Marshall Thornton Presents Boystown: Three Nick Nowak Mysteries - Book 1 - Think of Mike Hammer, the PI...

 

“The minute you walked in the bar, I could tell you were there for me.” So much for my surveillance abilities...

I lit a cigarette and thought, “If there is a God... If he wanted to do us a favor he would have made raw carrots and bean sprouts as appealing as a fatty, fried sandwich and a Marlboro.”

On Fridays and Saturdays, I have a part-time gig working security at a nightclub on Broadway called Paradise Isle. Even though some radio disc jockey declared disco dead by burning a bunch of records at Comiskey Park about two years back, you wouldn’t know it at Paradise Isle. The DJ is Miss Minerva Jones, the only drag queen I ever met who didn’t have some sort of joke name. I like that about her. You can only meet Anita Mann so many times before it gets

old. When it comes to disco, Miss Minerva is a purist. She plays Thelma Houston, Sylvester, Chic, and Sister Sledge. Sure, she also plays The Bee Gees, The Village

People, and Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” but only if you tip her. The club is forty percent dance floor

I tipped for "I Will Survive!!!" LOL

and always full. The dance floor is made of thick Plexiglas and lit from beneath. The rest of the place holds a couple dozen tables, some booths against the wall, and a bar that runs the length of the club. The theme is tropical, and there are a couple of neon palm trees attached to the walls. The bartenders start the night in Hawaiian print shirts, but have lost them by the time I show up at nine. When I first started, the owner, Davey Edwards, tried to get me to wear a paper lei. I put my foot down. From ten to two I stand at the door with a flashlight and check IDs. Wearing a paper lei, Davey takes the cover charge. I could do the whole thing myself, but I’d have a bit of trouble balancing the cash drawer if a fight broke out. And they do break out every so often. Fortunately, most queens have to warm up with a couple rounds of catty remarks, so I’m usually there before anyone throws a punch. That Friday was busy but uneventful. Davey stops charging a cover at one, so I’m alone for the last hour. Mostly people are leaving by then, so I spend my time saying “good night” and telling people, especially the drunk ones, to “be careful.” After my shift, I usually head over to the bar for a couple of free drinks. That night was no different. Ross weaved his way over and asked what I wanted. Even though it was below zero outside, his well-defined, bare chest was slick with sweat. Ross is a sexy mix of boy and man. He’s got freckles across the bridge of his nose and a cowlick on the left side of his forehead. He’s also got biceps hovering around sixteen inches... After he brought me a beer, Ross offered me a Camel Light. I turned him down. “Willpower,” he said. “I hate that in a man.”

~~~~

Book 1 - Little Boy Found

Nick Nowak came alive for me in Hammer's voice, hope some of you remember him! LOL

Yeah, it was an old TV PI program, but I was a fan of mystery and suspense even back then... So having three Nick Nowak mysteries in one, for free, from BookBub, was a gift of memories... Of course, this PI had something to offer that I may not have been interested in--but other readers might... So I'll tell you about the stories, O.K.? 

Nick has his PI license so works as much as he can on that job, but also spends time at a local club as what you might realize to be a bouncer, even if he's at the door when you first get to the club... But, then again, readers won't get too far into the club, before it is burnt down and out of business for a while... Most damaged was that Miss Minerva, the D.J. who had originals in cartons lost all of her music! Bummer, right?! I was enjoying her oldies just as much as you would!

Unlike most guys, I should know better...

That particular day there wasn’t anything on the radio except reporters droning on about the inauguration. It seemed a little odd that none of them complained that our country was now going to be run by a guy who once co-starred with a chimp. Not that I had anything against the Gipper. I just wasn’t convinced I wanted his finger on the button. I turned the radio down and picked up the phone.

