Saturday, July 30, 2022

MY WIFE IS MISSING by D. J. Palmer

 

MY THOUGHTS
I usually am blown away with D. J. Palmer's books but this one was just ok. It just didn't have that WOW that his books usually leave me with. 

This story is told from two povs. A husband and wife. Michael and Natalie. Also from different timelines which I usually love. It goes from before Natalie disappeared to the present. Also back to when Michael was young in parts. Michael is in my opinion a bit of a jerk. But does that make him a murderer? The wife suffers from horrible insomnia. Does that make her a murderer? 

This book takes you on somewhat of a chase when Michael returns with pizza for his family and they have disappeared. What happened to his wife and children? Were they taken or did his wife, Natalie, take the children and leave him. He has no idea where they are or why she would leave. He is worried about them all. He loves his family with above everything else. He would do anything for them. He's worried because of Natalie's intense insomnia. It could be dangerous for her to be out there alone with them. Lack of sleep can cause delusions. Make a person do things they would never dream of doing. What has she done and why?

Natalie is terrified of Michael. She needs to protect her children no matter what. She knows what he did and who he really is. She knows what he has done in the past and the present. Or so she thinks. Could it be her delusional mind seeing things wrong? She even thinks about that but is not willing to take the chance. After all he has lied to her so many times. Or has he? 

This book could have been so much better. It starts out so strong. Really pulls you in and makes you want to know what happened to Michael's family. Were they kidnapped and if so why. Did she run and if so why. Michael eventually calls the cops and reports his family missing. The main cop takes this case personal it seems. He really seems to want to find out exactly what happened. Who is he and why does he care that much?

I found this to be a bit unbelievable though. I mean what are the odds that a cop from twenty-five years ago gets wind of this case and wants to help Michael find his family. He makes it his top priority and travels to Michael's home. Of course without him there may not even be a story. Then there is the murder from Michael's past. That and the fact that the two victims are tied together.. possibly. Is Michael capable of murder? Or is it Natalie in her delusional state that did this? Or maybe someone else all together. 

I did figure out who did it. There were little signs that gave it away for me. It didn't take away from the story though and there were things that I had no idea about. As from the affair did it actually happen? Who knows. Well if you read this you will know, right? lol I do believe that this book was a bit to long for what it was. The story focuses a bit to much on some things and not enough on others. I loved the timelines and the back story that was there. The very last was perfect also. I was very happy that that part was addressed. But it seemed to lag in places also. From the great pull you in start to the much needed and great ending with things tied up quite nicely. But the between parts just dragged in places for me. To much of the same thing being said over and over. 

3/5 stars and I do recommend you read it for yourself. It's good, just not his best by far.

SYNOPSIS

When a woman disappears with her two children, one husband will do anything to find them--even confront the secrets of his own past--in D. J. Palmer's My Wife Is Missing, a twisty thriller from the author of The New Husband.

A family vacation turns into a nightmare for Michael Hart when he discovers his wife and two children have disappeared from their New York City hotel room. Horrified, he fears they’ve been kidnapped. Michael’s frantic search to find them takes a shocking turn when he discovers that his wife, Natalie, appears to have left quite willingly, taking their children with her. The police want to know why, and so does Michael. But there may be a reason why Natalie ran, something Michael can’t tell the police—the truth about his past.

While untangling his deceptions might be the key to locating Natalie, Michael knows it could also be his undoing. To find his wife, he must now turn to the one person capable of exposing all that he’s been hiding. Natalie thinks she has Michael all figured out and has hatched a plan to escape from him permanently. One detail, though, threatens to derail her efforts: sleep—or more accurately, the lack of it. Since the moment the shocking revelations about her husband came to light, Natalie’s insomnia has worsened to the point that she now suffers from delusions.

Are her fears about Michael valid—or a symptom of her condition? With her children’s lives at risk, the stakes for Natalie could not be higher. On her own, running low on energy and resources, avoiding increasingly close calls with Michael—who is on the hunt and closing in fast—Natalie needs someone to turn to for help. But who can she trust when she can’t even trust herself?


Tuesday, July 26, 2022

SHOWCASE & GIVEAWAY of "DEPTHS OF DECEIT" by Laura Oles

Depths of Deceit by Laura Oles Banner

Depths of Deceit

by Laura Oles

July 25 - August 19, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Depths of Deceit by Laura Oles

Two sisters.

One deadly secret.

No time to lose.

PI Jamie Rush has her hands full with small-time skip-tracing and surveillance jobs in Port Alene, Texas. The work is steady, though she still struggles to make ends meet. But when her partner, Cookie, brings in a low-paying and potentially time-consuming case, Jamie takes it on out of loyalty.

Cookie’s childhood friend, Renata, needs to find her younger sister, Leah. As Jamie digs into Leah’s past, it becomes clear that the missing woman’s life was shrouded in secrets, the kind that could jeopardize those involved in the case.

To complicate matters, PI Alastair Finn has returned, and he’s willing to reclaim his town by any means necessary. Jamie has never been one to retreat, and Alastair enjoys a good fight. Sparks will fly.

A missing woman. Felonies. Finn’s return. Every twist reminds Jamie that she’s still an outsider in this town. Jamie must prove herself all over again, and the stakes have never been higher.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Female PI
Published by: Red Adept Publishing
Publication Date: May 31, 2022
Number of Pages: 292
Series: A Jamie Rush Mystery, #2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

The mermaid in the truck bed was what caught Jamie Rush’s attention. The cast-iron figure peeked over the hatch, her carved, flowing hair and demure smile in view. This was supposed to be a standard identify-and-repo job. Jamie was certain she hadn’t seen a mermaid on the itemized paperwork. Brody Rutger, in addition to hiding from creditors, had added theft of a local celebrity to his resume.

The day had started strong, with a lead on Rutger and an opportunity to catch him between fishing charters, using a boat he’d quit paying on months before. Suddenly, Marian the Mermaid was caught up in the mix.

And something was going on with the weather.

The month of November normally brought a steady stream of long-term vacationers from the north—affectionally called Winter Texans—who fled harsh winters for the promise of more tepid temperatures. Those who’d already set up residence in Port Alene were likely to be disappointed. Port A, usually quite predictable in her warmth, had suddenly changed her mind. That day, she was trading humidity for frigid air, and the wind, once laced with a warm, salty breeze, was offering only a cold shoulder. The palm trees lining Island Main bristled from side to side, and the town seemed to have turned inward in response. The icy wind whistled in the gap of her Tahoe’s window.

Jamie shuddered at the weather’s frigid downturn, while her partner, Cookie Hinojosa, all but cursed Mother Nature. He believed anything under seventy degrees was downright blasphemous. Jamie tilted her head toward the gray sky and welcomed the sting of air on her cheeks, her head briefly popping out the driver’s-side window. Cookie glanced over and shook his head.”

