I'm in good company!

It was a pleasant surprise to see Blood and Groom listed in this "tour" of Toronto mystery novels, especially since the book came out just over five years ago!   And I have to say, I'm in great company.  I've read just about all the other authors mentioned on this page (which is from the January 2015 issue of Toronto Life Magazine, on page 97).  Pretty cool that Blood and Groom is listed as one of the "ten grisliest" whodunits!  Since it was PI Sasha Jackson's first case, I'm sure she would agree.

Recent Reads: Rock Divide Sky

I haven't read a police procedural in ages and ages, so it was a treat to dive into this! I loved the main character Eddie (Dog-er-dee), and Montreal in 1970 is a terrific setting for a crime novel (heavily steeped in reality - McFetridge certainly did his homework.)  Great mystery - highly recommended!

I'm already a fan of Matt Taibbi's, and this book just cements what I already knew:  The guy can write, and his words will make you think and make you angry.  Injustice meets inequality... arghhhh!  My jaw dropped several times.  Meticulously researched, very detailed, and Matt's tone is tartly delicious.  Anyone who paid any attention to the Occupy movement and anyone with even a passing interest in justice and human rights should run right out and get a copy of The Divide.  

I hated this!  I really tried to get into it, but the characters were hard to like or to even care about.  The dialogue was stiff and unrealistic.  I finally gave up on page 177 and deliberately left it behind when I got off the bus.   

Event: Noir at the Bar - Toronto - May 8th

Mystery fans in the Toronto area should mark their calendars for a 

cool event next month:  

Noir at the Bar!

EVENT DETAILS:  Our Toronto authors on Thursday May 8th include John McFetridge, fresh off the launch of BLACK ROCK, Howard Shrier whose MISS MONTREAL has been long-listed for the Arthur Ellis Best Novel, Jill Edmondson of Sasha Jackson fame, and Andrew Pyper, whose THE DEMONOLOGIST is a finalist for the 2014 International Thriller Writers Award for Best Novel. MCs Tanis Mallow and Rob Brunet will be reading as well, Brunet from STINKING RICH which debuts summer 2014.  We've got three out-of-town guests to juice the party: Owen Laukkanen of Vancouver just back from his U.S. tour for KILL FEE; Hilary Davidson, up from NYC to launch BLOOD ALWAYS TELLS; and Terrence McCauley, also of NYC, fresh off his triple New Pulp Award wins for best author, best novel (SLOW BURN), and best short story.

There's no cover, and PJ O'Brien's got a great pub menu if you're coming straight from work. Doors open 6:30 p.m. Short readings every half hour or so after that.

For more info please check THIS LINK.

Here's a picture of all the usual suspects at the end of the evening.  

It was such a fun event and the place was packed!

Excerpt from Murderous Decisions by Anna Drake

Murderous Decisions

By Anna Drake

SYNOPSIS:

Victoria Cross believes her greatest challenge in life is keeping up with family duties. But a tempting stranger, an unexpected responsibility, and a ruthless killer combine to complicate her life. And in the end, this young wife and mother's biggest challenge may turn out to be ... surviving.


ANNA SAYS:

This scene was fun for me to write because it centers around such a compelling dream. I mean, who wouldn't love to receive such a generous bequest?

But at one point Harry Price has told a friend that money can bring with it as many problems as solutions. And this is what Victoria learns as she struggles to overcome Harry's death and dispose of the remains of the gentleman's life. Because remember, there is a killer out there. He's killed at least once. Who is to say he will not kill again?

EXCERPT:

Then, one day the phone rang. It was a Tuesday again. As usual, I was home catching up with my chores.

"Mrs. Cross?" a voice asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Matthew Ashworth, Harry Price's attorney. First, let me tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Harry was a wonderful man. It was my pleasure to know him."

"Thank you." Considering Ashworth's comment, I had felt compelled to provide a suitable reply. Although, I couldn't understand why Ashworth was offering his condolences to me? I'd never even met Price.

"I'm sorry for coming at you unexpectedly like this," Ashworth said. "But it is the way these things sometimes go. Anyway, I'm calling to tell you that you're named as Harry's heir."

"I'm listed as an heir?" I pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat.

"Actually," Ashworth said, "you're the sole heir."

"But why would Harry leave anything to me?"

"I don't know, but you've also been designated the administrator of the estate."

"What does that mean?"

"Basically, it makes you responsible for inventorying all of Harry's possessions. Then, you'll need to file a statement with the court, swearing everything has been settled according to Harry's wishes."

It sounded like a lot of work. "Where would I be doing this?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

I sighed. "No. I've heard Harry was from someplace in northeastern Pennsylvania, but I don't know the exact spot."

