Tuesday, October 15, 2024

The Bluff - A Spotlight, Excerpt, & Giveaway

THE BLUFF

by Bonnie Traymore

October 15-18, 2024 Book Blast

Synopsis:

The Bluff by Bonnie Traymore

“What do you have to lose, Kate?” Ryan asked me, as we stood on the bluff looking out on Lake Michigan.

Turns out, almost everything.

When I first moved from Manhattan to this small town six years ago, I worried about many things. I worried about finding a job. I worried that I’d be bored. I worried that my relationship with charming photographer Ryan Breslow was moving too fast. But I never worried about whether the ground beneath my feet would crumble—both literally and figuratively.

My marriage didn’t go as I’d imagined. A year ago, Ryan met his untimely death in a car accident that’s still under investigation. Isolated and alone, all I wanted was to sell my home and leave Crest Lake and its painful memories behind.

But with my home inching ever closer to the edge of the crumbling bluff, the property has become unmarketable. All of us on the lakefront have lost chunks of property, and tempers are at a boiling point about what to do next.

And now, on the evening of a contentious vote about how to fix this pressing issue, my nemesis on the shoreline committee has been murdered. I know how it looks, but it’s not what it seems. But I have to get my plan passed and cash out.

Because I do have secrets.

And they won’t stay buried forever.

Praise for THE BLUFF:

"With a slow-burn intensity that explodes into a jaw-dropping finale, this psychological thriller is both bingeworthy and delicious. Traymore is a master of layered tension, and she left me guessing until the last page."
~ Noelle W. Ihli, #1 bestselling author of Gray After Dark

"With its high-stakes plot and complex characters, the novel is a masterclass in building tension and intrigue."
~ NetGalley

"Gripping and full of surprises, The Bluff is a clever psychological suspense with layered characters and an atmospheric setting. Traymore masterfully ratchets up the tension little-by-little until the shocking, explosive end."
~ Tracey Devlyn, USA Today bestselling author

"This was a slow burn psychological suspense that heated up to a twisty, thrilling finale. A domestic thriller with a timely topic in the background. Great setting. Highly recommended."
~ NetGalley

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Thriller, Psychological Thriller
Published by: Self/ Pathways Publishing imprint
Publication Date: September 1, 2024
Number of Pages: 277
PRINT ISBN: 979-8218417543
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Doug Mitchell takes in the shoreline of Lake Michigan, letting his Sundancer drift around in the currents. The sight of his house high atop the bluff reminds him of what’s at stake. The vote is tonight, and it’s sure to be a doozy of an evening. There’s a cool wind whipping up what little sand remains on the shrinking beach, and he can see the bare patch of earth where the southern stairs collapsed two years ago. But he feels safe and warm on the deck with the soon-to-be-setting sun still overhead, beaming down on him.

It’s not the same shoreline it was decades ago, but then the world is an ever-changing place. He knows this, although he doesn’t let on about it to most people. Right now, his mind is drifting to another place, and he feels a delightful stirring. He pictures the curve of her back. Her slender, graceful neck. The look on her face when he makes her moan. He takes another sip of his cocktail, closes his eyes, and sinks into it.

After a few minutes, a different kind of feeling washes over him. He’s dizzy. And tired. Way too tired. He’s barely had one drink. He opens his eyes, and the world appears blurry. He feels clumsy. Almost immobile. Shaking his head, he tries to snap out of it, but everything’s…

Fuzzy.

Confused.

Off.

He came out here alone, he thought, although he didn’t check the cabin before leaving the dock. A figure is standing on the deck now, too far away from him to make out who it is. It’s someone, though, and even with his mind dulled, he knows this isn’t good.

Seized with panic, he struggles to pull himself out of the quagmire. Finding a last burst of strength, he attempts to spring up and go on the offensive, but his legs are like rubber. His body rocks forward a bit, accomplishing nothing.

He sinks back into oblivion as the figure approaches.

You?

ONE

Kate

I arrive five minutes late, breathless from my run in from the parking lot. The proceedings haven’t started yet. I rush in, whip off my scarf and coat, and take a seat.

Just in time.

The stage is set for a contentious evening. Tonight, the town council will vote on the pressing issue of the failing bluff. I head up the shoreline committee, and I’ve been invited here this evening to present my plan, one of two the board will consider.

“Hi Kate,” the board member next to me says. “Glad you made it.”

She gives my shoulder a squeeze, confirming that I’ve got her vote.

“Of course,” I say. “Sorry I’m late.”

A tingling sensation creeps up my spine, and a feeling of dread squeezes my stomach like a vise. Perhaps it’s the weather. It’s early fall, but it may as well be the dead of winter. It’s bitter cold and gray, with intermittent downpours. The howling wind whipping off Lake Michigan has been keeping me up at night. It’s the same kind of weather we were having when my husband met his untimely death a year ago, which is likely stirring up some buried feelings. A widow at forty-one. Not the way I expected my life to go when I moved here six years ago.

“The meeting of the Crest Lake Township board of directors is now in session,” the president proclaims, banging his gavel with the countenance of a man desperate for power and relevance. Sam Bolger’s his name.

Sam takes role, and it’s lost on nobody that Doug Mitchell is absent. I fiddle with a strand of hair, twirling it between my fingers. It looks darker in this light, almost auburn. My eyes search the room, and hushed tones fill the silence as people whisper to each other.

Where the hell is Doug?

Are we really going to start without him?

I hope he’s okay.

His allies look concerned, naturally, but even his opponents seem troubled, although that could be an act. It would be unacceptable to show their glee, in the event they were feeling it. But I’m not feeling smug or excited or victorious. I’m feeling nervous. Doug is scheduled to present the opposing plan, and there’s no way he would miss this meeting.

Tempers have been flaring over the issue of what to do about the eroding bluff. The police had to be called during the last public hearing. And there have even been a few death threats, anonymous posts that most of us brushed off.

Silly, really. We’re all on the same team, trying to fight mother nature. Desperate to give ourselves the illusion of control. Struggling to keep our large, lakefront luxury homes from plummeting onto the shrinking shoreline that hugs the massive body of water eighty feet below the fragile bluff.

On some level, we all know that whatever we do will only be a stop-gap in the big picture of geological time, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what’s making people so angry. Humanity’s stubborn insistence that we can bend the planet to our will. Because it’s obvious that we can’t, and perhaps it’s easier to blame each other than to face the realization that humans are at the mercy of forces we don’t really understand and can no longer control.

The president seems to be stalling, fumbling with his computer as he tries to pull up the agenda and project it onto the TV screen. The board member to my right shares a theory with me. Perhaps Doug’s pulling a stunt for dramatic effect, she whispers in my ear. Maybe the president’s in on it—he’s on Doug’s side—and Doug will come bursting in at the last minute, waving some new study in his hands. But after a few moments, it’s clear to everyone that’s not going to happen.

Sam tables the vote for the time being and moves on to other issues. The board gets to work. There are a handful of mundane items on the agenda aside from the one that matters to me. What to do about the shoreline. I wait patiently as the board members work through other business, waiting for Doug’s arrival. He’s a board member and I’m not, and I’m surprised that they didn’t ask me to sit outside.

I wonder what will happen if he doesn’t show. Will they postpone the vote, or will it go my way by default, with my proposal the only option? Item after item is addressed, and I can feel my pulse starting to race as they tick them off.

Parcel tax proposal.

New library budget.

Changes to the vacation rental rules.

My stomach is in knots. Because if the vote goes my way, it will be a Pyrrhic victory, inflicting massive economic consequences on my lake front neighbors. Doug’s plan to simply shore up the bluff at the toe, the spot where the waves hit and wear it down, is the simple one. The less expensive one. But it’s got the environmental groups up in arms. They’ve grown increasingly vocal over the last few years.