You’re very grumpy this morning,” Jamie said. She gave him a once-over, taking note of the large Dallas Cowboys logo on his chest, the silver star claiming almost all the space between his shoulders. “I see you found your favorite winter hoodie. Probably more fun to wear when they’re winning.”

Cookie turned to her and scowled. “Et tu, Brute? You’re going to dump on our favorite team? Really?”

Jamie reached over and gave her partner’s meaty shoulder a squeeze. “They need to earn our love by playing better. And we’ve been damned patient.” She rubbed her hand up and down his sleeve, noting the fabric felt cold. “You should probably break down and buy a proper winter jacket.”

“This is South Texas. Only snowbirds wear ‘proper’ winter jackets.”

Cookie dismissed the idea of wearing anything that added additional bulk to his substantial frame. “My Hawaiian shirts are sad from neglect.”

She had to agree. A long-sleeved Hawaiian shirt would look ridiculous on anyone. She rubbed her hands together and hoped the cold snap would soon dissipate, returning the balmy temperatures Port Alene normally delivered.

“I’m going to pull back a bit,” Jamie said.

Their skip of the day, Brody Rutger, owed their client, AAA Repo Services, $15,027. Brody had ducked all attempts at collection, so Jamie and Cookie had been hired to locate him and return the boat. Jamie and Cookie specialized in skip tracing, which essentially meant finding people who didn’t want to be found. They worked skips but also some surveillance—which paid well but was boring beyond belief—and some divorce cases, which also paid well but renewed Jamie’s resolve to never get married. In Jamie’s experience, if a person disappeared, the reasons involved money, private information, or violence. And secrets—always a secret.

***

Excerpt from Depths of Deceit by Laura Oles. Copyright 2022 by Laura Oles. Reproduced with permission from Laura Oles. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Laura Oles

Laura Oles is the Agatha-nominated and award-winning author of the Jamie Rush mystery series, along with short stories and nonfiction. With two decades of experience in the digital photography industry, Laura’s work has appeared in trade and consumer magazines, crime-fiction anthologies, and she served as a business columnist. Laura loves road trips, bookstores and any outdoor activity that doesn’t involve running. She lives in the Texas Hill Country with her family.

Catch Up With Laura Oles:
LauraOles.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @LauraOles
Instagram - @lauraolesauthor
Twitter - @LauraOles
Facebook - @lauraolesauthor

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

 

 

Giveaway:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Laura Oles. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

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Monday, July 25, 2022

Mailbox Monday

 

Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week.

Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles, and humongous wish lists!!
Mailbox Monday, created by Marcia @ A Girl and Her Books, has a permanent home now at Mailbox Monday.
 ************

Here’s a shout out to the administrators:
Leslie @ Under My Apple Tree 
Serena @ Savvy Verse And Wit
Martha @ Reviews By Martha's Bookshelf 
Velvet @ vvb32reads
************
                THANKS to everyone for keeping Mailbox Monday alive. 
************
Received

1: THE KINGDOMS OF SAVANNAH by George Dawes Green
courtesy of publisher via NetGalley
2: THE THINGS WE DO TO OUR FRIENDS by Heather Darwent
courtesy of publisher via NetGalley
3: NIGHT, FORGOTTEN by Meghan Joyce Tozer
courtesy of publisher via NetGalley
4: A MATTER OF HAPPINESS by Tori Whitaker
courtesy of publisher via NetGalley


Friday, July 22, 2022

THE FLOATING GIRLS by Lo Patrick

 

MY THOUGHTS
This is a debut novel and I hate that I'm writing this. I don't see how anyone can compare this to WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING.. No comparison what so ever. 

This book did not do it for me. I read the whole thing and truly was left scratching my head. The young lady telling this story, Kay, is only twelve years old. She's rude to everyone. Has the vocabulary of a sailor. Treats her family like they are less than dirt. There is absolutely nothing about her was likable. She talks about getting married multiple times so she can have different experiences. She says things that no twelve year old I have ever met or read about. If the author had made her sixteen or even fifteen I would have found it more believable. This kid was horrid not funny or feisty. She was very disrespectful and hateful. She was also sneaky and had no respect at all for her parents, who are another whole mess. The parents were for the most part useless. A dad who would not work and the mother who was "tired" all the time. Not because she did anything either. Just useless. One time it mentions the dad working and all he did was put the mom down while complaining about his back and the hard work he did while it took her all day to cook potatoes. No wonder Kay was useless. 

I didn't like any of characters in this book. Maybe the son Freddy and only because he was super smart and wanted to go to a special school for gifted kids. This book is told strictly from Kay's pov and boy does she have a lot to say. Her biggest problem is her mouth. She never shut up and she wanted to be the center of everything. Anything and everything. 

I don't get where the title came from and I must have missed something because I don't get what the very beginning was all about with the two different things about the swamp and people being in it. Were they dead? Murdered? Still alive? What? I thought the couple was doing something they shouldn't have been doing and that was not murder. If you get my drift. lol 

I just didn't enjoy this book. I kept turning the pages all the way to the very end hoping something would happen to make me understand why everyone seems to think it's so great. I'm so sorry but it's not. It was just ok. A brat with a gutter mouth. Parents who were useless. Siblings that I felt sorry for. Neighbors who had secrets and I still am left wondering about. A cop that talked to a twelve year old like she was an adult. A lost child that I missed something about because I still wonder who did what to her. I know she was found but what happened. Or who happened I should say. I just didn't think this book was that good. It was just ok. 

If this kid would have been older it would have been a good book. Still lacking, but good. It just left me scratching my head. I don't like that. 

Thank you #NetGalley, #Sourcebooks for this ARC. This is my own true thoughts about this book.

2.5-3/5 stars for me. I up it to 3 because I know it takes a lot of work to write and I appreciate that. I will try this author again if she writes another book. This one was just not for me. 

SYNOPSIS

"A masterly achievement." – Publishers Weekly STARRED review

"Many readers are looking for the next Where the Crawdads Sing, and will find The Floating Girls...is a close cousin." – Augusta Chronicle

The Floating Girls is stunning southern fiction, a wonderfully atmospheric coming-of-age family drama told from the perspective of a feisty 12-year-old girl—reminiscent of a modern-day Scout Finch—as she unravels the secrets that threaten her entire family.

Kay thought she knew everything there was to know about her family and their marsh life. But that was before the new neighbors arrived and her parents became suspects in a murder and a kidnapping. 

One hot, sticky summer in Bledsoe, Georgia, twelve-year-old Kay Whitaker stumbles across a stilt house in a neighboring marsh and upon Andy Webber, a boy about her age. He and his father have recently moved back to Georgia from California, and rumors of the suspicious drowning death of Andy's mother years earlier have chased them there and back.

