Sunday, August 30, 2020

The Magdalene Deception - A Spotlight & Giveaway

The Magdalene Deception

by Gary McAvoy

on Tour August 1 - September 30, 2020


For two thousand years, believers have relied on Christ’s Resurrection as the bedrock of Christian faith. But what if the Vatican had been blackmailed into suppressing a first-century manuscript revealing a very different story about what happened after Christ’s death—and that long-hidden document suddenly reappears?

Michael Dominic, a young Jesuit priest expert in the study of ancient writings, is assigned to the Vatican as an archivist in the Church’s legendary Secret Archives. Hana Sinclair, a reporter for a Paris newspaper whose privileged family owns a prominent Swiss bank, is chasing a story about Jewish gold stolen by the Nazis during World War II—millions of dollars in bullion that ended up in the vaults of the Vatican Bank.

When Dominic discovers a long-hidden papyrus written by Mary Magdalene—one that threatens the very foundations of Christianity—he and Hana, aided by brave Swiss Guards, try to prevent sinister forces from obtaining the manuscript, among them the feared Ustasha underground fascist movement, Interpol, and shadowy figures at the highest levels of the Vatican itself.

Based on illuminating historical facts—including the intriguing true story of Bérenger Saunière, the mysterious abbé in the French village of Rennes-le-Château; and the Cathars, fabled keepers of the Holy Grail—“The Magdalene Deception” will take readers on a gripping journey through one of the world’s most secretive institutions and the sensitive, often explosive manuscripts found in its vaults.

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense Thriller
Published by: Literati Editions
Publication Date: July 1st 2020
Number of Pages: 368
ISBN: 0990837653 (ISBN-13: 978-0990837657)
Series: The Magdalene Chronicles (Book 1)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

The Magdalene Deception Trailer:

Read an excerpt:

