff that’s gotta be on board for him and his friends.” Pete gave the word a suggestive emphasis.
Marcus Pray was a powerful Hollywood hyphenate, a producer-director with a string of action-adventure blockbusters to his credit. This movie was sure to be another lucrative notch on his belt. Joey hadn’t worked with him before, and some of the stories she’d heard made her think twice before she signed onto this job.
***
Excerpt from FINAL CUT by Marjorie McCown. Copyright 2023 by Marjorie McCown. Reproduced with permission from Marjorie McCown. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Marjorie McCown spent 27 years in Hollywood working on the costumes for movies such as Forrest Gump, Apollo 13, and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Her film career provides the inspiration for her Hollywood Mystery series of books that are set behind the scenes in the world of moviemaking and feature key costumer Joey Jessop as the main character. Her cozy murder mystery, FINAL CUT (Crooked Lane Books, June 2023) was chosen as an Amazon Editors' Pick in the best Mystery, Thriller, and Suspense category. Deadly Pleasures Magazine named FINAL CUT as one of the best cozy mysteries of 2023, and FINAL CUT was also named a Top Pick in the cozy mystery category for the Silver Falchion Award by Killer Nashville. STAR STRUCK, Book #2 in her Hollywood Mystery series published May 7, 2024. Marjorie is a member of Sisters-in-Crime and Mystery Writers of America.
Find out more about Marjorie:
MarjorieMcCown.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @marjoriemccownauthor
Instagram - @marjoriemccownbooks
Twitter/X - @eastlamm
Facebook - @MarjorieMcCownBooks
Tour Participants:
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My Take: If you have ever wondered what goes on behind the scenes when they are making a movie and you would like a little mystery thrown in then this is the book for you. The author knows her stuff as she has worked in the entertainment industry . This book deals specifically with the wardrobe department but it also touches on other departments as well. The girl who is the second in charge of the wardrobe department finds a dead body and the rumor mill starts from there and just gets more out of control as the tabloids and magazines run with the story. I found this book to be very interesting and I enjoyed it. I gave it a four out of five stars on Goodreads. I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours and was not required to write a positve review.
Thursday, November 14, 2024
The Crushing by Kerry Peresta
THE CRUSHING
by Kerry Peresta
October 21 - November 15, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:
OLIVIA CALLAHAN SUSPENSE
The victim of a vicious assault six years ago that resulted in a traumatic brain injury, Olivia Callahan is now a private investigator with her own firm. The assault that almost took her life resulted in a spectacular metamorphosis. No longer the shy, passive introvert she once was, she’s become a driving and determined force. However, the lack of impulse control caused by her rewired brain causes her to run toward trouble instead of away from it.
When Olivia sends her colleague, Sherry, to the Florida panhandle to find a missing friend, Hannah; the search takes Sherry into the dark heart of an abusive, hostage situation. The man Hannah married is cruel, dangerous, and well-connected. Olivia reels in her favorite cop—Sergeant Hunter Faraday—for a discreet assist, and it soon becomes clear that Hannah’s new husband is adept at waging war against anything that blocks his way.
While rescuing Hannah is Olivia’s primary goal, her incarcerated ex-husband has other plans. He’s collected friends who support his obsessive need to punish her for her role in his murder conviction, and a time bomb is ticking.
As Olivia and Sherry battle to save Hannah, try to neutralize the fiendish plan of an ex bent on revenge, and endure a terrifying race for their lives through the Florida wetlands; a final betrayal waits patiently in the dark. Smiling.
Praise for The Crushing:
"Fans of Frieda McFadden and Lisa Jewell will stay up past their bedtimes devouring the latest thriller from Kerry Peresta! Haunted by her abusive ex-husband, P.I. Olivia Callahan had better keep her friends close and her enemies closer. Now, if she could only tell them apart. When one of her best friends goes missing in a Florida swamp, the clock is ticking. The suspense winds tighter on every page!"
~ Kelly Oliver, author of the Jessica James Mysteries
"The tension in Kerry Peresta's The Crushing is off the chain. Chilling! 'I can beat this,' the captive whispers from her locked room. 'I will escape.' Taut. Gripping. Engrossing. Highly recommended!"
~ Tracy Clark, award-winning author of the Cass Raines Chicago mysteries and the Detective Harriet Foster series.
"Rich details, a strong, character-driven plot, and enough snaky twists and turns to give you vertigo - this fourth entry in Kerry Peresta’s Olivia Callahan series will have you sweating bullets and turning pages like a tornado, leaving you as breathless as a mile sprinter. There’s nothing less simple than a simple missing-persons case, and there are far worse things than gators in the dark, dank Florida boonies. Don’t believe me? Read The Crushing."
~ J.R. Sanders, Shamus Award winning author of the Nate Ross novels.
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller, Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: October 15, 2024
Number of Pages: 310
ISBN: 978-1-68512-770-1
Series: Olivia Callahan Suspense, Book Four
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books
Read an excerpt:
PROLOGUE
Sherry crammed the phone against her ear as she dashed through the thick undergrowth, trudged across boggy marshes, and arrived at a feeder stream.
“Olivia! Olivia?”
Nothing.
“Dammit!” she muttered, shoving her cell back into her pocket. She calculated that the nearest town rested fifteen miles down the highway out here in Florida-cracker country, and holing up until the shooter emerged seemed the best option.
She should’ve known there’d be no service out here.
Where did he go? She scraped mud off her face and rubbed her sunburned cheeks. He actually fired a weapon. On no planet had she ever thought this little trek would become a fight for her life, yet here she stood, hands glued to the trunk of a huge palm, eyes darting back and forth across the marshy, pancake-flat wastelands of inland Florida. Behind her lay a wide body of water surrounded by suspicious-looking marsh grass and, she suspected, alligators…and in front of her lay miles of marshland and bedraggled palms spearing the sky.
Why had she volunteered for this assignment, again?
“I just had to get my investigator’s license,” she muttered. “Maybe I should’ve stayed put as Olivia’s assistant instead of private investigator. This isn’t quite how I envisioned the job.”
She rubbed her calves. How long had she been running? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? An hour? Where was Olivia?
