Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for NONE WITHOUT SIN by Michael Bradley on this Black Tide Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Description
When a Delaware real estate mogul is murdered, newspaper journalist Brian Wilder wants the scoop on the killing, including the meaning behind the mysterious loaf of bread left with the corpse. Reverend Candice Miller, called to minister to the grieving family, quickly realizes that the killer has adopted the symbolism of sin eating, a Victorian-era religious ritual, as a calling card. Is it the work of a religious fanatic set to punish people for their missteps, or something even more sinister?
As more victims fall, Brian and Candice follow a trail of deceit and blackmail, hoping to discover the identity of the killer―and praying that their own sins won’t catch the killer’s attention.
NONE WITHOUT SIN by Michael Bradley is an intriguing amateur sleuth mystery/serial killer crime thriller with an interesting historical religious hook, secrets, lies and murder. There are several murders in this standalone, but they are not overly graphic.
Pastor Candice Miller is an Episcopalian minister who is called to help with a woman and her daughter from her church when the husband is found dead when they return home from a show. The locally known real estate agent is found with a knife stabbed into his chest through a loaf of round bread.
Brian Wilder is an award-winning journalist who has started over by opening his own small town local newspaper. He meets his detective friend, at the scene of the murder and learns of the bread and the fact that a word was scrawled on the dead man’s sleeve.
As more murders occur Brian and Candice are at each scene and begin to trade information and discover the ritual meaning of the bread left on each victim goes back to the tradition of sin-eaters from the 18th and early 19th centuries. They also discover all the victims have a sin they are hiding and so do Candice and Brian. Could they become victims, too?
This is an easy-to-read interesting character driven mystery. So many secrets and lies among the entire cast of characters and yet they are believable secrets and lies. While Candice and Brian are the dual POV characters throughout the story, I developed a real empathy for Brian, and I can see the author being able to bring him back for follow-up stories. The historical information was woven into the story without slowing the pace of the investigation. The pace of the plot was steady throughout until the fast-paced climax, with plenty of twists and red herrings. While the climax was not a surprise to me, it was still well written.
Michael Bradley was born and raised in New Jersey, a fact he hopes no one will hold against him. He spent eight years as a radio DJ “on the air” before realizing he needed a real job and turned to IT. Never one to waste an experience, he uses his familiarity with life on the radio for many of his suspense novels, among them his first, the supernatural thriller Sirens in the Night (2015), a “smart, terrifying, heartbreaking” and “compelling read,” and his third, the thriller Dead Air (2020), a “phenomenal read” that will “make you look over your shoulder the moment night falls.”
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for A ROGUE AT STONECLIFFE (A Stonecliffe Novel Book #2) by Candace Camp on this HTP Books Spring 2023 Romance Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book, and the author’s bio and social medial links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
New York Times bestselling author Candace Camp invites you back to Stonecliffe for a second adventure! Action and romance ensue on this adventurous trip through the beautiful English countryside.
When the love of her life left without any explanation, Annabeth Winfield moved on despairingly, knowing she’d never have a love as thrilling as her first ever again. Sloane Rutherford was roguish and daring, but as Annabeth grew up, she realized that their reckless romance was just a passing adventure, never meant for stability. Twelve years later, Annabeth is engaged to someone new, ready to start her life with a dependable man.
That’s when Sloane returns. And he brings with him a serious warning: Annabeth is in trouble.
After spending the last dozen years working as a spy, Sloane thought he’d left espionage behind him. But now a dangerous blackmailer is after Annabeth. Sloane offers to hide his former lover at Stonecliffe, the Rutherford estate, but stubborn Annabeth demands to be part of the investigation. As the two embark on a dangerous and exciting journey, memories of their past romance resurface. Sloane and Annabeth aren’t the wide-eyed children they used to be, but knowing they’re wrong for each other makes a nostalgic affair seem very right…
A ROGUE AT STONECLIFFE (A Stonecliffe Novel Book #2) by Candace Camp is an intriguing and fast-paced historical second chance romance/romantic suspense set in the Regency period. This is the second book in the series following An Affair at Stonecliffe and while you have more background on the relationships between characters if you read these books in order, this second book still stands well on its own.
Sloane Rutherford is considered a rogue in the worst sense of the word. He broke the heart of his young love when he left and became a spy and smuggler during the war twelve years ago with the belief that he had no choice. He has returned and has no love of his noble relations as he runs his shipping line, gambling hells and taverns and believes he is done with espionage.
Annabeth Winfield is shocked when the man who left her heartbroken returns to Stonecliffe to warn her that her life may be in danger. A letter of confession her father wrote while he was still alive is a danger to an unknown person and they are willing to do anything to find it. Annabeth thought she was done with Sloane, but when there is an attempt made to kidnap her, he is determined to protect her, find out where the letter is and who is after her. Annabeth is no longer that you girl left behind and she demands to part of the investigation.
Annabeth and Sloane are investigating a world of lies, double agents, and traitors all while the love they thought they had buried once again grows. Will Sloane walk away again?
I really loved Annabelle and Sloane and believe they made a wonderful pair. Second chance romances are always so interesting because I get to understand them as young characters and then see how they have changed and matured as they come back together. The sex scenes are steamy, but not gratuitous. All the secondary characters are fully drawn and believable and I especially love Lady Lockwood, Annabelle’s grandmother. The mystery/suspense plot in this story is just as prevalent as the romance plot and kept me turning the pages as Annabelle and Sloane traveled London and the countryside searching for her father’s letter.
This is an exciting and entertaining historical second chance romance/romantic suspense and I am looking forward to reading more in this series.
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Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
1822
Sloane Rutherford wasnot a man who hesitated. He made his decisions, for good or ill, and he lived with them. But today he sat slouched at the breakfast table, food untouched, turning a note round and round in his hand, unable to make up his mind. Should he go to the wedding or not?
Actually there was no question whether he should do it; clearly he should not. The question was whether he would. The event itself didn’t figure into his thoughts. While he was surprised and faintly pleased by the fact that Noelle had invited him, he held most of his own family in disregard…and they looked on him with even less liking. Estranged wasn’t the word for his relationship with the Rutherfords. Shunned would be more like it.
So, no, he had no interest in the wedding itself, no reason to go, and normally he would have tossed the invitation in the ash can. But what drew him almost painfully to attend was precisely the thing that set up an equal ache of reluctance inside his chest: she would be there.
“Annabeth?” Marcus said from the doorway.
Sloane glanced up, startled, and scowled at his father.
“So you’re reading minds now? One would think you would have done better at the card tables.”
“Yes, wouldn’t one?” Marcus replied amicably, and strolled across the room. “Sadly, it didn’t seem to work that way. And your problem didn’t take much intuition. It’s written all over your face.”
Marcus settled into a chair across from Sloane. Clad in his dressing gown and soft slippers, Marcus looked every inch the indolent aristocrat that he was—his luxurious white mane of hair combed back stylishly, his jaw smooth from his valet’s shaving, and his dressing gown made of the richest brocade and cut to fit perfectly. Even if he looked somewhat more worn than his age from years of reckless living, he was still a handsome man.
Sloane wondered if his father might catch the eye of some wealthy widow who would take the man off his hands…but no, Marcus was equally banned from the ton—more because of Sloane’s history than his own numerous vices.
“What are you doing up so early?” Sloane asked, ignoring Marcus’s comments. “You usually don’t stir from your room until ten or eleven.”
“Unfortunately the only appointment Harriman had available was at the ungodly time of nine. It’s quite difficult to get in to see him on such short notice.”
“Ah, your tailor. That would be enough to pull you out of bed.” Sloane’s mouth quirked up. Marcus was still a peacock at his age. No doubt the bill the tailor sent Sloane would be enormous, but Sloane didn’t mind. He’d far rather spend his money on his father’s fashion than on some of Marcus’s other habits.