The environmentalists want to force the removal of all existing seawalls, like the one Doug Mitchell installed in front of his home, and ban all such structures. Let nature take its course. Force lakefront owners to move back their homes or demolish them if they are in danger of falling off the bluff. But none of them are on the shoreline committee, and none are on the board. And they’ll be upset whichever way it goes tonight.

My plan is a compromise of sorts. But if I win, there will be consequences. Expensive ones that will dramatically reduce some people’s property values and limit beach access for everyone. And lots of visceral anger, much of it directed at me, especially from my wealthy lakefront neighbors who will absorb most of the cost. Several million dollars, split between ten of us. Sweat beads form at my temples as the minutes tick along to the rhythm of the cheap wall clock mounted above my seat.

Why do they keep it so hot in here?

The council meets at the town center, a small, institutional structure that used to serve as a middle school. The chairs are small and uncomfortable. I sit up and twist from side to side, trying to stop my lower back from cramping up. After an hour or so, there’s nothing left on the agenda but the bluff, and I’m wondering if they’ll postpone my presentation and the vote.

A knock at the door startles us.

Police, a voice calls out.

The door opens, and a young officer enters tentatively, crouching his way into the room. It’s a tight community, and he’s likely a bit intimidated. We’re a powerful bunch. If he ran into one of us around town, I imagine he’d be deferential. But this isn’t a coffee shop or a grocery store, and this isn’t a social call.

After a moment, he straightens up, and his face registers the requisite look of authority. “Doug Michell’s been reported missing,” he says. “He went out on his boat earlier today and never returned. The Coast Guard is conducting a search.”

My stomach sinks, and gasps echo around the room. We all sit with the shocking news for a few moments as the officer bites his lower lip.

He continues. “We’re going to need to interview all of you. Detective Whittaker is on his way. Please stay seated and be patient.”

And with that, the vote is delayed.

***

Travis Whittaker leans back in his chair, eyeing me. I can see tension lines in the detective’s forehead. He seems to have aged since I last saw him, although his thick, dark head of hair reveals few strands of gray. It’s his eyes. They look heavy and full, like the weight of the world sits behind them.

He’s been working his way through the group, and I’m second-to-last. It would have been better to get it over with. Waiting around only increased the tension. Nobody really knew what to say to each other, so there was nothing but awkward silence filling the space between us as we stood in the hallway waiting for our turns to go in and be interviewed.

“So, Ms. Breslow. You arrived five minutes late,” he says.

“I just said that,” I reply, immediately regretting my sharp tone.

The detective’s nostrils flare, ever so slightly. He’s an attractive man for his age—early fifties or so—with a neatly trimmed beard and dark, haunting eyes. Right now, though, he looks menacing.

“Yes. I was about five minutes late,” I say, in a softer tone. My throat feels as if it’s about to close.

He narrows his eyes on me and I look away. I catch myself absent-mindedly stroking my neck and stop myself, placing my hands on the table top.

This feels all too familiar.

“And why were you late?”

“The rain,” I offer. “It got heavy when I was driving down Lakeside.” I tap my fingers on the table top as I search for something to add. “I had to drive more slowly.”

He nods and jots something down on his notepad. Almost everyone at the meeting had to drive down that road in the rain. It’s not a very good excuse, but it’s all I can give him.

“Did Doug Mitchell give you any indication that he was planning to miss the meeting tonight?” he asks.

“No, not at all,” I say. “We were all shocked when he didn’t show up tonight.”

“Have you heard from him today?” he asks.

I shake my head no.

“When’s the last time you had any contact with him?” he asks.

I look off to the side, struggling to keep myself focused and calm. I turn back to him. “In person?” I ask.

“In general,” Whittaker replies.

“We’ve been on the same email and text chain over the last week or so. Exchanging information, in anticipation of the vote.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I swallow. He’s already seen our text stream, I assume. “Yesterday. Around seven in the evening.”

“Was that an email or a text?”

“It was a text.”

“And what did it say?”

I pull up my phone, hold it in my palm, and let him read the exchange. His eyes rest on my last line to Doug Mitchell.

If you do that, I’ll bury you.

It would have been less stressful for me if Whittaker’s face had registered some kind of surprise. Instead, he closes his notepad and puts his pen down. I struggle to keep a neutral look on my face. Then he informs me that I can leave and asks me to send in the next board member.

I start for the door but then turn back to him. “In paperwork,” I offer. “I meant I’d bury him in paperwork.” Then I turn away again and continue to the door.

“Don’t leave town,” he calls out. “We’re sure to have more questions as the investigation develops.”

I nod and keep walking.

***

As my car winds up the dark, curvy road to my lakefront home, I struggle to steady my shaking hands. This night already had me on edge, and I can feel my pulse racing as I reach the bend in the road, near the top. The part where the drop-off is the steepest. They replaced the guardrail with another one that looks exactly the same.

What was the point of that?

Sometimes I can ignore it and drive right past. On sunny days, when the sky is bright and the birds chirp and all is well in the universe. It looks so different in the daylight. But tonight is foggy and foreboding, and I drive slowly. So slowly, I’d probably get a ticket if an officer was behind me. I don’t look to my right though, because then I have to picture it, and imagine the look of terror on his face as he plunged through the rail and over the side.

What was he thinking?

Or was he not thinking at all?

Did he scream?

Or was there no time?

A chill runs up my spine as I turn carefully around the bend and breathe a sigh of relief. Sometimes, I get a sensation that he’s in the car with me, and I can almost feel his breath on my neck. And now Doug’s missing, and I have no idea what to do next or what this means for me and my shoreline plan. All I know is I have to sell my house get out of this town, before I lose my mind.

Or worse.

***

Excerpt from The Bluff by Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2024 by Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Bonnie Traymore

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon International Bestselling author of six domestic/psychological thrillers. Her "popcorn thrillers" feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She's an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

Catch Up With Bonnie Traymore:
www.BonnieTraymore.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @btraymore
Instagram - @bonnietraymore
Threads - @bonnietraymore
Twitter/X - @btraymore
Facebook - @bonnietraymore

 

 

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Sunday, October 13, 2024

Murder, She Wrote: A Killer Christmas - A Review & Giveaway

Review


MURDER, SHE WROTE: A KILLER CHRISTMAS
By Jessica Fletcher & Terrie Farley Moran
The Fifty-Ninth Murder, She Wrote Mystery

Cabot Cove, Maine is gearing up for the holidays, but this year, instead of the usual events, they're going all out. As Cabot Cove tries to be named the state's best holiday destination Jessica Fletcher finds herself on more than one committee! But holiday planning is interrupted when real estate agent Eve Simpson tries to sell the old Jarvis place to Boston tycoon John Bragdon and his wife, Rose Marie. Not only do the rich couple arrive in town, but so does long lost Kenny Jarvis. It's not long after Kenny threatens Rose Marie, saying she'll never live in his house that death comes to Cabot Cove. Was it natural causes, an accident, or murder? Jessica will have to add solve a mysterious death to her holiday to do list.

It's always a treat to visit Cabot Cove, a charming town with fun characters we know and love and murder! The majority of MURDER, SHE WROTE: A KILLER CHRISTMAS concentrates on providing a holiday atmosphere. From the Thanksgiving preparations and meal to the organization of multiple holiday events there was a hint of mystery with the long lost Kenny and sale of his childhood home, but no dead bodies until halfway through the book. That didn't bother me, however, as I enjoyed hanging around town with Jessica and getting into the holiday spirit.

There were a few mysteries going on in this fifty-ninth Murder, She Wrote Mystery. Where is Kenny and what is he planning to do? Are the judges for the Christmas contest coming to town? Just what's going on with this power couple and their entourage? The murder itself was curious; was it even a murder? It was. And a unique one at that. I love how Jessica goes about solving the case, quietly and unobtrusively, all the while preparing for the holidays.

If you're looking for a charming holiday themed mystery MURDER, SHE WROTE: A KILLER CHRISTMAS might just be your perfect cup of tea.

