Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for GIRL AMONG CROWS by Brendon Vayo on this Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my mini book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links, and a Kingsumo giveaway! Good luck on the giveaway and enjoy!
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Book Description
Beware the Brotherhood of the Raven
When two boys vanish from her hometown, Daphne Gauge notices uncanny parallels to her brother’s disappearance 30 years earlier. Symbols of an ancient Norse god. Rumors of a promise to reward the town’s faithful with wealth and power, for a price. She warns her husband that another sacrifice is imminent, but just like last time, no one believes her.
This leaves her with a desperate choice: investigate with limited resources, or give in to the FBI’s request for an interview. For years, they’ve wanted a member of the Gauge family to go on record about the tragedy back in 1988. If she agrees to a deposition now, Daphne must confess her family’s dark secrets. But she also might have one last chance to unmask the killer from back then . . . and now.
Genre: Horror, Suspense Published by: CamCat Books Publication Date: November 2023 Number of Pages: 416 ISBN: 9780744306552 (ISBN10: 0744306558)
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My Mini Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
GIRL AMONG CROWS by Brendon Vayo is an interestingly unique and atmospheric horror story with elements of suspense and mystery with Norse mythology influence.
This is a difficult book to review because I am afraid of giving away any important plot points. You have to give this book a chance to get going because at first a lot of information is given that did not make sense to me, but it is relevant later, and it will come together and move more quickly as the story progresses. The mystery unravels in two timelines, Daphne’s past and present, with the disappearance of young boys in both timelines and the Brotherhood of Crows playing an important part in both. Daphne is so complex because she wants to solve the disappearances, but at the same time she would be betraying those closest to her. One word that I did look up that helped in my understanding early on in the story was “blot” which is Old Norse for an exchange in which they did a blood sacrifice to the gods in order to get something in return.
I am very glad I gave this book a try because it did turn out to be an engrossing read. If you are into dark horror with suspense and mystery this is definitely the book for you.
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Excerpt
My husband Karl shakes hands with other doctors, a carousel of orthopedic surgeons in cummerbunds. I read his lips over the brass band: How’s the champagne, Ed? Since he grayed, Karl wears a light beard that, for the convention, he trimmed to nothing.
The ballroom they rented has long windows that run along Boston’s waterfront. Sapphire table settings burn in their reflections.
The food looks delicious. Rainbows of heirloom carrots. Vermont white cheddar in the macaroni. Some compliment the main course, baked cod drizzled with olive oil. My eyes are on the chocolate cherries. Unless Karl is right, and they’re soaked in brandy.
At some dramatic point in the evening, balloons will drop from nets. A banner sags, prematurely revealing its last line.
CELEBRATING THIRTY YEARS!
Thirty years. How nice, though I try not to think that far back.
I miss something, another joke.
Everyone’s covering merlot-soaked teeth, and I wonder if they’re laughing at me. Is it my dress? I didn’t know if I should wear white like the other wives.
I redirect the conversation from my choice of a navy-blue one-shoulder, which I now see leaves me exposed, and ask so many questions about the latest in joint repair that I get lightheaded.
The chandelier spins. Double zeroes hit the roulette table. A break watching the ocean, then I’m back, resuming my duties as a spouse, suppressing a yawn for an older man my husband desperately wants to impress. A board member who could recommend Karl as the next director of clinical apps.
I’m thinking about moving up, our careers. I’m not thinking dark thoughts like people are laughing or staring at me. Not even when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Are you Daphne?” asks a young man. A member of the wait staff. No one should know me here; I’m an ornament. Yet something’s familiar about the young man’s blue eyes. Heat trickles down my neck as I try to name the sensation in my stomach.
“And you are?” I say.
“Gerard,” he says. The glasses on his platter sway with caffeinated amber. “Gerard Gedney. You remember?”
I gag on my ginger ale.
“My gosh, I do,” I say. “Gerard. Wow.”
Thirty years ago, when this convention was still in its planning stages, Gerard Gedney was the little boy who had to stay in his room for almost his entire childhood. Beginning of every school year, each class made Get Well Soon cards and mailed them to his house.
We moved before I knew what happened to Gerard, but with everything else, I never thought of him until now. All the growing up he must’ve done, despite the odds, and now at least he got out, got away.
“I beat the leukemia,” he says.
“I’m so glad for you, Gerard.”
If that’s the appropriate response. The awkwardness that defined my childhood creeps over me. Of all the people to bump into, it has to be David Gedney’s brother. David, the Boy Never Found.
My eyes jump from Gerard to the other wait staff. They wear pleated dress pants. Gerard’s in a T-shirt, bowtie, and black jeans.
“I don’t really work here, Daphne,” says Gerard, sliding the platter onto a table. “I’ve been looking for you for a while.”
The centerpiece topples. Glass shatters. An old woman holds her throat.
“Gerard,” I say, my knees weak, “I understand you’re upset about David. Can we please not do this here?”
Gerard wouldn’t be the first to unload on what awful people we were. But to hear family gossip aired tonight, in front of my husband and his colleagues? I can’t even imagine what Karl would think.
“I’m not here about my brother,” says Gerard. “I’m here about yours.” His words twist.
“Paul,” I say.
“What about him?” “I’m so sorry,” says a waiter, bumping me. Another kneels to pick up green chunks of the vase. When I find Gerard again, he’s at the service exit, waiting for me to follow.
Before I do, I take one last look at the distinguished men and a few women. The shoulder claps. The dancing. Karl wants to be in that clique—I mean, I want that too. For him, I want it.
But I realize something else. They’re having a good time in a way I never could, even if I were able to let go of the memory of my brother, Paul.
The catering service has two vans in the alleyway. It’s a tunnel that feeds into the Boston skyline, the Prudential Center its shining peak.
Gerard beckons me to duck behind a stinky dumpster. Rain drizzles on cardboard boxes.
I never knew Gerard as a man. Maybe he has a knife or wants to strangle me, and all this news about my brother was bait to lure me out here. I’m vulnerable in high heels. But Gerard doesn’t pull a weapon.
He pulls out a postcard, its edges dusty with a white powder I can’t identify. The image is of three black crows inscribed on a glowing full moon.
“I found it in Dad’s things,” says Gerard. “Please take it. Look, David is gone. We’ve got to live with the messes our parents made. Mine sacrificed a lot for my treatment, but had they moved to Boston, I probably would’ve beat the cancer in months instead of years.”
“And this is about Paul?” I say.
“When the chemo was at its worst,” says Gerard, “I dreamed about a boy, my older self, telling me I would survive.”
I take my eyes off Gerard long enough to read the back of the postcard:
$ from Crusher. Keep yourself pure, Brother. For the sake of our children, the Door must remain open.
Crusher. Brother. Door. No salutation or signature, no return address. Other than Crusher, no names of any kind. The words run together with Gerard’s take on how treatment changed his perspective.
Something presses my stomach again. Dread. Soon as I saw this young man, I knew he was an omen of something. And when is an omen good?
“Your dad had this,” I say. “Did he say why? Or who sent it?”
An angry look crosses Gerard’s face. “My dad’s dead,” he says. “So’s Brother Dominic. Liver cancer stage 4B on Christmas Day. What’d they do to deserve that, huh?”
“They both died on Christmas? Gerard, I’m so sorry.” First David, now his dad and Dominic? He stiffens when I reach for him, and, of course, I’m the last person he wants to comfort him. “I know how hard it is. I lost my mom, as you know, and my dad ten years ago.”
The day Dad died, I thought I’d never get off the floor. I cried so hard I threw up, right in the kitchen. Karl was there, my future husband, visiting on the weekend from his residency. I didn’t even think we were serious, but there he was, talking me through it, the words lost now, but not the comfort of his voice.
I looked in his eyes, daring to hope that with this man I wouldn’t pass on to my children what Mom passed down to me.
“Mom’s half-there most days,” says Gerard. “But one thing.”
The rear entrance bangs open, spewing orange light. Two men dump oily garbage, chatting in Spanish.
“Check the postmark, Daphne,” says Gerard at the end of the alleyway. He was right beside me. Now it’s a black bird sidestepping on the dumpster, its talons clacking, wanting me to feed it. I flinch and catch Gerard shrugging under the icy rain before he disappears.
The postmark is from Los Angeles, sent October last year. Six months ago, George Gedney received this postcard. Two months later, he’s dead, and so is another son.
What does that mean? How does it fit in with Paul?
Though he’s gone, I keep calling for Gerard, my voice strangled. Someone has me by the elbow, my husband. Even in lifts, Karl’s three inches shorter than me.
“Daphne, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Colquitt. I need Sheriff Colquitt or . . .” Voices argue in my head, and I nod at the hail swirling past yellow streetlamps. “Thirty years ago, Bixbee was a young man. He might still be alive.”
“Daphne, did that man hurt you? Hey.”
Karl demands that someone call the police, but I shake him.
“It’s fine, Karl,” I say, dialing Berkshire County Sheriff ’s Office. “Gerard’s a boy I knew from my hometown.”
Karl’s calling someone too. “Some coincidence,” he says.
Though it wasn’t. Here I am trying not to think about the past, and it comes back to slap me in the face as though I summoned it. Paul. The little brother I vowed to protect.
The phone finally picks up. “Berkshire Sheriff’s Office.”
“Hello,” I say, “could I leave a message for Harold Bixbee to call me back as soon as possible? He is or was a deputy in your department.”
“Uh, ma’am, I don’t have anyone in our personnel records who matches that name. But if it’s an emergency, I’d be glad—” I hang up. Damn. I should’ve known at nine p.m., all I’d get is a desk sergeant. I’d spend half the night catching him up to speed.
