30 December 2020

Pierre the Peacock by Jocelyn Mooneyhan Lacey

 

 


Children’s Book

Date Published: Dec. 11, 2017

Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.



Pierre the Peacock is delightfully illustrated with a valuable message. It is about acceptance, friendship and a valuable lesson in how we should treat people. Come with us as we meet Pierre, a peacock who thinks that he will get friends just from his pretty looks. When he meets Jerry, a colorblind little boy, he teaches Pierre that what matters is how you treat people, not what you look like. A lesson for all of us!


About the Author


Jocelyn Mooneyhan Lacey is a native of Johnson City, TN, where she graduated from Science Hill High School and East Tennessee State University with a B.A. in Mass Communications. She met her husband, Steven Lacey, at ETSU, and they have since lived in Maine, Rhode Island, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, and now have settled in New Jersey for the time being. She also shares her home with two dogs, a cat, and three fish.


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29 December 2020

The Ultimate Betrayal by Kat Martin

 

 


Maximum Security series book #3

Romantic Suspense, Action & Adventure

Date Published: paperback release date 12/29/20

Publisher: HQN



When investigative journalist Jessie Kegan’s father, a colonel in the army, is accused of treason, Jessie is determined to clear his name. Reluctantly, she turns to former Special Ops soldier, Brandon Garrett, her late brother’s best friend--a true heartbreaker, according to her brother.

With danger coming from every angle, time is running out and the game being played is deadly. Working together, Bran and Jessie must risk everything to solve the riddle and confront the threat--before it’s too late.


Excerpt

Too much downtime always made him nervous, kind of edgy as he waited for the other shoe to drop. It had been a week since his last client had headed back to Nashville, a week of peace and quiet he should have enjoyed.

Instead, he had this nagging feeling that something bad was coming down the line.

Lounging back in the chair behind his desk at Maximum Security, Brandon Garrett looked up at the sound of the front door swinging open. A gust of cool, late October winds swept in, along with a petite, whirlwind of a woman with the prettiest strawberry blond hair Bran had ever seen.

She had a sweet little body to match her fiery curls, he noticed, outlined by the dark blue stretch jeans curving over her sexy little ass and the peach knit top that hugged her breasts.

It wasn’t tough to read the anxiety in her big green eyes as she surveyed the room, but instead of heading for the receptionist’s desk, those big green eyes landed on Bran and as she started toward him, there was something about her that rang a distant bell. Interest piqued, he rose from his chair. “Can I help you?”

You’re Brandon Garrett, right? You were a friend of my brother’s. Danny Kegan? I recognize you from the photos Danny sent home.”

The mention of his best friend’s name hit him like a blow, and the muscles across his stomach clenched. Daniel Kegan had been a member of his spec ops team, a brother, not just a friend. Danny had saved Bran’s life at the cost of his own. He was KIA in Afghanistan.

Bran stared down at the girl, who was maybe five-foot-four. “You’re Jessie,” he said, remembering the younger sister Daniel Kegan had talked so much about. “You look like him. Same color hair and eyes.”

She nervously wet her lips, which were plump and pink and fit her delicate features perfectly.

My brother said if I ever needed help, I should come to you. He said you’d help me no matter what.” She glanced back toward the door and his mind shifted away from the physical jolt he felt as he looked at her to the worry in her eyes.

I’ll help you. Danny was my closest friend. Whatever you need, I’ll help. Come on. Let’s go into the conference room and you can tell me what’s going on.” When her gaze shot back to the door, his senses went on alert.

I didn’t mean I needed your help later,” Jessie said nervously. “I meant I need your help right now.”

Gunshots exploded through the windows. “Get down!” Bran shouted to the other guys in the office as he shoved Jessie down behind his desk and covered her with his body. Glass shattered and a stream of bullets sprayed across the room.

Jaxon Ryker popped up, gun drawn, and ran for the door. Hawk Maddox and Lissa Blayne were shuffling through their desks, arming themselves. Jonas Wolfe drew his ankle gun and ran for the rear entrance, ready for any threat that might come from there.

Black SUV with tinted windows,” Ryker reported. Six feet of solid muscle, dark hair and eyes, Jax was a former Navy SEAL, currently a PI and occasional bounty hunter. “Couldn’t get a plate number.” Jax’s gaze swung to the front of the room. “Mindy, you okay?”

The little receptionist eased up from beneath her desk. “I-I’m okay. Should I call the police?” Around here, it was never good to jump to conclusions.

Bran hauled Jessie to her feet. He could feel her trembling. Her eyes looked even bigger and greener than they had before. “Are they coming back?” he asked.

I-I don’t know. It could have just been a warning.”

Bran turned to Mindy. “Unless someone’s already phoned it in, let’s wait to call the cops till we know what’s going on.” His attention returned to Jessie. “We need to talk.”

She just nodded. Her face had gone pale, making a fine line of freckles stand out across her forehead and the bridge of her nose.

Bran took her arm and urged her toward the conference room. “Keep a sharp eye,” he said to The Max crew. “Just in case.”

Jessie sank unsteadily down in one of the rolling chairs around the long oak conference table. The man she had come to see, Brandon Garrett, sat down beside her.