"Harry lived in a house located about twenty miles northwest of Wiltonburg. It sits just outside a small town called Placidville."

"And I am to settle his estate? How would I do that?"

"Well, you'll need to come out here. You can stay in the house while you work. Incidentally, the funeral is set for Thursday. I thought you'd want to attend."

I sagged back in my chair. This was a lot to absorb. A funeral two short days from now. An estate to settle. A demand that I spend time in a place I'd never visited, to work on behalf of a man I'd never met.

"I can understand your surprise," Ashworth said. "This has all been a bit rushed. Murder tends to mess up the normal progression of things. Anyway, as you know, we had to wait for the police to release Harry's body. And now, well, we'd like to get on with things as quickly as possible."

"And you're encouraging me to attend the funeral?"

"Yes, I hope you will. Harry was a bit of a recluse. I don't expect a large turn out. Plus, as his executor you'll need to come sometime soon. So, now seems as good a time as any."

"And you say I'm the heir?"

"Yes."

"I assume you wrote the will?"

"I did."

"Did Harry tell you why he named me in it?"

"No, we never discussed you. Harry laid everything out. I just drafted the document according to his wishes."

I pulled a deep breath and released it slowly. None of this made any sense to me. "How long do you think it would take me to settle everything up?"

"I suppose it depends on how you want to do it. Harry had a great many possessions, both real and personal. I can't imagine you'd want to let them all go without giving them serious thought. Then, there's the house to be sold. Cars to be disposed of."

"So what? We're talking a week, maybe two, to wrap all of this up?"

"Oh, I'd think at least that, and possibly longer. It's an extremely large house, and Harry had a great many assets."

I sat there trying to make sense of it all. My entire life would be turned topsy-turvy. And for what? I'd need to take time off from work. I'd have to line up someone to watch David. I knew Aunt Ella would be delighted to cover for me, but I hated to impose on her. And then I wondered what Jake would think of all this?

I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry I can't give you an answer just now. I have to discuss this with my husband. But if I come, I don't want to stay in Harry's house. I didn't know the man that well. I'd feel like an intruder."

"That's okay. There's a lovely old inn nearby, or you could bunk down at a motel in Wiltonburg. I'd be happy to make the arrangements for you, if you'd like."

"I'll have to get back to you on that."

"Either way, let me know. If you're coming for the funeral, I won't bother mailing you a copy of the will. You'd get here before the document reached you."

While he chattered on, I listened as the refrigerator beside me hummed to life and the washing machine let forth a beep, telling me my latest load was done.

They were familiar, homey sounds, I would miss hearing in the coming days if I followed this man's suggestions.

"By the way," Ashworth now said, "are you curious about the estimated value of the estate?"

Recalling Harry's winded voice over the phone, I didn't expect much. "Sure."

"All told your inheritance comes to just under fifteen million."

My eyelids flew open. "Dollars?" I asked, placing my free hand palm down on the kitchen table and drawing several deep breaths.

"Yes, of course, dollars," Ashworth answered. "What else would it be?"

FIND OUT MORE:

Anna Drake, writing mystery novels with a touch of romance and a bit of suspense.  Facebook; Website.

Check out Anna's books on AMAZON.  

Follow Anna on Twitter @LadyNWriter

Excerpt from Tell Anna She’s Safe, by Brenda Missen

Tell Anna She’s Safe 
By Brenda Missen

SYNOPSIS:

Driving home alongside West Quebec’s Gatineau River one April afternoon, Ellen McGinn spots a parked car that looks like it might belong to her friend, Lucy Stockman. Arriving home, Ellen receives a phone call from Lucy’s common-law partner: Lucy has disappeared. Led by a series of disturbing visions, Ellen embarks on a nerve-wracking search that soon becomes a determined quest for the truth beyond the stereotypical appearances of her friend’s risky relationship with an ex-convict. Terrified for her own life and getting in over her head with a compelling police detective, Ellen reaches a deeper than bargained for understanding of Lucy’s dark journey—and her own.

Tell Anna She’s Safe was inspired by and based on the life of Louise Ellis, an Ottawa freelance writer who disappeared in 1995. The author, Brenda Missen, was a friend and colleague of Louise, and was the person who found Louise’s car when she first went missing.