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 Murder, She Wrote: A Killer Christmas by Jessica Fletcher & Terrie Farley Moran

About Murder, She Wrote: A Killer Christmas

Murder, She Wrote: A Killer Christmas
Cozy Mystery 59th in Series
Setting - Maine
Publisher: ‎ Berkley (October 8, 2024)
Hardcover: ‎ 272 pages
It’s Christmastime in Cabot Cove, but there’s more homicide than ho-ho-ho in the newest entry in the USA Today bestselling Murder, She Wrote series. Christmas is not an easy time to sell a house, but in Boston tycoon John Bragdon, Cabot Cove Realtor Eve Simpson has found a buyer for the old Jarvis homestead. Unfortunately, Eve gets a lump of coal in her stocking in the form of Kenny Jarvis, who has been missing for years and presumed dead but has now come back to stop his sister from selling their childhood home. Eve presses on, organizing a welcome dinner for Bragdon and his wife, Marlene, to meet the leading citizens of the town, including Jessica Fletcher. Dinner is interrupted by an uninvited guest—not Santa but Kenny, who threateningly promises Marlene she will never live in his house. When Marlene is found dead a few days later, Kenny is the natural suspect. But Jessica isn′t so sure he′s on the naughty list . . .

About the Authors

Along with Jessica Fletcher, Terrie Farley Moran co-writes the Murder She Wrote mystery series including Murder, She Wrote: Killer on the Court. She is the author of the Read ‘Em and Eat cozy mystery series and also co-writes the Scrapbooking Mysteries with Laura Childs. Recipient of both the Agatha and the Derringer Awards, Moran has published numerous mystery short stories. The only thing Terrie enjoys more than wrangling mystery plots into submission is hanging out with any or all of her seven grandchildren.

Author Links – Webpage Facebook  
Purchase Links – AmazonB&NKoboBookshop.orgPenguinRandomHouse – 
 

Friday, October 11, 2024

Running on Empty - A Review, Excerpt, & Giveaway

 Review


RUNNING ON EMPTY by Karin Fitz Sanford
The Second Wine Country Cold Case

A late night attempt to help her teenaged employee leads Anne McCormack to the home of Lino and Renee Pardini. While looking for fire violations for a school project they find cash and jewels stashed in a wall. Quickly leaving after receiving glares from Lino, Anne feels that's the end of it. Especially when Lino dies a few days later. But it's soon discovered that Lino was running a Ponzi scheme and had bilked his investors for millions. His natural death suddenly doesn't seem so natural...especially since a prior wife disappeared without a trace and was later found murdered. With her uncle chomping at the bit to get involved it seems Anne may be dusting off her badge once more. 

The second Wine Country Cold Case takes place a few years after THE LAST THING CLAIRE WANTED. Anne's estate business is doing so well she's moved to a fancy office building and has hired assistants, including Chloe, who we first met in the first book in the series. But, everything could soon come crashing down.

I appreciated the juxtaposition of wealth and poverty. Renee came from nothing, became rich, then lost it all. Anne faces similar challenges, as do all those taken in by Lino. Although seemingly dissimilar at first Renee and Anne have a lot in common. Trudy Lee also fits in with these strong no nonsense women.

When it comes to this finely crafted mystery things aren't always what they seem and once again the title turns out to be more significant that you'd originally think.

RUNNING ON EMPTY provides readers an action packed drama wherein lines of morality get blurred. 

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Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford Banner

RUNNING ON EMPTY

by Karin Fitz Sanford

September 16 - October 11, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford

A WINE COUNTRY COLD CASE

 

An ex-FBI agent. A murder. And a Ponzi scheme that rocks the wine country.

Anne McCormack, a former FBI agent-turned-estate liquidator, must find out who murdered a beautiful socialite and dumped her body on a remote wine country road 16 years earlier. Could that killing be connected to a current-day Ponzi scheme that has bilked Santa Rosa residents? McCormack thinks so and sets out to solve the case—but she'll have to keep her wits about her if she plans on outracing thieves and solving the murder without become a victim herself, for dark forces are working against her and she’s running out of people to trust.

Praise for Running on Empty:

"Full of fun clues, quirky characters and a great sense of place, Running on Empty is the perfect visit to California’s wine country."
~ Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of the Royal Spyness and Molly Murphy mysteries

"The title of this latest Wine County Cold Case may be 'Running on Empty,' but the story’s certainly not. A full-bodied mystery with depth and bite, and a plot that’s meaty and lush. Savory, smoky, and smooth, from the first sip to the last."
~ J.R. Sanders, Shamus Award-winning author of the Nate Ross mysteries

"With a freight train of a plot worthy of any seasoned crime writer—think Elmore Leonard, Karin Slaughter, and Raymond Chandler—Sanford delivers a timeless thriller and heroine in feisty, brilliant, and flawed ex-FBI agent Anne McCormack, who finds herself entangled (again) in a web of mystery and deception in Northern California's wine country. The setting is but one of this book’s plentiful charms. There is a cold case—the decades-old murder of a socialite—and a devastating Ponzi scheme that will have readers turning pages well into the night.
Full of zigzagging cliffhangers, Running on Empty hooks readers from the first sentence and never lets up—not even when it looks like our heroes have run out of gas. I loved this book."
~ David Samuel Levinson, author of Tell Me How This Ends Well

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Adventure/Detective
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 7, 2024
Number of Pages: 294
ISBN: 9781685126155 (ISBN10: 1685126154)
Series: A Wine Country Cold Case, 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Santa Rosa, California

Anne McCormack surveyed the living room, casting her eyes from one gilt-framed oil painting to another, taking in the antique red tasseled lampshades, red flocked wallpaper, red floral overstuffed sofa, and the oriental rug woven with every imaginable shade of red. All that exuberant red reminded her of a magazine layout she’d seen featuring the late Vogue editor Diana Vreeland’s famous New York apartment. Tastefully garish.

The house was one of many Victorian homes lining McDonald Avenue, Santa Rosa’s historic “Victorian row.” The tree-lined boulevard was the filming location of several Hollywood classics, including the 1943 Shadow of a Doubt by Alfred Hitchcock, Disney’s 1960 Pollyanna, and the nineties camp horror film Scream. The Victorian in which Anne was standing was owned by her newest clients, the family of the recently deceased, very wealthy Lily Danielson, who had left behind more treasures and personal effects than her heirs could handle.

Those belongings were why Anne, owner of McCormack Estate Services, was here after eight o’clock on a Sunday night with her teenage assistant, Chloe Grindel. Anne’s job was to dispose of everything in the house, one way or another: to assess, catalog, toss out, put up for auction, sell, save for the family, or donate to charities. The executor, the family’s lawyer, wanted it all handled ASAP before any more troublesome family fights could break out. Fine, Anne thought, the sooner the job was done, the sooner she’d deposit a commission check on the proceeds of any sales.

They were still at the sorting and boxing up stage.

Seven banker’s boxes were stacked precariously in the middle of the room, the top ones on the verge of toppling over onto Chloe, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Next to her on the rug was an old diary she’d found in the bookcase. Chloe was packing up books—except for the first editions, which would be offered to dealers—and sighing theatrically.

“How are you doing over there?” Anne asked.

“Slow, very slow. I’m not fast like you are,” Chloe said, standing up to stretch, raising her arms to the heavens. “But then, you’ve been doing this for decades…”

“A slight exaggeration,” Anne said. In fact, she was fairly new to family estate services. She’d spent most of her twenties as an FBI agent in Sacramento’s Violent Crimes division. After six years, she left the Bureau voluntarily, under no cloud (You did not get fired, her Uncle Jack, a retired cop would insist). Under no cloud, that is, except the one she conjured up and obsessed over (But it did get ugly after they discovered I was using their high-security database software to track my ex-husband, she’d counter).