“Daphne.” My husband lowers his phone, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “I asked Ed to pull the hotel’s security feed. You’re the only one on tape.”
“What? No.”
“It shows that you walked out that door alone,” says Karl, gesturing, “and I come out a few minutes later.”
The Door must remain open.
Dread hardens, then the postcard’s corner jabs my thumb. I’m about to show Karl my proof when I realize that now there are only two crows in the moon.
“How’d he do that?” I keep flipping it, expecting the third one to return, before I sense my husband waiting. Distantly, I hear wings flap, but it could be the rain. “Gerard wanted me to have his dad’s postcard.”
“So this boy Gerard comes all the way from Springfield to hand you a postcard,” Karl says. “And he can magically avoid cameras?”
“I’m not from Springfield,” I say, shaking off a chill. Magically avoid cameras. And Gerard can turn pictures of crows into real ones too. How?
“You seem very agitated,” says Karl. “Want me to call Dr. Russell? Unless . . .” Karl’s listening, just not to me. “Ed says the camera angles aren’t the best here. There’s a few blind spots.”
“I said I’m not from Springfield, Karl. Any more than you’re from Boston.”
My husband nods, still wary. “Boston is more recognizable than Quincy. But how does your hometown account for why Gerard isn’t on the security footage?”
I lick my lips, my hand hovering over Karl’s phone.
When we first met, I wanted to keep things upbeat. Me? I’m a daddy’s girl, though (chuckling) certainly not to a fault. In the interest of a second date, I might’ve understated some things.
“Here,” I say, “it’s more like I’m from the Hilltowns. It’s a remote area.” My lips tremble, trying to force out the name of my hometown. “I was born and raised in New Minton, Karl.”
Somewhere between Cabbage Patch Kids and stickers hidden in a cereal box, the ones Paul demanded every time we opened a new Crøønchy Stars, is recognition. I can tell by the strange flicker on Karl’s face.
“The New Minton Boys,” he says. “All those missing kids, the ones never found.” Karl is stunned. “Daphne, you’re from there? Did you know those boys? God, you would’ve been a kid yourself.”
“I was eleven,” I say. And I was a kid, a selfish kid. I came from a large family. Brandy was seventeen, Courtney fifteen, Ellie nine, and Paul seven.
The day before my brother disappeared, I wasn’t thinking that this night was the last time we’d all be together. I wasn’t thinking about the pain Mom and Dad would go through, especially after the town gossip began.
No. I thought my biggest problems in the world were mean schoolboys. So I ruined dinner.
“Daphne?” Now Karl looks mad. “That’s a big secret not to tell your husband.”
If only he knew.
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Author Bio
Brendon Vayo was born in Okinawa, Japan, and now lives in Austin, TX. He has a wonderful wife and three children. The kids keep him awake at night, so he hopes his books do the same to you.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for PRETEND WITH ME (Beacon Hill Book #1) by Emily Mayer on this AME blog tour.
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
One phone call was all it took to upend my entire life in completely unexpected ways.
Whoever said that you can’t go home again was a lair. After the senior year from hell, I had spent a decade trying to avoid Beacon Hill and its residents. My luck came to a sudden end after daddy had an incident with a rotted floor. In and out, I promised myself. I was just there to help my parents for a week or two tops.
Things in Beacon Hill hadn’t changed much since I’d been home last. Mama still worked at the hub of gossip known as Trixie’s, Mrs. Thomas still made the best chicken salad in all of Georgia, and my sister was still the devil in a pushup bra. And of course, the St. James family was still local royalty. Our very own version of the Kennedys.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that, not only is my sister back in town after a failed modeling career, she’s also engaged to Macon St. James. The golden boy of Beacon Hill, and the star of every single one of my teenage fantasies.
The biggest surprise of all was Holden St. James. I thought he would be one of the villains in this story, but I was learning that I had been wrong about a lot of things. And Holden just might be worth coming home for….
PRETEND WITH ME (Beacon Hill Book #1) by Emily Mayer is an enchanting contemporary romance with two people who should not have worked, but discovered they did. This is the first book I have read by this author, and it hooked me immediately and I fell right into the story.
Sutton grew up in the shadow of her older beauty pageant sister, Sissy. Sutton preferred jeans, tennis shoes, fanfics, and computers. As they grew older, they grew further apart with Sissy always having to be the center of attention and always get what she wanted. When Sutton found out her sister slept with her best friend’s boyfriend, Macon St. James and the boy Sutton secretly had a crush on, she confronted her and told her parents. Sissy got her revenge and Sutton ran from Beacon Hill after she graduated from high school.
Ten years later, Sutton is working as a coder for a gaming company in Savannah, when she gets called back home to help her father after a workplace injury. When she returns, she learns Sissy is back from L.A. and marrying Macon. She is expected to be in maid of honor and is paired with Holden St. James, Macon’s strait-laced older brother. What she discovers is that Macon and Holden are very different from her high school memories, and she begins to realize she may have dreamed about the wrong brother.
I absolutely love Sutton and Holden and loved to hate Sissy. This romance pulled me right into the story with its snarky and witty dialogue between all the characters. I laughed out loud so many times especially when Sutton and Max were together and when Sutton’s guinea pigs were discussed. (I had the same surprise guinea pig babies happen to me!) All the secondary characters are fully developed and realistic. The chemistry builds steadily through the romance plot and there is only one sex scene almost at the end of the book, which is explicit and smokin’ hot, but not gratuitous. Since this will be a series, I am very excited that I will be able to visit Beacon Hill and hopefully all these characters again in the future.
I highly recommend this delightful and entertaining contemporary romance!
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Excerpt
Once he was all settled, I got into the front seat and took a fortifying drink of my coffee.
“Okay, big guy, let’s set some ground rules for this drive.” I met his narrowed gaze in the mirror and smiled widely. “I don’t want to hear one single word about where my hands are on the wheel, the speed limit, the space between cars, or motion sickness. Got it?”
“Sutton Louise Buchanan, I was there for the day you took your first breath and I can — ”
“Good enough.” I turned the engine on and put the truck in reverse. “Why are you working on a Saturday anyway?”
“I want to make sure my crew stays on schedule while I’m laid up.” Daddy leaned forward and reached between the seats to grab his coffee. “It’s a real big job so I don’t want to fall behind right out of the gate if it can be helped.”
I nodded. “Makes sense. Where are we headed?” I came to a stop at the sign just at the end of our street.
“To the old Bradford place.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise as I turned the truck in the right direction, memory taking over. The old farmhouse had originally been built in the mid-1800s and had been renovated sporadically until the owners abandoned it in the 1980s. It was a beautiful old house — or it had been — with big porches and a sunroom that had been added on at some point. Something about that house had always called to me. I’d daydreamed about being the one to finally breathe life back into it, restore it to its former glory. Of course, all that was before Sissy had made staying here seem impossible.
There were always lots of rumors circulating about why the Bradfords had abruptly moved away after living and farming on the land for centuries, but no one really knew the reason. Beacon Hill loved its gossip. A local favorite was that one of the Mr. Bradfords had killed his entire family, and their ghosts haunted the house. Every Halloween, high schoolers would break in and try to spend the night inside. I had never been invited.
“Someone finally bought that old place?”
“Sure did, and it’s a total gut job. There were structural issues.” Daddy sounded practically gleeful at the prospect. I pictured dollar signs floating around his head like little cartoon hearts.
“I’m really happy to see that house get the love it deserves, but whoever bought it either has too much money or is an idiot.”
Daddy was silent, his fingers playing a rhythm on his Thermos.
“Well, I’d say it’s probably the former.” Daddy paused. “I don’t think anyone can call Holden St. James an idiot.”
“What?” I screeched, whipping my head around to look at him and jerking the steering wheel in the process, causing us to briefly veer off the road and onto the shoulder.
“Eyes on the road, Sutton!” Daddy yelled, bracing himself. “Jesus remember me, how many times can a man almost die in one week?”
Car in the proper lane, I took a deep breath.
“Did you just say Holden St. James bought the old Bradford place?”
“If I answer that question, are you going to be able to maintain control of the vehicle?”
I rolled my eyes, but kept them facing forward — both for safety and so Daddy wouldn’t see it.
“You’re getting dramatic in your old age. I was just surprised. It doesn’t seem like someplace Holden St. James would be interested in living. I pictured him in a sterile, ultra-modern penthouse where every single piece of furniture makes a statement and is uncomfortable.”
“Think highly of the boy, do you?” Daddy drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm.
I shrugged, reaching for my coffee. Daddy cleared his throat pointedly, and I immediately returned my hand to the wheel.
“I’d be a better driver if I was fully caffeinated,” I mumbled. “Oh! I bet he’s going to flip it. That makes sense. The property value on that place will probably be insane once you’re done with the renovation, especially with all the land it sits on.”
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Author Bio
Emily Mayer is a part-time lawyer, full time storyteller, and an aspiring writer. She lives in Central Ohio with the two loves of her life; her husband and her dog. If she isn’t working, you can usually find her somewhere with a book in her hand.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post for WYOMING PROUD (Wyoming Men Book #12) by Diana Palmer on this HTP Books Romance Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, an excerpt from the book, and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
Businesswoman Erianne Mitchell falls hard for entrepreneur Ty Mosby and they quickly get engaged. But their whirlwind romance ends quickly when he gets faulty information that she betrayed him in business. They part ways, leaving both heart-broken, confused, and Erianne secretly pregnant, not to mention blacklisted for every company in town.
Erianne has to start over and she goes to Wyoming to care for her growing child. Even though furious that Ty didn’t believe in her, she can’t help missing the man she loves. She builds a life with her child and by cleaning houses.