The distant blast of gunfire reached her ears. A bullet sliced through the air and hit the tree she’d wrapped herself around, missing her hand by inches. Sherry felt her stomach freeze into a block of ice.
Wiping the sweat from her eyes, she slid her hand to the paddle holster on her belt, gripped her Smith & Wesson revolver, and released the safety strap. Another crack of gunfire erupted closer this time. She swallowed, hard. A whoosh of air zipped past a mere twelve inches in front of her nose. Sherry dropped to the ground like a stone. The spikey bushes on the ground dug into her arms, her chest, her legs. She located a slight rise about ten feet away, and hastily low-crawled through the weeds on her stomach, edged to the top of the incline, and threw herself over the top.
Breathing hard, she peeked out above the edge. The crack-crack-crack of shots fired caused her to dive for cover. She took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off her palms, and fired back a volley of her own. When silence fell, she relaxed against the incline and tugged out her phone. A signal!
With fumbling fingers, she pressed in Olivia’s number. She waited through one ring, then two, before her call was answered.
“Where are you?” Olivia’s anxious voice demanded. “Are you okay?”
Tears of relief trailed down her cheeks. She rattled off a description of her location. Her gaze trained on the best-case origination of shots fired, she whispered, “Olivia! I found Hannah. She’s exhausted and weak, but I’ve got her.” Sherry listened to Olivia’s instructions. “Okay. I’ll meet you at the airport, but…wait. I hear something,” she whispered, and stuck the phone back in her pocket. She gripped her weapon with both hands.
Minutes passed. Sherry tried to breathe.
Something shuffled through the grass. Her eyes sliced left, right.
The shuffling stopped.
The hum of cicadas intensified. She swatted at mosquitoes. Sweat trickled down her face.
Sherry adjusted her grip on her sidearm.
She strained to hear more footsteps, but only heard the faint squawk of herons and hoot of owls. The setting sun left a red slash on the horizon. Bats dipped and swooped above her.
She lowered her weapon, puzzled. Had one of her prior shots wounded her target?
Taking her time, she rose from her niche behind the incline.
A single shot burst from her adversary’s weapon and sizzled through the air.
She cried out in pain. The bullet had nicked her, the sting of a monster wasp. She groped her waist with her free hand and lifted it away wet with blood. Rage rushed through her chest and down her arms. She planted her legs wide and emptied her weapon in the direction of the shooter.
The phone in her pocket vibrated with a text as she reloaded.
Another bullet clipped her in the shoulder.
The sound of sirens wailed in the distance.
She collapsed.
***
Excerpt from The Crushing by Kerry Peresta. Copyright 2024 by Kerry Peresta. Reproduced with permission from Kerry Peresta. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Kerry Peresta is a suspense novelist, and her releases include The Deadening, The Rising, The Torching, and The Crushing, books one-four in the Olivia Callahan Suspense series; and Back Before Dawn, a standalone thriller, all published by Level Best Books Publishing. Her magazine articles have appeared in Hilton Head’s Local Life Magazine, The Bluffton Breeze, Lady Lowcountry, and Island Events Magazine. She spent twenty-five years in advertising as an account manager, creative director, editor, and copywriter. She is past chapter president of the Maryland Writers’ Association and a current member and presenter of Hilton Head Island Writers’ Network, South Carolina Writers Association, Pat Conroy Literary Center, International Thriller Writers, and the Sisters in Crime organization. Kerry is the mother of four adult kids, a flock of grandkids, and three cats. She and her husband moved to Hilton Head Island in 2015.
Catch Up With Kerry Peresta:
kerryperesta.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @kerryperesta
Amazon Author Page
Instagram - @kerryperesta
Twitter/X - @kerryperesta
Facebook Author Page
Facebook Personal Page
Tour Participants:
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My Take: this is the third book in a series but you can read it alone although I would suggest reading the other two book also so you can be up to speed on eveything that happened in them. My heart went out to the women in this book as the majority of them were abused and taken advantage of by the men in their lives. I kinda know about this as one of my daughters is going through a similar thing. Some men are really bad in that respect. In this book Olivia and Shelley are private investigators and they are trying to help their friend Hannah who married and moved to Florida with her husband. Much to her dismay he turns out not to be the guy she though he was and the rest of the book is about how they get her out of the situation she has found herself in. There are a few other cases that they work on too. I gave this book a 4 out of 5 stars on Goodreads. I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime tours and was not required to write a positive review.
Thursday, October 31, 2024
A Broken Reflection by Shelly M. Patel
A BROKEN REFLECTION
by Shelly M. Patel
October 7 - November 1, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:
In the game of deception and betrayal, nothing is ever as it seems, not even murder.
Secrets would be revealed in the dead of night, and lives would be changed forever. With each body count rising, Claire and Stephen began to unveil the truth, exposing the dark side of their seemingly perfect lives. In the shadows, Jessica watched from the sidelines with grave anticipation, ready to take hold of her moment. The game of cat and mouse had begun. Will Claire and Stephen be able to ride out the storm and rebuild their lives? Will Jessica seal her place next to Stephen no matter what the cost? Will the killer ever be caught?
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Published by: Self-Published
Publication Date: October 2024
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 9798350963038
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
Chapter 1
Claire
It’s probably going to sound crazy to you, but I felt as though someone was watching me all the time, night, and day. You know how it is—you sense these things. Well, I did, anyway.
That’s right; I could sense it. A hole the size of a crater slowly burned in the back of my head, created by their stares. By ‘they,’ it wasn’t clear who it was that watched me yet.
But they were there, for sure.
An eerie silence had seemed to follow me everywhere, and it was impossible to shake that feeling of someone observing from afar. Someone spying, tracking me.
Knowing everything…
I shook my head quickly as if it could banish the intrusiveness from my head.
Damn, these wretched thoughts! I said to myself. But every time, a chill would run down my spine like icy fingertips tracing their way up and down my back. Taunting me, Poking fun at me.
My eyes darted, nervously searching for any sign of movement in the crowd, but there wasn’t anyone out of place; everyone seemed totally normal. Well, except for me, of course.
Okay, I’m just exaggerating, but you know how it is when you feel pursued like that.
I almost dared not glance back, afraid to ask who it could be, feeling as if they were observing me again, peering in on everything like a pervert.
