#Excerpt “Coldwater Revenge” by James A. Ross

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Mystery

Date Published: 4/27/2021

 Publisher: Level Best Books (S&S)

 

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COLDWATER REVENGE is the story of two brothers involved with the same woman, and the ensuing crisis when one brother begins to suspect the other of helping her cover up a murder.

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EXCERPT

Billy Pearce was still alive, though neither he nor his killer knew it. The plunge into the icy darkness of Coldwater Lake brought Billy back to consciousness, but not awareness. His body filled the narrow sleeping bag. Cement blocks at his feet ensured that it found bottom and stayed there. Where his face filled the opening at the top of the bag, strobes of sparkling moonlight made prisms of the bubbles that could well be his last mortal breath. But Billy didn’t think about that. His mind was somewhere else. This had happened to him before, a long time ago, and his mind went back there now.

When Billy was thirteen, he’d decided to break into a golf course clubhouse on the far side of Wilson Cove to steal liquor that he’d heard had been left in the basement storeroom over the winter. Temperatures had been unseasonably warm for most of the month. But Billy had decided to chance the walk across the late winter ice, rather than risk being spotted along the lake road at an hour when boys his age were presumed to be in school.

The frozen ice crackled and popped beneath his feet like a bowl of breakfast cereal. Billy imagined the party he would have with the liquor he was going to steal. And while he busied himself with a short mental list of who he could invite that would not rat him out, the snap, crackle pop went WHOOSH! and he plunged like a clown through a trap door into the freezing lake. In an instant, his heavy winter jacket sponged its weight in brain-numbing ice water, boots filled like pails and the whole soggy weight of it dragged him rapidly toward bottom.

But Billy didn’t panic. His egghead family may have thought him deficient because of his constant troubles in school and his indifference to books, but Billy was brighter than they knew, and a childhood of disapproval had made him stoic and unflappable.

As his body drifted toward bottom, Billy methodically removed everything that was weighing him down: jacket, boots, shirt and trousers—everything but underwear. That done, he looked for the halo of light that would mark the spot where his fall had punched a temporary hole in the rotting ice. When he found it, and before his breath could give out or his mind succumb to the numbing cold, Billy had kicked and clawed his slim, nearly naked body through the hole and onto the ice.

Now, on a starless October night a dozen years later, his mind went back to that time where his body knew what to do and his brain was confident that everything would be all right if he just didn’t panic. Inside the sleeping bag, his hands methodically removed a coat that was not really there, kicked off a pair of heavy boots that were not there either and lastly slipped-off the trousers that were. Then, as his face turned to find the wall of white where memory told him a patch of brighter white would guide him to a hole he must find and climb through if he were to survive, he abruptly ceased to remember, or to think at all. Because this time, Billy Pearce was dead.

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About the Author

James A. Ross has at various times been a Peace Corps Volunteer, a CBS News Producer in the Congo, a Congressional Staffer and a Wall Street Lawyer. His short fiction has appeared in numerous literary publications and his short story, Aux Secours, was recently nominated for a Pushcart prize.

 

 

 

 

 

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#Excerpt “List of Fears” by Trevor Shane

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Mystery

 

Date Published: 2/1/2021

What would you do if God asked you to help destroy the world?

After a full-grown gorilla is kidnapped in the middle of the night from the San Diego Zoo, Jim is hired by a Hollywood movie producer to try to track down the animal. Following the death of a child and the collapse of a marriage, Jim has been surviving as a private detective in Los Angeles. Jim follows the peculiar trial of clues, including the business card of a mysterious gypsy fortune teller, deep into the dark abandoned subway tunnels beneath New York City. Meanwhile, a young boy in Brooklyn secretly keeps a list of his fears in his closet, adding fears and crossing them off as he ages. Near the top of the list is one word that has never been crossed off: “God”. Their lives become mixed in this darkly relevant, heart pounding adventure that will keep you up at night, making you ask yourself questions that you may not be ready to answer.

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EXCERPT

Darryl lay in his bed in the darkness, doing everything in his power not fall asleep. He clenched and unclenched his toes, hoping the movement would keep him awake. Then he did the same thing with his fists. He dug his fingernails deeply into his palms so that it hurt. It still wasn’t working. He could feel the lids of his eyes growing heavier with each passing moment. He opened his eyes as wide as he could and stared up at the dark, empty ceiling. His eyes began to burn as invisible specs of dust landed on his eyeballs. He fought the urge to close his eyes, but they began to water, and he was soon forced to blink. A tear trickled down the side of his face.

None of physical tricks that Darryl had used in the past were working so he knew what he had to do. He hated it, but he knew he had to. Darryl began replaying baseball games that he’d played in park in his head. To ease himself into it, Darryl started by thinking about positive moments, moments when he got a hit or made a nice catch or throw. But remembering the good moments did nothing to keep him awake. In fact, they only seemed to speed up his drift into unconsciousness, so Darryl took the next step. He started picturing every mistake that he had ever made on the baseball field in his mind.

He recalled the ridicule when he struck out, the cat calls when he booted a ground ball.

Over and over again, he let himself relive the moment when he had dropped an easy fly ball, allowing the other team to score three runs and win the game. His stomach turned but, on that night, even the bad memories weren’t doing the job. No matter what Darryl did, his mind kept drifting towards emptiness.

Darryl wondered if he’d been awake long enough already. He sat up in his bed and listened. He turned the side of his head towards the open bedroom door and listened.

Beneath the sounds of the television, Darryl could still faintly hear the sound of his mother shuffling around the living room. She was still awake. He needed her to be asleep.

He didn’t dare get out of bed until she was asleep. Desperate, Darryl decided to take drastic measures. He began to imagine bodies, dead bodies. He imagined them piling up atop a wheelbarrow being pushed slowly down a dirt road. The bodies were piled up so high that Darryl couldn’t even make out the face of the man behind them, pushing the wheelbarrow. The image in his head was so vivid that he could smell the stench rising off the rotting corpses. He could hear the sound of the flies buzzing around them. His heart began to race. He could feel sweat rise on his palms. He endured. He didn’t even try to wrench the image from his head. It was working. The image haunted him. He knew that, now that the image was in his head, he was stuck with it. He had no power over it any more. Darryl followed the image of the cart in his mind. Every so often someone would come out of house along the side of the dirt road and throw another body on to the heap.

Darryl could see each of the bodies so clearly. Their skin was almost a translucent but still had a strange blue hue. The bodies were covered in boils and bruises. He saw their faces, void of expression, their eyes glassy and empty; their jaws hanging slack beneath their noses. Time passed. Real time passed. Darryl didn’t know how much time, but he knew that he was still awake. Sleep wasn’t going to come to him for a long time now.

Darryl sat up in his bed again. He could still here the sound of the voices coming from the television, but the sound of his mother’s shuffling was gone. It worked. At least, it seemed to work. Even as young as Darryl was, however, he wasn’t the type to take a thing like that for granted. Before he made his next move, he had to see for himself that his mother was truly asleep. He pulled his sheets aside and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Before he’d gotten into bed, Darryl had placed a pair of socks on his night stand. He grabbed them now and slipped them on to his feet. He used the socks to muffle the sound of his footsteps. He dropped his newly sock adorned feet onto the linoleum floor and stoop up.

