Today is my turn on the Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour for this new standalone murder mystery set in 1950s rural Ohio. I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for TWO MURDERS TOO MANY by Bluette Matthey.
Below you will find a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Good luck on the Rafflecopter giveaway and enjoy!
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Book Synopsis
Barn burning in a sleepy farming community is a serious enough matter, but a grisly murder or two in a small mid-west town is a showstopper. Throw in a serial blackmailer who has his claws in some of the town’s leading citizens and you have one big recipe for disaster.
Charlie Simmons, newly sworn in as Shannon’s policeman, takes on the challenge of investigating this cauldron of crimes in stride, untangling one thread after another from the fabric of the town of Shannon to find the simple truth.
TWO MURDERS TOO MANY by Bluette Matthey is a new standalone murder mystery set in 1950s rural northwestern Ohio by a new to me author.
Charlie Simmons fills in as the acting police chief of the small town of Shannon, Ohio while the chief is away. Charlie is immediately thrown into the middle of mayhem which includes arsons, blackmail and murder, but Charlie knows all of the players and works methodically to unravel who is responsible for the crimes.
Ms. Matthey’s writing style brings this small town and all its inhabitants to life. The writing juxtaposition of comforting small town mid-west 1950s innocence against brutal criminal scenes kept me turning the pages. Charlie is the perfect protagonist to guide us through this story and all the town’s characters. The time period also plays a part in the story by not only giving the reader a feeling of nostalgia, but also makes solving the crimes more difficult with no modern forensics. The plot is skillfully crafted with interesting twists and memorable characters.
I highly recommend this murder mystery and author!
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Excerpt
Blanche Gruman sprawled on the park bench in front of the Presbyterian Church Monday enjoying the afternoon sun, her long, tanned legs stretched out on the sidewalk in front of the bench. She looked serene, with her face turned sunward, eyes protected by aviator sunglasses. Her blonde hair was almost white, bleached by the sun, and she wore it long and loose.
“Afternoon, Blanche,” Charlie said as he made his way toward town hall.
Blanche turned her head to see who had spoken. “Well, hey, Charlie!” she replied. She quickly sat up, pulling her bare legs primly under the edge of the bench. It was a lady-like move; just what you would expect from Blanche. A broad smile, showing perfect pearl-white teeth lit up her face.
Blanche Gruman owned and operated a successful hair salon in town. For Shannon, it was an exclusive salon. Blanche was an excellent cutter and stylist, and her flamboyant but tasteful sense of style attracted the cream of Shannon’s women to her salon, as well as some of the more prominent men. She had expanded her business over the course of a decade, hiring additional staff, but she was the queen bee, and closely guarded her select clientele.
Blanche had never married, though she’d had a fairly constant parade of suitors. Rumor had it that when someone had once asked her why she had never married she had flippantly replied, “Why marry one man when I can make so many happy?” Whether or not this was true, it was generally agreed that Blanche had a less traditional approach to relationships with men than her female contemporaries, and it was speculated that many of her female devotees who religiously came to Blanche for hair treatment did so as a means of keeping an eye on her latest paramour, primarily to make sure it wasn’t a wayfaring husband.
“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” Charlie said. He stood in front of her, blocking the sun from her eyes. She removed her sunglasses, hooking one of the templates on the V-neck of a snug knit top that accented her generous curves.
“It’s a great day to celebrate life,” she told him, “and that’s just what I’m doing.” Clearly, she was enjoying herself.
Charlie changed the subject. “You hear about what happened to Otto Hilty the other night?”
His question soured Blanche’s mood noticeably. Her voice took on a hard edge when she responded. “That SOB …” she began. “I don’t truck with what happened to Otto,” she said, “but I’ll not shed any tears for him.” She put her sunglasses on and stood, facing Charlie. “Like I said … it’s a great day to celebrate.” She walked off leaving Charlie standing, literally, with his mouth agape.
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Author Bio
Bluette Matthey is a product of the melting pot of America’s settlers, with her ancestry rooted in the Swiss, German, and English cultures. She is a keen reader of mysteries who loves to travel and explore, especially in Europe. Bluette currently lives in Béziers, France, with her husband and band of loving cats. Other books by Bluette Matthey include the Hardy Durkin Travel Mystery series: Corsican Justice, Abruzzo Intrigue, Black Forest Reckoning, Dalmatian Traffick, and Engadine Aerie.
Today is my turn on the Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour for the first book in a new series with a female astrologist as the amateur sleuth by a new to me author. I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE MADNESS OF MERCURY (A Zodiac Mystery Book #1) by Connie di Marco.
Below you will find a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy!
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Book Synopsis
San Francisco astrologer Julia Bonatti’s life is turned upside down when she becomes a target of the Reverend Roy of the Prophet’s Tabernacle. The Reverend, a recently-arrived cult preacher, is determined to drive sin from the city, but his gospel of love and compassion doesn’t extend to those he considers an “abomination unto the Lord.” Julia’s outspoken advice in her newspaper column, AskZodia, has put her at the top of the Reverend’s list. While the powerful Mercury-ruled preacher woos local dignitaries, his Army of the Prophet will stop at nothing to silence not just Julia, but anyone who stands in his way.
Driven out of her apartment in the midst of a disastrous Mercury retrograde period, she takes shelter with a client who’s caring for two elderly aunts. One aunt appears stricken with dementia and the other has fallen under the spell of the Reverend Roy. To add to the confusion, a young man claiming to be a long-lost nephew arrives. The longer he stays, the more dangerous things become. One aunt slides deeper into psychosis while the other disappears. Is this young man truly a member of the family? Can astrology confirm that? Julia’s not sure, but one thing she does know is that Mercury wasn’t merely the messenger of the gods – he was a trickster and a liar as well.
THE MADNESS OF MERCURY (A Zodiac Mystery Book #1) by Connie di Marco is the first book in a new series with a female astrologist as the amateur sleuth by a new to me author.
Julia Bonatti is a successful astrologist in San Francisco. She accepts individual clients and answers letters anomalously as Ask Zodia in a San Francisco newspaper column. With an answer to a letter in her column, Julia suddenly becomes the target of a new cult leader Reverend Roy and his followers in the Prophet’s Tabernacle.
With Mercury in retrograde, Julia is chased from her apartment by protestors. The Reverend has the elite and government officials of the city in his thrall and is terrorizing all those who do not agree with his preaching. Julia moves in with a friend and client, Dorothy and her affluent elderly aunts. The gardener dies mysteriously in a fall on the property, one aunt believes Dorothy is trying to kill her and is showing signs of dementia, while the other aunt disappears to join the Reverend Roy’s followers in their secluded compound. Add a controlling ex trying to get Dorothy back and a long-lost relative showing up out of the blue, the charts do not look good for any of them.
Julia knows Mercury was a trickster and a liar. Will she be able to find the truth before anyone else dies?
I enjoyed this new mystery. Julia is a very likable amateur sleuth and the astrology is an interesting twist, even though I enjoy it as an entertainment and not as a way to live my life. I felt some of the astrology terminology was more than the average reader would care to know and it took me out of the story occasionally while reading. The secondary characters were fully-fleshed and I am looking forward to following them in future books in the series. The descriptions of San Francisco made me feel as though I was there. The plot had interesting twists and red-herrings and I was surprised at the ending, which I always consider a plus.