The idea sent shivers up my spine, making the hair on my arms and back stand on end. And my gut clenched as if it would make me vomit, just that sensation of someone there, knowing everything I did, every tiny move. Initially, a tingling came to my scalp, which gradually traveled down my head and neck before settling into the back of my skull.
It was the same nervousness that had pervaded me when taking my dental admission test; it was that cold bite gnawing at my gut, a feeling unwilling to go away. This was a warning, and that was clear; a terrible thing was about to occur.
It was an omen, a premonition if you like. Something very bad would be coming my way.
Soon.
To try and regain my composure, I closed my eyes.
There was little doubt that if Stephen had overheard me saying all this, he’d have me committed to a mental institution.
I needed to zero down on the task at hand.
So, I took a half-day off work, using it to come here.
I’m all by myself now. See. Look around! Who can wish me harm?
Choosing the proper dress for the charity ball hadn’t been easy either; after all, who liked wasting time wandering from store to store? I supposed some girls didn’t mind it. Some even claimed to like shopping. As for me, it was loathsome, a chore, and irritating.
However, the attire had to be suitable for the occasion. The planning committee had chosen to preserve the masquerade ball theme for this year’s event.
Phyllis was in charge this year, so Stephen and I wanted to show our support.
I had little interest in the woman, but as Stephen often reminded me, I should “be nice, Claire.” He played golf with her husband, Bob, you see, and Bob happened to be Stephen’s long-time friend and business partner. Both were decent guys; they wanted me to back Phyllis up and ensure the event went well. It was something I had to do—according to Stephen.
And Stephen was never wrong about this kind of thing, was he?
But Phyllis was the kind of person who always seemed to try too hard. She needed to be liked to extremes, so she was a bit of a people pleaser, always fussing about something.
It all had to be just so, just perfect. So annoying. Everyone had to love everything about her, big or small as if she would implode if you missed a moment’s flattery.
Phyllis had an oblong face framed by a short blonde bob hairstyle that she thought made her look stylish and sophisticated, but to me, it smacked of desperation and made her look maternal.
But despite this, people seemed to love her enthusiastic and friendly demeanor. Phyllis would pop up no matter where she went or what group she joined.
“Everything all right for you, dear?”
Or “Oh, your hair is lovely, dear,” she would say.
Or “Wherever did you buy such a divine dress?”
“Look at you,” she enthused. “Your makeup is so on point today! Very pretty, sweetie.”
Ugh. Her words were creepy, all this excessive enthusiasm about every topic imaginable. I’d look around me when it happened, and the weird thing was that everyone around Phyllis looked as if they felt charmed by her efforts. But weren’t they ultimately exhausted from all the energy being thrown their way, like I was?
And then there was that other thing—the other side of her.
***
Excerpt from A Broken Reflection by Shelly M. Patel. Copyright 2024 by Shelly M. Patel. Reproduced with permission from Shelly M. Patel. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Shelly M. Patel enjoys writing mystery books. Her first Children's book, Jake has Dyslexia, entered the Reader's Choice award in 2021. In 2023, she won second place in CloutBooks for the Reader's Choice Award for her novel When Secrets Kill. She lives in Virginia Beach with her husband, three beautiful children, and their dog, Teddy.
Catch Up With Shelly M. Patel:
BooksByShelly.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @shellymauthor
Instagram - @shellympatel
Facebook - @ShellyPatelauthor
Tour Participants:
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My Take: This was an interesting thriller suspense book. I will admit that I figured out the twist before I got to the end of the book but the book was still good. Claire and her husband Stephen become suspects when people around them start to die. I thought that Stephen should have spoken up sooner but I really didn't like his character that much so I thought it was what he would do. I rated this a 3 out of five stars on Goodreads. I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
Chemical Detective by Fiona Erskine
THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE
by Fiona Erskine
October 7 - November 1, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:
A Jaq Silver Thriller
Dr Jaq Silver blows things up to keep people safe. An engineer and explosives expert, she's also an excellent skier.
Working on avalanche control in Slovenia, Jaq stumbles across a problem with a consignment of explosives. After raising a complaint with the supplier, a multinational chemical company, her evidence disappears. Jaq is warned, threatened, accused of professional incompetence and suspended. Taking her complaint further, she narrowly escapes death only to be framed for murder. Absconding from police custody, she sets out to find the key to the mystery.
Racing between the snowy slopes of Slovenia and the ghostly ruins of Chernobyl, can she uncover the truth before her time runs out?
Don't miss your chance to access the limited time pricing for THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE, Kindle edition, at only $0.99!
Praise for THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE:
"Just the right blend of suspense and tension... I recommend this original and compelling debut novel for fans of mysteries and thrillers, as well as for those looking for a credible female protagonist in a genre dominated by male superheroes. Already, I am looking forward to reading the next instalment in this series."
~ Forbes, Editors' Pick
"Explosive science, strong women, and snowy landscapes, all within a gripping, smart, fast-paced read."
~ Helen Sedgwick, author of When the Dead Come Calling
"Imagine the love child of Jack Reacher and Nancy Drew...a delicious cocktail of dating and detonations. Call it Mills and Boom."
~ Evening Standard
"An audacious, female-led thriller which took the disposable women of the James Bond franchise and flipped the concept entirely on its head."
~ Chemistry World
"Fiona Erskine is an engineer, and in Jaq Silver, who shares her profession, she has created a wonderful antidote to all the resentful, floppy victims of much domestic noir... Her adventures are eye-popping and exciting."
~ Literary Review
Book Details:
Genre: Sexy Engineering Thriller
Published by: Snickered Mole
Publication Date: August 2024, US
Number of Pages: 400
ISBN: 978-1-7385120-5-8
Series: Jaq Silver Thriller series, 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookBub | Goodreads | Kobo
Read an excerpt:
PRELUDE
Teesside
Thursday 24 February, Teesside, England
The trouble with Semtex is the smell. Dogs can sense it. Most humans can’t. Boris could. Not the plastic explosive itself, you understand; neither RDX nor PETN – the main components – have much of an odor. The scent comes from the tracers added, to make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Hands like his. Chemist’s hands. Wide hands with long fingers, calloused from handling hot glassware, thickets of black hair curling over the knuckles and between the joints. Hands now gripping the steering wheel of a five-axled truck hurtling toward the Zagrovyl factory in Teesside.
