Gary Grossman Presents Old Earth - An Orwellian Dystopian Thriller???

 “Trust no one. Know everything. Have eyes and ears around the world. Put nothing in writing—ever. But read into everything. Follow the leads, yet never leave tracks. Don’t allow anyone into your world, but enter everyone else’s.”--Martin Gruber

Colin Kavanaugh, like Martin Gruber, had studied at King’s College in London, and through a religion and philosophy professor, was encouraged to take a special off-campus curriculum taught by teachers from the Pontifical Scots College in Rome. The lessons were not in the catalogue or even sanctioned by the college. Rather, they were quietly offered on an invitation-only basis at a retreat in Bracciano, a small town thirty kilometers northwest of Rome. The school itself was founded December 5, 1600 by Pope Clement VIII, principally to provide religious education to young Scotsmen, who could not receive a Catholic education because of the laws against Catholics at home. Other than the two times it was shut down—when the French invaded Rome in 1798 and during World War II—it has remained a well-respected institution, renowned for sending priests to Scotland. However, the special, private program, which carried no course credit or affiliation, provided open-air education in a very closed environment. Secretum. It offered a way to screen for potential candidates who could answer a most important calling.

New Haven, CT 

McCauley grabbed an oven-roasted turkey hoagie from the Book Trader Cafe on the Yale University campus and brought it back to his office. He logged onto Pandora’s Frank Sinatra channel, always his default when he had important things on his mind. It relaxed him. 

Where? Exactly where this year? he thought as he took a satisfying bite of his dinner. He studied a topographical map of Montana with three strategically placed push pins indicating the final areas he was considering. Beside each pin was a yellow sticky note with numbers 1, 2 and 3. McCauley had put through the paperwork months ago for three potential sites; all offering interesting challenges for his students and the potential for a cool find or two. State park commissions had already given conditional approval for each location. But he still needed to complete the application process. They were due in Billings in just five days. At the end of last summer, McCauley had flown over the area and found each attractive for different reasons. Site 1, Hell Creek, Montana, was noted for its mudstones and sandstones dating back to the end of the Cretaceous period, with fossils of triceratops, tyrannosaurus, and Ornithomimids. Interesting. Site 2, further east, had real possibilities. It was just outside of Glendive, MT. Maybe, he said to himself. Site 3 was north, part of a pre-historic riverbed and was certain to garner great finds just a few feet down. But he found that less challenging. No adventure. He figured there’d be initial excitement, then with the same results week after week—boredom. 

McCauley finished chewing another bite, quickly catching a piece of turkey as it dropped out of the bun. He did it instinctively, like the first baseman he’d been in Little League, high school and college. He still had a quick hand and a great throwing arm. He swallowed the last of his sandwich, studied the map again and pulled the pin and paper off Site 3. That makes it easier. Down to two. The music on his computer segued from Sinatra to Dean Martin,

Dean Martin to Matt Monro, a crooner considered the British Sinatra. The “From Russia to Love” theme broke his concentration. “Pete!” he shouted. “Need a little help.” DeMeo left his adjoining office and was at McCauley’s side in seconds. “Ready.” “I’m torn between Sites 1 and 2, but drawn more to 2. Give me arguments why we shouldn’t go there.” “You want them right now?” “Yes.” “Site 1 is better. Earth that you can dig and geological footprints evident everywhere. Perfect grazing grounds. And that means perfect remains.” “I know. But the strata at 2 appeals to me.” “Harder. More challenges. Cliffs and valleys. You’ll need better equipment. More money.” “Forget the money. If I made my decisions on money, I would have stuck with baseball. ” DeMeo had heard the stories about the Red Sox looking at the young McCauley. They even made an offer his junior year at Harvard which he turned down. “Let’s sleep on it for a few days. See what you can come up with.” After a pause he added, “And while you’re at it, find out why the Brits had this thing about Matt Monro.”

“Black is the color of my true love’s hair,” McCauley said, citing the traditional Appalachian folk song “Wrong again. You have no true love.

~~~

Readers will quickly discover there are two distinct settings for Grossman's book. One in a publishing company setting where various travel magazines are front and center... However, behinds the scenes, there is a world-wide group who are committed to "The Path." Gruber is now head of both; and, as he is growing older, is working to find and train his replacement for the more important part of what will be a life-long commitment.

“No ‘I think,’” Gruber demanded of Kavanaugh. “Never ‘I think.’ Never! Own what you say. If you don’t own it, then it is not ready to be said.”

Colin Kavanaugh has been working with Gruber, but as time goes by, both find themselves unsatisfied with what is happening. There is a 40-year age difference; however, I think that readers will have the same type of concerns that Gruber has in evaluating his top candidate...

Past, present, future. It is all one. No mistakes.” “I understand, Mr. Gruber. You have my assurance.” “Not just your assurance. Your dedication. Your commitment. Your faith.” “Forever. Without question.” 

“You will be a guardian without the luxury of failure.”

At the same time, we enter into the life of Professor McCauley who is teaching as Yale's paleontologist and is now preparing for his summer dig site. Three options now need to be explored and one will be chosen. His group of students will be small, all coming from other U.S. universities with one coming in from Spain. McCauley will be on his own this time since his postgrad assistant is touring Europe this summer... At least McCauley thought he would be on his own, until he learned that another professor would be doing an evaluation of him this year. He was not pleased--but this does work out very well...LOL Especially when she was both beautiful and an awarding-winning scholar from England...

A third, less covered, setting will take readers back into the 1600s. But don't think it will be a minor part. In fact, it is the basis upon which the entire book is built... Ever heard of Galileo? Well, don't be surprised that much of what he gets involved with, you will never have heard of. On Purpose...

The overall concept will center on science, versus religion, versus the good of mankind... Grossman does an extraordinary achievement in pulling each factor in the story--brining in each group as needed, just in time for the reader to understand the connection and also, sometimes, the results which keeps the story moving forward.

But it is certainly not a boring, dry tale. Readers will be centered on the student group in Montana, where Professor McCauley had established some basic areas for each students to become involved with. It is then he takes off to explore the area that encompasses what his site. It requires chasing away large birds next, and finding a cave which appears to have not been touched since, perhaps, the indigenous people who had once lived in the area that was now controlled and managed by the state. The area has been known for many years to have once been inhabited by dinosaurs--the group's main target of interest...

But McCauley's tour of the cave, with many paintings by the Native Americans is intriguing, especially when it appears that there is a guiding pattern leading further into the cave... Yes, the entire group gets excited because this appears to be a totally unexplored area! And they decide to change their plans!

And that is when the action begins. Soon news of their activities has reached across the world, especially to Room 10 in the publishing building...

Unfortunately this is not an easy book to break out any scenes of interest. As indicated earlier...starting in the 1600s, we learn that the violence begins, but not from an expected group--at least in today's world...

May 10, 1633

Rome, Italy “Assuredly, we can all reflect on the meaning of time,” Galileo argued. “It is not ours to control any more than the truth. You may do what you want with me now, but it’s temporal only to us; a pyrrhic victory for you and those who sit in judgment of science.” Father Vincenzo Maculano sat silently. His fellow inquisitors had left, as had the Vatican scribe. Just two men now, continuing to explore a most uncommon ground. “Tell me Father, how did you find out?” Galileo asked. The inquisitor smiled. “Quite simply. Your coterie.” “My coterie? I don’t understand?” “The thinker doesn’t think?” Maculano declared. “Are you so old that you have forgotten your friends Pino and Santori?”

June 21, 1633

Rome Galileo fully recognized it was not just the Church he faced. Father Maculano was charged with a goal greater than defending the faith. He was protecting the institution. “You believe that science justifies your vaulted intellectual pursuits; that your ideas are as limitless as the skies. They are not. We live with laws of the state and our firmly held Canon Laws. When it comes to standing up to you, Galileo Galilei, they are one and the same. You are a threat; a threat that cannot be permitted an audience or a place in history.” “I’m merely a thinker with no political power.” The priest grasped the point. “A thinker? Thinking is the root of political power—proposed by Plato, re-defined by Aristotle, and re-interpreted by heretics and outcasts ever since. Thinking leads to the organization of apostates who espouse the secular rather than the holy. We can’t afford thinkers, Galileo. We cultivate followers and believers. And so, by your own admission you are a thinker?” “I am.” “Then your guilt is solidified.” “It isn’t the Holy Inquisition that judges me or seeks to purge the name of Galileo Galilei from history. You represent something else.” “The Inquisition suffices for our purposes. And our decision will serve all purposes.” Galileo sat again and rested his head in his hand. “Perhaps your head hurts from all your thinking. It should. Your thoughts do the work for me.” “Thoughts, observations, intellectual pursuits. I have no arrows in a quiver; no knives in a sheath.” “Words that undermine faith are equally dangerous weapons. You are well-armed with those,” Maculano resumed. “So is research that threatens how things ought to be.” Galileo considered his next words carefully. He spoke slowly and with conviction. “I did not understand what I had come across. My interest was in my experiments. Though I somewhat described it to my two friends, I did so as a fantastic story. Bedtime tales and fodder to pass the time away.” “But what you discovered was real. As real for me as it was for you. It set the course for your greatest work. It pointed you to the stars and the heavens. But did you see God through your lens or his great deeds? No, only something that would challenge him.” Galileo, weakened by argument, years and pain, lowered his head. “Alas, dear Galileo, the cave is sealed and so is your fate. You see, I am a man who understands what needs to be done. And others are in accord. What was there represents chaos. I will not permit chaos to undermine order.”