I can recommend this first book in the series and am looking forward to more mysteries with Julia.
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Excerpt
“Thank God you’re there.” Gale sounded very shaky.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m at the Mystic Eye. Something very strange just happened. I heard a knock at the back door. I thought it might be you.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. I closed up and sent Cheryl home. When I opened the door . . . oh God, Julia. Someone left a dead cat on the doorstep.”
I cringed. “I’ll be right there.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t need to come. I wrapped it up and put it in plastic in the dumpster. It looked like its neck had been broken.”
“Don’t argue. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Less than that.”
I drove the length of California Street as fast as I could, slowing at each red light. Once I was sure no other cars were crossing I ran through several intersections. When I reached the Eye the shop was closed but the display lights were on in the front windows. I pulled down the alleyway and parked next to Gale’s car. I tapped on the door. “Gale, it’s me.” She opened the door immediately. The storeroom was dark. A stack of empty boxes and packing materials stood against the wall. Inside, the only light was a small desk lamp in the office.
Gale is tall and self-assured with a regal bearing. Tonight she was completely shaken. She hugged her arms, more from fright than from cold. “I feel bad now that I’ve called you. I was just so freaked out. I recognized the cat, it was the little gray one that hangs out behind the apartment building next door. I think it’s a stray. Everyone around here feeds it, even the restaurant people, and it’s such a friendly little thing. Some sick bastard probably gave it some food and then snapped its neck. God, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Shouldn’t you call the cops?”
“And tell them what? I found a dead cat? Please. Like they’d listen. Even if they thought someone had killed it, what could they do?”
“It shows a pattern of harassment. Might be worth making a report.”
She sighed. “Yeah. You’re probably right. I just wasn’t thinking straight. I was so upset.” She collapsed in the chair behind her desk.
I shrugged out of my coat. “Why are you here so late?”
“We just got a huge shipment of books and supplies in. Cheryl’s been working late every night so I sent her home. I had just finished stacking the boxes in the storeroom.” Gale shivered involuntarily. “Look, let’s get out of here. Have you eaten? Why don’t we go up the block and grab some food? Actually a drink sounds even better.”
“Okay.”
“Get your coat. We can leave the cars here and walk. I’ll just get my purse.”
I headed to the front door and checked that the locks were all in place. The drapes separating the display windows from the shop were drawn for privacy. Gale left the desk lamp on in the office and walked out to the front counter. As she reached under the counter for her purse, we heard glass breaking. Then I saw a flash of flame through the doorway to the back storeroom. I screamed. The empty boxes and packing materials had caught fire in an explosive flash. The smoke alarm started to ring, filling the shop with earsplitting sound. Using my coat like a blanket, I dropped it over the center of the flaming pile. It wasn’t going to be enough, but I had to do something before the entire storeroom went up, if not the building.
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Author Bio
Connie di Marco is the author of the Zodiac Mysteries featuring San Francisco astrologer Julia Bonatti. The Madness of Mercury, the first book in the series will be re-released in October 2020.
Writing as Connie Archer, she is also the author of the national bestselling Soup Lover’s Mysteries from Berkley Prime Crime. You can find her excerpts and recipes in The Cozy Cookbook and The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook. Connie is a member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime.
Today is my turn on the Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tour and I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for SLIGHTLY MURDEROUS INTENT: A Southern California Mystery (Corrie Locke Mystery Series Book #4) by Lida Sideris.
Below you will find a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy and good luck on the giveaway!
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Book Synopsis
There’s a shooter on the loose who keeps missing his target. But that doesn’t stop him from trying again…and again. It’s up to Corrie Locke, rookie lawyer and spunky sleuth, to find the gunman before he hits his mark, Assistant Deputy D.A. James Zachary, Corrie’s hunky and complicated frenemy.
When Corrie is stuck with more questions than answers, she enlists a team with various strengths, from weapons to cooking skills, to help her find the shooter. Her computer whiz boyfriend Michael is onboard. So is former security guard Veera. Toss in an over-the-hill informant and a couple of feuding celebrity chefs and Corrie’s got her very own A-Team. Okay, maybe it’s more like a B-Team.
Can Team Corrie hunt down the shooter before he scores a bulls-eye?
Genre: Traditional Mystery with some Humor Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: October 20th 2020 Number of Pages: 280 ISBN: 9781947915930 Series: A Southern California Mystery, #4 || Each can be read as a Stand-Alone book
SLIGHTLY MURDEROUS INTENT: A Southern California Mystery (Corrie Locke Mystery Series Book #4) by Lida Sideris is the latest in this light mystery series featuring Corrie Locke. This is the first book I have read in this series and while the mystery plot stands on its own, I felt slightly confused in beginning until I caught up on some of the characters’ past interactions.
Corrie Locke is a young attorney for a film studio who is a sleuth on the side. She grew up with a famous P.I. father who was murdered. Now she has a closet full of weapons, the irrepressible attitude to fight for justice and a boyfriend who is a computer whiz.
There is an inept shooter on the loose and he appears to be after Corrie’s friend James. She pulls a unique team of friends together to catch the gunman before he finds his mark.
This fast-paced mystery is full of plot twists and red herrings which always makes for an intriguing read, but this author also uses quirky characters and humorous and witty dialogue to set it apart and it is very entertaining. Even though I had to catch up on the characters’ connections, I am interested in reading the next book to see how Corrie and her friends all move forward.
Overall, this is a well written mystery with a protagonist and secondary characters I would like to read about again.
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Excerpt
The last of my patience dripped onto the concrete floor beneath my feet. My fists clenched, my jaw tightened and my stomach rumbled like the start of an avalanche. I’d officially reached the cracking point.
“Today was V-day for us. Victory with a big fat V.”
Los Angeles Senior Deputy District Attorney Bruce Beckman stood at the head of our table, arms raised high. The first two fingers of each hand formed a “V”. Meanwhile, everyone’s dinner sat in front of them. Everyone’s, that is, but mine. All I had was an empty plate and an empty stomach.
“Where’s our server?” I whispered. The beach side diner was packed. “Did they run out of food?”
Beckman dropped his pose and glared at me so fiercely, my cheeks glowed from the heat.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. What did he expect? His mac n’ cheese was half eaten. I licked my lips.
“The case came close to swinging in the opposite direction,” Beckman continued. “We couldn’t have won today’s trial without this guy.” Beckman gestured toward the deputy D.A. sitting next to him.
I half stood and peered past the other diners. No sign of our server. “Slacker,” I mumbled. I slammed my napkin down beside my plate.
“Have some of mine,” Michael whispered. “Please, Corrie.”
If anyone else had offered, I would’ve cleaned his plate in thirty seconds. But Michael was my oldest friend slash newest boyfriend, and I loved him dearly from his dark floppy hair to the Chuck Taylors on his feet. We sat in a crowded hipster restaurant in Santa Monica, a hop, skip and a jump from the sparkling Pacific Ocean. Michael had barely touched his burger, waiting on my dinner with me. His stomach growled right alongside mine.
“Obviously, I picked the right man for the job,” Beckman said. “And gave him a few tips. Quite a few, actually.” He chuckled.