Southern France – March 1244
The relentless siege of the last surviving Cathar fortress, perched strategically on the majestic peak of Montségur in the French Pyrenees, entered its tenth month.
The massive army of crusaders dispatched from Rome, thirty thousand strong, were garbed in distinctive white tunics, their mantles emblazoned with the scarlet Latin cross. Knight commanders led hordes of common foot soldiers, some seeking personal salvation, others simply out for adventure and the promise of plunder. They had already devastated most of the Languedoc region of southern France in the years preceding. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children had been slain, regardless of age, sex, or religious belief. Entire villages were burned, rich crops destroyed, and the fertile land which yielded them was poisoned, in a cruel, single-minded quest to root out and extinguish a small and peaceful, yet influential mystic order known as the Cathars.
The defeat of the impregnable Montségur remained the ultimate prize for the Church’s troops. Rumors of a vast treasure had reached the ears of every soldier, stirring up the passion with which these feared European mercenaries carried out their holy mission. As was the customary practice during a crusade, whatever pillage remained after the plundering—spolia opima, the richest spoils for supreme achievement—could be claimed by the victor. That temptation, bonded by the personal assurance of the pope that all sins would be forgiven and their paths to heaven assured, was enough to seduce anyone, nobleman or peasant, to take up cudgel, pike, or arrow in the name of God.
In 1209 Pope Innocent III had ordered a Holy Crusade to crush the spirit, and if necessary, the life of each and every dissident in the Languedoc region bordering France and Spain.
This independent principality had distinguished itself by fostering an artistic and intellectual populace well beyond that of most northern European societies at the time. The people of the Languedoc practiced a religious tolerance that encouraged spiritual and secular diversity. Schools teaching Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic languages and the customs which accompanied them flourished, as did those espousing the Cabala, an occult form of Judaism that dated from the second century.
Most settlers in the Languedoc viewed Christianity with the utmost repugnance; at the very least its practices were perceived as being more materialistic than godly in nature. The irreligious of the region passed over Christianity in large part due to the scandalous corruption exhibited by its local priests and bishops who, unable to influence the heathens within their provinces, came to prefer the rewards of commerce and land ownership over the tending of a meager flock.
Consequently, the authorities in Rome felt compelled to deal with this unforgivable heresy once and for all, in towns such as Toulouse and Albi within the Languedoc area.
Consigning his troops to their commanders, Pope Innocent III invoked a special benediction to all, lauding the divinity of their mission. Asked how they might distinguish their Christian brethren from the heretics, however, the crusaders were simply told, “Kill them all. God will spare His own.”
And so the Albigensian Crusade began.
The new moon cast no light over Montségur as night fell on the first day of March 1244, obscuring not only the hastened activities of its occupants, but the lingering threat conspiring outside its walls. A dense alpine fog had settled over the mountain, and the castle that straddled its inaccessible peak had withstood nearly a year of unceasing battle.
Weakened by the tenacity of their predators and yielding to the hopelessness of their situation, Raymond de Péreille, Lord of Château du Montségur and leader of the remaining four hundred defenders, commanded his troops to lay down their arms, and descended the mountain to negotiate terms of their capitulation.
Though offered lenient conditions in return for their surrender, de Péreille requested a fourteen-day truce, ostensibly to consider the terms, and handed over hostages as an assurance of good faith. Knowing there was no alternative for their captives—nearly half of whom were priest-knights, or parfaits, sworn to do God’s work—the commanders of the pope’s regiment agreed to the truce.
Over the next two weeks, reprieved from the constant threat of attack they had been enduring for months, the inhabitants of Montségur resolved to fulfill their own destiny before relinquishing their fortress—and their lives—to the Inquisition.
On the last day of the truce, as if guided collectively by a single will on a predestined course, the surviving members of the last Cathar settlement made special preparations for their departure.
Four of the strongest and most loyal of the parfaits were led by Bishop Bertrand Marty, the senior abbé of the fortress, as they descended deep within the mountain down a long, stepped passageway carved into alternating layers of earth and limestone. The end of the passage appeared to be just that, as if the original tunnelers had simply stopped work and retreated without finishing the job. But, while the others held torches, Abbé Marty withdrew a large rusted key-like wedge from beneath his cassock, thrusting it into a hidden cavity near the low ceiling.
The abbé manipulated the key for a few moments. A muffled sound of grating metal from beyond the stone wall echoed through the tunnel, and the seemingly impenetrable granite slid inward slightly, revealing a door.
Aided by the parfaits, the door swung open into a small dank chamber filled with an enormous cache of riches—gold and silver in varied forms, gilded chalices and bejeweled crosses, an abundance of gems and precious stones, sagging bags of coins from many lands.
And, in a far corner removed from the bulk of the treasure itself, stood a wide granite pedestal on which rested an ornately carved wooden reliquary, crafted to hold the most holy of relics, next to which sat a large book wrapped in brown sackcloth.
Standing before the legendary treasure of the Cathars—glittering and hypnotic in the dim torchlight—would prove seductive for most men. But the Albigensians held little regard for earthly goods, other than as a useful political means to achieve their spiritual destiny. Ignoring the abundant wealth spread before them, the abbé fetched the sackcloth while the other four parfaits hoisted the ancient reliquary to their shoulders, then they left the room and solemnly proceeded back up the granite stairway. In the thousand-year history of the Cathars, these would be the last of the order ever to see the treasure.
But the most sacred relic of the Christian world would never, they vowed, fall into the unholy hands of the Inquisition.
Emerging from the stone passage, Abbé Marty led the parfaits and their venerable cargo through the hundreds of waiting Cathars who had assembled outside, forming a candlelit gauntlet leading to the sanctuary. All were dressed in traditional black tunics, all wearing shoulder length hair covered by round taqiyah caps as was the custom of the sect.
Once inside, the parfaits lowered the reliquary onto the stone altar. The abbé removed the ancient book from the sackcloth and began the sacred Consolamentum, a ritual of consecration, while the four appointed guardians prepared themselves for their special mission.
Armed with short blades and truncheons, the parfaits carefully secured the reliquary in the safety of a rope sling, then fastened taut harnesses around themselves.
“Go with God, my sons,” Abbé Marty intoned as he gave them his blessing, “and in His name ensure this sacred reliquary be protected for generations to come.”
The four men climbed over the precipice and, assisted by their brothers gripping the ropes tied to their harnesses, gently and silently rappelled hundreds of meters down the escarpment. Sympathizers waiting at the base of the mountain assisted the parfaits in liberating their holy treasure, guiding them away from the danger of other troops and hiding them and the reliquary deep in one of many nearby caves.
Throughout the night, those remaining at Montségur celebrated their brotherhood, their holy calling, and their last hours alive. Descending the mountain the next morning, in a state of pure spiritual release from the material world, Abbé Marty led the last of the Cathars as they willingly marched into the blazing pyres awaiting them, martyrs to their cause.
The holy reliquary of the Cathars has never since been found.
Present Day
Rounding the northern wall of the Colosseum with a measured stride, a tall young man with longish black hair glanced at the Tag Heuer chronometer strapped to his left wrist. Noting the elapsed time of his eighth mile, he wiped away the sweat that was now stinging his eyes.
Damn this Roman heat. Not even sunrise, and it’s already a scorcher.