Boris only carried a small amount of Semtex these days, just enough for his personal use. He kept it in a Tupperware container, wrapped in Clingfilm, under his sandwiches. Sentimental value, really. He’d moved on. To some, it might look like a backward step, from laboratory shift work to long-distance truck driving. But only to those who didn’t know the tedium of analytical testing. The same samples, the same tests, the same results, hour after hour after hour. Not like the old days, when you had thorny problems to solve and real fires to fight. Nothing more boring than a well-run factory. He was glad when they sacked him. Glad to be free of the monotony. Glad to be out on the road. These days, his insight into tracers was a key skill for the job.
Boris yanked the wheel to the left and hauled the truck into a lay-by with a view. The chemical plant skulked on the far side of a chain-link fence. One factory was much like another. Plumes of steam billowed into the sky, glowing orange in the sodium lights, bright against a dark, winter day. He traced the familiar shapes in the condensation of his side window: an hourglass – the cooling tower curving to a waist and then flaring out again; two, thin vertical lines – the nitric acid absorption columns lit up like Christmas trees; three circles – the ammonia storage spheres, massive, metal balls trapped by sturdy legs to stop them rolling away; a rectangle – the ammonium nitrate prilling tower looming over the A19, the main road out of Teesside.
The wind whistled up the river, screaming through the gap between the warehouses, bringing with it a faint whiff of sulfur, reminding him of home: Pardubice in the Czech Republic. The Semtex factory where he trained.
He watched the car park from the lay-by, waiting until the last company car roared away, before driving up to the gatehouse and presenting his papers. At the collection bay he plugged a small black box into the vehicle’s lighter socket. It beeped, and flashed, a red light showing it had located the Zagrovyl computer network. He tucked the jamming device under the passenger seat before turning off the ignition and stepping down from the cab.
“Snow Science, right? Two metric tons?” The bald warehouseman tapped his keyboard. “Bloody system down again.”
Boris slid his papers through a hatch. “Twenty metric tons.”
“Fertilizer grade?”
“Explosives grade.” Boris jabbed his finger at the product code on the order.
“You sure?” Baldy frowned and inspected the order line by line. He picked up a phone, running a hand over his eggshell-smooth head as he waited. When there was no response, he shook his head and cursed, “Lazy tossers, all buggered off early.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “I’ll get you loaded up in a jiffy, mate.”
The metal ramp screeched against the concrete floor as a forklift truck drove into the back of the truck, delivering the first pallet. Two forklifts worked in tandem, an intricate dance, weaving and turning on a dime as they loaded the cargo. Within fifteen minutes it was finished. Fast and skillful, these old men of the north.
Boris secured the load, signed the paperwork and drove out of the factory gate.
Click. Location 54.597255, -1.201133. Intensity 800X
Instead of taking the A19 south, he headed east to Haverton Hill and a decrepit warehouse lying in the shadow of a blue bridge. A damp chill rose from the misty river. Boris shivered as he opened the cab door and scanned the quayside.
A tall, thin man materialized out of the fog, moving slowly with labored, jerky movements. He emerged into the sidelights: dark coat, spiky black hair, gaunt white face. The Spider. Christ, this run must be important.
“So?” The question came out as a hiss.
“All good.” Boris pointed to the trailer. “No problems, boss.”
The Spider pressed a button and battered doors began to open, groaning and squealing with neglect.
Boris backed the truck into the warehouse and hopped down from the cab. “How long will it take?” he asked, as he unlocked the back doors and dropped the ramp.
“Assist,” The Spider ordered. “Time is of the essence.”
Two hours later, Boris’s arms ached as he maneuvered the truck onto the southbound motorway. Bloody amateurs. Leaving him to do all the heavy work.
Boris made good time to the south coast, skirting London after the rush hour. Transport of explosives was not permitted in the Channel Tunnel, so Boris and his truck boarded the ferry to France.
Click: Location 51.12646, 1.327162. Intensity 152X, 648C
He stood on deck, sipping a watery, English coffee, as the white cliffs of Dover receded into the mist. Plain sailing from here. He shivered as the towers of the titanium dioxide factory beside the Port de Calais hove into view, and returned to his truck.
Click. Location 50.96622, 1.86201. Intensity 152X, 648C
The drive through France was uneventful as far as Strasbourg, but a young border guard flagged him down at the crossing into Germany for extra checks. So much for a borderless Europe. Boris remained calm. It had happened before. Nothing to worry about.
The ginger-haired guard puzzled over the papers, wrinkling his brow. “You do know what you’ve got in there?”
“Yes.” Boris lied easily now. After the first few runs, he knew how unlikely it was that anyone would check. And even if they did, what would they see?
Ginger picked up a phone and moved out of earshot. After a few minutes, he marched back. “Drive carefully.” He waved him on his way.
Click. Location 48.5857412, 7.7583997. Intensity 152X, 648C
Boris drove on past Baden-Baden. After lunch, near Munich, he took a nap in the back of the cab. When he woke, the stars guided his way to Salzburg and the crossing into Austria.
Click. Location 47.7994, 13.0439. Intensity 152X, 648C
As he approached the mountains, snow started falling, wet flakes that melted on impact. A weather report on the radio warned of treacherous conditions and several inches of snow up ahead. Great for the skiers, bad for lorries full of explosives and worse. Best to cross in the morning. He slid into a lay-by. A police car drove toward him, slowing as it passed on the opposite side of the road. Boris stared into the snowstorm, craning his neck to make sure it didn’t turn back.
Not that he need worry too much. The dispatch papers matched the Dangerous Goods Note. The bags had the correct hazard warnings. All the papers were faultless. None of the inspections, on any of the runs, had ever uncovered a thing. After all, who wanted to poke around inside bags of explosives? You could hide anything in there.
OVERTURE
Slovenia
Saturday 26 February, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
A strange bed. A naked man. And a few hours to kill before the explosives arrived. The day was looking up.