Weak laughter trickled around the table, followed by a groan. Did that come from me? Beckman shot me his signature scowl. I managed a shadow of an apology, and his attention returned to the man on his left. My hunger pangs took a brief hike while I assessed the object of Beckman’s praise. Assistant Deputy D.A. James Zachary flashed a grin. He was a sight for sore eyes. Or any eyes, for that matter.
“Thanks to James,” Beckman continued, “defense counsel didn’t stand a chance.”
Cheers erupted. I clapped and wriggled around in my seat. My stomach rumblings grew even louder. That’s what happened when my last meal was breakfast.
“I’ll be back,” I whispered to Michael and shoved away my chair. We sat around a table of five. Three of us were members of the world’s oldest profession. The oldest after toolmakers, farmers, the military and doctors. We were lawyers. I was the only lawyer unaffiliated with the D.A.’s office.
“Wait.” Michael took my hand.
Michael Parris wasn’t a lawyer, but he was the associate dean of the computer science department of a private tech college near downtown L.A. Michael’s lips were moving but shouting voices, clanging dinner plates and background music swallowed up his next words.
“What?” I leaned in closer, sniffing a sweet combo of sandalwood and fresh laundry that made my empty insides tingle.
He wiped his mouth on a napkin and said, “Stay here. I’ll go to the kitchen. Help yourself to my burger while you wait. I promise I won’t return empty-handed.”
“No, you stay. I want to make sure they get my order right.” I touched his shoulder. “Be back soon.”
We locked stares and his hazel eyes softened. “Two minutes. If you’re not back, I’m coming after you.”
I’d insisted my table mates eat without me, figuring my meal was on its way…fifteen minutes ago. I aimed for the kitchen, wading sideways between packed tables when I bumped into our server. She tried to push past, but I blocked the way.
“I’m still waiting,” I told her.
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You got served.”
“Crispy chicken sandwich with spicy slaw and chili cheese fries, hold the onions. It’s not on our table.” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder.
“I brought all the orders out personally.”
“Not mine.”
“You wanna talk to the manager?”
“I demand to talk to the manager.”
She tipped her head and pitched it to one side. “Big Sam’s up front by the cashier.”
I moved out of her path, and she hustled past. I continued my sideways trek, filing between chairs and dodging scurrying servers. Nearly closing time and the place was still hopping. I slowed and looked back at the kitchen. Maybe I’d get somewhere if I talked to the cook. I was about to swivel around when I spotted a manager-type; a stocky guy with a shaved head and goatee, chatting up a group of wannabe diners near the bar.
I headed for him and waited behind the blonde hostess. The cash register drawer popped open with a ping. She plucked wads of bills from beneath the drawer and shoved them into a vinyl bank bag.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She jumped and turned to me, zipping up the bag and pushing it behind her. “Yeah?” Long bangs stabbed at her eyes.
I pitched my chin toward the stocky guy. “That the manager?”
“He owns the place. Big Sam Neely.” Her attention went back to the bag. She unzipped it and continued stuffing bills inside.
I navigated closer to Big Sam and leaned against a pillar, waiting for a chance to butt into the conversation. Meanwhile, a lanky dude in a dark gray hoodie and faded jeans edged his way inside. His clothes were baggy; his hood was up and over his head. Only his nose, mouth and tinted shades were visible. Sunglasses at night weren’t unusual in L.A. I stared out at the room. A couple of diners wore shades. The guy in the hoodie flitted past me. He threw out his anchor near the hostess. My heartbeat quickened. The cash drawer still gaped open. I elbowed my way back toward him, half-expecting the guy’s hand to dart out and grab the bank bag, but he ignored the money. Instead, he eased forward and stared out toward the back of the diner. My gaze dropped to the lower left side of his jacket. The bottom edge had latched onto the large violin shaped leaf of an ornamental ficus, exposing the top of his jeans. My heart hammered against my chest. The grip of a revolver stuck out of his pocket.
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Author Bio
Lida Sideris’ first stint after law school was a newbie lawyer’s dream: working as an entertainment attorney for a movie studio…kind of like her heroine, Corrie Locke, except without the homicides. Lida was one of two national winners of the Helen McCloy Mystery Writers of America Scholarship Award for her first book. She lives in the northern tip of Southern California with her family, rescue dogs and a flock of uppity chickens.
Today is my turn on this new Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tour. I am excited to be sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for SHADOW RIDGE (Jo Wyatt Mystery Book #1) by M.E. Browning. This is a great start to a new series and a realistic female protagonist.
Below you will find a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Synopsis
Death is one click away when a string of murders rocks a small Colorado town in the first mesmerizing novel in M. E. Browning’s A Jo Wyatt Mystery series.
Echo Valley, Colorado, is a place where the natural beauty of a stunning river valley meets a budding hipster urbanity. But when an internet stalker is revealed to be a cold-blooded killer in real life the peaceful community is rocked to its core.
It should have been an open-and-shut case: the suicide of Tye Horton, the designer of a cutting-edge video game. But Detective Jo Wyatt is immediately suspicious of Quinn Kirkwood, who reported the death. When Quinn reveals an internet stalker is terrorizing her, Jo is skeptical. Doubts aside, she delves into the claim and uncovers a link that ties Quinn to a small group of beta-testers who had worked with Horton. When a second member of the group dies in a car accident, Jo’s investigation leads her to the father of a young man who had killed himself a year earlier. But there’s more to this case than a suicide, and as Jo unearths the layers, a more sinister pattern begins to emerge–one driven by desperation, shame, and a single-minded drive for revenge.
As Jo closes in, she edges ever closer to the shattering truth–and a deadly showdown that will put her to the ultimate test.
Genre: Mystery (police procedural) Published by: Crooked Lane Books Publication Date: October 6th 2020 Number of Pages: 395 ISBN: 1643855352 (ISBN13: 9781643855356) Series: A Jo Wyatt Mystery, #1 Purchase Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Penguin Random House | Goodreads
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My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
SHADOW RIDGE (Jo Wyatt Mystery Book #1) by M.E. Browning is the first book in a new mystery/police procedural series featuring a female detective in a small Colorado town. I am a fan of the Mer Cavallo mystery series by this author written under the name of Micki Browning, so I was looking forward to reading this new book and I was not disappointed.
Detective Jo Wyatt is called to the scene of the apparent suicide of Tye Horton, a young and talented video game designer. Quinn Kirkwood called in the death when she went to pick up a joint project the two were working on. Jo is suspicious of the prickly young woman and she soon learns Quinn was one of a small group who beta tested a previous game for Tye.
Now, one by one the small group is either committing suicide or having lethal accidents until only Quinn is left. Jo’s investigation leads back to a suicide the previous year of the D.A.’s son. As the pieces come together the trail leads to a killer who is interested in their own twisted revenge.
I am a fan of this author’s writing. The mystery/crime is tightly plotted with a mix of perspectives and the characters are fully fleshed and realistic. Quinn’s perspective on the gaming community and Jo’s lack of computer savvy add not only plot points and interest, but a realism to all those not involved in that world. Jo not only has to deal with the case she is working on, but a messy personal life and sexual discrimination in her small police force. Jo’s complexity is what I am always looking for in a lead character and what keeps me coming back for more.
I highly recommend this book and I am looking forward to many more books in this series.