But Nick has received a telephone call to find a lost boy. Even from the very first Nick was not quite sure that this was really a case because he couldn't get very much information out of the caller. Nevertheless, he started the job for his new client--“What’s your name?” “Walt...Paddington. Walt Paddington.” Ok, I was suspicious as Nick was when he had to figure out a name to be used... Then he refused to come into the office... But Nick needed the money and what could happen? Well... His job was to find Brian Peerson... who had been gone for almost a year, but, now, it was urgent to find him...

Nick learned enough to be able to begin the search and soon he found the retainer and some photos waiting for him. Now that would allow "expenses" to begin... He had been seen at another club, "The Closet." A Waiter there... But then Nowak went back to who had hired him--and who had recommended him to the guy. Decided that was just as important... So the search expanded... 

It didn't take long to find Brian, but it got a little complicated when somebody else also was out to kill him... Even offered Nowak $10,000 to just walk away... Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen...

Little Boy Burned...

“Private investigator? You mean like Magnum, PI?” She asked. Her voice was crisp and sharp. “I’m not sure what that is, ma’am.” “You’re not sure? Why, it’s a TV show. It’s on Thursday nights at eight o’clock. Don’t you watch TV?” Her tone suggested she considered television viewing as necessary as breathing. “I don’t have a television,” I explained. It had moved out with Daniel, and I’d never bothered to replace it. “What on earth do you do without a TV?” “I do a lot of things. Can you tell me if you happened to see or hear anything unusual last night? Between five and five-thirty?” “Why don’t you come in,” she invited me, and then hobbled away from the front door. It was a studio apartment. In one corner sat a nicely made double bed, in another a recliner with a television balanced on a small table a few feet in front of it. I followed the woman over to a small dining table in front of the window. She sat and looked out. She had an excellent view of Paradise Isle. “Hawaii,” she said abruptly. My stomach sank. I worried she might be half crazy. “What about Hawaii, ma’am?” “That’s where Magnum, PI lives. It looks pretty on TV, but I could never leave Chicago. I’ve been here seventy-four years.” “Did you happen to see anything this morning?” She nodded. “I have the insomnia.” “So you’re up at night a lot of the time.” “Oh, it’s terrible. If I get two good hours of sleep, well, I consider myself lucky. Very lucky.” I took a seat across from her. “And this morning you were sitting right here looking out the window.” “Yes, I was.” “What did you see?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know that’s where the fancy boys go, don’t you?” “Yes, ma’am.” I knew she’d tell me eventually; I just wasn’t sure I had the patience to wait. “He ran out of there around five-thirty.” “Who did?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know any fancy boys.” “Tell me what he looked like.” “He wasn’t fat. And he wasn’t short.” Ruthie would exasperate the police when they showed up. The thought made me want to giggle. “Was he white? Or black?” She thought about it. “White. I’m pretty sure. He was wearing a hat. And one of those balloon coats.” “A down coat,” I suggested. “A what?” “A coat full of feathers. Like a pillow.” “It sure looked like a pillow.” “Was he young or old?” She thought about it. “Couldn’t have been old. He was running. I haven’t run like that in forty years.” “Did you see where he went?” She nodded solemnly. I waited. “He came into The Shore.” I looked out the window. It faced Broadway. The entrance to The Shore was on Surf. There wasn’t any way she could have seen him enter the building. I decided not to contradict her. The rest of the information seemed good, what there was of it.

~~~~

This is the story where Paradise Isle is set on fire... Nick is called to hurry over and help deal with the crisis, and soon gets involved with tracking down who set the fire... All I'm going to say about this one is that Nick should have paid more attention to the lady he first talked to... And finally got around to solving the case... LOL

Little Boy Fallen

I found I didn’t much like being a secretary; it was hours of boredom punctuated by brief periods of humiliation.

A second later I lay on the strip, the wheels of the train still moving inches from my face.

“You think he’s gay?” he asked me. “Guys like that, I think it’s more about manipulation than sex.”