On the same day she was confronted by her supervisor, she dropped her resignation letter on his desk and walked out the door, vowing that her next career would be a complete 180 from law enforcement. She would follow her passions—researching art and its provenance—and someday be her own boss, health benefits or not. Turns out, those passions were the exact skills required for family estate sales services. And since it was a far cry from crime-fighting, she figured why not do it professionally? For two years she worked as an assistant to estate services guru Marty Holmes, who became her mentor in the business. His mantra: “Estate sales are not garage sales!” The estate sales business, he’d insist, is about helping families dispose of the treasures left behind after a loved one’s death, and then getting a big fat commission from the sales of said treasures. Period.

After learning the trade, Anne struck out on her own three years ago. If she’d ever imagined that being a business owner meant naming her own hours and taking long vacations, she was quickly proven wrong. The reality was that when business was good—and it finally was—she ended up working relentlessly long hours. Like tonight.

“After finishing that box, let’s call it a night,” she said. Chloe had school in the morning.

“Not yet,” Chloe pleaded. The girl was always angling for longer hours, arguing, “You won’t find cheaper or better child labor than me.” And Anne almost always relented. She knew that nearly every dollar Chloe earned was being squirreled away into her college fund. Besides, she liked Chloe’s company. Chloe was the favorite grandchild of one of Anne’s first clients, Claire Murray, whose death two years before had hit the teenager hard. Anne had grown fond of Claire and missed her too, and while she and Chloe worked, they would often swap Claire stories.

But recently, all Chloe wanted to talk about—when not complaining about her mother’s strict hours or the unfair soccer coach—was the “Battalion Chief” competition at her high school. Not much had changed about the yearly contest since Anne had participated: The student who searched private homes and collected the most “fire hazard” violation tickets was the winner. Back then, the winning prize was simply being named “Honorary Battalion Chief.” But this year, the stakes were high—a $25,000 college scholarship to the winner in each class, donated by a group of wealthy vintners who wanted to encourage fire safety in the wildfire-ravaged Sonoma County.

“I can put it toward any college I want. When I add that to what I’m making working for you, and what my parents can chip in, I might get to go to UC Berkeley, Harvard, or California College of the Arts, who knows!”

One of their phones pinged.

“Sky’s the limit,” Anne agreed, looking down at her phone. Nothing. She hadn’t heard from Scott, her boyfriend of three months, since their fight two days before. Nodding toward Chloe’s phone on the coffee table, she said, “Bet your mom wants you to come home.”

Chloe sauntered over to pick up her phone. Leaning against a wall, she stared intently at the screen—reading the text message, answering it, and reading the response.

“Oh, no,” Chloe blurted out. She slowly slid down the wall, crumbling to the hardwood floor. “There goes everything,” she said in a low, ominous tone. “Everything I’ve ever worked for.” She set her phone down beside her and hugged her knees to her chest.

Anne bit her lip to keep from smiling. How much work could Chloe have done in her short life? How much did she have to lose? Chloe was a month shy of being sixteen years old, not some frail senior citizen whose life savings were ruthlessly embezzled or whose house was destroyed in a fire without any insurance to cover rebuilding it. But as Anne watched tears well in Chloe’s eyes, she knew there was nothing even slightly amusing about whatever was going on. Chloe was heartbroken.

Anne crouched down in front of her. “What do you mean by ‘lost everything?’ What happened?” she asked in a gentle voice.

Chloe uncovered her eyes, let out a sigh, and pointed to her phone. “That girl. Pam O’Brien. Tomorrow is the last day to hand in our tickets to see who wins the scholarship. She asked me how many I had….”

“And?” Anne prompted.

“I told her I had forty-five, which is way more than anyone else in the class. The nearest kid to me is Justin Frey, and he only has thirty-two. Then Pam texted back, ‘Too bad, cause I have fifty.’ That’s five more than me,” Chloe’s voice broke. “I never even knew she was close!”

Fire hazard violations were hard to come by, as Anne well knew. She remembered having to screw up the courage to knock on the door of a neighbor or acquaintance, then taking a deep breath and asking permission to go poking through their house looking for fire hazards like loose wiring, stacks of newspapers, overloaded electrical outlets, aging space heaters. Most people were good-humored about it, accepted their copies of the tickets, and promised to do better. But others tried to talk her out of the tickets, thinking the violations would be reported to city officials and they’d be fined. That never happened, of course; the fallout would have ended the contest years ago.

“And she tells you this at 8:30 at night…”

“Too late…”

Anne stood up abruptly. “Where’s your book of tickets? In your backpack?”

“Yeah. For all the good it does me,” Chloe said, giving the bag a shove as if it were to blame for her crushed dreams, the late hour, Pam O’Brien’s taunts. Everything.

Anne reached out her hands to the sobbing girl and pulled her to her feet. She grabbed their jackets off the couch and tossed Chloe’s to her.

“Get in the car,” Anne said.

***

Excerpt from Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford. Copyright 2024 by Karin Fitz Sanford. Reproduced with permission from Karin Fitz Sanford. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Karin Fitz Sanford

Karin Fitz Sanford, a former advertising copywriter, was born in New York but grew up in Northern California's wine country, the setting for her Wine Country Cold Case series. Having run her own award-winning ad agency for over twenty-five years, she is a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in Northern California with her husband.

Catch Up With Karin Fitz Sanford:
www.FitzSanford.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @karin140
Instagram - @karinfitz8
Facebook - @karin.f.sanford

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

Enter Now for Your Chance to Win!

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Karin Fitz Sanford. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

Can't see the giveaway? Click Here!

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

Thursday, October 10, 2024

The Last Thing Claire Wanted - A Review

 Review


THE LAST THING CLAIRE WANTED by Karin Fitz Sanford
The First Wine Country Cold Case Mystery

Anne McCormack may have bitten off more than she can chew. After leaving the FBI she has delved into estate sales, but without many clients, Anne is struggling. Things change when a found watch leads her to Wine Country matriarch Claire Murray. Claire, recently diagnosed with cancer, hires Anne to help prepare her estate, but when she learns of Claire's FBI background she asks for something more. Almost thirty years prior Claire's youngest child was murdered. No one was ever arrested for the five year old boy's murder and Claire would like closure before her own death. Learning that her Uncle Jack was a detective on the case Anne gets him and his old partner to reunite to try to reopen the cold case. Will they finally uncover what happened all those years ago?

Family dynamics, secrets, and fitting in all play a role in THE LAST THING CLAIRE WANTED. I love the interplay between the original murder and the current events. The mystery grabs you from the start. The murder of a child is a shockingly heinous crime that brings more intense emotions and a willingness to delve deeper to discover the killer. It's also a crime that can destroy families and that certainly seems to be the case here.

The first Wine Country Cold Case Mystery gives us intriguingly flawed characters. While Claire is a highly polished sophisticated woman, her family has certainly has issues! The same can be said for Anne, who was nearly a train wreck and is gradually getting her life back on track. 

THE LAST THING CLAIRE WANTED grabbed me from the start and kept me fascinated with it's rawness and realism. Behaviors caught me by surprise and never truly let go. By the end of the novel you'll come to the realization that there's more than one meaning behind its title.

Part police procedural and all heart THE LAST THING CLAIRE WANTED takes a gritty look at death and family.

Wednesday, October 9, 2024

Currently Reading...

I just finished reading Murder, She Wrote: A Killer Christmas by Jessica Fletcher and Terrie Farley Moran. This is the fifty-ninth book in the Murder, She Wrote Mystery series and was released yesterday!

Cabot Cove, Maine is gearing up for the holidays, but this year, instead of the usual events, they're going all out. As Cabot Cove gears up to be named the states best holiday destination Jessica Fletcher finds herself on more than one committee! But holiday planning is interrupted when real estate agent Eve Simpson tries to sell the old Jarvis place to Boston tycoon John Bragdon and his wife, Rose Marie. Not only do the rich couple arrive in town, but so does long lost Kenny Jarvis. It's not long after Kenny threatens Rose Marie, saying she'll never live in his house that death comes to Cabot Cove. Was it natural causes, an accident, or murder? Jessica will have to add solve a mysterious death to her holiday to do list.