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Excerpt
Chapter One
Detective Jo Wyatt stood at the edge of the doorway of the converted garage and scanned the scene for threats. She’d have the chance to absorb the details later, but even at a glance, it was obvious the occupant of the chair in front of the flickering television wouldn’t benefit from her first-aid training. The stains on the ceiling from the gun blast confirmed that.
Officer Cameron Finch stood on the other side of the sorry concrete slab that served as an entrance. “Ready?”
The only place hidden from view was the bathroom, and the chance of someone hiding there was infinitesimal, but someone always won the lottery. Today wasn’t the day to test the odds. Not when she was dressed for court and without her vest.
She pushed the door open wider. Her eyes and handgun moved in tandem as she swept the room.
A mattress on the floor served as a bed. Stacks of clothes took the place of a real closet. A dorm-sized fridge with a hot plate on top of it made up the kitchen.
Jo avoided the well-worn paths in the carpet and silently approached the bathroom. Its door stood slightly ajar, creating enough space for her to peer through the crack. Never lowering her gun, she used her foot to widen the gap.
No intruder. Just a water-spotted shower stall and a stained toilet with the seat up. A stick propped open the narrow ventilation window above the shower. Too small for even the tiniest child, but an open invitation to heat-seeking raccoons.
“Bathroom’s clear.” She holstered her gun. The cut of her wool blazer fell forward and did its best to hide the bulge of her Glock, but an observant person could tell she was armed. One of the drawbacks of having a waist.
She picked her way across the main room, staying close to the walls to avoid trampling any evidence. A flame licked the edges of the television screen—one of those mood DVDs of a fireplace but devoid of sound. It filled the space with an eerie flicker that did little to lighten the gathering dusk.
Sidestepping a cat bowl filled with water, she stopped in front of the body and pulled a set of latex gloves from her trouser pocket.
“Really?” Cameron asked.
Jo snapped them into place, then pressed two fingers against the victim’s neck in a futile search for a pulse—a completely unnecessary act that became an issue only if a defense attorney wanted to make an officer look like an idiot on the stand for not checking.
The dead man reclined in a high-backed gray chair that appeared to have built-in speakers. In the vee of his legs, a Remington 870 shotgun rested against his right thigh, the stock’s butt buried in the dirty shag carpet. On the far side, a toppled bottle of whiskey and a tumbler sat on a metal TV tray next to a long-stemmed pipe.
“Who called it in?” Jo asked.
“Quinn Kirkwood. I told her to stay in her car until we figured out what was going on.”
Jo retraced her steps to the threshold, seeking a respite from the stench of death.
A petite woman stood at the edge of the driveway, pointedly looking away from the door. “Is he okay?”
So much for staying in the car. “Let’s talk over here.” Not giving the other woman the opportunity to resist, Jo grabbed her elbow and guided her to the illuminated porch of the main house, where the overhang would protect them from the softly falling snow.
“He’s inside, isn’t he?” Quinn pulled the drawstring of her sweat shirt until the hood puckered around her neck. “He’s dead.” It should have been a question, but wasn’t. Jo’s radar pinged.
“I’m sorry.” Jo brushed errant flakes from a dilapidated wicker chair and moved it forward for her. “Is there someone I can call for you?”
She shook her head.
“How well did you know—”
“Tye. His name is—was—Tye Horton.” Quinn played with the tab of her hood string, picking at the plastic that kept the ends from fraying.
Jo remained quiet, digesting the younger woman’s unease. She was all angles: sharp shoulders, high cheekbones, blunt-cut dark hair, and canted eyes that looked blue in the open but faded to grey here in the shadows.
A pile of snow slid from a bowed cottonwood branch and landed with a dull plop. The silence broken, Quinn continued to fill it. “We have a couple classes together up at the college. He missed class. I came over to see why.”
“Does he often cut class?”
“He didn’t cut class,” she said sharply. “He missed it.” She pulled out her cellphone. “The project was due today. I should tell the others.”
What would she tell them? She hadn’t asked any questions. The pinging in Jo’s head grew louder. “Did you go inside before the officer got here?” She looked at the woman’s shoes. Converse high-tops. Distinctive tread.
Quinn launched out of her seat, sending it crashing into the porch rail. “I called you guys, remember?”
“It’s a simple yes or no.”
The smaller woman advanced and Jo fought the impulse to shove her back. “No, Officer—”
“Detective Wyatt.”
The top of Quinn’s head barely reached Jo’s chin. “Tye and I were classmates with a project due, Detective. I called him, he didn’t answer. I texted him, he didn’t respond. He didn’t show up for the game last night, which meant something was wrong. He never missed a game.”
Football. Last night Jo had pulled on her uniform and worked an overtime shift at the Sunday night game. Despite the plunging temperatures, the small college stadium had been filled to capacity.
“Did you check on him afterward?” Jo asked.
“No.” Color brightened Quinn’s pale cheeks. “By the time the game ended, it was too late. After he missed class today, I came straight over. Called the police. Here we are. Now, can I go?”
“Was Tye having any problems lately?”
“Problems?”
“With school? Friends?”
“I shared a class with him.”
Another dodge. “You knew he wasn’t at the game.”
“I figured he was finishing up his end of the project. Are we done? I’ve got class tonight.”
“I need to see your identification before you leave.”
“Un-fucking-believable.” Quinn jammed her hand into her jacket pocket and removed an old-fashioned leather coin purse. Pinching the top, she drew out her driver’s license and practically threw it at Jo.
“I’m sure you understand. Whenever there is a death, we have to treat it as a crime until we determine otherwise.”
The air left Quinn in a huff of frost. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” She dipped her face but not before Jo saw the glint of tears. “I’m just going to miss him. He was nice. I don’t have a lot of friends in Echo Valley.”
“Were the two of you dating?”
The sharpness returned to her features. “Not my type.”
“Do you know if he was in a relationship?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Would you know?”
Cameron joined the women on the porch and extended his hand to Quinn. “I’m Sergeant Finch.”
Jo sucked in her breath, and covered it with a cough. The promotional memo hadn’t been posted even a day yet.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Cameron added.
Quinn crossed her arms, whether for warmth or for comfort, Jo couldn’t tell. “Your badge says Officer. Aren’t sergeants supposed to have stripes or something?”
“It’s official next week.”
“So. Really just an officer.”
Jo bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Served him right for acting like an ass.
“I wouldn’t say just.” Cameron hooked his thumb in his gun belt.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Quinn drew a deep breath and let it out as if she feared it might be her last. “What happened?” she finally asked.
Jo spoke before Cameron could answer. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” She opened her notebook.
Quinn sized up the two officers like a child trying to decide which parent to ask, and settled on Cameron. “Will you get me the laptop that’s inside? It’s got our school project on it.”
“I’m sorry,” Jo answered. “But until we process the scene, everything needs to stay put.”
Quinn sought confirmation from Cameron. “Really?”
Jo shot him a look she hoped conveyed the slow torturous death he’d suffer if he contradicted her and compromised the scene.
Cameron placed his hand on Quinn’s forearm. “I’m certain it won’t take long and I’ll personally deliver it to you as soon as I can.”
“Thanks.” She shook off his hand and addressed Jo. “Am I free to go?”
Prickly thing. Jo handed Quinn’s license back to her. “I’m truly sorry about your friend. May I call you later if I have any questions?”