Kay is fascinated and enamored with Andy, and she doesn't listen when her father tells her to stay away from the Webbers. But when Kay's sister goes missing, the mystery of Mrs. Webber's death—and Kay's parents' potential role in it—comes to light. Kay and her brothers must navigate the layers of secrets that emerge in the course of the investigation as their family, and the world as they knew it, unravels around them.

At once wickedly funny and heartbreaking, it is an immersive coming-of-age story narrated by a feisty, smart, yet undeniably vulnerable girl reminiscent of a modern-day Scout Finch—a character who will live in readers' hearts for a long time to come.

Praise for The Floating Girls:

"A powerhouse of a Southern novel. At once a poignant coming-of-age tale, a murder mystery, and an evocative tribute to the marshlands of Georgia. Lo Patrick is a standout new Southern voice." —Andrea Bobotis, author of The Last List of Miss Judith Kratt

"Kay is the smartest, funniest, most curious young narrator I have come across in some time. Her voice stuck with me long after I finished reading. If I met Kay on the street, I'd beg her to be my best friend." —Tiffany Quay Tyson, award-winning author of The Past is Never

"A cracking story that unfolds in gorgeous prose in the stultifying heat of the American South." —Hayley Scrivenor, author of Dirt Creek

"Fans of Where the Crawdads Sing will love this immersive mystery set against the salty air of Georgia's marshes. In Patrick's atmospheric prose, the water and its characters come to life." —Lindsey Rogers Cook, author of Learning to Speak Southern



Tuesday, July 19, 2022

SHOWCASE & GIVEAWAY of "DEAD IN THE ALLEY" by Sharon Michalove

Dead in the Alley by Sharon Michalove Banner

Dead in the Alley

by Sharon Michalove

July 18 - August 12, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

 

Dead in the Alley by Sharon Michalove

Synopsis:

When Bay Bishop's husband was murdered in the alley behind their northern Michigan restaurant, she thought she'd lost the love of her life.

Now she's a suspect.

And her high-school boyfriend, who left her broken-hearted years ago, is one of the detectives on the case.

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery
Published by: Indie Published
Publication Date: August 10, 2022
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 978-1-7369187-4-6
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Derrick Anderson walked out the back door of the restaurant kitchen, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. His wife, Bay, didn’t like him smoking but he definitely needed one, or three, to be the genial host this evening.

He didn’t mind that his day started at 3:00 a.m. The quiet in the restaurant soothed him and he forgot everything while he baked all the bread and prepared the desserts for the evening, maybe even try out a new idea or two. Then he’d take a nap before helping Bay set up the tables for the dinner service.

Today had been fraught. When he got back late in the day, he’d had it out with Vince about the missing cases of wine and, despite the man’s protestations of innocence, gave him his notice. Then he had a call from Wally Volker, their financial backer. Derrick needed to break Wally’s stranglehold on his balls before he left for a new life in the Maldives. A friend there had offered him the chance to manage the four themed restaurants at a new luxury resort. Besides the career boost, diving and surfing made the whole package irresistible. Why had he thought that Michigan would be a good place to escape his New York problems?

Just now, he’d had an argument with the sous chef, Ellen Paschen, and needed to cool off. He dropped the cigarette butt and ground it viciously with his toe when he heard the roar of a motorcycle revving up…

Chapter 1

New Eleanor, Michigan
Bay

The back door had slammed on the suffocating kitchen atmosphere. Derrick going out to the alley for a smoke, even though he knew I wanted him to stop. Ellen, our sous chef, glowered over a lemon sauce. Vince, our sommelier, leaned sulkily against the backdoor. Leaving them to brood on their own, I did a last-minute check of the fifteen tables for the first dinner service. We were booked for both seatings.

As the only fine-dining establishment in Sherburne, we realized early on that having set dining times worked better than a constant stream of customers. People from all over the area, both locals and tourists, had embraced the concept and our restaurant over the last two years. Our dream of creating a destination restaurant in my Northern Michigan hometown had become a reality.

We renovated a disused 1889 brewery located on the edge of town, close to the highway, creating the perfect space for our upscale restaurant. The venture cost more money than we planned, so we found a guy in Detroit who specialized in funding start-ups.

Rubbing my back as I straightened up for the last time, I looked with pride at the dining room. We had wanted an upscale but rustic feel. Snowy white tablecloths were covered with Inox hammered stainless-steel silverware; the handles designed to look like twigs. Handmade pottery that looked like the lakeshore in blues, greens, purple, and sand, came from Claybanks Pottery, down the road in New Era. Deep forest green napkins were folded into double stars, part of our signature look. In a few short years, Derrick and I had managed to make a success of our move from the frenzy of the New York City restaurant scene to my hometown of Sherburne, Michigan.

Above the dark paneled wainscoting, we had exposed brick darkened from years of brewing. Rough hardwood flooring stained black, and a pressed-tin ceiling enhanced the antique look. We festooned one exposed brick wall with enormous prints. Derrick matched his brilliance as a pastry chef with a natural gift for photography. His award-winning pictures illustrated our cookbook, Sherburne Bistro: American Classics.

Breathing deeply, I drank in the scent of grouse that permeated the space. Today marked the opening of grouse season in Michigan and our special prix fixe menu featured a British-themed dinner for tonight. Derrick’s friend, Jason, and my brother, Toby, went out hunting a couple of days ago, giving me time to hang them before plucking and cleaning them. I had brined them using a mixture of hard apple cider, fresh orange juice and peel, herbs, and spices for four hours. Then I put a sprinkling of bay leaves into the pan, giggling a little while I brushed olive oil over their fragrant flesh. My parents loved trees in the laurel family and named the three of us girls Laurel, Bay, and Olivia—guess they couldn’t stomach Olive. They told us that they expected all their children to be crowned with success, but maybe my capricious fairy godmother thought with a name like Bay, fate meant me to be a chef.

Looking at the array of oysters heaped up, ready to be opened, I reached for one and rubbed my thumb over the shell, admiring the geologic pattern. Then I picked up the curved oyster knife sitting nearby. Prying it open, I examined the flesh clinging to the pearlescent interior, then lowered my nose to inhale the scent of the ocean, briny and enticing. I loosened the flesh and slid the mollusk into my mouth, savoring the salty, mineral flavor. I had to walk away, before I ate them all.

We’d had a special menu printed up for the dinner, which I laid carefully on top of each plate, planning to offer it once a week through the end of the year.