It wasn’t a long walk down the hallway from Darryl’s bedroom to the living room. During the daytime Darryl didn’t even notice the distance. During the night, however, in the darkness, trying to be silent, the hallway looked long and ominous. The darkness stretched it out like a hallway in a funhouse. At the far end of the hallway, Darryl could see the blue-gray shadows born from the flickering light of the television as the shadows danced along the walls. It made the walls appear to be alive. Darryl put one hand against the wall behind him and stepped slowly down the hallway towards the moving shadows. He placed each foot on the floor gently before putting any weight on it, making sure no footstep squeaked. All the while, he listened. He listened to see if he could hear any sound other than the laughter echoing from the audience of whatever late-night talk show his mother watched as she fell asleep.

Slowly, Darryl found himself near the end of the hallway. He leaned his back against the wall so that the living room was behind him. He took a deep breath. Then, with only one eye at first, he leaned into the emptiness of the doorway and peeked into the living room. At first all he could see was moving light. The light from the television was so much brighter. It flashed around the room, changing colors and intensity with each new second. It took a moment for Darryl’s eyes to adjust. When his eyes finished adjusting to the flickering light, he could see his mother lying with her eyes closed in the middle of the pull-out sofa. Ever since his father left them—so for almost as long as Darryl could remember—his mother had fallen asleep with the television on. At some point in the middle of the night she would wake up and turn it off. She used to sleep in Darryl’s room. Darryl used to sleep on the sofa. Then, when Darryl turned ten years old, his mother gave him his own room and she began to sleep on the pull-out. It was his birthday present. His mother said that a growing boy needed to have some privacy. Even though his mother still wouldn’t let him close his door after nine o’clock at night, it was by far the best present Darryl had ever gotten.

Darryl stared at his mother. Even sleeping, there was no peace in her face. Her eyes were closed tight, and her mouth was turned down in an unpleasant scowl. Her jaw was clenched, and Darryl could see her grinding her teeth together. Darryl traced his eyes down to her chest. He watched her chest rise and fall with each breath. He counted the number of seconds for each rise and fall. Three seconds—that’s what he was comfortable with. He knew from experience that if each breath took three seconds, that meant his mother was sound asleep. He counted. Inhale. One, two. Exhale. Three. He was satisfied.

Now he could get the work.

The walk back to his room was quicker, but Darryl still took each step carefully, trying not to make any noise. When Darryl got to his room, he took a flashlight out of the drawer in his nightstand and flicked it on. He immediately flashed the light into each dark corner of his room to make sure that he was alone. Then he walked over to his closet door and slowly opened it. He pushed aside the shirts that were hanging in the closet and made his way towards the back corner. He shined the light on a pair of old sneakers that he had resting on the top of a shoebox. He had drawn an outline of the soles of the sneakers on the cardboard lid of the shoebox so that he could tell if anyone had moved the sneakers.

They were still in place. He reached down and picked the shoes off the shoebox and placed them behind him. Then, the beam of the flashlight still his only source of light, Darryl sat down on the closet floor and leaned up against the wall. He lifted the lid off the shoebox. Inside was another, older pair of sneakers. He stuck his fingers inside the left shoe and grabbed the list. He pulled out a roll of paper from an old, desktop calculator.

He’d found the roll years earlier when he and his friend Benny had snuck into the old abandoned middle school down at the end of Benny’s block. They climbed in through a broken basement window and ran around inside for hours breaking glass and exploring old lockers. Darryl saw the ancient looking calculator in one of the classrooms with the roll of paper hanging from the back. The paper had yellowed at its edges over time.

Without knowing why, he took the roll, shoving it in his pocket and not even telling Benny about it. He brought it home and did nothing with it for months. Then one day he needed it and he knew exactly why he’d taken it and what he was meant to do with it.

Darryl reached inside the other sneaker and pulled out a thick pencil. He took his flashlight and propped it up between his shoulder and his cheek. He slid the fingers of his left hand into the center of the roll of paper and slowly began pulling the end of the paper with his right hand. The paper slid out from the scroll, revealing the markings that Darryl had made over time. They were words. Some of the words were crossed off but many remained untouched. Darryl kept unrolling the scroll into he got to empty space. He had unrolled nearly four feet of paper. Then, in the empty space, beneath the word Zombies Darryl began to write. He stopped for only a second to determine the exact word or words that he should write. It was important that he write the right thing. His history book had used a number of different names—the bubonic plague, the black plague. The one he chose was Black Death, being sure to capitalize the first letters of each word. He felt a chill drift down his spine as he wrote the words.

After writing the words, Darryl stayed hunched in the corner of his closet, the yellow beam from the flashlight barely cutting through the darkness. Darryl took a few moments to look at the words he had just written. He remembered the illustrations from his history book. He remembered his teacher’s descriptions. His classmates had giggled and joked. Darryl didn’t think it was funny. Black Death. Darryl looked at the words one more time. Satisfied, Darryl began to slowly roll his list of fears back up, scanning the list as he went. This was the most important part of the ritual. Every time Darryl added a new fear to the list, he looked at all of his old fears to see if there were any that he could cross off the list. His eyes scanned past the names of monsters like zombies, werewolves and vampires. He glanced at the names of kids from his school, older kids and bullies. His eyes moved over the names of animals: lions, alligators, snakes, rats, bats. The word dogs appeared on the list, but Darryl had crossed it off. He liked dogs now. Now he knew how to put his hand out so that they could smell him before he pet them. The further up the list Darryl got the greater the frequency of crossed off words. Darryl looked at each crossed off word with pride. He was no longer afraid of water after learning how to swim at the local pool. Darryl’s friend Elton had made the list when he first moved into the neighborhood because Elton was so big, but then they became friends when they were seated next to each other in science class. Some words that Darryl had crossed off were added again. Sometimes conquered fears returned. The word Dad appeared on the list at least eight times. It was the first word Darryl ever put on the list. He started the list after his father came to their house drunk one night. Darryl had watched helplessly as his father slapped his mother in the face with his open hand. That night, as Darryl hid in his closet in fear, he started the list. The word Mom appeared on the list five times. It was the second word Darryl ever added. All five of the Moms were currently crossed out. The same couldn’t be said for the most recently added Dad. The night Darryl added Black Death, he didn’t find any words that he could cross off. He hadn’t conquered any new fears. Slowly, Darryl made it to the beginning of the list. He could see the words Dad  and Mom at the very top, both crossed off there. His hand writing was so much better now.

Then Darryl looked at the third word on the list, right below the words Dad and Mom with their lines running through them. The third word was the highest word on the list that Darryl had never crossed off. It stood out among all the other crossed off words, surrounded by fears that Darryl had overcome long ago. Darryl didn’t need to think about whether or not to he should cross the word off this time. He knew that he was still afraid.

He looked at the word. He had capitalized it without even really thinking about it when he wrote it. The word was God. It had been written so long ago that Darryl barely recognized the child’s handwriting that it was written in. Darryl remembered writing it though. He remembered the fear. After staring at the word for what could have been a few seconds but also could have been an eternity, Darryl finished rolling up the scroll. He placed it back inside the right sneaker and placed the pencil back inside the left. He put the lid back on the shoebox and carefully lined up the second pair of sneakers inside the trace marks on top of the lid. Then he turned off the flashlight and stepped quietly back out of the closet. Slowly, gently, Darryl climbed back into bed.