BRENDA SAYS:

This excerpt is part of a longer scene that shifts back and forth between Lucy’s visit to Tim at a medium-security prison and her arrival back home to her current boyfriend, Curtis, in Ottawa. I had received permission from Corrections Canada to visit Warkworth Institution so that my description of Lucy’s visits there would be authentic. I had never visited a prison before and the whole experience was so etched in my brain I think it fuelled and sharpened the writing, especially when I had to write it from the perspective of a woman so filled with fears and anxieties. This first visit to Tim (after many letters and phone calls) is a pivotal moment for Lucy, when she makes the decision to truly leave behind her familiar world and pursue a relationship with this man whom she had met after he had given testimony in an important Supreme Court case. I got the idea to shift back and forth between the prison visit and her own home, using word association to provide a link between the two settings. I think the quick alternating of scenes, and the contrasts between them, gets across the shift as it is happening inside her—and shows how it is, for her, a positive shift. It was a very satisfying scene to write. The word associations and contrasts/similarities in emotions that provide the links between the two settings came very naturally, and it’s a technique I’m now using on a much larger scale in my current memoir.

EXCERPT:

As she stood, dazed and exhausted, the screen door swung open. She had to step out of the way.

            There was a man in the doorway. He looked puzzled. “Why are you just

standing out there?”

            She didn’t respond.

            “Hello?” said Curtis. “Earth to Lucy. Come in. Come in,” he repeated, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Did they lobotomize you while you were in jail?”

            She stepped in through the door. She handed over her purse. If body searches had been legal, he would have found it was her heart, not her frontal lobe, that was gone. She was amazed at how detached she felt from him. And not amazed at all.

            They sat down at the kitchen table. Curtis poured her a glass of wine. She was too tired to appreciate the gesture. She was too tired to drink it.

She was overcome by the wearying sensation of having driven not just hundreds, but seemingly thousands, of kilometres. What was she doing here? Who was this man? He sat before her, shoulders slightly slumped, avoiding her eyes. Where were the presence and confidence he had exuded in the courtroom? Where was the familiarity she had felt in meeting him there and in their letters and phone conversations? She was sitting before a prison inmate who, when he had lived in her world, had committed countless acts of fraud—and one act of manslaughter. What was she doing?

            She was starting to feel dizzy. The smoke seemed to have filled not just her lungs but her entire insides. It was choking her. She was going to faint. She just needed to signal to one of the guards. She could get up and walk out without saying a word. They could pretend she had never come. She could go back to her safe, familiar world and he could stay here, in his. In her mind, she was already summoning the guard, mentally raising her arm as if he were a waiter.

            Tim cleared his throat. “Your drive here,” he began.

            Her horror magnified. In her mind she was tugging furiously on the guard’s sleeve, to get her out of there before Tim spoke. She was terrified he was going to say something mundane about the drive, the weather. That he wouldn’t be who she thought he was. That she’d made a massive mistake. Her head began to spin. Nausea overwhelmed her. She was going to throw up.

            “Your drive here,” repeated Tim, “means a lot to me.”

            The words entered her head like a peacekeeping troupe and made it stop spinning. The nausea vanished. Her vision cleared. It was Tim. Thank God he was still not looking at her, had not seen her face; it was shyness, not social backwardness. It was respect. It was nothing she’d ever experienced before.

            “I’m kind of overwhelmed by you sitting here in front of me.” Tim gave a small, embarrassed laugh and then he met her eyes.

            The guard she had summoned in her mind stood waiting. She handed him all her doubts, all her skepticism, all her fears—shitloads of fear. And then she sent him away.

            “If I seem a bit stupid, and like I got nothing to say, it’s—well….”

            There was a long pause.

            “Do you mind,” he said at last, “if I just sit here and look at you for awhile?”

He was looking at her. She was supposed to be talking, spilling out the experience. She didn’t want to share this. She didn’t want it exposed to his cynical paintbrush, his layering of ridicule and mockery. Thinly disguised jealousy.

            She met Curtis’s eyes. And for the first time she saw the pain in them.

  

FIND OUT MORE:

For more about Brenda, check out her website  

Find Tell Anna She’s Safe on Amazon   and get updates on Goodreads 

Excerpt from Dark Idol: Book 5 in the Mike Angel series by David Fears

SYNOPSIS: 

 

Set in Chicago in 1964 amidst racial divisions, Mike receives anonymously a $10,000 Federal Reserve Note with an unsigned cryptic message it was for unspecified future trouble. Tracking down the sender and the purpose spins into a 40 year old kidnapping case involving four US Army officers in World War One, stolen gold with connections to the French Bonnot gang (the first to use automobiles in bank robberies); and uncovering a Babylonian sex goddess cult in a Chicago suburb. Death stalks Mike and Rick on this case, and also threatens their client. Murder, action, suspense and seduction--the kind of quicksand that is Mike's struggle with commitment to Molly. Reviewers call this "A blend of intelligence, keen observations, complex plot, and wounded soul protagonist." I call it a barrel of fun and a page-turner.