Tuesday, October 8, 2024

Running on Empty - An Interview, Excerpt, & Giveaway

I'm pleased to welcome Karin Fitz Sanford to Cozy Up With Kathy today. Karin writes the Wine Country Cold Case Mystery series. RUNNING ON EMPTY is the second book in the series.


Kathy: RUNNING ON EMPTY takes place in Northern California's wine country. I'm lucky in that I live in the midst of New York wine country. I often go on wine tours and have explored wineries in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Texas, as well as NY. Do you enjoy touring wineries?

KFS: When out of town guests visit, my husband and I take them to two favorites: Paradise Ridge Winery in Santa Rosa (lovely setting and outdoor art) and the fabulous Frances Ford Coppola Winery in nearby Geyserville.

Kathy: Although I love all types of wine, Gewürtztraminer is my favorite. Are you a wine lover? Do you have a favorite wine?

KFS: In my wine-drinking days, I was a faithful Chardonnay drinker.

Kathy: In this second Wine Country Cold Case Mystery a Ponzi scheme is engulfing Santa Rosa. Have you known someone personally scammed? 

KFS: Not in a Ponzi scheme, no, but practically everyone I know has fallen for one scam or another—including romance and prize money scams. Or the one I fell for: an email saying “Your credit card didn’t go through. Please submit a new one.” Ha! Sharing information online is a mine field but would be great fodder for a new mystery!

Kathy: What first drew you to mysteries? 

KFS: Agatha Christie.

Kathy: Do you write in any other genres? 

KFS: Not yet.

Kathy: Tell us about your series. 

KFS: My protagonist is Anne McCormack, an ex-FBI agent-turned-estate liquidator, who helps her uncle (a retired cop) solve cold cases in Northern California’s Wine Country. Part cozy, part police procedural, part suspense.

Kathy: Do you have a favorite character? If so, who and why? 

KFS: In my first book (THE LAST THING CLAIRE WANTED), my favorite was Claire because she was a wise lady who didn’t brook any nonsense. In my second (RUNNING ON EMPTY), a side character, Trudy Lee, was fun to write. She’s rough around the edges and funny, but like Claire, she’s also wise and doesn’t put up with any shenanigans.

Kathy: Did you have a specific inspiration for your series? 

KFS: Sue Grafton’s Alphabet Series.

Kathy: What made you decide to publish your work? 

KFS: My feeling was that if I was going to all the time and trouble of writing a book, I might as well go all the way. It took over a year to land a traditional publisher!

Kathy: If you could have a dinner party and invite 4 authors, living or dead, in any genre, who would you invite? 

KFS: Truman Capote, Irving Berlin (lyric writer), Nora Ephron, and Louise Penny.


Kathy: What are you currently reading? 

KFS: INFLAMED by Anne E. Belden and Paul Gulliixson—an incredible account of the Tubbs wildfire in Santa Rosa. Also: Dennis Lehane’s SINCE WE FELL.

Kathy: Will you share any of your hobbies or interests with us? 

KFS: Hiking, reading, lunch with friends, traveling, watching reruns of The Closer.

Kathy: Name 4 items you always have in your fridge or pantry. 

KFS: Fruit, peanut butter, tea, See’s candy.

Kathy: Do you have plans for future books either in your current series or a new series? 

KFS: I’m working on a third book in the Wine Country Cold Case series.

Kathy: What are your favorite things about being an author? 

KFS: Learning the craft of writing and the fun of meeting some of my favorite authors at conferences.

 

 

Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford Banner

RUNNING ON EMPTY

by Karin Fitz Sanford

September 16 - October 11, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford

A WINE COUNTRY COLD CASE

 

An ex-FBI agent. A murder. And a Ponzi scheme that rocks the wine country.

Anne McCormack, a former FBI agent-turned-estate liquidator, must find out who murdered a beautiful socialite and dumped her body on a remote wine country road 16 years earlier. Could that killing be connected to a current-day Ponzi scheme that has bilked Santa Rosa residents? McCormack thinks so and sets out to solve the case—but she'll have to keep her wits about her if she plans on outracing thieves and solving the murder without become a victim herself, for dark forces are working against her and she’s running out of people to trust.

Praise for Running on Empty:

"Full of fun clues, quirky characters and a great sense of place, Running on Empty is the perfect visit to California’s wine country."
~ Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of the Royal Spyness and Molly Murphy mysteries

"The title of this latest Wine County Cold Case may be 'Running on Empty,' but the story’s certainly not. A full-bodied mystery with depth and bite, and a plot that’s meaty and lush. Savory, smoky, and smooth, from the first sip to the last."
~ J.R. Sanders, Shamus Award-winning author of the Nate Ross mysteries

"With a freight train of a plot worthy of any seasoned crime writer—think Elmore Leonard, Karin Slaughter, and Raymond Chandler—Sanford delivers a timeless thriller and heroine in feisty, brilliant, and flawed ex-FBI agent Anne McCormack, who finds herself entangled (again) in a web of mystery and deception in Northern California's wine country. The setting is but one of this book’s plentiful charms. There is a cold case—the decades-old murder of a socialite—and a devastating Ponzi scheme that will have readers turning pages well into the night.
Full of zigzagging cliffhangers, Running on Empty hooks readers from the first sentence and never lets up—not even when it looks like our heroes have run out of gas. I loved this book."
~ David Samuel Levinson, author of Tell Me How This Ends Well

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Adventure/Detective
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 7, 2024
Number of Pages: 294
ISBN: 9781685126155 (ISBN10: 1685126154)
Series: A Wine Country Cold Case, 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Santa Rosa, California

Anne McCormack surveyed the living room, casting her eyes from one gilt-framed oil painting to another, taking in the antique red tasseled lampshades, red flocked wallpaper, red floral overstuffed sofa, and the oriental rug woven with every imaginable shade of red. All that exuberant red reminded her of a magazine layout she’d seen featuring the late Vogue editor Diana Vreeland’s famous New York apartment. Tastefully garish.

The house was one of many Victorian homes lining McDonald Avenue, Santa Rosa’s historic “Victorian row.” The tree-lined boulevard was the filming location of several Hollywood classics, including the 1943 Shadow of a Doubt by Alfred Hitchcock, Disney’s 1960 Pollyanna, and the nineties camp horror film Scream. The Victorian in which Anne was standing was owned by her newest clients, the family of the recently deceased, very wealthy Lily Danielson, who had left behind more treasures and personal effects than her heirs could handle.

Those belongings were why Anne, owner of McCormack Estate Services, was here after eight o’clock on a Sunday night with her teenage assistant, Chloe Grindel. Anne’s job was to dispose of everything in the house, one way or another: to assess, catalog, toss out, put up for auction, sell, save for the family, or donate to charities. The executor, the family’s lawyer, wanted it all handled ASAP before any more troublesome family fights could break out. Fine, Anne thought, the sooner the job was done, the sooner she’d deposit a commission check on the proceeds of any sales.

They were still at the sorting and boxing up stage.

Seven banker’s boxes were stacked precariously in the middle of the room, the top ones on the verge of toppling over onto Chloe, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Next to her on the rug was an old diary she’d found in the bookcase. Chloe was packing up books—except for the first editions, which would be offered to dealers—and sighing theatrically.

“How are you doing over there?” Anne asked.

“Slow, very slow. I’m not fast like you are,” Chloe said, standing up to stretch, raising her arms to the heavens. “But then, you’ve been doing this for decades…”

“A slight exaggeration,” Anne said. In fact, she was fairly new to family estate services. She’d spent most of her twenties as an FBI agent in Sacramento’s Violent Crimes division. After six years, she left the Bureau voluntarily, under no cloud (You did not get fired, her Uncle Jack, a retired cop would insist). Under no cloud, that is, except the one she conjured up and obsessed over (But it did get ugly after they discovered I was using their high-security database software to track my ex-husband, she’d counter).