It took Darryl a long time before he was able to fall asleep.

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About The Author


Trevor Shane’s novels have been published across the globe in numerous different languages. He is the author of the Children of Paranoia series and the award-nominated Memory Detective series. He is a graduate of Columbia University and Georgetown Law Center. He currently lives in Brooklyn with his wife and two sons.

 

Contact Links

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Twitter:@childofparanoia

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Purchase Link

Amazon

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#BookTour “Three Missing Days” by Colleen Coble

April 5 – 30, 2021 Tour

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Synopsis:

 

Book Three in the gripping romantic suspense series from USA TODAY bestselling author Colleen Coble.

A chilling murder.

Chief of Police Jane Hardy plunges into the investigation of a house fire that claimed the life of a local woman as well as one of the firefighters. It’s clear the woman was murdered. But why? The unraveling of Jane’s personal life only makes the answers in the case more difficult to find.

Her son’s arrest.

Then Jane’s fifteen-year-old son is accused of a horrific crime, and she has to decide whether or not she can trust her ex, Reid, in the attempt to prove Will’s innocence—and whether she can trust Reid with her heart.

Her stolen memories.

Three days of Jane’s past are missing from her memory, and that’s not all that has been stolen from her. As she works to find the woman’s murderer and clear her son’s name, finding out what happened in those three days could change everything. It all started with one little lie. But the gripping truth is finally coming out.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
Published by: Thomas Nelson
Publication Date: April 6th 2021
Number of Pages: 352
ISBN: 0785228543 (ISBN13: 9780785228547)
Series: Pelican Harbor #3 || These books are Stand Alone Mysteries but are better if read as a series!
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | ChristianBook.com | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

“I know what you did.”

The muffled voice on her phone raised the hair on the back of Gail Briscoe’s head, and she swiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Look, I’ve reported these calls. Don’t call me again.”

She ended the call with a hard finger punch on the screen and stepped onto her front porch. The late-May Alabama air wrapped her in a blanket of heat and humidity, and she couldn’t wait to wash it off. She should have left the light on before she went for her predawn run. The darkness pressing against her isolated home sent a shudder down her back, and she fumbled her way inside. Welcome light flooded the entry, and she locked the door and the dead bolt with a decisive click that lifted her confidence.

She stared at the number on the now-silent phone. The drugstore again. Though there weren’t many pay phones around anymore, the old soda shop and drugstore still boasted a heavy black phone installed back in the sixties. The caller always used it, and so far, no one had seen who was making the calls. The pay phone was located off an alley behind the store by a Dumpster so it was out of sight.

The guy’s accusation was getting old. Counting today, this made seven calls with the same message. Could he possibly know about the investigation? She rejected the thought before it had a chance to grow. It wasn’t public knowledge, and it would be over soon. She clenched her hands and chewed on her bottom lip. She had to be vindicated.

But who could it be, and what did he want?

Leaving a trail of sweaty yoga shorts and a tee behind her, she marched to the bathroom and turned the spray to lukewarm before she stepped into the shower. The temperature shocked her overheated skin in a pleasant way, and within moments she was cooled down. She increased the temperature a bit and let the water sluice over her hair.

As she washed, she watched several long strands of brown hair swirl down the drain as she considered the caller’s accusation. The police had promised to put a wiretap on her phone, but so far the guy hadn’t stayed on the phone long enough for a trace to work. And it was Gail’s own fault. She should have talked with him more to string out the time.

She dried off and wrapped her hair in a turban, then pulled on capris and a top. Her phone vibrated again. She snatched it up and glanced at the screen. Augusta Richards.

“I got another call, Detective. Same phone at the drugstore. Could you set up a camera there?”

“I hope I’m not calling too early, and I don’t think that’s necessary. The owner just told me that old pay phone is being removed later today. Maybe that will deter the guy. It’s the only pay phone in town. He’ll have to use something else if he calls again.”

“He could get a burner phone.”

“He might,” the detective admitted. “What did he say?”

“The same thing—‘I know what you did.’”

“Do you have any idea what it means?”

Gail flicked her gaze away to look out the window, where the first colors of the sunrise limned the trees. “Not a clue.”

“Make sure you lock your doors and windows. You’re all alone out there.”

“Already locked. Thanks, Detective.” Gail ended the call.

Ever since Nicole Pearson’s body had been found a couple of months ago, no one needed to remind Gail she lived down a dirt road with no next-door neighbors. No one wanted to buy the neighboring place after such a lurid death, so the area remained secluded other than a couple of houses about a mile away and out closer to the main road.

She stood back from the window. It was still too dark to see. Was someone out there?

Pull back the reins on your imagination. But once the shudders started, they wouldn’t stop. Her hands shaking, she left her bedroom and went to pour herself a cup of coffee with a generous splash of half-and-half from the fridge. She had a stack of lab orders to process, and she couldn’t let her nerves derail her work.

The cups rattled as she snatched one from the cupboard. The coffee sloshed over the rim when she poured it, then she took a big gulp of coffee. It burned all the way down her throat, and tears stung her eyes as she sputtered. The heat settled her though, and she checked the locks again before she headed to her home office with her coffee.

No one could see in this tiny cubicle with no window, but she rubbed the back of her neck and shivered. She’d work for an hour, then go into the lab. The familiar ranges and numbers comforted her. She sipped her coffee and began to plow through the stack of papers. Her eyes kept getting heavy. Weird. Normally she woke raring to go every morning.

Maybe she needed more coffee. She stretched out her neck and back and picked up the empty coffee cup.

Gail touched the doorknob and cried out. She stuck her first two fingers in her mouth. What on earth?

The door radiated heat. She took a step back as she tried to puzzle out what was happening, but her brain couldn’t process it at first. Then tendrils of smoke oozed from under the door in a deadly fog.

Fire. The house was on fire.

She spun back toward the desk, but there was nothing she could use to protect herself. There was no way of egress except through that door.

If she wanted to escape, she’d have to face the inferno on the other side.

She snatched a throw blanket from the chair and threw it over her head, then ran for the door before she lost her courage. When she yanked it open, a wall of flames greeted her, but she spied a pathway down the hall to her bedroom. Ducking her head, she screamed out a war cry and plowed through the flames.

In moments she was in the hall where the smoke wasn’t so thick. She pulled in a deep breath as she ran for her bedroom. She felt the cool air as soon as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Too late she realized the window was open, and a figure stepped from the closet.

Something hard came down on her head, and darkness descended.

***

Excerpt from Three Missing Days by Colleen Coble. Copyright 2021 by Thomas Nelson. Reproduced with permission from Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.

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Author Bio:

Colleen Coble

Colleen Coble is a USA TODAY bestselling author and RITA finalist best known for her coastal romantic suspense novels, including The Inn at Ocean’s Edge, Twilight at Blueberry Barrens, and the Lavender Tides, Sunset Cove, Hope Beach, and Rock Harbor series.