Approaching the wide crosswalks flanking the west side of the immense Colosseum, he wondered if this was the morning he would meet God. Dodging the murderous, unrestrained traffic circling the stadium became a daily act of supreme faith, as the blur of steel sub-compacts, one after another, careened around the massive structure on their way, no doubt, to some less hostile place. Since his arrival here he had discovered that this was the way with Italian motorists in general, though Roman drivers excelled at the sport. Veteran observers could always tell the difference between natives and visitors: a local would cross the road seemingly ambivalent to the rush of oncoming traffic. Non-Romans, who could as likely be from Milan as from Boston or Paris, approached the threat of each curb-to-curb confrontation with a trepidation bordering on mortal terror.
Crossing the broad Via dei Fori Imperiali, his route took him through the Suburra, the most ancient inhabited area of Rome and off the beaten path of most tourists. As a newcomer to a city whose normal pulse was barely evident beneath the confusing ambiguities of new and old, the runner felt most comfortable here in the Suburra, a semi-industrial working-class neighborhood, much like the one he only recently left in New York. In the summer, people got up early to tend their gardens before the real heat forced them indoors. The early morning air was thick with alternating scents of Chilean jasmine, honeysuckle, and petrol fumes.
He ran another five miles, long blooms of sweat accentuating a lean, muscular frame beneath a gauzy white t-shirt as he burst into a sprint up the final few blocks, past the empty trattorias and shuttered shops whose merchants were just beginning their morning rituals.
Slowing to a cool down pace as he crossed the Sant'Angelo bridge spanning the Tiber River, he turned left up Via della Conciliazione as the massive dome of Saint Peter's Basilica loomed suddenly ahead. Though it could be seen from almost anywhere in Rome, this approach always gave him the impression that the dome seemed to tip backwards, being swallowed up by the grand facade of the church the closer he got to it.
"Buongiorno, padre.” Several female voices, almost in unison, broke the cobblestone pattern of his reverie.
Father Michael Dominic looked up and smiled politely, lifting his hand in a slight wave as he swiftly passed a small cluster of nuns, some of whom he recognized as Vatican employees. The younger girls blushed, leaning their hooded heads toward each other in hushed gossip as their eyes followed the handsome priest; the older women simply bobbed a chilly nod to the young cleric, dutifully herding their novitiates into obedient silence on their way to morning Mass.
Though he had only been in Rome a couple of weeks, Michael Dominic's youthful exuberance and keen intellect had become known quickly throughout the cloistered population of Vatican City, setting him apart from the more monastic attitudes prevalent since the Middle Ages.
But despite the fusty parochialism and an atmosphere of suspended time he found within its walls, Dominic still felt the intoxication of privilege at having been assigned to Rome so early in his religious career. It had not been even two years since he lay prostrate at the altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, ordained by his family friend and mentor Cardinal Enrico Petrini.
It was no secret to Vatican insiders that the eminent cardinal's influence was chiefly responsible for Dominic's swift rise to the marbled corridors of ecclesiastic power now surrounding him. The young priest’s scholarly achievements as a classical medievalist were essential to the work being done in the Vatican Library. But the progressive cardinal was also grateful for the vitality Dominic brought to his vocation, not to mention the charismatic ways in which he could get things accomplished in an otherwise plodding bureaucracy. Though Dominic could not account for his mentor’s vigorous inducement that he come to Rome—and knowing this particular prince of the Church so well, it was surely more than a familial gesture—he had trusted Enrico Petrini completely, and simply accepted the fact that this powerful man had believed in him strongly enough to give him an opportunity which he most certainly would not have had otherwise.
Pacing slower now, Dominic drew in rhythmic gulps of searing air as he neared the Vatican. A block or so before reaching the gate, he stepped inside the Pergamino Caffè on the Piazza del Risorgimento. Later in the day the cramped room would be filled with tourists seeking postcards and gelato, but mornings found it crowded with locals, most nibbling on small, sticky cakes washed down with a demitasse of thick, sweet coffee.
Across the room Dominic spotted Signora Palazzolo, the ample wife of the proprietor, whose wisps of white hair were already damp with perspiration. Seeing the priest approach, the older woman’s face broke into a broad, gap-toothed smile as she reached beneath the counter and withdrew a neatly folded black cassock Dominic had dropped off earlier, which she handed to him with deliberate satisfaction.
“Buongiorno, padre,” she said. “And will you take caffè this morning?”
“Molto grazie, signora,” Dominic said, accepting the cassock graciously. “Not today. I’m already late as it is.”
“Okay this time,” she said with a gently scolding tone, “but it is not healthy for a strong young man to skip his breakfast, especially after making his heart work so hard in this unforgiving heat.” Her hand reached up to wipe away the dampness as she spoke, coifing what little hair she had left in a vain attempt to make herself more attractive.
Heading toward the back of the shop, Dominic slipped into the restroom, quickly washed his face and raked his hair into some semblance of order, then drew the cassock over his head and buttoned it to the starched white collar now encircling his neck. Emerging from the restroom minutes later and making for the door, he glanced back to see the signora waving to him, now with a different look on her face—one beaming with respect for the clergyman he had suddenly become, as if she herself had had a role in the transformation.
Of the three official entrances to the Vatican, Porta Sant’Anna, or Saint Anne’s Gate, is the one generally used by employees, visitors, and tradesmen, situated on the east side of the frontier just north of Saint Peter's Square. Although duties of security come first, guards at all gates are also responsible for monitoring the encroachment of dishabille into the city. Dominic learned from an earlier orientation that casual attire of any sort worn by employees or official visitors was not permitted past the border. Jeans and t-shirts were barely tolerated on tourists, but the careless informality of shorts, sweatpants, or other lounging attire on anyone was strictly forbidden. An atmosphere of respect and reverence was to be observed at all times.
Vatican City maintains an actual live-in population of less than a thousand souls, but each workday nearly five thousand people report for duty within the diminutive confines of its imposing walls—walls originally built to defend against the invading Saracens a thousand years before—and the Swiss Guards at each gate either recognize or authenticate every person coming or going by face and by name.
One of the Guards whom Dominic had recognized from previous occasions, dressed in the less formal blue and black doublet and beret of the corps, waved him through with a courteous smile as he reached for his ID card.
“It is no longer necessary to present your credentials now that you are recognized at this gate, Father Dominic,” the solidly built young guard said in English. “But it is a good idea to keep it with you just in case.”
“Grazie,” Dominic responded, continuing in Italian, “but it would be helpful to me if we could speak the local language. I haven’t used it fluently since I was younger, and I am outnumbered here by those who have an obvious preference. You know, ‘When in Rome….’”
The guard’s smile faded instantly, replaced by a slight but obvious discomfort as he attempted to translate, then respond to Dominic’s rapid Italian.
“Yes, it would be pleasure for me, padre,” the young soldier said in halting Italian, “but only if we speak slowly. German is native tongue of my own home, Zurich, and though I speak good English, my Italian learning have only just started; but I understand much more than I speak.”
Dominic smiled at the younger man’s well-intended phrasing. “It’s a deal then. I’m Michael Dominic,” he said formally, offering a sweaty palm.
“It is an honor meeting you, Father Michael. I am Corporal Dengler. Karl Dengler.” Dengler’s face brightened at the unusual respect he was accorded, extending his own white-gloved hand in a firm grip. Recently recruited into the prestigious Pontificia Cohors Helvetica, the elite corps of papal security forces more commonly known as the Swiss Guard, Dengler had found that most people in the Vatican—indeed, most Romans—were inclined to keep to themselves. It was never this difficult to make friends in Switzerland, and he welcomed the opportunity to meet new people. He also knew, as did everyone by now, that this particular priest had a powerful ally close to the Holy Father.