“But I won’t complain. I was lucky he was able to make room to see me.”
“I expect he’s grateful that I pay your bills on time, unlike most of his aristocratic clients,” Sloane said dryly.
“And I’ll have the entire afternoon to enjoy the prospect of the wedding,” Marcus went on.
“A wedding?” Sloane asked skeptically. “You look forward to weddings?”
“Not everyone is as much of a hermit as you are. Some of us find social occasions agreeable.”
“I’m not a hermit.”
“Mmm, yes. No doubt that’s why you spend so much time alone, brooding. Cornwall suits you perfectly.” Marcus picked up the cup of tea the footman had just set before him and took a sip, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “But this wedding, I must admit, offers rather more entertainment than the usual one.”
Sloane made no response. The last topic he wanted to discuss was this wedding.
But his father needed no reply. He went on, “For one thing, there is Noelle, the lovely bride herself, and the potential of gossip over her scandalous past.”
“I can’t see how running from Thorne is any scandal,” Sloane interjected. “Anyone with sense would do so. I find it far stranger that she stopped.”
Marcus chuckled. “Yes, he is a dull one, isn’t he? But I suspect Noelle livens him up. Still, the wedding offers more excitement than that. Lady Lockwood can always be counted on to cause some sort of contretemps…though hopefully she will not bring her dog. Of course Lord Edgerton will be there. I believe he annoys her ladyship even more than her first son-in-law—who knows what barbs she will cast his way?” He paused, then added, “And just imagine the stir if you show up.”
Sloane grunted and slid back from the table, standing. “Which is precisely why I am not going to the wedding.”
“Of course not. That’s why you haven’t tossed out that invitation. Why you were sitting there mooning over it when I came in.”
“I wasn’t mooning over anything. I was just…” He trailed off his sentence with a grimace.
“You were just contemplating whether facing down your relatives outweighed the prospect of seeing Annabeth Winfield.”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about facing my relatives.”
“Ah…then it’s whether seeing Annabeth is worth the pain.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Sloane’s voice held little conviction, and he turned away, walking over to the window. He crossed his arms and gazed out at the street below. A moment passed, and he said in a quiet voice, “It would be foolish to see her.”
“No doubt.” Marcus let out a sigh. “The foolish things are always the ones you most desire.”
“I’ve done well enough not seeing her for eleven years.” Being out of the country most of that time had helped. But even since he returned to England, Sloane had avoided Annabeth—well, maybe there was that one time when he first returned and he’d stood outside Lady Lockwood’s house in the dark to get a glimpse of Annabeth coming down the front steps and getting into a carriage. With Nathan. Sloane’s lips tightened at the thought.
It had come as something of a shock to see her at Stonecliffe two months ago. He had not realized that she and Lady Lockwood were visiting or he wouldn’t have gone there.
But as he had stood in the entryway with Noelle and the others, a door had opened down the hall, and there she had been: her soft brown hair in a little disarray, her face faintly flushed from activity, carrying a basket full of flowers. And in the moment, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only stare. She was as lovely as ever. And he was as dumbstruck as ever.
He’d turned and left like someone had shot at him. He wasn’t sure whether he even tossed a goodbye to Noelle and Carlisle. And bloody Nathan—of course he’d been there. That moment had disrupted Sloane’s carefully nurtured indifference, and even after his heart stopped beating like a madman’s and he’d reminded himself that he’d gotten over her years ago, he had not been able to keep his mind from going back to Annabeth time after time. Like a tongue returning to a bad tooth.
Behind him his father said, “Why do you continue like this? Why don’t you go to see her, tell her how you feel?”
Sloane snorted. “I’d have to fight my way through the butler and probably Lady Lockwood, too, to talk to her.”
“I’ve never known you to avoid a fight.”
“Maybe not. But I can’t fight Annabeth. And she’s the one who hates me.”
“How do you know that?” Marcus persisted. “She’s never married in all this time. She has no money, of course, but a sweet, pretty girl like that? She’s bound to have had plenty of offers.”
“No doubt.” Sloane’s jaw tightened. “But that doesn’t mean she’s been pining after me. I broke her heart. I knew I was breaking her heart. And the fact that I broke mine as well wouldn’t have made her feel any better or despise me any less.”
“Why don’t you tell her the truth?” His father’s voice turned sharp, his usual affability gone. “Explain what you did. Why you did it. Tell her that bastard Asquith blackmailed you into it.”
Sloane whirled, his eyes flashing. “I can’t tell her that. The truth would cause her just as much pain now as it would have then. I knew when I did it that I was sacrificing her love for a lifetime. I just thought my lifetime wouldn’t last very long.”
Letting out a disgusted noise, Sloane started out of the room. Before he’d taken two steps, there was a furious pounding at the front door. Frowning, he turned toward it. The pounding continued, along with someone shouting his name. Sloane reached the entry hall just as the footman opened the door and began an indignant dressing-down of the boy before him.
But the boy on the doorstep paid no attention and shoved his way past the footman, calling again. “Mr. Rutherford!”
“Timmy.” Sloane strode toward the door, alarm rising in him. “What is it? What the devil are—”
“It’s the docks, sir. Mr. Haskell sent me. You’ve got to come quick. The new warehouse is on fire.”
Candace Camp is a New York Times bestselling author of over sixty novels of contemporary and historical romance. She grew up in Texas in a newspaper family, which explains her love of writing, but she earned a law degree and practiced law before making the decision to write full-time. She has received several writing awards, including the RT Book Reviews Lifetime Achievement Award for Western Romances. Visit her at www.candace-camp.com.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for WHISPERS AT DUSK (The Blackbird Trilogy Book #1) by Heather Graham on this HTP Books Spring 2023 Romance Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book, and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
Don’t miss the first book in the brand-new, suspense-filled trilogy spinning out of Heather Graham’s popular Krewe of Hunters series!
The Krewe of Hunters goes international with the introduction of Blackbird, a brand new team of operatives bringing justice, and their unique talent of speaking to the dead, to Europe!
They’ve barely finished stopping one serial killer on American soil before FBI agents Della Hamilton and Mason Carter are brought into the fold and sitting in a jet bound for Norway. A disturbed individual has been killing their way across the continent, starting in the United Kingdom and eventually making their way to the sleepy town of Lillehammer. The victims have been left completely drained of blood, with two telltale pinpricks in their necks! As the body count rises the couple must bring all of their abilities to bear as they work to uncover the identity of this vampire killer and put a stop to the terror they’ve begun to inspire.
WHISPERS AT DARK (The Blackbird Trilogy Book #1) by Heather Graham is an intriguing first book in a trilogy spinoff of the Krewe of Hunters series featuring a group of international law enforcement agents being led by two FBI agents who are able to see and interact with ghosts. This book is a mash-up of paranormal mystery/international crime suspense and a romance between the two FBI agents, but the emphasis is on the crimes and chase with not a lot of depth to the romance. You can pick this book up and easily read it without having read any of the Krewe of Hunters books.
Dead bodies are turning up of young American tourists and students laid out peacefully besides bodies of water drained of blood with two puncture wounds in their necks in England, France, and Norway. A member of the Krewe of Hunters, FBI Agent Della Hamilton is paired with FBI Agent Mason Carter who both have the ability to communicate with ghosts.
Della and Mason discover there is a “Master” training others to kill with the promise of immortality. Working with an international group of law enforcement personnel, some of the Krewe of Hunters back in the States, and a few friendly ghosts, they follow the Master back to New Orleans. As the investigation heats up so does the relationship between Della and Mason. Della needs to put herself out as bait since the Master wants her as a mate, but Mason has already lost one partner and is not willing to lose Della, too.