Jaq stretched, savoring the smooth cotton sheets against her skin. Snowflakes danced through a web of ice on the sloping, attic window. In the dawn glow, she could just discern the layout of the unfamiliar room. Two doors: one of solid oak with tongue-and-groove paneling, brass hinges and a sturdy lock; the other a flat, sliding panel leading to a modern shower room carved from a corner of the attic. A pine bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, a leather sofa and a couple of metal stools tucked under a bench that divided the bedroom and kitchenette. From outside came the faint swishing and rumbling of a distant snowplow. Inside, the gurgle of a fridge, creaks and sighs of an old house waking up and the steady, slow breathing of the man beside her.
Jaq breathed in. Musk and licorice. And a faint whiff of nitroglycerine. Her scent on his body.
She slid backward across tangled sheets and ran her eyes over the golden curls decorating the pillow, down the ridge of his spine to the curve of his buttocks, sturdy thighs and powerful calves. Definitely a skier. One foot hung over the edge of the bed while the other was tucked under a leg forested in fine, bronze hairs. A tall, blond skier. Athletic. And much too young for her.
She grinned as she reached for the quilt – curved, appliqué ridges between her fingers, uneven stitching, not machine-made – and gently covered him. He stirred but did not wake.
The room smelled of pine resin with a hint of lemon. Clean and tidy. Well, at least it had been before last night. Her eyes followed the trail of clothes across the oak floorboards. Her coat and hat hung on a wooden peg near the entrance door, but her long boots had toppled over and lay at angles to the pashmina snaking across the floor, coiled around a scarlet bra and matching thong. There was no sign of her dress, but on the chest of drawers in the corner she could see his clothes, neatly folded on top. When had he folded his clothes? While she was asleep? Certainly not as she was undressing him.
The guy from the karaoke bar. Nossa. What had he done to her brains last night? She’d known he was trouble the moment she heard him sing.
What had she been thinking of? She loathed office parties, but her boss at Snow Science had insisted on it. Team building, Laurent said, a bit of fun. Laurent was a fool.
She slid down the bed, covering her head at the memory of Laurent’s excruciating impersonation of Charles Aznavour. Carapau de corrida. He’d insisted on the drinking games afterward. Sheila and Rita had the sense to refuse but Jaq could never resist a challenge.
And then the man with the golden curls took to the floor.
The moment he opened his mouth, Jaq was hooked. His voice emerged an octave deeper than she expected. He sang with authority and passion, the pitch and cadence perfectly controlled. His voice rumbled right down the small stage, across the wooden floor, up through the soles of her feet, tugging at the tight knots that held her together, unraveling all the cords of restraint with the song. An old Russian lullaby. One she knew so well.
Had she stared too hard? Clapped too loudly? Was that why the singer with the deep voice and lopsided smile singled her out afterward? She wouldn’t have danced at all if Laurent hadn’t made such an arse of himself. Sitting too close. Breathing too hard. Whispering in her ear. Escaping to the dance floor was intended to put some distance between them; Jaq always danced alone. Laurent followed her, his manbag on one shoulder, lurching and gyrating, arms outstretched in invitation to an inappropriate waltz.
The stranger interposed himself, moving between Jaq and Laurent, a subtle, sinuous barrier, increasing the separation until the drunken Frenchman found another target for his amorous attentions. Jaq danced on for a few tracks, just for the joy of the music, and then made her escape.
And there he was, outside the bar ahead of her. Waiting. Something in his eyes gave her pause, drew her in. She could have walked straight past. What was it that held her? Made her stop? The gentleness of his touch as he helped her with her coat? The deep voice bidding her lahko noč, goodnight? Had she imagined an inflection, an upturn, a question? There was no mistaking the smoldering fire she glimpsed before he hooded his eyes and turned away. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her with such honest desire. A very long time. And, oh, amor de Deus, how she had missed it.
“Wait!” Her lips found his, and there was no mistaking the interest with which he returned her kiss. Gentle, searching, increasingly confident. Hot lips and strong arms. She remembered him asking but had no memory of her reply, or how they ended up at his place.
Time to face the morning after the night before. Careful not to touch him, her detailed inspection must have registered. He brushed the curls from his face and wrinkled his nose. His eyelashes fluttered, and his breath became shorter, shallower.
She slipped out of bed and wrapped the pashmina around her. Where was her bag? Dropping to her hands and knees, she spotted it under the bed frame and took it to the bathroom. The scent of lemon behind the sliding door hit her like a wave. She sat on the toilet and grasped the edge of the sink. How much had she drunk last night? When the dizziness passed, she took stock. Clean towels neatly folded on a rail, a shower, sink and toilet spotlessly clean. Had he expected company? She opened the glass cabinet above the sink. Soap, straight razor, shaving mirror, shampoo, cotton buds, toothpaste, one toothbrush, and dental floss. A large box of condoms, somewhat depleted after last night, but no sign of a permanent, female presence. Just one tidy man.
Jaq reached for her bag. Despite her love-hate relationship with handbags, her party clothes lacked sensible pockets, and this was the least-bad option. Black with silver buckles, the fabric was lighter and thinner than leather but textured, tough and waterproof. It could be carried by the arched handle like a briefcase or, releasing three ingenious hooks, clipped onto a bike as a pannier. When carrying a laptop or other heavy items, two, wide adjustable backpack straps unfurled so that she could take advantage of the padded, contoured panel for extra comfort against the spine. The pleated sides, held in shape by concealed Velcro strips, made it capacious enough for most outings. It even had two, parallel zippers, designed to slot over the handle of a rolling suitcase, but also perfect for carrying a snowboard.
She rummaged inside the bag for her phone, encountering ticket stubs, café receipts, coins, a set of Allen keys, a socket wrench, Maglite torch, penknife, comb, and packets of hot chocolate. Ouch! She caught her finger between the jaws of a Vernier caliper. No blood, just a scratch, but she continued her search more cautiously: hydrogel plaster, crepe bandage, latex gloves, paracetamol, ibuprofen, neodymium magnet hook, PTFE tape, thermos flask, duct tape, ball of hairy string, condoms, fuse wire, superglue, paper clip, Blu Tack, ball of rubber bands, sandpaper, a fold-up kite, Slovenian–English dictionary, an unposted letter, multiplug, catapult, USB stick, fluorescent highlighter pens, snow goggles, earplugs, spare socks, tissues, tampons, a silver propelling pencil, a tube of mints, a packet of dried apricots, a tuning fork and a green marble.