 

DAVID SAYS:

I love to read and write complex mysteries, especially private eye tales where one man stands alone down the gritty streets to fight crime and corruption. I love them also because one doesn't have to be politically correct. Scenes where Mike meets an attractive woman and the seduction temptation/dance begins are particularly challenging to write. I have tried to avoid the old "fade to black" in favor of giving the modern reader more detail of the lovemaking without crossing into pornography. The series may be read stand-alone, though each tale takes place in the 1960s, beginning with the first in the decade and each in a subsequent year. Some have commented that Mike seems to seek the perfect love. Perhaps so, but his calling and age are distractions to settling down. I also love history and put true events, persons and such in each novel.

 

EXCERPT:

The Nixon layout was as ritzy as anything I’d seen in Chicago. In fact, from the outside it would have easily passed for a top mansion in any hoity toity neighborhood from the Hamptons to Malibu. This palace made the rest of the street look shabby and put Chicago Heights on the map.

A squat Asian with a towel around his head, wearing shorts and a wife-beater shirt was spading flowerbeds. He reminded me of those villains in the old Charlie Chan flicks. Seemed like every plant lover in Chicago was out digging in dirt, trying to earn heatstroke. I parked in front and strode up the long straight walk, lined with perfectly trimmed miniature boxwoods. The Asian noticed me but didn’t acknowledge, just shifted his black distant eyes from me to the spade like he was ready to swing it at me should I make a false move. A nearby robin working for his lunch also eyed me in much the same way.

I pushed the doorbell and heard a three-note chime echo inside, followed by quick, light footsteps.

The door swung open and there she stood.

Slim, pale blonde, nearly my height and stylish without being brassy. Our eyes met on a straight line, something that can unnerve me but didn’t this time. Harp music would have put the right touch on the scene. I can imagine a good harp and liked this kind.

I took her for mid-twenties. She wore a tailor made cream-colored linen suit with navy and cream polka dotted scarf on her long white neck. She wore no jewelry save for dangling earrings, cages encapsulating silver-blue pearls. Quite expensive. The suit enhanced her curves, none of which dominated the others. But it wasn’t her body that took my breath away—it was her perfect angel face. Maybe that’s what made me think of harps. Appropriately, the sun through windows behind her kissed a glow to the edges of her hair. It might have been a halo. I stared.

Her sly smile said she enjoyed being stared at. The blood rushed to my face, though I hadn’t blushed since Miss Turner’s third grade class when Patricia Tubbs hollered out that my fly was open. My face was just as hot now. Or maybe I was coming down with something.

There are all sorts of blondes nowadays—most of them straight from a bottle—too brassy and too cheap to be passable counterfeit. Even Beasley could identify those without a magnifying glass. So many weak attempts to play Monroe or Mansfield. That sort usually sports very dark eyebrows or roots that shout “fake!” Then there’s the dirty dishwater variety who can’t make up their minds between blonde and brunette, and so they stand pat, like a scared bookkeeper holding a small pair in poker. Then there’s the rarest of the rare—a purely Swedish blonde with a complexion as clear as a tropical lagoon, whose hair is blonde everywhere. My eyes fed on that latter sort of blonde for a few harp riffs, my mind taking pictures. As fantastic as some dreams are, having a $10,000 dollar bill that lead me to this lovely’s doorstep beat any erotic dream I’d ever enjoyed.

This melody’s eyes were a rare color of ultramarine that I’d hate to have to describe—how can you convey the waters of a mountain lake on a clear July afternoon? Renoir would have gone nuts for that shade. All her features were worth staring at, enough to measure every subsequent female face by, even though it would be a futile game.

 

FIND OUT MORE:

 

David is a semi-retired college English composition instructor, who also has published the monumental 4-volume daily chronology of Mark Twain's life: Mark Twain Day By Day. His 8 novels and some 25 published short stories (of 85) may also be found on Amazon. David, a Cubs fan (they never quit), boasts an "editor cat" named Sophie, a calico who likes to rest on his arm while he drafts and claw through the shirt whenever he pens a weak sentence. "She has an aversion to adverbs," he claims. Father of 3 girls he understands drama.

Check out Dave's books on AMAZON and get updates on him and his books on GOODREADS.

Extreme Unction: A Lupa Schwartz Mystery By J. David Core

Extreme Unction: 

A Lupa Schwartz Mystery

By J. David Core

SYNOPSIS:

When an autopsy finds traces of the banned insecticide Chlordane in the anointing oil on the corpse of a local big-wig, Pittsburgh police bring Lupa Schwartz, an outspoken non-believer, into an investigation focused on a well-liked local clergyman. Worried that the police are planning to use him as a political fall-guy, Schwartz coerces Cattleya Hoskin, a magazine reporter with a connection to his family’s past, to chronicle his process and squelch any misgiving that his world-view influenced the outcome.