Connect with Colleen online at:
colleencoble.com
Goodreads
BookBub: @ColleenCoble
Instagram: @colleencoble
Twitter: @colleencoble
Facebook: @colleencoblebooks

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Tour Participants:

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

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Giveaway!

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Colleen Coble and Thomas Nelson. ONE (1) winner will receive ONE (1) physical set of the first three books in the Pelican Harbor series. (U.S. addresses only). The giveaway begins on April 5, 2021 and runs through May 2, 2021. Void where prohibited.

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Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

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#BookReview “Sweet Paradise” by Gene Desrochers

book cover

April 5 – May 7, 2021 Tour

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5/5 Stars!

Boise Montague is a bona fide private investigator. He has an office with his name outside above the cantaloupe-colored door.

Now he just needs some clients.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), he’s hired when Francine Bacon, the matriarch of the island’s leading wealthy, goes missing.  Boise will navigate dark family secrets, a decades-old grudge, and brushes with death before the case ends.

As if that weren’t enough, Boise will have to face the truth about himself. The peace he’s longed for since losing his wife eludes him, and numbing his inner pain with alcohol isn’t working.

It was good to spend time in Boise’s world again. He may not be Bond or Magnum, PI… or even Barnaby Jones, but he does have skills and gut instinct to see him through. Now all he needs to do is stop drinking.

The balmy climes of St. Thomas provide the perfect imagery and color for Sweet Paradise.

Enjoy!

~~~

Synopsis:

Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers

Kudos:

“Boise Montague, intrepid St. Thomas, V.I. private investigator, returns in SWEET PARADISE. Talented author Gene Desrochers delivers a suspense-filled tale overflowing with duplicitous characters and greed-driven agendas in lushly authentic Caribbean environs. A mature generation is determined to hold tight to the empire that provides them with every luxury, while the next generation attempts to fulfill its dreams … Others will compromise all that is decent. And Boise Montague will do what he does best as he separates the winners from the losers and the innocent from the guilty. A 5-star read.”
–Laura Taylor – 6-Time Romantic Times Award Winner

“Boise is back! Gene Desrochers returns his readers to the island paradise of St. Thomas. You’ll feel the warm tropical breeze as Private Investigator Boise Montague must discover [what happened to] the matriarch of a wealthy island rum producer. The deeper he digs, the closer he gets to his own mortality. Wandering and sometimes stumbling through his investigation, Boise learns about family secrets—and they could kill him. Outstanding writing and the vivid setting will keep you transfixed.”
–R. D. Kardon, award-winning author of Flygirl and Angel Flight

Book Details:

Genre: Murder Mystery

Published by: Acorn Publishing

Publication Date: April 6th 2021

Number of Pages: 299

ISBN: 9781952112379

Series: Boise Montague, #2 (Each book in the series is a stand alone mystery)

Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

~~~

Tour Participants:

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

~~~

Enter To Win!:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Gene Desrochers. There will be two (2) winners. Each winner will receive an Amazon.com gift card. The giveaway begins on April 5, 2021 and runs through May 9, 2021. Void where prohibited.

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Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

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#BookTour “Sweet Paradise” by Gene Desrochers

Sweet Paradise BannerApril 5 – May 7, 2021 Tour

~~~

Synopsis:

Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers

In this harrowing Caribbean noir murder mystery, we meet Private Investigator Boise Montague, a man on the brink who is trying to get his life together after his wife died. He has returned to his childhood home and he’s started a private investigator firm of one. Since returning, his drinking has accelerated and he needs clients desperately before the life insurance money dries up.

Enter Junior Bacon, grandson of Francine Bacon of the Bacon sugar and rum empire. Granny’s gone missing and Junior wants Boise to figure out what happened.

As Boise delves into the mystery of the missing matriarch, a reporter associated with her winds up dead in his new office, dramatically raising the stakes. Now Boise must contend with questions from the police, the newspaper president, and the reporter’s widow.

As Boise investigates he uncovers surprising truths about a woman seeking redemption, a family on the brink, and why no matter how hard we try, the past can sometimes never be fixed.

In the end, Boise must not only confront a killer, but the island’s dark history and his own inner demons.

Kudos:

“Boise Montague, intrepid St. Thomas, V.I. private investigator, returns in SWEET PARADISE. Talented author Gene Desrochers delivers a suspense-filled tale overflowing with duplicitous characters and greed-driven agendas in lushly authentic Caribbean environs. A mature generation is determined to hold tight to the empire that provides them with every luxury, while the next generation attempts to fulfill its dreams … Others will compromise all that is decent. And Boise Montague will do what he does best as he separates the winners from the losers and the innocent from the guilty. A 5-star read.”
–Laura Taylor – 6-Time Romantic Times Award Winner

“Boise is back! Gene Desrochers returns his readers to the island paradise of St. Thomas. You’ll feel the warm tropical breeze as Private Investigator Boise Montague must discover [what happened to] the matriarch of a wealthy island rum producer. The deeper he digs, the closer he gets to his own mortality. Wandering and sometimes stumbling through his investigation, Boise learns about family secrets—and they could kill him. Outstanding writing and the vivid setting will keep you transfixed.”
–R. D. Kardon, award-winning author of Flygirl and Angel Flight

Book Details:

Genre: Murder Mystery

Published by: Acorn Publishing

Publication Date: April 6th 2021

Number of Pages: 299

ISBN: 9781952112379

Series: Boise Montague, #2 (Each book in the series is a stand alone mystery)

Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

~~~

Read an excerpt:

The first coat was drying. More droplets of sweat rivered between my shoulder blades as I slugged water and Guinness alternately. Two in the afternoon was no time to be painting in the October heat, but I didn’t know what else to do and sitting around worrying about my looming penury seemed pointless.

The used old-timey clock radio I’d picked up at Bob’s Store babbled on about hurricane warnings as reception fizzled in and out. It was the latter part of hurricane season and we’d seen minimal storm damage in the region. We might dodge hurricanes for one or two years running, but it was never long enough to truly get complacent about them the way places like New Orleans had.

The overhead fan whirred. Outside my door sunlight filtered thinly through a cloud, illuminating the traffic circle a faint ocher. As I considered the faded lines denoting parking spaces and the cracked pavement, a young man bobbed into my line of sight. He was one of those people who walked on his toes at all times, like the tendons in his calves were so tight his heels couldn’t touch the ground for more than an instant before popping up again. He squinted at the building, turning his head back and forth, then perusing a sheet of paper clutched in both hands. A green Osprey backpack hung loosely off his shoulders. People in California used them for hiking. He tugged at the built-in sippy straw and sucked. The bubbly slurping of the last drops of water in his pouch filtered up to me. Disappointment clouded his face.

His attention snagged on my door. I grinned and gave myself a mental pat on the back. He shifted one hand to his hip and gave a slight lean. I wasn’t sure whether I should let him see me in my ratty painting outfit, but figured that could be explained by the wet door. A spooge of cantaloupe paint dominated the center of my gray t-shirt. I eased the door open a couple more feet.

“Help you?” I asked. “You look lost.”

“Nice door.” He pointed at his forehead and swirled his finger around. “You got some.”

He was college-aged and his face was sunburned, as were his arms. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants, a classic tourist outfit.

He continued to stand in the same spot, squinting and considering the sheet of paper. I returned to my inner office, needing another sip of water and the breeze from the fan. Out my open doorway, I could barely make out the top of his Caesar-style haircut.

“You should get a hat!” I hollered out.

His head rose up from the paper and he pushed up on tip-toes so I could see his eyes. “The sun’s doing a number on you,” I said. “Want a drink of water?”

He stared at me a while with a strange stillness, like he was in no hurry as he weighed every option. This boy was a local and he would pull me into events that would rock one of the largest industries in the Virgin Islands.

“Do you have Perrier?”

***

Excerpt from Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers. Copyright 2021 by Gene Desrochers. Reproduced with permission from Gene Desrochers. All rights reserved.

 