“Helen Borlock.” I sat down at my desk and lit a cigarette while she talked. “He told me to come. He said you’d help. You can help, can’t you?” “I don’t know if I can help,” I said honestly. “I don’t know why you’re here.” She gave me a confused look, as though I should know why she was there. “Bobby told me to come. He said you’d help.” “Bobby who?” “Bobby Martin.” I was pretty sure I didn’t know a Bobby Martin and said so. “Bobby was my son’s roommate. One of them, I mean. There were four of them living there. Sweet boys, always laughing. The apartment is on Clark and Fullerton. They did it up nice. Every room a different color.” I still hadn’t a clue who she was talking about. Abruptly, she held out the photo album. “This is my Lenny.” To be polite, I took the album. “I never wanted to name him Leonard. My husband insisted. He’d had a friend, in the Marines. Wanted to name his son Leonard, after his friend. The friend died, you see.” I flipped the album open. There was Helen with an infant. I was right. In her day, Helen had been a looker. I flipped a few pages and Lenny began to grow up. Looked like he was on his way to being a looker, too. “What is it Bobby thought I could help you with?” She glanced out the window like she suddenly needed to check the weather. It was overcast and threatening to rain or, worse, throw in one last snowstorm for the winter. After a little sigh, she said, “Three weeks ago, my son was murdered.” “Mrs. Borlock, I’m a private investigator. I don’t investigate murders. The police do that.” “They don’t care. Lenny is just another pervert to them.” I waited a few moments, considering. I was telling her the truth. It wasn’t the kind of thing I did. Or at least tried not to do. Mainly I did background checks, skip traces, once in a while a little surveillance. That was it. Murder was different. Yes, I used to be a policeman, but I’d only worked a beat. I’d never been a detective. In the nearly six years I spent on the job, when it came to murder I’d never done much more than secure a crime scene and make sure witnesses stayed put. “Can you afford a private investigator?” “Yes. I always put a little aside for Lenny. Ever since he was a little boy.” She stared at her hands, which seemed particularly empty now that I was flipping through the photo album. “I used to think I’d give him the money on his wedding. He was sixteen when I figured out that was never going to happen, so for a while I thought I’d give him the money to go to college. But he was never book smart. Last couple of years, I’ve been waiting to see, did he maybe want to start a business or get a nice beau and buy a house.” Her voice turned bitter. “I should have given it to him. Should have let him spend on whatever he wanted.” She looked like she might break down, but fortunately she didn’t. I took the final drag off my cigarette and stubbed it out. Against my better judgment, I said, “Tell me what happened to Lenny.” “Someone pushed him off the seventh floor of the atrium at Water Tower.” That seemed pretty cut and dried. “Were there witnesses?” “It was a little after ten in the morning.” “No one saw him being pushed?” She shook her head. “So, how do you know he was pushed?” Mrs. Borlock pursed her lips. Tears popped into her eyes and threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. “You’re going to tell me my boy killed himself, just like the police.” “Right now, I’m not telling you anything. Right now, I’m asking questions. How do you know he was pushed?” “I just know,” she spat. “I know Lenny. And he wouldn’t kill himself.” “Why wouldn’t Lenny kill himself?” I was expecting a lame answer, like she’d raised him as a good Catholic, and, since it was against God’s law, he wouldn’t do it. But she didn’t say that. She said something completely different. “Lenny was the happiest person I ever met.”

~~~~

As you might have guessed, Nowak took the case... We all know that it was a dumb thing to do... Somebody was murdered--it meant that the guilty person would be that individual who killed somebody! I think it was the fact that his mother saw her son as the happiest person she ever met... What can you say to that? So he took it, and nearly found himself, also killed! And it all started when Nick found a deposit in Lenny's account!