~~~

The major thrust of the book is the time "after" the cave site is being explored... What is found needs further information, and getting experts in various areas, such as history requires travel to find these individuals... Only thing is, that the very first man they visited? His home was bombed immediately after the professors left! And the bomber is on their tail once the bomb detonated!

So, let's close by enumerating the issues that are involved in what the book covers: violence, dogma, the business of religion, science versus the Bible, lies, climate control, illegal acts, and more... And how do they come in? Let me just share one more excerpt to illustrate...

“Have you ever heard of “Gap Theory?” Fr. Eccleston (priest and scientist) asked. “Yes,” Katrina responded. “Pseudo-science. Dismissible. An explanation that covers ancient geological ages in support of biblical belief.” 

“Ancient doesn’t begin to describe it,” the priest said. Katrina looked confused. McCauley wasn’t certain why the priest was bringing up the subject. It was hardly discussed anymore and seemingly not on point. “If I may?” “Go right ahead, Father. Chapter and verse,” McCauley replied. The priest poured another glass of the house wine from Castelli Romani, south of Rome. He held it to the light to examine the rich reds, drank some, and continued. “Gap Theory proposes that a span of time existed between Genesis 1:1 and Genesis 1:2. From a strictly theological point of view, Gap Theory maintains that a cataclysmic judgment was prescribed as a result of the fall of Lucifer. For the sake of keeping you in the discussion, let’s put aside the religious construal. I’ll simply call it a line of reasoning.” “Appreciated,” McCauley said. “The argument can be traced to the early nineteenth century. As the science of geology gained, pardon the expression, ground, some theologians were at a loss how to counter the scientific claims that the formation of the earth’s surfaces occurred at imperceptibly slow rates. They needed an explanation that supported the biblical record. You might call it scriptural enlightenment: a way to describe the vast geological periods before Adam. Conveniently perhaps, a place was found between the two verses of Genesis. “It was proposed by a Scotsman, theologian Thomas Chalmers, in 1814. It was further espoused by two American ministers, Cyrus Scofield and Clarence Larkin, and evangelist Harry Rimmer in the twentieth century. Each wrote books on the subject, trying to justify the gap between ruin and reconstruction.” The priest took another satisfying sip of the wine. He saw that his guests needed more. He gave them each a liberal refill and signaled the waiter for a new bottle. “Now to specifics. Follow me.” “We are,” Alpert said. “Genesis 1:1 expresses the creation of the universe. Then, in geological terms, five billion years presumably came and went, producing ages you’re well aware of with its various life forms. Gap Theory then seeks to explain that all life on Earth was destroyed.” “The meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs,” Alpert stated. “Yes, leaving fossils for you to uncover. This cataclysmic event, according to the theorists, is what’s described in Genesis 1:2. This solved the biblical problem of time, and helped to square natural history with the scriptural interval, described as days.” McCauley interrupted. “Yes, but…” “Wait,” Father Eccleston said. “It gets better. Gap Theory rests on the need for re-creation. It holds to the paleontological record that has produced dinosaur fossil beds on every continent. It also allows for the sudden transformation of the environment. In a word, it works.” “But…” “Not yet, Dr. Alpert,” the priest chided. “I have one other point for you to consider.” She leaned back in her chair and listened. “What if…” Eccleston paused. He wanted the full attention of his companions. “What if we dismiss the theological justification? After all, it never gained much support. Strip away the religious argument and stay with the basic idea. Can we accept a gap between life forms? From trilobites through the dinosaurs to the evolution of man? “Of course,” Katrina replied. McCauley remained at the table but left the conversation, thinking, Gap. He repeated the word to himself. Definitions rushed forward from his years of study. General usage, medical, mathematical, geographic. An empty space; an interruption in continuity; a divergence; a difference; an interval. Disparity in attitudes, ideals and actions. If the priest was still talking, McCauley didn’t hear him. Etymology: gapa – a hole in a wall, a break or pass in a long mountain chain. Impossible possibilities were coming together. Quickly. The cave. The discovery. The conversations. The attack. The book. And still another notion. It was a dialectic he’d had with his grad students in Montana. “The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence.” “What?” Katrina asked. McCauley hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “What?” she repeated. “You said, ‘The absence of evidence…” “Is not the evidence of absence. A gap.” Katrina was still confused. “The gap?” “Not the gap. A gap. Before.” “Before? Before what?” Katrina wondered. “Before what is described in Genesis.” “Or part of it,” Eccleston said. “We better leave.” He signaled for the check. “Let’s move this to my apartment.” McCauley paid the tab. On the way out, Katrina pulled him close and asked the inevitable follow up while the priest walked a few feet ahead. “What were you talking about? It obviously scooted us out of there.” “An epiphany. Or,” McCauley admitted, “a wild ass assumption. I’ll explain.” Father Eccleston bounded up the three flights with Quinn and Katrina in tow. He asked forgiveness for the mess they’d face and the reason: “My roommates. I’ll keep the lights down. You’ll hardly notice. Even in full daylight there isn’t much to see except the simple residence of three priests, two of them slobs.” He directed them to the couch. “Sit down. We’re alone. Fr. Densey and Fr. Santiago left on sabbatical. So we’ll be able to speak openly. I’ll be right back.” As Eccleston went through his cabinets, McCauley glanced around the apartment. Eccleston’s description of Spartan was completely accurate. White walls, few chairs, low wood coffee table, lamps that didn’t match, an old throw rug, and no living room curtains. Apparently good enough for a trio of priests living off-site on limited Vatican stipends, right down to the three wine glasses Eccleston returned with that didn’t match. “Sabbatical. An interesting word in itself, wouldn’t you say?” Eccleston noted while pouring. “From Greek sabbatikos and Latin sabbaticus. And, of course, Hebrew Shabbat. From Genesis 2:2-3. On the seventh day God rested after creating the universe. Described in Leviticus 25 as a commandment to cease working in the field the seventh year, reiterated in Deuteronomy 5:12-15.” “You have your numbers down,” McCauley observed. “Chalk it up to my share of sabbaticals,” Eccleston laughed. Katrina chimed in, “We live for them, too.” Once the wine was served, Eccleston proposed a simple toast. “To our finding the answers we seek.” “I’ll drink to that.” Quinn reached for the bottle to see what it was. “Verdicchio?” “Yes, I think you’ll like this,” he said. The priest held up his glass to the lamp light and examined its luster. “So beautiful. From a magnificent yellow-green grape. See how the final product embraces and expands upon the original hues. Much like our conversation tonight.” His guests examined it in the same way. “Now, take in the floral aroma.” They brought their wine glasses to their nose and acknowledged the scent. “This Verdicchio hasn’t changed since the fourteenth century. It’s from Le Marche region, still produced by Brothers at Verdicchio del Castelli di Jesi.” “Quite a tradition, Father,” Alpert said. “I really like this.” “I’ll tell you someone who enjoyed the Verdicchio in Le Marche.” The priest captivated Katrina. “Oh?” “Galileo Galilei.” “When?” McCauley asked. “In the early 1600s he came to Le Marche to do experiments on a new invention—the thermometer.” Father Eccleston exhaled deeply. “The thermoscope,” Alpert remarked. “Quite right, Dr. Alpert. You’ve studied Galileo?” “Some. I knew he was credited with its development along with the telescope.” Eccleston nodded. “All and more. But there’s probably something else you don’t know. The section of Le Marche where Galileo experimented with his early thermometer is known for something other than wine.” The priest set down his wine glass. “A year before Galileo traveled to Le Marche, Giordano Bruno, a dissident thinker, was convicted of heresy by the Holy Office. He was burned at the stake. The Pope, or those who spoke for him, put reason and science on the opposing side of the religious scale that was completely weighted in the church’s favor. Authority gave them that ability. Ability equaled right. Right equaled power. It wasn’t merely so-called radicals like Bruno who came under scrutiny of the Holy See. It was anyone whose views challenged conventional wisdom, or as history has shown us, conventional myopia. “Galileo confronted church doctrine, though for a time he had actually worked under Papal sponsorship. He was even honored by mathematicians at Collegio Romano.” “Mathematics,” McCauley commented. “I forgot that was his principal field of study. We all think it was astronomy.” “Related. Inter-related,” Eccleston said. “The basis for everything.” Eccleston’s answer reminded him of the next piece of the puzzle he wanted to discuss with the priest. Soon, he thought.