Sherburne Bistro
The Glorious Grouse Dinner
Basket of Breads
Starter

Oysters with champagne mignonette

Rhode Island Moonstone ◾ Maine Glidden Point, Belon, Pemaquid ◾ Chesapeake Bay Olde Salt ◾ Washington State Shigoku, Kumamoto ◾ California Pacific Gold

Salad

Frisée with foie gras, pear, and cherries dressed with oil and sherry vinegar

Main Course

Whole roasted grouse napped with a wild cranberry game sauce
Pilaf of rice and mixed mushrooms garnished with chopped hazelnuts
Sweet and sour red cabbage

Dessert Selection

Nigella Lawson’s Chocolate Guinness Cake. Cambridge Burnt Creme.
Sticky toffee pudding. Cranachan. Treacle tart

Cheese Plate

White Stilton with mango and ginger
Colton Bassett Stilton
Montgomery’s Farmhouse Cheddar
Parmigiano Reggiano DOP
Water biscuits made in-house

Hearing Ellen’s bad-tempered instructions to the commis, I went back into the open kitchen with its Wolf range and two freestanding ovens—a deck oven for breads and a convection oven for pastry. When I heard the sound of a motorcycle revving up outside over Ellen’s harangue, I saw the door to the alley propped open. Vince must have gone out to join Derrick in a last cigarette. The skid, the scream, and the sound of breaking glass got my attention. Vince barreled through the door and grabbed me by the shoulders. “You don’t want to go out there, Bay.”

I tried to push around him. “Why not?”

“Oh my God. Derrick,” he choked out, eyes rolling. “It’s…it’s a hit and run. Call 911.”

“An ambulance?”

He shook his head. “Too late for that. Just have the police come.”

Vince dropped heavily to a chair and clutched the sides of his head with shaking hands. When he finally looked up at me, his eyes were swollen, and rivulets ran down his cheeks. He kept clearing his throat, but no words came out.

I stumbled across the room to the phone at the reservation stand and dialed 911 and gave them the small amount of information I had. They told me to stay on the phone until someone arrived. Only a few minutes elapsed before I heard the sirens. I informed the dispatcher, hung up, then went back to Vince. He watched as a team of police officers exited the two squad cars. An ambulance pulled up behind them.

Putting a hand on his shoulder, I tried to shake him to attention.

When he turned to look at me, tears dripped from his red-rimmed, swollen eyes. “Hit by a motorcycle. When I got out there, the rider peeled out. Left him there, surrounded by trash, broken and bleeding. I rushed over but he… he… died. Never said a word.”

Tremors hit me. I sank to my knees as the sound of screaming enveloped me. “Dead, dead, no, no, no.” I wanted the voice to shut up, leave me to mourn. My voice. And I couldn’t stop the screaming or the tears as I curled on the floor in a ball of despair.

I don’t know how long I lay there, helpless to do anything more than cry. By the time the police swarmed in, Vince had helped me to my feet and got me into a chair. With the backdoor open, late afternoon sun lit the scene, but my vantage point didn’t allow me to see Derrick.

I looked down and my watch glinted back at me. We were supposed to open in a little over an hour. Vince hovered in the corner. I called out. “Vince, could you put a sign on the door and start calling people with reservations? Tell them we’re closed.”

He nodded and walked toward the reservation stand.

“Mrs. Anderson?” A policewoman stood in the doorway.

“Bishop,” I croaked.

She checked me out, her lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “O-kay, Ms. Bishop.” Her arms were folded across her chest. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Fresh tears welled but I wiped them away as I sniffled a few times. “Thanks.” I could barely push the word out.

“Did you see anything?”

My head bobbed a negative.

“I wouldn’t let her see, Macie,” Vince yelled from the dining room, sounding both protective and belligerent.

My head snapped up and I stared at her. Macie Collier had gone to school with my younger sister, Livvy. Even though I had been back for more than two years, I didn’t realize that Macie had joined the police force here. And how the hell did Vince know her?

“I thought you moved to Detroit.”

She flinched at my tone. “Didn’t like the big city life. I came back about a year ago. Guess you didn’t notice.” Hands on hips, she said, “You came back too.”

“Livvy didn’t say anything.”

She shrugged. “We don’t hang out much these days. Our lives kind of moved on different tracks after she went to Pratt.” She cleared her throat.

“Are you going to question me now?”

“Just waiting for Detective Fairchild. He’ll be in charge of the case.”

I stood and rolled my shoulders. “Do I need to ID the body?”

“Not necessary. The scene is pretty gruesome. Just as well that Vince kept you from looking.”

Gruesome. What did that mean? I slumped back into the chair, my lungs working hard to get in any air.

“I’m sure the detective will explain everything,” she said.

Macie leaned against the open kitchen door watching us, occasionally turning her head to look out as the police team scoured the alley for evidence. Then a man in a plaid sports jacket loomed up behind her. “Excuse me, Officer Collier.” She stepped aside. “Ms. Bishop? I’m Detective Fairchild.”

I looked past Macie as she moved to let Fairchild pass through. A few inches taller than my five five, shaven head, dark eyes, and stubble dotting his jaw. He closed the door, scratched his cheek, and leaned against the big worktable.

“Not a typical hit and run. Your husband looked like he might have been targeted. Whoever hit him deliberately ran over the body a couple of times.”

I could picture Derrick, lying in the alley, his body mangled, blood everywhere. My gag reflex kicked in, along with my overactive imagination, and I barely made it to the large commercial sink, pushing the dishwasher as I doubled over. When I wobbled to my feet, Ellen handed me a glass of water. Swishing warm water around cleared out the sour taste in my mouth.

I put down the glass and stared at the floor, my mind a whirl of conflicting ideas. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want him dead. True, he could be prickly, but that didn’t get you killed. People came to the restaurant for his desserts. None of that added up to being murdered by motorcycle.

“Could it have been mistaken identity?”

Macie snorted. “He’s dressed in his chef clothes, minus the tall hat.”

“Toque,” I said absently. Fairchild glared and her mouth snapped shut.

I stared at the grouse [k1] [SM2] and began putting plastic wrap over the pans. Seeing my sous chef, slack-eyed, leaning against a counter, I called out, “Ellen. Start putting these back in the cooler.” She jerked to attention, then robotically came over and picked up the pan, immediately dropping it on the floor.

“S-S-Sorry.” Her face drooped, a study in misery.

I motioned to the commis. “Just get it cleaned up.” Then I went back to covering the birds. Ellen picked up another pan and shoved it in the refrigerator.

Fairchild cleared his throat as he gazed around the kitchen at the small audience.

“Do you have an office?”

As we walked out of the kitchen and down a short corridor, he said, “Are you contacting your customers?”

I looked over at the edge of the desk, then nodded.

“Don’t give out any information. Just say unforeseen circumstances.”

“I’ll go tell Vince. He’s making the calls.”

When I got back, Fairchild sat behind the desk, fingers tented under his chin.