Okay, let’s hear it,” he said. “What’s going on?”

She thought of the men who had just shot up his office and her pulse started thumping again. “Danny said if I ever needed help--“

Yeah, I get that. Your brother knew he could count on me. Like I said, I’ll help you any way I can, but I need to know what’s going on.”

Bran was taller than Danny, around six-three, with a soldier’s lean, hard body, vee-shaped, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Powerful biceps bulged beneath the sleeve of his dark blue T-shirt. With his slightly too-long mink brown hair, straight nose and masculine features, he was ridiculously handsome, except for the hard line of his jaw and the darkness in his eyes that contrasted sharply with their beautiful shade of cobalt blue.

Start at the beginning,” he demanded.

Since she wasn’t sure exactly where to begin, Jessie dragged in a shaky breath and slowly released it.

I’m here because of my father--Colonel James Kegan, Commander U.S. Army Alamo Chemical Depot. Just before he died a little over two months ago, my father was removed from active duty. He was charged with larceny--specifically the theft of chemical weapons stored at the Depot. Because the Army believed he was selling the weapons to a foreign entity, he was also charged with espionage and treason. I need you to help me prove his innocence.”


About the Author

New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin is a graduate of the University of California at Santa Barbara where she majored in Anthropology and also studied History. Currently residing in Missoula, Montana with her Western-author husband, L. J. Martin, Kat has written sixty-five Historical and Contemporary Romantic Suspense novels. More than sixteen million copies of her books are in print and she has been published in twenty foreign countries. Kat is currently at work on her next Romantic Suspense.


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28 December 2020

Path of Treasures by Gail Meath

 

 


Historical Western Romance, Historical Romance

Published: December 2020



On Sale for Only $.99 until January 1st!!

He was hired to kill her, but he’s not alone. Will he risk his life to save her instead?

Sara grew up on the Erie Canal with Jeremiah Streeter, owner of Streeter’s Ark, and Sam, the Ark’s bully. She never cared about who her parents were or where she came from, not until their helmsman is murdered and they hire a replacement.

Wolfe McKay and his partner have another job to do...kill the leader of the Canaller’s Coalition and his crew, then collect their bounty from the railroad magnate who hired them. But Wolfe soon discovers this job is far more complicated.

As Streeter’s Ark travels from Albany to Buffalo, Wolfe’s purpose takes a drastic turn when he and the crew find themselves the target of a deadly plot and a race against time to stop it.

A beautiful mule driver, the champion fighter who raised her, a half-breed Indian without a heart and an easy-going cowboy team up to track down outlaws and notoriously become known as Streeter’s Gang. This is their beginning...



Excerpt

Chapter One

Hudson Valley, 1852

Horace Vanderbrook sat at his desk with his green eyes planted on the door. At fifty-two years old, he was by far the wealthiest financier in the country. He thrived on a challenge and adored the kill. He had no patience for ignorance or drollery, felt no sympathy for the underdog, and never allowed any margin of error from anyone, not even himself. In all his life, he had made only one mistake. And it was that which had come back to haunt him now.

The butler announced the arrival of his guests and when they entered his study, Horace caught a frown. Both men looked more like desperados than professional gunmen. They wore buckskin pants, tall leather boots, and openly carried pistols about their waist. The blonde was medium built and covered with dirt from head to toe. The other stood over a foot taller with black hair and cold blue eyes. A half-breed, he surmised disdainfully.

I’m Cole Anderson and this here’s my partner, Wolfe McKay,” the blonde man said as he slapped his gallon hat against his leg to get rid of the dust. “Rodman assured us if we came straight away, you’d make it worth our while.”

Horace remained silent. He wasn’t at all impressed with these men. This matter was an extremely delicate matter that needed to be handled both quickly and quietly, and they hardly seemed the type of men who would be discreet. And yet, he trusted Gunther Rodman. “You both come highly recommended for your efficiency as well as your discretion. This matter demands complete confidentiality.”

Cole glanced over at his partner. “That’s why we’re here.”

He wasn’t convinced, but he offered them a seat and folded his hands in front of him. “I will come right to the point. Jeremiah Streeter is the leader of the canal coalition. He owns a two-bit freighter called Streeter’s Ark and for the past year, he and his crew have used every devious tactic to destroy my railroad business. I want them stopped. Permanently. I am willing to pay you five hundred dollars for your trouble.”

Cole burst out laughing. “Hell, the only thing we’ll do for that pocket change is look for them in the nearest tavern.”

He stiffened. “What’s your price?”

That depends.” Cole slid back in his seat and crossed his boots on top of his desk. “We usually charge a thousand bucks a head. That’s when we’re told their identity and location. Otherwise, we’ve got to tack on food and lodging expenses. We also need to know the details of their crime.”

The details?” he asked indignantly. “I thought money was your only incentive.”

You thought wrong,” Wolfe stated, still leaning against the doorway.

Horace shot to his feet. “For starters, they put three of my best railroad bosses in the hospital. They’ve disassembled portions of my tracks, threatened my workers and awaiting passengers, contaminated coal bins, and continually petition the State against my efforts for expansion.”