On the same day she was confronted by her supervisor, she dropped her resignation letter on his desk and walked out the door, vowing that her next career would be a complete 180 from law enforcement. She would follow her passions—researching art and its provenance—and someday be her own boss, health benefits or not. Turns out, those passions were the exact skills required for family estate sales services. And since it was a far cry from crime-fighting, she figured why not do it professionally? For two years she worked as an assistant to estate services guru Marty Holmes, who became her mentor in the business. His mantra: “Estate sales are not garage sales!” The estate sales business, he’d insist, is about helping families dispose of the treasures left behind after a loved one’s death, and then getting a big fat commission from the sales of said treasures. Period.

After learning the trade, Anne struck out on her own three years ago. If she’d ever imagined that being a business owner meant naming her own hours and taking long vacations, she was quickly proven wrong. The reality was that when business was good—and it finally was—she ended up working relentlessly long hours. Like tonight.

“After finishing that box, let’s call it a night,” she said. Chloe had school in the morning.

“Not yet,” Chloe pleaded. The girl was always angling for longer hours, arguing, “You won’t find cheaper or better child labor than me.” And Anne almost always relented. She knew that nearly every dollar Chloe earned was being squirreled away into her college fund. Besides, she liked Chloe’s company. Chloe was the favorite grandchild of one of Anne’s first clients, Claire Murray, whose death two years before had hit the teenager hard. Anne had grown fond of Claire and missed her too, and while she and Chloe worked, they would often swap Claire stories.

But recently, all Chloe wanted to talk about—when not complaining about her mother’s strict hours or the unfair soccer coach—was the “Battalion Chief” competition at her high school. Not much had changed about the yearly contest since Anne had participated: The student who searched private homes and collected the most “fire hazard” violation tickets was the winner. Back then, the winning prize was simply being named “Honorary Battalion Chief.” But this year, the stakes were high—a $25,000 college scholarship to the winner in each class, donated by a group of wealthy vintners who wanted to encourage fire safety in the wildfire-ravaged Sonoma County.

“I can put it toward any college I want. When I add that to what I’m making working for you, and what my parents can chip in, I might get to go to UC Berkeley, Harvard, or California College of the Arts, who knows!”

One of their phones pinged.

“Sky’s the limit,” Anne agreed, looking down at her phone. Nothing. She hadn’t heard from Scott, her boyfriend of three months, since their fight two days before. Nodding toward Chloe’s phone on the coffee table, she said, “Bet your mom wants you to come home.”

Chloe sauntered over to pick up her phone. Leaning against a wall, she stared intently at the screen—reading the text message, answering it, and reading the response.

“Oh, no,” Chloe blurted out. She slowly slid down the wall, crumbling to the hardwood floor. “There goes everything,” she said in a low, ominous tone. “Everything I’ve ever worked for.” She set her phone down beside her and hugged her knees to her chest.

Anne bit her lip to keep from smiling. How much work could Chloe have done in her short life? How much did she have to lose? Chloe was a month shy of being sixteen years old, not some frail senior citizen whose life savings were ruthlessly embezzled or whose house was destroyed in a fire without any insurance to cover rebuilding it. But as Anne watched tears well in Chloe’s eyes, she knew there was nothing even slightly amusing about whatever was going on. Chloe was heartbroken.

Anne crouched down in front of her. “What do you mean by ‘lost everything?’ What happened?” she asked in a gentle voice.

Chloe uncovered her eyes, let out a sigh, and pointed to her phone. “That girl. Pam O’Brien. Tomorrow is the last day to hand in our tickets to see who wins the scholarship. She asked me how many I had….”

“And?” Anne prompted.

“I told her I had forty-five, which is way more than anyone else in the class. The nearest kid to me is Justin Frey, and he only has thirty-two. Then Pam texted back, ‘Too bad, cause I have fifty.’ That’s five more than me,” Chloe’s voice broke. “I never even knew she was close!”

Fire hazard violations were hard to come by, as Anne well knew. She remembered having to screw up the courage to knock on the door of a neighbor or acquaintance, then taking a deep breath and asking permission to go poking through their house looking for fire hazards like loose wiring, stacks of newspapers, overloaded electrical outlets, aging space heaters. Most people were good-humored about it, accepted their copies of the tickets, and promised to do better. But others tried to talk her out of the tickets, thinking the violations would be reported to city officials and they’d be fined. That never happened, of course; the fallout would have ended the contest years ago.

“And she tells you this at 8:30 at night…”

“Too late…”

Anne stood up abruptly. “Where’s your book of tickets? In your backpack?”

“Yeah. For all the good it does me,” Chloe said, giving the bag a shove as if it were to blame for her crushed dreams, the late hour, Pam O’Brien’s taunts. Everything.

Anne reached out her hands to the sobbing girl and pulled her to her feet. She grabbed their jackets off the couch and tossed Chloe’s to her.

“Get in the car,” Anne said.

***

Excerpt from Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford. Copyright 2024 by Karin Fitz Sanford. Reproduced with permission from Karin Fitz Sanford. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Karin Fitz Sanford

Karin Fitz Sanford, a former advertising copywriter, was born in New York but grew up in Northern California's wine country, the setting for her Wine Country Cold Case series. Having run her own award-winning ad agency for over twenty-five years, she is a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in Northern California with her husband.

Catch Up With Karin Fitz Sanford:
www.FitzSanford.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @karin140
Instagram - @karinfitz8
Facebook - @karin.f.sanford

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

Enter Now for Your Chance to Win!

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Karin Fitz Sanford. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

Can't see the giveaway? Click Here!

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

Monday, October 7, 2024

Murder Under a Cold Moon - A Guest Post, Excerpt, & Giveaway

I'm pleased to welcome Violet to Cozy Up With Kathy today. You can find Violet on the pages of Murder Under a Cold Moon. This book is the thirteenth book in the Mona Moon Mystery series and was released last month.

Hello Guest Readers,

My name is Violet. I am nineteen, have auburn hair, bluish-green eyes, and was born on Mooncrest Farm near Lexington, Kentucky. I was fifteen when the owner of the farm, Manfred Michael Moon, died and left his entire estate to his estranged niece, Mona Moon, whom no one had ever seen. I didn’t even know she existed.


Oh, my goodness! What a hullabaloo Miss Mona created when she arrived. First there was her appearance—natural platinum hair, pale skin, and yellow eyes—albinism genes run in the family. Her features look very similar to the movie star—Jean Harlow, which causes tongue wagging among the local ladies. Worst of all, she is a Yankee from New York, college educated, and has bizarre ideas about women’s place in society.

Miss Mona caused quite a stir in our insular little Bluegrass community with its firm ideas on Southern womanhood, which directly conflicts with Mona Moon’s convictions. She feels women should have control over their own money and have legal rights beyond the recently-acquired right to vote. It is the 1930s, and women cannot have their own bank accounts without their father’s or husband’s permission, nor can we get loans without a male relative’s signature. Even if we work, our male relatives have control over our salary. We cannot buy cars on our own or serve on most juries. So what does Miss Mona do? She buys a local bank and directs it to cater to women’s financial needs. 

I was working as a maid at Mooncrest Manor when Miss Mona noticed I have an aptitude for sewing and sketching outfits.  She asked me to create and sew some dresses for her.  I was delighted as peach pie and jumped at the chance.  Throughout the years we’ve became close.  I design most of her outfits and act as a companion while she solves crimes—mainly murder.  She, in turn, shows me the world.