~~~

I confess that I was disappointed at the ending... My hope dropped out of my body... Was this supposed to be satire or truly a "dystopian" book, which came to mind this morning as I thought about it... We hear so much these days about accountability... And the fact that it seems so much is happening which is against laws and the Constitution. I have to ask, have we thrown out all that was discovered based upon lies and rhetoric or through false prophets? Has religion become a business as opposed to the original intent? 

While there are no footnotes, there is a Postscript which verifies, for instance, what was done to Galileo by the Catholic Church... So just how much of the book is based upon fact versus fiction cannot be considered, really, as other than complete fiction or as documented. However, what we do know is that today, many writers, professionals in their respective fields, universities and more are speaking out about how the legal system has been usurped by the republican party and other major financial supporters, driven by a man who seeks total control.

You'll have to decide on this one... I'm personally glad I read it, even though I didn't like what I was learning. For me, the life of Jesus is so very different than any of the major large churches or the larger catholic church dominion. I find it of great concern to see how power and the thirst for authority over all has corrupted our lives...again...

GABixlerReviews

Only one of them knew why McCauley 

was playing Kinks hits on his iPhone—Katrina Alpert...

💕💕💕

Harold Michael Harvey, Ongoing Contributor, Shares No Justice; No Peace And Share Your Words!

Why Justice Rather Than Force Defines a Healthy Democracy...

In moments of political turmoil, when passions flare and frustrations boil over, the temptation to seek solutions in radical action can be powerful. Recent years have reminded us, sometimes painfully, that the line between peaceful dissent and violence is thin—and crossing it brings consequences not only for perpetrators but for the very fabric of our democracy. Yet, history and principle both warn that political violence is not the answer. Instead, the path to enduring justice and national healing runs through our legal institutions, none more paramount than a Supreme Court that is lawful, independent, and respected.

From the ancient struggles of Rome to the revolutions that reshaped continents, political violence has been a recurring specter in human society. In the modern era, we have witnessed its devastating effects in countries divided by ideology, race, or religion. The result is invariably carnage, bitterness, and the erosion of liberty.

Political violence is not just a breakdown of order—it is a profound failure of imagination and hope. It denies the possibility that laws, reason, and institutions can mediate our differences and deliver justice. Each act of violence undermines faith in the system, suggesting that only force, rather than persuasion or due process, can bring change.

Violence, by its nature, is indiscriminate and destructive. It silences voices rather than amplifying them. It threatens the vulnerable, punishes the innocent, and pushes grievances into the shadows. In democracies, where the promise is of equality and participation, violence is a betrayal—a shortcut that bypasses the hard work of dialogue and compromise.

There is, too, a practical argument: violence rarely achieves its aims. Movements built on force frequently lose the moral high ground, alienate potential allies, and provoke harsh retaliation. The cycle is self-perpetuating, ultimately leading to even deeper wounds.

Consider the lessons of civil rights movements worldwide. The most durable victories for liberty—whether in India, South Africa, or the United States—were won not through violence but through nonviolent resistance, legal advocacy, and the moral weight of peaceful protest. Leaders from Mahatma Gandhi to Martin Luther King Jr. understood that the legitimacy of a cause grows when it is pursued within the bounds of law, not outside it.

By contrast, revolutions that descend into violence typically breed new forms of tyranny, as the means corrupt the end. The French Revolution, for instance, gave way to the Reign of Terror. In countless cases, the promise of liberation was swallowed by chaos and authoritarianism.

If political violence is a dead end, where then do we turn for progress? The answer lies in the robust functioning of our legal system, and at its apex, a Supreme Court committed to upholding the law and maintaining impartiality.

A lawful Supreme Court is not merely a tribunal of last resort—it is the guardian of constitutional integrity. Its judgments interpret and shape the foundational framework of our society. It affirms the rights of individuals, balances the powers of government, and ensures that no person or institution stands above the law.

When the Supreme Court rules, it sets precedents that ripple outward, affecting not only the parties before it but the nation as a whole. In controversial moments, its decisions can soothe inflamed passions or clarify the path forward. The Court’s legitimacy stems from its adherence to procedure, its respect for precedent, and its grounding in the text and spirit of the Constitution.

In times of crisis, the Supreme Court’s fidelity to law serves as a bulwark against the temptations of expedience and violence. When citizens believe in the court’s impartiality and respect its rulings, they are less likely to seek justice through force. The Court does not resolve every dispute to everyone’s satisfaction, but it provides a forum where voices can be heard, arguments weighed, and decisions justified.

This lawful process is the antithesis of violence. It presumes disagreement and honors it with procedure. It transforms passion into principle, and principle into policy. It is slow, sometimes frustratingly so, but its deliberateness is its strength. It allows for reflection, dissent, and revision.

Of course, the Supreme Court is not immune to criticism. Its decisions may be unpopular, its members subject to intense scrutiny. Yet, the answer to judicial disappointment is not violence, but reform.

Legal scholars and advocates propose a range of reforms to ensure the Court remains lawful and accountable. These include greater transparency in its proceedings, clearer ethical standards for its members, and, in some countries, revisions to its jurisdiction or appointment process. These debates are healthy; they show that the Court is an institution belonging to the people, not standing above them.

Crucially, such reforms must themselves be pursued lawfully, through legislative or constitutional means. Protest, advocacy, and even civil disobedience have roles to play—but violence never does.

A Supreme Court that is lawful and respected sets the tone for the entire legal system. Its example radiates outward, fostering trust not only in itself but in lower courts, legislatures, and executive officials. When the Court is independent, principled, and open to scrutiny, it anchors the republic. When it falters, the temptation to seek justice outside the law grows.

Ultimately, the contradictions and conflicts inherent in a diverse society will never entirely disappear. Politics, by nature, is contentious. Yet, the difference between a healthy democracy and a failed state is the willingness to resolve disputes peacefully, according to laws, rather than violently, according to whim.

The Supreme Court, at its best, is an emblem of that willingness. Its existence is a daily rebuke to the idea that violence is necessary, or even productive. It states, for example, that justice is possible within the system and that change can be lawful, principled, and lasting.

As we reflect on the challenges facing our democracy, let us remember that the tools for renewal and reform are at hand. Violence is a confession of despair; lawfulness is an expression of hope. A Supreme Court that is lawful and legitimate does not guarantee perfect justice, but it gives us the means to pursue it. The answer to our most profound political questions is not found in the street, but in the courtroom. To choose law over violence is to choose democracy itself.

Let us advocate for a Supreme Court that remains worthy of its charge, even as we challenge it, reform it, and demand the best of it. Our future will be determined not by those who break the law, but by those who keep faith with it—and, in so doing, keep faith with each other.