Has the law been involved?” Cole asked.

I reported a few of the incidences to local Marshalls, but they said they couldn’t find sufficient proof against them.”

Wolfe stepped forward. “Then how do you know they’re responsible?”

Horace glanced down at the small wood carving on his desk. He didn’t want to tell them the rest. He didn’t even want to think about it. But his sister was right in that he had no other recourse. Confiding in the law would merely re-open an investigation that needed to remain buried. If word got out, it would cause a huge public scandal, one that would ruin his business as well as their family’s reputation.

And the last thing he wanted was for the past to be stirred up.

A blackmail note was delivered to me the other day, which adds extortion to their list of crimes,” he finally replied.

What did it say?” Cole asked, but Horace continued staring at the wooden horse on his desk and remained silent. “Sir, what did the note say?”

He claims to have proof that I sunk a riverboat killing twelve passengers and crew. He’s referring to an accident that happened nearly twenty years ago. That bastard is deliberately dredging up the past in another demented plot to stall my railway expansion and I’ll be damned if I let him drag my good family name through the mud.”

What are his demands?”

They want twenty thousand dollars placed on a freighter called the Jaybird at the canal docks in Albany two weeks from tomorrow. That’s when Streeter is scheduled to return to Albany, again proving he’s behind this.” Horace finally snapped out of his trance and looked up at them. “I want Streeter stopped. I want him and his damn crew dead and buried by this time next week. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars for the lot. One thousand now for expenses and the rest will be delivered to you when the job is complete.”

Cole jumped to his feet. “Consider it done!”

Hold on…” Wolfe said as he reached over and picked up the wooden horse to examine it. “We need to see the note.”

Horace snatched the carving out of his hand, reached into his top drawer, and handed him the note. “Do you want the job or not?”

After Wolfe read it, he nodded in agreement.

Horace tossed the bag of currency to Cole. “Contact Gunther Rodman when you’re finished. He’ll pay you the rest.”

Outside, Cole mounted his horse and hooted, “Now this is what I call easy money! Let’s get ourselves a room and have a night on the town.”

Wolfe stood there, still contemplating the conversation. “I don’t like it. He’s not telling us the whole story.”

Aw, Wolfe, can’t we just take things at face value for once? Vanderbrook is damn sure Streeter’s behind this and I got a hankering to have some fun tonight.”

First, we’re heading to Fultonville,” Wolfe told him.

Fultonville? What for?”

After we inquire about Streeter’s Ark, we’re going to ask around to see if anyone remembers a woman by the name of Molly O’Brian.”

Cole frowned. “Who the hell is she?”

Her name and hometown were inscribed on that wooden carving. And there were several others displayed on the corner shelf.”

Cole shook his head. “Why the hell are you always trying to dig deeper?”

Fultonville’s a small canal town. Why would a wealthy railroad baron have a dozen wood carvings on display by a canal girl and then pay to have the canal leader killed? Not having all the facts just complicates things.”

Cole followed Wolfe down the drive. “Well, I think you’re the only one complicating things.”

The two men reached the small town of Fultonville by dark. After tying their horses to a hitching post, they stopped at the Inn for a couple of rooms and a drink. There were only a few patrons inside the tavern. Cole, being the more social one, struck up a conversation with the barkeep. He told a few fibs about how he was looking for work on the canal. Pretty soon, Zach was buying them a round of drinks and giving them a wealth of information.

First, they learned that Jeremiah Streeter was the one to talk to about a job on the canal and that his boat passed through town the day before making its way to Buffalo. Next, they heard all about Streeter’s bully who had been a champion fighter in his day and wasn’t to be reckoned with. Lastly, they discovered that Zach had lived in this town his whole life, sixty-two years, so he knew everybody.

Wolfe nudged Cole, urging him to pry more information out of Zach. Cole thought for a second, then grinned. “I used to have kin living in these parts, Zach. I don’t know much about them, except that Ma talked all the time about her cousin, Molly O’Brian.”

Zach leaned against the bar. “That would be Patsy’s family. He died of the fever years ago and left his wife, Maureen, and his daughter, Molly, behind.”

Do they still live around here? I’d sure like to meet them.” When the barkeep fell silent, Wolfe nudged Cole again. “I’d be obliged to know where I could find them, Zach. Ma thought the world of Molly and now that my folks are gone, they’d be the only kin I got left.”

We all thought the world of her, too,” Zach said mindfully. “Molly was a tiny thing with bright red hair, freckles and the sweetest face. I owned the general store back then and once a week she came to visit. I got a real kick out of her. They didn’t have much money and the minute my back was turned her fingers dove straight into the licorice jar. I let her get away with it, too. Figured she earned that bit of pleasure.” His smile left him. “But she married that fella from downriver and that was the beginning of the end.”

What happened to her?” Cole asked.

Zach poured himself a jigger of whiskey, obviously choked-up, then came around the bar and sat down next to Cole. “I loved that little girl like she was my own, but she was canal-bred and he was a rich fop. The two just don’t mix, not in my lifetime. Maureen told me that Molly was being snubbed by her sister-in-law and all those other socialites and having a rough time of it. She was on her way up here to visit her Ma when the riverboat went down just north of Albany in Saratoga County. She and her baby drowned. Everybody on the boat died.”