Just this weekend, I have travelled with Miss Mona to a desolate part of England.  She is soon to embark on her honeymoon with new husband, Robert Farley, Duke of Brynelleth, but before they catch a ship for a Mediterranean cruise, they have stopped over to visit an old friend of Robert’s—Lady Eustacia.  The problem is Lady Eustacia is missing.  Not only that, the telephone wires have been cut and the cars disabled.  Because of a terrible storm, we can’t venture out to get help.  It’s not looking good.

I dislike Lady Eustacia’s Blackhaven Hall intensely.  It is an old Norman castle built by William the Conqueror.  The pile of grey, moss-covered stones which make up the castle has an unhealthy atmosphere, and it gives off an ancient musty smell of despair and regret.  I expect a ghost to jump at me any second and can’t wait to leave this skeleton of a manor country home. 

Being so close to Miss Mona, I can tell she is disturbed as well, especially when a stranger collapses in the grand hall of Blackhaven Hall and dies right before our eyes.  It isn’t just being unnerved by a prankster who cut the phone wires and disabled the cars any longer.  There is now a murderer amongst us as there are other guests trapped at Blackhaven Hall as well.  Sleuthing, Mona has discovered that each guest has a reason to murder Lady Eustacia, including the servants.

The question—is Lady Eustacia alive or dead?

If alive, where is she?

Who was the stranger at the front door and who killed him?

Will Mona Moon solve the secrets at Blackhaven Hall?

I know she will.  I have faith in Mona Moon!

************************************************************************ 

Excerpt:

MURDER UNDER A COLD MOON

Mrs. Boffin pushed a rolling tea cart with an impressive sterling tea service along with a glazed sponge cake and short-bread biscuits into the room. “Oh there you are, Your Grace. Time for tea.”

Peregrine jumped up to help pull the cart into the room by the fire.

“I’m sorry there are not more cakes, but cook had little assistance as most of the staff went out to help the tenants. There is usually a splendid tea,” Mrs. Boffin explained.

“This looks fine,” Mona said, taking in Mrs. Boffin’s auburn hair and slim frame. She put Mrs. Boffin around mid-thirties and noted her green eyes. She was wearing a long-sleeved, blue-plaid, warm-looking wool dress with thick woolen hose and dark shoes. Mona thought Mrs. Boffin dressed a little too old for her age, but was still a handsome woman.

Mona asked, “Have you heard from the men?”

“They are making their way back. The first of them have arrived and are cleaning up in the kitchen. They’ll have their tea there. All the men were covered in mud and soaked to the bone, but we have a shower off the kitchen and extra clothes we keep on hand for emergencies. They will clean up fine. We’ll get them fed and warm before they start off for their homes.”

“Is His Grace back? I can gather fresh clothes for him.” Mona asked.

“The duke, Mr. Collier, and Major Dewsbury are bringing up the rear. They’ll be a while. However, Mr. and Mrs. Birley, as well as Mrs. Dewsbury will be joining us for tea.”

“What about Lady Eustacia?” Mr. Peregrine asked.

“I’m afraid Her Ladyship is still not feeling well enough to join us,” answered Mrs. Boffin, avoiding Mona’s glance.

Mona felt the excuse was a lie, but chose not to confront Mrs. Boffin as Mrs. Dewsbury and the Birleys joined the group.

Mr. Birley jumped in front of Mona hurrying to the fire. He warmed his hands, complaining, “Our bedroom is like ice. Mrs. Birley’s hands are frozen. Can’t something be done?”

“Perhaps your wife should stand closer to the fire, Mr. Birley, if that is the case,” Mona said, irritated that Mr. Birley practically pushed her chair aside from the blazing fire.

Mr. Birley looked stunned for a moment. He was not used to being challenged by a woman, but he remembered who Mona was. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Your Grace. You’re quite right.” He turned to his wife, standing embarrassed next to Mrs. Dewsbury. Her apple cheeks were crimson.

Mr. Birley said, “Here, my dear, take my place. Let’s thaw you out.”

Mrs. Boffin stepped in. “Your Grace, may I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Birley and Mrs. Dewsbury. Ladies and gentleman, Her Grace, Duchess of Brynelleth, Mona Moon Farley.”

“How do you do? Nice to meet you all,” Mona said. Since Mona was the highest ranking member present, she gave leave for all to sit. “Mrs. Boffin, will you pour please?”

Now Mona would never act so hoity-toity in Kentucky—Violet and her secretary, Dotty, would be joining tea time—but in jolly England, she followed English customs which were based on social hierarchy. Mona asked about Lady Eustacia again. “You say Lady Eustacia is not feeling well. She expressly invited His Grace and me to visit. When shall she receive us?” Mona asked, watching Mrs. Boffin closely.

“You say you were asked to come?” Mrs. Birley asked, stirring the sugar in her tea.

“Yes, Lady Eustacia wrote she had something to share,” Mona replied.

Mrs. Dewsbury glanced at Mrs. Boffin. “Do you know why the Duke and Duchess were summoned?”

Mrs. Boffin said, “I have no idea. I just wrote the note at Her Ladyship’s request.”

“This is most unusual,” Mrs. Dewsbury commented. She looked about for someone agreeing with her.

No one did. Everyone remained quiet, suspiciously glancing at each other.

Mona took a sip of her tea and studied the sullen group. She found their behavior odd—not jovial at all. Even with the dreadful storm, there should be some cheerful banter.

Noting that Mrs. Birley was older than her husband, Mona wondered what the attraction had been. She understood Mr. Birley’s interest in Mrs. Birley as she supposedly was to inherit a vast estate. However, she didn’t understand Mrs. Birley’s attraction toward her husband even though he was considerably younger. Mr. Birley was shorter than Mrs. Birley with a slight frame, balding forehead, and a florid countenance with a port wine birthmark on his neck. Perhaps Mr. Birley had an appealing personality, though Mona doubted it. The few minutes she had spent with Mr. Birley were not favorable. She disliked the man, especially when he went for the liquor decanters, pouring himself a tall glass of whiskey and never asking if he could pour a drink for the other guests.

She observed Mr. Birley’s neatly pressed grey suit with a tussie mussie slightly askew near the jacket’s lapel while his wife was wearing a dress from several seasons ago.

Mrs. Birley was entering middle-age. She had pleasant features, dark hair with reddish highlights, light blue, almond-shaped eyes, and a figure that was beginning to thicken. One thing Mona noticed was that Mrs. Birley’s feet looked swollen. She wondered if Mrs. Birley had diabetes or a heart condition, which might explain her nervousness. She twitched at every sound while glimpsing at her husband, who tended to ignore her.

Mrs. Dewsbury was made of studier stuff. She smiled and placed a hand on Mrs. Birley’s arm to calm her. “It’s just the wind, my dear.”

She turned to Mona. “I’ve never seen a storm like this. It’s awful you didn’t come in better weather to see the beautiful countryside. We are close to the coast, you know. Spectacular view from the cliffs, but you can still smell the sea from here.”

Mona commented, “I understand the hiking and fishing are very fine hereabouts.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Mr. Peregrine. “Are you fond of fishing, Your Grace?”

“Stream trout fishing,” Mona replied.

“We have brown and rainbow trout locally. The rainbow trout are an introduced species from America,” Mr. Birley said.

“Interesting,” Mona replied. “Do you fish, Mr. Birley?”

“Not at all. My sport is horses.”

Mrs. Birley let out a rude snort, but no one acknowledged it, least of all her husband.

Mona deduced that Mr. Birley must play the ponies. She wondered if he was a heavy gambler.

Mr. Peregrine suggested, “If you stay after the weather turns, I have some waders you may borrow.”

“We have plenty of waders here, Mr. Peregrine,” Mrs. Boffin corrected. “Her Grace need not bother you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peregrine. That was a kind offer,” Mona said, disliking Mrs. Boffin’s hubris and slight to Mr. Peregrine.

Mr. Peregrine looked pleased at Mona’s reply to his proposal and settled back in his chair to eat a biscuit.

“I understand you are on your honeymoon, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dewsbury remarked, pleasantly.