~~~

Author Bio:

Gene Desrochers

Gene Desrochers hails from a dot in the Caribbean Sea called St. Thomas. He grew up with minimal supervision and free-roaming animals in a guesthouse that also served as a hospital during wartime. If you ask, he will regale you with his Caribbean accent and tennis prowess.

After a lifetime of writing and telling short stories, he ventured into the deep end, publishing his first novel, Dark Paradise in 2018. Sweet Paradise is Gene’s second published novel in the Boise Montague Series.

He lives in Southern California with his wife, step-daughter, and two cats.

Catch Up With Gene Desrochers:
GeneDesrochers.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @problemsolvergene
Instagram – @authorgenedesrochers
Twitter – @problemsolverge
Facebook – @ggdesrochers

~~~

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#Excerpt “Concrete Clockwork (The Philanthropist, Book 1)” by Laura Breck

~~~

The Philanthropist, Book 1

Suspense

Published: March 2021

Ex-military operative Lottie Nightshade is enjoying civilian life helping her widowed sister raise three teenagers. When a last-minute job interview turns out to be blackmail, her peaceful days are over. Lottie is given two choices, and the least deplorable of them is doing wetwork for an eccentric millionaire.

Philanthropist Dane Harrington has no option but to blackmail Lottie Nightshade. Dane was contracted to terminate a bomber who threatened to level a new arena in St. Paul, Minnesota. The stakes are too high to trust the time-critical mission to anyone but a skilled operative, and Dane knows Ms. Nightshade will not do the job willingly.

When the bomber realizes he’s been targeted for extermination, the hired killer is already closing in on him. The only way he’ll live to trigger the arena’s destruction is by stopping Lottie Nightshade.

Lottie feels the bomber’s cold stare watching her every move as the timer ticks closer to detonation. When he sets off a series of explosions and people begin to die, Lottie realizes she may need to give up her own life to end the bomber’s.

~~~

Excerpt

Loud ringing jerked Lottie out of her dream. The papers on her chest slid onto the bed as she sat up and looked around for the source.

The sound came from her backpack. One of her burner phones? Lunging for the bag, she dumped the contents on her bed and picked up the live one.

Hello?”

Is this the woman who handed out pictures of the old man?” The female voice sounded jittery. “I have information for you, but you have to meet me right now.”

Lottie stood; the phone pressed to her ear. It had to be one of the hotel or restaurant staff she’d given Balfour’s photo to.

Can you just tell me…”

You promised money.” Was she crying? “Meet me at the RestRight motel downtown, room 528. I need the cash. Right now.”

Okay, I’ll meet you, but not there.” Lottie checked the time. 9:15 PM. She couldn’t risk losing the contact, but she wouldn’t walk into a trap. “No hotel, though. Meet me inside the train station on Kellogg. You know where that is?

The woman sucked in air three times “Um, yeah, okay, where?”

Inside the front door, to the left side there are bathrooms. The women’s room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Hurry. Please.” She ended the call.

Lottie jumped off the bed and used her phone to call the security team. “I need a car. Right now.” She grabbed the tactical bag with her phones and guns, the rucksack with her disguises, and the cash Harrington had given her, and stuffed it all into her backpack.

Got it.” A woman’s voice. “Head west down the alley to the fourth garage after yours, the one with the green lightbulb.”

I need a body cam and comms.”

Roger.”

She relayed the meeting place. “Get a team there now, the security crew. Low profile but armed.”

Already on their way.”

She ended the call. Harrington’s team knew exactly what was happening. Did they listen in on every call she made and received?

Why hadn’t Harrington told her? Why hadn’t she realized that earlier? She should have known he’d keep her under a microscope.

Lottie stopped and breathed for a minute, checking off everything she needed to bring, everything she needed to do. Walking toward the root cellar exit, she dialed Harrington’s number on one of the disposables. After their confirmation routine, he asked, “Yes?”

I got a tip off one of the photos. I’m going to meet her now.”

Details.”

Lottie gave him the info as she walked down the dark alley toward the green light.

Your body cam, they’ll feed it live to me. I have to jump.” Harrington ended the call.

Lottie stepped into the open side-door of the garage. Stone held a small device which he attached to Lottie’s waistband. “When you enter, turn full-circle to scan the room so we get the lay.” He tipped his head. “I didn’t need to tell you that, did I.”

Lottie held back a smirk.

A woman approached. “Earpiece.”

Lottie put the tiny speaker in her ear and held out her hand. “Car fob.”

Lottie slid into the driver’s seat of the pantyhose-colored car and rolled down the window. “What’s the team’s 20?”

Five minutes out.”

The garage door rolled upward.

Stone leaned close. “We’re right behind you.”

Lottie shifted and drove out of the garage. She needed to go. Fast. Before the caller had a chance to change her mind.

As she raced along side streets, she tucked a gun into her waistband and one in her boot. She put a disposable phone in her pants pocket.

She pulled into a Security Only parking spot in front of the station and walked up the steps to the huge front doors. Running through her prep, she cleared her mind, and pinpoint focused.

Stealthy at the front door.” Stone’s voice in her ear bud. “Caller already in the designated room.” The woman was here already.

By the time she stood outside the women’s room, she was a rock. She pushed the door open and put her foot out to stop the door from closing. She looked behind it. Nothing.

On the far side of the room, a short woman with dark, shoulder-length hair gestured Lottie into the room, her movements jerky, her eyes wild, red, like she’d been crying. She wore a baggy t-shirt and shorts, flip-flops on her feet.

Lottie went on full alert. “Pull up your shirt, turn in a circle. All the way up to your neck.” Lottie needed to check her for explosives and weapons.

She did as she was told, stumbling once, then froze and stared at something.

Around again, please. Slower.” She performed the turn again. Her shorts were too tight to conceal anything. “Pull up your hair now and turn again.” She was clean.

Turning her body, Lottie let the camera see what she was looking at. Two toilet stalls, empty. Further into the room, two sinks on one side and on the other wall a plastic baby changing table that held a small, propped-up tablet.

No window, drop ceiling, the flimsy kind.

Lottie stepped into the room and let the door close behind her.

You called me?”

The woman stood in front of the changing table looking at the tablet. She nodded, not looking at her.

Tell me what you know.” Lottie kept her voice soft to calm the woman.

He.” The woman pointed to the tablet, her hand shaking.

Shit. Was she saying the man in Lottie’s photo was someone online? This would be a waste of time. Lottie spoke slowly. “Where is the man?”

I’m here Lottie.” A deep male voice. From the tablet.

Chills ran down her spine.