That’s a real sad story,” Cole said. “How’d the boat sink?”

No one knows for sure. They said the larboard boiler must’ve exploded and it was ruled it an accident, but there were a lot of rumors flitting around and people pointing fingers.”

Do you think it was done on purpose?” Cole asked.

I’d bet my life on it. It’s rare for a boiler to explode and sink a boat in seconds without any survivors. But that was a long time ago.”

When did it happen?”

Zach let out a heavy sigh. “Nineteen years ago this past May. Molly’s babe was just a month old. Maureen died a year later from pneumonia…and heartache, I expect. Now, all I’ve got left are precious memories and Molly’s carvings.” He pointed toward the small display behind the bar. “That little darlin’ could whittle with the best of them and she always won first prize. She sure loved horses….”

I hear a packet called the Jaybird needs a deckhand,” Wolfe mentioned, breaking the silence. “Has it been through here lately?”

Zach tore his eyes away from the display and went back behind the bar. “Never heard of it.”


About the Author


Gail Meath composes historical romance novels that grip your heart and imagination. With a refreshing and captivating writing-style, she creates amazing characters who instantly draw you into their world and keep you wanting more, long after the ending. And with her love of historical research, she paints the perfect ambiance to sweep you back in time.


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22 December 2020

Mistletoe Fangs by Susan Blexrud

 

 


The Fang Series, Book 4

Vampires, Shape Shifters, Romantic Comedy, Thriller

Date Published: November 18, 2020

Publisher: DCL Publications



Dr. Lauren Marsh, a pregnant vampire, seeks therapy to overcome a recent trauma, but is her creepy doctor interested in more than her well-being? Will evil intercede, dashing the promise of a Christmas baby?




Excerpt

What is stirring in that conniving mind of yours?” Ras squinted at his assistant.

Hmm. I’m thinkin’. Your life mate’s supposed to be a virgin.”

True, but I gave up on that notion long ago. She is also supposed to be a born vampire, not made.”

So, if you could arrange for the mother to go into labor, we could disappear with her child. What’s time to you? The baby’d grow up soon enough. You’d have a virgin bride and a born vampire.”

Ras tapped an index finger to his lips. “Brilliant idea—so glad I thought of it.”

Teensy rolled her black eyes. “I’ll get to work. Let’s see, what prescriptions will we need? Pitocin to start her labor and morphine to knock her out? Of course, all this hinges on the child being a girl.”

I’ll write the prescription for the meds.” Before Ras passed the smelling salts under Lauren’s nose, he eased his hand under her pink sweatshirt and placed his palm on her round belly. The baby pushed against his hand, and he closed his eyes, envisioning the tiny bundle in her mother’s womb. Ras smiled broadly. “She has violet eyes.”


About the Author



Inspired by her fascination with vampires, Susan Blexrud used her background in journalism and political speechwriting to pen a 5-book series on a pair of wedded vampires (she a dentist, he a lawyer) who have a penchant for getting into trouble. With their wacky sidekicks and a duo of best friends, they navigate the world as vigilantes while expanding their immediate family and maintaining a veneer of normal careers and PTA meetings.




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20 December 2020

My Friend Jackson by Christopher D. Ochs

 

 


YA Urban Fantasy

Date Published: 10/1/2020

Publisher: anigrafx,LLC



An ancient guardian chose her. Neither the guilty, nor the innocent, nor she are safe.

Fresh out of the Projects, Jasmine’s days are filled with emotional, physical, and cyber abuse at the hands of her new school’s queen bees. With her parents mostly absent, Jasmine latches onto Bibi, a grandmotherly figure from Tanzania, and her beloved pet chameleon, Jackson. Rivalries, jealousies and hatred escalate the violence toward Jasmine to a murderous level, until a monstrous force intervenes with deadly consequences. When she discovers the secret behind her unholy avenger, Jasmine takes the offensive, becoming a merciless force more terrifying than her worst tormentors. But choices have consequences. Some more horrific than others.

Can Jasmine untangle her life and reclaim her identity, her life—her soul—from her inscrutable guardian, while eluding the police and those who seek revenge?


Excerpt

Halfway down the latest alley, her ears pricked up at the sound of a footstep. Before she could turn around, her world went blinding white with pain.

Jasmine doubled over in the back doorway of a Chinese food joint, gasping for air between two dumpsters reeking of rotting meat and burnt soy sauce. Her ribs were aflame and the back of her skull felt like it had been split by a jackhammer. She reached for her searing scalp, and her backpack tumbled off her shoulder, clanging against the dumpster.

Bitch, I told you to stay away from Caleb. He’s mine!”

Jasmine gathered her rubbery legs underneath her to stand, steadying herself against the nearest dumpster. Her vision returned, rippled with wet blurs that might have been tears, snot, or blood.

In the long shadows cast by distant streetlights, Nevaeh’s face burned out of the darkness, livid with rage.

Jasmine’s abs clenched, trying to squeeze behind her spine, when she recognized the signs of a girl prepped for a throwdown. Earrings gone. Hair tied tight behind her head. Face slicked with a sheen of Vaseline to deflect blows and scratches.