Mrs. Dewsbury was a matron with beautiful silver hair pinned back into a bun. She wore a navy chambray skirt with a matching jacket with white piping over a silk white blouse. A colorful peacock broach, made from turquoise, agate, jasper, thulite, and opal stood out from the dark material of the jacket. She looked respectable and solid—a woman content with her life.

Mona put down her tea cup and answered, “Yes, Mrs. Dewsbury. After our visit here, His Grace and I will be taking a Mediterranean cruise.”

“I understand you worked before your marriage to His Grace,” Mrs. Birley said coldly.

Understanding the English gentry’s disdain for work, Mona replied sweetly, “I still work, Mrs. Birley. I like to feel I am an asset for society and not a drain.”

“The modern woman,” Mr. Birley said snidely, holding up his glass.

“What was your vocation?” Mrs. Dewsbury asked, giving Mr. Birley a side-eye glance.

“I worked as a cartographer, mainly in Mesopotamia. Currently, I run Moon Enterprises which owns copper mines around the world. I live at Moon Manor, a horse farm in Kentucky.”

“I see,” replied Mrs. Birley, appearing shocked that a wealthy woman wanted to work.

Mrs. Boffin said, “I’d like to see more women in the workforce. So many men died in the Great War and working outside the home helps the widows with grief. Keeps their minds on other things.”

Mona wondered if this was Mrs. Boffin’s story.

“I think women should stay home. Let the men handle the public life,” Mr. Birley said.

“No one asked you,” Mrs. Dewsbury said, contemptuously.

Mr. Birley took offense. “Well, I never!”

Ignoring Mr. Birley, Mrs. Boffin asked, “Did you have to go to school to be a cartographer, Your Grace?”

“I graduated from college, majoring in anthropology and geography. I specialized in mapping archaeology sites, but worked for the Persian Government mapping the Zargros Mountains for them.”

“Sounds exotic,” Mrs. Boffin said. “Imagine—being in Persia. Did you work alone?”

“I worked with teams, but occasionally I had to travel by myself.”

“Weren’t you frightened?” asked Mrs. Birley.

“Yes, at times, but I had my revolver with me.”

“You carry a gun?” Mr. Birley asked, surprised.

Mona changed the conversation. “I’m afraid I am hogging the conversation as we say in Kentucky. I’d like to hear about you or anything about this castle.”

A loud slam caused everyone to jump.

“What was that?” Mrs. Birley asked, standing next to Mrs. Dewsbury.

“It sounded like the front entrance in the grand hall, but I locked it tight,” Mrs. Boffin said.

“Let’s see if it is,” Mona said, leading the group from the library. The lights flickered causing Mona concern. What would happen if the electricity went out?

“Let me lead the way. I know this house like the back of my hand,” Mrs. Boffin said, pushing past Mona.

The group followed Mrs. Boffin through several rooms into the grand hall where the two doors for the entrance were blown open with one hanging off its hinges. There in the windswept room lay a man prone on the floor. Mr. Birley rushed over to the man and turned him over.

“Who is he?” asked Mrs. Birley, clinging to Mrs. Dewsbury.

Stunned, Mrs. Boffin squeaked, “He’s Charles Zelly, Lady Eustacia’s solicitor.”

“Help me take off his wet overcoat,” Mona said, pulling back her hand covered in blood. “Oh, my goodness! This man is injured!”

Mrs. Birley screamed and ran upstairs to her room with Mrs. Dewsbury following her.

Mona and Mrs. Boffin checked the solicitor for wounds while Mr. Peregrine went for a phone, knowing one was in the library.

“Your Grace, Mr. Zelly has a deep wound on the back of his head. He needs serious medical attention. This goes beyond my expertise,” Mrs. Boffin claimed.

“Let’s do what we can,” Mona said, looking for something to staunch the man’s head wound.

Zelly shuddered as his face went slack. Mona looked on as Mrs. Boffin felt for a pulse.

“Is he?”

Knowing a death rattle when she heard one, Mrs. Boffin closed Mr. Zelly’s eyes. “Yes, Your Grace. Mr. Zelly is gone.”

Mona felt for a pulse on Mr. Zelly’s wrist. “I concur. I’m not getting a pulse either. This is horrible.”

The vicar came back looking grim while Mrs. Boffin gathered a cloth from the butler’s pantry to cover the man.

Meanwhile, Mr. Birley rushed to the kitchen for help.

Noticing Mr. Peregrine’s severe face, Mona asked, “Did you get hold of the doctor?”

Mr. Peregrine hesitated before he spoke. “I couldn’t, Your Grace. You see—the line is dead. We are cut off from the rest of the world.”

Mona couldn’t suppress fear running up her spine, feeling like a spike of electricity.

As if the house knew Mona’s thoughts, the lights flickered. 

**********************************************************************

 Murder Under A Cold Moon: A 1930s Mona Moon Historical Cozy Mystery by Abigail Keam

About Murder Under A Cold Moon

Murder Under A Cold Moon: A 1930s Mona Moon Historical Cozy Mystery
Historical Cozy Mystery 13th in Series
Setting - At Blackhaven Hall in England
Publisher: ‎ Worker Bee Press (September 30, 2024)
Number of Pages - 230

Mona Moon and her new husband, Robert Farley, Duke of Brynelleth are on their honeymoon at last. They are invited to a weekend party by an old friend of Robert’s family—Lady Eustacia. Mona and Robert arrive in a substantial downpour to find several other couples awaiting the appearance of their hostess.

When Lady Eustacia fails to come downstairs, Mona and Robert search the manor house only to find the lady missing. It is then they discover the telephone wires have been cut and none of the cars are able to drive into town due to the storm. Mona and Robert believe the invitation was a ruse, but for what purpose? And how do they help Lady Eustacia?

About Abigail Keam

Award-winning author Abigail Keam writes the Mona Moon Mystery Series—a rags-to-riches 1930s mystery series, which weaves real people and events into the story line. “I am a student of history and love to insert historical information into my mysteries. There is an addendum at the end of the mystery to give more information. My goal is to entertain my readers, but if they learn a little something along the way—well, then we are both happy.”

Miss Abigail currently lives on the Palisades bordering the Kentucky River in a metal house with her husband and various critters.

AWARDS 2010 Gold Medal Award from Readers' Favorite for Death By A HoneyBee 2011 Gold Medal Award from Readers' Favorite for Death By Drowning 2011 USA BOOK NEWS-Best Books List of 2011 as a Finalist for Death By Drowning 2011 USA BOOK NEWS-Best Books List of 2011 as a Finalist for Death By A HoneyBee 2017 Finalist from Readers' Favorite for Death By Design 2019 Honorable Mention from Readers' Favorite for Death By Stalking 2019 Murder Under A Blue Moon voted top ten mystery reads by Kings River Life Magazine 2020 Finalist from Readers' Favorite for Murder Under A Blue Moon 2020 Imadjinn Award for Best Mystery for Death By Stalking 2022 Finalist in Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Finalist for Best Historical Category - Murder Under A Full Moon 2022 Finalist the Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Historical Category - Murder Under A New Moon 2022 Death By Chance: A Josiah Reynolds Mystery Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Finalist for Best Cozy Mystery 2022 Top Ten Mystery Novel by Kings River Life Magazine for Murder Under A Bridal Moon: A 1930s Mona Moon Mystery 2022 Top Ten Mystery Novel by Kings River Life Magazine for Murder Under A British Moon: A 1930s Mona Moon Mystery Mona Moon Series Murder Under A Blue Moon Murder Under A Blood Moon Murder Under A Bad Moon Murder Under A Silver Moon Murder Under A Wolf Moon Murder Under A Black Moon Murder Under A Full Moon Murder Under A New Moon Murder Under A British Moon Murder Under A Bridal Moon Murder Under A Western Moon Murder Under A Honey Moon Murder Under A Cold Moon Murder Under A Mystic Moon  

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