Halfway down the page, there was a circled deposit for three thousand, five hundred, and sixty-four dollars.

The four roommates had been temp's for a company and were given various assignments. Nick soon realized that the only way to track the money was to go undercover... And being a secretary wasn't something he would ever choose to be! Yet, here he was... Because of course, everybody knows that the secretaries are the ones who get "hit on" by the bosses... right?

I thoroughly enjoyed the light mysteries and know you will too! Covering multiple books within one review is not easy to do, but I've tried to give you a sense of the various storylines... The book is for fun reading. Nick Nowak is a macho man living in Chicago in the early 80s who easily and quickly sets out to solve the problems he has agreed to handle. The fact that he gets sidetracked often will also possibly be of interest to those who read this series... 

GABixlerReviews

Christopher Rice Presents - The Vines! NY Times Bestselling Author!

BEFORE...

Spring House had its portrait painted many times before it was destroyed by fire. Images of its grand, columned facade are so prevalent throughout gift shops in southern Louisiana most tourists to the region return home with a haunting sense they had visited the place, even if they didn’t take a bus tour of the old plantation houses that line the banks of the Mississippi River.  
Hundreds of years after the conflagration that reduced the antebellum mansion to timbers and weeds, the house and grounds were restored to a more tourist-friendly version of their original splendor by one of the wealthiest families in New Orleans. 
Several of the slave quarters were removed to make room for a quaint gazebo, and the cane fields where African slaves labored and died in the punishing heat were replaced by manicured, fountain-studded gardens that have since played host to countless wedding receptions.

The affluent families who pay for these events feel no meaningful connection to the place’s violent, bloody history; otherwise they would have second thoughts about staging such gleeful celebrations atop soil forced to absorb decades of systematic degradation and assault. No doubt, many of the brides in question grew up in homes where an etching or a painting of Spring House hung in the foyer or the upstairs hallway or, at the very least, the guest bathroom, and they too were seduced, sometimes subliminally, by these ever-present

reproductions of its pastoral sprawl and muscular profile.  But there is one rendering of Spring House that continues to cause dispute among academics, and it is not found in gift shops. The sketch is primitive, but telltale architectural details of the old house are plainly visible: the widow’s walk and the keyhole-shaped front door, to name a few. 
It depicts a gathering of slaves who have been forced to stand and watch while one of their own is whipped by a man who is clearly the overseer. 
The inexplicable event that seems to have interrupted the overseer’s work is a matter of great contention among those devoted to the study of plantation history. 
Some shape has descended from the branches of a nearby oak tree and twined itself through the overseer’s airborne whip, capturing it in midair and bringing a sudden halt to the bound slave’s violent punishment.  Even though it has no signature or date, the academics and tour guides believe this sketch to be the work of one of the many privileged white historians who took it upon themselves to document the personal narratives of freed slaves after the Civil War ended. Perhaps these accounts of misery moved one of these well-intentioned writers to work beyond the limits of his abilities, resulting in a crude illustration meant to manifest the sublimated rage of his interview subjects. Or maybe it is the work of a former slave, who summoned all the steadiness of hand she could manage and put her own revenge fantasy to paper. 
But these scholars are sure the sketch does not depict an actual event. It’s a metaphor, they insist, an angry dream spilled in ink. Of this assertion these students, who devote their lifework to studying the bloody and complex history that runs catacomb-like beneath the bus tours and the spinning racks of postcards and the five-figure weddings, are absolutely sure. 
And they are wrong. 