What the hell do I do now?

The oversized heavy steel ring emblazoned with a prominent gold initial “C” no longer hung from her necklace. It was on the middle finger of Nevaeh’s fist. A tuft of Jasmine’s frizzy hair dangled from it.

That ring—it ain’t her bling, it’s Caleb’s.

The tendons of Nevaeh’s knuckles quivered, taut as bridge cables. She shoved Jasmine backward against the wall with her free hand.

Jasmine whimpered as her head thumped against brick. The world’s loudest gong clanged in her ears. Her legs buckled, helpless against the ground that seemed to spin under her. She kept her eyes glued on Nevaeh’s burning scowl, the only thing that kept her consciousness from tumbling upside-down.

Jasmine’s accusing stare only infuriated Nevaeh even more.

Can’t you take a fuckin’ hint? Don’t you know you ain’t wanted, ho? Our team don’t want you. Caleb don’t need you. And I sure as shit want you gone!”

Nevaeh raised her fist again. “Die, bitch!” Putting her full weight behind it, she swung, aiming Caleb’s ring straight for Jasmine’s face.

A glistening blur of dark umber shot out from behind the other dumpster. It wrapped around Nevaeh’s head, and a muffled scream flooded Jasmine’s ears. Nevaeh clutched at the glistening slimy blob, but her attempts to claw the suffocating mass away from her face proved futile.

A split second later, Nevaeh’s whole body snapped away like a rag doll.

Caleb’s heavy steel and gold ring clattered on the asphalt.

Nevaeh’s strangled gurgling made Jasmine’s gut twist. Somewhere beyond the dumpster came a slurping rasp, as if from a giant bowl of ramen. The sound of tearing cloth and rending flesh was followed by the sickening crack of bone.

Jasmine curled into a ball, raw terror forcing her knees into her chest. Her feet twitched with every shallow ragged breath. She clamped her head between her hands, but the horrific sounds still reached the spinning pit of her darkest fears.

The dull murmur of the streets had reclaimed the alley, and her sense of up and down returned. Righting herself against one dumpster, she wiped the stinging sweat and tears from her eyes and squinted into the murky light.

What the fuck just happened?


About the Author

Christopher D. Ochs' foray into writing began with his epic fantasy Pindlebryth of Lenland: The Five Artifacts. Several of his short stories have been published in the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group and Bethlehem Writers Group anthologies and websites. Using his skills learned with the Lehigh Valley Storytelling Guild, he crafted a collection of mirthful macabre short stories, If I Can't Sleep, You Can't Sleep. His latest work, the gritty YA urban fantasy/horror, My Friend Jackson, has earned 5-star ratings from Indies Today and Readers’ Favorite.

His current literary projects include:

short fiction in BWG's and GLVWG's upcoming anthologies, and Firebringer Press' next entry in their Eternity series;

a sci-fi/horror novel Sentinel of Eternity;

a prequel novella and a second novel in the Pindlebryth of Lenland saga.

Chris has too many interests outside of writing for his own damn good. With previous careers in physics, mathematics, electrical engineering and software, and his incessant dabblings as a CGI animator, classical organist, voice talent on radio, DVD and anime conventions, it's a wonder he can remember to pay the dog and feed his bills.

Wait, what?


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19 December 2020

The Last Humans: A New Dawn by Steven M. Moore

 

 


Post-apocalyptic Thriller

Published: December 2020



Penny Castro survived the biowarfare apocalypse and created a family. Her post-apocalyptic idyll on their citrus ranch is interrupted by the US government’s plan to stop another attack…and get some revenge. Penny and husband Alex, along with others, are drafted to carry out the plan—in their case, forced to do so by the government’s kidnapping of their young children. But the enemy has surprises awaiting them when a submarine delivers them to that foreign shore.




About The Author

Steven M. Moore was born in California and has lived in various parts of the US and Colombia, South America. He always wanted to be a storyteller but had to postpone that dream to work in academia and R&D as a physicist. His travels around Europe, South America, and the US, for work or pleasure, taught him a lot about the human condition and our wonderful human diversity, a learning process that started during his childhood in California’s San Joaquin Valley.

Steve writes sci-fi, mysteries, and thrillers, short fiction, blog articles, and book and movie reviews. He has written many novels, including three for young adults under the pen name A.B. Carolan—his list of works includes six series. He also has published four short story collections. He also has an active blog where he posts opinions about reading, writing, and the publishing business of interest to readers and authors alike.

He and his wife now live just outside New York City.


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18 December 2020

Shadow Ridge by M.E. Browning

 

Shadow Ridge by M.E. Browning Banner

 

Shadow Ridge

by M.E. Browning

December 1-31, 2020 Tour

Synopsis:

Shadow Ridge by M.E. Browning

Death is one click away when a string of murders rocks a small Colorado town in the first mesmerizing novel in M. E. Browning’s A Jo Wyatt Mystery series.

Echo Valley, Colorado, is a place where the natural beauty of a stunning river valley meets a budding hipster urbanity. But when an internet stalker is revealed to be a cold-blooded killer in real life the peaceful community is rocked to its core.