Cameron stepped closer, all earnestness and concern. “It would be very helpful to the investigation when she realizes she forgot to ask you something.”
The coin purse snapped shut. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Thank you,” Jo said, then added, “Be careful.”
Quinn jerked. “What?”
The wind had picked up, and waves of snow blew across the walkway. Jo pointed toward the street. “The temperature drops any lower and it’ll start to ice up. Be careful. The roads are going to be slick.”
Quinn bobbed her head. Hunched against the cold, she climbed into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.
Snow had collected on the bumper and Jo noted the plate. She’d seen the car around town, its brilliant color and tiny chassis a contrast to the trucks and four-wheel-drive SUVs most locals drove.
The car crunched down the driveway. Jo returned to the task at hand, ignoring Cameron as he followed her.
Two buildings—the main residence and the converted garage—stood at the center of the property. The driveway dumped out onto an alley and the hum of downtown carried across the crisp air. Dogs barked. Cars slowed and accelerated at the nearby stop sign, their engines straining and tires chewing into the slushed snow. A sagging chain-link fence ringed the property, pushed and pulled by a scraggly hedge.
Built in the days when a garage housed only a car and not the detritus of life, the building was barely larger than a tack room. A small walkway separated the dwellings. She followed the path around the exterior of the garage.
Eaves kept snow off the paint-glued windowsill on the far side of the outbuilding. Rambling rosebushes in need of pruning stretched skeletal fingers along the wall. Jo swept the bony branches aside. A thorn snagged the shoulder of her blazer.
She studied the ground. Snow both helped and hindered officers. In foot pursuits, it revealed a suspect’s path. But the more time separated an incident from its investigation, the more it hid tracks. Destroyed clues. This latest snow had started in the early hours of the morning, gently erasing the valley’s grime and secrets and creating a clean slate. Tye could have been dead for hours. The snow told her nothing.
As she stood again at the door, not even the cold at her back could erase the smell of blood. The last of the evening’s light battled its way through the dirty window, failing to brighten the dark scene in front of her.
She tried not to let the body distract her from cataloging the room. Echo Valley didn’t have violent deaths often. In her twelve years on the department, she’d investigated only two homicides, one as an officer, the second as a detective. Fatal crashes, hunting accidents, Darwin Award-worthy stupidity, sure, but murder? That was the leap year of crimes and only happened once every four years or so.
Cameron joined her on the threshold and they stood shoulder to shoulder. He had a shock of thick brown hair that begged to be touched, and eyes that said he’d let you. “Why so quiet, Jo-elle?”
The use of her nickname surprised her. Only two people had ever called her that and Cameron hadn’t used it in a long time. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
“What’s to miss? Guy blew his brains out.”
“It’s rarely that simple.”
“Not everything needs to be complicated.” He laughed. The boyishness of it had always charmed her with its enthusiasm. Now it simply sounded dismissive. Perhaps it always had been, but she’d been too in love to notice. “Hey, you got plans tonight?” He tried to sound innocent. She had learned that voice.
“Other than this? I don’t see as that’s any of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. You’re still my wife.” He stared into the distance as he said it. A splinter of sun pierced the dark clouds and bled across his unguarded expression.
Yearning.
Jo stood as if on ice, afraid to move lest she lose her balance.
He seemed to wake up, and after a deep breath, he surveyed the room. “The landlord is going to be looking for a new tenant. You should give him your name. It’s got to be better than living with your old man.”
Fissures formed beneath her and it took her two blinks before she recovered her footing.
“I need to get my camera. I’ll be right back.”
She left him at the door. The December chill wormed through her wool dress slacks as she trudged the half block to her car. She drew breath after breath of the searing chill deep into her lungs to replace the hurt, the anger, the self-recriminations that burned her. She sat in the passenger seat and picked up the radio mic. She wasn’t ready to face Cameron. Not yet.
To buy herself some time, she ran a local warrant check on Quinn. Something wasn’t quite right about the woman. A warrant might explain things.
Dispatch confirmed Quinn’s address, but had nothing to add.
Jo grabbed her camera bag and crime scene kit and schlepped back to the scene, prioritizing her actions as she went. She’d need to snag another detective. Interrupt a judge’s dinner to get a search warrant. Swab the victim’s hands for gunshot residue. Try to confirm his identification. Hopefully, the person in the front house would return soon so Jo could start collecting background on the deceased. Take overview photos of the exterior first. Inside there’d be lights. Then evidence. Identify it. Bag it. Book it.
She reached the door before she ticked through all the tasks. Cameron was circling the chair.
Jo stopped on the threshold, stunned.
“No wonder they didn’t promote you.” Cameron peered into the exposed cranium. “If you can’t tell this is a suicide, you got no business being a cop—let alone a detective.”
“Get out.”
“We’re not home, sweetie. You can’t order me out here.”
“Actually, I can. Detective, remember? This is my scene and you’re contaminating it.”
He laughed. “Sergeant outranks detective.”
“I think it’s already been established that you’re not sporting stripes.”
“Yet. Couple more days.”
Three. Three days until he started wearing the stripes that should have been hers. Three days until he outranked her. Three. Damn. Days. “And until then, Officer Finch.” With exaggerated care, she took out her notebook and started writing.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a note of the path you’ve taken. Try to retrace your steps. I’d hate to have to say how badly you mucked things up.” She paused for effect. “You getting promoted and all.”
“You’re such a bitch.”
“Is that how you talk to your wife?”
He picked up the overturned bottle on the TV tray. “Johnnie Walker Gold.” He sniffed the premium Scotch whisky. “And here I would have pegged him for a Jack fan, at best.” Cameron tipped the bottle back into place and retraced his steps.
The latex gloves did nothing to warm her fingers, and Jo shoved her hands in her pockets. Had he changed or had she? “When did you become such an ass?”
“When’d we get married?” He shouldered past her, swinging his keys around his finger. Outside, the streetlamps flickered to life. “I’ll leave you to it. Even you can see it’s a slam dunk.”
She didn’t want to agree with him. “It’s only a suicide when the coroner says so.”
“Oh, Jo-elle.”
There was that laugh again, and she hated herself for warming to him.
“You’ve got to learn to choose your battles.”
***
Excerpt from Shadow Ridge by M.E. Browning. Copyright 2020 by M.E. Browning. Reproduced with permission from M.E. Browning. All rights reserved.
***
Author Bio
M.E. BROWNING served twenty-two years in law enforcement and retired as a captain before turning to a life of crime fiction. Writing as Micki Browning, she penned the Agatha-nominated and award-winning Mer Cavallo mysteries, and her short stories and nonfiction have appeared in anthologies, mystery and diving magazines, and textbooks. As M.E. Browning, she recently began a new series of Jo Wyatt mysteries with Shadow Ridge (October 2020).
Micki is a member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and Sisters in Crime—where she served as a former president of the Guppy Chapter. A professional divemaster, she resides in Florida with her partner in crime and a vast array of scuba equipment she uses for “research.”
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour for EMERGENCY POWERS (Imogen Trager Book #3) by James McCrone. While this is the third book in the series, it can be read as a standalone.
Below you will find a post from the author, a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy!
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Post from the Author
Becoming a Writer – James McCrone
I’m often asked how old I was when I first realized I wanted to be a writer?
