Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for ECHO FROM A BAYOU: One Man’s Journey to Hunt Down His Murderer by J. Luke Bennecke on this Partner’s In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Description
Murder. Treasure. A supernatural twist.
John Bastian is plunged into a dangerous journey to uncover the truth about his past life after a freak skiing accident unlocks hidden memories. With unshakable visions of a brutal attack, the cursed Lafayette treasure, and a captivating redhead, John searches to find answers and confront the man who murdered him. On a perilous path and with a hurricane fast approaching, John fights for his survival and the safety of those he loves, threats haunting him at every turn.
Will he find redemption, or be consumed by an unquenchable thirst for revenge?
Genre: Suspense Thriller Published by: Jaytech Publishing Publication Date: August 2023 Number of Pages: 400 ISBN: 9780965771559
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My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
ECHO FROM A BAYOU: One Man’s Journey to Hunt Down His Murder by J. Luke Bennecke is an exciting mix of suspense/action thriller/treasure hunt adventure and reincarnation. This is a standalone story that kept me turning the pages well into the night.
John Bastian awakes after a three-day coma after a skiing accident with memories that are not his own. He learns the memories belong to Jack Bachman from Louisiana who was married to a red-headed beauty.
He is compelled to take a trip to Louisiana to follow his memories, find the red-headed beauty, and find the man who murdered him over a buried treasure. And then there is a hurricane.
This is an intriguing look into reincarnation, betrayal, murder, and true love all combined into an action-adventure thriller. All the characters are fully fleshed and the descriptions of all the locations throughout the story add to believability. I did have a bit of difficulty with the past and present differences if I did not pay attention to the chapter headings, but eventually it all came together. There are plenty of plot twists and surprises throughout.
This is an intriguing thriller and more.
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Excerpt
Chapter 1
John Bastian
November 8, 2016 – Mammoth Mountain, CA
Never had I seen so many angry trees in one place.
Through a gondola window covered with spider cracks, ominous mountains loomed in the darkened distance. One peak in particular, a white, snowcapped giant, laughed at me with his frozen face and pointed pines, pompous with knowledge he had risen to life, fallen, and rebirthed his dominance over countless millennia.
Ignoring the familiar tug to spiral down another rabbit hole of negativity, I instead envisioned myself racing down a crazy-steep, treeless, triple black diamond slope at the summit of Mammoth Mountain: Huevos Grande.
Passengers continued to pack inside the already-full car, oblivious to our collective need to breathe oxygen, already limited in the high-altitude air that smelled of sweaty gym socks.
“And I don’t see you wearin’ no helmet,” Kevin said.
“Enough about Sonny Bono already, that was a long time ago,” I said, glancing down at Kevin, who, at a foot shorter than me, sported matching black ski pants and jacket with a rainbowcolored voodoo doll embroidered on the back. The snowboarding boots boosted his height by two inches, bringing his height up to five feet five inches.
My closest friend for the last two decades and best man at the wedding of my disaster of a marriage, we’d met at track practice during senior year of high school.
With my last shred of patience wearing thin, I waited with Kevin in the front corner of the room-sized orange cube, near the sliding doors. Skis propped and steadied with one hand, I gave his down-insulated shoulder a friendly punch with the other and said, “Stay positive, man. We need as much optimism as we can handle.”
“Glad you finally gettin’ your head outta them clouds,” Kevin said. “Sooner you forgive Margaret, sooner you can get on with your life, Johnny Jackass.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Exactly.”
Two months ago, he’d suggested this trip to some of California’s highest slopes in order to check off the last item on our mid-life crisis bucket list.
One final group of skiers jammed inside, jerking the box that would soon glide us up to the peak of peaks. My heart flopped around inside my chest as I ignored the instinctive urge to go back to our room and down a double bourbon. Instead, I adjusted my black beanie, giving Kevin a forced smile. A tinge of alcohol withdrawal headache pinged my noggin. I dug out two Tylenol gel caps from my inner jacket pocket, popped them into my mouth and swallowed without water.
I tightened my lips and turned my head, glancing through a different gondola window, up to the 11,000-foot peak riddled with wide, white, invincible slopes.
But a shiver crawled up from my legs to my neck, deflating any remnants of confidence.
I tapped open a weather app on my phone. “This might be the last run. That huge storm front’s almost here.”
“Word.”
We both enjoyed the occasional humorous embellishment of stereotypical hip-hop culture, even though Kevin had two masters’ degrees from Berkeley, one in American history and another in theater arts.
After separating from Margaret three years ago, the entire divorce process continually marinated in my head, but I wanted—needed—to lick my mental wounds, get on with my life, and find a new purpose. Hence my agreeing to this trip.
Heads bobbed among the other snow enthusiasts, along with a colorful assortment of mirrored goggles and insulated garments. My height allowed me an unobstructed view of my fellow sardines.
“Think of all the times they said it was supposed to rain back home in Newport Beach,” I said. “Nothing. Just a few drops here and there. Damned drought’s horrible.”
A man with dark, heavy-lidded eyes stood five feet away from us in the rear of the gondola, wearing a baby blue sweater and black jeans. Then for no apparent reason, he started tapping his forehead repeatedly on the gondola wall.
Dude wore no ski jacket.
No ski pants.
Odd.
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Author Bio
J. Luke Bennecke is a veteran civil engineer with a well-spent career helping people by improving Southern California roadways. He has a civil engineering degree, an MBA, a private pilot’s certificate, and is a partner in an engineering firm. He enjoys philanthropy and awards scholarships annually to high school seniors.
In addition to his debut novel, bestselling and award-winning thriller Civil Terror: Gridlock, Bennecke has written several other novels and screenplays, a creative process he thoroughly enjoys. His second Jake Bendel thriller, Waterborne, was published in 2021 by Black Rose Writing and received several awards. Echo from a Bayou is his latest suspense thriller with a supernatural twist, available now.