Like the Tardis, the bag was bigger on the inside.
A bunch of keys fell out, clinking against the tiled floor. Odd. She unzipped the secure inside pocket where she normally kept them and, at last! There was the phone. One missed call she had no intention of returning. Amid the dross of email, a single pearl from Emma with a long, chatty message about Johan and the kids. Not now, save for later, only one bar of battery left. No message from Snow Science. She put the phone back and zipped up the keys before dragging a comb through her hair.
As she emerged from the bathroom, the naked man sat up in bed, blue eyes fixed on her face.
“Dobro jutro!” He switched to English. “Good morning.”
Now that he viewed her in the daylight, was there a shadow of surprise? If so, he hid it well. What did he see? An athletic woman, naked except for a brightly colored pashmina and a large shoulder bag. Tall - five feet nine inches in bare feet, with a Mediterranean complexion – brown eyes, olive skin and shoulder-length hair, dark brown, almost black, except for the hints of russet fire. Well proportioned, curvy even. His smile appeared uncomplicated, no hint of embarrassment or regret, only pleasure at finding her still there.
“I don’t think we were properly introduced last night.” He held out a hand. “Karel.”
She took his hand, smiling at the absurd formality. There was hardly an inch of each other’s bodies that hadn’t been stroked or kissed or explored last night, and yet the contact with his hand felt deeply intimate, sending a tingle straight to her core. Careful.
“Jaq,” she said. No second names. Polite but no promises. Civilized without commitment. “Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” He raised the quilt in invitation.
So tempting. She hesitated and was gratified by the flicker of disappointment that rippled across his brow when she shook her head.
“Breakfast, then.” He sprang out of bed, bringing the sheet with him, wrapping it around his hips. He handed her a robe. The faint hint of musk was his. She let it envelop her and perched on a stool as he got to work in the kitchen.
“A quick cup of tea, or whatever you are making,” she said.
“Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.”
She started to protest, but the smell of butter melting in a pan made her stomach rumble. He heard it and laughed, breaking eggs into a bowl, many more than he could possibly eat alone. When had she last eaten? She’d gone straight from work to the karaoke bar, changing from coveralls to party dress in the lab toilets. There was no reason not to eat breakfast. No reason a one-night stand couldn’t be civilized.
“Nice flat,” she said.
“Belongs to a friend. He’s working abroad.” He grinned. “I keep an eye on things when he’s away.”
He served the scrambled eggs on toasted crumpets, a thin sliver of pink salmon sandwiched above the little craters of butter, turning opaque where it touched the hot egg piled in a pyramid and topped with a sprinkle of freshly ground black pepper and a sprig of parsley from a plant by the sink. A small glass of orange juice and a bowl of tea served black, fragrant with bergamot and dark tannin. The speed and ease with which he presented two perfect covers made her curious. A singer, a skier, a chef. What else could this man do? Her eyes traveled around the room and paused at the bed. Amid the otherwise orderly space it stood out, an explosion of disarray. A surge of warmth rose through her body, and she turned her attention back to the food.
“Mmmm.” Jaq wiped her lips with a napkin. “Very good.”
Karel bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. “More tea?”
Jaq shook her head. Time to leave. He was a young man with impeccable manners, but some awkwardness was only to be expected now. She would spare him the brush-off. He would have things to do, people to see, places to go. “My clothes?”
“I hung your dress up,” he pointed to the wardrobe. “But—”
“I should go.”
“Should you?” He moved toward her.
The glass rattled in the window above. A flurry of hail blasted the ice clear enough to reveal a storm-dark sky. No skiing today. No message from Snow Science about the delivery. Time to kill.
Karel laid a hand on her shoulder. Warm, gentle, no hint of coercion. Only invitation. Promise. He ran a finger up the side of her neck and whispered, “Come back to bed first.”
Her skin tingled under his warm breath. When his lips nibbled her earlobe, she had to fight the urge to grin inanely. The good food, the cozy little attic, the storm outside, the gorgeous man, the firm bed. She might regret this, but . . .
Last night she’d taken a risk, let herself go with the flow, to see where it led her. What did she have to lose? Things could hardly get any worse. Forget about the past. Forget about the future. Focus on the moment.
Focus on the pleasure.
***
Excerpt from THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE by Fiona Erskine. Copyright 2024 by Fiona Erskine. Reproduced with permission from Fiona Erskine. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="200"]
Fiona Erskine,
credit Gary Walsh and Stockton-on-Tees Library[/caption]
Fiona Erskine,
credit Gary Walsh and Stockton-on-Tees Library[/caption]
Engineer by day, writer by night.
Fiona Erskine is a professional engineer, born in Scotland and now based in the North-East of England. As a female engineer, she is often the lone representative of her gender in board meetings, cargo ships and night-time factories, and her fiction offers a fascinating insight into the traditionally male world of heavy industry.
Fiona’s stand-alone portrait of a factory Phosphate Rocks: A Death In Ten Objects, made the UK Literary Review’s top ten crime novels of 2021.
Her international thriller series is published (outside USA, Canada and The Philippines) by Point Blank, the literary crime imprint of Oneworld, and follows engineer protagonist Jaq Silver blowing things up to keep people safe. The Chemical Detective (2019) was shortlisted for the SPECSAVERS DEBUT CRIME NOVEL AWARD at Crimefest, The Chemical Reaction (2020) was shortlisted for the STAUNCH Prize, The Chemical Cocktail (2022) was an FT Best Summer Book of 2022. Her latest novel is The Chemical Code (2023).
Fiona is passionate about music and outdoor swimming, though not generally at the same time.
Catch Up With Fiona Erskine:
FionaErskine.com
Substack
Goodreads
BookBub - @thechemicaldetective
Instagram - @thechemicaldetective
Threads - @thechemicaldetective
Twitter/X - @erskine_fiona
Facebook - @fionaerskineauthor
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Monday, October 14, 2024
The Merry Matchmaker by Sheila Roberts
Inspired by Jane Austen’s Emma, this joyful Christmas romp tells the story of a woman who can’t stop trying to help everyone around her find their happily-ever-after—even when her help leads to disaster.