~~~

~~~

About The Author


I’ve written more than 40 books in my career, and I’m very excited to have a new pen name, and a new genre – Suspense! My hot new series, The Philanthropist, features books that bring you Gripping Suspense Outside the Law. I’m sure you’ll find them as unique and interesting as I do.

Contact Links

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~~~

#BookBlast “Dead In The Water: A Provincetown Mystery (Sydney Riley Series Book 8)” by Jeannette de Beauvoir

April 27, 2021 Book Blast

cover

 

Book Details:

Family Can Be Murder

Sydney Riley’s stretch of planned relaxation between festivals is doomed from the start. Her parents, ensconced at the Race Point Inn, expect her to play tour guide. Wealthy adventurer Guy Husband has reappeared, seeking to regain her friend Mirela’s affections. And the body of a kidnapped businessman has been discovered under MacMillan Wharf!

Sydney is literally at sea (by far not her favorite place!) balancing these expectations with her supersized curiosity. Is the murder the work of a regional gang led by the infamous “Codfather” or the result of a feud within an influential Provincetown family? What’s Guy Husband’s connection, and why is it suddenly so important that her boyfriend Ali come for a visit—especially while her mother is in town?

Master of crime Jeannette de Beauvoir brings her unique blend of irony and intrigue to this humorous—and sometimes horrendous—convergence of family and fatality.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery

Published by: HomePort Press

Publication Date: May 1st 2021

Number of Pages: 309

ISBN: 9781734053371

Series: Sydney Riley Series, Book #8 | Each is a stand alone Mystery

Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

~~~

Read an excerpt from Dead In The Water:

Chapter One

It was, I told myself, all my worst nightmares come true. All at once.

I may live at Land’s End, out at the tip of Cape Cod where the land curls into itself and for centuries foghorns warned of early death and disaster; I may have, yes, been out on boats on the Atlantic waters, laughably close to shore; but no, I’d never gotten used to any of it. I like floors that don’t move under my feet. I like knowing I could conceivably make it back to land on my own steam should something go wrong. (Well the last bit is a fantasy: without a wetsuit, the cold would get me before the fatigue did. But the point still stands.)

I was having this plethora of cheerful thoughts for two reasons. I had allowed myself to be persuaded to go on a whale watch. And the person standing beside me on the deck was my mother.

Like all stories that involve me and my mother, this one started with guilt. I’d had, safe to say, a rough year. I’d broken my arm (and been nearly killed) at an extremely memorable film festival here in Provincetown in the spring, and then during Women’s Week that October had met up with another murderer—seriously, it’s as if my friend Julie Agassi, the head of the town’s police detective squad, is right, and I go looking for these things.

I don’t, but people are starting to wonder.

Meanwhile, my mother was busily beating her you-never-call-you-never-write drum and I just couldn’t face seeing her for the holidays. My life was already complicated enough, and there’s no one like my mother for complicating things further. She’s in a class by herself. Other contenders have tried valiantly to keep up, before falling, one by one, by the wayside. Not even death or divorce can complicate my life the way my mother manages to. She perseveres.

On the other hand, circumstances had over the past year given her a run for her money. My boyfriend Ali—who after several years my mother continued to refer to as that man—and I had become sudden and accidental godparents to a little girl named Lily when our friend Mirela adopted her sister’s unwanted baby. And the godparents thing—which I’d always assumed to be a sort of ceremonial role one trotted out at Christmas and birthdays—had become very real when Mirela was arrested, incarcerated, and investigated as to her parenting suitability last October, and suddenly we were in loco parentis. I took the baby to Ali’s Boston apartment and we holed up there for over a month. Mirela had joined us for the last week of it and I can honestly say I’ve never been more relieved to see anyone in my life.

I was trying, but motherhood was clearly not my gig. Maybe there’s something to that DNA thing, after all.

What with one thing and another, it was this January before I was thinking straight. I’d gone back to my life in P’town and my work—I’m the wedding and events planner for the Race Point Inn, one of the town’s nicer establishments, though I do say it myself—and really believed I was finally feeling back to what passes for normal again when my mother began her barrage of guilt-laden demands. Had I forgotten I had parents? I could travel to Boston, but not to New Hampshire?

It hadn’t helped that, because there was absolutely nothing on the inn’s events calendar for February, Ali and I decided to be the tourists for once; we’d taken off for Italy. Okay, let’s see, the short dark days of February… and a choice between snowy New Hampshire and the charms of Venice. You tell me.

Which was why I’d run out of excuses by the time my mother started taking about being on her deathbed in March. (She wasn’t.) And that my father had forgotten what I looked like in April. (He hadn’t.)

I couldn’t afford any more time off—Glenn, the inn’s owner, had already been more than generous as it was—and there was only one thing to do. I had a quick shot of Jameson’s for courage and actually called my mother, risking giving her a heart attack (the last time I’d called was roughly two administrations ago), and invited her and my father to come to Provincetown.

Which was why I now found myself on the deck of the Dolphin IV, looking for whales and listening to my mother read from the guide book. “The largest living mammal is the blue whale,” she reported.

“I know,” I acknowledged.

“The humpback whale doesn’t actually chew its food,” she said. “It filters it through baleens.”

“I know,” I replied.

She glanced at me, suspicious. “How do you know all this?”

“Ma, I live in Provincetown.” It’s just possible one or two of the year-round residents—there aren’t that many of us, the number is under three thousand—don’t know about whales, but the possibility is pretty remote. Tourism is our only real industry. Tourists stop us in the street to ask us questions.

We know about whales.

She sniffed. “You don’t have to take an attitude about it, Sydney Riley,” she said. Oh, good: we were in full complete-name reprimand mode. “You know I don’t like it when you take an attitude with me.”

“I wasn’t taking an attitude. I was stating a fact.” I could feel the slow boil of adolescent-level resentment—and attitude, yes—building. I am in my late thirties, and I can still feel about fifteen when I’m having a conversation with my mother. Breathe, Riley, I counseled myself. Just breathe. Deeply. Don’t let her get to you.

She looked around her. “Are we going to see sharks?”

I sighed. Everyone these days wants to see sharks. For a long time, the dreaded story of Jaws was just that—a story, something to watch at the drive-in movie theatre in Wellfleet (yeah, we still have one of those) and shiver deliciously at the creepy music and scream when the shark tries to eat the boat. But conservation efforts over the past eight or ten years had caused a spectacular swelling of the seal population around the Cape—we’d already seen a herd of them sunning themselves on the beach today when we’d passed Long Point—and a few years later, the Great White sharks realized where their meals had all gone, and followed suit.

That changed things rather a lot. A tourist was attacked at a Truro beach and bled out. Signs were posted everywhere. Half-eaten seal corpses washed up. The famous annual Swim for Life, which once went clear across the harbor, changed its trajectory. And everybody downloaded the Great White Shark Conservancy’s shark-location app, Sharktivity.

The reality is both scary and not-scary. We’d all been surprised to learn sharks are quite comfortable in three or four feet of water, so merely splashing in the shallows was out. But in reality sharks attack humans only when they mistake them for seals, and usually only bite once, as our taste is apparently offensive to them. People who die from a shark attack bleed out; they’re not eaten alive.