~~~

 In the shifting sands of 21st-century media, a quiet exodus is underway. Not from the news itself—but from the institutions that once claimed to deliver it. Fired, silenced, or fed up, a growing number of high-profile journalists are leaving legacy networks and moving toward something more intimate, direct, and free: Substack.

They didn’t just leave. They launched.

Don Lemon. Tiffany Cross. Joy Reid. Matthew Dowd. Each of them has turned dismissal into declaration—transforming their platforms into sanctuaries of truth-telling, cultural critique, and political clarity. They join a chorus of voices—Bari Weiss, Matt Taibbi, Glenn Greenwald, Mehdi Hasan, Dan Rather—who’ve chosen authorship over access, stewardship over spin.

Substack isn’t just a publishing tool. It’s a reclamation device.

• Editorial Autonomy: No producers trimming segments. No executives softening language. Just the journalist and their truth.

• Direct Audience Engagement: Readers become collaborators, not consumers. Dialogue replaces ratings.

• Economic Agency: Subscription models enable journalists to be supported by their communities, rather than relying on advertisers.

In this new terrain, the journalist is no longer a cog in a corporate machine. They are a steward of public memory, a curator of dissent, a builder of counter-archives.

• The Rise of the Counter-Archive: These platforms preserve voices that mainstream media often erases. They become living archives of resistance, nuance, and cultural testimony.

• A Return to Authorship: Journalism becomes personal again—not in the sense of bias, but in the sense of responsibility. The journalist is accountable to their readers, not their shareholders.

• The Democratization of News: Readers choose their sources, fund their voices, and shape the conversation. It’s messy, yes, but it’s also more honest.

This movement mirrors the work I’ve long championed: documenting the unsung, amplifying the overlooked, and weaving rhythm and memory into public testimony. Whether through Unsung Innings, civic activation guides, or the upcoming 50th anniversary of Black leadership in Macon, I’ve seen firsthand how storytelling can mobilize communities and reshape history.

Substack is not perfect. But it is a space where legacy can be built—not just reported.

And increasingly, that storyteller is you.

If you believe journalism should be authored—not managed—then this moment is yours, too.

Subscribe to independent voices who speak truth without filters. An eight-dollar monthly subscription empowers a courageous journalist to continue bringing you the unadulterated truth.
Share this post with someone tired of corporate spin and hungry for clarity.
Comment below: Which journalist’s Substack has reshaped how you see the world?
Support storytellers who archive the unsung, challenge the status quo, and build legacy from the margins.

And if you’re ready to tell your own story—whether through rhythm, memory, or resistance—know this:

You don’t need permission.
You need purpose.