It should have been an open-and-shut case: the suicide of Tye Horton, the designer of a cutting-edge video game. But Detective Jo Wyatt is immediately suspicious of Quinn Kirkwood, who reported the death. When Quinn reveals an internet stalker is terrorizing her, Jo is skeptical. Doubts aside, she delves into the claim and uncovers a link that ties Quinn to a small group of beta-testers who had worked with Horton. When a second member of the group dies in a car accident, Jo’s investigation leads her to the father of a young man who had killed himself a year earlier. But there’s more to this case than a suicide, and as Jo unearths the layers, a more sinister pattern begins to emerge–one driven by desperation, shame, and a single-minded drive for revenge.

As Jo closes in, she edges ever closer to the shattering truth–and a deadly showdown that will put her to the ultimate test.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery (Police Procedural)
Published by: Crooked Lane Books
Publication Date: October 6th 2020
Number of Pages: 296
ISBN: 1643855352 (ISBN13: 9781643855356)
Series: A Jo Wyatt Mystery, #1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Penguin Random House | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Detective Jo Wyatt stood at the edge of the doorway of the converted garage and scanned the scene for threats. She’d have the chance to absorb the details later, but even at a glance, it was obvious the occupant of the chair in front of the flickering television wouldn’t benefit from her first-aid training. The stains on the ceiling from the gun blast confirmed that.

Officer Cameron Finch stood on the other side of the sorry concrete slab that served as an entrance. “Ready?”

The only place hidden from view was the bathroom, and the chance of someone hiding there was infinitesimal, but someone always won the lottery. Today wasn’t the day to test the odds. Not when she was dressed for court and without her vest.

She pushed the door open wider. Her eyes and handgun moved in tandem as she swept the room.

A mattress on the floor served as a bed. Stacks of clothes took the place of a real closet. A dorm-sized fridge with a hot plate on top of it made up the kitchen.

Jo avoided the well-worn paths in the carpet and silently approached the bathroom. Its door stood slightly ajar, creating enough space for her to peer through the crack. Never lowering her gun, she used her foot to widen the gap.

No intruder. Just a water-spotted shower stall and a stained toilet with the seat up. A stick propped open the narrow ventilation window above the shower. Too small for even the tiniest child, but an open invitation to heat-seeking raccoons.

“Bathroom’s clear.” She holstered her gun. The cut of her wool blazer fell forward and did its best to hide the bulge of her Glock, but an observant person could tell she was armed. One of the drawbacks of having a waist.

She picked her way across the main room, staying close to the walls to avoid trampling any evidence. A flame licked the edges of the television screen—one of those mood DVDs of a fireplace but devoid of sound. It filled the space with an eerie flicker that did little to lighten the gathering dusk.

Sidestepping a cat bowl filled with water, she stopped in front of the body and pulled a set of latex gloves from her trouser pocket.

“Really?” Cameron asked.

Jo snapped them into place, then pressed two fingers against the victim’s neck in a futile search for a pulse—a completely unnecessary act that became an issue only if a defense attorney wanted to make an officer look like an idiot on the stand for not checking.

The dead man reclined in a high-backed gray chair that appeared to have built-in speakers. In the vee of his legs, a Remington 870 shotgun rested against his right thigh, the stock’s butt buried in the dirty shag carpet. On the far side, a toppled bottle of whiskey and a tumbler sat on a metal TV tray next to a long-stemmed pipe.

“Who called it in?” Jo asked.

“Quinn Kirkwood. I told her to stay in her car until we figured out what was going on.”

Jo retraced her steps to the threshold, seeking a respite from the stench of death.

A petite woman stood at the edge of the driveway, pointedly looking away from the door. “Is he okay?”

So much for staying in the car. “Let’s talk over here.” Not giving the other woman the opportunity to resist, Jo grabbed her elbow and guided her to the illuminated porch of the main house, where the overhang would protect them from the softly falling snow.

“He’s inside, isn’t he?” Quinn pulled the drawstring of her sweat shirt until the hood puckered around her neck. “He’s dead.” It should have been a question, but wasn’t. Jo’s radar pinged.

“I’m sorry.” Jo brushed errant flakes from a dilapidated wicker chair and moved it forward for her. “Is there someone I can call for you?”

She shook her head.

“How well did you know—”

“Tye. His name is—was—Tye Horton.” Quinn played with the tab of her hood string, picking at the plastic that kept the ends from fraying.

Jo remained quiet, digesting the younger woman’s unease. She was all angles: sharp shoulders, high cheekbones, blunt-cut dark hair, and canted eyes that looked blue in the open but faded to grey here in the shadows.

A pile of snow slid from a bowed cottonwood branch and landed with a dull plop. The silence broken, Quinn continued to fill it. “We have a couple classes together up at the college. He missed class. I came over to see why.”

“Does he often cut class?”

“He didn’t cut class,” she said sharply. “He missed it.” She pulled out her cellphone. “The project was due today. I should tell the others.”

What would she tell them? She hadn’t asked any questions. The pinging in Jo's head grew louder. “Did you go inside before the officer got here?” She looked at the woman’s shoes. Converse high-tops. Distinctive tread.