I bristled at the way he had co-opted my space. Then reality socked me in the eye. I collapsed into the chair.

“Did your husband have any enemies you know of?”

My lips pursed while I thought over his question. Derrick fit in surprisingly well for a big-city boy, learning to fish and hunt. He hung out with my brother and his friends. Joined Rotary and went to the lunches.

“Not here. We moved from New York to open the restaurant, but I don’t think he had any enemies who would have followed him.”

“Why did you choose Sherburne?” He leaned the chair back, his tone conversational.

“I’m from here. We wanted to open our own place, and Northern Michigan is much less expensive than New York. Less competition for fine dining too. We could see a better future.”

Fairchild’s phone beeped and he gave me a look that said get out. “Excuse me, but I need to take this.”

I walked out the door, leaving it slightly ajar, and leaned against the wall. He mumbled something, but I couldn’t catch the words.

Then he called out. “Ms. Bishop, you can come back in.”

He started to speak as I crossed the threshold. “The ambulance is going to take him now.”

Then the office door slammed against the wall as my dad walked in and glared at Fairchild. “Bay. You okay?”

“Dad?”

“Why are you here, Mr. Bishop?” Fairchild asked with icy politeness.

“Vince called me. I’m going to take you home, Bay. You can find her at the Bishop Inn, Detective Fairchild.”

I almost laughed at that description. Bishop Inn hadn’t been my home for almost two decades. Even though I’d agreed to move back to Sherburne, our uneasy truce kept me on edge. My parents fell in love with Derrick; I felt like the outsider. My dad arriving on the scene threw me.

Fairchild’s lips twisted at my dad’s pronouncement, but he managed to say, “Fine. We’re still working the scene and the medical examiner has to look at the body. I’ll be at the Inn sometime in the next few hours. In the meantime, may I use your office, Ms. Bishop? I’ll let you know if we need to remove anything.”

My eyes searched the office, but I didn’t see anything incriminating. “What would you need to remove?”

“We’ll need to go through your business records and check the computer. I’ll need the password. I can have an officer work here, but we’d rather take everything back to the station.”

“Get it later, Fairchild. Can’t you see she’s in no state to talk to you?” Fairchild brushed past my dad. I tried to stand up again, but my legs wouldn’t hold me and I dropped back to the chair. Dad leaned down and kissed my cheek, then pulled out a handkerchief to mop my face. Deciding that today, my family could be my refuge, I stood and let him put his arm around me. “Let’s go, kiddo. Let your staff close the place up.”

I scanned the dining room. The kitchen had emptied out and everyone stood around, looking at me. Ellen, our sous chef, made shooing motions. “Go home with your dad, Bay. We’ve got this.”

I threw her a grateful look as my dad led me out.

A siren stuttered, then blared. The ambulance. I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat as I thought of Derrick, encased in a body bag, being loaded into the meat wagon. We’d been together for ten years, married for six. We were a team. I couldn’t imagine how I would be able to go on without him.

*****

Mourning had to take a back seat to business. When Derrick’s mother and father went back to New York, I breathed a sigh of relief at being able to go home. Three days had seemed more like three weeks. I let them stay at our place, and I stayed at the Inn, which made everyone but me more comfortable.

Helen and Frank seemed more interested in what would happen to the restaurant than the fact their son had died. Smiles morphed into frowns when they realized that they would not get a fat payoff. In fact, they had expected to inherit everything. Despite all evidence to the contrary, they hadn’t really believed Derrick and I were married, even though we’d invited them to join us at City Hall.

The empty feeling in the cute cottage Derrick and I had bought made me think of selling, but I needed to face the challenge of living by myself head-on. Family to roommates to Derrick, I had never lived alone. I looked around at the cream-colored walls, overstuffed couch, bookcases stuffed with cookbooks, and a big-screen TV in the corner. Maybe I’d get a cat.

An early morning meeting drove me out of the house to the restaurant. I picked my way down streets made unrecognizable in the morning fog. I pulled into the parking lot with relief and parked, not worrying about lines and spaces. I could move the car after the haze burned off. After a few days of being closed, the building smelled of dust and the faint reminder of hops and barley.

Empty filing cabinets and no computer greeted me when I opened the office door. I would have to call Detective Fairchild and find out about getting everything back. In the meantime, we’d have to use the backup laptop from home.

Food hadn’t been appealing lately but today hunger gnawed at me now. With no food in the cottage, I crossed my finger that I could forage something in the restaurant freezer. I thawed some of the sourdough bread Derrick made for the restaurant and grilled toast.

Nibbling on a slice slathered with rich butter and homemade cherry jam brought comfort as I remembered the two of us in the kitchen for hours before the staff arrived. Derrick kneading the bread in the big mixer while I planned menus. A faint hint of the yeasty smell of rising dough and the scent of freshly baked boules, as they came crackling from the specially built bread oven, had me hiccupping with emotion.

The memories warmed me, even as the sense of loss rolled over me like the tide washing up the beach. I wanted to cry out to Derrick. Who could hate you that much? How do I go on without you? I looked down at the plate of half-eaten toast and no longer saw any comfort.

My stomach turned and I quickly slid the remnants into a small plastic bag I retrieved from one of the cabinets. The jam jar shone like a jewel in the sun and the fat slab of butter mocked me as I thrust them into the small fridge. I tied the bag handles into a knot and slipped out the back door. The dumpster sat near our back door into the alley, the aroma of stale fat and decaying vegetables assaulting me when I tossed away my traitorous memories and my anger with the crusts.

As I turned back to the door, a rusty stain on the door sill caught my eye. Derrick’s blood. Scuttling back into the kitchen, I threw up the little I had eaten, then went back into the office for the cardigan I kept in the armoire that covered the wall behind the desk. Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing for Derrick to hold me close. A sob tore through my chest. Derrick wasn’t here, and nothing would ever be right again.

A knock at the door alerted me to the arrival of our financier, Wally Volker. A Detroit venture capitalist, he specialized in financing restaurants. When we first decided to move to Sherburne and open our own place, Derrick approached several firms. Wally showed an interest in the concept, the location, and after sampling our food, he told us he could definitely help.

I spent a few moments staring at him through the glass paneled wood doors, then turned the lock and let him slip in before relocating it and pulling down the blinds. Even at 10:00 a.m. he has dark circles under his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Wally yawned. “Sorry. I picked up coffee before I left, and a donut, so I wouldn’t have to stop along the way. There’s a place down the road from me. Guess one cup didn’t really get my engine going.” He held out an empty cup, shaking it. I could hear the rattle of paper inside. I pointed to a wastepaper basket and he tossed it in like a basketball.

“Do you want more coffee? I can make some French press.”

“Nah. Let’s get this over with. Then we can go somewhere for lunch.” He put down a briefcase that seemed to bulge. Papers, maybe?