I enjoyed this new international spin-off from the Krewe of Hunters series. The crime mystery and suspense are paced well and kept me following along with the muti-country chase and there are a few surprising twists. The historical facts scattered throughout are interesting and the ghosts were benevolent. The romance between Della and Mason felt just a little thin to me. When they came together and interacted as a couple, it was believable, but I just wish there had been more emotion and not just trust between partners although that was important, too.
Overall, a good beginning for this new paranormal mystery/international crime suspense spin-off. I am looking forward to reading the next book in the trilogy.
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Excerpt
Chapter 1
Mason Carter knew he had backup. The man now holding seventeen-year-old Melissa Wells hostage had been busy for months, and law enforcement across the country had been on his tail. Spread about in various positions outside, an FBI SWAT crew was situated along with local police who knew the area well.
Still, they were in bayou country surrounded by snake-and alligator-infested waters and a range of high grasses, trees, and brush that might hinder any assistance.
Though he’d left a trail of carnage across the country by taking nine victims along the way, the killer’s identity was unknown. He’d left behind fingerprints, but they couldn’t be found in any database, and nothing else discovered by any agency across the country had given them a single clue toward discovering his identity. The truth existed somewhere; it just hadn’t been found as yet.
He’d been labeled the Midnight Slasher since most of his abductions and kills had been after midnight. His note—handwritten and mailed from Las Vegas to the NYC FBI offices—had assured them he was fond of his moniker, and he’d try to make sure his murders did, indeed, occur after midnight in the future. He’d really have preferred being the Vampire, but that name had already gone to a coworker who was busy in Europe.
Coworker?
Mason knew about murders that were being called “the vampire killings” in Europe. He doubted this man and the European madman knew each other, though it appeared they were trying to outdo one another.
But then again, he didn’t really know.
Maybe this killer needed the moniker because he was such an ordinary-looking man. Not exactly handsome—cute might be a term applied to him. He didn’t appear at all insane or creepy as some seemed to think he must appear, not at all as people might think a maniacal killer should look.
He was about twenty-seven—the profilers had been right on his age—six feet even, perhaps a hundred and seventy pounds, with shaggy dirty blond hair, a clean-shaven face and friendly brown eyes. He smiled a lot. Mason could see how he’d managed easily enough to charm or coerce his victims out with him to a place where they might be alone.
And here they were. Mason had trailed the killer from Virginia and had suspected from the few clues he’d been told by the locals that the man would steal a boat and bring his victim far into the bayou. He’d been at the forefront of the investigation, and he called in as he made his way, seeking help from any and all law enforcement agency so they might really end the reign of the Midnight Slasher with a true force against him.
But Mason was the one who now stood alone, facing the man who held the teenaged girl, his blood-stained knife held so tightly to her throat that a trickle of blood ran down to her collarbone. Her terror-filled eyes were on Mason. She didn’t want to die.
Mason didn’t want her to die, either.
He was a good shot—but he’d still have to be at his fastest to hit the man before the knife could slide into the soft flesh of her throat and on to arteries and veins and…
“Okay, Midnight Slasher,” he said, his Glock trained hard on the man, “do you really want to die today?”
“I’ve been here before, and I’m still alive!” the killer said. The girl let out a terrified whimper; the killer had jerked with his words. Another trail of blood slid down to her collarbone.
“I don’t know. You’re in bayou country now. With people who know it well,” Mason said, shrugging.
It was truly doubtful the man would survive the day if he didn’t surrender, but Mason was telling the truth. And it was true, too, that before Mason had been called in on the case, the killer had escaped a similar situation in the Shenandoah mountains.
He had killed his hostage and tossed her to his would-be captors before escaping.
Backup wasn’t going to help.
Not here. Not now. While agents and officers might be all around, Mason was alone in the cabin with the man. His backup crew was holding. They all knew if the killer heard anyone trying to enter from the rear or break down any of the old wooden walls, the girl would die.
“You can do it, and there is no choice,” a voice whispered to Mason.
He was alone in the cabin with the killer—and with the ghost of one Gideon Grimsby, an Englishman who had come to the new world to meet, befriend, and then serve under the legendary Jean Laffite. He had fought at the Battle of New Orleans. Gideon had survived the battle, fallen in love and changed his ways—only to be shot down in the street by a vengeful man who had once coveted the beauty who had become Gideon’s wife.
Now, Gideon enjoyed the music of New Orleans, watched over his descendants and tended to haunt Frenchman Street. But having realized Mason was aware of him at a lounge one night, he’d discovered his afterlife of being a ghostly—and very helpful—investigator as well.
“Do it. Do it, Mason lad, you must!” Gideon said. “He’s going to kill her. The officers and agents outside will lose patience. They’ll seek entry as you know they must. And this rotten beast will die, but so will she. Dammit, man, take your shot!”
“I have to be sure!” Mason said the words aloud and cursed himself. He was accustomed to seeing the dead. And he’d learned before he was ten not to be seen talking to them.
But maybe this time it was good.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” the killer demanded.
Mason made a split-second decision and shrugged, saying, “I guess you can’t see him. Gideon is here. You’d have liked him. He was a pirate. Well, he was, but then cleaned up his act. And sadly wound up being murdered, but he’s enjoying his afterlife.”
“Man, they think I’m crazy. You’re crazy!” the killer said.
There was suddenly a gentle tap at the door to the cabin, surprising both Mason and the killer. Mason knew he frowned as the killer frowned. No one was bursting in; it was a gentle and polite tap.
The killer’s young hostage let out a terrified squeak as the knife drew closer against her flesh.
“What the hell?” the killer murmured. “You—you go and see what those idiots outside want. Because I’m telling you, you can kill me today, but she will die with me.” He laughed. “Maybe the two of us can haunt you, too.”
“God help me,” Mason murmured. “Fine. You want me to check the door?”
“Yeah. I want to see who is trying what.”
His gun still trained on the killer, Mason backed to the door.
“We don’t need any disruptions here,” he said loudly.
“I’m not a disruption,” a female voice said. “I’m unarmed. I just wanted to offer to trade myself for Melissa Wells.”
“What?” Mason demanded.
“Open the door, check her out. See if she’s really unarmed,” the killer said. “And don’t forget—if I’m going, she’s going with me!”
Mason cracked the door open. There was a woman standing there, mid-to late-twenties, about five foot eight with long light brown hair and a striking thin face. She was wearing black knit leggings and a tunic and lifted her arms to show that she carried nothing.
“I’m really a better choice,” she said, looking around Mason to see and talk to the killer. “Think of it! If you don’t manage to escape and get out of this or if you do, you’ll have killed a special agent or used her for your escape. I’m Della Hamilton, FBI. And I know you like your victims to have long hair. My hair is long and I’m the right age… Come on. This kid is a teenager. So far, you’ve at least chosen victims who were out of high school!” She paused, shaking her head. “You have a reputation. You’re a famous killer—don’t sully all that by having people think you were a pedophile.”
Apparently, she’d said just the right thing.
“I am not a pedophile!” the Midnight Slasher protested. “That’s disgusting. I haven’t gotten it down right yet, but I’m working on it, and I will be a master! I will learn to… Well, never mind! I will achieve what is necessary!”
“Whatever,” Mason said dryly. “And she has one hell of a point, I mean, you want to be a master killer, get it all right…perfect it all. But you don’t want to be remembered as a pedophile. That would…well, ruin your whole legacy.”
“Yeah, yeah… I never touched any of them. Except to kill them. And I was going to get it all right this time, but you found a stupid boat and followed me and… Ah, screw it! But you’re right. The pretty girl at the door can get me out of here, or… Well, I will be known for having killed a special agent! Yeah! Get in here, Special Agent Whoever. You come straight to me. When I can switch the knife over, this kid can go. But you need to know—if I die today, you die, too.”
“I’m willing to accept that,” Special Agent Della Hamilton said.
The killer laughed. “Suicidal, eh?”