“An honor for me as well, Corporal,” Dominic said a bit more slowly, yet not enough to cause the young man further embarrassment. “And my apologies for soiling your glove.”
“No problem,” Dengler said as he smiled. “With this heat it will be dry in no time. And if you ever want a running partner, let me know.”
“I’ll take you up on that!” Michael said with a wave as he passed through the gate.
Already the Vatican grounds were bustling with activity. Throngs of workers, shopkeepers, and official visitors with global diversities of purpose made their way along the Via di Belvedere to the myriad offices, shops, and museums—any indoor or shaded haven, in fact, that might offer escape from the heat of the rising sun.
Another Swiss Guard stood commandingly in the center of the street—looking remarkably dry and cool, Dominic thought, despite the obvious burden of his red-plumed steel helmet and the traditional billowy gala uniform of orange, red, and blue stripes—directing foot and vehicular traffic while smartly saluting the occasional dignitaries passing by.
To any observer, Vatican City appears to be in a state of perpetual reconstruction. Comprising little more than a hundred acres, the ancient city state is in constant need of repair and maintenance. Architectural face-lifts, general structural reinforcement, and contained expansion take place at most any time and in various stages, manifested in the skeletal maze of scaffolding surrounding portions of the basilica and adjoining buildings. Sampietrini, the uniquely skilled maintenance workers responsible for the upkeep of Saint Peter's, are ever-present throughout the grottoes, corridors, and courtyards as they practice time-honored skills of the artisans who have gone before them, traditionally their fathers and their fathers’ fathers. It was quite probable, in fact, that a given sampietrino working on, say, a crumbling cornerstone of the basilica itself, could very well be shoring up work that was originally performed by his great-great-grandfather more than a century before him.
Dominic walked to the end of the Belvedere, then turned right up the Stradone dei Giardini and alongside the buildings housing the Vatican Museums, until he reached the northern wall of the city.
A priest learns early that his life will suffer many rituals, and in at least one secular aspect, Michael Dominic’s was no different. Every day he ended his morning run with a meditative walk along the inner walls surrounding the immaculately maintained papal gardens. The fact that many of the same trees which lined the paths have been rooted here for centuries—serving the contemplative needs of whichever pope might be ruling at the time—gave Dominic a more natural feeling of historical connectedness, in subtle contrast to other abundant yet more imposing reminders of where he now happened to be living and working.
“Ah! Good morning, Miguel.” It was a gentle breeze of a voice, yet Dominic recognized it clearly in the early warm quiescence of the Vatican gardens.
“Buongiorno, Cal!” Dominic said brightly. Brother Calvino Mendoza, prefect of the Vatican Archives and Dominic’s superior, was approaching the entrance to the building. Clad in the characteristic brown robe and leather sandals of his Franciscan order, Mendoza was a round, timorous man in his seventies—quite pleasant to work with, Dominic thought, if a little indiscreet in his obvious affection for men.
“You are up early today,” Mendoza said in heavily accented English, furtively appraising Dominic’s form beneath the cassock. “But then, defying the wicked heat and traffic of Rome is best done before sunrise, no?”
“It is, yes,” Dominic laughed easily, his damp hair glistening in the sun as he shook his head in amusement, “but in another hour or so I expect the pavement to start buckling.”
Dominic had come to enjoy Mendoza’s fey demeanor and playful flirting. Nearly everyone he had met here seemed overly stern and impassive to be really likable, and Dominic was naturally drawn to people he found more hospitable anyway. This gentle man had a quick mind for humor and was never, Dominic found, lacking for a proverb appropriate to the moment. It was also common for Mendoza to call many on his staff by the Portuguese equivalent of their name, maintaining an affectionate cultural touchstone to his native home of Brazil. As for the subtle intimations, Mendoza grasped early on that Dominic’s vow of chastity was not likely to be compromised, and particularly not by another man.
“You’ll get used to it,” Mendoza nodded, smiling. “It is worse in the mornings, to be sure, but come late afternoon we are blessed by the ponentino, a cool wind off the Tyrrhenian Sea.
“And besides,” he quipped, “’To slip upon a pavement is better than to slip with the tongue—so the fall of the wicked shall come speedily.’” He finished by glancing around the garden with mock suspicion, as if every word were prey to overcurious but unseen ears.
“‘Ecclesiastes,’” Dominic responded. “And thanks for the admonition.”
Pleased that the young priest indulged his occasional whimsy, Mendoza shuffled up the few steps of the entrance to the Archives.
“Now come, Miguel, your days of orientation are over. Let’s get on with the real work,” he said dramatically, his arms nearly flapping as his large body moved up the steps into the Archives. “Today is a very special day.”
“I’ll catch up with you shortly, Cal. I’ve got to take a quick shower first. But why is today so special?”
From the top of the steps, Mendoza turned around to face Dominic and, like a child with a tantalizing secret, whispered with barely contained excitement, “The treasures we are about to exhume have not been seen by any living soul for several hundred years.”
Clearly a man who enjoyed his work, Calvino Mendoza’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he lifted one heavy eyebrow in an arch, then spun as quickly as his heavy frame would allow and disappeared through the heavy wooden door.
As Dominic walked back to his apartment at the Domus Santa Marta, the resident guesthouse just south of Saint Peter’s Basilica, two men in a golf cart were heading in his direction, both dressed in the familiar black and red garb of cardinals. The cart stopped directly in his path, and one of the men stepped out, approaching him.
“Father Dominic, I presume?” The heavyset man had a thick Balkan accent, with an intelligent face bearing an inscrutable mask of expression.
“Yes, how can I help you?” Dominic said.
“I am Cardinal Sokolov, prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. I simply wanted to extend a hand of welcome on behalf of those of us who have been expecting you.”
Dominic recognized the cardinal’s department, better known as the infamous Office of the Holy Inquisition before someone came up with a less intrusive name.
“Good to meet you, Your Eminence,” he said, surprised by the comment. “I didn’t realize anyone was actually expecting me, though.”
“Oh, yes,” Sokolov said, holding Dominic’s hand in an uncomfortably firm grip as they shook. “Having Cardinal Petrini’s endorsement carries a great deal of influence here. But it also comes with certain expectations. First and foremost, keep to yourself. Do not expect to make many friends here. One is surrounded by vipers masquerading as pious souls.
“Secondly, know that you are being watched at all times. Conduct yourself appropriately and you may survive your time here. There are many who were vying for your job as scrittore in the Secret Archives, and they will seek any opportunity to displace you.
“Lastly,” the cardinal said scowling, his eyebrows a black bar across his fleshy face, “come to me directly if you witness or suspect anyone of illicit or unbecoming activities. Such careful scrutiny will be viewed with admiration by His Holiness, for whom I speak in this regard.”
Dominic was dumbfounded by the man’s audacity, hardly the kind of welcome he would have imagined, one that shed a darker light on his exhilaration at now working and living in the Vatican.
“I will keep all that in mind, Eminence,” he said, forcibly pulling back his hand from the cardinal’s cloying grasp.
Sokolov stood a moment longer appraising Dominic’s face, then turned and shuffled himself back into the golf cart, which pulled away with a mounting whine as it headed into the papal gardens.
Troubled by the encounter, Dominic returned to his apartment, the fresh burdens expected of him weighing on his mind. What have I gotten myself into, he thought, stepping into the shower.
Excerpt from The Magdalene Deception by Gary McAvoy. Copyright 2020 by Gary McAvoy. Reproduced with permission from Gary McAvoy. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Gary McAvoy is a veteran technology executive, entrepreneur, and author of "And Every Word Is True," a sequel to Truman Capote's landmark book "In Cold blood." "The Magdalene Deception" is his fiction debut, and is the first in a series called The Magdalene Chronicles.