By accident, as she’s rushing to the doctor with her baby, she and Ty see each other. He knows she never deceived him, but can ever get Erianne to trust him again?
Ty Mosby was bored out of his mind. He could have been home with his sister, Annie, watching that dragon drama on cable. Even that would be better than this stupid office party with two women drooling over him. One was recently divorced. The other was married. Women!
He turned around and almost fell over Erianne Mitchell. Well, her name was Erianne. Nobody called her that. She was just Erin to Ty and his sister, Annie. He glowered at her.
“It’s not my fault that you’re gorgeous,” she teased. “Mary over there has forgotten her ex-husband in her fever to get you into a dark room. And Henrietta—” she nodded toward a gan- gly woman with wild dark hair who was sighing into her drink as she studied him over it “—hasn’t given her husband a thought all night. Just as well,” she added under her breath, “because he’s running around with the Tarver woman.”
“What are you, the town crier?” he chided.
“It’s a nasty job, but somebody has to do it,” she replied with sparkling gray eyes. She laughed and half turned away, her dark hair in an elegant chignon at the back of her neck. “And there’s
Grace. Didn’t you date her last year?”
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
“There, there, she hasn’t noticed you. She’s too busy trying to get Danny Barnes to notice her. He just inherited his grandfather’s ranch over in Comanche Wells.”
“I’ve had my fill of social climbers,” he muttered. He was giving her the once-over with black eyes. “On the other hand, there’s you.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd, I’m not your type,” she murmured, her mind on something else altogether. It was a lie. She’d loved him forever, but Ty couldn’t see her for dust. And why should he? She was plain compared to the women who chased him. He was absolutely gorgeous. He had jet-black hair and black eyes, and light olive skin that made him look even more gorgeous in that spotless white shirt he was wearing with his dinner jacket and slacks. No wonder women drooled over him. Erin had drooled over him for years and hid it so carefully that not even his sister realized it.
“Why not?” he asked, really curious.
“I don’t run around with men.”
He blinked. “You run around with women?”
“I don’t run around period.”
“You’re what, now, twenty-five? You’d better run around with somebody or you’re going to get left behind.”
“You’re thirty-one and you’re already left behind. Besides, I work for you,” she added. “I don’t get involved with people that I work for.”
“We could make an exception,” he pointed out.
She glared at him. “Tyson Regan Mosby,” she said, exasperated. “If you keep this up, I’m calling Annie.”
“God forbid!” he groaned.
“She loves you. She’ll protect you from predatory females.”
“I’ll give you a great job recommendation if you’ll find my sister a husband,” he coaxed.
“Annie doesn’t want to get married yet,” she said. “Any more than you do. And I don’t need a job recommendation unless you have in mind firing me tonight.”
He made a face. “I don’t have enough people as it is. Other San Antonio businesses keep luring our best people away. Even the ones I fire.” He didn’t like firing people, but he sometimes had to. Even though his company was headquartered in San Antonio, people from Jacobsville worked for it. Mosby Construction Company had grown under Ty’s management. He’d taken a little construction company owned by his father and built it into a major contender. He had a degree in architecture. He loved to build things.
He had inherited wealth, he and Annie, and he didn’t really need to work. But he loved his job. And San Antonio was the best place for his company headquarters, although he and Annie still lived in Jacobsville. Ty and Annie were direct descendants of the town’s founder, Big John Jacobs, who’d talked his father-in-law into putting a a railroad through Jacobsville and built it into a cattle shipping center in south Texas back in the nineteenth century.
“Well, isn’t that just like you,” she said, exasperated. “I brought you a brand new human resources manager just last week!”
“He drinks vodka,” he said irritably. “I don’t trust men who drink vodka.”
“How do you know what he drinks?” she asked.
“I asked him.”
“Oh.”
“What are you looking for?” he probed.
“Clarence.”
“Excuse me?”
“Clarence Hodges,” she muttered, peering over a nearby woman’s shoulder. “He’s like my personal devil. I can’t turn around at a party without running into him.”
He didn’t like that, but he hid it. “What does he want?”
She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “He wants me!”
“Why?”
She really rolled her eyes. “Annie needs to get you a book or something about human relationships.”
He grinned. “I think I can figure those out without self-help diagrams.”
“Can you, now?” she murmured absently, still looking for Clarence.
He’d known her for years. She was as familiar to him as her best friend, his only sibling, Annie. She’d spent weekends with them all through high school and through community college, where Erin got an associate’s degree in business education. She was great at cost estimates, which was her position in the company. She had a brilliant mind for math. She could do most anything on a computer, even rework spreadsheet programs that he used in his construction company. She was his right arm at work, perfectly capable of standing in for him at meetings because she knew the business inside out. Of course, why wouldn’t she, when she’d worked there part-time through high school and full-time during and after college. He trusted her. Well, on a professional basis. He wasn’t keen on thinking about anything more personal. Erin was standoffish. Once, just once, he’d teased her about going dancing with him and she’d mumbled something noncommital and shot out of the room.
He’d never admit it, of course, but it had bruised his ego. Erin wasn’t beautiful. She had pleasant features. Nice mouth, pretty complexion, gorgeous figure, sparkling eyes. But she dressed like an old woman most of the time, and she never seemed to date anyone. He’d wondered why. He’d even asked Annie, but all he got was a blank look and a smile.
He studied Erin while she looked around for the man she dreaded seeing. It wasn’t so much how she looked that made her attractive, he decided finally; it was her personality. She was warm and friendly to most people, outrageously funny around friends, and she loved animals. That last thing was important to him, because he bred and trained purebred German shepherds.
His dogs were like part of the family. They lived inside with him and Annie in their huge inherited mansion in Jacobsville, Texas. The puppies, when he bred them, had their own room and a caretaker who watched over them and kept their living quarters spic and span and odorless. He rarely had more than one litter a year and by a different female each year, from an outside stud male. No interbreeding at all, because it invited birth defects. He loved the pups when they came and had to be persuaded to give them up for adoption. Even so, he actually ran background checks on potential adopters, right down to requiring photographs of their yards and the pup’s living quarters. He was protective.
A recent adopter had taken a leather strap to his puppy when it made a mess on the carpet, and a neighbor had seen and heard what was going on. She’d promptly phoned Annie, who told Ty. He’d gone to the owner’s house that very day, accompanied by police chief Cash Grier and the local vet, Dr. Bentley Rydel, along with a search warrant that would give them access to the dog in question.
To say that the man was shocked was an understatement. He hemmed and hawed and tried to weasel them out of looking at the dog. Cash Grier glared at him. That was all it took.
Most everybody was scared of the town’s police chief, who was nice enough at public gatherings, but hell on lawbreakers of any kind. Cash loved animals as much as the vet and Ty.
The owner was forced to give them access to the puppy, which had been locked in a closet with bloody marks on its back.
Ty had slugged the man before his companions could react. He picked the pup up, gently, and after Cash took photos to document the abuse, walked out the door with Bently Rydel, to end up at his office where the poor little morsel was treated and sent home after an antibiotic shot and stitches. Cash had promptly arrested the owner. The pup’s owner went on trial, was convicted and sentenced to jail. Nobody in Jacobsville liked a dog beater. The jury had only deliberated for ten minutes, despite the harried public defender’s best efforts. All the District Attorney, Blake Kemp, had to do was put up a poster-sized photo of the abused puppy for the jury and the audience to see. It had drawn gasps and the pup’s owner had looked around at glares that felt like burns on his skin.
“What’s the matter with you?” Erin asked, glancing at his taut face.
“Puppy beaters,” he muttered.
Her expression softened. “The man got what he deserved. How is Beauregard, by the way?” she added.
He smiled. “He still whimpers in his sleep. I keep him with me at night. Rhodes isn’t enthusiastic about it, but I think he senses that the puppy needs to be spoiled for a few weeks.
Actually,” he added on a chuckle, “it’s Rhodes’s bed that they sleep in, curled up together. For an old dog, Rhodes is amazingly sweet.”
“You’ve had him a long time,” she remarked.
He nodded. “Thirteen years. I worry about him. Big dogs don’t have the life span that smaller ones do.”
“Rhodes is practically immortal,” she replied with a smile. “He’s pampered.”
“I guess so. Dad gave him to me as a Christmas present the year I graduated high school.”
“I remember your parents. They were so sweet,” she added. “Your mother and mine were best friends.”
“Hell of a shame, what happened,” he said stiffly.
She nodded. “It’s a rare thing, to have a tour bus go off the road and crash down a ravine. But those mountain roads in South America can be treacherous. Your parents were so much in love,” she added quietly. “It’s hard to imagine one going on without the other.”
“That’s what Annie and I thought,” he replied. “But it’s damned tough, losing them both at once.”
“I remember. At least you were both grown at the time,” she added softly.
He drew in a breath. “Didn’t help much,” he muttered.
“For what it’s worth, I know how it is. It was hard for Dad and me to go on, after we lost Mom.”
“Your mother had a hard life,” he said.
She sighed. “Yes. Dad’s hard to live with. He’s not mean or anything, he just makes stupid decisions and runs his mouth when he shouldn’t. Jack Dempsey won’t even speak to him.”
“That must hurt. They’re best friends.”
“They were,” she said sadly. “Dad was repeating some gossip that he’d heard about Jack’s wife running around on him. It got exaggerated, by Dad,” she muttered, “and Jack’s wife divorced him. It wasn’t even true. My father has a gift for saying things without thinking first.”
“A lot of people are like that.”
She grimaced. “I wish they’d had more kids than just me,” she confessed, looking up at him. “It would be easier to manage Dad if I had brothers and sisters to share the misery.”