Let’s build the counter-archive together.

~~~

Thinking about the News...

You know, Folks, violence continues, School Shootings, and so much more... Stop and think where the violence, the rhetoric comes from... Speak out and let people know how you think! Start Today - Michael Shows How!

And remember, that the campaign against DEI - movements against non-white individuals comes from only one party...

No Man is Above the Law...

I had never heard of Charlie Kirk

Don't know whether that means something or not

I did recognize that much more news coverage

was made than for the school shootings, and all the other violent actions that have occurred during the last months...

I grew up fatherless also, so what?

I'm still trying to figure out the WHY? re this Man

Comments welcomed...

God Bless

Gabby

Many Thanks to Harold Michael Harvey for His Support

Found on Substack, LinkedIn and other sites!

Susan Kiernan-Lewis Presents Deadly Faux Pas: A Page-turning mystery set in Paris!

 With its reputation as the most romantic river in the world, the Seine always felt like a surprise to Catherine with its fetid odor and murky olive-green color. She remembered reading that the river flowed into the sea, but as stagnant and listless as it always looked to her, she found it hard to believe that it had enough force. She let Todd lead the way to the table since she knew things like that were important to him. He’d spoken very little on the cab ride over. She would’ve preferred to walk—the weather was hot but it felt good on her skin. Unfortunately, her mother had mentioned it was a nice walk and that was all Todd needed to hear to insist on calling for a taxi.

Here I am sitting

in one of my favorite

places in the whole

world: Aix-en-Provence.

From the author:

The Claire Baskerville Mysteries

I have been wanting to write a mystery centering around a “woman of a certain age” since the day I turned sixty! Claire Baskerville is suddenly widowed and finds herself living in Paris where the dead bodies fall out of the ancient elevator shafts and antiquated wardrobes just enough to keep her and her burgeoning private eye business for the ex-pat community very busy. A tad darker than the other mysteries, this is Paris today and a woman who knows herself and is still open to discovering the world around her. And no, I’m not stopping any time soon. Claire’s adventures have been loosely outlined for another three books past Book 12 AT LEAST. I love this series and don’t see myself stopping writing it any time soon.

Since I'll never be able to visit Paris in my lifetime, I am sure, I wanted to at least set the stage for this book series, which I am going to highly recommend on the basis of this one book... It is clear that the author enjoys writing and sharing, through her travels via her blog as well as through the various series that she writes about...

This particular book caught my attention for many reasons... For instance, the characters include a dominating husband, a kidnapper who becomes enamored with the woman he kidnapped... And then there are two older women who, in this book, are reunited with family from America at the same time, and so become totally involved with the murder mystery that evolves... There is plenty of both turmoil in romantic relationships as well as an extraordinary familial come together when an emergency occurs of people mostly who are friends as opposed to family...

I've purposely chosen the video of a street walk, because the majority of the book will be walking those streets...endlessly trying to find the one kidnapped! But it didn't really start out like that...

You see, the daughter, grandson and son-in-law of our main character, who happens to be a PI working in Paris, has come to visit after many years. One of the problems was the timing, since Covid was touring the world and there was fear, especially by Todd, the son-in-law that they may be forced to stay in France as things are studied... On the other hand, it was clear to those who were at the apartment when they got there, that there was considerable tension within the family. One of the issues that had arisen was that Catherine was interested in adopting Robbie, the son of her mother's husband who had died in an accident. Todd opposed this action. Yet, when they first entered the apartment, their son immediately joined Robbie in playing and all things that boys want to do...

Finally after several attempts to smooth out the events, it was suggested that Todd and Catherine plan a dinner out on their own--which should have worked. Except that, even at the table, Todd kept his eyes close to his phone. And in a sudden explosive act, Catherine grabbed the phone out of his hands and read a short note that was clearly personal to Todd from another woman. Let's face it, if you don't think Todd deserved to be put on the defense, then you, too, may just be a chauvinist! My personal opinion, of course... LOL

In any event, Catherine exploded and a loud argument commenced which was watched by those in the restaurant that evening. Until Todd got up and walked out... And Catherine was left there, not know whether to wait, to leave... And, finally, the decision was made for her...

Only to be murdered that evening... and thrown in the Seine!

And Catherine  then kidnapped by the same man who claimed that her son was in trouble and he had been sent to bring her quickly to him... The truth was that Cameron was quite safe and at home with his grandmother... What she hadn't been told was that Todd had been murdered during the actions leading to the kidnapping of Catherine... And Catherine was torn as to why Todd was not finding her quickly as days went by...

Since the Parisian police thought that Catherine had killed her husband and escaped with the man who was escorting her off the ship, they weren't really interested in changing their opinions and did little to try to find her... It was up to her mother, who at least had come to know the streets of the area around th dock and soon as gathering as much about the people who were on the cruise that night, and what they had done thereafter. Interestingly a man who

My daughter is tenacious. I prayed that stubborn trait was still there inside her somewhere. I prayed that the girl who’d stood on that stage all those years ago, that unlikely award in her hand and that determined expression on her face, was still alive and roaring somewhere in this city.

Claire Baskerville was over 50 and normally able to arrange her professional activities within her own schedule. But now everything was in emergency mode and the only one Claire felt she could really depend upon was herself. She trudged up and down streets showing pictures, talking to anybody who would listen. Once in a while she had help from Jean-Marc a police officer who had worked on her husband's murder case... Genevie, her close friend and neighbor, who had her son and partner visiting from America that week also, had volunteered to help search, while one friend of Claire's from the police fit in support between her own duties... Still, it was right up to the last minute... as Covid controlled times allowed on the streets or when those now kept inside Paris were allowed to begin leaving... Desperation and fear walked beside Claire, while she knew that others were beginning to feel little hope... Could she find her daughter?! Could she bring Cameron's mother home, as he continued to grieve his father?

 

“A son and his mother have a special bond,” she said. “Stop. Please.” “And yet you used this love—the love of a mother for her son—to trick me.” He looked at her and he was stricken. “Don’t apologize to me again,” she said. “Don’t embarrass us both. Don’t humiliate your mother who is looking on you right this—” “Stop it!” he shouted and jumped up. “A boy needs his mother! My husband can’t do it! My husband needs me!” “Not anymore, he doesn’t!” The minute he spoke Catherine felt a ripple of ice-cold fear slice into her. Rashid looked at her from across the table with haunted eyes, his shoulders slumped as if trying to make himself smaller. “What did you mean by that?” she asked. He picked up his plate and retreated to the kitchen. Catherine stood up slowly at her place at the table. “Answer me, Rashid!” she screamed. “What do you know? Where is my husband?” When he didn’t answer, Catherine picked up her plate and flung it toward the kitchen. He ran back to the table and stared at her, his hands going up as if in an attempt to calm her. “Look, it was an accident,” he said desperately.

Except…I felt a wave of hopeless longing and defeat shudder through me. Except, I am desperate. I am a desperate mother who is willing to sacrifice anyone and everyone for the chance—no matter how paltry—to try to recover her child. “Chérie? I am at the hospital now,” Geneviève said. “I will call you when I have news.” She hung up before I could uselessly apologize one more time. I looked at my phone intending to call Adele…and I hesitated. I was calling her to tell her what? To stop? To go home? I couldn’t do that. I needed her. Now more than ever. My phone rang and I saw it was Jean-Marc. I answered. “Did you hear?” I asked him. “Yes, chérie. He is in surgery. Where are you?” “I’m about a block from where I was yesterday,” I said looking around. I thought about telling him about the text message but decided to wait until tonight. What was the point of telling him since I was determined to carry on anyway? “They think the assailant was an ex-boyfriend of Noel’s,” I said. “I overheard the detective saying they were going to put security on Geneviève’s apartment—” “Non,” Jean-Marc said. “They have located the ex-boyfriend.” I felt a flinch of annoyance. Clearly the police can move quickly when they’re motivated. “He was in Cyprus at the time,” Jean-Marc said. “Which means no security for Geneviève,” I said feeling a wave of exhaustion. “Unfortunately, not. Listen, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Abadi might have tried to replace the car he had to abandon.” “What are you suggesting?” “Nothing really. I’m just thinking out loud.” “You think he might have bought another car? So he’ll be ready to get out of Paris when the lockdown lifts?” That made sense. I felt a flare of energy and hope at the thought. Any new idea helped. Jean-Marc must have picked up on the excitement in my voice. “Claire,” he said in a strained voice, “is there any way you can stop?” “What do you mean stop? How can you even ask me that? The lockdown lifts in just a few hours!” “You must see how the warnings are ramping up, non? This was not a beating this time. Bill may not survive!” “You think I don’t know that?” “Claire, listen to me,” Jean-Marc said. “You cannot find Catherine. It is too late! But you can get yourself killed.” Or Adele. He didn’t say it because he didn’t have to. Clearly even without my telling him about the ominous text message, he had figured out that the attack on Bill was connected to what we were doing. What I was doing. “I have to go, Jean-Marc,” I said. I broke the connection and found Adele’s number and as my eyes filled with tears, I pressed the number. “Are you here?” she asked breathlessly. “I’ve already done a full block.” “Adele, You need to stop and go home.” “Why? Have you found her?” “No, but Noel’s husband has been attacked and I’ve been sent another message. It’s too dangerous.” I heard Adele snort and I loved her for it even while my chest filled with terror at the danger I was putting her in. “I’m not quitting,” she said. “Did you want to meet up and grab a bite or just keep going?” I was so overcome with emotion at her bravery and loyalty to me that at first I couldn’t speak. “Keep going,” I said finally. 

I walked through the next few hours with Jean-Marc’s ominous words of warning reverberating in my skull. You cannot find Catherine. It is too late. That, combined with the new inclination to look over my shoulder every few seconds made me jumpy and on the verge of panic. But I couldn’t help myself. Without Noel and Bill’s help—and I felt ashamed even thinking those words—I had an impossible area to cover. It had been largely impossible even with their help. How does one measure the limits of impossibility? How can you determine the scope of something to be even more impossible than it already was? As I walked the hot sidewalk I felt like I was going through the motions of walking and knocking on doors because the alternative—either sitting with Geneviève and Noel at the hospital or watching cartoons back at my apartment with the children while I waited for the inevitable bad news to find me—was unthinkable. An elderly woman operating a streetside crêperie told me she thought she remembered seeing someone “different” in the neighborhood. I nearly jumped across the counter when she said that. She even described this newcomer as a Middle Eastern man, good-looking, of medium height, but she had no idea which way he went. And he hadn’t actually visited her crêpe stand. She’d simply noted him as he walked by. Telling me he’s here somewhere is not news. I know he’s here. “How did he walk?” I asked. “Did he stroll? Or walk quickly? Purposefully? Did he look tense?” She gave me a look that said she clearly thought I was insane. But it mattered. A man strolling by enjoying the day was not my man. Somebody who looked like he was just out for an espresso and a newspaper wasn’t someone who was holding a woman hostage in a nearby apartment. After that I decided to modify my questions to include affect but it didn’t matter. Nobody except the woman at the crêperie remembered seeing anyone new or different on the street. Amazingly, in spite of the heat and my mushrooming fear of an attack, I didn’t feel the weariness and physical strain that I’d felt yesterday. It was as if my body wasn’t going to recognize anything like blisters or leg cramps as the reason why I didn’t search as far and wide and as long as humanly possible. I resisted looking at my watch because, whenever I did, my brain automatically translated the time into how many hours I had left. …how many hours Catherine had left. My phone buzzed while I was leaning against a stone wall, resting. I was so involved in my desperate mental world of search and probable loss that I jumped in surprise and looked at my phone as if it were a foreign object It was Adele. “Hey,” I said to her. I appreciated that she didn’t ask me if I’d had any luck. Obviously she’d have heard from me if I had. “I’ve finished my streets,” she said. “Do you want to give me Noel and Bill’s?” I’d been mulling that over and decided I had a different job for her that was at least as important. “Jean-Marc thinks Abadi might have acquired another car in anticipation of the lockdown lifting,” I said. There was a pause on the line. “Do you want me to try and find it?” Adele asked. Even on the phone I could hear the misgiving in her voice. “I want you to look at the cars parked on the street where you are,” I said, “and jot down the license plate numbers—unless you see somebody getting out of one who could not possibly be our man.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to knock on doors instead?” she asked doubtfully. I knew it sounded like a long shot. I knew I was asking her to finish her day with literally nothing to show for it. “I’m sure,” I said, knowing that the one thing I was sure of was that I was sure of nothing...