Like many writers, I had English/Language Arts teachers who were inspirational, as well as great librarians who opened up the world of books (and writing) to me. But ‘when did you realize it?’ is a difficult question for me because I honestly can’t think of a time when I wasn’t writing stories. But I think it was an assignment in 4th grade that made me see myself as a writer.
Stories are the way I make sense of the world. When I want to explain something I often end up telling a story to illustrate the point, or I relate an analogy, usually in story form. I was 9 or 10 years old before I found out that not everyone wrote stories. That not everyone kept a little journal in their bedrooms. I had thought it was normal to do so. (Of course, I thought I was normal!)
I wasn’t writing in a diary—sometimes days or a week would go by without me putting anything down. But then something would happen that impressed or confused me—someone on the bus, or an argument on the playground, or something I overheard my parents talking about—and I’d write it down.
Then I’d look at what I wrote, and I’d wonder whether it was the beginning of the story, the middle, or the end—what part was I seeing? What had led up to the argument I’d seen? Was it the beginning of something, or was it the end? Or: why was the woman on the bus muttering to herself? Did no one talk with her because she muttered to herself, or did she mutter to herself because she had no one to talk with? What else had happened? What else would happen? And I’d try to fill it in.
That day in fourth grade we were given an assignment to write a story. One of my classmates groaned about it, despairing of having to write a WHOLE story (It only had to be 4-5 pages, if I remember correctly.) I said something like “it doesn’t have to be anything new. You can just flesh out something you already have.” He looked at me like I was nuts.
Of course for me, the problem wasn’t what to write, but which story to use.
So I think it was that assignment which made me think about what I was doing as “being a writer.” All I remember now about the story I wrote then is that it was about a boy who gets lost. But the teacher liked it and praised it, and when she had me read it to the class, they liked it—even some of the kids I thought would make fun of me.
Prior to that moment, I’d looked at writing as something only for me. Now, I saw it as something to share. And I’ve been hooked on it ever since.
I’m still doing much the same thing I did when I was a boy. I write about things that interest me, that draw me in. And I wonder where else it will go… Fortunately, there are many who come along for the ride.
***
Book Synopsis
The accidental president is no accident. The investigation that was FBI Agent Imogen Trager’s undoing may be the key to stopping a brutal, false flag terrorist attack meant to tighten a puppet president’s grip on power.
As the story begins, Imogen is haunted—and sidelined—by a case she couldn’t solve. When the president dies in office, she knows that the conspiracy she chased down a blind alley still has life in it—and she needs to get back in the hunt.
As bodies pile up and leads go cold, the main target from that old case reaches out to her. He’s still at large, and now he needs protection. Imogen doesn’t trust him, and it’s not only because he’s offering intel that sounds too good to be true. He’s already tried to kill her once.
Set in D.C., Seattle and small town America, Emergency Powers is a story of corruption and redemption, achieved at enormous personal cost.
Genre: Suspense-Thriller Published by: James McCrone Publication Date: October 1, 2020 Number of Pages: 300 ISBN: 9780999137727 (9780999137734) Series: An Imogen Trager Thriller
***
My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
EMERGENCY POWERS (Imogen Trager Book #3) by James McCrone is the third intrigue filled, twisted political thriller featuring FBI agent Imogen Trager. Imogen is a brilliant analyst of political statistics who believes statistics can always be used to find hidden clues or patterns that otherwise cannot be found through straight forward investigative procedures. While this is a continuation from books one and two, the author brings you up to date quickly so this book can be read as a standalone.
After working to stop a secret group’s attempt to derail and steal the Presidential election, Imogen has been sidelined and considers resigning from the FBI and returning to academia.
And then the news…The President is dead!
FBI agent Imogen Trager, her fellow agent, Amanda Vega and her former boss, Don Weir are all immediately aware that there is more to uncover. With Bob Moore moving from VP to President, Imogen now has a new focal point for her statistical analysis and investigation to begin once again connecting the dots to uncover the remainder of the conspiracy.
While bodies pile up, a connection from the previous investigation reaches out to Imogen. While he tried to kill her previously, he now wants protection for information and Imogen does not know if she can trust him.
The powerful elite behind this plot will do anything to maintain their power now that they have everyone and everything in their control, except Imogen.
This is such an edge-of-your-seat plot which seems like it could easily happen in real world politics today. The twists and turns in the plot surprised me and were perfectly written to keep me turning the pages. Imogen is a heroine that I always love to find in fiction because she uses her intelligence above all else to uncover the plot against our democracy. All the secondary characters are fully drawn and add to the overall story without being just placeholders. This book is a full length thriller that does standalone, but I am glad that I also read the first two books which are both approximately 200 pages and give the lead-up to this plot and more background on the main characters.
I highly recommend this thought-provoking political thriller with a what-if scenario that is eerily believable!
***
Excerpt
Friday, March 10
Seattle, Washington
1
Just before 5am, FBI Agent Imogen Trager gave a low growl and reached for the phone, buzzing officiously on the nightstand. She sat on the edge of the bed she shared with Duncan Calder, glowering at it as her eyes focused in the dark. Fixing a strand of red hair behind her ear, she scrolled through texts and posts from colleagues and friends. Her anger turned from dismay to sickening fear.
“Duncan!” She shook him awake and handed him the phone. He sat up and took it, scanning the news, instantly awake.
Imogen rose and picked her way to the living room in the dark where she turned on the television. The piercing glare of the screen stung the murky Northwest morning. Some 3,700 miles away, Vice President Robert Moore approached a phalanx of microphones, manfully fighting back tears:
“My fellow Americans,” he said, “it is my sad duty to confirm that Diane Redmond, the President of the United States, is dead.”
Bob Moore, a towering figure in person, looked small on screen, standing in the rain under a canopy of black umbrellas at the entrance to Walter Reed Medical Center. Duncan joined Imogen in the darkness, and she reached for his hand.
They stared, dumbfounded, as Moore continued: “Her doctors have informed me”—here he paused to clear his throat—“that the cause of death is believed to be a heart attack; that it was sudden and fatal. A full autopsy is underway, and it will give us a clearer picture. Our prayers go out to her family and loved ones.
“The Chief Justice has administered the Oath of Office to me here in the presence of cabinet members and hospital staff. The preservation of our great nation’s interests, its security and the continuity of government are assured.”
Duncan turned to Imogen: “Is it starting again?”
“I don’t think it ever stopped,” she brooded, her green eyes smoldering. “We failed. We didn’t cut the head off the snake.” Fury rose within her, sharp and raw like nausea.
Duncan handed her back the phone. It continued buzzing as reporters swarmed, asking for a quote from her as the public and photogenic face of the Faithless Elector investigation. She’d learned her lesson there and declined each call.
Their texted questions—the ones she bothered to read—were, as usual, off the mark: Would the Faithless Elector task force be revived to look into the President’s death? Would unanswered questions from the investigation strengthen or weaken support for the new President? Regarding the first: the task force was alive, if not well, she thought, and at any rate, she’d be one of the last to know about any official changes or developments. As to the second: Take a fucking a poll.
None of them asked the real questions—the ones she needed answered: Was this the final move of the conspiracy she had chased madly into a blind alley? If so, how had the dark network assassinated a President inside the White House? Who was moving the pieces, and what were the next moves? Most pressing: How would she get herself back in the hunt? From her phone, she deleted the draft email bearing the resignation she had planned to send on Monday morning.