Bennecke resides in Southern California with his wife of 32+ years and three spunky cats. In his leisure time he enjoys traveling, playing golf, voiceover acting, and spending time with his grown daughters.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for DEADLY DEPTHS by John F. Dobbyn 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
The death by bizarre means of his mentor, Professor Barrington Holmes, draws Mathew Shane into the quest of five archeologists, known to each other as “The Monkey’s Paws”, for an obscure object of unprecedented historic and financial value. The suspected murders of others of the Monkey’s Paws follow their pursuit of five clues found in a packet of five ancient parchments. Shane’s commitment to disprove the police theory of suicide by Professor Holmes carries him to the steamy bayous of New Orleans, the backstreets of Montreal, the sunken wreck of a pirate vessel off Barbados, and the city of Maroon descendants of escaped slaves in Jamaica.
By weaving a thread from the sacrificial rites of the Aztec kingdom before the Spanish conquest of Mexico through the African beliefs of Jamaican Maroons and finally to the ventures of Captain Henry Morgan during the Golden Era of Piracy in his conquest and sacking of Spanish cities on the Spanish Main, Shane reaches a conclusion he could never have anticipated.
Genre: Mystery, Crime Thriller Published by: Oceanview Publishing Publication Date: August 2023 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 9781608095483 (ISBN10: 1608095487)
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My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
DEADLY DEPTHS by John F. Dobbyn is an edge-of-your-seat treasure hunt thriller and intricate crime mystery mash-up novel that kept me turning the pages well into the night. This is a standalone novel that is a great mystery/thriller read and while the author is new to me, he does have other published books I will be checking out in the future.
Law professor Matthew Shane also has a love of archeology from his mentor, well known archeologist, Professor Barrington Holmes. Holmes is found dead at his office desk, and it is determined a suicide, but Matthew knows his mentor would never commit suicide.
His search for the truth leads him to a group of five archeologists, including the deceased Barrington, that call themselves “The Monkey’s Paw”. They were entangled in a mysterious expedition and since their return, they are being killed one by one.
Joining forces with the remaining members of “The Monkey’s Paw” and the help of an enigmatic Turkish antiquities dealer in France, Matthew is on a worldwide chase that may cost him his life, too.
I really loved this story. It is full of surprise twists, red herrings, and treachery. Matthew is determined to discover the truth, no matter the peril. He is an honorable, adventurous, and strong protagonist that is easy to cheer for throughout the hunt. The history of the Aztec artifact everyone wants, and the history of the Maroons of Jamaica were both interesting and well positioned throughout the plot to never interfere with the pace. The plot is well paced, fast and seldom lets up even when the plot goes back in time to the diary of a Welsh privateer. The climax was intense, and it leads to a very satisfying conclusion to both the mystery and the treasure hunt.
I highly recommend this high intensity action-adventure mystery/thriller!
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Excerpt
We arrived at an area of private docks in a town called Oistins. The driver stopped at the base of a wharf that anchored power boats of every size, speed, and description. One power yacht stood out as the choice of the fleet. The Sun Catcher. My guide hustled us both directly to the carpeted gangplank that led on board a vessel that could pass for a floating Ritz Carlton.
The engines were already revving. I was escorted to a padded deck-lounge with maximum view on the foredeck. I had scarcely settled in, when we were slicing through late-afternoon sea-swells that barely caused a rise and fall.
My guide, still in suit and tie, brought me, without either of us asking, a tall, cool, planter’s punch with an ample kick of Mount Gay Rum. For the first moment since Mick O’Flynn told me that someone was asking for me, I made a fully-considered decision. This entire fantasy could easily turn into a disaster that could outstrip New Orleans and Montreal together, but to hell with it. It was just too elating not to accept it at face value – at least for the moment.
My mind was just settling into a comfortable neutral, when I heard footsteps from behind that had more heft than I imagined my guide could produce. I made a move to swing out of the padded deck-chair, when I felt the touch of a hand with authoritative strength on my shoulder. The voice that went with it had the same commanding undertone.
“Stay where you are, Michael. I’ll join you.”
A matching deck-chair was set beside me. I found myself looking up at a shadow against the setting sun that appeared double my bulk and yet compact as an Olympic hammer-thrower. The voice came again. “You’re an interesting study, Michael. I may call you ‘Michael’, right? I should. I probably know more about you than anyone you know. You might have guessed that by now.”
An open hand reached down out of the shadow. I took it. The handshake fit the shaker. It took some seconds for the feeling to come back into mine.
Before I could answer, the voice was coming from the deck-lounge beside me. “No need for coy name games. You know that I’m Wayne Barnes. And you know that I’m one of the, shall we say, associates in that little clique we call the Monkey’s Paws. In fact, your escort here, Emile, tells me it was the mention of my name that swung your decision to get on that plane.”
He nodded to my nearly empty Planter’s Punch. “Another?”
Before I could answer, he gave a slight nod to someone behind us. Before I could say “Yes”, or possibly, but less likely, “No”, a native Bajan in a server’s uniform was at my left taking my empty and handing me a full glass.
I was three good sips into the second glass before I said my first word since coming aboard. I looked over at Wayne. I seemed to have his full focus. His engaging smile seemed to carry a full message of relaxed hospitality, and none of the threatening undercurrents I was scanning for. “You have an interesting way of delivering an invitation, Mr. Barnes”
He raised a hand. “Wayne.”
“’Wayne’ it is. You must have an interesting social life.”
“I do. Do you find it offensive?”
I looked over the bow, past the deepening blue crystal water to the reddening horizon. I felt the soothing caress of the slightly salted ocean breeze. I took one more sip of the most perfectly balanced planters punch of a lifetime, and looked back at Wayne. “Not in the slightest. Yet.”
“Ah yes, ‘yet’.”
“Right. I’m sure this won’t impress you, Wayne, and it’s not a complaint, but I’ve had a week full of enough tragedy to fill a lifetime. Hence the ‘yet’.”
