She Wore Mourning by PD Workman - This First-Time Read of Author Resulted in Shock and Disbelief...

 

Molly Hildebrandt was much as Zachary expected her to be. A woman in her sixties who looked ten or twenty years older with the stress of the high-profile death of her grandchild. Gray, curling hair. Pale, wrinkled skin. She wasn’t hunched over, though. She sat up straight and tall as if she’d gone to a finishing school where she’d been forced to walk and sit with an encyclopedia on her head. Did they still do that? Had they ever done it? “Mr. Goldman, thank you for seeing me so quickly,” she greeted formally, holding her hand out for him to shake when he arrived at her door. “Please, call me Zachary, ma’am. I’m not really comfortable with Mr. Goldman.” Telling her that he wasn’t comfortable with it meant that she would be a bad hostess if she continued to address him that way, instead of her seeing it as a way of showing him respect. He hadn’t done anything to deserve respect and was much happier if she would talk to him like the gardener or her next-door neighbor. Not that there was any gardener. Molly lived in a small apartment in an old, dark brick building that was sturdy enough, but had been around longer than Zachary had been alive. The interior, when she invited him in, was bright and cozy. She had made coffee, and he breathed in the aroma in the air appreciatively. It wasn’t hot chocolate after skating, but he could use a cup or two of coffee to warm him up after his surveillance. Standing around in the snow for a couple of hours had chilled him, even though he’d dressed for the weather. Molly escorted him to the tiny living room. “And you must call me Molly,” she insisted. She eyed the big camera case as he put it down. Zachary gave a grimace. “Sorry. I didn’t come to take your picture; I just don’t like to leave expensive equipment in the car.” “Oh,” she nodded politely. She didn’t ask him who he had been taking pictures of. That wouldn’t be gracious. She would have to imagine instead, and she would probably be correct in her guess. They fussed for a few minutes with their coffees. Zachary wrapped his fingers around his mug, waiting for the coffee to cool and his fingers to warm. It felt good. Comforting. He waited for Molly to begin her story. “You probably think that I’m just being a fussy old lady,” she said. “Imagining something sinister when it was just an accident.” “Not at all. Why don’t you tell me why you don’t think it was an accident?” “I’m not sure at all,” she clarified. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe it was an accident. It isn’t that I doubt their findings…” she trailed off. “Not really. I know they had to do an autopsy and all that. We waited for months for them to come back with the manner of death. I thought that once they ruled, everyone would feel better.” “But you still have doubts?” “I’m worried for my daughter.” Zachary blinked at her and waited for more. “She’s not well. I had hoped that once they released the body… and after the memorial… and after the manner of death was announced… each milestone, I thought, it would get better. It would be easier for her, but…” Molly shook her head. “She’s getting worse and worse. Time isn’t helping.” “Your daughter was Declan’s mother.” “Yes. Of course.” “What’s her name?” “Isabella Hildebrandt,” Molly said, her brows drawn down like he should have known that. “You know. The Happy Artist.” Zachary had heard of The Happy Artist. She was on TV and was popular among the locals. Zachary didn’t know whether she was syndicated nationally or just on one of the local stations. She had a painting instruction show every Sunday morning, and people awaited her next show like a popular soap. Most of the people Zachary knew who watched the show didn’t paint and never intended to take it up. She was an institution. “Oh, yes,” Zachary agreed. “Of course, I know The Happy Artist. I didn’t put the names together.” “When it was in the news, they said who she was. They said it was The Happy Artist’s child.” “Sure. Of course,” Zachary agreed. He rubbed the dark stubble along his jaw. He should have gone home to shave and clean up before meeting with Molly. He looked like he’d been on a three-day stakeout. He had been on a three-day stakeout. “I’m sorry. I didn’t follow the story very closely. That’s good for you; it means I don’t have a lot of preconceived ideas about the case.” She looked at him for a minute, frowning. Reconsidering whether she really wanted to hire him? That wouldn’t hurt his feelings. “You were going to tell me about your daughter?” Zachary prompted. “I can understand how devastated she must be by her son’s death.” “No. I don’t think you can,” Molly said flatly. Zachary was taken aback. He shrugged and nodded, and waited for her to go on. “Isabella has a history of… mental health issues. She was the one supervising Declan when he disappeared, and the guilt has been overwhelming for her.” That made perfect sense. Zachary sipped at his coffee, which had cooled enough not to scald him. Molly went on. “I think… as horrible as it may sound… that it would be a relief for her if it turned out that Declan was taken from the yard, instead of just having wandered away.” “That may be, but how likely is that? Surely the police must have considered the possibility, and I can’t manufacture evidence for your daughter, even if it would ease her mind.” “No… I realize that. I’m not expecting you to do anything dishonest. Just to investigate it. Read over the police reports. Interview witnesses again. Just see… if there’s any possibility that there was… foul play. A third-party interfering, even if it was nothing malicious.” “I assume you know most of the details surrounding the case.” “Yes, of course.” “How likely do you think it is that the police missed something? Did they seem sloppy or like they didn’t care? Did you think there were signs of foul play that they brushed off?” “No.” Molly gave a little shrug. “They seemed perfectly competent.” Zachary was silent. It wouldn’t be difficult to read over the police reports and talk to the family. Was there any point? “The only thing is…” Molly trailed off. As impatient as Zachary was to get out of there, he knew it was no good pushing Molly to give it up any faster. She already knew she sounded crazy for asking him to reinvestigate a case where he wasn’t going to be able to turn up anything new. For no reason, other than that it might help her daughter to come to terms with the child’s death. He looked around the room. There were no pictures of Molly’s husband, even old ones. There was no sign she had raised Isabella or any other children there. There were several pictures of a couple with a little child. Declan and Isabella and whatever the father’s name was. There was one picture of Declan himself, occupying its own space, a little memorial to her lost grandson. There were no pictures of anyone else, so Zachary could only assume Isabella was an only child and Declan the only grandchild. “Declan was afraid of water.” Zachary turned his eyes back to her. He considered. It wasn’t totally inconceivable that a child afraid of the water would drown. He wouldn’t know how to swim. If he fell in, he would panic, flail, and swallow water, rather than staying calm enough to float. Molly wiped at a tear. “How afraid of the water was he?” Zachary asked. “He wouldn’t go near the water. He was terrified. He wouldn’t have gone to the pond by himself.” “How tall was he?” Molly gave a little shrug. “He was almost five years old. Three feet?” “How steep were the banks of the pond and what was the terrain and foliage like?” He knew he would have to look at it for himself. “I don’t know what you want to know… there wasn’t any shore to speak of. Just the pond. There were bulrushes. Cattails. Some trees. The ground is… uneven, but not hilly.” Zachary tried to visualize it. A child wouldn’t be able to see the pond as far away as an adult would because of his short stature. If his view were further screened by the plant life, the banks steep and crumbly, he might not be able to see it until he was right on top of it. Or in it. “It’s not a lot to go on,” he said. “The fact that he was afraid of water.” “I know.” Molly used both hands to wipe her eyes. “I know that.” She looked around the apartment, swallowing hard to get control of her emotions. “I just want the best for my baby. A parent always wants what’s best. Growing up… I wasn’t able to give her that. She didn’t have an easy life. I wonder if…” She didn’t have to finish the sentence this time. Zachary already knew what she was going to say. She wondered if that rough upbringing had caused Isabella’s mental fragility. Whether things would have turned out differently if she’d been able to provide a stable environment. Molly sniffled. “Do you have children, Mr.—Zachary?” Zachary felt that familiar pain in his chest. Like she’d plunged a knife into it. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “No. My marriage just recently ended. We didn’t have any children.” “Oh.” Her eyes searched his for the truth. Zachary looked away. “I’m sorry. I guess we all have our losses.” Although hers, the death of her grandson, was clearly more permanent than any relationship issues Zachary might have. In the end, he agreed to do the preliminaries. Get the police reports. Walk the area around the house and pond. Talk to the parents. He gave her his lowest hourly fee. She clearly couldn’t afford more. He wasn’t even sure she’d be able to pay on receipt of his invoice. He might have to allow her a payment plan, something he normally didn’t do, but something about the frail woman had gotten to him. He put in an appearance at the police station, requesting a copy of the information available to the public, and handing over Molly Hildebrandt’s request that he be provided as much information as possible for an independent evaluation. “You got a new case?” Bowman grunted as he tapped through a few computer screens, getting a feel for how many files there were on the Declan Bond accident investigation file and how much of it he would be able to provide to Zachary. “Yes,” Zachary agreed. Obviously. He didn’t encourage small talk; he really didn’t want Bowman to start asking personal questions. They weren’t friends, but they were friendly. Bowman had helped Zachary track down missing documents before. He knew the right people to ask for permission and the best way to ask. Bowman dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. He unwrapped a piece and popped it into his mouth, then offered one to Zachary as an afterthought. “No, I’m good.” Bowman chewed vigorously as he studied each screen. He was a middle-aged man, with a middle-age spread, his belly sagging over his belt. His hairline had started receding, and occasionally he put on a pair of glasses for a moment and then took them off again, jamming them into his breast pocket. “How’s Bridget?” he asked. Zachary swallowed. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the conversation. Bowman looked away from his screen and at Zachary’s face, eyebrows up. “She’s good. In remission.” “Good to hear.” Bowman looked back at his computer again. “Good to hear. It’s been a tough time for the two of you.” His eyes flicked back to Zachary, and he backtracked. “I mean it’s been tough for her. And for you.” “Yeah,” Zachary agreed. He waved away any further fumbling explanation from Bowman. “So, what have we got? On the Bond case?” “Right!” Bowman looked back at his screen. “I’ve got press releases and public statements for you. medical examiner’s report. The cop in charge of the file was Eugene. He likes red.” Zachary blinked at Bowman, more baffled than usual by his abbreviated language. “What?” “Eugene Taft. I know, it’s a preposterous name, but he’s never had a nickname that stuck. Eugene Taft.” “And he likes red.” “Wine,” Bowman said as if Zachary was dense. “He likes red wine. You know, if you want to help things along, have a better chance of getting a look at the rest of that file, the officers’ notes and all the background and interviews. If you have to apply some leverage.” “And for Eugene Taft, it’s red wine.” “Has to be red,” Bowman confirmed. “Okay.” Zachary looked at his watch. “Can you start that stuff printing for me? Is there anyone downstairs?” He knew he would have to run down to the basement to order a copy of the medical examiner’s report. Just one of those bureaucratic things. “Sure. Kenzie should be down there still.” Zachary paused. “Kenzie. Not Bradley?” “Kenzie,” Bowman confirmed. “She’s new.” “How new?” “I don’t know.” Bowman gave a heavy shrug. “How long since you were down there last? Less than that.” Zachary snorted and went down the hall to the elevator. As he waited for it, Joshua Campbell, an officer he’d worked with on an insurance fraud case several months previous, approached and hit the up button. He did a double-take, looking at Zachary. “Zach Goldman! How are you, man? Haven’t seen you around here lately.” “Good.” Zachary shook hands with him. Joshua’s hands were hard and rough like he’d grown up working on a farm instead of in the city. Zachary wondered what he did in his spare time that left them so rough and scarred. He wasn’t boxing after work; Zachary would have been able to tell that by his knuckles. “Hey, how’s Bridget doing? Did everything turn out okay…?” He trailed off and shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, great. She’s in remission.” “Oh, good. That’s great, Zach. Good to hear.” Zachary nodded politely. His elevator arrived with a ding and a flashing down indicator. Zachary sketched a quick goodbye to Joshua and jumped on. He was starting to regret agreeing to look into the Bond case. 

~~~

PD Workman is a prolific writer who is obviously a well-known author who is read by many. I've found after reviewing books upon request, I have a tendency to enjoy reading a new writer who I've not read before. Perhaps it was the topic of the book. Perhaps it is because of how many in the world are being treated terribly by others... Or, perhaps, it is my own loss after being diagnosed with Job Burnout which has left me with a brain changed by that abuse... Or, just because I have known within and without my family of those who have, OCD, autism, brain damage, or some other mental problem that will affect that individual in some private way for the rest of their lives... Stats show that mental health problems has increased in the United States from about 20% up to over 30% based upon the specific analyses used to determine this type of information. Brain Fog is a self-diagnosis for many young people in marriages as they adjust to the new pressures never encountered before in their own lives... So, yes, I have greatly increased my awareness of mental distress, particularly in women...

On the other hand, I can remember far back in my younger life, when I was fascinated by songs, books or movies that were fictional accounts based upon some basis of truth... I tried to find the old movie that used Dvorak's famous song, Going Home, sung by an asylum inmate who was singing, hoping, that she and others would be going home...soon. Then I saw and was fascinated by the movie Sybil, again, dealing with what was called at that time, split personality...

“Acts of Caring and Other Heroics, Stories from the Leavesden Asylum, 1870 to 1995” by Martin T Brooks. This short independent film was written, produced and directed by Martin T Brooks, Founder of the Leavesden Hospital History Association and looks into the evolution of mental health care and treatment from the 1870s to the 1970s as told through the true-life stories of patients and doctors who worked and lived in the Leavesden Asylum/Hospital during those times. And askes the question “Are we doing any better in 2024”?

And, I enjoy the genre, psychological suspense or romantic psychological suspense, where some aspect of a psychological issue is embedded within the storyline. After reading a few of the lower-level ratings on Amazon for this book, and saw glimpses of what I found disturbing about this particular book and main character, so disconcerting. That, at that point, I decided to go ahead and share my thoughts rather than just giving it a "global" rating...

The book begins with the introduction of the main character, a PI named Zachary Goldman of Goldman Investigations. We see him involved with some routine PI cases, where his skill as a photographer is well used to provide his client with the proof he needs... He has a good reputation for this type of work and, readers, will find them enjoying the storyline of how he has worked the case, planning in advance, using his favorite tool, a GPS computerized system based on his laptop... In fact, I was impressed so much so that I would certainly understand why somebody would recommend him to a friend...

Chapter 2 introduces the client, Molly, who has received such a recommendation. First, let me point out that the death of her grandson, Declan Bond, is a reason for her contact. His death has already been investigated by the police and has been closed with a declaration of Accidental Death..."

Readers have no involvement with the deceased. We learn he was 8 years old and that's about it... Other than what we learn from Molly, there is very little mourning rituals, at least not at first. A child has died and quickly routine is established...

First, let me point out that both parents are diagnosed as having OCD-- Obsessive-compulsive Disorder. Another issue for me was that there was very little discussion presented by Molly or the parents of the boy who had died. Molly however, felt that her daughter was having an extremely excessive reaction to his death and wanted Zackary to go over the entire investigation and determine whether something had been missed. Molly wanted closure!

Interesting, however, there is very little--that is, None--what I would call normal family interaction of sharing their loss, remembering times of loving interaction with the lost one, etc. So that, again, readers are not privy to any familial interaction, other than as dictated by already established rules and schedules by the parents...

Well, except for his mother...

She almost immediately went out on a ritualistic journey of suffering. First, she had a large facial tatoo of Declan placed on her arm, noting to others that she could always merely look down and he would be with her... Then she did some research and starting using the cremains in various ways, such as within a ring which she would daily wear, in a necklace where she had both hair and cremains, and of course, had a modest area with her designated personal space where she could have his cremains and other personal items nearby... Our family went through some variety of this when a family member/son died. But it was by creating pictures which she distributed to all of us so that we wouldn't forget him... She told me that others wanted her to "get over" or "get back" to normal... I told her, she needed to do what she needed to do for as long as she needed to do it...

Yeah, I admit to bias against every single character in this book, most of all the main character--that is, how he was "created..."

Molly did have to beg Zachary to take her case. He finally decided that once he would accept it, it would be a minimal review of what he could get from the documentation of the investigation.

Somewhere along the line, however, we start learning about the background of the PI... If you guessed that he also had mental problems, well, you would be correct. In many ways, much worse than either of the parents, even though you might not immediately realize it as you read.

 If wasn't long before a scripture reference, Physician, Heal Thyself..." came to mind...I wanted to see if there was an applicable use of that phrase and found:  What does the Bible mean when it says "physician heal thyself"? The phrase “Physician heal thyself” (Luke 4:23) references the often forgotten truth that one must solve their own problems before attempting to fix the problems of others.

Yes! In fact, if you continue to read, with a discerning and open mind as opposed to just how you enjoy this new series character, like I did, you just may realize that this book/characters should never have been created as it was... The fact that the author chose to pit one person with  mental problems against two people with mental problems related to a death of a child simply is abhorrent to contemplate...at least to me. Actually, much later in the book, Zachary tracks down the individual professional counselor with whom the mother had once been in therapy. That was about the only time that some type of logical reasoning was included in the entire book. The doctor had not been in contact with the mother for years but had sufficient knowledge of her condition at that time, to bring out a reference book by which he discussed the present events in a supposition type of discussion, based only on clinically used methods.

But, while this case was being investigated, all sorts of actions took place in the life of the PI, including death threats and two attempted murders which landed him in the hospital, homeless, and without any funds to replace what he had lost in the last attempt, which was a fire within the room he was sleeping in... Seriously, I felt as if every single thing that the author thought of was tossed in, thinking, that we would be dumb enough to accept such a plot! Gee, a flash comes to mind, is she a MAGA liar, trying to get us to believe all of these twists that have no basis for being used or accepted as part of a cogent--clear, logical, and convincing--plot? Or, was it that she simply didn't do sufficient research to comprehend the ramifications of the book as written.

Believe me when you throw in Zachary's interactions with the two females in his life, we have to conclude that the main character is also Obsessive-Compulsive and obviously a long-term resident of this disorder! At one point, he becomes so abusive with his interviews that he is practically screaming and shouting. Where was the controlled PI who had worked during his life to gain control of his limitations? Now, he was barely coherent sometime, saying one thing, while remembering something that actually did happen but he didn't want to accept???!!!

While the ending of the book did discover that Declan had been murdered, what did we learn as the book closes? Me, I decided to simply cross this writer off my list for any future books... At this point in America, liars, manipulators, and just plain stupid actions are not what we need to find in our literary choices...