Quinn launched out of her seat, sending it crashing into the porch rail. “I called you guys, remember?”

“It’s a simple yes or no.”

The smaller woman advanced and Jo fought the impulse to shove her back. “No, Officer—”

“Detective Wyatt.”

The top of Quinn’s head barely reached Jo’s chin. “Tye and I were classmates with a project due, Detective. I called him, he didn’t answer. I texted him, he didn’t respond. He didn’t show up for the game last night, which meant something was wrong. He never missed a game.”

Football. Last night Jo had pulled on her uniform and worked an overtime shift at the Sunday night game. Despite the plunging temperatures, the small college stadium had been filled to capacity.

“Did you check on him afterward?” Jo asked.

“No.” Color brightened Quinn’s pale cheeks. “By the time the game ended, it was too late. After he missed class today, I came straight over. Called the police. Here we are. Now, can I go?”

“Was Tye having any problems lately?”

“Problems?”

“With school? Friends?”

“I shared a class with him.”

Another dodge. “You knew he wasn’t at the game.”

“I figured he was finishing up his end of the project. Are we done? I’ve got class tonight.”

“I need to see your identification before you leave.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Quinn jammed her hand into her jacket pocket and removed an old-fashioned leather coin purse. Pinching the top, she drew out her driver’s license and practically threw it at Jo.

“I’m sure you understand. Whenever there is a death, we have to treat it as a crime until we determine otherwise.”

The air left Quinn in a huff of frost. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” She dipped her face but not before Jo saw the glint of tears. “I’m just going to miss him. He was nice. I don’t have a lot of friends in Echo Valley.”

“Were the two of you dating?”

The sharpness returned to her features. “Not my type.”

“Do you know if he was in a relationship?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Would you know?”

Cameron joined the women on the porch and extended his hand to Quinn. “I’m Sergeant Finch.”

Jo sucked in her breath, and covered it with a cough. The promotional memo hadn’t been posted even a day yet.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Cameron added.

Quinn crossed her arms, whether for warmth or for comfort, Jo couldn’t tell. “Your badge says Officer. Aren’t sergeants supposed to have stripes or something?”

“It’s official next week.”

“So. Really just an officer.”

Jo bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Served him right for acting like an ass.

“I wouldn’t say just.” Cameron hooked his thumb in his gun belt.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Quinn drew a deep breath and let it out as if she feared it might be her last. “What happened?” she finally asked.

Jo spoke before Cameron could answer. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” She opened her notebook.

Quinn sized up the two officers like a child trying to decide which parent to ask, and settled on Cameron. “Will you get me the laptop that’s inside? It’s got our school project on it.”

“I’m sorry,” Jo answered. “But until we process the scene, everything needs to stay put.”

Quinn sought confirmation from Cameron. “Really?”

Jo shot him a look she hoped conveyed the slow torturous death he’d suffer if he contradicted her and compromised the scene.

Cameron placed his hand on Quinn’s forearm. “I’m certain it won’t take long and I’ll personally deliver it to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.” She shook off his hand and addressed Jo. “Am I free to go?”

Prickly thing. Jo handed Quinn’s license back to her. “I’m truly sorry about your friend. May I call you later if I have any questions?”

Cameron stepped closer, all earnestness and concern. “It would be very helpful to the investigation when she realizes she forgot to ask you something.”

The coin purse snapped shut. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Thank you,” Jo said, then added, “Be careful.”

Quinn jerked. “What?”

The wind had picked up, and waves of snow blew across the walkway. Jo pointed toward the street. “The temperature drops any lower and it’ll start to ice up. Be careful. The roads are going to be slick.”

Quinn bobbed her head. Hunched against the cold, she climbed into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.

Snow had collected on the bumper and Jo noted the plate. She’d seen the car around town, its brilliant color and tiny chassis a contrast to the trucks and four-wheel-drive SUVs most locals drove.

The car crunched down the driveway. Jo returned to the task at hand, ignoring Cameron as he followed her.

Two buildings—the main residence and the converted garage—stood at the center of the property. The driveway dumped out onto an alley and the hum of downtown carried across the crisp air. Dogs barked. Cars slowed and accelerated at the nearby stop sign, their engines straining and tires chewing into the slushed snow. A sagging chain-link fence ringed the property, pushed and pulled by a scraggly hedge.

Built in the days when a garage housed only a car and not the detritus of life, the building was barely larger than a tack room. A small walkway separated the dwellings. She followed the path around the exterior of the garage.

Eaves kept snow off the paint-glued windowsill on the far side of the outbuilding. Rambling rosebushes in need of pruning stretched skeletal fingers along the wall. Jo swept the bony branches aside. A thorn snagged the shoulder of her blazer.

She studied the ground. Snow both helped and hindered officers. In foot pursuits, it revealed a suspect’s path. But the more time separated an incident from its investigation, the more it hid tracks. Destroyed clues. This latest snow had started in the early hours of the morning, gently erasing the valley’s grime and secrets and creating a clean slate. Tye could have been dead for hours. The snow told her nothing.