His smile and focused attention remained. “I know more about your week, perhaps, than even you do. But go on.”
The second planter’s punch was having a definitely mollifying effect. “I have no idea what you mean by that last statement, Wayne, so I’ll just pass on. Given that week, and the abrupt transport from hell on earth to . . . paradise on earth, I’d have to be Mrs. Shane’s backward child not to listen for a second shoe to drop.”
The smile expanded. Still no alarms. “Or perhaps you’ve come into a sea-change of good luck, Michael. Why not go with that?”
“Why not indeed? For the moment. Just one question. ”
“Alright. One question. For now. Make it a good one.”
“Oh it is. It’s a beaut. Ecstatic as I am with all this, why the hell am I here?”
That brought a bursting laugh. “I think I’m going to enjoy having you around for a couple of days, Michael. You have an instinct for the jugular. No chipping around the edges. We won’t waste each other’s time.”
“Thank you. But that’s not an answer.”
“No it isn’t.” He looked out to the diminishing sunset. “The only answer I can give you at the moment that would do justice to the question is this. And you’ll just have to live with it for now. You’re here for a quick but depthful education. I think you’ll find it well worth two days of your life. Are you in?”
“Do I have a choice?”
We both looked back at the rapidly diminishing shore-line behind us. “None that comes to mind. Now are you in?”
That brought a smile from me, another healthy sip of the planter’s punch, and a deep breath of the ocean-fresh breeze. “I’m in.”
We chatted through the sunset on far-ranging subjects that had no association whatever with Monkeys Paws, Maroons, murder-suicides – in fact nothing that gave a clue as to why my gracious host had chosen my company over the undoubtedly vast range of his acquaintances. By then, the moon had risen.
At some point, I was aware that the engines had stopped. The splash of two anchors could be heard on either side. The sun had set. The shift from twilight to a darkness, penetrated only by a quarter moon went unnoticed.
I was slowly sipping away at my third or possibly fourth Planter’s Punch, when I became aware of a bobbing light approaching from the port side. Without interrupting the flow of conversation, I noticed that Wayne was following its approach with more than the occasional glance until it reached the side of the yacht.
Within a few minutes, my original guide, still in suit and tie, approached Wayne’s side with an inaudible whisper. I sensed that a bit of steel crept into Wayne’s otherwise conversational tone. “I’ll see him.”
I began to get up to provide privacy. Wayne held my arm in position. “Stay, Michael. Let your education begin.” My guide nodded to someone behind us and lit his path with a small flashlight.
I settled back, as a fiftyish man with narrow, cautious eyes and thinning grey hair that might have last been combed by his mother came up along Wayne’s right side. The loose wrinkles in his ageless cotton suit indicated that he might have been close to six feet, but for a constant stoop as if to pass under an unseen beam. The stoop caused his head to bob and gave him the look of one asking for royal permission to approach.
Wayne’s eyes turned to him. I noticed the stoop of the back became more noticeable. Wayne’s voice was calm and soft, but it commanded his visitor’s full attention. “Do you have it? I assume you wouldn’t be here without it, yes, Yusuf?”
The thin mouth cracked into a smile that conveyed no humor. “Of course. Of course. But perhaps our business . . .”
Wayne nodded toward me. “No fear. Mr. Shayne is here for an education. We shouldn’t deprive him of that, should we?”
The smile on the man’s lips did not match the apprehension in the tiny eyes, but he nodded. “As you say.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
The man gave a slight glance to either side as if it were the habit of a lifetime. He reached into some deep pocket inside his suitcoat. I noticed a slight but tell-tale hesitation before he slipped out what appeared to be a hard, flat, roundish object, about seven inches across. It was wrapped in several layers of ragged cloth.
He held it until Wayne extended a hand and took it onto his lap. He laid it on the small tray on his stomach. He looked back at the man, who simply forced a smile .
“I assume it all went well?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Barnes. No problems,”
Wayne smiled back. “How I do love to hear those words.”
My eyes were glued to Wayne’s hands as he carefully peeled back one layer of cloth after another. When he turned over the last layer, the object in the shape of a disc sent out instant glints of reflections of the rising moonlight.
I could see Wayne running the tips of his fingers over the entire jagged surface of the disc. He took a flip cigarette lighter out of his pocket, opened it, and lit the flame. When he held it close to the object, I could make out the resemblance of a human face, coarsely pieced together from chips of green stone.
Wayne held it up toward me and ran the flame in front of it.
“Do you recognize it Michael?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He nodded. “Most wouldn’t. Your friend, Professor Holmes, would spot it immediately. The Mayans made death masks to protect their important rulers in their journey to the afterlife. They go back to around 700 A.D.”
“What stones are these? They look like jade.”
“Good spotting. The eyes were made of rare seashells.”
“And I assume valuable?”
He laughed again. “Right to the crux of the issue. Right, Michael.”
He turned the object over and ran his fingers over the back side of it. “One that apparently goes back as far as this, and belonged to the ruler we have in mind, the right collector will pay half a million. Isn’t that right, Yusuf?”
Yusuf’s grin was beginning to become genuine. “Oh yes. Oh yes. And more, as you would know, Mr. Barnes.”
Wayne swung his legs over the deck-lounge toward me. He sat up and very carefully replaced the wrapping that had covered the mask. He stood up and walked toward the man. “And the key to its value is that it is absolutely authentic.”
Wayne looked down at the grinning eyes of Yusuf for several seconds. I think I let out a yell that came from the pit of my stomach when Wayne hurled the wrapped object over side of the yacht, into the pitch blackness that absorbed it with barely a splash.
I thought that the man would crumble to the deck. He barely held his balance. In the blackness of the night, I couldn’t make out his features, but I know to a certainty that every drop of blood left his face.
Wayne called a uniformed attendant.
Before the man moved, Wayne took hold of his arm. I was almost as frozen to the spot as the man. I think we were both certain that he would be following the object into the blackness below.