And, let me just add, I may have emotional issues after brain changes from job burnout, but I am totally cognizant of what I do on a daily basis. There is no way that anybody with any mental concerns should ever have been placed in such a situation as was described in this book. The two individuals who were suspects were bad enough as described by the author. To flagrantly use mental illness as was done in this book can only lead to one conclusion... If this is what we are writing about in the year 2025, how far back have some individuals gone in their thinking and logic skills!? I read the entire book and immediately turned to another to get my mind away from the disgust I felt as the lives of mentally impaired individuals were used purely for the shock effect!

What is discrimination against mentally disabled called?

Ableism is the discrimination of and social prejudice against people with disabilities based on the belief that typical abilities are superior. At its heart, ableism is rooted in the assumption that disabled people require 'fixing' and defines people by their disability.

GABixlerReviews

Amanda Flower Presents Lovely Finale to her Emily Dickinson Mystery Trilogy - I Died For Beauty

"Do remember, dear Willa, it is always better to ask forgiveness than permission.” I didn’t think either scenario would help with Margaret in regard to me, but I didn’t say anything... 

“Willa! Willa! Wake up! Those are the church bells.” Margaret O’Brien held me by the shoulders and shook me so hard my teeth clanked together. I awoke to find myself in my little room over the laundry with the Dickinsons’ first maid standing over me. Her dark hair with the finest streaks of silver was down and tangled and she wore her nightdress. In these long two years that I worked for the family I had never seen Margaret with her hair down or in her nightdress. I found that more disconcerting than her shaking me awake like I was a night watchman who had slept through his shift. “Church bells?” I asked in wonder. “Is it Sunday morning? Did I sleep through services? I’m so sorry. It must have been the cold that would not allow me to awake.” “No, you fool! It’s fire,” Margaret said. She could barely hold the panic from creeping into her voice. Fear wrapped its cold fingers around my heart. Little else than the threat of fire to home and hearth could cause such immediate terror. “Here?” I managed to squeak. “No, get up. It is near the railroad station, and Mr. Dickinson is heading out. We must be on call to assist.” With that, she left my room. I got dressed as quickly as I could and tethered my hair at the back of my head in a haphazard knot. I hoped that the Dickinsons would not look so closely to see how disheveled I appeared. However, I supposed that everyone would look a little less than composed considering the hour and the incessant ringing of the church bells. Church bells all over Amherst rang. It was not just the Dickinsons’ congregational church across the street, but even my Baptist church that was tucked in the woods. Everyone was called to help with the fire, and this was even truer if the fire threatened the college because the people of Amherst glorified the college whether they attended there or not. Maybe I took pride in living in an overly educated town, too, as an education was a luxury I never had but could appreciate from afar. By the time I made it downstairs to the kitchen, Margaret was already in a housedress and her hair was perfectly drawn back in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was in the midst of packing a hamper of food. It seemed she was determined to give all the bread that we had left to those who fought the fire. She closed the hamper’s lid and shoved the hamper into my hands. “Here. Take this to Jeremiah to take with them. I can’t do much for the men going to help but give food. Jeremiah should be out front by now with the carriage.” Jeremiah had been Henry’s dearest friend and the one who found my brother’s body when Henry was killed. After the incident, Emily convinced her father to hire Jeremiah for the homestead stables as they were moving here to the homestead from North Pleasant Street. She rationally told her father that they were coming into more land and space overall and would need someone who worked full-time for the family to care for the livestock as it was a much larger menagerie than it had been at their old home. I grabbed my own cloak, bonnet, and mittens from the laundry. I put everything on and was about to go out the back door when Margaret stopped me. “Don’t go that way,” she snapped. “You want me to go out the front door?” I asked in shock. I never went in and out the front door. I was a servant, not a guest of the family. “The snow is too high again, and you will be soaked through,” Margaret said gruffly. “Go out the front.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “This one time.” I nodded and took the hamper to the front of the house. In the foyer, Mr. Dickinson was hastily putting on his heavy wool coat and gloves. His wife stood in a nightdress and cap and wrung her hands. “Edward, you are no longer a young man. Leave it to the younger men to put out the fire.” Mr. Dickinson glared at his wife. “As the college treasurer I must go. The air is cold and dry. In these conditions the fire could spread quickly even to the college. I must go.” Mrs. Dickinson looked as if she might be ill as he said this, but as a good wife, she kept any other opinions to herself. Emily slid into the foyer in her winter wool frock, cloak, bonnet, and sturdy boots. Carlo, her beloved dog, was at her side. “I’ll make sure Father is safe, Mother.” “Emily Elizabeth, you are not coming with me,” her father snapped. “I am and I will, and if you don’t take me, I will simply ride with Austin. The stable hand said that he was getting his carriage ready to depart as well.” “I don’t have time to argue with you on this matter. You and Carlo are not coming.” “That is where you are wrong.” She flung open the door and a rush of freezing air and blowing snow flew into all of our faces. Emily didn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by it. She looked over her shoulder. “We will be in the carriage. Don’t delay. We don’t want to miss what’s happening.” I tensed when Emily said that. We knew what was happening to someone’s home, their whole life was being dissolved into flames. I could not imagine what it would have felt like. Emily went out the front door with Carlo walking behind her. Before she closed the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “Willa will be coming too.” I stood there unsure what to do. Mr. Dickinson scowled at me as if this were somehow my fault. “Get in the carriage,” he barked. I didn’t hesitate and carried the heavy hamper out of the house. A path had been shoveled from the front door to the driveway. The carriage and the Dickinsons’ horse, Terror, stood at the ready. The large black horse stamped his hooves on the gravel, and hot steam rose from his nostrils. He didn’t want to be out in the cold any more than I did. Outside the relative safety of the homestead, the pealing of the church bells was deafening. As the congregational church stood just across Main Street, it rang the loudest to my ears. I knew that Horace must have been ringing the bell with all his might. He would have been the first one to the church as he was the sexton and had lodgings behind it. Emily was already in the back of the carriage when I slipped the heavy hamper inside. Carlo lay across her lap like a warm blanket. “Ride inside with us, Willa,” she said as I stepped back. “No, miss, your father wouldn’t like it, and he’s already upset.” I could tell that she wanted to argue with me more about it, but her father appeared. I slipped to the front of the carriage. Jeremiah closed the carriage door after Mr. Dickinson was inside. He climbed up in the driver’s seat, and I followed him. Jeremiah was as bundled up from the cold as I was. All I could see were his dark eyes, and I supposed with my scarf wrapped tightly around my own face that was all he could see of me. Even with all the layers, it was freezing, and I didn’t know how long I would last in this cold. I didn’t know how long Emily would last. She was far smaller than I was. It was like throwing a songbird out into the snow. “What are you doing here?” Jeremiah hissed and flicked the reins. Terror shook his head and then started down the drive at a careful pace as there was a thick layer of ice over the gravel. When we reached Main Street, I said, “Miss Dickinson insisted that I come.” “Why?” he asked. That wasn’t a question I could answer, and as the road was bumpy with ice and snow, I didn’t say another word and held on to my seat with a firm grip. Jeremiah pulled the reins so that Terror would turn left on Main Street, which was away from the college and toward Kelley Square. We had traveled only a few yards when the smell of smoke engulfed us. Just on the edge of Kelley Square a burning house came into view. My heart was in my throat at the terrifying scene before my eyes. The fire licked the sky. Men ran back and forth with buckets of water from the college well, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. Another group of men splashed water on the nearby college buildings, to deter the fire from engulfing other buildings. We were still three homes away when Jeremiah stopped the carriage, but it was as close as the carriage could go. Police officers blocked the road and didn’t let anyone pass. I searched the faces of the officers for any sign of my friend Matthew Thomas. I hoped to see him on the street and prayed he was safe. However, I knew he would be with the men fighting the fire. He was always the first to help. Jeremiah jumped down from the carriage seat and then held out his hand to help me down. He opened the carriage door and Emily and Carlo came out. Emily stared at the flames. Her gaze held that faraway look that she sometimes had, and of which was I so familiar. “A thing that can ignite,” she murmured. Mr. Dickinson came out of the carriage. “Heaven help us.” “Father”—Emily looked over her shoulder—“will you go and help the men fight the flames?” Mr. Dickinson cleared his throat. “The college has plenty of good, sturdy young men who are already here and will do better to put on the fight than I ever would. I will supervise.” A man with a full silver beard and a black felt hat walked over to us. He wore a long black overcoat, but as the hat did not cover his pronounced ears, they shone red in the light of the fire. “Dean Masterson,” Mr. Dickinson addressed the newcomer. “Tell me what has happened.” “Mr. Dickinson,” the man said in turn. “It is a dreadful sight, but I can assure you that the fire will be contained. I have been told that it is no real threat to any of the college buildings. I assume that is why you are here.” “Of course,” Mr. Dickinson said. “Losing one of our austere academic buildings would be a great tragedy and a concern for me as treasurer, as I would have to appropriate the funds to rebuild it.” The dean nodded. “We have been told by the volunteer firemen here tonight that there is no need to be concerned. We’re taking every precaution.” “Very good,” Mr. Dickinson said by way of approval. Dean Masterson saw Emily and me standing a little bit behind Mr. Dickinson and scowled. “This is no place for gawkers. A home is lost. Don’t make a mockery of it.” Mr. Dickinson’s back stiffened. “That is my daughter to whom you are speaking.” “You brought your daughter with you?” the dean asked, glancing at Emily. Mr. Dickinson cleared his throat. “I believe that it is important for