Dawn was still some two hours away as Calder sat down on the couch next to her. “So you won’t be resigning, I take it,” he observed.
“No,” she said, not looking up from her notebook.
“How will you begin?”
She looked up. “We were digging in the wrong place. I’m going to go back over the associates and links we’ve established, see where or how any of them point at Bob Moore.”
“So Moore digging, eh?” he quipped.
Imogen sighed. She loved him, but how was he able to have distance at a moment like this? she wondered. She eyed him wearily. “Duncan, I’m going to get stonewalling from Nettie at the office about this new direction. I’m—”
He held up a hand. “What will you do?” He looked at her notebook. “And who’s Carla?”
“I’m going back to the data.”
“You’ve gotten nowhere with that,” said Calder acidly.
“Because we were looking at it in relation to other actors. Not Moore. And Carla’s not a who, but a what—short for ‘CARLA F BAD’: Character, Associates, Reputation, Loyalty, Ability, Finances, Bias, Alcohol, Drugs. It’s what you look at in a security clearance, among other things. It helps define spheres of influence and interaction. The disclosure dossiers on the men who’ve been working directly under Moore will have looked precisely at these CARLA factors. And I want to look at them, too. And his associates. So I’ll go backward, this time with Moore in mind. I want to look at his campaign finances. Who funded him early on in the race? Who else was involved or associated? Maybe something jumps out at me. Maybe that’ll point me in a direction.”
“It’s a lot of maybes, ’Gen.” He scratched at his iron gray hair.
“It’s where I’ll start. There’s always a gap in the armor somewhere. The really hard part is that I can’t just request materials the regular way through regular channels without telegraphing what I’m trying to do.”
“Or looking like you’re still part of the Faithless Elector case.”
She nodded and looked at him uncertainly. “And…I think I should cut this weekend short, if I can get a flight back to D.C.”
“I’m wondering what you’re still doing here,” he said.
Imogen leaned in and kissed him.
On the East Coast it was early morning, but across much of the country the sun was still not up. In the darkness, the announcement of Redmond’s death in office set off a series of moves seemingly unconnected and largely unremarked, as pawns were sacrificed and battle pieces were moved into place for the final gambit.
Rocky Mountains
Snow lit by headlights split the darkness, blinding the Highway patrolman who waited for the tow truck to pull out a car buried in the snow. Working in the dark about 14 miles west-by-southwest of Aspen, Colorado, the tow truck was having a difficult time dragging the car out. In what must have been whiteout conditions, the car had plunged through a guardrail and into the ravine.
As the patrolman stood at the side of the road waiting for the winch operator to do his work, he took off his right glove to read an alert on his phone. Speechless, he watched the news clip of now-President Moore at the hospital. Bewildered, numb—and not just from the cold—he stared over the still-dark, bleak expanse of mountains.
“Damn,” said the winch operator, breaking the patrolman’s reverie. The contorted steel shell of a car came into view and slowly ascended backwards up the steep hill. “You guys close Route 82 for more than half the year. Maybe you should think about closing this one, too.”
“We serve and protect,” the patrolman countered. “We can’t protect them from their own stupidity.”
Maricopa, California
Ninety-five miles northwest of Los Angeles, near Bakersfield, west of where the lush groves of San Emidio return to desert, police had responded to a call reporting shots fired.
The bodies of four men lay strewn around the living room and kitchen of a battered, double-wide trailer home, victims of an apparent drug deal gone bad. Even before forensics got to work, it was obvious the house had been used as a meth lab. An acrid stench burned the eyes and throats of the responding officers, who quickly backed out and awaited the Kern County forensics team.
As two officers sat in a squad car in the dark guarding the site, news reached them of the death of the president. They watched Moore at Walter Reed on the lieutenant’s phone. The death of these four drug dealers now seemed even less important. Desultorily, they searched the onboard police computer for information about the four corpses. Two of them had arrest records, known agitators and members of a border vigilante group.
“Right,” the lieutenant said to the patrolman. “Illegally funded law and order.”
“For some,” the officer added.
In Seattle, Imogen packed her bags, while fewer than six miles away but as blind to one another as opposite sides of the same coin, a sleek Eclipse 500 jet touched down at Boeing Field. The light jet taxied rapidly in the damp winter darkness, coming to an abrupt stop on a dimly lit portion of the tarmac at the north end of the field.
The hiss of its engines became a plaintive whistle as the doors popped open and two young men, Dan Cardoso and Eric Janssen, ran down the steps. They immediately turned round and helped close the stairs. But for this gesture of help, anyone witnessing their arrival—and no one did—might have mistaken them for two young executives returning from a casual outing.
Its doors sealed once more, the small jet in the tan-on-beige livery of Flintlock Industries, pushed on, the whistle of its engines discordantly climbing the scale as it taxied away. Cardoso and Janssen walked toward their cars parked just outside a chain link fence, fist-bumping as they separated at the gate.
“See you April 20,” Janssen said.
Cardoso gave a thumbs-up as he turned away. Though the tarmac was deserted, the bravado exchange was a crucial performance. They had each been schooled in the need for watchfulness—especially of one another. Any sign of dissent, hint of doubt or fading spirit should be reported.
Alone for the first time in more than 24 hours, each man allowed himself to think about what had just happened. On orders, they’d dispatched the members of a cell near Bakersfield, California, much like their own, though a failing one according to their handler. Although they had kept their misgivings to themselves, each had arrived at the same conclusion: when given a list of people marked for death, the quickest way to get your name added to the list was to refuse or even question the job. Each ruminated on the final step to come, and whether they would receive their just, or their eternal, reward.
Before their cars were started, and as Imogen zipped her suitcase closed, the light jet was in the air, headed east to another rendezvous.
2
Reactions to the death of the President were swift across the nation and the political spectrum. Imogen, now waiting at the airport gate, had inadvertently seated herself between two television monitors, each tuned to a different 24-hour news channel. They faced each other, across her and the political divide. At times, they seemed to be arguing with each other, and she found herself glancing back and forth like someone watching a tennis match. Travelers congregated silently at screens large and small throughout the terminal.
The remarkable unanimity of official emotion on television and across social media made it seem that everyone in Washington had been issued the same talking points memo: Redmond was praised for her “integrity,” her “dignity” and “strength,” each promising to uphold the unity she had embodied and to deliver on her legacy while offering support to Moore. There were, Imogen noted, still a few unfilled cabinet positions left. Snapchat, she mused tartly, seemed like a better venue for all the disposable preening and jockeying.
The news was rife with speculation about what had befallen President Redmond, and what a new Moore administration might look like. Between the two televisions and along the political spectrum, while politicians hewed to their “unity in adversity” tropes, the talking heads seemed to be going through their own peculiar stages of grief: conservative hosts, when not in denial about the larger implications, presented with over-modulated anger; whereas mainstream pundits registered shock and dismay, their interviews with Democratic leaders manifesting pain, and above all bargaining. Only religious leaders seemed to have progressed to acceptance and hope, anointing Moore as one demonstrably chosen by Providence. In all cases, speculation was rampant, and there were no facts in evidence, save the obvious—Redmond was dead and Moore was president.