~~~

A Perfect Murder Mystery--because Claire knows who is behind it all...Will it work out that nobody will hurt Catherine?

GABixlerReviews

Kiernan-Lewis, Susan. Deadly Faux Pas: A page-turning mystery set in Paris (The Claire Baskerville Mysteries Book 6) (pp. 237-241). San Marco Press. Kindle Edition. 

LOTS of Cupcakes Coming Your Way in A Mission-IM-Possible Cozy Mysteries Series Box Set: 1-6 by Rosie A. Point

 That seemed to be the rule in Gossip. Secrets hidden in plain sight. It was past time I uncovered them...

Of course, none of this was my business. Technically. But it still intrigued me. I had always been the type of person who pulled on threads. “Charlie?” I turned toward Lauren, the chef. She stood in front of the stove, frantically stirring a pot of sauce. “Yes?”

Featuring Strawberry Sin

“She has some nerve being here,” someone whispered. “After what she did.” “You know it was her. She did it. And all over late fines at the library.” “She'll pay for this. It's blasphemy, coming to a church after doing something like that.”

“Perfect.” I’d have to remember the ‘hard work, cookies, and milk’ tactic the next time I wanted to knock out an enemy. A tranquilizer dart was so much simpler, though...

“That woman,” Gamma said, “is a power hungry witch.” Coming from a woman who got along with just about everybody, that was a damning sentence indeed. Gamma fumed as we walked between the shelves and bookcases in the library, seeking out the fiction section. “What’s her deal?” I asked. 

“The whole ‘family has to return a book’ thing? I’ve never heard of that before.” “That’s because it’s absolute twaddle,” Gamma said. “It’s something she made up on the spot to make my life difficult.” “Why?” Gamma shrugged, but the skin around her lips was white. 