young women to know what the true risk of fire can bring. If she sees it with her own eyes, she will be more careful with her candle in the future.” Dean Masterson wrinkled his brow as if he didn’t know what to make of Mr. Dickinson’s statement. Another man joined the pair and had the same academic look about him that the dean did. I wanted to hear what he had to say about the fire, if anything, but Emily grabbed the edge of my cloak and pulled me away. “Come,” Emily said. “There is no time to waste.” I let her lead me away but wondered what time she was referring to. Emily moved closer to the fire and stopped behind one of the small homes to watch. Unsure why we were there, Carlo and I stood with her. Men shoveled snow on the flames that they could reach. It seemed like such a futile act as more of the flames came out of the roof. A fireman stood on the top of the fire wagon, spraying all the water he could from the hose onto the roof. I glanced at Emily, and her dark eyes glowed in the light of the flames. Her reddish hair, which peeked out of her bonnet, shone as if it were always meant to reflect the blaze. “It is magnificent,” Emily said. “Horrible, but magnificent all the same.” I looked at the fire and tried to see it through her poet’s eyes. I don’t believe that I managed it. There was very little that I could see through Emily’s eyes. I was far too removed from musings like she had. I was far too cynical and practical as a result of my hard upbringing and a life of hand to mouth. “I wouldn’t be calling that fire magnificent for all it cost,” a man with a slight Southern accent said. I was surprised by the accent. I hadn’t heard someone speak like that since I had accompanied Miss Dickinson to Washington two years ago. It took me back to some happy and also terrifying memories from that time. Emily looked up at the man and even though she was a head and a half shorter than he was, she seemed to be the more commanding force. “What did this cost other than the building?” “The whole family’s presumed dead,” the fireman said. “I saw the bodies inside. I wish I could erase the memory from my mind. It was a thing of nightmares. They had a child.” 

I shivered at the very idea, and now the flames appeared to be even more menacing than before. “The whole family?” Emily asked. “You’re sure.” “I know what I saw. There was the body of a mother and father, and I can only assume that the child would have been inside the home as well. It was horrific. I will never forget what I saw. Never.” I swallowed. It was too horrible for words. A body on a board was wrapped in a white sheet. My chest clenched. I didn’t know if I had ever seen such a horrible sight. Gratefully, I could not see the body, but the smallness of the form under the sheet worried me that it might be a child, like the fireman said. “Have you been here long?” Emily asked the man. “I have, miss. I have been here since the fire began and was the first inside. I will go back to fighting the fire in a moment. I just needed a bit of time to compose myself.” “It was very wise to take it. I believe it is a terrible thing that people don’t spend more time contemplating what they see.” “I suppose,” the fireman said. He looked as if he might cry. He turned away from us. “How did the fire start?” Emily asked. I was immediately wondering why Emily would ask a question like that. What did it matter how the family was killed? It was certainly not something that I wanted to think about for long. “It is hard to tell while the fire is still burning, but I think it was something with the fireplace at the front of the house. The family had built a great fire in it for warmth during these frigid days. This cold weather seems to have snuck up on so many and they weren’t properly prepared for the dark turn in the weather.” “You believe the fire started in the chimney?” “Yes, but it leapt to the curtains in the front room. From there it grew out of control in a blink of an eye.” “How many children lived in the home?” I asked. The volunteer fireman looked at me. “Just the one. That surprised me, though, since they are a Catholic family. A poor Irish-Catholic family, so we can only assume that they had many children as is their way.” I felt my back stiffen at his assumption. I had grown up poor as well and had only one brother. I wasn’t Irish or Catholic, but I didn’t feel it was right for the fireman to be saying this. Emily folded her arms. “I think it would be best to confirm how many children were actually in the family and if there were even more before making such a statement about the family.” The man’s face turned bright red. “I should return to help.” “Yes,” Emily agreed. When he was gone, Emily began to shiver; Carlo pressed his woolly body against her. “Perhaps we should go back to the carriage,” I said. “It will still be cold, but at least you will be out of the wind.” Emily shook her head. “I must know if a child was lost in the flames.” I felt sick at the very idea. I prayed that the fireman had been wrong. He seemed to know very little of the family. Perhaps there were no children. Suddenly, Carlo lifted his broad nose in the air and sniffed. His whole body stiffened as if he caught a scent on the wind. I could smell nothing more than the acrid odor of fire. Carlo sniffed the wind again, and then took off, straight for the flames. “Carlo! Carlo!” Emily cried, and my mistress ran after him. The dog did not stop and circled the house. Men fighting the flames with soot-covered faces yelled at him. They shouted at Emily as well when she ran by them. It seemed that I had no choice but to follow. “Miss! Miss!” I called, but Emily didn’t as much as turn her head. Emily was out of sight around the side of the house before I ran more than a few feet. I had no choice but to go after her. I lifted my skirts high over my stout boots and ran. A cold draft encircled my legs and caused me to whimper from the chill. I rounded the corner that was dark with night and smoke and ran smack into a wall or what I thought was a wall. It would have been a wall had it not had arms. “Willa!” Matthew cried. “What are you doing here? There is a fire.” He told me that there was a fire as if it should be all that I needed to know to keep me away. In most cases that would be true but not when Emily and Carlo might be in some kind of danger. “Emily,” I said, speaking my mistress’s given name aloud to anyone but her for the first time. Emily had given me permission to call her by her Christian name, but I remained careful that I didn’t abuse that privilege in a public setting. There were many that would look down on the friendship of a first daughter of a prominent Amherst family with the second maid in the home. As a woman in domestic service, I always had to be on my guard and make sure that I didn’t commit any breach in etiquette. Young women like me had been dismissed for much less. Thankfully, Matthew seemed too shocked by my appearance at the fire to note my mistake. He held me by the shoulders. “Where is she?” “I—I don’t know. Carlo ran off and she went after him. Then I went after her.” Matthew glanced at the raging fire that looked not any closer to being snuffed out, but it did appear that the men on the scene had been able to contain the flames to the single house. The home was lost and would be completely burned to the ground before the night was over. It was a sight to see, to be sure, but it also caused me to wonder. I had had the misfortune to witness several house fires in my life, and I had never seen one that so engulfed a building. A thought tickled the back of my mind and asked me why the fire would burn so hot and fast. “I have to find Miss Dickinson and make sure she is all right,” I said. “I will go with you to make sure you don’t get too close to the flames.” I frowned up at him, but he could not see my expression behind my scarf. However, I am sure that he could guess that it was there. “I am not a fool and would not run into the flames.” “You would if Miss Dickinson was there,” he assured me. I frowned, as I had no rebuttal to that as it was true. Matthew and I went around the side of the building. There wasn’t much behind it but a stand of trees that were in very serious risk of catching fire. If the flames jumped to the trees, there would be no stopping the fire short of another snowstorm. Thankfully, the wind was blowing in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, that direction happened to be toward the college. However, I reminded myself that the men fighting the fire were confident that the college would be spared. I held on to the sides of my bonnet with the hope of keeping it in place against the cold wind. The woods were dark. Emily and Carlo could have been anywhere. I prayed that Emily had found Carlo or he had found her. I worried about her alone in the dark wood in the middle of the night. I cupped my mitten-covered hands around my mouth and called, “Miss Dickinson! Emily!” There was no response. Matthew looked at the woods. “We might have to get a search party together to look for her. It is foolhardy to strike out on your own on a night like this that is not only freezing cold but has so much confusion and chaos from the house fire.” “I don’t see it that way, Officer Thomas,” Emily said from behind us. Matthew and I both leapt in the air in surprise. “Miss Dickinson,” Matthew said. “I did not know that you were there.” She eyed him. “It’s clear to me that you didn’t, but I am glad to find the two of you. There is a matter that we all need to address.” “Where’s Carlo?” I asked. “I’ll show you.” Matthew and I glanced at each other but allowed Emily to lead us into the woods. We walked no more than ten yards when she stopped and pointed in front of her. Ahead of us on the path, there was a large dark mass. At first, I thought it was a black bear and my heart skipped a beat, but then I realized it was Carlo curled into a ball. “Is Carlo hurt?” I asked. She shook her head. Matthew approached the dog, and I was a few steps beside him. When I was within three feet of Carlo, I saw that he wasn’t just wrapped into a ball, but he had wrapped his woolly body around a child. I covered my mouth. It was a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than eight years of age. There was soot on her cheeks, and she shivered as she clung on to Carlo’s neck as if her life depended on it—and it just might, as she wasn’t wearing a coat or even shoes on her feet. Without a second of hesitation, Matthew removed his coat, wrapped it around the child like he was swaddling a baby, and picked her up. She didn’t make a sound. Carlo stood up, ready to do whatever was required to help the girl. “We have to get her inside now.” Matthew took off in the direction of the fire. Carlo, Emily, and I followed, but it was only Carlo who could keep up with him in the deep snow as our skirts weighed us down. We came around the side of the burning house just in time to see Matthew and the child disappear into a grand home across the street outside of Kelley Square. The house was a large block of a home with two chimneys that billowed hot air into the freezing sky. “Come on!” Emily cried, and she took off at a run to the house. “Watch where you’re going!” called a man who was driving a horse and wagon down the road. Emily didn’t even stop to wave at the man. I waited for the wagon to pass and then crossed the street. By that time, Emily was already inside the house...