Title: The Merry Matchmaker
Author: Sheila Roberts
Publication Date: October 1, 2024
Pages: 336
Genre: Women's Fiction/Romance/Holiday
Frankie Lane knows what’s best for just about everyone but herself. Her divorced sister, Stef, who is too young to give up on love; her shy employee, Elinor; and her daughter, Natalie, who works in Frankie’s shop, Holiday Happiness, and really needs to start her own business selling the delectable chocolates she makes at home; even her best friend, Viola, who is trying to renovate her old Victorian. Frankie knows she could help all of them, if they’d just let her—and if all of her help didn’t end in utter disaster.
Then there’s Mitch Howard, the owner of the local hardware store. They’ve been friends ever since Frankie opened her store, nine years earlier. He got her through the nightmare when she lost her husband in a freak accident, and he’s her favorite shoulder to cry on. He’s been divorced for years, and it’s such a waste of man! Mitch is the fittest, finest man Frankie knows. He’s easygoing, wise and kindhearted. Mitch needs someone. And she’s determined to help him find that someone—whether he likes it or not.
The Merry Matchmaker is available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
Book Excerpt
WHO KNEW THAT THE WORD HELP COULD TURN INTO A whole other four-letter word? Not Frankie Lane, that was for sure.
Although it wasn’t help that her friend Viola muttered when the two women stood looking at the pile of wallpaper that had slid down the wall and onto the floor in the dining room of Viola’s fixer-upper Victorian. The section Frankie had put up, not Viola’s.
“I don’t understand what happened,” Frankie said, gaping at it.
Viola heaved a sigh.
Everything had looked fine before they’d stepped into the kitchen in search of wine to celebrate the completed job. By the time they were back in the dining room to toast, the wall-
paper was toast. Soggy toast. Frankie had to get back to her shop, and here was…this. Obviously, she couldn’t leave her friend with such a mess.
“I’ll just put this back up again,” Frankie said, hurrying over to the sodden pile.
Viola rushed after her. “No! Don’t touch anything. I know you want to help.”
“I do!”
“But please don’t.”
Ouch. That hurt.
This had all been Frankie’s great idea. “You have to have wallpaper in an old Victorian,” she’d said. “It will look so cute with the wainscoting,” she’d said as she showed her friend
what she’d found online.
“I don’t think wallpapering is your forte,” Viola said in an attempt to remove the sting. “Anyway, you should get back to the shop. We can drink our wine this evening. Terrill won’t
be home until the wee hours.”
“Are you sure? I can get it right this time, and I hate to leave you with this mess. It won’t work for your blog.”
“Sure, it will. Every home improvement project has set-backs. This will make my finished project look more impressive. Anyway, your mom’s probably ready to throttle you by
now for leaving her in charge for so long.”
“Are you kidding? Mom loves being in charge, and I haven’t been gone that long. But you’re right. I should get back. How about I make this up to you by picking up a pizza for us?”
“Excellent idea,” Viola approved. “And ask Adele not to hate me for stealing you on Small Business Saturday. I forgot about that when Terrill deserted me to go to work.”
“It’s okay. We weren’t that busy. Yesterday was our big day.”
But Viola was right. Frankie had a business to run, and she needed to get back to it.
She got into her Prius and headed off to beautiful downtown Carol, where she had her shop, Holiday Happiness.
Thanksgiving was over, and the shop, which featured all manner of Christmas decor, had done a whopping business the day before with customers crowding in to take advantage of
the Black Friday sale, check out the latest Christopher Radko ornament or pick up an Advent calendar. Or simply chat.
Downtown was now decorated for Christmas, thanks to all the shop owners and the chamber of commerce getting busy Friday morning. The lampposts were ringed with red plastic ribbon tied in bows. Swags of greenery and fat old-fashioned lights hung over shop windows, and the big banner strung across Main Street announced A Carol Christmas—Santa Walk December 21.
The Santa Walk had been Frankie’s brainchild, and this would be its third year. All the downtown shops would be offering coupons and special discounts and passing out treats.
Santa would come to town and set up in the town square gazebo. Mrs. Claus would be on hand to accompany him during the Santa parade and to help greet the children who were
excited to see him as well as their parents.
Frankie had been Mrs. Claus both previous years and was looking forward to a repeat performance. After all, she was Mrs. Holiday Happiness.
She didn’t go right into her shop. Instead, she walked next door to Handy’s Hardware, which would be the perfect place to get an apology prezzie for Viola. With all the work she and
her policeman husband, Terrill, were doing on their house, the hardware store had become their home away from home.
Terrill happened to be cruising by in his patrol car. He stopped and let down his window and called, “How’d it go?
Am I still Mr. DooDoo?”
Frankie snickered. “Maybe. She wound up calling me to help her finish.”
“Did you?”
“Sort of but not really. I’m on pizza patrol.”
“All the works?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “If you’re lucky, we’ll save you some.”
He gave her a thumbs-up and cruised on down the street. Pizza would go a long way in making up for the wallpaper mess she’d left her friend with. Hopefully a Handy’s Hardware gift card would do the rest.
The hardware store was ready for Christmas. Someone had made fresh popcorn in the circus popcorn cart, and the aroma made her mouth water. No popcorn for her today, though.
She was on a mission.
She moved past the display of artificial trees and the shelves of Christmas lights and garlands and went straight to the checkout, where she selected a card with a hammer on it and Handy Holidays written above it in red. She spotted her pal Mitch Howard in the paint section and, after purchasing the card, went over to say a quick hi.
A hefty fifty something man in Carhartts ogled her as she walked past. She wasn’t dressed to inspire ogles in her jeans and boots and the old letterman jacket that had belonged to her husband, Ike, but she was still good-looking enough to attract attention. And she appreciated an occasional ogle (as long as it didn’t turn into a leer).
Fifty had been a hard birthday. Even though she was fit and her hair was still a rich auburn thanks to her hairdresser, she felt the passing of time like an insult with those tiny wrinkles
digging into her face and the gray hairs that were constantly multiplying and kept her going to the salon. When it came to aging, Mother Nature was not very nice to her daughters.