“No, I just think I can talk you down,” she said. “And frankly, you fascinate me! Your mind is so amazing! And I’m older, okay, and maybe this is only in my own mind, but I think I’m…well, sexier, grown-up, and just a better choice for a victim all the way around. If you want to be famous—kill an agent!”
“Talk me down? I don’t think so. But I fascinate you? And you really are pretty damned gorgeous, so…hmm. Okay, lady, come on.”
“I am coming—when this guy lets me!” she said, smiling and shrugging to Mason.
“Let her by!”
“She wants you to take the shot during the exchange!” the ghost of Gideon Grimsby said. The ghost’s presence was near him. He all but whispered in Mason’s ear, almost startling him.
But Mason was staring at Della Hamilton, and she nodded at the words. As if she had heard them.
Had she?
He’d heard there were others like him. He’d even heard there was a special “ghostbusters” unit in the Bureau with some nothing title like Special Circumstances Unit.
He inclined his head; she blinked, letting him know she had the message.
“I’m coming over…slowly, slowly, and I’ll back up so you can free Melissa and get the knife right on me…”
She walked to him just as she had said she would do.
The killer moved the knife to push Melissa forward and reach out for Della Hamilton. And as he did, Della Hamilton dropped down, shouting, “Now!”
And Mason fired.
Melissa leaned to the side; Della was hunkered close to the floor.
The bullet hit the killer dead center in the forehead. While Melissa shrieked and cried with relief, the Midnight Slasher fell without a whimper.
The killer was dead. The reign of the Midnight Slasher had come to an end.
The wrap-up and the paperwork had just begun.
Naturally, there was chaos at first as other agents and police rushed in. The medical examiner and forensics arrived, and officers held the press at bay. Melissa’s parents were called, but before she raced down to meet them, she fell hysterically into the arms of Della Hamilton and then Mason, telling them, “Oh, my God, thank you, thank you! Thank you, both. You saved my life!”
Mason assured her he was grateful she was alive, as did Della Hamilton.
Gideon Grimsby stood by the whole time, arms crossed over his chest, a proud look on his face. Well, the ghost did like helping.
Mason saw Della Hamilton manage a wave and a nod and mouthed the words, “Thank you,” to Gideon at one point. Gideon smiled and nodded in return.
Mason turned in his firearm as necessary and was surprised to hear that a counselor was waiting to see him in the city. His Glock would be returned in the morning.
Things never happened that fast. He knew something was going on.
Mason was hailed by the waiting officers and agents, and he knew everyone was relieved a serial killer’s spree had come to an end. He wished he could feel celebratory, and he knew he had carried out the only feasible action. But he didn’t feel celebratory, just weary.
Of course, it had been just minutes before midnight when they’d taken down the slasher. With all the aftermath, it was the next day before anyone left the bayou country. And because of where they were, the press had finally arrived, but thankfully, by then the action was over and officers arranged to maintain the crime scene. People had a right to know what was going on but keeping details of such an event within ranks might prove to be extremely important.
He was ordered back to the city and the office before Della Hamilton finished a discussion with a member of the forensic team.
He didn’t see her again until they were finishing the last of the paperwork on the case and by then everyone involved was about to keel over.
Sleep was in order. When he was finally able to return to his hotel, he had no trouble crashing down into a sound sleep—despite the fact that dawn had arrived long ago and the sun was shining brightly beyond the heavy drapes that covered his windows.
He woke in the middle of the afternoon. An evening left in NOLA, time to finish up any necessary business, and then a flight back to the DC area in the morning.
Luckily, they’d been so far back in the bayou country the media hadn’t seen any of the takedown. And when asked, he assured the local powers that be he didn’t want his name seen anywhere, which was the right policy as known field agents could be at risk.
A press release saying the Bureau had rescued the Slasher’s latest victim and the man had been killed in the operation was just fine with Mason. He wondered if Della Hamilton was going to want more recognition.
She didn’t.
Mason was out on Royal Street, trying to decide on a restaurant for dinner, when he looked into a shop front and saw a TV screen showing the news.
The takedown had been perceived just as he’d hoped—a joint effort by the FBI and local authorities.
A lot of his friends at the local FBI offices and police precincts he’d come to know in NOLA had wanted to get together that night. And while he truly enjoyed a lot of the camaraderie and understood the feelings of many that a celebration was in order, he just wanted to be on his own that night.
He felt as if he needed to shake something off.
He decided then to go over to Magazine Street for dinner and hopefully some soothing music at one of its many restaurants. He was surprised when Gideon slid into a seat beside him there; he’d been nursing a scotch and listening to some great jazz, something that helped still his mind.
“You are a strange bird,” Gideon told him.
“Why?”
“That fellow stole the greatest gift from so many—the gift of life. Mason, you stopped him.”
“With your help, for which I’m grateful—”
“And the help of Della Hamilton. I hung around her awhile earlier. She’s something, huh? As they say in your time, that girl has balls! Wait, she can’t, can she. Guts? Would that be right? She has guts!”
“She saw you in a flash,” Mason said. “And by the way, I am glad I brought a killer down. I’m just tired of… I took his life. I guess I hate killing.”
“But you love saving.”
Mason shrugged. “I will always act in the best interests of the victim. Let’s listen to the music, huh?”
“Sure. There’s a meeting tomorrow morning. Some bigwig with the Bureau is coming down tonight. He’s coming specifically to see you—”
“Why? Wait a minute. Last I heard, I run by the NOLA office, pick up another agent to drop me and bring the car back for the next guy who needs it. How did you hear that? I’ll be heading back to DC tomorrow.”
“Maybe not,” Gideon told him. “I heard Della talking to someone on the phone when she left the offices. She was going out, but that call changed things and she didn’t. She decided she’d better get some sleep. You were busy tonight,” Gideon told him, grinning. “You don’t interrupt a counseling session, and then it was a long day! You were supposed to have some dinner, some downtime… You’ll be informed. Apparently, this is…big. A couple of people are heading down from Washington just to discuss this with you.”
“And they informed another agent before me—about my assignment?” Mason asked.
“I’m guessing it involves her,” Gideon said with a shrug.
“And that would be a darned good thing. You couldn’t do better, from what I saw.”
“She was good, yes. But—”
Mason groaned. Strange. He’d wanted this job; he’d worked hard for this job. But after his years in the military, now he was wondering why. He was good at what he did. He was a good investigator—largely because of a lot of help from the dead. But he was also good at killing.
And it just seemed to be weighing down on him lately.
“Damn you, man!” Gideon said. His accent—which he had largely lost during the many years since his death—came back strong when he was angry. “There is a seventeen-year-old girl alive and in the arms of her family because of you.”
“And Special Agent Hamilton, of course—or mainly,” Mason said dryly.
Gideon nodded. “I was glad to see her. I hadn’t met her, but friends saw her when she worked a case here not too long ago. The bank robbery out of Baton Rouge. They say she tricked the three—it was a woman and two men. That she got them into position by pretending to be a lost tourist, crying and desperate to find her way back to the airboat they’d been on. Anyway, she has a way that makes her excellent in this kind of case. But you! Stop it. When there is no choice, there is no choice. That teenager from today is going to need therapy for the rest of her life most probably, but she’ll have a life. Do you know what that man—so called Midnight Slasher—did to some of his victims?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“No, he wasn’t a pedophile. He sliced them, Mason. Slashed and sliced them! Cut off their fingers and ears while they were still alive.”
“I do know,” he said calmly.
Mason was glad he’d paid his tab. He stood. As he’d learned to do, he pretended he was on a phone call as he told Gideon, “I am so grateful she is alive—and our local intelligence knew where to find him before he could hurt her. Truly, I am. I just… I guess I wish I’d been a negotiator. I’d like to talk someone down for a change.”
“You talk them down when you can—you save the victim when you can’t,” Gideon said.
Mason nodded. “Yes, I know. Guess I’m tired.”