He chuckled. “You do pretty good.”
She shrugged. “I could do better. I’d have to take away his phone though.”
His eyebrows arched.
“This guy called dad and said he could save ten dollars a month if he switched our long distance to their company. Dad said great, let’s do it. So I tried to phone one of our colleagues at home in Dallas last weekend and got told that we didn’t have long distance anymore. It was a scam. Dad had no idea what he’d done. I tried not to yell,” she added on a laugh. “Honestly, he’s like a little kid sometimes. Ten dollars a month.” She shook her head.
“My mother was like that,” he reminded her. “She got a call telling her the sheriff was coming over to arrest her for a bill she hadn’t paid. The man asked for pre-paid gift cards to save her from jail. She was halfway out the door on her way to town when I stopped her to ask what was wrong. Sadly for him, the scammer was still on her phone talking her through the process.”
She grinned. “I’ll bet his ears are still burning, wherever he is.”
“I imagine so. I was really mad.”
“Do you still have that jar your mother made for you? The one you had to put money in for every bad word you used?”
He laughed. “Yes. It doesn’t get fed, but I’ve still got it.” His eyes were sad with the memory. “She wanted to be a missionary, but Dad came along. She’d lived on a budget for so long that she almost ran away when she saw how much he was worth.” That was true. Her father had inherited a lot of money from his late mother, but he squandered it all on get rich quick schemes. He was still doing that, albeit on a very small shoestring. Erin wore herself out trying to save him from himself.
“A unique woman,” Ty continued. “She really didn’t care about money at all.” He studied her quietly. “Sort of like you.”
She sighed. “I like being able to buy food and gas and pay bills. That’s what money’s good for. There are lots of things it won’t buy.”
He nodded.
“Besides that, I work for this terrific manager who gives me raises,” she added with twinkling gray eyes.
“I don’t have to think too hard to do that,” he said. “I know how hard you work.”
“I’m just grateful to have a job. The economy is pretty bad right now.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Even this company has to be careful. You’re working on that bid now, the one we hope will get us the job just outside San Antonio in Bexar County; a whole retirement complex. It’s worth millions.”
“You’ll get it,” she said with supreme confidence. “You really do know how to undercut the other bidders. And I know how to price out almost everything,” she said, not bragging, just making a statement. She was a good cost estimator.
“We can undercut most of the major bidders,” he corrected. “But I’ve heard that one of them is Jason Whitehall. He and his son Josh have one of the best construction companies around south Texas.”
“His son’s a dish,” she mused.
“And how would you know?” he asked.
“I ran into him at that conference you sent me to, in Dallas, month before last. He looks just like his dad. All three of them were there, Jason and Amanda and Josh.” She sighed. “They’re just beginning to get over losing Jason’s mother, Marguerite. She was a lovely lady. So kind.”
“You know a lot about them,” he said.
“Well, one of our clients was trying to retool his public image and Amanda still owns that PR firm, so she was there getting information from him. She’s very nice. We keep in touch on Facebook.”
“Don’t keep in touch too closely,” he cautioned with snapping black eyes. “They’re competitors.”
“As if I’d ever sell you out,” she said, exasperated, as she stared up at him. “Get real! Annie would have me for breakfast, smothered in jelly!”
He relaxed. “Okay. Just testing the waters.”
She ground her teeth together. “Oh, no.”
He followed her irritated glance and saw a short, rotund man with thinning hair and a big smile headed toward them.
“I told you so,” she moaned. “I’ll go hide in the rest room… Ty!”
His arm was around her waist and he smiled down at her shocked expression. “Don’t give the game away. Smile.”
She did, trying hard to disguise the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat as she felt the strength and heat of his powerful body, smelled the spicy, clean scent of him. She’d danced with him at parties, rarely, and it had been just as problematic, to keep her headlong feelings for him from showing.
He felt a shiver go through her and his brows drew together just for an instant. Surely she wasn’t afraid of him?
Then he felt her heart race where her small, firm breasts were pressed close against him, and odd feelings stirred. Her breath was coming too fast. She was trying to disguise it, but he knew more about women than he ever let on in public.
She stiffened and started to pull back, but his arm tightened.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked in a slow, deep tone.
“Noth…nothing,” she faltered.
“Lies,” he mused. “Here.” He handed her his drink. “Liquid courage. Take a sip and we’ll ward off your would-be suitor.”
She took the glass, sniffed it, and made a face. “It’s whiskey. I hate whiskey!”
“Take a sip. It works better than it smells. Trust me.”
She took a deep breath, held it, and forced about a teaspoon of the vile-smelling liquid into her mouth. She choked it down, catching her breath.
“You could fuel trucks with this,” she muttered as she handed it back.
“This is the very finest aged Scotch whiskey,” he defended. “And now I’ll know not to share my most precious substance with those same people you don’t cast pearls before!”
She glared at him. “I am not a swine!”
“No, you aren’t,” he agreed. He cocked his head and his black eyes twinkled. “But I’ll bet you taste almost as good as a barbequed one,” he added in a slow, soft tone as his eyes fell to her pretty, soft mouth.
She actually gasped and her heart ran wild.
“My, my, is that the whiskey or me?” he asked, his eyes dropping to the fluttering of her heart, very visible under the thin bodice of her pale blue cocktail dress.
“Don’t you stare at me like that,” she said indignantly.
“Like what?” he asked, amused.
“Oh, hi, Erin,” Clarence Hodges said as he joined them. He looked crestfallen when he noticed Ty’s arm around her. “I was hoping you might like to talk to me about having your company do a remodeling job on my new house…?”
She forced a smile. “I’m truly sorry, Clarence, but that isn’t the sort of project we do,” she said in a gentle but professional tone. “We do big projects. Shopping centers. Apartments. Housing complexes. That sort of thing.”
“It’s a big house,” he persisted.
“Erin’s right, we don’t do small projects,” Ty told him, and the irritation he was feeling was visible in the tautness of his unsmiling face. “Even if we did, we’re already overbooked. Sorry,” he added. But he didn’t look sorry. He looked oddly threatening.
Clarence swallowed. Hard. His face flushed. “I see. Well…” He smiled hopefully at Erin. “Maybe you might like to come over and have coffee with me one morning?”
Ty’s chin lifted. His black eyes narrowed. He glared at the smaller man.
Erin just smiled.
“Oh, there’s Billy Olstead,” he said, looking past Erin’s shoulder. “I need to talk to him about my mother’s new car. I’ll see you later,” he added to Erin and smiled again, nervously, as he made a beeline toward the newcomer.
“Thanks,” Erin said with a heavy release of breath. “He’s not a bad man, but he can be annoying.”
“Annie says he’s started calling you two or three times a week.”
“He does,” she agreed sadly. “I can’t make him understand that I just don’t feel that way about him. I’ve never done a single thing that he could construe as encouraging.”
“It wouldn’t help,” he replied. “Men like that don’t take hints. They think they’re irresistible and it only needs persistence to wear you down.”
“He’d need more persistence than he’s got,” she said flatly.
He pursed his lips. “You could go out with me.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
He shrugged. “You could go out with me. Jacobsville is small. It would get all around town in no time that we were dating. Clarence would hear it from everybody.” He chuckled. “Even Clarence wouldn’t be able to convince himself that he’d be any competition for me.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“But, what?” he asked quietly, and he looked down into her eyes until she flushed. Her heart was trying to get out of her chest now.
She couldn’t even find words. It was like having every dream of her life come true unexpectedly, and all at once. She was breathless, giddy. But it was insane to even think of doing it, of going out with him. The gossip would be terrible. It wouldn’t matter that the company where they worked was in San Antonio; too many employees lived in Jacobsville, where Ty and Erin lived. It would be all over town in no time. When he didn’t go out with her a second time, it would be even worse. People would start wondering what was wrong with her.
“I don’t think,” she began.
“Good. Don’t. Thinking is responsible for most of the misery on the planet. We can go dancing. There’s a Latin club up in San Antonio.”
He knew she could do Latin dances. He’d taught her how, for a high school date. How many years ago that seemed now!
“Well…”
Amazing. She was reluctant. He’d never had any woman try to refuse a date with him. It was intriguing, especially considering how fast her heart was going right now. She was attracted to him. Was it new? Or had she always been attracted, but kept it hidden? He wanted to find out.
“Live dangerously. A little gossip never hurt anybody,” he teased.
It did, but he wouldn’t know, not with his spotless reputation. Well, hers was spotless, too. So spotless that she didn’t want to risk staining it, however lightly.
“People will talk. A lot.”
He just smiled. “Your friends won’t care. What your enemies think won’t matter.”
“Yes, but I hate gossip.”
He cocked his head and smiled at her with those black eyes making sensual promises. “There’s a sushi place just down the block from the Latin club,” he said. “They have ebi.”
Ebi was her favorite sushi dish. It was so expensive that she couldn’t work it into her budget. Her father did contribute a little to the family kitty, but never enough. They lived frugally because he was a spendthrift. Ty didn’t know and it would kill her pride to confess it.
She loved sushi, especially ebi. She couldn’t afford it.
“You’re weakening. Think about it. Chilled shrimp with rice. Wasabe and soy sauce and pickled ginger to go on it…”
“Stop! You’re torturing me!”
He chuckled. “I love it, too. Come on. Say yes.”
She drew in a long breath. “Okay,” she blurted out, against her own best interests.
He grinned. “Okay.”
When she got home that night, she could have kicked herself for agreeing.
Her father was watching television. A movie on DVD. They couldn’t afford cable or satellite. The only reason she had a high-end cell phone was that the company provided it for her, along with a company car. These would have been luxuries, even on her good salary.