“Georgina. What aren’t you telling me?” “I might have gotten into an altercation with her prior to this,” she said, primly, stopping in front of one of the shelves and removing a book. Gamma turned it over in her hands, smoothing her fingers over the cover. “What type of altercation?” “Only verbal,” Gamma said. “It wasn’t anything serious. Well, I didn’t think it was, but—there was this book, a one-of-a-kind signed edition by my favorite author, Mary Higgins Clark, at the bookstore. We had an auction for it and everything, and I may have outbid her at the last moment.” “That’s how auctions work.” “Yes, but then Hannah was upset about it. She claimed she was related to one of the author’s best friends, not that it has any bearing on the matter, and I told her she could go to, ahem, to Hades in a handbasket. I wasn’t going to give up the book. Ever since then, she’s been giving me⁠—” 

“Hades?” “Quite.” Gamma turned the book over, studying its back. “But from what I’ve heard, she hasn’t got that many friends. Apparently, she prefers dogs to people.” “Don’t we all?” Gamma put the book back. “Let’s go to the mystery section. That’s more my speed.” I followed my grandmother among the stacks, shaking my head occasionally at a stray thought about Smulder or the ridiculous way the town was decorated for Valentine’s Day. Why couldn’t anyone see the truth? It was just another commercial holiday designed to suck the cash out of innocent fools. Or maybe, you’re lonely and sad because your ex-husband⁠—I cut the thought off before it could go any further. Dwelling on that was the last thing I needed. “Ah,” Gamma said, stopping in front of one of the bookcases in a narrow aisle. “Here we are.” “It’s cramped.” The fluorescent light above us flickered and ticked. “And stuffy.” “Yes, I’m quite sure that that beastly Hannah has been moving the bookcases closer and closer together just to spite me.” “You can’t be serious.” “I wouldn’t put it past her. 

Now quietly, Charlotte, I need to select a book for the club.” She drew one out and turned it over to read the description. “Anything I can do to help?” “Don’t speak,” she replied. “That would be the biggest help. It’s the quietest it’s ever been in this library. I’d like to take advantage of that.” I drifted off to give her space, pausing to squint at a spine of a book or pull one out and check out the cover and first few pages. I’d slowly grown accustomed to the slow pace in Gossip, and that sent a jolt of anxiety through my stomach. I couldn’t afford to grow lax. I had to stay the same—in the same mindset and shape, but that was difficult when I was surrounded by cakes and cookies and warm smiles. Trust no one. Apart from my grandmother. 

Not even Smulder. For all I knew, he might not have been sent by the NSIB but was a dirty agent too who’d flipped over to Kyle’s side. My gut told me that wasn’t true, and I’d always trusted my gut, but I should be wary. Wariness had saved my life on several occasions. I shook my head and slid the book back onto its shelf. The bookcase thudded and teetered toward me then settled. 

What on earth? I caught Gamma’s eye—she’d stopped reading and frowned. “What was that?” she asked. “Maybe she’s trying to tip bookcases over on you, now.” “Could be.” Gamma strode toward me, and we walked around the side of the bookcase and into the next aisle. My grandmother thrust out her hand, and I stopped in my tracks. 

Hannah the librarian lay on her back in between the rows of books, a knife thrust into her chest. Here we go again. “I’ll call the cops,” Gamma said. “I’ll leave.” “I’m afraid that will only make things worse. The surveillance cameras, remember?” “Right.” Hannah had been messing with them at the front desk. So what was she doing here? And who on earth had wanted to murder her? And how had they done it so silently, while we were right in the next aisle? 

We backed out of the row while Gamma removed her cellphone from her handbag and unlocked its screen. It had already been a long week, and it seemed it would only get longer.

~~~

“Charlotte.” Brian’s voice whipped out of the inn’s library door to my right. How had I not seen him there? I’d been too busy storming around in a huff to notice. “Mr. Marble, right?” I tilted my head toward him. Brian wore his plaid shirt and jeans and had his hands tucked into them. He leaned casually against the door jamb. My heart skipped a beat, and I forced myself not to swoon like a high school girl. What was wrong with me? I was mood-swing central today. “Is there something I can help you with?” I asked. 

“I have an issue in the library. Could you help me, please?” Oh boy. What was this about? “Of course,” I said. Brian stepped back and waited until I’d entered. He shut the door with a soft ‘click.’ “It’s safe in here,” he said, quietly, right near my ear. “I’ve checked the room for listening devices and found none.” “What a relief,” I said. “Now we can gossip freely. Did you hear about Martha Malarkey’s new haircut?” I spun around walking backward as I spoke. “Apparently, she found out her husband was having an affair while she was getting it cut. She jumped out of the chair⁠—” “Charlie.” “—and the hairdresser snipped off a huge chunk. Naturally, they had to even out the other side, so, now, she’s got a pudding-bowl haircut and a rage that would scare a hippopotamus. You know, hippos are notoriously aggressive.” 

“What are you doing?” Smulder asked, folding his brawny arms across his chest. I forced myself not to stare. Heavens, what was wrong with me? Had Gamma put something in my coffee this morning? “Oh, I’m just subjecting you to some of the fun I’ve had in Gossip. Of course, you won’t fully understand unless you’re wearing a dress covered in frolicking fish. But this will have to suffice.” “Frolicking fish?” “I kid you not. Someone at HQ packed me nothing but these.” I plucked at the fabric of my dress. I didn’t mind dresses or looking pretty, but I drew the line at the cutesy images, the hearts and smiley faces and kittens. “At least, you got plaid.” 

“Are you all right?” Smulder asked, his voice rumbling and warm. “You seem… manic.” “That’s one way of putting it.” “What’s another way of putting it?” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t tell him how I felt. He would either tell me to get over it or rat me out to the big guy, just like he’d done with the leak. Sure, he’d had to do that, but that didn’t mean I had to expose my thoughts to him. If Smully found out I’d been looking into Kyle’s whereabouts, he’d book me a one-way ticket to isolation. “I’m fine.” “No, you’re not fine.” Smulder said. “And I know why.” “Because I have a babysitter and the Special Agent in Charge doesn’t trust me?” “Come on, Charlie. You don’t trust anyone.” “What’s your point?” 

“That being angry about a lack of trust is rich coming from you,” Brian said. “Why did you pull me in here?” I asked. “Just because you’re here ‘watching over’ me, doesn’t mean we have to skip through the daisies hand-in-hand.” Smulder massaged his temples. He’d done that a lot when we’d worked together. “You want to tell me what happened at the public library?” he asked. “Not particularly.” How did he know about the murder already? Gossip traveled that fast in this town? Sheesh. There had to be a way to harness that power and use it as a source of renewable energy. “A woman was murdered. With a knife. In the library,” Smulder said. “It sounds like we’re playing Clue.” “Is that true?” I sighed. “Yes. It’s true. We found her body.” Brian grimaced. “Again. What’s wrong with the people in this town?” “They have murderous tendencies, apparently.” “You know what this means,” Brian said. “Enlighten me.” I walked to the window and admired the view of the empty lawn. “Oh come on, Smith,” he said, not even stumbling over my fake last name. That was Smulder, always the professional. He never let his guard drop. “What?” “You know what it means. Your cover might be in danger again. You have to stay away from this, this time. I’m not going to take any chances here—if you put a foot wrong, I’m going to have to report you. It’s for your own safety.” I swiveled and glared at him. I hated that he was right, but what could I do? “Is that all?” I asked. “I’ve got to help Georgina with lunch.” Smulder nodded. I headed for the library door, angry at myself, at Smulder, and at the situation in general. Maybe it was Gossip that had gotten to me. The small town had seeped into my veins. My focus had shifted. Perhaps it would be better to stay out of this. 

I exited into the foyer of the inn and stopped dead. Detective Crowley stood on the threshold, his police car parked out in front of the inn, the lights flashing. My grandmother had positioned herself in front of him, a hand on one of the inn’s door handles, grasping it tight as if on the verge of thrusting the door closed. “Georgina?” I asked. “Charlotte.” She turned her head, blue eyes sharp and brimming with irritation. “I’ll be back later.” “Where are you going?” “To the police station. The detectives want to talk to me about Hannah.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she gave the tiniest shake of her head before stepping out of the inn and following Crowley to his car. Well, so much for not getting involved in the case. If Gamma was in trouble, I had no choice. I’d have to solve the mystery. And, apparently, make lunch for the guests by myself.