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Friday, August 28, 2020

Killer Kung Pao - A Review


 KILLER KUNG PAO by Vivien Chien
The Sixth Noodle Shop Mystery

June Yi and Millie Mao are two of the most unpleasant people to be found in Asia Village. When the duo are involved in a minor fender bender Lana Lee knows it will be the talk of the village, especially after lawsuit happy Millie leaves via an ambulance.When June and Millie both wind up in Asian Accents, Lana's wish for a peaceful relaxing day seems impossible. Before her hair is done, a scream rings through the salon...a woman is dead and Lana is about to be involved in another murder.

How far would you go to help someone you didn't like? June is one of the most disliked people in Asia Village and everyone believes she's guilty. Could it be that obvious? Lana has her doubts. Lana's insatiable curiosity coupled with the heartfelt plea for help from June's sister leads Lana Lee into another murder investigation. 

I've always liked Lana and I like her even more after this sixth Noodle shop mystery. She's willing to take on so much, Asian Village's sidewalk sale, her friends' relationship crisis, her mother's demands for Ho-Lee Noodle House, and another murder. It would be easy to stay out of it and let the police decide the nasty woman everyone disliked is the murderer. But it takes strength of character to look into things and try to find the truth. No matter how much we love and believe in someone niggling doubts will still arise. Many of the characters in KILLER KUNG PAO are faced with this dilemma, including Lana. This doubt and the moral dilemmas faced here increase the anxiety and raise the tension creating a thought provoking and exciting read.

KILLER KUNG PAO has more twists than a mahua and had me gasping in shock at the ending! I absolutely love this character driven series and can't wait for Lana's next adventure.

Thursday, August 27, 2020

Sneaky's Summer Mystery - A Book Blast!


Sneaky's Summer Mystery: A Cobble Cove Story by Debbie De Louise

About Sneaky's Summer Mystery

Cozy Mystery Publisher: Solstice Publishing (August 5, 2020)  
Print Length: 42 pages
Cobble Cove is in the midst of an August heatwave. It’s the worst time for the air conditioner at the Cobble Cove library to break down. Alicia has no choice but to close the library and bring Sneaky, the library cat, home with her. After scheduling the air conditioner service with Rudy Gibbs, a technician from Hapnabber’s Repair Shop, she is surprised to learn that John knew Rudy when they were teenagers. When Rudy turns up dead after working on the AC at the library and Alicia learns of it during a barbecue she and John host with Gilly and Ramsay, Sneaky and Kittykai must once again protect their favorite ladies when they conduct their own investigation into the murder.

About Debbie De Louise

Debbie De Louise is an award-winning author and a reference librarian at a public library on Long Island. She is a member of Sisters-in-Crime, International Thriller Writers, Long Island Authors Group, and the Cat Writers’ Association. She’s the author of eight novels including the four books of her Cobble Cove cozy mystery series and two short eBooks based on the books. She lives on Long Island with her husband, daughter, and three cats.

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Wednesday, August 26, 2020

Currently Reading...

I'm currently reading Killer Kung Pao by Vivien Chien. This book is the sixth in the Noodle Shop Mystery series and was released yesterday.