Suspicion in the case is focused on Fr. Coneely, an outspoken euthanasia advocate who had earlier made the mistake of telling the family of the now-dead man that, hypothetically, he could safely apply poison-laden oil to their suffering father during last rites, and nobody need be the wiser. Was Mr. Hanson the willing victim of a mercy killing, or was a lapsing insurance policy the real motive for one of Hanson’s five children to taint the oil?

DAVE SAYS: 

The following passage was a challenge because I had to write in two distinct voices simultaneously. The narrator of my novel, Extreme Unction, is Cat Hoskin. She had invited Clement Foyer to attend and review a concert featuring the blues band her current love-interest (a Pittsburgh police detective in the homicide division) plays horn for, and the metal band his son fronts. The next day, she nervously avoids reading the review, until she can put it off no longer.

EXCERPT:

Finally, my resolve set in, and I began reading Foyer's review. It began respectfully enough.

Saturday night in Oakland is never dull, and this past Saturday was not the exception to prove the rule. I attended a unique show at the Century Club at the invitation of a fellow journalist.

"Okay," I thought, "this was readable." So I continued.

She assured me that any misgivings I might have had about the theme of the show, sort of a father/son night at the frat house, would be thrown off the minute the first of the two bands began to play. She wasn't far from wrong.

The band that opened the show is called Humpback and the Blues Whailers, and they're made up of some of Pittsburgh's finest, and yes, they are a blues band. I have to tell you that for a bunch of old boys-in-blue playing a bunch of good-ol'-boy blues, they're pretty darned good. Now I know what you're thinking. Foyer — you're thinking — you're making this review extra lenient in lieu of making a contribution to the Policeman's Benevolent Fund this year. To this I say read on.

The band began their program by mocking the very kinds of bands they claim to admire with a Blues Brothers’ opening complete with synchronized horn section choreography and synthesized organ chords. As nostalgia, there's nothing wrong with that in itself, but an audience has to be able to hearken back farther than last month in order to appreciate what they're being asked to hearken to.

About this time, I was wondering if I'd maybe missed something in the business section that I could turn to rather than continue. But, never let it be said that a Hoskin couldn't take the heat. I forged on.

The audience of gen-X metal fans — who had really come to hear the main attraction, FdP — sat in stunned silence as Humpback drove their father's Oldsmobiles through a number of ol'-timey saws that might as well have included "King of The Road" and "Sweet Adeline" for all of the recognition it sparked. Then the magic happened. Inspiration had come to some one of the show's architects in the form of a cross-over number, with FdP's excellent guitarist, Mack "Daddy" Dinini sitting in on one of the blues tunes.

For two paragraphs, Foyer told the saga of the dim lights and the searching spotlight that had finally revealed Dinini standing in the wings. Two more paragraphs were expended relaying the tale of the following number, and singing the praises of Jason's voice. Little mention was made of Jimmy's virtuoso performance, and absolutely no mention was made of Penelope's capably crafted vocalizations. I felt terrible.

The remainder of the review was glowing in its portrayal of FdP and their "mercurial" and "potent carnival of a concert." There was absolutely no more mention of the Blues Whailers or the cheers they'd gotten from the supposedly un-hearkening gen-Xers. Maybe if I'd been reading objectively, I could have appreciated his use of language, but I didn't want to be objective. I wanted to cry

FIND OUT MORE:

With a profound interest in religion, liberal politics and humor, Dave began writing in High School and has not given up on it since. His first professional writing jobs came while attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh when he was hired to create political cartoons for the Pitt News & to write humor pieces for Smile Magazine. Dave has worked in the newspaper industry as a photographer, in the online publishing industry as a weekly contributor to Streetmail.com, and was a contributing writer to the Buzz On series of informational books and to the Western online anthology, Elbow Creek. Dave’s science fiction novel, Synthetic Blood and Mixed Emotions, is available from writewordsinc.com. Dave currently resides in his childhood home in Toronto, OH with his beautiful girlfriend and his teenage daughter. He enjoys participating in local community events & visiting with his two adult children and his grandson.

Book two in the series, Common Sense, is coming in February. For more on Dave’s books, visit his SITE, or get updates from his FACEBOOK page, and check out Dave's books on AMAZON.  You can also follow him on Twitter @gamutman

Excerpt from Fair Disclosure by Joyce Strand

FAIR DISCLOSURE

A Jillian Hillcrest Mystery 

By Joyce Strand

SYNOPSIS:

Jillian and ex-husband Chad are enjoying a play at a local community theater when a scream interrupts the production upon discovery of a bludgeoned volunteer. When it turns out that the victim is someone Jillian interviewed for a job at her company, she becomes involved in another crime, drawn ever deeper by a second murder, an irate investor, the participation of law enforcement amateurs, an increasingly unreliable assistant, and suspicious trading of her company’s stock. Meanwhile, Chad is pressuring Jillian to say “yes” to a second marriage. Inspired by a networking expert firm in the San Francisco Bay Area involved with a large hedge fund that exploited insider trading through a nation-wide network. 