“I’m home,” she said.
“Hi.” He grinned at her while the commercial was on. “Had fun?”
“It was a business party,” she reminded him.
“Easy enough to have fun and do business. Speaking of business, I saw this commercial on TV about how to invest in the stock market by doing day-trading…”
“No.”
“Now, Erin…”
“No,” she repeated. “We’re still paying off that course you took learning how to sell real estate,” she added pointedly.
He grimaced. “I didn’t know I was a bad salesman until I tried it.”
“Well, trying things is what got us into this financial mess, Dad,” she said, sitting down across from him. “I’m making a good salary. If we live on a budget, we can make it, just. But there’s no extra money. None at all. I can’t work two jobs.”
He studied her with the face of a child. “But it’s only two hundred dollars, this course, I mean.”
“I don’t have two hundred dollars. Not even in savings. That went to the online gambling website you found,” she added, trying not to sound as accusing as she felt.
He grimaced. “I guess I’m not as good a gambler as I thought, either. But, listen, this course,” he began again.
“I can get an apartment of my own and move out,” she said flatly.
He gasped. “Erin, no!”
“I can’t live with the way you spend money, Dad. Either you stop trying to spend it on things we don’t need, or I’m bailing out.” She felt a hundred years old. “I can’t keep bailing you out. We already owe more than I make in a year. I’m just one person.”
“I do help out,” he said stiffly.
“You do odd jobs and you spend what you make as soon as you get it,” she replied.
He flushed. He couldn’t deny that.
“I’ll try to restrain myself. I will.” He smiled. “But the man said that this course is foolproof.”
She ground her teeth together as she got up. “I’m going to bed.”
“If you’d just listen,” he said sadly.
She turned. “I’ve listened since Mom died,” she said. “And every single thing you’ve spent money on has cost us money without returning any. I’m so tired of debt, can’t you understand that? I’m being crushed by the weight of it, worried to death about it, and you just can’t seem to see what it’s doing to me.”
He blinked. He shifted uneasily in his chair. “I’ll do better next time. You’ll see.”
“Next time it had better be your own money that you’re betting,” she replied and toughened her stance. “Or I’m moving out.”
“You’re being unreasonable, Erin,” he retorted. “You don’t love me.”
“I do love you. And you’re the one being unreasonable. Good night.”
She went into her bedroom and closed the door, sick at heart. It was like trying to explain to a child. Her father had always lived in the clouds, but her mother had been able to manage him with supreme ease. Erin couldn’t.
“I’ll spend the rest of my life paying off his bills and then I’ll die,” she thought miserably. “I’ll never get away.”
Which was the one reason she could never let Ty Mosby see how she felt about him. Everybody knew her father kept them poor, but not how catastrophically. Ty would never be sure of her. Was she dating him because she cared for him or because he could pay off their debts.
It was an unrealistic thought, but she was almost panicked at the thought of dating Ty. She’d have to find some way to back out of it, a way that wouldn’t hurt his pride. All her life, her father had been a stone around her neck. Since her mother’s death, it had been much worse.
It would have helped if she had someone to talk to about it, but her only real friend was Annie, and she’d never be able to tell Annie the truth. It would just get back to Ty. Her pride wouldn’t take that.
She wanted that date with all her heart. It was just too risky. She was crazy about him. It might show. There were so many reasons that she didn’t dare let him see what she felt. Her father was the biggest one.
But there was another. Ty wasn’t a marrying man. He kept his liaisons very private, but he’d had relationships in the past. In a small town like this, they wouldn’t be able to hide one.
Erin had a spotless reputation. She wasn’t having it damaged to keep steady company with a man who only wanted one thing from a woman, and it wasn’t love.
So, better not to complicate her life any more than it was already complicated. Which left the problem of her father to solve, if it could be solved. She would never be free of him and his get-rich schemes that never paid off. She’d be in debt until she died.
She put on her gown and crawled gratefully under the covers. She’d think about it tomorrow, she told herself. Tonight, she was going to savor her memory of Ty’s arm around her, his deep voice sensuous as he teased her about going on a date.
It could never happen. But dreaming about it hurt nobody. Especially not Erin.
The prolific author of more than one hundred books, Diana Palmer got her start as a newspaper reporter. A New York Times bestselling author and voted one of the top ten romance writers in America, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humor. Diana lives with her family in Cornelia, Georgia.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE LOST BOYS OF BARLOWE THEATER by Jaime Jo Wright on this Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links, and a Kingsumo giveaway. Enjoy!
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Book Description
It promises beauty but steals life instead. Will the ghosts of Barlowe Theater entomb them all?
Barlowe Theater stole the life of Greta Mercy’s eldest brother during its construction. Now in 1915, the completed theater appears every bit as deadly. When Greta’s younger brother goes missing after breaking into the building, Greta engages the assistance of a local police officer to help her unveil the already ghostly secrets of the theater. But when help comes from an unlikely source, Greta decides that to save her family she must uncover the evil that haunts the theater and put its threat to rest.
Decades later, Kit Boyd’s best friend vanishes during a ghost walk at the Barlowe Theater, and old stories of mysterious disappearances and ghoulish happenings are revived. Then television ghost-hunting host and skeptic Evan Fisher joins Kit in the quest to identify the truth behind the theater’s history. Kit reluctantly agrees to work with him in hopes of finding her missing friend. As the theater’s curse unravels Kit’s life, she is determined to put an end to the evil that has marked the theater and their hometown for the last century.
Genre: Romantic Suspense, Christian, Historical Published by: Bethany House Publishers Publication Date: October 2023 Number of Pages: 384 ISBN: 9780764241444
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My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
THE LOST BOYS OF BARLOWE THEATER by Jaime Jo Wright is a wonderfully atmospheric Christian romantic suspense/mystery story for the Halloween season. This story is told in dual timelines by two female heroines trying to find loved ones lost in the eerie Barlowe Theater in Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin.
The female heroine in 1915 is Greta Mercy. After the death of her parents and her eldest brother, she is trying desperately to keep her younger brothers with her. Her brother, Leo disappears with two other boys in the Barlowe theater. Her storyline was very believable and felt appropriate to the period. The female heroine in the present is Kit Boyd. Her best friend disappears in the Barlowe as they are filming with a crew from a TV show about psychics and skeptics. While I understand some adoptees have abandonment issues that make it difficult to trust and form attachments, Kit brought up her issue with this continually and I lost my sympathy with her because it just became annoying. Both women meet men that assist them with their investigations and become their HEAs. There is no sex and I felt little build up or chemistry to their relationships.
I really loved the intricate plots in the dual timelines that constantly had me guessing if this story was going to delve into the paranormal, spiritual, or just pedestrian criminal human realms. My angst level was high while I was reading this book, and I could not stop until the solution of both timelines. The discussions of faith, spirits and demons, and skepticism were interwoven in the timelines and illustrated the differing beliefs in the differing time periods. Both stories are based around missing loved ones and even though they were different, they blended perfectly.
I recommend this Christian romantic suspense/mystery for a haunting good read.
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Excerpt
1
Greta Mercy
October 1915 Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin
Sometimes death came quietly. A phantom swooping in and siphoning the last remnant of a soul from one’s body, leaving behind a shell of a person who once was and would never be again. Other times, death decided that dramatics coupled with terror were its preferred method of delivery. Tonight, that was the chosen form death took.
Screams echoed throughout the theater’s golden, embellished auditorium and drifted upward to the domed, hand-painted ceiling, where Putti flew as angelic, childlike spirits over the mass of onlookers.
A shoulder rammed into Greta’s arm as a husky man, far too large for the narrow seats, pushed his way past her toward the center aisle.
“Let me pass!” he barked. Urgency spurred him forward. “I’m a doctor, let me pass!”
The vaudeville lights on either side of the stage boasted letters a through g, with the g lit and distinct over the other letters.
“I’m letter g!” The doctor shouted while those in front of him jostled to the side or hurried ahead to move out of his way. Doctors were assigned specific letters from the vaudeville lights, and if they were lit, a doctor was needed—either at home, on call, or in the vicinity.
The vicinity was here. It was now.
Onlookers continued to gasp and protest. Women in beautiful silks and satins hurried to the back to find respite in the upstairs ladies’ room. Men in evening wear catapulted over seats and to the floor on the far left of the auditorium.
Greta was frozen in place, her seat having flipped up against its back so she could move. But her eyes were fixed with horror on the scene unfolding. They lifted to one of the box seats above the floor, where men, including the doctor, were congregating en masse. The gilded box was a flurry of activity. A man embraced a woman, who fought and clawed at his hold. Her screams had many onlookers staring at her, including the performer in her violet gown and befeathered hair. Moments before, her vocals had swirled around them all in a cadence of beauty and refined music. Now, her mouth was open, her face pale, her entire pose aghast. She had captured an enthralled audience, all whose gazes toward the stage had kept them from seeing what Greta had seen. Greta, who shouldn’t have been here to begin with. She didn’t belong with the pomp and circumstance, the heady scent of perfume and cologne, which made her mind thick and her eyes wander. They’d wandered to the box seat, and she’d witnessed what no one else had. The white hands stretching, reaching over the side, dangling . . .
“It was a child!” The horrified cry slipped for the third time from Greta’s lips. She could hear herself screaming and was unable to stop. Her screams had ripped through the performance as the child in a white nightdress plummeted into the shadows of the floor’s obscure corner.
The woman in the box seat had been pulled from view, its red velvet curtain shut swiftly.
“It was a baby!” Greta rasped out as horror strangled her.