I looked at him, nonplussed. He had extended his condolences at the visitation that Derrick’s parents had insisted on and again at the funeral. Did he intend to condole me every time he saw me until the end of time? I sighed.

Now unencumbered, he clasped my hands in his and kissed me. His silvery white beard scraped against my cheek, and I drew back.

Voice surprisingly high, eyes like dark wells under the black brows that contrasted sharply with his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, and a long, narrow, vulpine face reminded me of the big, bad wolf. Was I Little Red Riding Hood or would he huff and puff and blow my house down? For the last couple of days, dreams of fairy tales gone bad disturbed my sleep. The scowl on his face signaled more bad news. He opened the case and dumped a load of paper on the desk. “I picked up the paperwork from the police on my way over.”

“Why?”

“Why did I pick it up or what brought me to the police station?”

“Both.”

“The police called to let me know they found my stolen motorcycle.”

“Oh,” I said dully, not really interested.

“When I mentioned meeting with you, Detective Fairchild gave me the documents to bring over and said they’d return the computer later this morning.”

Rubbing my hands together on this chilly late September morning, I gestured toward the piles of paper on the table. “Have you looked through these?”

He shrugged. “I thought we could go over it together.”

I stalked back to the table and picked up a stack of documents, leafing through them, my jaw going slack as I took in the contents. “Unpaid vendor bills.” Checking another stack, I groaned. “A late notice on our insurance.”

My eye fell on several documents lying on the blotter. I blanched. My voice a cobra’s hiss, I said, “A missive from the bank, impressing on me the necessity discharging the outstanding payments on the house mortgage.

I picked up two others and waved them in his face. “Notices for nonpayment on the mortgage on the restaurant building.” I paused, gasping for air, picturing a Dickensesque scene with huge, uniformed men with mutton-chop whiskers carrying out all the furnishings.

Wally had been looking at yet another pile. He looked more basset hound than wolf, as his jowls slackened and drooped. “Your bank accounts are almost at zero. A few dollars in checking. Saving account empty. Investments cashed in.” My anger boiled up at his look of pity.

I threw the papers back onto the table, then slammed my fist into the hard wood before turning back to him, tears coursing down my cheeks.

“What’s going on here? Did Derrick know? Why didn’t you do something?” He came toward me, and I backed away, pushing a chair aside in my haste to move out of his reach.

“I’m sorry, Bay. All the paperwork Derrick sent me looked fine. My percentage payments arrived on time. But he must have known. Maybe there is another set of books? A lock box in the safe? Do you have a safety deposit box?”

“I didn’t find anything like that.”

Wally grabbed another fistful of documents, rapidly scanning them and sorting them into piles. “Late payments for supplies. But enough to keep the suppliers from cutting you off completely. Looks like he used cash advances to meet payroll. There were no indications of where the money went. The receipts looked healthy enough, assuming they were legit.” He tapped long, narrow fingers against the unpaid bill pile, rubbing his chin with his other hand. “Any signs of new accounts, Bay?”

New accounts? I twisted my rings around my finger over and over.

“Not that I know of.” My legs started to buckle, and Wally jumped up and shoved a chair against the backs of my knees before I could topple.

We stared at each other across the table. The silence stretched out and I thought our conversation might be over. My face dropped into my hands, and I fought not to cry, my swollen eyes almost closed.

The clatter of chair legs alerted me he had gotten up. His footsteps made a sharp, rapping sound against the wooden planks. His voice distant. “If he siphoned off money, he wouldn’t use a local bank. We’ll have to look through all the paperwork and the computer files. Maybe there will be a trail.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

“Well, my dear, if we can’t find the money, I’m afraid you will have to close the restaurant and sell the assets.”

“Wha-wha-what about insurance?” I wiped my eyes with one of the pristine napkins still adorning the tables. Through swollen lids I peered at him. I could almost see the wheels turning.

Wally flicked one of the paper piles. “Since you owned the business jointly, insurance won’t cover this. As an owner, technically he had a right to the money. Besides, you don’t have any insurance.”

“What?”

“You said he hadn’t paid the premiums.”

My heart sank as I reached for a jokey response. “Guess burning down the building won’t get me anywhere.”

Black humor that went nowhere. “You’ll have to sell the house too.”

His words pummeled me like a sudden fall of golf-ball-sized hail. My teeth chattered. I couldn’t help the hopeless moan his words wrenched out of me as a vision of crawling home to Bishop Inn rose in my mind’s eye. Thomas Wolfe wrote that you can’t go home again. Wrong, Tom. Sometimes you have no choice.

Pressure built in my chest, and I felt heat rising from my toes up through my trunk. Fire burned in my face and ears. Wally’s phone rang. I strained but couldn’t hear the whispered conversation. “Who?” I mouthed.

He turned off the phone. “The police. They’ll be by in a few minutes with your computer. In the meantime, call the bank and make an appointment for this afternoon to talk about your next steps. I’m afraid this mess won’t be resolved for a while.”

Sell my house. Lose the restaurant. Deal with betrayal. I wanted to mourn Derrick in peace but now I couldn’t mourn him at all. All remembrances of love, of happy times—gone. Bitterness at his betrayal filled my mouth with acid. I ran into the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and washed out my mouth over and over.

When I walked back out, Wally looked over and waved a sheaf of papers at me. “Go make copies of these. I’ll bring you the rest. After we consult with the bankers, I’ll take them back to Detroit and see if I can find anyway to fix at least some of this.”

I grabbed the papers and started backing toward the corridor that led to the restrooms and the office. He called after me. “After lunch, you can also forward me anything involving the business that’s on the computer.”

An hour later, two uniformed officers arrived and handed me the restaurant computer. One of the officers talked to Wally about the theft of his motorcycle.

“I reported the theft in Detroit,” I heard him say.

“We found an abandoned Yamaha that matches the description of yours.”

“You’re joking.”

“The lab guys are checking it out. But we’re pretty sure it’s yours.”

“Why would someone steal a motorcycle in Detroit and dump it here?”

“You’d have to speak with Detective Fairchild about that.”

I had tried to believe in Derrick’s death as accidental. Wally’s motorcycle as the murder weapon? Once I thought it, the word became a chant in my head. Murder, murder, murder.

My guts clenched in agony. I ran to the women’s bathroom and vomited bile over and over, eventually collapsing on the cold tile floor. Wally found me there and helped me out into the dining room.

Then I took a deep breath and called my parents to ask if I could come home.

***

Excerpt from Dead in the Alley by Sharon Michalove. Copyright 2022 by Sharon Michalove. Reproduced with permission from Sharon Michalove. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Sharon Michalove

Sharon Michalove grew up in suburban Chicago. She received four degrees from the University of Illinois because she didn't have the gumption to go anywhere else, and spent most of her career at the university, eventually earning a PhD, working in departmental administration, publishing and libraries. Her specialties are 15th-16th century European history, polar exploration, and food history. She may be one of the few people in America to never live outside her home state.