~~~

I would have been well pleased to continue reading this fantastically conceived and brilliantly creative merge of one of America's well-known poets of the 1800s, together with the cozy mystery flair of author Amanda Flower... I've been a fan of cozies since I first started reading adult fiction, always choosing mysteries over most any other genre at that time. I've been reading Flower since 2010, so do check out earlier reviews by searching her name in the right column...But, I was most intrigued when I first heard about her new series based upon Emily Dickinson, and set in the town where Amherst College had been first started in 1821, and is now the third largest and continuing higher education institution in Massachusetts.

I thought I would share how the College looks now, because in the century in which Amherst College was first opened, it turned out to have one of the worst cold storm of 1857 that had ever occurred in the state. Railroads were damaged and stopped from delivering needed food and more into Amherst, and a main activity of all residents was to worry about fires, since only live fire was used in most homes and because of the cold weather, there was a great fear of potential fires because they didn't have the time to clean the fireplaces and chimneys to ensure there was not a buildup that could ultimately start burning itself... 

The entire Dickinson family had large homes built and, given the status of many of the residents who also worked at Amherst, there was an elite environment, where a strict class structure had continued into the new century... There is a clearly defined separation of the white male leaders, as opposed to all of the hundreds of staff who worked in service professions--police, janitors, maids... In fact, it was at that time when servants were so "invisible" to the elite that they knew more about what was happening in town than many of the professionals living there.

In this book we find the possible reason why Emily Dickinson had first connected with the second maid in her home... While what is said may also be true, I like to think that Emily was drawn to Willa because of her desire to learn--often reading the books from the family library--as well as being quick to pick up on issues that happen on a daily basis in their home and community and be able to make real connections in helping to solve mysteries... Everybody in the house knew that at sometime something would have to break up the close relationship that sprung up between the very unique and commanding woman who had a way of getting around her father whenever they disagreed, just by choosing to apologize after she had made a decision, rather than asking for permission in advance. Made sense most of the time. However, the First Maid was constantly upset, even though she realized that Willa really had no choice but to go with Emily when she was ordered to... But, even that, for Emily, was always a game of power that she enjoyed playing--willing to shock everybody, simply by speaking Truth mostly... Still, Willa would catch emily staring off into space, softly whispering...

A ray of bright sunshine broke through the clouds and all around us the snow shone and sparkled. It was close to blinding, but I couldn’t look away. It seemed to me that Emily felt that same way. She stared at the brightest spot on the snow-covered church steeple. “There’s a certain slant of light on winter afternoons,” she murmured.

But this time, yes, there was a mystery to be solved, but Willa, for the first time, had a significant reason she wanted--no needed--to participate in solving the crime(s)...

There had been a fire of a home near the campus, so the entire town was called out to assist. A young married couple had been burned to death in their home and the building had burned to the ground. Emily's best friend, her dog, had located the daughter of the family, who had been saved when her father carefully placed her outside a window and then went back for his wife. They were told by the fireman later that both doors had been blocked by large stones in front of each door. They were murdered.

Later that night, Willa was the one individual who cared enough about the girl, to slip into the bedroom where she was placed and to stay with her, holding her, that entire night. The little girl had known she was there, feeling Willa's concern, but did not reveal that until the next day because she wanted to ensure she was now safe. Even at that point, she and Willa were the only two of all involved others, to whom the girl would speak... Willa immediately recognized her as being a young "Willa" and had talked and shared about her early life... Now, Willa knew one thing, but had to keep silent about her thoughts... because the police were working to find a home for her, after determining that none of those who financially were very able to keep her, weren't willing to actually do so...

Of course, I realized what she was hoping to do, even before it was spoken in the book and that, dear friends, will explain why I considered what happened as the book proceeds through to the climax and Flower presents us with a Lovely Finale to her Trilogy, one that, for me, was...just...perfect!

Amanda Flower deserves exceptional recognition for capturing the personality of Emily Dickinson and introducing her to the world as a totally competent and enthusiastically driven amateur detective who, if we could rewrite history as some try to do, Emily would have been the very first female amateur sleuth! Do check out the first two books in series: Because I Could Not Stop For Death and I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died (first)/

GABixlerReviews

Dynamic Duo, C.K. Laurence and Jerry Lyons Takes Deep Dive Into Life of Ricky Burns When Faced With Tragedy! My Kind of Hero!

... I’ll be calling. We’re going to have to start referring to you as Dangerman.” “I honestly don’t care what you call me, so long as you get me everything you can...

After a long night of short sleep, Collette woke up tucked into Ricky's strong arms. She always felt so safe and well cared for when he held her. She couldn’t help but think about what she’d be doing today while he was doing his detective thing. There was no doubt he wouldn’t want her tagging along. He didn’t give his own safety a second thought much less a first, but when it came to her, he tried to make sure she was untouchable, unreachable and out of harm’s way.  She tried to figure out a way to wiggle out of his arms, but they were holding her so tightly there was no way to do it. Finally, she let herself go limp and decided to rest and let him sleep. Of course, as soon as she capitulated to his hug, he started taking deep breaths and loosening his death grip. She waited a little longer and finally… “Oh, damn. What time is it? I guess the time got away from us.” “No, not so much. It’s only around 7:00. I think maybe our problem is that we spent way too little time sleeping.” “I see where you’re going with this. Stop it now. If it wasn’t for the time we weren’t sleeping, I don’t think I would have the strength to go on working. Wasn’t there an old Sinatra song about making someone feel so young? I think that’s where we get caught up. I have no desire to go back to ‘old’, so when you’re in my arms I can’t seem to stop.” “That’s ever so flattering my love. Not! But I’m guessing that’s as romantic as it’s going to get so let’s move on with our day.” “I’m glad you mentioned our day, dear lady. I took the liberty of making plans for you. Hopefully, it will give you the opportunity to rest. Isn’t being pampered what every girl wants?” “Being surrounded by luxury and leaving me alone to lavish myself in a hot, bubbly tub with expensive, exquisitely scented soaps and lotions sounds like a good start. I can order a gourmet lunch and eat it while I watch the postmortems on the 2024 elections. Heaven can wait...” “Yeah. I guess that, too, however, the plans I made can easily be canceled if that’s your preference.” “How about stop beating around the bush and tell me what your plan is.” “I made a reservation for you to spend the day in the Bourbon’s world famous spa. You can take advantage of whatever appeals to you once you get in there. They have everything, and I mean everything. If they don’t have what you want, I’m sure they’ll get it for you.” “Oh Ricky! That’s incredible. I’ve never ever been to a spa, much less a spa in a luxury hotel. You can leave now. I’ve got to get ready for my spa appointment. Uh, what time did you say it is for?” “Nine o’clock. You have plenty of time to get ready. 