“We might,” I said to my mother now. “There are a number of kinds of sharks here—”

The naturalist’s voice came over the loudspeaker, saving me. “Ah, so the captain tells me we’ve got a female and her calf just up ahead, at about two o’clock off the bow of the boat.”

“What does that mean, two o’clock?”

He had already told us. My mother had been asking what they put in the hot dogs in the galley at the time and hadn’t stopped to listen to him. “If the front of the boat is twelve o’clock, then two o’clock is just off—there!” I exclaimed, carried away despite myself. “There! Ma, see?”

“What?”

The whale surfaced gracefully, water running off her back, bright and sparkling in the sunlight, and just as gracefully went back under. A smaller back followed suit. The denizens of the deep, here to feed for the summer, willing to show off for the boatloads of visitors who populated the whale-watch fleet every year to catch a glimpse of another life, a mysterious life echoing with otherworldly calls and harkening back to times when the oceans were filled with giants.

Before we hunted them to the brink of extinction, that is.

“This is an individual we know,” the naturalist was saying. “Her name is Perseid. Unlike some other whales, humpbacks don’t travel in pods. Instead, they exist in loose and temporary groups that shift, with individuals moving from group to group, sometimes swimming on their own. These assemblages have been referred to as fluid fission/fusion groups. The only exception to this fluidity is the cow and calf pair. This calf was born eight months ago, and while right now you’re seeing her next to Perseid, she’s going to start straying farther and farther away as the summer progresses.”

Now that my mother was quieter—even she was silent in the face of something this big, this extraordinary—I recognized the naturalist’s voice. It was Kai Bennett, who worked at the Center for Coastal Studies in town; he was a regular at the Race Point Inn’s bar scene during the winter, when we ran a trivia game and he aced all the biology questions. “And we have another one that just went right under us… haven’t yet seen who this one is,” said Kai.

The newcomer spouted right off the port side of the boat and the light wind swept a spray of fine droplets over the passengers, who exclaimed and laughed.

“I wish they’d jump more out of the water,” my mother complained. “You have to look so fast. and they blend right in.”

My mother is going to bring a list of complaints with her to give to Saint Peter when she assaults the pearly gates of heaven. I swear she is.

Kai’s voice on the loudspeaker overran my mother’s. “Ocean conservation starts with connection. We believe that, as we build personal relationships with the ocean and its wildlife, we become more invested stewards of the marine environment. Whales, as individuals, have compelling stories to tell: where will this humpback migrate this winter to give birth? Did the whale with scars from a propeller incident survive another year? What happened to the entangled whale I saw in the news?”

“Look!” yelled a passenger. “I just saw a blow over there! Look! I know I did! I’m sure of it!”

Kai continued, “For science, unique identifiable markings on a whale’s flukes—that’s the tail, folks—and on the dorsal fin allow us to non-invasively track whale movements and stories over time. By focusing on whales, we bring attention to the marine ecosystem as a whole and the challenges we face as a global community.”

“He sounds like a nice young man,” my mother remarked. “He sounds American.”

Don’t take the bait, I told myself. Don’t take the bait.

I took the bait.

“Ali is American,” I said. “He was born in Boston.”

“But his parents weren’t,” she said, with something like relish. “I just wish you could find a nice—”

I cut her off. “Ali is a nice American man,” I said.

“But why would his parents even come to America?” my mother asked, for possibly the four-thousandth time. “Everyone should just stay home. Where they belong.”

Breathe, Riley. Just breathe. “I think they would have liked to stay home,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “There was just the minor inconvenience of a civil war. Makes it difficult to enjoy your morning coffee when there’s a bomb explosion next door. Seriously, Ma, don’t you hate it when that happens?”

“You’re taking a tone with me,” my mother said. “Don’t take a tone with me.”

Kai saved me yet again. “That’s a good question,” his voice said over the loudspeaker. “For those of you who didn’t hear, this gentleman just asked how we know these whales by name. Of course, these are just names we give to them—they have their own communication systems and ways of identifying themselves and each other! So as I said, these are whales that return to the marine sanctuary every summer. Many of them are females, who can be counted on to bring their new calves up to Stellwagen Bank because they can feast on nutritious sand lance—that’s a tiny fish humpbacks just love—and teach their offspring to hunt. Together with Allied Whale in Bar Harbor at the College of the Atlantic, the Center for Coastal Studies Humpback Whale Research Group runs a study of return rates of whales based on decades of sighting data. So, in other words, we get to see the same whales, year after year. The first one ever named was a female we called Salt.” He didn’t say what I knew: that Allied Whale and the Center for Coastal Studies didn’t always play well together. For one thing, they had totally different names for the same whales. I managed to keep that fact to myself.

“Your father will wish he came along,” my mother said.

My father, to the best of my knowledge, was sitting out by the pool at the Race Point Inn, reading a newspaper and drinking a Bloody Mary. My mother was the dogged tourist in the family: when we’d gone on family vacations together, she was the one who found all the museums and statues and sights-of-interest to visit. She practically memorized guide books. My father, bemused, went along with most of it, though his idea of vacation was more centered around doing as little as possible for as much time as possible. Retirement didn’t seem to have changed that in any significant way.

“You’re here until Sunday,” I pointed out. “You can take him out.”

She sniffed. “He doesn’t know anything about whales,” she said.

“Then that’s the point. He’ll learn.” Okay, come on, give me a little credit: I was really trying here.

“Maybe,” she said darkly. “What are those other boats out there?”

I looked. “Some of them are just private boats. And a lot of the fishing charters come out here,” I said. “And when there are whales spotted, they come and look, too. Gives the customers an extra thrill.” I knew from Kai and a couple of the other naturalists that the whale-watch people weren’t thrilled with the extra attention: the private boats in particular didn’t always maintain safe distances from the whales. Once a whale was spotted and one or two of the Dolphin Fleet stopped to look, anyone within sight followed their lead. It could get quite crowded on a summer day.

And dangerous. There had been collisions in the past—boats on boats and, once that I knew of, a boat hitting a whale. Some days it was enough to despair of the human race.

Kai was talking. “Well, folks, this is a real treat! The whale that just blew on our port side is Piano, who’s a Stellwagen regular easy to identify for some unfortunate reasons, because she has both vessel propeller strike and entanglement scars. This whale is a survivor, however, and has been a regular on Stellwagen for years!” Amazing, I thought cynically, she even gave us the time of day after all that.

“I didn’t see the scars,” said my mother.

We waited around for a little while and then felt the engines start up again and the deck vibrate. I didn’t like the feeling. I knew exactly how irrational my fear was, and knowing did nothing to alleviate it. I’d had some bad experiences out on the water in the past, and that vibration brought them all back. I’d tried getting over it by occasionally renting a small sailboat with my friend Thea, but—well, again, I always thought I’d be able to swim to shore from the sailboat if anything went wrong. Not out here.

And then there was the whole not-letting-my-mother-know side to things. If she did, she’d never let me hear the end of it.

At least when we were talking about whales we weren’t talking about her ongoing matrimonial hopes for me, the matrimonial successes of (it seemed) all her friends’ offspring, and the bitter disappointment she was feeling around my approaching middle age without a husband in tow. That seemed to be where all our conversations began… and ended. And I wasn’t approaching middle age. Forty is the new thirty, and all that sort of thing.