June Yi and Millie Mao are two of the most unpleasant people to be found in Asia Village. When the duo are involved in a minor fender bender Lana Lee knows it will be the talk of the village, especially after lawsuit happy Millie leaves via an ambulance.When June and Millie both wind up in Asian Accent's, Lana's wish for a peaceful relaxing day seems impossible. Before her hair is done, a scream rings through the salon...a woman is dead and Lana is about to be involved in another murder.

Tuesday, August 25, 2020

"Mother..." A Three Treats Too Many Guest Post, Review, & Giveaway

I'm pleased to welcome Maybelle Johnson to Cozy Up With Kathy today. You can find Maybelle on the pages of the Sarah Blair Mystery series. THREE TREATS TOO MANY is the third book in the series and was released today!

Mother? No, It’s Maybelle 
by Debra H. Goldstein

You may call me Maybelle, Maybelle Johnson. Ever since I went to a spa in Mexico and learned that my first name had a certain ambiance and would bring me good karma, I’ve asked everyone to only refer to me as Maybelle.

I think it is a simple request, but my twins, Sarah and Emily, seem to be having a difficult time not referring to me as Mother or Mom. I know they are both busy and worried about other things, like Wheaton’s building inspector signing off so Chefs Emily and Marcus can open their Southwind restaurant in an old house on Main Street that Sarah owns. The inspector let their nemesis open her restaurant across the street from theirs two weeks ago and it is doing fantastic business, especially with the vegan dishes it is serving.

But enough about that dilemma. Surely, as smart as my daughters are, they can remember to call me Maybelle. I mean, Emily is a whiz in the kitchen, but Sarah has a knack for solving complicated murder cases. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably be doing time – and I can assure you I don’t look good in orange and black horizontal stripes. My coloring lends itself to solid black, winter white, red, or purple clothing.

Family is important to Sarah, so I don’t understand why she is having so much trouble calling me Maybelle. I think she thought this was a whim that was going to go away. Not going to be the case. I’m almost sixty and plan to live a good long time, but I want to do it happily. When my husband died, way too young, I was desolate. I feared I’d outlive my money. Sarah and Emily sat me down and showed me the true state of my finances. There was no way I could possibly outlive my money. That’s when I decided to travel, give gifts, and act like there is no tomorrow.

If it is going to make my life a little better, I don’t think it’s too much to ask everyone, including my daughters, to call me Maybelle. Do you?



The Third Sarah Blair Mystery

While Sarah Blair and her sister, Emily, are frustrated with the delays in getting the final inspection completed so that they can open their restaurant, Marcus is furious. What's even more maddening is that the loathsome Jane appeared to have no problems opening her restaurant right across the street. Jane's fare remains mediocre, but her sous chef has created amazing vegan recipes that have people lining up for more. When the gifted chef is found dead by the dumpster during Jane's grand opening Sarah's friend Jacob, who was smitten with the young woman, becomes the prime suspect. As Sarah looks to prove Jacob's innocence, she soon learns that Riley had more people dislike her than not. Will looking into members of the town's motorcycle club prove helpful or will it be a recipe for disaster?

The third Sarah Blair Mystery introduces new characters as we learn more details about others. I enjoy seeing Eloise's rebel side and learning about the veteran veterinarians. Maybelle is always a hoot. Sarah's romantic relationships seem nebulous. While she admits that Harlan and she won't ever be a couple, her relationship with Cliff, her admitted boyfriend, seems strained. And now we have Dr. Glen. I'm pleased that Sarah's romantic relations remain on the back burner while her relationships with RahRah and Fluffy are more important...and intrinsic to both her character and the plot. I appreciate how Sarah is learning to stand up for herself.

THREE TREATS TOO MANY looks at unrequited love and shameless self-aggrandizement. It reveals the darker side of love while providing a complex mystery. Quick and easy recipes from Sarah prove that even someone dangerous in the kitchen has the ability to make some delightful fare.


Three Treats Too Many (A Sarah Blair Mystery) by Debra H. Goldstein

About Three Treats Too Many

Cozy Mystery 3rd in Series  
Publisher: Kensington (August 25, 2020)  
Mass Market Paperback: 304 pages 
When a romantic rival opens a competing restaurant in small-town Wheaton, Alabama, Sarah Blair discovers murder is the specialty of the house . . .
For someone whose greatest culinary skill is ordering takeout, Sarah never expected to be co-owner of a restaurant. Even her Siamese cat, RahRah, seems to be looking at her differently. But while Sarah and her twin sister, Chef Emily, are tangled up in red tape waiting for the building inspector to get around to them, an attention-stealing new establishment—run by none other than Sarah's late ex-husband's mistress, Jane—is having its grand opening across the street.
Jane's new sous chef, Riley Miller, is the talk of Wheaton with her delicious vegan specialties. When Riley is found dead outside the restaurant with Sarah's friend, Jacob, kneeling over her, the former line cook—whose infatuation with Riley was no secret—becomes the prime suspect. Now Sarah must turn up the heat on the real culprit, who has no reservations about committing cold-blooded murder . . .
Includes quick and easy recipes!

About Debra H. Goldstein

Judge Debra H. Goldstein writes Kensington’s Sarah Blair mystery series (One Taste Too Many, Two Bites Too Many, Three Treats Too Many). She also wrote Should Have Played Poker and IPPY winning Maze in Blue. Her short stories, including Anthony and Agatha nominated The Night They Burned Ms. Dixie’s Place and Derringer Finalist Pig Lickin’ Good, have appeared in numerous publications. Debra serves on the national boards of SinC and MWA and is president of SEMWA.