As she stood again at the door, not even the cold at her back could erase the smell of blood. The last of the evening’s light battled its way through the dirty window, failing to brighten the dark scene in front of her.

She tried not to let the body distract her from cataloging the room. Echo Valley didn’t have violent deaths often. In her twelve years on the department, she’d investigated only two homicides, one as an officer, the second as a detective. Fatal crashes, hunting accidents, Darwin Award-worthy stupidity, sure, but murder? That was the leap year of crimes and only happened once every four years or so.

Cameron joined her on the threshold and they stood shoulder to shoulder. He had a shock of thick brown hair that begged to be touched, and eyes that said he’d let you. “Why so quiet, Jo-elle?”

The use of her nickname surprised her. Only two people had ever called her that and Cameron hadn’t used it in a long time. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

“What’s to miss? Guy blew his brains out.”

“It’s rarely that simple.”

“Not everything needs to be complicated.” He laughed. The boyishness of it had always charmed her with its enthusiasm. Now it simply sounded dismissive. Perhaps it always had been, but she’d been too in love to notice. “Hey, you got plans tonight?” He tried to sound innocent. She had learned that voice.

“Other than this? I don’t see as that’s any of your business.”

“Of course it’s my business. You’re still my wife.” He stared into the distance as he said it. A splinter of sun pierced the dark clouds and bled across his unguarded expression.

Yearning.

Jo stood as if on ice, afraid to move lest she lose her balance.

He seemed to wake up, and after a deep breath, he surveyed the room. “The landlord is going to be looking for a new tenant. You should give him your name. It’s got to be better than living with your old man.”

Fissures formed beneath her and it took her two blinks before she recovered her footing.

“I need to get my camera. I’ll be right back.”

She left him at the door. The December chill wormed through her wool dress slacks as she trudged the half block to her car. She drew breath after breath of the searing chill deep into her lungs to replace the hurt, the anger, the self-recriminations that burned her. She sat in the passenger seat and picked up the radio mic. She wasn’t ready to face Cameron. Not yet.

To buy herself some time, she ran a local warrant check on Quinn. Something wasn’t quite right about the woman. A warrant might explain things.

Dispatch confirmed Quinn’s address, but had nothing to add.

Jo grabbed her camera bag and crime scene kit and schlepped back to the scene, prioritizing her actions as she went. She’d need to snag another detective. Interrupt a judge’s dinner to get a search warrant. Swab the victim’s hands for gunshot residue. Try to confirm his identification. Hopefully, the person in the front house would return soon so Jo could start collecting background on the deceased. Take overview photos of the exterior first. Inside there’d be lights. Then evidence. Identify it. Bag it. Book it.

She reached the door before she ticked through all the tasks. Cameron was circling the chair.

Jo stopped on the threshold, stunned.

“No wonder they didn’t promote you.” Cameron peered into the exposed cranium. “If you can’t tell this is a suicide, you got no business being a cop—let alone a detective.”

“Get out.”

“We’re not home, sweetie. You can’t order me out here.”

“Actually, I can. Detective, remember? This is my scene and you’re contaminating it.”

He laughed. “Sergeant outranks detective.”

“I think it’s already been established that you’re not sporting stripes.”

“Yet. Couple more days.”

Three. Three days until he started wearing the stripes that should have been hers. Three days until he outranked her. Three. Damn. Days. “And until then, Officer Finch.” With exaggerated care, she took out her notebook and started writing.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a note of the path you’ve taken. Try to retrace your steps. I’d hate to have to say how badly you mucked things up.” She paused for effect. “You getting promoted and all.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

“Is that how you talk to your wife?”

He picked up the overturned bottle on the TV tray. “Johnnie Walker Gold.” He sniffed the premium Scotch whisky. “And here I would have pegged him for a Jack fan, at best.” Cameron tipped the bottle back into place and retraced his steps.

The latex gloves did nothing to warm her fingers, and Jo shoved her hands in her pockets. Had he changed or had she? “When did you become such an ass?”

“When’d we get married?” He shouldered past her, swinging his keys around his finger. Outside, the streetlamps flickered to life. “I’ll leave you to it. Even you can see it’s a slam dunk.”

She didn’t want to agree with him. “It’s only a suicide when the coroner says so.”

“Oh, Jo-elle.”

There was that laugh again, and she hated herself for warming to him.

“You’ve got to learn to choose your battles.”

***

Excerpt from Shadow Ridge by M.E. Browning. Copyright 2020 by M.E. Browning. Reproduced with permission from M.E. Browning. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

M.E. Browning

M.E. BROWNING served twenty-two years in law enforcement and retired as a captain before turning to a life of crime fiction. Writing as Micki Browning, she penned the Agatha-nominated and award-winning Mer Cavallo mysteries, and her short stories and nonfiction have appeared in anthologies, mystery and diving magazines, and textbooks. As M.E. Browning, she recently began a new series of Jo Wyatt mysteries with Shadow Ridge (October 2020).

Micki is a member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and Sisters in Crime—where she served as a former president of the Guppy Chapter. A professional divemaster, she resides in Florida with her partner in crime and a vast array of scuba equipment she uses for “research.”

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