“You should be. Get some sleep.”
“I’m going to.”
“Finish listening to the jazz. See you in the morning,” Gideon said, and then he was gone.
That was the problem sometimes befriending ghosts. Since they were excellent at slipping away through crowds and even walls, it was extremely difficult to have the last word with them.
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the RWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for RECKONING by Baron Birtcher on this Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Synopsis
Ty Dawson is a small-town sheriff with big-city problems, in this riveting crime thriller from the award-winning author of Fistful of Rain.
As lawman, rancher, and Korean War veteran, Ty Dawson has his share of problems in the southern Oregon county he calls home. Despite how rural it is, Meriwether can’t keep modernity at bay. The 1970s have changed the United States—and Meriwether won’t be spared.
A standoff looms when the US Fish & Wildlife Service seeks to separate longtime cattleman KC Sheridan from his water supply—ensuring the death of his livestock. If that’s not enough trouble, a Portland detective is found dead in a fly-fishing resort cabin. Though the Portland police, including the victim’s own partner, are eager to write off the tragedy as a suicide, Ty has his own thoughts on the matter—as well as evidence that points to murder. His suspicions soon mire him in a swamp of corruption that threatens nearly everyone around him. Turns out that greed and evil are contagious—and they take down men both great and small . . .
Genre: Neo-western crime thriller Published by: Open Road Integrated Media Publication Date: June 2023 Number of Pages: 300 ISBN: 978-1-5040-8280-8 Series: Sheriff Ty Dawson Series, #3
***
My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
RECKONING (Ty Dawson Mysteries Book #3) by Baron Birtcher is a twisted suspenseful thriller/historical mystery/police procedural mash-up featuring a rural county Oregon sheriff and rancher set the late 1970’s that kept me reading well into the night. This is the third book in the Ty Dawson series, but I was able to easily read it as a standalone.
Sheriff Ty Dawson is a Korean war veteran, rancher, and rural Meriweather County sheriff in southern Oregon. Ty gets called out to an elderly neighbor’s ranch belonging to KC Sheridan and his wife when the US Fish & Wildlife Service fences off the longtime water supply for his cattle. Sheridan’s wife’s brother lost his ranch to the government and is now instigating his militia friends to make a stand to save KC’s ranch.
At the same time, a Portland detective is found dead in a resort cabin. His partner and the chief of police in Portland all want the death classified as a suicide and the case closed. Ty and the medical examiner know he was murdered, and he is willing to fight against the PPD to discover the truth.
Ty and his deputies work to keep the standoff at the Sheridan ranch from escalating, while also following leads in the murdered detective case. Ty is determined to find the truth, but it will cost him.
I love Ty Dawson and now want to go back and read the first two books in the series. He loves his wife and daughter, still has nightmares from his time in Korea, and has a strong sense of justice that must be satisfied. Set in the late 1970’s, historical references, significant events and lack of current technology are all intertwined throughout the story without slowing the pace. The two investigations are intricately plotted and perfectly paced. I was surprised to learn how the two investigations are tied together at the climax of this story. Greed, political corruption, drugs, and prostitution are all in abundance in this investigation with plenty of twists that keep you guessing. This is a new to me author that I am very happy to have found.
I highly recommend this addition to the series, and I am looking forward to reading more Ty Dawson books in the future.
***
Excerpt
Prelude:
A TRANSITIVE NIGHTFALL
NO CHILD IS brought into this world with any knowledge of true evil. This they learn over the passage of time. In my experience as a Sheriff, and as a rancher, I have found this precept to be true.
Time passes nevertheless, even if it passes slowly. Here in rural southern Oregon, sometimes it seemed as if it hadn’t moved at all, advancing without touching Meriwether County, except with glancing blows.
That is, until the day it caught up with us all, and came down like a goddamn hammer.
CHAPTER ONE
ORDINARILY, AUTUMN IN Meriwether County would come in hard and sudden, like a stone hurled through a window. But this year it snuck in slow and mild, lingered there deceitfully while we waited for the axe to come down.
The sky that morning was turquoise, empty of clouds, the altitude strung with elongated V’s of migrating geese and a single contrail that resembled a surgical scar, the narrows between the high valley walls opening onto a broad vista of rangeland some distance below. I had expected ice patches to have formed on the pavement overnight, but the weather had remained stubbornly dry, even as temperatures closed in on the low thirties. I tipped open the wind-wing and let the chill air blow through the cab of my pickup as I stretched, and drank off the last dregs of coffee I had brought for the long southward drive from the town of Meridian.
I had received a phone call at home the night before from an unusually distressed KC Sheridan. I had known KC for as long as I can remember, a pragmatic and taciturn cattleman whose family history in the area dated back to the late 1800s, much like that of my own. Three generations of Sheridans had stretched fence wire, planted feed-grass and run rough stock across deeded ranchland that measured its acreage in the tens of thousands, and whose boundaries straddled two separate counties, one of which was my jurisdiction.
But the decade of the ’70s thus far had not been any kinder or gentler to cowboys than to anyone else, and KC and his wife, Irene, had found themselves increasingly subject to the fulminations and intimidation of both local and federal government. While the Sheridan ranch had once numbered itself among a dozen privately held agricultural properties in the region, KC now found himself surrounded on three sides by a federally designated wildlife refuge that had swollen to encompass well over three hundred square miles; a bird sanctuary originally conceived under the auspices of President Theodore Roosevelt’s white house. All of which would have been perfectly fine and acceptable to the Sheridan family, given the understanding that the scarce water supply that ultimately fed into the bird sanctuary belonged to the Sheridans by legal covenant, as it had for nearly a century.
I turned off the paved two-lane and onto a gravel service road, headed in the direction of the ridgeline where KC sat silhouetted against the bright backdrop of clear sky, mounted astride his chestnut roping horse. KC climbed out of the saddle as I parked a short distance away, switched off the ignition and stepped down from my truck. KC trailed the horse behind him as he moved in my direction, took off his hat and ran a forearm across his brow, then pressed it back onto his head. His hair and his eyes shared a similar shade of gunmetal grey, and the hardscrabble nature of his existence as a rancher had been recorded in the deep lines of his face.
“What the hell am I supposed to do about these goings-on, Sheriff?” KC asked, and cocked his brim in the general direction of a reservoir that was the size of a small mountain lake. Two men wearing construction hardhats were surveying a line on the near shore where a third man studied a roll of blueprints he had unfurled across the hood of his work truck.
“Is that who I think it is?” I asked.
“They aim to fence off my water. My cows won’t last a week in this weather.”
“Have you talked to them, KC?”
He nodded.
“’Bout as useful as standing in a bucket and trying to lift yourself up by the handle. It’s the reason I finally called you, Ty. I didn’t know what else to do.”
The vein on KC’s temple palpitated as he cut his eyes toward the foothills and spat.
“I’ll have a word with them,” I said. “You wait here.”
A wintry wind had begun to blow down from the pass, pushing channels through the dry grass and the sweet scents of juniper and scrub pine. A harrier swept down out of a cluster of black oaks and made a series of low passes across the flats.
I averted my eyes as the sun glinted off the US Department of Fish & Wildlife shield affixed to the driver side door of a government-issue Chevy Suburban. The man studying the blueprints didn’t bother to lift his head or look at me as I stepped up beside him.
“Care to tell me why you and your men are trespassing on private ranch land?” I asked.
The man sighed, scrutinizing me over the frames of a pair of steel-rimmed reading glasses. He had a face that put me in mind of an apple carving, and a physique that resembled a burlap sack filled with claw hammers.
“Who the hell are you now?” he asked.
“Ty Dawson, Sheriff of Meriwether County. That’s the name of the county you’re standing in.”
He took off his reading glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket, hitched a work boot onto the Suburban’s bumper and offered me an approximation of a smile.