“Greta. It’s all right.” The reassuring voice of her friend, Eleanor Boyd, as well as the comforting grip on Greta’s arm finally stilled her.
Greta focused again on her friend—her wealthy friend who should not be her friend at all.
Eleanor’s blue eyes were round with fear that must mirror Greta’s own. Her blond curls swept upward and were twisted with pearls. Her dress was a baby-blue silk. Any other moment, Greta would have soaked in the awe that tonight she, Greta Boyd, who could barely keep her family fed and clothed, was sitting among the elite, pretending to be one of them. But now? It hardly mattered. The borrowed corset that tucked in her waistline, the aged but wearable pink dress she had borrowed from Eleanor, and even the gloves she wore on her dry, cracked hands—none of them mattered now.
“What happened? What did you see?” Eleanor clutched at Greta’s arm.
Greta couldn’t reply. The sheer magnitude of the moment, the honor of being in the audience of the Barlowe Theater had been overwhelming . . . until she’d seen it. The baby launched over the side of the box seat. Like a cherub from the mural above, it had taken flight before it disappeared.
Greta’s knees gave out, and she fell to where her seat should have been had it not folded in on itself. Her hip struck the polished wood arm.
“Greta!” Eleanor reached for her.
Greta felt Eleanor’s brother on her other side, grabbing for her waist to give her support. But it was too late. She had collapsed to the narrow walkway between the seats. Her knees hit the carpeted floor.
Was she the only person who had seen death’s swift visitation tonight? The only one who had witnessed its evil intent as it ripped the babe forcefully from its mother’s arms?
It wouldn’t survive. It could not. The fall was too far, too great.
Death had decided to match the theater’s reputation for drama and awe. Greta couldn’t tear her gaze from where she’d seen the small form disappear on its way to its resting place on the floor of the Barlowe Theater.
The babe had slipped. No, it had been tossed. Its mother’s screams still echoed from the hallway beyond the curtain. Those in the crowd cried “Accident,” “Traumatic mishap,” and other such things. But Greta knew differently. She had known before she came tonight, and she should have stayed away.
Barlowe Theater was not a place that brought joy and entertainment, as was its supposed purpose. No, it had already taken lives in the construction of it, tortured the ones who dared stand in its way, and now it was hunting those innocents who had happened into the shadows of its deadly interior. The theater was cursed.
Kit Boyd
October, Present Day Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin
Death stuck with a place. Once the blood had seeped into the carpet, the flooring, the walls, it stayed there, long after the stains were removed. They were the testament to lives robbed of their rightful journey through time. Cut short. Obliterated. Bludgeoned into nonexistence. Smothered by the grave, burrowed into by the worms—
“Hey!”
Fingers snapped in front of Kit Boyd’s face, and she startled out of her staring into the dark, narrow stairwell that led beneath the stage of the Barlowe Theater.
“Get with it, bruh.” The fingers snapped again. Kit looked up at the taller man beside her. He was overweight and smelled like pizza, but he had a nice face. His name was Tom, they’d told her, the crew from the TV show Psychic and the Skeptic.
“Sorry.” Kit offered him a wince. She’d paused on the first concrete step while her best friend, Madison, the psychic medium, Heather Grant, and the skeptic investigator, Evan Fischer, disappeared into the bowels of the theater. Tom the cameraman was held back by her hesitation. She gave him a warning look, though the theater’s darkness in the midnight atmosphere probably hid most of her expression. “You do know people died here . . . have disappeared here.”
“That’s the point.” Tom waved her forward, the camera on his shoulder blinking a red light. “But I need to catch them on film if I can, and you’re in my way.”
Fabulous. She was on camera. That would probably make the show too. Kit Boyd, the quirky sidekick to Madison Farrington, the historical activist, the beauty, the granddaughter of the town’s ambitious CEO of all things expansion, modern, and money-making.
“Hello?” There was definite irritation in Tom’s voice.
“I’m going! I’m going.” Kit hurried down the steps. She’d taken them many times before. Anyone who was native to Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin, had grown up in the Barlowe Theater at one point or another. Dancers had tapped and glided across its stage in recitals, high school glee clubs with dreams of Broadway had warbled off-key through its hall, and the local theater guild had put on such plays as Arsenic and Old Lace and The Music Man. Kit hadn’t been in any of those. Instead, she was the one backstage handing bottles of water to the performers, smiling and cracking jokes to encourage the stage-frozen little six-year-old dressed in a yellow tutu with glitter on her cheeks.
“Oh, c’mon!” Tom hissed, his irritation past the point of being hidden. How he’d gotten behind her anyway was a faux pas for filming. He was supposed to stick close to the stars of the show, Heather and Evan. And boy, did those two get along famously—not.
“Whew!” Kit wheezed under her breath, not caring if Tom heard. “I’d try to avoid those two if you could.”
“Yeah, well, I have a job to do.” Tom squeezed past Kit as she hugged the cement-block wall at the bottom of the stairs to let him through. He elbowed her arm and didn’t bother to apologize. He probably felt as if she owed him that luxury. The luxury of being annoyed.
Okay, fine. She did.
If she was being honest, Kit wasn’t a fan of the Barlowe Theater past dark. Which was the cliché of all theaters built just after the turn of the century. It was dark. Haunted. The place was like a tomb. Crank up some vaudeville music and the place became a literal haunted house of horrors for Halloween. And Kit hated Halloween. The darkness, the Gothic look and feel, Halloween was for morbid people who thought Edgar Allan Poe was romantic in his mystery and lore instead of macabre and bleak. Hadn’t he died questionably? She’d heard a podcast once that claimed the poet might have been murdered, contrary to the popular belief that his death had been the result of some fatal malady undiagnosed.
Kit shook her head to clear her thoughts. Mom said cobwebs couldn’t possibly gather in her head because she had too many ideas. Mom was right. Kit would never be accused of having an underactive imagination.
A finger jabbed into the back of her shoulder.
“Stop it!” Kit spun to glare at the offender.
No one was there.
Her skin began crawling. “Gahhhhhh!” She waved her hands wildly at the unseen ghost finger. Probably her imagination, but whatever. She had let Madison sucker her into a ghost hunt for the popular ghost-hunting television show. This was her penance? Getting poked by an elusive spirit?
“Sorry, God.” Kit mumbled an apology to the Almighty, who was probably rolling His eyes at their attempts to mess with the spirit world. But this was Madison. She believed anything was possible. Kit had been raised to believe that this type of anything was probably demonic. There had to be a middle ground. Hadn’t there?
Kit hurried around the corner, stubbing her toe on a bolt that rose half an inch up from the floor. Dampness and time had warped the theater’s floor, making it uneven. She leaned against the wall, rubbing her bare toe. Flip-flops on a ghost hunt. Bad idea.
She looked around—well, as best as she could. The basement was dark, as were the dressing rooms to her right, sized like prison cells. The short hall to her left leading directly below the stage was also dark.
“Hello, darkness,” Kit crooned quietly, craning her neck to peer ahead. “Hello?” she tried again, this time louder.
No answer.
“Seriously, someone?” Kit was beginning to share Tom the cameraman’s annoyance now. Two argumentative television stars, her best friend, and a cameraman didn’t just vanish within minutes. The basement wasn’t that huge.
But it was Barlowe Theater.
“Tom?” Kit hissed, daring a few steps into the dank blackness. “Madison?”
Again, no one answered. The only light was a flickering bulb that had to be a wattage short of worth having at all. It buzzed too. Of course it did. If this stunt was for show dramatics . . .
“Madison!” Kit shouted. In the ten years since they’d graduated high school, she had followed this woman around. She was owed some loyalty in return. “If this is for ratings, it’s unkind of you!” Kit yelled. Her words echoed back at her.
“Madis—”
Light slammed into her face, blinding Kit. She raised her hands as the flashlight’s beam collided with her eyes.
“They’re gone!” It was Tom.
Kit could see the whites of his eyes just beyond the flashlight he swung around wildly.
“What do you mean?” Kit tried to take captive Tom’s arm as he flooded the hallway with the light, then a dressing room, then the ceiling. His camera wasn’t on his shoulder.
He wasn’t filming.
Kit’s throat tightened. Okay, that wasn’t a good sign. “Where’s Madison?”
Tom swung the light back in Kit’s face. “Where’s Evan? Where’s Heather? Where’s my team?” His voice shook with undisguised concern, turning fast into panic. “How big is this place?”
“Not that big.” Kit pushed past him. Concerned now. This had gone too far. Madison and her harebrained schemes to keep her own grandfather from ruining the historic downtown. Make it famous, she said. Put it on TV, she said. Make viewers defend Kipper’s Grove, she said. “Madison!” Kit shouted, anxiousness seeping into her voice. “Stop this! It’s not funny!”
Tom’s light bounced on the floor in front of them as Kit spun around and marched back toward him. She shoved past his husky chest and down the short passage to the door leading under the stage. Her fingers curled around the doorknob, its old mechanics making it wobbly beneath her grip.
Kit jerked it open.
She fell back with a shriek, colliding with Tom, who had come way too close behind her.
Heather, the medium from the show, stood stock-still facing them. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her skin white in the flashlight’s glow.
“She’s gone.” Heather’s monotone voice filtered through the passage.
Kit words were stolen from her as her stomach dropped.
“Who’s gone?” Tom demanded.
“Madison.” Evan Fischer, the cohost, the skeptic, and the all-around grumpy hero of the show strode past his partner. Heather’s expression didn’t waver as her eyes remained fixated on . . . whatever she was staring at in the spirit world beyond. “Madison’s gone.”
Evan left less than a few inches between his face and Kit’s as he bent his six-foot frame down to meet her five-foot-four one. “Where is she?”