Bob Moore was taciturn by nature, the pundits opined. He had a reputation for bloodless pronouncements, heavy on procedure and mindful of every political angle, earning him the ironic nickname “ad lib Bob.” But on the campaign trail, and during the contested fight for the Presidency, they noted, he had been a different man. All dispassion spent, he became a man of conviction. It remained to be seen, the pundits agreed, as to which version of Moore would prevail now that he was President.
***
Author Bio
James McCrone has a Master of Fine Arts degree from the University of Washington, in Seattle. He’s a member of Crime Writers of America (NY Chapter), Sisters in Crime (DE-Valley Chapter), Int’l Assoc. of Crime Writers, Philadelphia Dramatists Center and Int’l Thriller Writers.
He’s the author of Faithless Elector and Dark Network, the first two Imogen Trager “Noirpolitik” suspense-thrillers about a stolen presidency. The third Imogen Trager thriller, EMERGENCY POWERS, is due out in late September, 2020. His short story, “Numbers Don’t Lie” will appear in the anthology Low Down Dirty Vote, Vol.2 (M. Berry, ed.), out on July 4, 2020.
A Pacific Northwest native, he now lives in Philadelphia with his wife and three adult children.
James’s work explores characters pitted against forces larger than themselves. Both on an off the page, he’s fascinated with politics and issues of social responsibility and justice.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour for Colleen Coble’s TWO REASONS TO RUN (Pelican Harbor Book #2). This is the second book in the Pelican Harbor trilogy. The mystery/suspense in each book is unique to that book, but the characters’ personal lives progress and carry over from each previous book. I feel these books are best read in order.
Below you will find a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy!
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Book Synopsis
A lie changed her world.
Police Chief Jane Hardy is still reeling from the scandal that rocked her small-town department just as she took over for her retired father—the man who wrecked her life with one little lie. Now she’s finally been reunited with her presumed-dead fifteen-year-old son, Will, and his father, documentarian Reid Bechtol.
A crisis looms.
When a murder aboard the oil platform Zeus exposes an environmental terrorist’s plot to flood Mobile Bay with crude oil, Jane and Reid must put their feelings for each other behind them and work together to prevent the rig from being sabotaged.
A killer targets her son.
Then the terrorist puts her son Will’s life on the line. Protecting him could be the common ground they need . . . but then ghosts from the past threaten to ruin Jane and Reid for good. She’s got plenty of reasons to run. But what if she stays?
Genre: Christian Romantic Suspense Published by: Thomas Nelson Publication Date: September 8, 2020 Number of Pages: 352 ISBN: 0785228489 (ISBN13: 9780785228486) Series: Pelican Harbor #2 Purchase Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | ChristianBook.com | Goodreads
***
My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
TWO REASONS TO RUN (Pelican Harbor Book #2) by Colleen Coble is the second action packed Christian romantic suspense/mystery in this trilogy series. The small coastal town of Pelican Bay’s Chief of Police Jane Hardy is a 5’2” strong, determined and justice driven spitfire who also happens to be a survivor of a cult. While the suspense/mystery is unique and solved in each book, Jane and all the main characters’ personal stories carry over and are a large part of the story. I feel the books in this trilogy should be read in order.
Chief of Police Jane Hardy is now firmly in control of her small-town police department after taking over from her retired father and surviving the scandal from “One Little Lie”. While she has been happily reunited with her fifteen-year-old son Will, who she believed dead, she is still coming to terms with the betrayal she feels from his father, Reid.
A local mother has reported her son missing when he does not return from the giant oil rig in the bay. She gives Jane an email from her son that suggests there is a terrorist plot against the oil rig and he believes he is in danger. But with no other leads and no body, Homeland Security drops the case.
Reid uses his job as a journalist/documentarian to gain access to the rig. He and Jane find the missing man dead and tied under the oil rig. As Jane and Will move forward in the investigation, they receive threats that if they continue, their son Will’s life in on the line.
I loved this book as much as the first which of course makes me anxious for the third. I believe this author does a great job of balancing an intriguing investigation, building suspense and dealing with all the characters’ personal lives in this small town which comes to life in her worldbuilding. Jane is a complex character dealing with her past in the cult, her development of her current spiritual beliefs and her relationship with Reid. All the secondary characters are fully fleshed and realistic. Though there is faith-based dialogue, it never felt out of character or like you are being preached at.
I highly recommend this Christian romantic suspense/mystery and author.
***
Excerpt
Was anyone watching?
Keith McDonald sat at the computer and glanced around the oil platform’s rec room, but the dozen or so workers were engrossed in watching the final game of a Ping-Pong match. He hesitated,
then hovered his cursor over the Send button. Clenching his teeth, he sent the emails. Maybe it was nothing, but if anyone could decipher the recording, it was Reid Dixon.
The back of his neck prickled, and Keith looked around again. The room felt stifling even with the AC cooling it from the May heat. He jumped up and headed for the door. He exited and darted into the shadows as two men strolled past. One was his suspect.
Keith stood on a grating suspended three thousand feet over the water and strained to hear past the noise of machinery. The scent of the sea enveloped him, and the stars glimmered on the water surrounding the oil platform that had been his home for two years now.
“Scheduled for late May—”
A clanging bell drowned out the rest of the man’s words.
“Devastation—”
The other fragment of conversation pumped up Keith’s heart rate. Were they talking about the sabotage he feared, or was he reading more into the words than were there? He couldn’t believe someone could be callous enough to sabotage the oil platform and destroy the coast on purpose. He’d seen firsthand the devastating effects from the Deepwater Horizon catastrophe. And what about the people living on the platform? Deepwater Horizon had killed eleven people and injured another seventeen.
He had to sound a warning and stop this, but he had no real evidence. If Reid Dixon blew him off, who would even listen? Maybe Homeland Security would pay attention, but who did he even call there? He could tell them about the pictures threatening Bonnie, but what did that prove? They might just say she had a stalker and he was chasing shadows.
He couldn’t say they were wrong.
He sidled along the railing, and the breeze lifted his hair. A boat bobbed in the waves far below, and in the moonlight, he spotted a diver aboard. Must be night diving the artificial reef created by the concrete supports below the platform. He’d done a bit of it himself over the years.
For an instant he wished he were gliding carefree through the waves without this crushing weight of conscience on his shoulders. When he was sixteen, life was so simple. School, girls, football, and good times. He’d gone to work at the platform when he was nineteen, after he’d decided college wasn’t for him.
It had been a safe place, a good place to work with fun companions and interesting work.
Until a few weeks ago when everything turned sinister and strange. He’d wanted to uncover more before he reported it, but every second he delayed could mean a stronger chance of an attack.
If an attack was coming. He still wasn’t sure, and he wanted a name or to identify the organization behind the threat. If there was a threat. Waffling back and forth had held him in place. Was this real, or was he reading something dangerous into something innocent?
Though he didn’t think he was overreacting.
He turned to head to his quarters. A bulky figure rushed him from the shadows and plowed into his chest, driving him back against the railing. The man grabbed Keith’s legs and tried to tip him over the edge.
***
Author Bio
Colleen Coble is a USA TODAY bestselling author and RITA finalist best known for her coastal romantic suspense novels, including The Inn at Ocean’s Edge, Twilight at Blueberry Barrens, and the Lavender Tides, Sunset Cove, Hope Beach, and Rock Harbor series.