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Monday, August 24, 2020

Master of Illusion - An Interview & Giveaway

I'm pleased to welcome Nupur Tustin back to Cozy Up With Kathy today. Nupur writes the Celine Skye Psychic Mystery series. MASTER OF ILLUSION is the first book in the series and was released last month.

Kathy: You start a new series with MASTER OF ILLUSION.What made you switch from a historical European composer to a modern day American psychic?

NT: I’d always wanted to write a contemporary series featuring, preferably, a woman since the Haydn series center around a man.

Setting it in America where I live seemed the most logical course of action. A contemporary mystery requires considerable information on contemporary police procedure. And living in this country, I have access to it and an understanding of it—the local differences in procedure, for instance—that help me figure out what questions to ask.

Why, a psychic? Well, shortly after my parents passed away, I recalled a book that my father had thought very highly of. The author, Jose Silva, in the course of his studies discovered a form of dynamic meditation that can stimulate creativity and boost memory. Working with his children, Silva discovered that we all have natural intuitive abilities and meditation can enhance these as well.

Re-reading his book helped me appreciate one of the truths my parents had tried to instill in me—the mind is a very powerful tool. I think the mystery genre helps us realize that as well—the power of the mind is such, it can penetrate the darkest mystery.

From there, it was just a short step to realizing my protagonist would be psychic. The true crime programs that we were watching at the time also involved psychic help. That bolstered my resolve.

Kathy: Was there a specific inspiration for this story?

NT: I knew my psychic protagonist would reluctantly get pulled into solving mysteries after the murder of her employer. I had no idea why he’d died, though. I might have left that as backstory that I wasn’t really aware of and that didn’t need to be explained.

But an agent I was discussing the Haydn Mysteries with as well as this concept, suggested that I seriously consider making the first book in the new series about her employer’s death.

I knew Dirck Thins, Celine’s employer, is murdered because of something in his past. But what exactly? At about that time, we went to the Getty Museum. We missed the program we’d intended to attend and spent some time wandering around the galleries. And I fell in love with Canaletto and learned about the Gardner Museum theft.

Aha! I had my story.

Kathy: Celine Skye is a psychic. Do you know any psychics? Have you ever had a reading?

NT: We’re all psychic. Not all of us can do readings for other people. Most of us use our intuitive abilities to a greater or lesser degree for the betterment of our own lives and to perform our jobs well.

In PHYSICIANS’ UNTOLD STORIES, for instance, Dr. Scott Kolbaba talks about an uncanny experience he had. A patient of his was suffering from undiagnosed stomach pains. But Dr. K had a strong sense that what was needed was a lung scan. It made no sense, but he followed through anyhow, persuading both his patient and the lab to make time for it.

It turned out the patient had a massive pulmonary embolism in his lung near the diaphragm. That was what was causing the stomach pain.

Many writers prefer not to plot their stories at all. They’re using their storyteller’s instinct and their intuition to write a compelling story. But whether we plot our stories or not, we’ve all had the experience of our characters’ taking over our stories and doing things we hadn’t planned for them.

Rosalie, a character in the Haydn Mysteries, frequently does this to me. But I find when I follow her, I have a better story.

Kathy: Celine works in a wine bar. Are you a wine aficionado? Do you have a favorite type of wine?

NT: I’ve always been fond of sweet wines—Port, in particular. But in researching Celine’s story, I’ve come to appreciate other types of wine. I’m still not a big fan of the funky, earthy reds. I prefer lighter wines—Viognier is becoming one of my favorites.

I can’t drink too much wine, though. For some weird reason, a glass of wine today can mean a couple of extra pounds tomorrow!

Kathy: The murder in MASTER OF ILLUSION may be tied to an infamous art heist in Boston. How did you decide to add a real crime to your story? Are you a true crime fan?

NT: Yes, absolutely. And I love blending fact and fiction. That’s what makes writing historical mysteries fun and it’s what makes writing this new contemporary series fun as well.

The Gardner Museum heist is also fascinating because it’s been thirty years since those works of art were stolen. We still don’t know what happened or where the art ended up. The storyteller in me loves the idea of coming up with a narrative to explain what happened and why and to provide some closure to us all.

Kathy: Of the artwork stolen from the Gardner Museum, which is your favorite?

NT: Definitely, the Vermeer. I’m a huge fan of realistic painting. It takes hours of effort to create a work that’s so real, it looks like a photograph. You can look at a Canaletto setting up close, and you still can’t detect the brushwork or the lines that make up the scene. It looks like a photograph.

Vermeer’s brushwork is apparent when you look closely, but he seems to have a special insight into the way the eye perceives. You have to look really closely to see through the illusion to the globs of paint that comprise it.

Vermeer, possibly because he was looking through the lens of a camera obscura, knew what the eye would focus on and what would just be perceived as out-of-focus, fuzzy. He must have seen the difference between the human eye and the camera lens.

The human eye has variable focus—and Vermeer manages to capture the way eye perceive things. It’s quite uncanny.

What’s even more compelling is that his paintings look like snapshots. It’s as though he went around with his iPhone snapping pictures of everything and everyone he saw.

In Woman Writing a Letter, the woman has an amused smile on her face as she glances up—the kind of indulgent smile a contemporary woman seeing her husband excitedly operate an RC car or some other device might have. It’s a “Boys and their toys” look.

Kathy: Will you share any other upcoming books?