Wayne held him close enough to speak directly into his ear, but spoke loudly enough, I’m sure, so that I could hear.
“It’s a fake, Yusuf. I’m sure you know that. But you’ll live to do me a service. You’re a delivery boy. Nothing more. I want you to take a message back to Istanbul. I want you to say just this. ‘You had my trust. I give it sparingly, and not twice. Rest assured, we’ll speak of this again.’ Do you have that Yusuf?”
The man had all he could do to nod.
Wayne signaled his attendant. “Take him back.”
The man was escorted, practically carried toward the back of the vessel. In a few minutes, I could see running lights heading away from the yacht.
Wayne sat back down. “What do you think, Michael? One more Planter’s Punch before dinner?”
I could only smile at the abrupt change of tone and subject.
“No? Then shall we go in to dinner. The chef should be prepared by now.”
When he stood up, I saw that he took something from under his deck-lounge. My mouth sprung open when a glint of light from an opening door of the yacht cabin lit up the death mask. I could see amusement in the smile of my host.
“What on earth did you throw overboard?”
“Oh that. I substituted my lap tray in the wrapping for the desk mask. I’ll keep the mask.”
“But if it’s a fake.”
“It is, but a fake by a well-respected forger of these antiquities. It has enough value for that reason alone to pay the expenses I’ve already incurred in acquiring it. Shall we go to dinner?”
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Author Bio
Following graduation from Boston Latin School and Harvard College with a major in Latin and Linguistics, three years on active duty as fighter intercept director in the United States Air Force, graduation from Boston College Law School, three years of practice in civil and criminal trial work, and graduation from Harvard Law School with a Master of Laws degree, I began a career as a Professor of Law at Villanova Law School. Twenty-five years ago I began writing mystery/thriller fiction. I have so far had twenty-five short stories published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery magazine, and six mystery thriller novels, the Michael Knight/Lex Devlin series, published by Oceanview Publishing. The second novel, Frame Up, was selected as Foreword Review’s Book of the Year.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for WOMEN OF THE POST by Joshundra Sanders on this HTP Books Summer 2023 Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book description, 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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Book Description
For fans of A League of Their Own, a debut historical novel that gives voice to the pioneering Black women of the of the Six Triple Eight Battalion who made history by sorting over one million pieces of mail overseas for the US Army.
Inspired by true events, Women of the Post brings to life the heroines who proudly served in the all-Black battalion of the Women’s Army Corps in WWII, finding purpose in their mission and lifelong friendship.
1944, New York City. Judy Washington is tired of having to work at the Bronx Slave Market, cleaning white women’s houses for next to nothing. She dreams of a bigger life, but with her husband fighting overseas, it’s up to her and her mother to earn enough for food and rent. When she’s recruited to join the Women’s Army Corps—offering a steady paycheck and the chance to see the world—Judy jumps at the opportunity.
During training, Judy becomes fast friends with the other women in her unit—Stacy, Bernadette and Mary Alyce—who all come from different cities and circumstances. Under Second Officer Charity Adams’s leadership, they receive orders to sort over one million pieces of mail in England, becoming the only unit of Black women to serve overseas during WWII.
The women work diligently, knowing that they’re reuniting soldiers with their loved ones through their letters. However, their work becomes personal when Mary Alyce discovers a backlogged letter addressed to Judy. Told through the alternating perspectives of Judy, Charity and Mary Alyce, Women of the Post is an unforgettable story of perseverance, female friendship and self-discovery.
WOMEN OF THE POST by Joshunda Sanders is an emotionally charged historical fiction based on the true story of the WAC 6888th Central Postal Battalion during WWII. This was the first all-Black, all female Army battalion formed and sent overseas to England to expedite the backlog of wartime mail delivery to the troops.
This novel features several black women’s lives beginning in 1944, but the main protagonist is Judy Washington. She lives with her mother in the Bronx and seeks daily work on the Bronx Slave Market cleaning houses for white women for barely any money. One day Judy is approached by an impressive Black woman in uniform and informed about the Army WAC program. She joins not only to send real money home to her mother, but also to hopefully discover what happened to her husband who went to war, but she has not heard from in several months.
The story follows Judy into the Army and introduces her to lifelong friends as they all are on the path of self-discovery. Besides Judy, you are introduced to Stacy, who is big and built strong who works the family farm in Missouri, Bernadette, who works with her mother in a beauty salon in Chicago, and Mary Alyce who discovers her father was a black man after joining the Army and being raised white. There is also a sub-plot intertwined throughout about the two commanding officers of the Battalion and their love for each other.
There is so much beauty and dignity in the portrayal of these women as they face prejudice and discrimination, not only in the South, but everywhere. I read so much about WWII and yet I had never heard of these women and their service. I am so glad I know about them now.
This is a captivating and memorable historical fiction novel that I highly recommend!
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Excerpt
One
Judy
From Judy to The Crisis
Thursday, 14 April 1944
Dear Ms. Ella Baker and Marvel Cooke,
My name is Judy Washington, and I am one of the women you write about in your work on the Bronx Slave Market over on Simpson Street. My husband, Herbert, is serving in the war, so busy it has been months since I heard word from him. It is the fight of his life—of our lives—to defend our country and maybe it will show white people that we can also belong to and defend this place. We built it too, after all. It is as much our country to defend as anyone else’s.
All I thought was really missing from your articles was a fix for us, us meaning Negro women. We are still in the shadow of the Great Depression now, but the war has made it so that some girls have been picked up by unions, in factories and such. Maybe you could ask the mayor or somebody to set us up with different work. Something that pays and helps our boys/men overseas, but doesn’t keep us sweating over pails of steaming laundry for thirty cents an hour or less. Seems like everyone but the Negro woman has found a way to contribute to the war and also put food on the table. It’s hard not to feel left behind or overlooked.
Thank you for telling the truth about the lives we have to live now, even if it is hard to see. Eventually, I pray, we will have a different story to tell. My mother always says she brought us up here to lay our burdens down, not to pick up new ones. But somehow, even if we don’t go to war, we still have battles to fight just to live with a little dignity.