JOYCE SAYS:

FAIR DISCLOSURE is a who-done-it mystery set in the business environment and investor greed. I enjoyed writing the following excerpt to define my protagonist, Jillian Hillcrest, the publicist sleuth who solves the mystery—despite her best efforts to simply fulfill her job responsibilities. In the excerpt, her ex-husband Chad proposes to her hoping to re-marry, given the couple’s rejuvenating relationship caused by recent events. He presents his proposal with humor and a touch of endearment, and we understand Jillian's character through his eyes. 

EXCERPT:

Chad smiled when he remembered the afternoon that he had proposed to Jillian—for the second time. …They had driven two hours south to Monterey to spend a weekend together. They had been there many times, because both of them enjoyed visiting the aquarium, walking on the wharf, dining at one of the many great restaurants in the area, and just soaking in the beauty of the small town by the bay.

The couple had walked out on the wharf, and the sea lions seemed lazier than usual lying around the pilings and occasionally barking. The sea gulls brazenly landed on the pier, begging for food, and squawking. The day was idyllic—just right for a proposal with sunshine, blue sky, and calm bay. The smells of clam chowder, cotton candy, sautéed garlic, and other unidentifiable aromas from the nearby restaurants completed the ambience. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

Chad was wearing his derby hat, long-sleeved white shirt, and black gabardine vest and jeans. He had planned his wardrobe meticulously. His hats were an important part of his personality, representing his sense of humor, which Jillian appreciated and encouraged. He designed the rest of his outfit to show that although he liked to laugh, there was more to him, and much more to give.

When she stopped to admire the ocean view, he did indeed get down on one knee, not an easy task for the lanky, more-than-six foot Chad. Although startled, Jillian just rolled her eyes, accustomed to his often-outrageous behavior to make her laugh. He removed his hat and looked up at her with big hazel eyes and pouting lips. From his inside vest pocket, he pulled a package that was bigger than a ring case.

“Jillian, please accept this as my pledge to be the originator of your laughter, the finder of your best restaurants, the sharer of your good and bad news, your chef, your travel companion, your bellwether, your lover—” Chad hesitated, and looked doubtful, then continued, “maybe I should have started with that one—lover, I mean.” He smiled and opened his eyes wide waiting for Jillian’s agreement. When she said nothing, he continued “—your friend and producer of happiness.”

Jillian looked down at him, accepted the package, and pushed him down as he tried to stand up. She was enjoying the spectacle. She opened the package, which was wrapped in aluminum foil, another reason she made him stay on his knee. Who proposed with a package wrapped in aluminum foil? She first came across a key, which she assumed was to his house in Alameda. When she asked, “Alameda?” however, he shook his head. 

“No, that’s to the cottage at Brynn’s winery. We get to go there whenever we want. I bought a share in the winery.”

Brynn was Jillian’s boss, but only for a few more weeks. She was the Chief Financial Officer (CFO) at Harmonia, and she and her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Liam, had purchased a winery northwest of Sonoma. Jillian and Chad had stayed in the cottage at the winery for the week following Jillian’s kidnapping.

Jillian was pleased. “That’s awesome. If I decline your proposal, do we still get to go there?”

Chad appreciated the sparring, and decided to play. “No.”

The next item in the package was a notification of season tickets for two to the San Francisco Symphony, ACT Theater, and the Broadway series. “What? No Giants or Niners tickets?”

Chad smiled. “Keep going.”

She continued. Of course, he included tickets to the next Niners game. He commented, “Brynn and Liam are joining us.”

Then she came to the ring. It wasn’t a diamond. Rather it was a deep purple amethyst—her birthstone—set in platinum silver. It was striking. “Chad, it’s exquisite. And regardless of whether I marry you or not, I plan to keep it forever. It’s beautiful.” She put it on the ring finger of her left hand.

Chad looked up at her longingly, “Can I stand up now? I think my knee is cracking.”

Several people had stopped and were watching the scene, which Jillian was enjoying immensely. “Oh, can you remind me again what is the question?”

Chad laughed, stood up, and grabbed Jillian in a big hug, and yelled as loudly as he could, “Will you marry me?”

Almost everyone within earshot started laughing. Jillian simply bit her lip, shook her dark hair off her face, slowly stretched, and yawned—creating additional laughter from the appreciative on-lookers.