NT: MASTER OF ILLUSION  has a prequel, VISIONS OF MURDER. Readers who want to know more about Celine and her psychic powers will find the answers in the Prequel. I’m currently working on the second novel in the series. I’ve yet to come up with a working title, but I’m enjoying writing and researching it.

Master of Illusion: A Celine Skye Psychic Mystery by Nupur Tustin

About Master of Illusion

Cozy Mystery/Psychic Mystery 1st in Series  
Publisher: Foiled Plots Press (July 28, 2020)  
Paperback: 292 pages 
When death arrives in Paso Robles, so do clues to an infamous art heist in Boston. . .
For seven years, psychic Celine Skye has led a life free of visions in quiet Paso Robles. But now the visions are back. Along with a dubious customer from Boston.
Celine has always been able to sense death. But not even she can foresee her employer Dirck’s murder. Finding his corpse in the wine bar he owns is bad enough.
Grappling with the suspicion that Dirck’s death could be connected with the Gardner Museum heist is even worse.
As Celine struggles to make sense of the psychic clues she receives, there’s just one question in her mind: What exactly did Dirck know about the Gardner Museum heist to get himself killed?

About Nupur Tustin

A former journalist, Nupur Tustin misuses a Ph.D. in Communication and an M.A. in English to paint intrigue. She also orchestrates mayhem in composer Joseph Haydn’s Europe. Visit her at

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Sunday, August 23, 2020

Knot of This World - A Guest Post & Giveaway

I'm pleased to welcome Giselle Cole to Cozy Up With Kathy today. You can find Giselle on the pages of the Quilting Mystery series. Knot of This World is the eighth book in the series and was released last month.

Interview with Giselle Cole,
(Martha Rose’s younger sister)
By Mary Marks

My name is Giselle Cole and I am Martha Rose’s half-sister. On a whim I spat into a bottle and sent my DNA to Deep Roots to be analyzed. That’s how we found each other—through the Deep Roots data base. We had the same father, Jacob Quinn Maguire. He disappeared around thirty years before, so after we met, the two of us decided to search for him and bonded over that experience.

Since then, we’ve become family. My fiancé Harold and I drive to Martha’s almost every Friday night for the Jewish Sabbath or Shabbat. Did I mention I’m Catholic? You might be wondering how a Catholic and a Jew could be sisters. It’s no mystery, really. Martha’s mother was Jewish and mine Catholic. Since our father was absent, our mothers determined how we’d be raised.

Anyway, that’s knot why I’m telling you this. (LOL. Get it? Knot instead of not?) I recently helped her investigate the death of Royal St. Germain, the leader of the Mystical Feather Society. I wasn’t present when he was shot to death at their commune in Ojai, California. But Martha and Birdie and Lucy were. You know them, right? Part of our Tuesday morning quilters group?

Anyway, we really wanted to discover who killed him, so we had to think of a way to go back to the commune undercover. We posed as spiritual seekers and signed up for a weekend class in Tarot card reading. Our friend Jazz came with us (and brought his Maltese Zsa Zsa Galore along. She rides in a tote bag wherever he goes).

Boy, was that class fun. I mean, where can a gay menswear designer, a Nigerian/American woman, a Jewish quilter and an oil company owner/CEO (that’s me) find common ground? Our curiosity brought us together. And our teacher was great. It turned out he had a few secrets of his own. After class we went hunting for dead bodies.

Martha (I call her my Sissy) and I make a great team. Since I’ve known her, I’ve helped her investigate three murders. This was our fourth effort together. It doesn’t take much to investigate. You just have to be curious, nosy, not afraid to ask questions and dedicated to the truth no matter what it takes. It doesn’t hurt to also be able to tell a lie with enough conviction so people will believe you.

Another thing I learned from my Sissy is quilting. Until I met her, I didn’t know a thing about quilts. Then I remembered my Grandmother Eagan (my mother’s mother) was working on one when she died. The pattern was Grandmother’s Flower Garden, which is a mosaic made of two-inch cotton hexagons pieced together by hand. That pattern must’ve been thought up by the devil, because it takes forever to put together one of those quilt tops. No joke. Anyway, my Sissie and the other members of the Tuesday morning group have all been helping me to finish my grandmother’s endless project.

Anyway, I hope you like the story Knot of This World. It’s Martha’s account of what actually went on at the Mystical Feather commune. Happy reading!


Knot of This World (A Quilting Mystery) by Mary Marks

About Knot of the World

Cozy Mystery 8th in Series  
Publisher: Kensington (July 28, 2020)  
Mass Market Paperback: 336 pages 
Quilter Martha Rose must patch together the clues to solve the murder of a cult leader in the California mountains . . .
Has Martha’s fellow quilter and dear friend Birdie Watson become unraveled? Birdie and her new husband have decided to join the Mystical Feather Society, a spiritist group living on a commune in the mountains of Ojai, California. Before her free-spirited friend makes a huge mistake, Martha organizes a surprise visit to check out the commune. While white-robed members conduct a seancé in a glass yurt, their leader—Royal St. Germain—is nowhere to be found . . . until, that is, Martha and her friends discover him shot in their Winnebago. Now Martha must track down the killer and debunk the cult—before it's bye bye Birdie . . .

About Mary Marks

Born and raised in Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay Area, Mary Marks earned a B.A. in Anthropology from UCLA and an M.A. in Public Administration from the American Jewish University in Los Angeles. In 2004 she enrolled in the UCLA Extension Writers Program. Her first novel, Forget Me Knot, was a finalist in a national writing competition in 2011. She is currently a reviewer of cozy mysteries for The New York Journal of Books at  

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