I’ve gone on too long now. Thank you for your service.
Respectfully,
Judy Washington
Since the men went to war, there was never enough of anything for Judy and her mother, Margaret, which is how they came to be free Negro women relegated to one of the dozens of so-called slave markets for domestic workers in New York City. For about two years now, her husband, Herbert, had been overseas. He was one half of a twin, her best friend from high school, and her first and only love, if you could call it that.
Judy had moved with her parents from the overcrowded Harlem tenements to the South Bronx midway through her sophomore year of high school. She was an only child. Her father, James, doted on her in part because he and Margaret had tried and tried when they were back home in the South for a baby, but Judy was the only one who made it, stayed alive. He treasured her, called her a miracle. Margaret would cut her eyes at him, complain that he was making her soft.
The warmth Judy felt at home was in stark contrast to the way she felt at school, where she often sat alone during lunch. When they were called upon in classes to work in groups of two or three, she excused herself and asked for the wooden bathroom pass, so that she often worked alone instead of facing the humiliation of not being chosen.
She had not grown up with friends nor had Margaret, so it almost felt normal to live mostly inside herself this way. There were girls from the block who looked at her with what she read as pity. “Nice skirt,” one would say, almost reluctantly.
“Thanks,” she’d say, a little shy to be noticed. “Mother made it.”
Small talk was more painful than silence. How had the other Negro girls managed to move with such ease here, after living almost exclusively with other Negroes down in Harlem? Someone up here was as likely to have a brogue accent as a Spanish one. She didn’t mind the mingling of the races, it was just new: a shock to the system, both in the streets she walked to go to school and to the market but also in the halls of Morris High School.
Judy had been eating an apple, her back pressed against the cafeteria wall when she saw Herbert. He was long faced with a square jaw and round, black W.E.B. Du Bois glasses.
“That’s all you’re having for lunch, it’s no wonder you’re so slim,” he said, like he was continuing a conversation they had been having for a while. Rich coming from him, with his lanky gait, his knobby knees pressing against his slacks.
A pile of assorted foods rose from his blue tray, tantalizing her. A sandwich thick with meat and cheese and lettuce, potato chips off to the side, a sweating bottle of Coke beside that. For years, they had all lived so lean that it had become a shock to suddenly see some people making up for lost time with their food. Judy finished chewing her apple and gathered her skirt closer to her. “You offering to share your lunch with me?”
Herbert gave her a slight smile. “Surely you didn’t think all this was for me?”
They were fast friends after that. It was easy for her to make room for a man who looked at her without pity. There had always been room in her life for someone like him: one who saw, who comforted, who provided. Her father, James, grumbled disapproval when Herbert asked to court, but Herbert came with sunflowers and his father’s moonshine.
“What kind of man do you take me for?” James asked, eyeing Herbert’s neat, slim tie and sniffing sharply to inhale the obnoxious musk of too much aftershave.
“A man who wants his daughter to be loved completely,” Herbert said. “The way that I love her.”
Their courting began. Judy had no other offers and didn’t want any. That they had James’s blessing before he died from a heart attack and just as they were getting ready to graduate from high school only softened the blow of his loss a little. As demure and to herself as she usually was, burying her father turned Judy more inward than Herbert expected. In his death, she seemed to retreat into herself the way that she had been when he approached her that lunch hour. To draw her out, to bring her back, he proposed marriage.
She balked. “Can I belong to someone else?” Judy asked Margaret, telling her that Herbert asked for her hand. “I hardly feel like I belong to myself.”
“This is what women do,” Margaret said immediately.
The ceremony was small, with a reception that hummed with nosy neighbors stopping over to bring slim envelopes of money to gift to the bride and her mother. The older Negro women in the neighborhood, who wore the same faded floral housedresses as Margaret except for today, when she put one of her two special dresses—a radiant sky blue that made her amber eyes look surrounded in gold light—visited her without much to say, just dollar bills folded in their pockets, slipped into her grateful hands. They were not exactly her friends; she worked too much to allow herself leisure. But some of them were widows, too. Like her, they had survived much to stand proudly on special days like this.
They settled into the plans they made for their life together. He joined the reserves and, in the meantime, became a Pullman porter. Judy began work as a seamstress at the local dry cleaner. Whatever money they didn’t have, they could make up with rent parties until the babies came.
Now all of that was on hold, her life suspended by the announcement at the movies that the US was now at war. The news was hard enough to process, but Herbert’s status in the reserves meant that this was his time to exit. She braced herself when he stood up to leave the theater and report for duty, kissing her goodbye with a rushed press of his mouth to her forehead.
Judy and Margaret had been left to fend for themselves. There had been some money from Herbert in the first year, but then his letters—and the money—slowed to a halt. Judy and Margaret received some relief from the city, but Judy thought it an ironic word to use, since a few dollars to stretch and apply to food and rent was not anything like a relief. It meant she was always on edge, doing what needed doing to keep them from freezing to death or joining the tent cities down along the river.
Her hours at the dry cleaner were cut, so she and Margaret reluctantly joined what an article in The Crisis described as the “paper bag brigade” at the Bronx Slave Market. The market was made up of Negro women, faces heavy for want of sleep. They made their way to the corners and storefronts before dawn, rain or shine, carrying thick brown paper bags filled with gloves, assorted used work clothes to change into, rolled over themselves and softened with age in their hands. A few of them were lucky enough to have a roll with butter, in the unlikely event of a lunch break.
Judy and Margaret stood for hours if the boxes or milk crates were occupied, while they waited for cars to approach. White women drivers looked them over and called out to their demands: wash my windows and linens and curtains. Clean my kitchen. A dollar for the day, maybe two, plus carfare.
The lists were always longer than the day. The rate was always offensively low. Margaret had been on the market for longer than Judy; she knew how to negotiate. Judy did not want to barter her time. She resented being an object for sale.