Meanwhile, I have to get going as soon as possible and for once, I’m not worried about your safety in my absence. Let me grab the shower first. I’ll be quick. Then a shave and I'm gone.” “Certainly. You are welcome to shower first. I’ll just relax until you’re out of here. I feel so expensive, er, I mean cared for. This is the absolute best day ever.” Once Ricky was in his car, he was able to take his mind off Collette. After all these years with her, when they were together, she still stole all his intentions and thoughts. He did love it, though. He was definitely in Swampsville. Not a place he’d enjoy spending much time in, so he was glad he’d thought of booking them into a four-star hotel. The amenities were all they’d been billed to be, and Collette was in heaven. He hoped to be in and out of that snake store quickly. That way he could be gone and back in the hotel in time to take a nap before Collette finished spa-ing. With a little rest, he could be up when she got back to the room and ready for one last night of pampering. Maybe he could even request that Alphonse bring dinner to their room. For a nice big tip, he was sure Alphonse would do almost anything they requested. 

According to the GPS he was just a couple of blocks from the exotic pet store. He hoped there wouldn’t be any problems. The guy he spoke to on the phone seemed nice enough and if he continued to be easy going, all he’d have to do is tell a couple of quick jokes, get the information he needed and he was out of there. The pet store was pretty much like he expected. Nowheresville. That didn’t matter the slightest bit to him. In fact, he preferred it this way. If they were hicks, it would only make his mission easier. Not that there weren’t plenty of smart hicks, but if he was going to be dealing with them, he’d just as soon deal with dumb ones. He parked in the glamorous dirt parking lot and headed to the door which was not locked. When he opened it, one of those old-fashioned bells hanging from it clanged loudly, and in less than a minute Gomer Pyle was standing behind the counter. Give me the country life started running through his head. 

“Nice day, huh? What can I do you for?” he asked. “Just hunky dory,” Ricky responded. “I don’t know if you’re the gentleman I spoke with the other day. I called from Florida about Black Mambas.” “Yessireebob, it was sure enough me. Don’t get so many calls fer the really poisonous snakes and Black Mambas are sure enough poisonous. I did tell you it would take a good piece of time to find one for ya, didn’t I?” “Yes, you did. My girl and I needed a getaway though, so we thought we’d visit your cozy little town. I have a couple of questions to ask you about the fellow who bought that Black Mamba from you. Would that be a problem?” “Hell no. We got nothing to hide. Our licenses are up to date, our taxes are paid and we’re as honest as old Abe Lincoln was. Or was that George Washington? I’m always getting those old guys confused,” he chuckled. Ricky extended his hand and honest somebody immediately reached out to shake it. “I’m Ricky Burns.” “Nice t’meet ya, Ricky. I’m Slim.” “Good to meet you, Slim. Listen, before we get started, I want to be honest with you. I believe honesty is the best policy. I’m just a city boy. I really don’t know nothing about snakes or any other creepy crawlers, except roaches. But I work for a guy who’s into all kinds of businesses. Thing is, he sent a guy to get a Black Mamba right here, from you. He sent you cash money to pay for the snake, but when he got back, he turned out to be a snake himself. At least that’s what my boss thinks. And that lyin’ snake of a man told my boss when he got here, you told him you didn’t have the snake, and you didn’t know anything about the money. So, I’ve been working for my boss for a lot of years, and he knows he can trust me to tell him the whole truth. That’s why he sent me to visit you in person after I spoke to you on the phone.” “That shit eatin’ lying cotton mouth! He sure as hell did come here and git that Mamba. He talked fast and couldn’t wait to get his sorry cheatin’ ass outta here. What do you need to know, Ricky? I’d be happy to help you.” Ricky reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a picture. He carefully laid it on the counter which looked as though it had never been cleaned.  “What I need to know is if you recognize this fellow.” “Boy, howdy! You must be psycho. That’s the guy who picked up the Mamba. Any other pictures?” “No, but look closely, Slim. I need you to be sure he’s the one.” “I’m right sure it’s him. He was so scared of that snake he made me put the bag I packed him in into a box and then he bought a cage to put it all in. I told him the bag was way more than enough to protect him, but he wouldn’t listen. If all that fool stuff isn’t enough, he made me carry it out to his old truck and put it in the pickup just in case it broke loose. I told him the Mamba would just lay quietly and rest. They aren’t the kind of snakes that go lookin’ for trouble.” “Do you happen to remember the color?” “Oh, sure enough I do. You city boys don’t know nothin’ about nothin’, do ya? Black snakes are usually black. There is a little difference with Black Mambas, though. They’re more a dark greyish color, but it’s really black inside their mouths. 

“Sorry. I should have been clearer. I meant the color of the truck.” “Oh, fer sure. It was one beat up, dirty red one. I didn’t see what make it was though. Anything else I can help you with?” “Nope. Actually, you’ve been a huge help. Just one more little thing, Slim. I need you to sign your name on the back of the picture and write just what you’ve told me. Be sure to write today’s date. This is the guy I gave the Black Mamba to. And that’s all.” “Be my pleasure. Happy to clear things up for your boss.” With that, he took a pen out of his shirt pocket protector and signed the picture. “Say, Slim, if anything comes up where my boss needs any poisonous snakes or exotic animals, I couldn’t help but notice what a great collection you have here. I'll be sure he contacts you.” “Thank ya kindly, Ricky. And tell your boss to get rid of that lyin’ cocksucker as quick as he can!” “I’ll let him know tonight and I guarantee you, that lying cheat will be gone before I get back. Thanks so much for your help.” Ricky left the pet store with a huge smile on his face. He had everything he needed and was going back to the four-star hotel to spend the rest of his visit with Collette. 

Then couldn’t hold back from saying, “Gollllllllleeeee! That was easier than I thought.” 

Who Is Ricky Burns?

Ricky Burns is a veteran of the NYPD Major Case Unit. He served twenty years, survived two shoot-outs and retired as a Homicide Detective First Grade. No longer with the police department, but still attached to the excitement and satisfaction of that career, he chose to move to south Florida and become a private investigator. His reputation preceded him and before he had even settled into the houseboat an old friend of his donated for merely the price of protection, Ricky was being called by high profile criminal defense attorneys to work on some of America’s most explosive murders.