“Well, Sheriff, I’m with Fish and Wildlife—that’s an agency of the federal government, as I’m sure you’re aware—and I have a work order that says I’m supposed to put up a fence. And that’s exactly what me and my crew are doing here.”
I gestured upslope, where KC Sheridan stood watching us, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“You’re on that man’s private property,” I said.
The government man made no move to acknowledge KC.
“I don’t split hairs over those types of details, Sheriff. The work order I’ve got lays out the metes and bounds of the line, and me and my crew just install the fence where it says to. It ain’t brain surgery.”
“Scoot over and let me have a look at that site map.”
“I oughtta radio this in.”
“You do whatever you think you need to,” I said. “But do it while I’m looking at your map.”
He lifted his chin and looked as though he was conducting a dialogue with himself, then finally stepped to one side. I studied the blueprint for a few moments, looked out across the rock-studded range and got my bearings.
“Looks to me like the boundary line for the bird refuge is at least a hundred yards to the other side of this reservoir,” I said. “Your map is mismarked.”
“The agency doesn’t mismark maps, Sheriff.”
“They sure as hell mismarked this one. You need to stop your work until this gets sorted out.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Care to repeat that? There’s clearly been a mistake.”
“No mistake. You need to step away, Sheriff.”
“Let me explain something to you,” I said, removing my sunglasses. “It’s the law in the State of Oregon that the water that comes up on Mr. Sheridan’s property belongs to Mr. Sheridan. Period. If you fence off his reservoir—especially this late in the season—you’re not only stealing his water, you’re murdering his herd.”
The agency man lifted his foot off the bumper, set his feet wide and faced off with me. He slid both hands into the back pockets of his canvas overalls and rocked back on his heels.
“Now it’s my turn to try to explain something to you, Sheriff: I been given a job to do, and I intend to do it. If you don’t walk away right this minute and leave me to it, I will be forced to radio this in. Long and the short of it is, the guys who will come out here after me will have badges, too. And their badges are bigger than yours.”
“I won’t allow you to trespass onto private property, steal this man’s water and kill his livestock.”
He glanced at his two crewmen staking the line then turned his attention back to me.
“You going to arrest us?” he asked.
“What is it with you agency people? Why is it that your first inclination is to slam the pedal all the way to the floor?”
“When me and the boys come back out here, it won’t just be the three of us no more.”
“I’m finished talking about this,” I said. “Pack up your gear and go.”
I could feel his eyes boring holes into the back of my head as I picked my way back up the incline where Sheridan stood waiting for me.
“I can tell by your stride that you had the same kind of dialogue experience I had with that fella,” KC said.
“Bureaucrats with hardhats.”
“I ain’t no cupcake, Dawson. But, you know that those sonsabitches have been tweaking my nose for years.”
“Those men are part of a federal agency, KC, make no mistake. If you’re not careful, they’ll try to roll right over the top of you.”
“What do you call what they’re doing right now? I don’t intend to lay down for it.”
“I’m not saying you should.”
“What, then?”
“Get on the phone and call Judge Yates up in Salem,” I said. “Ask him if he can slap an injunction on these clowns until we get it sorted out.”
Sheridan’s horse pinned back his ears and began to shuffle his forelegs, responding to the tone our conversation had taken. KC calmed the animal with a caress of its neck, dipped into the pocket of his wool coat, snapped off a few pieces of carrot and fed it to the gelding from the flat of his palm.
“I’ll do it, Ty, but I swear to god—”
“KC, you call me before you do anything else, you understand?”
Excerpt from RECKONING by Baron Birtcher. Copyright 2023 by Baron Birtcher. Reproduced with permission from Baron Birtcher. All rights reserved.
***
Author Bio
Baron R Birtcher is the LA TIMES and IMBA BESTSELLING author of the hardboiled Mike Travis series (Roadhouse Blues, Ruby Tuesday, Angels Fall, and Hard Latitudes), the award-winning Ty Dawson series (South California Purples, Fistful Of Rain, and Reckoning), as well as the critically-lauded stand-alone, RAIN DOGS.
Baron is a five-time winner of the SILVER FALCHION AWARD, and the WINNER of 2018’s Killer Nashville READERS CHOICE AWARD, as well as 2019’s BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR for Fistful Of Rain.
He has also had the honor of having been named a finalist for the NERO AWARD, the LEFTY AWARD, the FOREWORD INDIE AWARD, the 2016 BEST BOOK AWARD, the Pacific Northwest’s regional SPOTTED OWL AWARD, and the CLAYMORE AWARD.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for REMEMBER ME (Ravenswood Book #2) by Mary Balogh on this Berkley Blog Tour.
Below you will find and about the book section, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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About the Book
Philippa, elder daughter of the Earl of Stratton, grew up eagerly anticipating a glittering debut and a brilliant marriage. Then her brother caught their father out in a clandestine affair and denounced him publicly. The whole family was disgraced, and Philippa’s hopes grew dim, then were fully shattered when she overheard the dashing, handsome Marquess of Roath viciously insult her upon learning of her father’s identity. Only years later does Philippa find the courage to go to London at last to meet the ton. She is an instant success and enjoys a close friendship with the granddaughter of a duke. Only one man can spoil everything for her, but surely he will not be in London this year.
The Duke of Wilby is nearing death and has tasked his grandson and heir, Lucas Arden, Marquess of Roath, with marrying and producing a son before it is too late. Lucas, who usually shuns London, goes there early in the Season in the hope of finding an eligible bride before his grandparents come and find one for him. He is instantly attracted to his sister’s new friend, until that young lady asks a simple question: “Remember me?” And suddenly he does remember her, as well as the reason why the daughter of the Earl of Stratton is the one woman he can never marry—even if his heart tells him she is the only woman he wants.
Unfortunately for Philippa and Lucas, the autocratic duke and his duchess have other ideas and believe them to be perfect for each other. They will simply not take no for an answer. Telling Philippa the full truth is the hardest thing Lucas has ever faced, and the discovery of it will change them both before they discover the healing power of love.
REMEMBER ME (Ravenswood Book #2) by Mary Balogh is an enchanting Regency historical romance. This is the second book in the Ravenswood series, and it can be read as a standalone, but to get Phillipa’s entire backstory, I suggest you read book #1, Remember Love first.
Lady Phillipa “Pippa” Ware grew up eagerly awaiting her first London season until the public disgrace of her family. After overhearing the handsome Marquess of Roath calling her “soiled goods” when he visited a neighbor, she refused to go to London and isolated herself on her family’s estate.
Four years later, with the encouragement of her brother who is now the Earl, she leaves for her first season in London.
Lucas Arden, Marquess of Roath has been tasked by his grandfather the Duke of Wilby, who is elderly and not well, to find a bride and produce an heir. When he attends his first ton event, he is attracted to his sister’s new friend. When he asks to be introduced, he learns Lady Phillipa overheard his long-ago hurtful words spoken to his friend. Pippa wants to know why he said those words, but Lucas has a terrible secret of his own which involves her dead father that he never wanted to share.
His grandparents like Pippa and believe she would be the perfect match for Lucas, but can they overcome their pasts and discover the healing power of love?
This is another entertaining historical romance from Ms. Balogh. The characters are fully developed, and the dialogue is witty. There is a lot of family interaction and at times, I wish it was more focused on the hero of heroine’s love story. The sex scene was between an experienced man and a virgin which is expected for the time, but it also seemed a bit one sided in execution which I do not expect in a romance written today. Lucas’s grandparents are wonderful characters in this story with a beautiful love story of their own.
Overall, another emotional addition to the Ravenswood series and I am looking forward to following the other Ware family members as they meet their HEA mates.
***
Excerpt
Voices hummed all around them and glass and china clinked as the other guests feasted upon the sumptuous tea set out before them. Spoons scraped upon dishes of fruit trifle. Philippa glanced down at her plate and was surprised to see that the cucumber sandwich had disappeared. She even had the taste of it in her mouth.