“You can’t start too low, even when you’re new,” Margaret warned Judy when her daughter joined her at Simpson Avenue and 170th Street. “Aim higher first. They’ll get you to some low amount anyhow. But it’s always going to be more than what you’re offered.”
Everything about the Bronx Slave Market, this congregation of Negro women looking for low-paying cleaning work, was a futile negotiation. An open-air free-for-all, where white women in gleaming Buicks and Fords felt just fine offering pennies on the hour for several hours of hard labor. Sometimes the work was so much, the women ended up spending the night, only to wake up in the morning and be asked to do more work—this time for free.
Judy and Margaret could not afford to work for free. Six days a week, in biting winter cold that made their knees numb or sweltering heat rising from the pavement baking the arches of their feet, they wandered to the same spot. After these painful experiences, day after day all week, Judy and Margaret gathered at the kitchen table on Sundays after church to count up the change that could cover some of the gas and a little of the rent. It was due in two days, and they were two dollars short. Unless they could make a dollar each, they would not make rent.
Rent was sometimes hard to come up with, even when James was alive, but when he died, their income became even more unreliable. They didn’t even have money enough for a decent funeral. He was buried in a pine box in the Hart Island potter’s field. James was the only love of Margaret’s life, and still, when he was gone, all she said to Judy was, “There’s still so much to do.”
Judy’s deepest wish for Margaret was for her to rest and enjoy a few small pleasures. What she overheard between her parents as a child were snippets and pieces of painful memories. Negroes lynched over rumors. Girls taken by men to do whatever they wanted. “We don’t need a lot,” she heard Margaret say once, “just enough to leave this place and start over.”
Margaret’s family, like James’s, had only known the South. Some had survived the end of slavery by some miracle, but the Reconstruction era was a different kind of terror. Margaret was the eldest of five children, James was the middle child of eight. A younger sibling left for Harlem first, and sent letters glowing about how free she felt in the north. So, even once Margaret convinced James they needed to take Judy someplace like that, it felt to Judy that she always had her family in the South and the way they had to work to survive on her mind.
Judy fantasized about rest for herself and for her mother. How nice it would be to plan a day centered around tea, folding their own napkins, ironing a treasured store-bought dress for a night out. A day when she could stand up straight, like a flower basking in the sun, instead of hunched over work.
Other people noticed that they worked harder and more than they should as women, as human beings. Judy thought Margaret maybe didn’t realize another way to be was possible. So she tried to talk about the Bronx Slave Market article in The Crisis with her mother. Margaret refused to read a word or even hear about it. “No need reading about my life in no papers,” she said.
Refusing to know how they were being exploited didn’t keep it from being a problem. But once Judy knew, she couldn’t keep herself from wanting more. Maybe that was why Margaret didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to want more than what was in front of her.
Herbert’s companionship had fed her this kind of ambition and hope. His warm laughter, the way she could depend on him to talk her into hooky once in a while, to crash a rowdy rent party and dance until the sun came up, even if it got her grounded and lectured, was—especially when James died—the only escape hatch she could find from the box her mother was determined to fit her future inside. So, when Herbert surprised her at a little traveling show in Saint Mary’s Park, down on one knee with his grandmother’s plain wedding band, she only hesitated inside when she said yes. It wasn’t the time to try and explain that there was something in her yawning open, looking for something else, but maybe she could find that something with Herbert. Her mother told her to stop wasting her time dreaming and to settle down.
At least marrying her high school buddy meant she could move on from under Margaret’s constant, disapproving gaze. They had been saving up for new digs when Herbert was drafted—but now that was all put on hold.
The dream had been delicious while it felt like it was coming true. Judy and Herbert were both outsiders, insiders within their universe of two. Herbert was the only rule follower in a bustling house full of lawbreaking men and boys; Judy, the only child of a shocked widow who found her purpose in bone-tiring work. Poverty pressed in on them from every corner of the Bronx, and neither Judy nor Herbert felt they belonged there. But they did belong to each other, and that wasn’t nothing.
Joshunda Sanders is an award-winning author, journalist and speechwriter. A former Obama Administration political appointee, her fiction, essays and poetry have appeared in dozens of anthologies. She has been awarded residencies and fellowships at Hedgebrook, Lambda Literary, The Key West Literary Seminars and the Martha’s Vineyard Institute for Creative Writing. Women of the Post is her first novel.
Adele Astaire served up smiles and love both on and off the stage—with and without her also famous brother Fred Astaire— along with a determined young dancer with rags-to-riches dreams.
A spirited rising stage star…
Adele Astaire was a glittering, glamorous star, dancing with her brother, Fred, endearing herself to audiences from New York to London. But although she is toasted by royalty and beloved by countless fans, Adele Astaire has dreams of a loving husband and a houseful of children. And when she meets Lord Charles Cavendish, her wishes may just come true—but at what cost?
A determined young dancer …
Ever since Violet Wood could walk she’s wanted to dance on the London stage. Befriended by Adele, filled with ambition, she is more than willing to make the sacrifices it will take to becomes a star herself, and her rags-to-riches hopes are within reach. But the road to fame is never easy.
Two women with unquenchable spirit …
From the fast-paced world of roaring 20s New York to the horrors and sacrifice of wartime London, Adele’s and Violet’s lives intertwine, and each must ask themselves is fame worth the price you must pay?
STARRING ADELE ASTAIRE by Eliza Knight is an engaging historical fiction/biographical historical women’s fiction novel featuring dual narratives alternating between one half of the famous brother sister dancing duo of Fred and Adele Astaire and an up-and-coming London West End dancer with dreams of stardom. This story is a wonderful mix of historical fact and fiction that brings these two women and their era to life.
Adele Astaire was the older sister of Fred Astaire and his first partner in dance, vaudeville, and theater productions. Adele was full of life and always laughing and endearing herself to audiences. While she loves the success and fame they have achieved, she also yearns for the life of a wife and mother.