Ricky Burns Mysteries highlight the career of real-life private investigator, Jerry Lyons.

~~~

It all started when a court case was taking place.. Ricky had already been upset... He didn't like defending a man just because he had the money to pay for his defense, especially when it was clear that he was indeed guilty... This time, however, when the man was found guilty, he exploded, thinking his lawyer would get him off! And before it was all over, Collette, Jay's legal assistant, and, more importantly, Ricky's fiancee had been seriously hurt and rushed to the hospital...

The doctors had immediately induced a coma so that her brain could begin to heal. Her face was twice the size of normal and Ricky could barely stand to look, knowing that she was seriously hurt and possibly would not survive. While the first interaction with doctors was taking place, Ricky controlled his emotions, but when both he and Jay were asked to go out while she was further examined, Ricky turned to Jay and started blasting! And before it was over, Jay had promised that they would no longer take cases just because the defendant could pay for it. He made it clear that this was not the kind of man he wanted to be and would quit or refuse to work on any future cases where they both knew the potential client was guilty!

But I could actually feel Ricky's rage. At one time or another I felt that he had experienced such a tragedy and knew that it had affected his life personally. And, thus, his rage affected me as I read of his staying with his vibrant beautiful lover day and night, waiting for some sign, tracking down the doctors to ask for the latest information, with one finally stating clearly that Ricky knew as much as they did! And gained a promise that he would be the first to know of any change... 

As the doctor walked away, I could feel Ricky's rage, his frustration. He was a man of action--he worked to help people, to solve problems, to relieve the mental anguish of crimes. Now he was helpless... And his rage simmered underneath, even as he acknowledge that he needed to at least leave the hospital, perhaps try to do something at work. Even then his mind was not totally sharp... they had two smaller cases where people were questioning suicides--not something they normally got involved with. Still it was something to do and he began to get out on the streets, interviewing, looking for and picking up clues, storing them in his mind, not knowing whether they would ever be relevant.... But, at least, it kept him from worrying about Collette 24/7. Well, not entirely, since his mind kept coming right back to seeing her totally unconscious...

Then one day a doctor started talking about surgery--perhaps they could open her up and see if there was something they had missed in their diagnosis... I could almost believe that Collette heard that discussion and decided that was not going to happen, and by the next day, she had opened her eyes. They were blurred, she couldn't see and merely stared, not recognizing anybody, but it was a step forward...Collette was a strong-willed woman and soon demonstrated that inner strength as she worked to move, take steps that she shouldn't really be taking, and then doing exercises many more times than was required...She was determined to rebuild her strength...

Especially when she learned about her temporary replacement... Seriously, this character created by C.K. was so ridiculous, readers just have to begin to share the horror of an office that had been efficiently run and now didn't have a clue what she was doing... And, would you believe, she asked Ricky to head home with her one day... And when he politely explained that he really wasn't single, but that it was the woman she was replacing temporarily who was in the hospital, she then revised her proposition to note that they really wouldn't need to have her know if he visited her some evening... I admired Ricky even more when he continued to be polite... Me, I was gagging! Then laughing! C.K.'s efforts to create the most offensive comparison with Collette surely succeeded. Kudos!

Ricky put together a list of conditions by which he was willing to allow Collette to come home. Feeling secure in his concern for her safety, she felt warm inside, even while she negotiated on some of the conditions... What a lovely couple they make!

And about that time, a murder case came in. A man charged with the murder of his ex-wife. Based upon the fact that he sold exotic creatures. And she had been bitten by a Black Mamba! Which her ex did sell in his shop... And based upon what a neighbor had told the police... The follow-up interview by Ricky with that neighbor was quite revealing and clearly full of questionable and possible disinformation...

But, hey, Who's Your Mamba?, does explode into a bigger mystery than ever could have been imagined...All because of Ricky Burns, who was back on his game, doing his thing, and putting pieces together that turned out to be larger than just a murdered ex-wife... Not meaning to downplay a murder, but that's just to say that the case became so big a bust that the local police units had to take over the final criminal arrests! And, it's all because that supposed Black Mamba had never been found. So what had happened to the murder weapon?

C.K.'s climax moved so quickly that I didn't realize that she was already setting up the storyline for the next book... Maybe... I was just relieved that my personal hero, Ricky Burns, AKA Jerry Lyons, was back and living large in his life, enjoying happiness with his lover which could only be expressed by "Gollllllllleeeee!"

C.K., this might have been a hard book to write, but I'm grateful that you both decided to share this very personal tragedy for your main character. Perhaps it was fictional, maybe not... What it did do, was make Ricky, a much more vulnerable, emotional, but ultimately still a hero to many of our lives! God Bless you Both!

GABixlerReviews

Brooklyn wasn’t exactly laying around playing records from the ‘60s. She was her usual cagey self and managed to do some serious work of her own...

He never even thought of asking about his employees or what was going to happen to them. Narcissism seemed to be the illness of the year. ​“I wanted to arrest his ass so badly today,”

Reality - 2025

Can't Go Home - A Trinity Calhoun Mystery Series by Melinda Di Lorenzo - Extraordinary Personal Favorite Read in One Sitting!

 

Although the seedier parts of Whimsy aren’t really all that seedy when compared with Vancouver’s downtown core, there’s still a sharp turn for the worse as I guide my car through the streets toward Schmidt’s. The buildings are more rundown. A slightly acrid scent permeates my car. And evidence of neglect dominates the sidewalks. Right before I’m about to turn onto the street that houses the bar, I spy an overflowing garbage can and a pleased group of crows, digging their way through it. I want to shake my head at the mess. I know for a fact that Whimsy’s city crew comes through here only when they have to. Which means the cleanup coincides with important events. The big opening ceremony at the university every fall. The Winter Festival in December. And, of course, the start of spring tourist season. It irks me. Maybe even more now than it did when I actually lived here. I’m not naive enough to think that a little more attention will completely eliminate the problems that go along with relative poverty. But having grown up in the poorest of the family-oriented neighborhoods in Whimsy, I can vouch for the feeling that nobody cares. And if nobody cares, then why try to get out of what can only be fate? Ordering myself to stow the bitter emotions, I pull my car into Schmidt’s dilapidated lot and take inventory of the exterior of the bar. The building is short and squat, with a flat roof that visibly sags in some places. The siding is brick, broken in a few spots and covered in dark moss in others. An awning—once bright yellow, but now faded to a sallow shade—juts out above the main entrance. The lettering on the fabric has long since disappeared. The idea that it meets any kind of code is ludicrous. And how the local fire department hasn’t yet torn it down is a miracle. As I climb out of my car, it’s hard for me to imagine either Asher or Gabe choosing this as a place to drink. Even brokenhearted Gabe or the current version of Asher don’t quite fit with what I think must be the bar’s usual clientele. What about a cop? I ask myself. Like the one Asher described. Can you imagine a law enforcement official hanging out at Schmidt’s on purpose? “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” I say under my breath. I reach the door and close my fingers on the handle, cringing as my palm meets with something slightly sticky. I give a forceful tug then quickly release my hand and slide my body through the entryway. I want to go straight to the bathroom so I can scrub down with whatever it is that Schmidt’s has in the way of soap and water. I don’t follow through, though. I can already feel every eye on me, and the last thing I want to do is alienate the customers and staff. People are reluctant to answer questions when they think they’re being looked down on. So I stow the urge to get clean. I walk directly up to the bar and seat myself on a stool instead. For a good two or three minutes, the sixty-something bartender, who’s sporting a beard worthy of Santa Claus, ignores me. Though I know he’s seen me, he continues to unload, dry, and put away a set of glasses. I don’t care. I’m happy to wait it out. But I do use the extra time to steal a look around. I’m careful not to make it too obvious, primarily taking my glances via the dingy mirror behind the bottles of even dingier liquor. There’s a man alone at one table, his head propped up on one of his hands, his eyes closed. There’s a group of three other men, sitting in a booth and playing cards while sipping from their pint glasses. A third table hosts a couple who are sitting so close together that it’s impossible to tell much about them other than that they’re both blonds. The only other person in the dimly lit space is a big man—tattooed, enormously broad-shouldered, and thick across the middle—standing beside an antiquated jukebox with his arms crossed, and who I assume must be Schmidt’s answer to security. I see nothing particularly interesting or concerning. So when I glance over at the bartender once more, I’m glad that he’s finally deigned to pay attention to me. “Drink?” he grunts. “Just a beer, please,” I reply, knowing that whatever he gives me will be watered down to the point of not being alcoholic at all. He grabs one of the glasses that he just finished wiping, fills it at the tap, then sets it down with a slosh. “Four bucks even.” “Thanks.” I pull a twenty from my wallet and set it on the bar. “Keep that.” His eyes find my face as his hand finds the money. “You a cop?” “I am,” I admit. “Cop night is Wednesday.” I’m curious about what he means by the statement. Is he referring to a designated evening where the police can simply unwind? Or a day when the local PD drinks for free? Or something with an even more corrupt undertone? But I don’t ask. It’s not what I came for. “I’m not here on official business,” I say instead. “Cops are always on duty, whether they admit it or not,” the bartender replies. “Accurate to some extent, I guess. But I’m just trying to figure out the truth about a fight that happened in Schmidt’s a few weeks ago.” “That’s not gonna narrow it down. Someone tries to get the shit kicked out of themselves here pretty much every other night.” “This fight would’ve involved an older man.” I wince inwardly at the description; I really hate it that that’s what Asher has become. “Thin. Wild gray hair. Clothes might not have been the cleanest. A little confused, but smart as hell.” “Ah,” the bartender says with a knowing nod. “Ah?” I repeat. “You’re talking about Prof.” Relief makes my shoulders sag. “Yes, that’s him. Do you remember the fight? It would’ve been between a month and two months ago.” “I do,” he tells me. “Weird fucking few minutes. Prof was in here a lot up ’til then. Always quiet. Out-to-lunch when he’s in the mood to talk. But polite. That was the first time I’ve seen him on a Wednesday, though.” I don’t bother to cover my surprise. “He was here on a cop night?” “Yep. Before that, he was strictly a Monday and Thursday guy.” I let that process for a second. Asher being here on a night designated for police lends credibility to his story. At the very least, it explains his interpretation of the situation. “What about the guy he got into it with?” I ask. “Was he a cop?” The bartender snorts. “Gabe?” This time, I don’t let my surprise show. “You know him, too?” “Yeah. I’ve known him since he was a shit-disturbing kid, trying to sneak in here underage. Moved back to town a couple of months ago, I think. Been coming in most Wednesdays since then.” I bite down on the inside of my lip, now adding that revelation to the stack of other facts. Why did Gabe lie about spending time at Schmidt’s? Was it really a lie, though? I ask myself. He didn’t say that he never came here. Just that it wasn’t his usual kind of place. He might’ve just been embarrassed. “Do you know how the fight started?” I ask. The bartender gives me both a shrug and another nod. “Prof came up and sat beside Gabe, said a few things. Couldn’t hear what, exactly. Then he started yelling about some woman. Figured it was a sex thing. Prof used to be a bit of a stud.” I decide not to comment on the last bit—I have no desire to discuss either Gabe’s or Asher’s sex lives. And I also don’t prompt the bartender by identifying Jennika. I’ve already let her name slip once today. And besides that, it would feel too much like leading a witness. But a question pops to mind, and even though I know it really has no bearing on the facts, I want to pose it anyway. “Can I ask your opinion about something?” I wonder aloud. “Go for it,” the bartender replies. “So long as you’re sure you want to hear it.” “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” I tell him with a smile. “Then hit me.” “What I want to know is if you think either man was more responsible for the fight than the other.” He tilts his head, visibly considering the question. I take a sip of the watery beer, waiting. I don’t know what I want his response to be. I have no desire for either man to be at fault. One would be as bad as the other. I loved Asher. I still do, on some level. And Gabe… Just the idea of Savannah’s brother being the aggressor in a fight makes my heart hurt. I want to think he’s moved on from that angry kid he used to be. And what all of it has to do with the missing women is another thing altogether. Or it’s not a thing at all, says my subconscious, much to my own frustration. Finally, the bearded man opens his mouth again. “Here’s what I’ll say. Gabe didn’t look put off or surprised to see the good old professor. They sat together for a few minutes before any shit went down. The more that Prof said, the more agitated our other friend got. Then came the yelling about the girl. Pretty sure Gabe told the old guy to mind his own business. There were some shoves. Couple of punches. Then my security man and one of the cops broke that shit up.” Well, I think. It’s about as neutral as I could’ve asked for. Except it’s also unsatisfying. I have an explanation for why the two men’s stories have conflicting details. And based on cohesive state of mind, Gabe’s is likely the one that’s more accurate. But I can also see how, addled as he is, Asher would mix things up the way he did. It also begs the question of whether or not he really can’t go to the police. Though it’s not quite as bad as starting a fight with a cop, I suppose that starting a fight in a roomful of them isn’t exactly trust-inspiring, either. “Does that give you what you need for your unofficial business?” the bartender asks. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I do appreciate your help.” He grunts an acknowledgement, then grabs a cloth and turns away. I watch him polish the dented brass on the bar for another moment before I slide my stool out, stand up, and exit the building. When my feet hit the cracked concrete outside, I see that it’s splotched with rain. As I hurry back to my car, several droplets hit my head. And by the time I actually put the vehicle into drive and start to pull out, a full-blown storm is nearly in effect. Even with the wipers on the highest setting, the water on my windshield doesn’t clear fast enough. It puts a kibosh on my desire to go immediately to Asher’s—the roads out there are unpleasant when it’s pouring, and downright treacherous when it’s like this—and I decide to try to call him again instead. But three attempts yield me nothing but voicemail and frustration, so I resign myself to heading back to the hotel. The going is slow. It probably takes me twice as long or more to drive back to the Queen Inn as it ought to. The rain has brought extra traffic—likely people trying to get home before the onset of Whimsy’s version of rush hour—and an accident requires me to reroute three times. But at last, I get there. And with Asher’s folder tucked under my arm, I make a mad dash for my room. As fast as I go, I still manage to slosh through a puddle, soaking my pants. And my hair is plastered to my head and face, too. My soggy state and my hurry to get out of it are probably the reason that I don’t notice immediately that something isn’t right. My hand is already outstretched to take the knob when I see the tiny, open space in between the frame and the door.