But would this tea, to which she had looked forward with such eager anticipation, never be over? She felt as though she were suffocating. The room seemed unnaturally stuffy.
“I have just realized to my shame that I have not yet spoken with at least one third of our guests,” Jenny said as she set her napkin down on the table. “I was so absorbed in my conversation with Pippa before you arrived, Luc, that I neglected everyone else. And I kept you from mingling too, Pippa, though I know you have very few acquaintances in London and came here to make some. I do apologize.”
“We can put your first concern to rest without further delay, Jenny,” Sir Gerald said, getting to his feet. “I see your wheeled chair in the corner here beside the mantel. Let me get you into it, and we will move about together from table to table, greeting people we have not already spoken with.”
He was fetching the chair as he spoke. He bent over his cousin and, with what was obviously practiced ease, lifted her into it.
“That is kind of you, Gerald,” Jenny said. “But now I am abandoning Pippa after begging her to stay with me. Luc, will you be so good as to give her your company until everyone begins to move about again?”
“It will be my pleasure,” he said while Philippa smiled and her heart thumped uncomfortably and she felt robbed of breath.
The Marquess of Roath was on his feet, moving his chair out of the way so the wheeled chair could pass behind it, and bending to tuck the hem of his sister’s dress about her ankles so it would not catch beneath a wheel.
When he sat down again, he did not move his chair back to where it had been. It was now closer to Philippa than before. She was aware again of the voices around them, seeming to enclose them in a cocoon of silence, which neither of them broke for a few moments. Their eyes met. His were brown, but not very dark. There were hints of green in them. He opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him. She had learned something in the last seven or eight months, since Devlin’s return home from the wars. She had learned the importance of speaking truth rather than suppressing it and living with the illusion that all would be well in her world if only she kept quiet about what was not well.
“Remember me?” she said.
* * * * *
The sound of many voices talking at once had grown louder as more of the guests finished eating. A few had risen from their places and were moving about to talk with fellow guests at other tables. Lady Philippa Ware had spoken quietly. Lucas was not quite sure he had heard her correctly.
But all through tea, while the four of them had chatted amiably and shared family anecdotes and laughed over them—his and Jenny’s and Gerald’s on the one hand, Lady Philippa’s on the other—he had been dragging up a distant memory from that place in the mind where one stuffs away gaffes one would dearly love to obliterate altogether if only it were possible. It was a memory from four or five years ago of going to spend Easter with James Rutledge, a friend from his Oxford years. James lived with his parents and siblings somewhere close to the village of…Boscombe? Lucas thought that was the name. It was in Hampshire anyway. When he had accepted the invitation, he had had no idea that the Earl of Stratton lived at Ravenswood Hall, a mere stone’s throw from the village. He had discovered it within a day or two of his arrival, however. James had taken him—because he had thought it would amuse Lucas—to watch a crowd of his neighbors practice maypole dancing in someone’s large barn, or what was supposedly a barn. It had clearly not seen either animals or hay for many a year, if ever.
Lady Philippa was not going to speak again, it seemed, until he did. But her eyes—those large, very blue eyes—did not waver from his own. And though she had spoken quietly, she had also spoken quite distinctly. He did not need to have her repeat the words.
Remember me?
“Have we met before, Lady Philippa?” he asked. But he had the ghastly feeling that they had.
Mary Balogh has written more than one hundred historical novels and novellas, more than forty of which have been New York Times bestsellers. They include the Bedwyn saga, the Simply quartet, the Huxtable quintet, the seven-part Survivors’ Club series, and the Westcott series.
Today I am sharing a Feature Post and Book Review for THE PARIS AGENT by Kelly Rimmer on this HTP Books Summer 2023 Blog Tour.
Below you will find an about the book section, my mini book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section, and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
***
About the Book
For fans of fast-paced historical thrillers like Our Woman in Moscow and The Rose Code, Rimmer’s brilliant new novel follows three female SOE operatives as their lives intersect in occupied France, and the double agent who controls their fate.
Twenty-five years after the end of the war, an aging Marcel Augustin is reflecting on his life during those perilous, exhilarating years as a British SOE operative in occupied France—in particular the agent who saved his life during a mission gone wrong, whose real name he never knew, nor whether she survived the war. Piqued by her father’s memories, Marcel’s daughter Charlotte begins a search for answers that resurrects the unrest and uncertainty from that period of his life. What follows is the story of Eloise, Josie and Virginia, three otherwise ordinary, average women whose lives intersect in 1943 when they’re called up by the SOE for deployment in France. Taking enormous risks to support the allied troops with very little information or resources, the three women have no idea they’re at the mercy of a double agent within their ranks who’s causing chaos within the French circuits, whose efforts will affect the outcome of their lives.
As Charlotte’s search for answers continues, new suspicions are raised about the identity of the double agent, with unsettling clues pointing to her father, and more mysteries are unearthed from the last days of the war about the eventual fates of Eloise, Josie and Virginia.
THE PARIS AGENT by Kelly Rimmer is a moving historical fiction novel written with dual intertwining timelines; one set during WWII in France following two female SOE operatives and the other set in 1970 England with a survivor trying to uncover the mystery surrounding their betrayals and deaths. This is a story that pulled me in emotionally and made it impossible to stop reading. Make sure you have the tissues handy for the ending.
This story is extensively researched and believable. The author makes you feel the emotional suspense and distress of the SOE operatives while they are in France. That these young women volunteered and were sent into occupied territory during WWII with only months of training and no guarantee they would return alive demonstrates their strength, bravery, and belief in freedom. The second story line follows a father and daughter duo looking for answers twenty-five years after WWII to fill in questions the father still has after a brain injury while with the SOE in France, but many of the documents are still classified. The two storylines come together is an emotional climax that is gut-wrenching and uncomfortable.
I highly recommend this historical fiction novel featuring strong women caught up in the horrors of war and the long-lasting emotional ripples that flow through their families.
***
Excerpt
Prologue
ELOISE
Germany
October, 1944
Perhaps at first glance, we might have looked like ordinary passengers: four women in civilian clothes, sitting in pairs facing one another, the private carriage of the passenger train illuminated by the golden light of a cloudless late-summer sunrise. Only upon closer inspection would a passerby have seen the handcuffs that secured us, our wrists resting at our sides, between us not because we meant to hide them but because we were exhausted, and they were too heavy to rest on our bony thighs. Only at a second glance would they have noticed the emaciated frames or the clothes that didn’t quite fit, or the scars and healing wounds each of us bore after months of torture and imprisonment.
I was handcuffed to a petite woman I knew first as Chloe, although in recent weeks, we had finally shared our real names with one another. It was entirely possible that she was the best friend I’d ever known—not that there was much competition for that title, given friendship had never come easy to me. Two British women, Mary and Wendy, sat opposite us. They had trained together, as Chloe and I had trained together, and like us, they had been “lucky enough” to recently find themselves imprisoned together too. Mary and Wendy appeared just as shell-shocked as Chloe and I were by the events of that morning.
As our captors had reminded us often since our arrests, we were plainclothes assassins and as such, not even entitled to the basic protections of the Geneva Convention. So why on earth had we been allowed the luxury of a shower that morning, and why had we been given clean civilian clothes to wear after months in the filthy outfits we’d been wearing since our capture? Why were they transporting us by passenger train, and in a luxurious private carriage, no less? This wasn’t my first time transferring between prisons since my capture. I knew from bitter personal experience that the usual travel arrangement was, at best, the crowded, stuffy back end of a covered truck or at worst, a putrid, overcrowded boxcar.
But this carriage was modern and spacious, comfortable and relaxed. The leather seats were soft beneath me and the air was clean and light in a way I’d forgotten air should be after months confined to filthy cells.