~~~

I love a good series, but... I'm not a fan of box sets! You see, a box set actually means one long electronic file which goes from one book into another. It's convenient for reading, sure, but as a reviewer, it's always difficult. A box set, you see, requires/allows just one ranking. So if you wanted to rank the books differently, there is no way to do it. I know--I tried to review each book for a box set once, and quickly got a complaint from a reader that, since I also had ranked the set, I was actually doubling the count of reviews!!! Yes, I'm serious! It did happen... So since, then, since I am not permitted to review each book, even though they are also sold separately, I've chosen to not play that game... Still, once in a while...

I choose a book that I really liked, this time, the second book in the series, and proceed to write my review on that one book... Now, you may think that is unfair, as I do, since obviously I liked the second book more than the first, but... yeah... who knew that reviewing could become competitive!

In order to get the posting done, I've moved on reading and will continue, but, the ranking will be for the second book. LOL... Don't ask, I can't explain it either...

On the other hand, the basic set of characters remains the same throughout the series and, normally, only the individuals involved in the "murder" change in each book... So, to make things easier, I'm going to spotlight the four main characters and share a little background... By the way, 3 out of 4 characters have multiple names! So be on the alert so you know who is actually being referred to...

One cat and multiple kittens will play a key role throughout...

Gamma who is the grandmother of the main character is a retired special agent. I couldn't figure out what agency the letters stood for, but Gamma sometimes speaks British so it could be there, but  I thought all those agencies started out with a M...

Now Gamma has assumed a new name since she has retired, but her real name is ...Mission... By the way, Gamma is charged with the murder of the librarian in Strawberry Sin... Sin, by the way, is not about the murder but, rather, the name of the cupcake that is featured in the second book and provided to the guests of the Gossip Inn, even though the title of the series is Mission-Inn Possible... 

Now Gamma has a granddaughter who also became a special agent in the unknown-lettered spy agency... But she discovered that her husband became a traitor and she chose to turn him in to her bosses. They are hunting for her husband who is traveling the world while the agency is chasing him... while Gamma's granddaughter who has been given a name by her boss when he forced her to go undercover--and she chose to visit her Gamma--goes by Charlie even though that is not the name given her...

And in case you haven't picked up on it yet, I'm purposely being sarcastic just to mock the actions by government with lies and subterfuge, LOL... So, Charlie, who really isn't Charlie, once had a partner who she shot--the location shall remain secret at this time. He has now been appointed as her overseer, also given a new name, but still is referred to by his real name--sometime--or liaison, whichever in appropriate, who originally was to be a guest, but that got too complicated, so he became the gardener of the Inn who grows most of their foods for the Inn... But, then, because they both still had to check in with the special special agent in charge of this undercover situation, rumors began to go around the town of Gossip, because Charlie and the, now, gardener, were seen going into the library practically every night, so everybody assumed they were involved... So Gamma declared that they were now in a relationship...  But, I should tell you that, at least once, the gardener was getting love letters from a secret admirer...although that's in another book... where he gets kidnapped...

Ok, the final individual who is thee only "straight" character is the cook/baker for the Inn, who also starts being secretive at one point...Her food is wonderful according to anybody you may meet in any of the 6 books in this set, though... and be prepared to be eating many cupcakes! Apparently they are served at every meal and provided for all special events during any given book... But you can have more than one flavor within one book... In fact, I chose this book based upon my selection of cupcake! Just kidding! Maybe Not...

So I figured that if I got you very confused with all the names that you needed to worry about, I should probably not take the time to tell you about their very different personalities, except to point out that they have, even by the second book, showed just how much they cared for each other and were normally involved in helping to solve the murder mystery in each book.

In Book 2, Gamma has a long-term disagreement with the librarian (from the librarian's side)... You'll notice that there are others in Gossip who may also have some problems with Gamma... But, even though nobody in town knows her award-winning past as a special agent, it has become known that her "looks" may not actually kill, but most people don't want to stay around to find out... And that's without anybody knowing, except her granddaughter, about her secret arms collection in a very secured part of the old basement underneath the Inn, which is not open to the public...

Yet a kitten enters the story at some point, who had been in a new addition of the facility, but got into the Inn somehow...and also discovered a secret passage in the Inn... I'm to the point where Gamma has decided that a hunt of the entire Inn to find ALL such secret passages must be done immediately!

As to the each book's murder(s), I haven't noticed any extraordinary mystery beyond the standard case of considering potential suspects. Although there has been satisfactory twists (I'm on book 4) to each book that keeps readers guessing. The villains and characters that are identified as part of each mystery are, often, strange or weird in some way, which serves to keep readers interested...

Seriously? The only thing I questioned is how Charlie, who is always eating cupcakes, claims she has only gained 2 pounds! Of course, she doesn't say when that last weight check was made...

The books get better as you continue reading, although that could be because you now know the correct names of the main characters or at least can keep track of who is doing what... LOL... Or maybe, it's because Charlie is beginning to enjoy a slower life where she is not constantly in danger, except if her ex- ever finds her... So, I'm curious... Will her Ex be caught? Will the mandated relationship between Charlie, the maid, and the gardener grow--that is beginning in the book I'm now reading...

The author has many other similar food-murder mixed cozy mysteries... So this seems to be a theme that works for her.  Each individual book is a fun read, but, me? I'm be staying away from food-type cozies in the future... I'll stick with cat characters who also help to solve the mysteries... Still, Fun Reads!

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