But oh well. What did it matter, really? Frankie wasn’t in the market for anyone to replace Ike. He was irreplaceable, and it had broken her heart and shredded her world when she
lost him four years earlier. The kid who’d taken him out had been texting and driving and had felt terrible, but feeling terrible after you’ve killed someone wasn’t enough to bring the
person back.
The community had come alongside her, offering sympathy, hugs, meals and cards, and her family and friends had checked in on her often. She’d felt their love, but nothing could replace the love she’d lost. She soldiered on, keeping the shop going, keeping her life going, reminding herself to be thankful for the people she still had left—her mother, her sister, her
daughter, Natalie, and Natalie’s little family.
And Mitch Howard, who owned Handy’s. He had been there for her both when she first started her business and again during that awful time after Ike died.
“You’ve got this,” he’d said seven years earlier after she’d signed the lease for her shop and then instantly experienced a confidence crisis. He’d said it again when he stopped by Holiday Happiness a month after Ike’s memorial and she’d confessed that she didn’t think she could go on.
“Yes, you can,” he’d assured her. “You’re a strong woman.”
He kept stopping in, often with a latte from The Coffee Stop just a couple doors down from their businesses. Next thing she knew, she was returning the favor.
It was only natural they would become close. They already were friends. She and Ike had known Mitch before she’d opened her shop and become business neighbors with him.
Of course, everyone with a house knew Mitch.
He’d taken over the hardware store after his father retired and his parents moved to Arizona. Mitch himself had moved away for a while, but he returned and settled right back in,
working again in the same store that had employed him as a teenager. Eventually he became the owner.
He was Frankie’s favorite pal, always up for helping her test out a new cop show or watching a Seahawks game together.
Like her, he was single; unlike her, he was divorced with an ex- wife who was ancient history. He was a great guy—fun-loving and kind and easygoing. And handsome—slim but broad-shouldered, with a perfect square jaw and dark hair turning to salt and pepper at the temples. Then there was that lopsided smile that her mother once said made her think of Harrison Ford. When he was young…oh, baby!
(Mom had been in touch with her inner cougar for years.)
Mitch was probably the fittest fifty-eight-year-old man in town. Him being single was a waste of man, if you asked Frankie. Not that he had.
“Leave the poor man alone,” Ike had said whenever she’d talked about finding someone for Mitch. “He’s smart enough to figure out what he wants and go for it.”
Still, she’d persisted in trying to set Mitch up because Frankie was convinced that, when it came to love, very few men were smart.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” her mother had said. This was after Frankie had shared her profound observation a few months earlier, after her latest attempt to help Mitch had failed.
“It’s different for me,” Frankie said.
Unlike Mitch and his ex, there had been no parting by mutual consent. Frankie didn’t need to try again and do better. She’d had a great marriage only to have her man snatched violently from her. One minute Ike had been off to go for a run and the next he was gone. His death had left a hole in her heart that refused to completely close. She doubted it ever
would, and even if it did, she had no desire to put herself in a position of facing such a loss again.
“Hey there,” Mitch greeted her as she joined him. “How’s the wallpapering going?”
“Hers or mine?”
He cocked his head, studied her. “Let me guess. Something went wrong.”
“Only on my side of the wall. Doing penance.” She held up the gift card, and he chuckled. “And I’m taking pizza over after I close up.”
“Can’t screw that up,” he said.
She frowned. “I hope not. I suck.”
“Nah, you don’t. It’s not easy to hang wallpaper. Anyway, you have other talents.”
“Like?”
“Helping people.”
The way she’d helped Viola. Frankie gave a snort.
“You’re good at making things happen.” He pointed out the window to where the banner hung. “The Santa Walk’s been a big success. People love you, Frankie. Not everyone
can say that.”
“It’s nice of you to say it.”
“Just speakin’ the truth.”
“Thanks for making me feel better.”
“Call it an early Christmas present. We still on for Cop Stop tomorrow night?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’ve already got the chips and salsa.”
“Good,” he said with a nod. “I’ll bring the beer.”
A blonde in black leggings, thigh-high boots and a pink wool coat strolled over. “Hi, Mitch,” she purred. “Can you help me pick out some paint for my bedroom?”
Gack, thought Frankie in disgust.
“Be right with you,” Mitch said with a smile.
“You can do better than that,” Frankie said as the woman sashayed away.
“Yeah? How?”
She could tell by that lopsided grin that he was teasing her.
She pointed a finger at him. “You need help.”
“There’s a lot of things I need, Frankie, but you helping my love life isn’t one of them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go help my customer,” he added with a wink. “Try not to be jealous.”
“You should be so lucky,” she said to his retreating back.
“Stubborn man,” she muttered, and left to go next door to her shop.
Honestly, Mitch could have his pick of women. He shouldn’t be living alone, eating takeout and tuna fish sandwiches. Getting hounded by predators in pink coats. What if one of them
succeeded? Mitch needed someone special, someone with some depth to her, someone who would see him as more than a big slice of beefcake. He really needed a guiding hand. Hers.
Of course, whoever he wound up with would have to share because Frankie had no intention of giving up her best buddy.
All the more reason to help him find his perfect Mrs. Claus.
Watch the Trailer
https://youtu.be/tDovu3LZ0Ns
About the Author
USA Today and Publisher’s Weekly best-selling author and fan favorite, Sheila Roberts has over fifty books to her credit. Under different names she’s written Regency romance novels as well as devotionals and personal development books. She has seen her novels made into movies for the Lifetime, Hallmark, and Great American Family channels.
Website ➜ https://sheilasplace.com
Facebook ➜ https://www.facebook.com/funwithsheila/
Instagram ➜ https://www.instagram.com/sheilarobertswriter/
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My Take; This was a perfect read for the holidays and I enjoyed it very much. I gave it a four out of five stars on Goodreads. I don't read alot of romance but I do like to oaround the holidays. The main character Frankie owns a Holiday store that caters to all the holidays but this is centered around Christmas with New Years thrown in. I enjoyed reading about how Frankie was trying to set up everyone else but neglecting to acknowledging her feelings. This was a good way to relax and celebrate the holidays. kI received a review copy of this book from Pump Up Your Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
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