“This could be a good sign,” I whispered suddenly. Chloe eyed me warily, but my optimism was picking up steam now, and I turned to face her as I thought aloud. “I bet Baker Street has negotiated better conditions for us! Maybe this transfer is a step toward our release. Maybe that’s why…” I nodded toward our only companions in the carriage, seated on the other side of the aisle. “Maybe that’s why she’s here. Could it be that she’s been told to keep us safe and comfortable?”
Chloe and I had had little to do with the secretary at Karlsruhe Prison, but I had seen her in the hallway outside of our cell many times, always scurrying after the terrifyingly hostile warden. It made little sense for a secretary to accompany us on a transfer, but there she was, dressed in her typical tweed suit, her blond hair constrained in a thick bun at the back of her skull. The secretary sat facing against the direction of travel, opposite the two armed guards who earlier had marched me and Chloe onto the covered truck at the prison, then from the covered truck onto the platform to join the train. The men had not introduced themselves, but like all agents with the British Special Operations Executive, I’d spent weeks memorizing German uniforms and insignias. I knew at a glance that these were low-ranking Sicherheitsdienst officers—members of the SD. The Nazi intelligence agency.
The secretary spoke to the guards, her voice low but her tone playful. She held a suitcase on her lap, and she winked as she tapped it. The men both brightened, surprised smiles transforming their stern expressions, then she theatrically popped the suitcase lid to reveal a shockingly generous bounty of thick slices of sausages and chunks of cheese, a large loaf of sliced rye bread and…was that butter? The scent of the food flooded the carriage as the secretary and the guards used the suitcase as a table for their breakfast.
It was far too much food for three people but I knew they’d never share it with us. My stomach rumbled violently, but after months surviving on scant prison rations, I was desperate enough that I felt lucky to be in the mere presence of such a feast.
“I heard the announcement as we came onto the carriage— this train goes to Strasbourg, doesn’t it? Do you have any idea what’s waiting for us there? This is all a bit…” Wendy paused, gnawing her lip anxiously. “None of it makes sense. Why are they treating us so well?”
“This is the Strasbourg train,” Chloe confirmed cautiously. There was a subtle undertone to those words—something hesitant, concerned. I frowned, watching her closely, but just then the secretary leaned toward the aisle. She spoke to us in rapid German and pointed to the suitcase in her lap.
Had we done something wrong? More German words but it may as well have been Latin to me, because I spoke only French and English. Just then, the secretary huffed impatiently and pushed the suitcase onto the empty seat beside her as she stood. She held a plate toward me, and when I stared at it blankly, she waved impatiently toward Chloe and spoke again in German.
“What…”
“She wants you to take it,” Chloe translated for me, and I took the plate with my one free hand, bewildered. Chloe passed it to Wendy, and so on, until we all held plates in our hands. The secretary then passed us fat slices of sausage and cheese and several slices of bread each. Soon, our plates were filled with the food, each of us holding a meal likely more plentiful than we’d experienced since our arrival in France.
“She’s toying with us,” Mary whispered urgently. “She’ll take it back. She won’t let us eat it so don’t get your hopes up.”
I nodded subtly—I’d assumed the same. And so, I tried to ignore the treasure sitting right beneath my nose. I tried not to notice how garlicky and rich that sausage smelled, how creamy the cheese looked, or how the butter was so thick on the bread that it might also have been cheese. I told myself the increasing pangs in my stomach were just part of the torture and the smartest thing I could do was to ignore them altogether, but the longer I held the plate, the harder it was to refocus my mind on anything but the pain in my stomach and the feast in my hands that would bring instant and lasting relief.
When all the remaining food had been divided between us prisoners, the secretary waved impatiently toward the plates on our laps, then motioned toward her mouth.
“Eat!” she said, in impatient but heavily accented English.
Chloe and I exchanged shocked glances. Conditions in Karlsruhe Prison were not the worst we’d seen since our respective captures, but even so, we’d been hungry for so long. The starvation was worse for Chloe than me. She had a particularly sensitive constitution and ate a narrow range of foods in order to avoid gastric distress. Since our reunion at the prison, we’d developed a system of sharing our rations so she could avoid the foods which made her ill but even so, she remained so thin I had sometimes worried I’d wake up one morning to find she’d died in her sleep.
“What can you eat?” I asked her urgently.
She looked at our plates then blurted, “Sausage. I’ll eat the sausage.”
For the next ten minutes we prisoners fell into silence except for the occasional, muffled moan of pleasure and relief as we devoured the food. I was trying to find the perfect compromise between shoving it all into my mouth as fast as I could in case the secretary changed her mind and savoring every bite with the respect a meal like that commanded. By the time my plate was empty and my surroundings came back to me, the guards and the secretary were having a lovely time, laughing amongst themselves and chatting as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
For a long while, we prisoners traveled in silence, holding our plates on our laps at first, then after Wendy set the precedent, lifting them to our mouths to lick them clean. Still, the guards chatted and laughed and if I judged their tones correctly, even flirted with the secretary? It gradually dawned on me that they were paying us very little attention.
“How far is Strasbourg? Does anyone know?” I asked. Wendy and Mary shook their heads as they shrugged, but Chloe informed me it was hundreds of miles. Her shoulders had slumped again despite the gift of the food, and I nudged her gently and offered a soft smile. “We have a long journey ahead. Good. That means we have time for a pleasant chat while our bellies are full.”
By unspoken agreement, we didn’t discuss our work with the Special Operations Executive (SOE). It was obvious to me that each of the other women had been badly beaten at some point—Wendy was missing a front tooth, Mary held her left hand at an odd angle as if a fractured wrist had healed badly, and Chloe… God, even if she hadn’t explained to me already, I’d have known just looking at her that Chloe had been to hell and back. It seemed safe to assume we had all been interrogated literally almost to death at some point, but there was still too much at stake to risk giving away anything the Germans had not gleaned from us already. So instead of talking about our work or our peculiar circumstances on that train, we talked as though we weren’t wearing handcuffs. As though we weren’t on our way to, at the very best, some slightly less horrific form of imprisonment.
We acted as though we were two sets of friends on a casual jaunt through the countryside. We talked about interesting features outside our window—the lush green trees in the tall forests, the cultivated patches of farmland, the charming facades of cottages and apartments on the streets outside. Mary cooed over a group of adorable children walking to school, and Wendy talked about little shops we passed in the picturesque villages. Chloe shared longing descriptions of the foods she missed the most—fresh fruit and crisp vegetables, eggs cooked all manner of ways, herbs and spices and salt. I lamented my various aches and pains and soon everyone joined in and we talked as if we were elderly people reflecting on the cruelty of aging, not four twenty-somethings who had been viciously, repeatedly beaten by hateful men.
I felt the warmth of the sunshine on my face through the window of the carriage and closed my eyes, reveling in the simple pleasures of fresh air and warm skin and the company of the best friend I’d ever known. I even let myself think about the secretary and that picnic, and feel the relief that I was, for the first time in months, in the company of a stranger who had shown kindness toward me. I’d almost forgotten that was something people did for one another.
I’d never been an especially cheerful sort of woman and I’d never been an optimist, but those past months had forced me to stare long and hard at the worst aspects of the human condition and I’d come to accept a certain hopelessness even when it came to my own future. But on that train, bathed in early morning sunlight and basking in a full stomach and pleasant company, my spirits lifted until they soared toward something like hope.
For the first time in months, I even let myself dream that I’d survive to embrace my son Hughie again. Maybe, even after all I’d seen and done, the world could still be good. Maybe, even after everything, I could find reason to have faith.
Kelly Rimmer is the worldwide, New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of The German Wife, The Warsaw Orphan, and The Things We Cannot Say. She lives in rural Australia with her husband, two children and fantastically naughty dogs, Sully and Basil. Her novels have been translated into more than twenty languages.