FIND OUT MORE:

Website: http://joycestrand.com 

Blog:  http://StrandsSimplyTips.blogspot.com

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/JillianHillcrest

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard
Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Joyce-T.-Strand/e/B006GSKEBK/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Twitter: @JoyceTStrand

Excerpt from A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Novel By Vicki Delany

A Cold White Sun: 

A Constable Molly Smith Novel 

By Vicki Delany

SYNOPSIS:

It’s the end of March and Trafalgar, British Columbia, is preparing for the last influx of the seasonal skiers. Teachers, parents, and students are preparing to relax at home or head off on vacation. But for high school English teacher Cathy Lindsay, the week of relaxation doesn’t work out as planned. She’s gunned down by a sniper on a hiking trail, her small dog the only witness.

Cathy Lindsay is an unlikely candidate for a murderous ambush: she was a respected teacher, in an apparently solid marriage to an Internet developer, living a quiet life. Sergeant John Winters, with the help of young Constable Molly Smith, digs into the Lindsay marriage and friendships, searching for a motive, but one thought continually niggles at the back of his mind: is it possible this was not a random killing but a case of mistaken identity?

VICKI SAYS:

After writing two standalone novels of suspense I wanted to try my hand at a police procedural series in the British style I most like to read.  Small problem: I have absolutely no experience in law enforcement whatsoever.  To complicate matters, I live in Canada and my books are set in Canada, yet almost everything we see on TV or read in books is written in the US or the UK.  Policing in Canada is very different than in those countries. My main protagonist is not a detective, she is a uniformed constable and it was important to me to get the details right. 

So I set about finding out what I didn’t know. I have found police officers to be very helpful.  I’ve been on ride-alongs and walk-alongs, to in-service training, to the firearms range. I have officers I can call on if I have questions. And believe me, I have a lot.

I was observing in-service training one day, and the officers were learning high-risk takedowns.  I drew upon what I observed for this scene in A Cold White Sun.  A woman has been shot by a sniper on a residential street.

EXCERPT:

Evans gave Smith a nod and they slipped away from the throng, drawing their weapons. Evans held a flashlight. Guns clutched in hands trying not to shake, watching their footing on the thin crust of ice coating the snow, the two officers made their way into the backyard of the closest house. A motion detector light switched on. Ignoring the rain dripping down collars, soaking through pant legs, they crouched in the cover of the building, leap-frogging each other, one moving forward, staying low, the other maintaining guard, using hand signals to communicate.

She pushed all conscious thought to the back of her mind. If the shooter were here, hiding, watching, she’d deal with him. That was all she needed to know. Back in Police College when they did use of force training, the immediate rapid deployment instructor had been a woman by the name of Sergeant Angelina Sullivan. Tough as they came, Sullivan ripped the head off anyone who dared call her Angie. Smith had been surprised to come across Sergeant Sullivan at the mall one evening. Leading a tussle-headed toddler by the hand, pushing a stroller, laughing up at a tall handsome man carrying shopping bags, she looked like a real human being. Smith thought of Sullivan now. Tried to remember everything she’d learned from the woman.

It was all a blur.

She remembered making a mistake, bursting into a room that supposedly contained the shooter, seeing movement to one side, turning toward it, yelling at it, “Get down, get down, get down.” It was a dummy, set up to represent a hostage, while the trainer playing the shooter came up behind her and said, “bang.”

The class laughed as Smith’s face burned with embarrassment.

Get it wrong now and she’d be a lot more than embarrassed.

Smith whipped around the building, gun up, moving from side to side. Dig your corner, dig your corner, Sullivan bellowed at her. All was still. Thank heavens for snow. Unless the shooter could fly, he wasn’t here. The lawn was an unmarked, pristine carpet.

They cleared the yard, moved on to the next house. A garden shed stood in a dark corner against the back fence. The snow here was heavily trampled. Kids probably, out playing. Tracks in and out of the shed. Evans jerked his head toward it.

Smith went first. She stacked right; Evans positioned himself on the left. He gave her a sharp nod. She swallowed and tightened her grip on her Glock. She reached for the door knob. She twisted it, threw the door open and crashed in, gun up in a two-handed grip. Evans followed, swinging the flashlight from side to side, checking out the corners.

Nothing here but rusty garden implements and a jumble of sleds and snow shovels. 

They moved from house to house, garden to garden, tension twisting their guts. Dogs barked and the curious peered out kitchen windows. Her radio told her Mounties were sweeping the other side of the street. Every officer who lived within a hundred kilometers was being called in. 

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Vicki Delany is one of Canada’s most prolific and varied crime writers.  She also writes  standalone novels of psychological suspense, and the Constable Molly Smith series set in the Interior of British Columbia.  Vicki’s Rapid Reads book, A Winter Kill, was shortlisted for the 2012 Arthur Ellis Award for best novella.  Having taken early retirement from her job as a systems analyst in the high-pressure financial world, Vicki enjoys the rural life in bucolic, Prince Edward County, Ontario.  