“I don’t kn—”
“Where. Is. She?” He cut off Kit’s answer as unsatisfactory.
Her breaths came shorter, faster. She could feel Tom behind her. She was sandwiched between him and Evan, with Heather staring into the great abyss.
“I told you. I don’t know.” Kit heard the quaver in her voice. She shoved her trembling hands into her pockets.
“She’s gone.” Evan slapped the wall, glaring at Tom, who was speechless. “Is this a scam? A stunt?”
Kit couldn’t answer. Of course, the show would think it was a ploy by Madison. A publicity ploy. But it went deeper than that. Far deeper. Kit sagged against the wall, the air not reaching her lungs as it should.
She prayed then. Prayed that Madison really was messing with them. That she had simply gone too far ahead beneath the stage and left them behind.
But the theater was hungry, and everyone in Kipper’s Grove knew it was only a matter of time before this hunger added to the stories of death and spirits. That’s how the theater was, after all. Drama. Suspense. And the unearthly way that such things drifted through its rafters.
***
Author Bio
Jaime Jo Wright is the author of nine novels, including Christy Award and Daphne du Maurier Award winner The House on Foster Hill and Carol Award winner The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond. She’s also the Publishers Weekly and ECPA bestselling author of two novellas. Jaime lives in Wisconsin with her cat named Foo; her husband, Cap’n Hook; and their two mini-adults, Peter Pan and CoCo.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Mini Book Review for DEATH AND THESISTERS (Mary Shelley Mystery Book #1) by Heather Redmond on this Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links, and a Kingsumo giveaway. Enjoy!
***
Book Description
The tangled relationships between Frankenstein author Mary Shelley, poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, and Mary’s stepsister Jane Clairmont form the backdrop for an intriguing historical mystery, set in London in 1814, that explores the complex dynamic between sisters and the birth of teenaged Mary’s creative genius.
London, 1814: Mary Godwin and her stepsister Jane Clairmont, both sixteen, possess quick minds bolstered by an unconventional upbringing, and have little regard for the rules that other young ladies follow. Mary, whose mother famously advocated for women’s rights, rejects the two paths that seem open to her—that of an assistant in her father’s bookshop, or an ordinary wife. Though quieter and more reserved than the boisterous Jane, Mary’s imagination is keen, and she longs for real-world adventures.
One evening, an opportunity arrives in the form of a dinner guest, Percy Bysshe Shelley. At twenty-one, Shelley is already a renowned poet and radical. Mary finds their visitor handsome and compelling, but it is later that evening, after the party has broken up, that events take a truly intriguing turn. When Mary comes downstairs in search of a book, she finds instead a man face down on the floor—with a knife in his back.
The dead man, it seems, was a former classmate of Shelley’s, and had lately become a personal and professional rival. What was he doing in the Godwins’ home? Mary, Jane, and Shelley are all drawn to learn the truth behind the tragedy, especially as each discovery seems to hint at a tangled web that includes many in Shelley’s closest circle. But as the attraction between Mary and the married poet intensifies, it sparks a rivalry between the sisters, even as it kindles the creative fire within . . .
Genre: Historical mystery Published by: Kensington Publication Date: September 2023 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 9781496737991 (ISBN10: 1496737997) Series: Mary Shelley Mystery, 1
***
My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
DEATH AND THE SISTERS (Mary Shelley Mystery Book #1) by Heather Redmond is an engaging historical mystery and the first in a new series featuring the unconventional Mary Godwin (future Mrs. Shelley and author of “Frankenstein”), her stepsister, Jane Clairmont, and Percy Shelley who was a benefactor to Mary and Jane’s father all come together as amateur sleuths in 1814 London.
Mary discovers a young man stabbed to death on the floor of her father’s bookshop in the night when she goes down to retrieve a book to read. At first it was believed to be the famous poet Percy Shelley, but it was a contemporary competitor of Shelley’s. Mary is determined to solve the crime and with Jane and Shelley, they begin to unravel the clues that lead to Shelley’s closest circle of friends. As the investigation heats up, so does the attraction between Mary and Shelley, but it also sparks an even deeper rivalry between the sisters.
I loved that this book featured working and artistic people and was not centered around the ton. The author’s descriptive writing is atmospheric and made me feel as though I was there in 1814 London, but the dialogue a few times slipped into modern verbiage which pulled me out of the story. I liked getting each of the sister’s points of view with the alternating chapter narration because both were strong and intelligent characters. The competition between them was believable, but at times their immaturity was annoying and yes, I realize they were in their teens, but at that time in history, I would expect them to be more mature. The plot was intriguing and well-paced with plenty of red herrings, but I did not like the late revelation of information from some until close to the end.
Overall, an entertaining introduction to these characters and a beguiling mystery solved. I will be looking forward to the evolution of these characters in future books in this new series.
***
Excerpt
“Come, Mary.” Jane flopped onto her bed. “Tell us a story about the prisoner ghosts wailing.”
“I’ll have to think it up,” Mary said and then began to quote. “‘This relation is Matter of Fact, and attended with such Circumstances as may induce any Reasonable Man to believe it.’”
“What’s that?” Jane asked. The floor creaked as she kicked off her slippers and knocked them to the floor.
“Defoe, I think,” Mary said, already considering the form of her story. If only Mother had written such fanciful tales, to give her ideas on how to construct them. “I’ll consult his works in the bookshop for further inspiration. It seems like quite a good start to a ghost story.”
Mary placed her slippers next to Jane’s and walked down in her stocking feet, hugging the wall so as not to set off the worst of the creaking stairs. If Mamma heard her, she’d be set to mending something. Her stepmother never thought about the cost of candles when she could make her daughters work themselves into exhaustion after dark.
The bookshop’s interior door hung open. Very odd, as Mamma was particular about making sure that the smells of domestic life, particularly cooking odors, did not damage the books.
Mary shrugged, glad she had come downstairs, because if Mamma had been the first to notice, she’d have no doubt blamed Mary. She lit the lantern kept in readiness for customers who wanted to browse in the dark corners.
While she knew exactly where Defoe was kept, she first went to a back corner of the shop and dropped to her knees, then pulled out a much-loved volume that Mamma kept in stock because she knew that it sold, even though it was anything but highbrow or philosophical. Ann Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest. Feeling a little breathless, like a Gothic heroine about to swoon, she opened the book to her favorite page. With the lantern held over the engraving, she examined the bare legs of the man removing a blindfolded girl from a house.
She bit her lip as she looked over the engraved musculature, feeling a familiar shiver dance up through her body. Did Shelley have legs so magnificent? He certainly possessed the broad shoulders and narrow waist of the figure on the page. She set down the lantern when it shook in her hand.
“Oh, to see a form like that,” she whispered to herself. None of her Scottish suitors had possessed a body she wanted to caress. As such, none of them had enticed so much as a kiss from her. After a last heated glance, she closed the book and tucked it away again.
The next shelves were in front of the bow windows. The Juvenile Library was shelved there, at the perfect height for children. Works of historical merit were on the other side. Mary rose.
Her foot twisted as she took the first step. She grabbed for the edge of the bookcase with one hand, the other gripping the lantern tightly. Her fingers were trembling by the time she righted herself. She reached down and swiped at her foot. Something sticky coated her fingers. What was on the floor?
“Honestly,” she muttered to herself. More cleaning. She set the lantern on the bookcase and walked past the windows. Slatted lines from the shutters were illuminated by the oil lamp that burned all night at the corner of the road.
Distracted by the sudden reflected light, she tripped again. “Blast,” she cried.
When she tried to take another step forward, her way was blocked by something solid. Confused, she prodded it with her foot. It felt warm, dry, and slightly yielding. She backed up to take the lantern in her hand again, then cupped the side of it with her hand to keep the illumination from the road. When she reached the mass again, she held the lantern out over the floor.
Her mouth dropped open when she saw what lay in front of her. A man, like something out of a painting of the French Revolution, was sprawled on the floor. Facedown. She swept the lantern over his body. Her hand shook as she saw first one knife, then another.
The first was impaled in his back. The other, in the mysterious recesses between his legs.
“Faith!” Wobbly, Mary blinked hard, then forced herself to kneel down beside the sprawled figure, to touch the man’s hand.
Still warm. She squeezed it, feeling that strange sensation of callused male flesh under hers, then dropped the hand. What was she doing? Molesting a corpse?
She scooted back, her eyes closed, then opened them again, feeling her lips tremble at the sight of the dark blue velvet coat, the dark stain around the knife gleaming wetly in the light. She knew that coat. Shelley! That fine figure of a man, ended so cruelly. They had just seen him leave not twenty minutes earlier. Had he been accosted in the street and dumped here?
“I could have loved such a being.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she let them fall, keenly feeling her sensibility. Hadn’t he said he was a new father? And his poor young wife, not even twenty yet, a widow.
“Mary?”
Drat that Jane. Could she not offer up a moment’s solitude to anyone?
Her stepsister’s footsteps came closer, along with the bobbing of a candle flame.
“Don’t come any closer,” Mary warned. She set the lantern down.
Ignoring her, Jane came down the space between the bookshelves and turned in the nook in front of the windows.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Mary scrambled to her feet, hoping to block her sister’s view. The candle wavered as Jane took in the scene. She gasped loudly.
“What,” Jane asked, “is that?”
“Knives,” Mary said. “Murder has been done here.”
“What?” Jane repeated, some frantic power coming into her voice. “Papa?”
“No,” Mary said, grabbing the candleholder before the candle dropped. “Shelley.”
She saw what was going to happen and held up her other hand, hoping to forestall it. But she failed, and Jane, coming closer, screamed. Mary bent under the onslaught and grabbed her sister’s hand.