In graduate school, she met and married the love of her life. They shared a love of music, theater, travel and cats. He died in 2013.

Sharon also loves hockey, reading, cooking, writing, and various less elevated activities like eating cookies and sampling gins and single malts. After spending most of her life in a medium-sized university town she moved back to Chicago in 2017 so she could go to more Blackhawks games and spend quality time at Eataly. In 2021 she accomplished a lifetime goal by publishing her first novel. Unfortunately her other lifetime goal, to be English, is likely to remain unfulfilled.

Catch Up With Sharon Michalove:
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Facebook - @sharonmichalove

 

 

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Monday, July 18, 2022

SHOWCASE & GIVEAWAY of "SEE YOU NEXT TUESDAY' by Ken Harris

See You Next Tuesday by Ken Harris Banner

See You Next Tuesday

by Ken Harris

July 11 - August 5, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

See You Next Tuesday by Ken Harris

From the Case Files of Steve Rockfish

PI Steve Rockfish's father loses part of his retirement savings in an online romance scam while partner Jawnie McGee handles the firm's newest client who spins a tale of alleged spousal infidelity. Rockfish ignores his current case load and becomes fixated on tracking down those responsible for the fraud. Restitution is coming in the form of cash or broken bones. At the same time, Jawnie's surveillance of the cheating spouse reveals more acts of kindness than sex leading to a client who doesn't want to believe the good news.

Unbeknownst to the partners, each investigative path leads the partners to the Church of the Universal Nurturing II where the fraud is on a cryptocurrency level. Their new SunCoin is marketed as the only post-rapture currency accepted inside the pearly gates. After all, who wants to show up to the after party with out-turned pockets and not get past Heaven's paywall?

Church elders court Rockfish and his new-found Hollywood wealth with an old-fashioned honey pot. The danger level ratchets up as Rockfish counters by sending the firm's two new confidential informants undercover only to find the church's endgame grift is larger and deadlier than anyone expected.

Praise for See You Next Tuesday:

"Action packed and smartly written."

Kevin Somers, GoodReads Review

"Harris has created his own sub-genre with this series, which is a beautiful and unique thing to see. Beloved characters must brave the most dangerous, harrowing journey yet. The suspense woven through this tale is done with a finesse rarely seen, and ensures we stay glued to the page."

Ben Eads, author of Cracked Sky and Hollow Heart

"The second in the Case Files of Steve Rockfish series begins with separate cases involving a cheating husband, a corrupt religious cult, a stockpile of poison gas, and a currency scam. The cases come together in a wild ride worthy of a chase scene in a movie, as the detectives pursue the cult leader in a rip-roaring page turner of an ending."

Carolyn Geduld, author of Take Me Out The Back and Who Shall Live

"Harris takes you on two journeys you hope will never happen to family members but fear it could. The emotional roller coaster you will ride, keeps you reading and hoping the end comes with a taste of sweet revenge. Harris finds a way to weave a story that keeps you turning the pages and wanting more Rockfish."

Stephen W. Briggs, author of Family of Killers-Memoirs of an Assassin

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction, Crime Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: July 14th 2022
Number of Pages: 546
ISBN: 1684339898 (ISBN13: 9781684339891)
Series: Case Files of Steve Rockfish, #2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

After a couple of early morning passes for Jawnie to grab a handful of fresh photos, the team backtracked to an abandoned gas station they had passed on the way in. Rockfish parked the van behind the dilapidated building. Jawnie bundled their supplies and they headed out with backpacks bursting at the seams. It would be a two-mile trek to the edge of the woods overseeing Diane’s trailer.

The route would take them along the main road for half a mile and then a diagonal cut across fields littered with large, round hay bales before entering the woods for the rest of the hike. As they veered off the road, Jawnie wanted to pick up the pace so that they weren’t visible to any curious drivers coming down this open stretch of highway. But one glance at her partner told her he was already looking forward to the first rest stop.

They arrived at their vantage point an hour and fifteen minutes later. Rockfish dropped his backpack and took up position on the ground. “Let me sit here for a minute and I’ll be okay, I swear.”

Jawnie slid off her pack and patted Rockfish on the shoulder as she walked over to get a better view of their target. The line of sight was perfect. She could use her telephoto lens and look down into the trailer through a window. They were close enough to watch what went on in the backyard without the help of her camera. The field between them and Diane’s was also littered with the large round hay bales. They’ll provide more than ample cover if I need to get closer for any reason.

“Nice job picking the spot, boss. I hope you live to walk another day.”

“Fucking Bataan Death March had nothing on this hike,” Rockfish said and Jawnie could tell he had yet to catch his breath.

They set up their gear and took turns peering through the camera’s telephoto lens, down onto the property and sometimes straight through the uncovered window. It wasn’t long before Jawnie concluded that the only people at home were Sunny and another woman who she assumed was Diane.

“No sign of Roan unless they’re keeping him in some back bedroom and not letting him out. But all these two are doing is eating cereal and watching television. The View was on. Now it’s turned to The Price is Right.”

“See, now you’re experiencing the glamour side of being a P.I. Not all of it is meeting with Mafia Dons and car chases. I used to love this grunt work, but this old body sure doesn’t want to keep up.”

“Sit tight,” Jawnie said. “You keep providing that wit and wisdom and I’ll take care of the physical stuff. Partners, remember?”

The quiet morning hours slowly turned into an equally uneventful afternoon where Rockfish spent way too long bitching about the Nature Valley pressed cardboard bars that Jawnie had packed for lunch. And she, without hesitation, returned fire.

“If you hadn’t done takeout from the Waffle House this morning, you could have spared us all, and not had to keep making that twenty-minute hike back into the woods every hour on the hour. That stuff isn’t meant for anyone’s stomach, and those cardboard bars are binding. We should all be thankful for that.”

“Maybe it’s the water?”

She looked down at the Dasani bottle at her feet. Yeah, it’s definitely the water and not seventeen grams of pure grease. I’d better change the subject before this goes any further.

“We’re going to want to get one of those trackers on that Jeep down there.”

“Yup, hopefully once it gets dark, we’ll draw straws,” Rockfish said.

“I’m letting you know I’m going to do it. I’m quicker, a smaller visual target and won’t need CPR upon my return.”