Visit Vicki at www.vickidelany.com, on Twitter @vickidelany and Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Vicki.Delany. She blogs about the writing life at One Woman Crime Wave (http://klondikeandtrafalgar.blogspot.com) and check out her books on AMAZON. 

Excerpt from Cocoa and Chanel by Donna Joy Usher

Cocoa and Chanel

By Donna Joy Usher

DONNA SAYS:

I love this scene because it was a total surprise to me. The character Bianca sprang out of the depths of my mind and into the story. Up till this scene, I didn't know she was going to be in the book at all, and then Bam! - there she was and she wasn't going away. 

This was one of those scenes that flowed fully-developed onto the page;

the dialogue prattling out of me as if I was eavesdropping and not creating it. 

The reason I wrote the scene is not apparent in the excerpt I have included. It was to give Chanel her next clue in unravelling the mystery of the Kings Cross Serial Killer. 

Enjoy! 

EXCERPT:

The one day I really wanted to see Roger and he still hadn’t shown up for work. All right, so I really wanted to see him every day, but today was different. Today it wasn’t about my Guinness Book of Records’ sized crush.

Because I was doing the early night shift there were only a few hours that we overlapped, and that time was ticking away. I was kept busy with a stream of visitors coming through the front door: people bailing out friends or relatives, officers bringing in suspects for interviews and building contractors. One of the rooms had sustained some rain damage a few months ago and it was only now being fixed.

When he finally did show it was with a woman in handcuffs. Her attire indicated she was one of the working girls; bright red tight spandex skirt and boob tube top. It was a brave clothing choice given her bootaliscious butt and impressive chest.

‘Hey girlfriend,’ she said to me as he dragged her through the front doors. She didn’t seem at all concerned about her predicament.

‘Bianca,’ Roger said, ‘can I trust you to stay here or do I have to lock you up?’

‘You can trust me,’ she said, shooting him a cheeky grin. Her large teeth shone white against the glowing ebony of her skin. I found myself responding to her cheery disposition. It was either that or the fact that Roger was in the same room with me.

As soon as Roger left, Bianca bolted for the front door. I vaulted over the counter, a feat that surprised me as much as it did her, and landed in front of the doors. It seemed all the obstacle course training had paid off.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said.

‘Damn girl, you like a superwoman or something?’

I shook my head at her and pointed to the chairs on the other side of the room.

‘You been exposed to some serious radiation shit?’

‘No,’ I said, laughing as I made my way back round to the other side of the table.

‘You’re like a ninja, right? I bet you could kick my big black arse all over this city.’

‘Who could kick your arse?’ Roger asked.

‘Your girl there. She’s scary.’

‘Chanel? Yes, she is scary.’ He shot me a grin that threatened to stop my heart.

I took a deep breath and tried to get a grip on my emotions. I wasn’t going to look so tough if I started hyperventilating just because he’d smiled at me.

It wasn’t so much that he’d smiled. It was the way he’d smiled, and I don’t want to bore you, but it was cheeky and endearing and there had been a light in his eyes when he’d said my name. I’d had to stop myself vaulting the table again so I could wrap myself around him and shove my tongue down his throat.

I tore my eyes away and focused on the stupid manual I was only part of the way through, while I tried to think of a way to swing the conversation the way I wanted it to go. I couldn’t do it with Bianca in the room though so I was going to have to wait for him to finish with her.

As Bianca followed him into the interview room something tickled at the back of my mind. I ignored it, knowing if I tried to identify what it was it would slip further from my conscious mind. Eventually it surfaced, floating up to bob amongst my other thoughts.

Hadn’t Bruce said that one of the working girls they were friends with was a Bianca? I wondered if it was the same one. I tried to suppress my excitement but by the time Roger had finished with his interview I was almost hopping from foot to foot.

‘What are you in for?’ I asked her, smiling in my friendliest manner.

‘I had some Buddha on me.’

‘Buddha?’

‘Some Maryjane?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Some gangster? Locoweed? Ganja? A reefer?’

I shook my head as I stared at her and wondered what the hell she was on about.

‘Some grass.’

‘Oh marijuana,’ I said.

‘You’re as white as your skin. No wonder you a cop.’

‘I’ve tried it,’ I said before I remembered where I was. I shot a nervous look over my shoulder. ‘Once,’ I whispered.

She chuckled and shook her head.

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Donna's debut novel, The Seven Steps to Closure, took gold in the humour category of the 2012 elit Publishing Awards and was shortlisted for the Shirley You Jest 2012 Book Awards and the 2013 Indie Excellence Awards.

Follow Donna on Twitter @DonnaJoyUsher