~~~

I love book series where, after reading them for a long time, you get to know the characters as actual family members, working together, or fighting, or coming together, often to solve a mystery... On the other hand, there is nothing like starting a book by a writer you've never read before, and finding that the style of writing is so perfect, that the constant moments when the author leaves you hanging, wanting to know more, or, just, the awareness that this book is something very special, a book that perfectly matches what type of story you most enjoy reading... I started reading this book Tuesday--some of you might know what was to happen that night--but that was not part of my plan even if the book hadn't been pulling me forward for every single page! Seriously, this writer had me hanging to the climax... and then wasn't satisfied, she had to include a type of afterthought which leaves you wondering whether what you just read was correct?! Wow, I finished the book about 2:30 Wednesday morning and fell asleep smiling...

We meet a character, who always has a backstory as to why she chose to be doing the job she has chosen. In this case, Trinity Calhoun had chosen to become a cop and was successfully handling case after case in Vancouver where she was living...when she got the call...

But that was after a talk with her boss about her needing to take some time off, clearly making Trinity understand that she needed her to come back, fully able to engage in her job again. Trinity was not quite sure she understood what her boss meant, but it was clear that arguing with her was not the answer. Trinity would take some leave she'd built up... not even considering what she was going to do, since her job was really the only life she had. Maybe that was the problem?

The call was from a former professor at Whimsy where she had attended college in her hometown. Truth was, she'd had a more personal relationship with him as well and still cared about him. But on the phone, even then he seemed confused, even using a wrong name when he asked Trinity whether he remembered Sylvia who had been killed when she was still home. Trinity immediately went on the alert, Savannah had been her best friend and she still mourned her and thought about her constantly... But it had been more than a decade since her body had been found, murdered. And never solved...

A too-long moment of silence. “Professor Phillip? Is… Are you there?” “Trinity…do you remember Sylvia?” A chill. “You mean Savannah.” “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Savannah.” A throat clear. “But do you? Remember, I mean.” “Yes. Of course.” “Trinity, I need you to come home.” A pause. “Home? Asher…” “Trinity. I need you here.” “What do you mean?” “Can you come?” “I can. But—” A click. “Asher? Are you there? Asher?” Dead air...

Trinity knew that, even if she hadn't just been committed to take time off, that she would have immediately left to find out what was wrong with Asher, a man she had once loved, even while she knew he was right to push her away when he said he was not going to change his life for a future with her... Still, she was very confused by how he seemed on the phone. He wasn't that old--she figured out he was 56, but he'd sounded like he was close to dementia... And when she finally got there and saw him, long messy hair, baggy clothes, piles of papers all over the house and completely unable to even complete a coherent sentence, she immediately thought this was not something she could help with! And thought about immediately turning around to go home. Until he told her there had been another woman taken... Finally to calm him down, she said she would check out what she could...

Whimsy was one of those towns which was more concerned about having a good reputation as a college town than to ensure public safety was routinely handled. Trinity quickly learned that she could not depend upon the police to help in any way and quickly learned that little had ever been done to find out what had happened to Savannah. Instead it has been left to slowly be moved to the Cold Case Files...

But then one bright surprise occurred when Trinity accidentally met Gabe, who was Savannah's older brother and, of course, she had not seen since her funeral. In fact, Gabe had left town immediately after the service. And, as he told her, had only returned about three months ago... Still, the meeting was very tentative since Gabe had never learned that Savannah had called her the day she had later disappeared. And, Trinity had purposely chosen not to call her back, since they had been estranged for months. She had never forgiven herself, knowing that she had been the only person who Savannah would have reached out to for help...

Nevertheless, Trinity had agreed to stay a few days, especially after he had shared that there were two Whimsy students who had disappeared, one of which had been reported missing by her roommate... Trinity had pressured the professor to put together a set of documents supporting his opinions. What he gave her was a stack of unrelated papers, but a copy of her final paper she had written about Savannah's murder case. Perhaps he thought that would be incentive enough?

And, while she had brought her badge in case she needed to contact local officials, she was soon upset that she had chosen not to also bring her gun... Because now the professor was remembering that Savannah had been gone for quite some time before her body was discovered. Perhaps the latest, Jennika, could still be alive? Soon Trinity was talking to her roommate and discovering details that could lead to the possibility that she was indeed alive...

Be prepared to be frustrated. Clues coming together sometimes would lead where Trinity didn't want to go... When she found herself visiting her home where she had once lived, she also realized that there could be somebody following her. As she calmed herself down, she stopped to listen, realizing somebody was jogging, just like she had been doing to get there. But then she recognized the running pace of that individual... Dare she assume it was alright to come out of hiding???

I loved this book, Mystery and Suspense at its finest! Do consider this a book that you just might enjoy as much as I did! Highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

Something was very wrong. As soon as he put his palm on the door handle, he knew. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was experience. Or maybe there was something more tangible behind it. A subtle, physical change that he’d picked up on subconsciously. Whatever the case… He. Just. Knew. Except the knowing wasn’t enough. A second too late, he dropped his hand. The door came flying open. The heavy wood—they sure as shit didn’t construct stuff like that anymore—slammed straight into his forehead. The blow sent him to the ground; the pain paralyzed his limbs and made his eyes water. Then…there she was. The girl.