“The captain says we have another pair coming up, folks, off to the port side now… I’m just checking them out… it’s a whale called Milkweed and her new calf! Mom is traveling below the surface right now, but you can see the calf rolling around here…” There was a pause and a murmur and then his voice came back. “No, that’s not abnormal. The baby’s learning everything it needs to know about buoyancy and swimming, and you can be sure Mom’s always close by. We’re going to slowly head back toward Cape Cod now…” And, a moment later, “Looks like Milkweed and the baby are staying with us! Folks, as you’re seeing here, whales can be just as curious about us as we are about them! What Milkweed is doing now—see her, on the starboard side, at three o’clock—we call it spyhopping.”

“Why on earth would they be curious about us?” wondered my mother.

“That,” I said, looking at her and knowing she’d never get the sarcasm, “is a really good question.”

Just breathe, Riley. Just breathe.

***

Excerpt from Dead In The Water by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2021 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

~~~

Author Bio:

Jeannette de Beauvoir

Jeannette de Beauvoir didn’t set out to murder anyone—some things are just meant to be!

Her mother introduced her to the Golden Age of mystery fiction when she was far too young to be reading it, and she’s kept following those authors and many like them ever since. She wrote historical and literary fiction and poetry for years before someone asked her what she read—and she realized mystery was where her heart was. Now working on the Sydney Riley Provincetown mystery series, she bumps off a resident or visitor to her hometown on a regular basis.

Catch Up With Our Author:
JeannettedeBeauvoir.com
HomePortPress.com
Goodreads
BookBub: @JeannettedeBeauvoir
Instagram: @jeannettedebeauvoir
Twitter: @JeannetteDeB
Facebook: @JeannettedeBeauvoir

~~~

Tour Participants:

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

~~~

Giveaway:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Jeannette de Beauvoir. There will be two (2) winners who will each receive one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on April 27, 2021 and ends on May 5, 2021. Void where prohibited.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

~~~

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

~~~

#ReleaseBlitz “Coldwater Revenge” by James A. Ross

~~~

Mystery

Date Published: 4/27/2021

Publisher: Level Best Books (S&S)

 

 

COLDWATER REVENGE is the story of two brothers involved with the same woman, and the ensuing crisis when one brother begins to suspect the other of helping her cover up a murder.

~~~

Excerpt

The tiny voice that sometimes appears when you’re about to do something stupid, hissed at Tom to be thankful, sit still and keep his mouth shut. Instead, he braced himself on the underwater rock, gathered breath and shouted.

Yo!” His throat was raw and his lungs shredded, but he continued to bellow. “Eat shit and die, asshole!” Tom struggled to his feet and staggered noisily through the shin-deep shallows. The spotlight from the patrol boat leapt toward the sound. As the boat drew nearer, he dropped and rolled to his back, as if he were afloat in deep water. The twin Sea Witch outboards roared and the thirty-foot cruiser leapt through a cone of halogen light. Tom lifted his one good arm and waved. The battered cruiser hydroplaned erratically through the water like a wounded shark. The bow-mounted spotlight bounced above and around its target, losing and then finding it again. Tom could see the man’s face in the halo of light—cadaverous and grim. He could see his eyes, mad and murderous. The little voice screamed at Tom to be quiet and lie still. He crouched in the shallow water, extended his arm and raised a finger.

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About The Author


James A. Ross has at various times been a Peace Corps Volunteer, a CBS News Producer in the Congo, a Congressional Staffer and a Wall Street Lawyer. His short fiction has appeared in numerous literary publications and his short story, Aux Secours, was recently nominated for a Pushcart prize.

 

 

Contact Links

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Purchase Links

Amazon

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

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RABT Book Tours & PR

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#ReleaseBlitz “Luce Eterna” by S.J. Molloy

Luce Eterna (Part One. Book 5 of The Luminara Series)

by S.J. Molloy

Romance suspense & mystery

This book is of adult content. It contains powerful language, sexual references, and sensitive topics.

You think you’ve read it all… you haven’t.

BLURB

Lucca and Lexi are back to stop and start your heart.

This is the ultimate love story. The most tragic love story.
In a heart-stopping and explosive two-part conclusion, Lucca and Lexi face every parent’s worst nightmare.

Lexi and Lucca are adjusting to parenthood with premature-born twins after their traumatic birth. With their son requiring a prolonged hospital stay, their pain is far from over.
On the day of little Luciano’s chest x-ray, Lucca and Lexi believe they’ll be able to take the vulnerable twin home from hospital to start family life. Instead, they face excruciating agony and heart-wrenching despair.
The worst trauma any parent should discover.
Chaos erupts. An investigation begins. Lucca and Lexi fall apart.

Is love enough to guide Lucca and Lexi through the toughest challenge they’ll ever experience?
Will she ever be able to trust again?
Will Lucca save himself from ruin?
Can they find their Luce Eterna – eternal light during their darkest time?

You think you’ve read it all… you haven’t.

BUY THE BOOK

Book 5 – Luce Eterna: Part 1

Amazon UK – https://amzn.to/3tMrQ4X

Amazon US – https://amzn.to/3rdVZIJ

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Book 1 – Lussuria

Amazon UK – https://amzn.to/393dhlY

Amazon US – https://amzn.to/3vJlmWF

Book 2 – L’amore

Amazon UK – https://amzn.to/3lDuKWV

Amazon US – https://amzn.to/3c9N8nu

Book 3 – Lucca’s Lust

Amazon UK – https://amzn.to/3vQvYmD

Amazon US – https://amzn.to/3lEXluU

Book 4 – Luminoso

Amazon UK – https://amzn.to/2ON7mun

Amazon US – https://amzn.to/3vR5Bgq

GIVEAWAY

Enter the giveaway here! https://www.facebook.com/AUTHORSJMOLLOY/posts/151006097025547

MEET THE AUTHOR

SJ Molloy, British Author of ‘The Luminara Series’ was born in Edinburgh, Scotland. She currently resides in Scotland with her husband, two daughters, and her puppy, a loving gun dog who is utterly spoiled. Along with writing and publishing romance fiction, SJ is completing her MLitt Creative Writing, Crime Writing and Forensic Investigation postgrad at the University of Dundee.

When she is not writing, reading, studying, enjoying family time or walking her dog, SJ loves all things practical and creative. Dancing, music, cooking, travelling, good food and wine and painting are her favourite past times along with laughter, lots and lots of laughter.

SJ loves reading and writing romance and crime novels, which focus on moral complexities, fractured relationships, and contain a unique voice. She enjoys stories filled with imagination, intricacies, flawed characters, twisted plots, and suspense. Anything to get her thinking. Family saga’s and multi-layered stories are among her favourites. She loves to submerge herself between the pages of heart-stopping, emotional, and atmospheric reads which grip her attention and awaken her senses.

Website – www.sjmolloy.com

Amazon UK – https://amzn.to/3ds6tzp

Amazon US – https://amzn.to/39CwyuG

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Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/AUTHORSJMOLLOY

SJ Molloy’s ARC Team Group – https://bit.ly/3uhnD9T

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