Violet Wood is from the poor West End of London and has forever been told her washerwoman mother that she should quit trying to rise above her station, but Violet continues to practice dance on her own as she works as a cocktail waitress in the theaters. On an audition, she is befriended by Adele Astaire and proves she has the drive and ambition to become a star.
This is an emotional story of two strong women, one historical and one fictional who work, sacrifice, and strive for what they want. The timeline of this story is from the “Roaring Twenties” through WWII in both the UK and New York. There were several times in this story I was completely heartbroken for Adele and yet she was able to pick herself back up and start again. The triumphs and tragedies of both women’s stories intertwined to depict the ups and downs of their choices, but also the lack of choices due to the times. It is evident there was in-depth research done on Adele’s life and the use of Violet as a counterpoint the author was able to bring the decades depicted to life.
I highly recommend this captivating biographical historical fiction novel!
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About the Author
Eliza Knight is an award winning, USA Today and international bestselling author. Her love of history began as a young girl when she traipsed the halls of Versailles and ran through the fields in Southern France. She can still remember standing before the great golden palace, and imagining what life must have been like. Growing up in the Washington, D.C. area, her weekends were filled with visits to museums, and historical reenactments. Escape into history for courageous heroines, irresistible heroes and daring escapades. Join Eliza (sometimes as E.) on riveting historical journeys that cross landscapes around the world. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society and Novelists, Inc., the creator of the popular historical blog, History Undressed, a co-host on the History, Books and Wine podcast and a co-host for the true crime podcast, Crime Feast.
While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, she tries to keep up with her three not-so-little children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain with her own knight in shining armor, three princesses, two very naughty Newfies, and a turtle named Fish.
A kid walks into your bookstore and… Guess what? He’s your son. The one you put up for adoption eighteen years ago. The one you never told anyone about. Surprise!
And a huge surprise it is.
It’s a huge surprise to his adoptive mother, Monica, who thought she had a close relationship with Matthew, her nearly adult son. But apparently, he felt the need to secretly arrange a vacation to Cape Cod for the summer so he could meet his birth mother…without a word to either her or his dad.
It’s also a surprise— to say the least—to Harlow, the woman who secretly placed her baby for adoption so many years ago. She’s spent the years since then building a quiet life. She runs a bookstore with her grandfather, hangs out with her four younger siblings and is more or less happily single, though she can’t help gravitating toward Grady Byrne, her old friend from high school. He’s moved back to town, three-year-old daughter in tow, no wife in the picture. But she’s always figured her life had to be child-free, so that complicates things.
When Matthew walks into Harlow’s store, she faints. Monica panics. And all their assumptions—about what being a parent really means—explode. This summer will be full of more surprises as both their families are redefined…and as both women learn that for them, there’s no limit to a mother’s love.
A LITTLE RAY OF SUNSHINE by Kristan Higgins is an emotionally intense women’s fiction family drama with romantic elements featuring a bookstore owner on Cade Cod and the son she gave up for adoption eighteen years previously. While this standalone is a great read, it has a cover which may lead you to believe this is a light summer read, it definitely is not.
Every year the Patel family takes an extended summer vacation to a different location. This year seventeen-year-old Matthew has talked the family into going to Cape Cod. He and his father arrive first, while his mother and younger sister will arrive when her school year is over. Matthew and his father go into the local independent bookstore and when the owner, Harlow sees them, she faints.
Harlow secretly placed her son up for adoption the summer between her freshman and sophomore year of college. She picked the family her son would go to, but he was not supposed to be able to contact her if he chose until his eighteenth birthday. He found her online and did not tell his adoptive family that this was his reason for the Cape Cod vacation. Now he is here for the summer and while she is excited, she is also about to have her quiet life blown up.
There is so much happening in this story. Harlow is dealing with seeing a beautiful grown son who wants to get to know her and her family. She also must tell her family about having a child at eighteen for the first time. Monica Patel is dealing with a son who has lied to the family and the fear of him choosing his birth mother over her love. The two mothers’ emotions and point of view pull you into this drama because you can empathize with both. Matthew is dealing with questions children of adoption are known to have and his emotional shifts are as heart wrenching as the two mother’s stories. There are several characters with side stories woven throughout that lighten the emotional angst at times, or bring a bit of romance into the plot, but overall this is a story where you will want to have the tissues close by your side.
I highly recommend this emotionally charged women’s fiction!
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About the Author
Kristan Higgins is the New York Times, USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of more than twenty novels, wKristan Higgins is the New York Times, USA TODAY, Wall Street Journal and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of more than twenty novels. Her books have been translated into more than 20 languages and have sold millions of copies around the world. Kristan has been praised for her mix of “laugh-out-loud humor and tear-jerking pathos,” which the author attributes to a diet high in desserts and sugar-based mood swings.
Kristan’s books have received dozens of awards and accolades, including starred reviews from People Magazine, Entertainment Weekly, Good Morning America, Kirkus, the New York Journal of Books, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, National Public Radio and Booklist. She personally responds to every reader letter she receives, even the mean ones.
Kristan is the mother of two ridiculously good-looking children and the grandmother of the world’s cutest baby. She lives in Connecticut and Cape Cod with her heroic firefighter husband, a rescue mutt and indifferent cat. In her spare time, Kristan enjoys gardening, easy yoga classes, mixology and pasta.
Detective Elise Sutton is drawn to cold cases. Each crime is a puzzle to solve, pulled from the past. Elise looks for cracks in the surface and has become an expert on how murderers slip up and give themselves away. She has dedicated her life to creating a sense of order, at work with her ex-marine partner; at home with her husband and two young daughters; and within, battling her own demons. Elise has everything under control, until one afternoon, when she walks into a department store and is forced to make a terrible choice: to save one life, she will have to take another.