Jawnie was into the last hour of her shift on the camera, a little after 2pm, when the back door to the trailer opened. The women emerged and walked across the lawn towards the trampoline. They’re not going to jump on this thing, are they? She watched them crawl through the netting and lay in the center. Now they’re not dressed for sunbathing, not to mention the sun isn’t cooperating this afternoon and it’s freaking mid-April. Jawnie hunched over the camera’s tripod and swung it towards the trampoline. A flash of light caught her attention, and she zoomed in. The flick of a lighter and a hand rolled joint passed between the two. Jawnie wouldn’t need to wait for the cover of darkness when a THC haze would do the trick.

Jawnie turned and waved Rockfish over. “Look at this.”

He glanced through the telephoto lens, and she relayed her plan. Rockfish kept nodding as he agreed. Or is he enjoying the view? I’m going and won’t take no for an answer.

“Okay, no dillydallying. Down and back,” Rockfish said. “Put your phone on vibrate in your back pocket. If it goes off, turn around and head back. That means they’ve moved off the trampoline and I don’t want you taking any chances. You got me? Vibrate equals full stop and start working your way back. No hesitation, get back here, moving from bale to bale to bale.”

“Got it.”

“Come back as careful as you went down. If you hear my voice, then you know shit’s gone sideways. Time to put on your track shoes.”

Jawnie took one of the GPS trackers and carried it in her right hand. She serpentined from one hay bale to the next until she had made her way down to where the field met Diane’s property. Jawnie peeked out around the large bale and could see it was a diagonal sprint, twenty yards to her left, to where the Jeep Wrangler sat in the driveway. She peeked around the other side but could not see past the trailer’s back corner. Back on the left side of the bale, she knew her best shot would be to aim for the passenger side rear wheel. Snap this puppy on and then slide around the back to reassess. Fuck, I hope no one drives down the road at that point.

Jawnie inhaled deeply and took off. If she were wrong and there was a third occupant, who was in the front living room, she’d be fucked before she got halfway. She reached the Jeep in six long strides and the driveway gravel gave way as she slammed on the brakes. Jawnie landed on her ass and popped right back up. She slapped the tracker up into the wheel well and heard the satisfying clunk. She pulled her hand back. Well, it didn’t fall out. That’s a bonus. No buzz from Rockfish yet. Time to press that luck he told me not to. She presumed that if no one had fired a load of buckshot over her head by now, no one was sitting in the living room, looking out over the front yard.

She worked her way around the back end of the Jeep and then forward, along the driver’s side, towards the set of double windows next to the small front porch. Jawnie reached up and stood on her tiptoes to peek inside. The stench of cigarettes hit her senses from the open window before her eyes focused on the inside. A second later, when they did, she wished they hadn’t. The place was a disaster. Domino’s boxes and Big Gulp cups littered any flat surface. And then she saw it. Someone had draped a black leather duster over a wooden chair next to the small dinette.

Fucking B-I-N-G-O was her name-o. A fist pump and a game of hay bale Frogger later, Rockfish claimed she resembled the cat that had eaten the friggin canary and went back for seconds.

“He’s here,” Jawnie stammered. “I mean not right now, but he’s been here, and odds are he’s coming back, if not for the jacket, another round of good times. Raffi and Lynn both mentioned that damn coat.”

“And you saw no one else?”

“No one. When I got back to the field, I stopped behind that first bale and looked back to see if I had missed anything, but you saw that.”

“I did. Now let’s make sure this thing actually works after making the trip.” Rockfish pulled out his cell and opened the tracking app. “Good clean signal,” he said. “I believe we’re in business. I hope someone gets in that Jeep and heads out so we can really test this thing out.”

“Based on the Domino’s delivery boxes piled up, I think the only destination you’ll get off that one is 7/11. Cigarettes and Big Gulps runs.” “Don’t forget the rolling papers,” Rockfish said. He put his fist out and she bumped it. That was her attaboy, and Jawnie couldn’t have been happier.

She sat back on the ground and her heart continued to beat as if it would come through her ribcage. Jawnie tried to relax but had a hard time settling back into the waiting game. The adrenaline rush from that little ten-minute operation was the first on the job, legit high she had experienced. She couldn’t wait for the Jeep to head out for Earl or for him to show up. It didn’t matter whether the action came at dinner or lunch tomorrow. She’d be ready.

Jawnie’s second opportunity came after ten that night before they were ready to call it a day. Rockfish had tracked the headlights as they came down the road and turned into the driveway, sans blinker. An old Chevy pickup pulled in behind the Jeep and backfired before the engine died. The driver quickly climbed the porch steps carrying a twelve pack of beer in his right hand. The small porch light above the door lit Earl Porbeagle in all his glory. Rockfish knew when he saw him. The man could pass for any Kilingess resident, in a tank top and jeans.

An hour passed before the kitchen and living room lights went off, one at a time. A couple of seconds, later Rockfish could see through the telephoto lens a light from a rear window at the back of the trailer had flickered on. It illuminated the far corner of the backyard.

“Hey, I think we’re primed—”

Jawnie was three hay bales deep into the field before Rockfish could tell her it was time.

She followed the same path as before and stopped again at the last bale that separated the field from the property. Her breathing was calmer on this second trip, and she looked around the left side of the hay bale at her target. The porch light lit little more than the small landing and the front half of the Jeep. Darkness smothered the old pickup. Jawnie counted to three and stepped out into the open. She slowed this time as she approached the driveway and didn’t end up on her ass.

Jawnie crouched down at the right rear wheel and reached up the side of the truck to the bed wall. These old trucks had holes on the top of the bedsides, called stake pockets, or so Rockfish claimed. It would be an undetectable spot; he swore on it. She ran her hand along the top of the bed and easily found the first one. Clunk.

Well, I’ll be damned. Old man knows his shit. She turned and bent over, stayed low and sprinted back to the confines of the hay bales.

***

Excerpt from See You Next Tuesday by Ken Harris. Copyright 2022 by Ken Harris. Reproduced with permission from Ken Harris. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Ken Harris

Ken Harris retired from the FBI, after thirty-two years, as a cybersecurity executive. With over three decades writing intelligence products for senior Government officials, Ken provides unique perspectives on the conventional fast-paced crime thriller. He is the author of the “From the Case Files of Steve Rockfish” series. He spends days with his wife Nicolita, and two Labradors, Shady and Chalupa Batman. Evenings are spent playing Walkabout Mini Golf and cheering on Philadelphia sports. Ken firmly believes Pink Floyd, Irish whiskey and a Montecristo cigar are the only muses necessary. He is a native of New Jersey and currently resides in Northern Virginia.

The Pine Barrens Stratagem published on January, 27, 2022. The sequel, See You Next Tuesday published July 14th and the third in the trilogy A Bad Bout of the Yips is coming March 9, 2023.

Catch Up With Ken Harris:
www.KenHarrisFiction.com
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Twitter - @08025writes
Facebook - @kah623
Twitch - @KenHarrisFiction

 

 

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The Sirens by Emilia Hart

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