“Hush,” she begged, pulling her away. “We have to tell Papa before the watch comes.”
Though Jane resisted, Mary pulled her through the bookshop, then forced her to sit on the steps and hold the candle while she went back for the lantern. She set it on the table in the hall.
“Stay here,” she commanded.
“But,” Jane whispered. “But the body.”
“Papa will know what to do.”
“But the watch.”
“Papa should call them, not us. Do you want him surprised?”
“The bookshop,” Jane said next.
“Yes, it’s very bad,” Mary agreed.
“It isn’t S-Shelley,” Jane stuttered. “He just left.”
Mary pulled the handkerchief from her sleeve and tucked it into Jane’s unresisting hand. “It must be,” she said. “Who else? Cry quietly, please.” Hoping her sister obeyed, she picked up her skirts and ran up the steps to her father’s library.
***
Author Bio
Heather Redmond is an author of commercial fiction and also writes as Heather Hiestand. First published in mystery, she took a long detour through romance before returning. Though her last British ancestor departed London in the 1920s, she is a committed anglophile, Dickens devotee, and lover of all things nineteenth century.
She has lived in Illinois, California, and Texas, and now resides in a small town in Washington State with her husband and son. The author of many novels, novellas, and short stories, she has achieved best-seller status at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other retailers. Her 2018 Heather Redmond debut, A Tale of Two Murders, has received a coveted starred review from Kirkus Reviews.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for MURDER AT MIDNIGHT (Lilly Adler Mystery Book #4) by Katharine Schellman on this Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links, and a Kingsumo giveaway. Enjoy!
***
Book Description
When a body is found shot to death after an unexpected snowstorm, Lily Adler quickly realizes that some people will stop at nothing to bury their secrets.
Regency widow Lily Adler is looking forward to a quiet Christmastide away from the schemes and secrets she witnessed daily in London. Not only will she be visiting the family of her late husband; she will be reunited with Captain Jack Hartley, her friend and confidante, finally returned after a long voyage at sea.
But secrets aren’t only found in London. Jack’s younger sister, Amelia, is the center of neighborhood scandal and gossip. She refuses to tell anyone what really happened, even when an unexpected snowstorm strands the neighborhood families together after a Christmas ball. Stuck until the snow stops, the Adlers, Hartleys, and their neighbors settle in for the night, only to be awakened in the morning by the scream of a maid who has just discovered a dead body.
The victim was the well-to-do son of a local gentleman–the same man whose name has become so scandalously linked to Amelia’s.
With the snow still falling and no way to come or go, it’s clear that someone in the house was responsible for the young man’s death. When suspicion instantly falls on Jack’s sister, he and Lily must unmask the true culprit before Amelia is convicted of a crime she didn’t commit.
Genre: Historical mystery Published by: Crooked Lane Books Publication Date: September 2023 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 9781639104321 (ISBN10: 1639104321) Series: A Lily Adler Mystery, 4
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My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
MURDER AT MIDNIGHT (Lily Adler Mystery Book #4) by Katharine Schellman is another delightfully engaging addition to the Lily Adler Mystery series. This Regency historical mystery series features an independent young widow amateur sleuth who is once again called upon to assist in solving a murder. All the books in this series can easily be read as standalone mysteries.
Lily Adler is happy to be in Hertfordshire for the holiday season visiting with her late husband’s family. When they attend a country ball, Lily is happy to see her friend Captain Jack Hartley and his younger sister Amelia, but there is an undercurrent of side looks and gossip surrounding Amelia and a handsome gentleman also at the ball. She refuses to confide in her family, and hopes everything will blow over, until the gentleman in question is found dead in the snow outside the rear door shot in the head.
With the guests trapped by a snowstorm, Lily offers to help her magistrate brother-in-law investigate the murder. She believes in Amelia’s innocence, but she also knows she is hiding secrets and she is not the only one. Will Lily be able to discover the murderer from among the stranded group of guests, or will she find herself buried deep in the snow?
I really enjoy the independent Lily, her interesting personal life since coming out of mourning, and her inquisitive nature that is irrepressible. All the secondary characters are fully developed. The mysteries are paced perfectly between the discovery of the crime and the always exciting climax as well as being full of twists and red herrings that keep me guessing. The research is evident in the description of clothes and the depiction of etiquette and mores. I look forward to each new book in this series.
I highly recommend this captivating Regency historical mystery and all the previous books in this series.
***
Excerpt
Lily sat bolt upright. Where had the sound come from? It hadn’t been loud . . . another part of the house? For a moment, in the pressing silence, she wondered if she had drifted back to sleep without realizing it and imagined the whole thing.
But a moment later, the sounds of a commotion rose just outside her window. Lily dashed to the window, throwing it open with some effort and peering out into the swirl of snow and early- morning light.
The guest room she had been given was one of the smaller ones—the better to quickly heat rooms that hadn’t been prepared in advance—and as was typical for such rooms, it lacked a pretty view. Hers looked over what she realized after a moment must be the poultry yard. Darkly clad figures who she could guess were servants stumbled through the thick layer of snow that had fallen, trying to reach the two people in the middle of the yard.
One Lily could see from her vantage only as a still, upright figure, hand outstretched and pointing toward the second person, who lay sprawled on the ground. The one on the ground was half covered by the ice and snow, unmoving.
Lily grabbed the dressing gown from the chair, pulled on her shoes, and ran from the room. In the hallway, a few guests were poking their heads out of their doors, hair tousled and faces creased with sleep, inquiring grumpily if anyone had heard an odd noise.
Lily didn’t stop to consider propriety or worry about what anyone else might think before she yelled “Jack!” as loudly as she could. She didn’t know which room he had been given, but a moment later, a door past the stairs was flung open and the navy captain’s head appeared.
“What is it?” he demanded. He was already dressed and wearing his driving coat over his clothing. That was odd at such an early hour, but Lily didn’t have time to be surprised.
“Downstairs.” In spite of the months they had spent apart, Lily knew she could depend on him to understand and act quickly. “Something happened. We have to help.”
And in spite of those months apart, he didn’t stop to ask questions. More guests were emerging, summoned by Lily’s shout, and questions were beginning to fly back and forth as she dashed down the stairs, Jack on her heels.
They didn’t need to wonder where to go; on the floor below, Mrs. Grantham was following a stately-looking woman who might have been the housekeeper or another upper servant. Their pace was just barely too dignified to be a run, but they couldn’t hide their worry as they disappeared down the steps to the kitchen. Lily and Jack hurried after them.
The servants’ staircase was narrow and cold. At the bottom, servants clustered in the kitchen, talking in shrill, anxious voices as the cook tried to keep some order. The underservants glanced uneasily at Lily and Jack as they came into the kitchen, but no one seemed to know what to do or say. The door to the yard had been left wide open, and the wind blew in gusts of snow and icy morning light. Outside, more servants were gathered, though they parted like a wave as the housekeeper led Mrs. Grantham out to see what had happened.
As Lily and Jack tried to follow, they were stopped by the frail but determined body of the butler, who interposed himself between them and the open door. “Madam, sir, perhaps you would care to return to your rooms? Breakfast will be ready shortly.”
Jack drew himself up, clearly prepared to use his rank to push his way past the aging servant. Before he could say anything, though, and before Lily could think how to reply, Mrs. Grantham turned sharply.
“What is . . .” She trailed off, eyeing Lily and Jack with trepidation. She looked ready to send them on their way with some commonplace assurance. But half a dozen emotions chased their way across her face in that moment, and she instead asked, “Mrs. Adler, how many of the rumors about you are true?”
“That depends on the rumors,” Lily replied calmly, though her heart was pounding. Behind Mrs. Grantham, she could see the limbs of the eerie, still figure sticking out of the snowbank. “Though if you refer only to the ones that are most relevant at this moment . . .” She turned her gaze pointedly toward the body in the snow. “There is indeed some truth to them.”
Mrs. Grantham hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind in a rush. She stepped aside, pulling the confused housekeeper with her. There were boots for the servants lined up next to the door, crusted with mud from repeated use. Lily pulled off her delicate evening slippers, slid her bare feet into the pair that looked closest to her size, and followed as she and Jack were ushered into the yard, their eyes fixed on what awaited them there.
A man dressed in borrowed clothes, his skin white with cold, his hair thick with clumps of ice and snow. He could have fallen, hit his head, been caught in the storm and frozen. He could still be alive, in need of help. He could have had an innocent reason for being out in the storm.
He could have. But this close, Lily could see the snow that had been kicked aside and trampled by half a dozen feet in the servants’ frantic attempts to clear it away. The icy powder was too thick on the ground for her to see the mud of the yard. But it was still stained with red and brown from where the man’s life had leaked away in the night.
The once-snowy linen of his shirt was stained the same color, jagged and torn from the bullet that had ended his life. The gun that had fired it had been unearthed beside him, as snow-logged as his own body. The man’s frozen eyes and mouth were wide open, as though he had not believed until the last moment that whoever had faced him in that yard could be capable of the shot that had ended his life.
***
Author Bio
Katharine Schellman is a former actor and one-time political consultant. These days, she writes the Lily Adler Mysteries and the Nightingale Mysteries. Her books, which reviewers have praised as “worthy of Agatha Christie or Rex Stout” (Library Journal, starred review), have received multiple accolades, including being named a Library Journal Best Crime Fiction of 2022, a Suspense Magazine Best Book of 2020, and a New York Times editor’s pick in June 2022. Katharine lives and writes in the mountains of Virginia in the company of her husband, children, and the many houseplants she keeps accidentally murdering.