Elise is hailed as a hero, but she doesn’t feel like one. Steeped in guilt, and on a leave of absence from work, she’s numb, even to her husband and daughters, until she connects with Wade Austin, the tall man whose life she saved. But Elise soon realizes that he isn’t who he says he is. In fact, Wade Austin isn’t even his real name. The tall man is a ghost, one who will set off a terrifying game of cat and mouse, threatening Elise and the people she loves most.
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Elise’s Thoughts
What Remains by Wendy Walker is part procedural, part domestic suspense, part mystery, and a cat/mouse thriller between a policewoman and a stalker.
The story opens with Cold Case Detective Elise Sutton stopping at a department store to buy her children a gift. She hears gunshots and is confronted by an active shooter. One man is about to shoot another, so she decides to make the choice to take one life to save the other. Elise is very shaken having killed someone, even if it was necessary to save other lives. As a detective who works cold cases, she has little need to fire her weapon in the line of duty. She is hailed as a hero, but she doesn’t feel like one. Steeped in guilt, and on a leave of absence from work, she’s numb, even to her husband and daughters, until she connects with Wade Austin, the tall man, whose life she saved. She asks him if it was a good shooting, which saved his life.
But this meeting will put her life in turmoil even though Wade, known as The Tall Man, hails her as a hero. She is guilt ridden that she took a life and tells him more about herself than she should. The problem is Wade is not his real name and when she tries to find him, he becomes a ghost.
This is where the story takes a turn and deals with the psychological aftermath of a shooting. Elise comes to grip with letting her guard down with a total stranger who is hellbent on ruining her life unless she gives into his demands of spending their life together. He begins stalking her and threatening the people she loves including her husband, daughters, and police partner. It now becomes a dangerous, twisted, and deadly game between Elise and the man she saved.
This is an edgy, intense, and chilling novel where readers take a journey with Elise. Readers will not be able to put the book down.
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Author Interview
Elise Cooper: How did you get the idea for the story?
Wendy Walker: I was listening to the news years ago and heard about a shooting in Boulder Colorado in a grocery store. Listening to the bystanders interviewed it was so clear they suffered a trauma. I wondered what happened to them. This is where the title, What Remains, comes from. This was a sudden acute trauma and I wondered what happens to people emotionally. This is where the character was born and from there, I decided to make her a police officer, Elise.
EC: The steps of trauma?
WW: I found it interesting to find these stages. In the research, some had seven stages, some six, some five. Someone’s brain goes through this process of what happened. I put in the books these steps: shock, denial, pain, guilt, anger, bargaining, depression, then an upward swing toward acceptance and hope. I had Elise, obsessed with finding one of those caught up in the store to try to put her mind at ease about the shooting. She feels isolated and alone because she has stopped herself from going through these stages.
EC: How would you describe Elise, the police officer?
WW: She has an internal conflict after being hailed a hero, yet she has tremendous guilt and doubt about the shot she took killing the shooter. She tends toward having anguish, is a puzzle solver because she can control it, vulnerable, and a risk taker. Before the shooting she is confident and happy with her life.
EC: What about after the shooting?
WW: What happened really shakes her and changes her. As a police officer she second guessed herself. She is strong, tough, capable, and protects herself. I do not see her as a victim. She is kind of a bad ass because she decided to use her weapon to save people’s lives. She feels tormented, puts herself in danger, feels alone, and has secrets. Elise feels isolated, which comes from the shooting because she sees life darker. There is a disconnect from her emotional brain and thinking brain. The book has a scene where the psychiatrist tells her, ‘The worst kind of loneliness is to be with people you love and feel that they don’t see you, then to be alone. It is more painful.’
EC: Readers understand what a stalker does?
WW: Stalkers are irrational. The like to target, humiliate, create fear, and the victim feels helpless. They are compulsive, torment, play a game of wits, and love the control. If they cannot have someone in their life this is the way they do it. There is no end game because the victim will never be with them. They need to have it in that moment, a connection with the person being stalked. It is just in the moment. They crave power over that person.
EC: How would you describe Wade, the stalker?
WW: He is fragile and is in a compromised emotional state when he enters the store. In the store his behavior is less than heroic. His self-esteem is shattered. The focus on Elise is because he has “rescue worship,” which is based on obsession. He believes that the shooting was meant to be to connect him with Elise. He did not see it as random. Being connected to Elise is essential for Wade’s emotional survival. He is also ruthless and violent because he is desperate and loses control.
EC: The role of her partner and husband?
WW: Rowan is her police partner and is meant to be someone who witnesses what she is going through. He ends up helping her and keeps her secrets. He is the other man in her life even though there is no romance but is protective of her.
Mitch, her husband, had an affair that they are trying to overcome. With this dynamic it makes it easier for Wade to torment her and to get at her because of this vulnerability. What they managed to rebuild is challenging and being exploited by Wade. What Elise loves about Mitch is that he is protective, strong, and supportive. He is trying to understand what she is going through but does not.
EC: Next books?
WW: American Girl was an audible original in 2021. It is coming to print in October. There is a TV option for it. An autistic 17-year-old in a small town witnesses a crime, the death of a wealthy business owner. It is a fast-paced thriller. It was inspired by the Tom Petty song, “American Girl.”
Next year there will be an audio play called Mad Love. It is a psychological thriller. A con man is married to a wealthy widow and is found murdered in his bed and she is shot and in a coma.
Also, next year there will be a new novel coming out in 2024 titled Kill Me Softly. It is a play on the song, “Killing Me Softly.” It is about a serial killer who is targeting middle aged women and making it appear like suicides. A young feminist researcher comes to believe there is a serial killer.
THANK YOU!!
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BIO: Elise Cooper has written book reviews and interviewed best-selling authors since 2009. Her reviews have covered several different genres, including thrillers, mysteries, women’s fiction, romance and cozy mysteries. An avid reader, she engages authors to discuss their works, and to focus on the descriptions of their characters and the plot. While not writing reviews, Elise loves to watch baseball and visit the ocean in Southern California, with her dog and husband.