~~~

The Vines

By Christopher Rice

With a title, The Vines, coming from a writer who sometimes writes horror, it was clear what this story was going to be...  Rice even jokingly shares in his video that vines fighting against humans was a major part...

What you don't know at this point is that...it takes "blood" to cause those vines to come alive... Anything else beyond that would be a spoiler alert since the horror can only be "experienced" as you read--we can not tell you, else you won't believe us... Or, if I tell you, like that old saying, then I'd have to kill you.

The history of the mansion, located in Louisiana, is the key issue. As a working farm in older days, the plantation had many slaves who had worked the land, had died there--had been buried there. When the plantation had burned, it might have been taken as an omen--that the land had received so much pain and blood from those days and needed to be cleansed... But it could not destroy the hate of those who had lived, and died, there...

And that hate could be revived... When something in today's world happens...

Caitlin Chaisson is now living in the new southern home that was built more for living and social life...All the signs of the slaves have been taken away and anything that had disturbed the land had been left for hundreds of years. But there was one old picture found that nobody knew who had painted it. It showed slaves being forced to stand and watch as the overseer punished one of the men...at least until something had pulled out of the woods and twined around the whip being used--stopping everything, caught in that moment of freedom...

But all the evil has not left the plantation--because it is the people who lived there which brought the evil to the home... Caitlin had been hosting a party when she came upon a scene of evil...her husband was having drunken sex with a women who'd attended the party...and when they wanted more, they ran out into a shed to continue their tryst.

Caitlin was devastated--it had been a celebration for her birthday, but had now become a mockery of what was supposed to be with her lover, her husband. Instead, this was her final birthday gift... Caitlin runs from the sight of this betrayal, to the gazebo, where she discovers she has cut herself with the women's champagne glass as she had thrown it to purposely break...

She sat there with the blood dripping onto the floor, remembering how she had heard comments about her looks and why her husband would marry her... But somehow seeing their embraces had been much worse than ever knowing that her husband did not love her... Even her best friend, Blake had tried to tell her, but Caitlin had turned from him, not being willing to believe. Now she knew.

And she uses the broken flute  and cuts into her arm, intending to end her  life...until she hears what is happening at her feet, sees what is happening on the gazebo floor... tendrils are arising up from between the boards of the gazebo, slowly moving toward her, now dripping blood... vines, looking something like a calla lilly...and it suckles her arm, her blood. But it is the smell that overpowers her, a smell...like fire... and she dreams?

And so she has no time to wait. She must bring herself to the very raw edge of her power, the place where she can feel a writhing, feral chaos in the darkness on the other side.  The darkness below. The darkness underfoot...

But when the door to the slave quarters behind her blows open, she sees neither the overseer nor Spring House’s bastard owner. She sees a perfectly framed view of her husband, Troy Mangier, halfway out of his suit, bare ass flexing as he drives himself into the beautiful young woman. And Caitlin feels herself jostled inside of her dreaming point of view—who was it? A slave?  The past and present have met in a fever dream...

And when she awakes, her arm is no longer bleeding--it is almost healed...

Caitlin feels a strange new power...and she knows exactly what to do with her new friends, the vines...


It is easy to see why Rice is a best-selling author...The Vines is edgy, creepy, and yet totally involving so that the story, through the main character's eyes, makes perfect sense... But with her best friend coming back into her life, even though she had pushed him away when he'd shared what he knew about her husband, Blake proves a true friend, as he works with her, dealing with what is actually happening... 

With a bit of fantasy, sci-fi, as well as horror, Rice presents a horrifying, exciting tale of what may happen when evil enters into and controls the land it has claimed. On the other hand, how the book ends if quite an extraordinary story in itself and, to me, proves that their is both vengeance and renewal that is possible... Given that today's headlines talks about a governor who is being questioned on being racist, we find that there is still more to learn about the uneasy relationship between Black and White people... Sometimes, The Vines helps make decisions for us... 

Memorable, remarkable in its merge of history with the present, and a lesson for all of us in many ways... This is one of my favorites of his books... Highly recommended.


GABixlerReviews

Christopher Rice is the recipient of the Lambda Literary Award and is the New York Times bestselling author of A DENSITY OF SOULS and the Bram Stoker Award finalists THE HEAVENS RISE and THE VINES. He is the head writer and an executive producer of "The Vampire Chronicles", a television show based on the bestselling novels by his mother, Anne Rice. Together they penned RAMSES THE DAMNED: THE PASSION OF CLEOPATRA, a sequel to her bestselling novel THE MUMMY OR RAMSES THE DAMNED. BONE MUSIC, the first installment in his new Burning Girl series, was released March 1st, 2018, and the sequel, BLOOD ECHO, will be released in February 2019. With his best friend, New York Times bestselling novelist Eric Shaw Quinn, Christopher hosts the YouTube channel THE DINNER PARTY SHOW WITH CHRISTOPHER RICE & ERIC SHAW QUINN (#TDPS). THE DINNER PARTY SHOW began as a podcast and Internet radio show. You can download and stream all of their episodes at www.TDPS.tv. He lives in West Hollywood, California. Visit him at www.christopherricebooks.com.

Author photo credit: Cathryn Farnsworth Photography

An Army of Noses! Dogs and Cats Unite to Solve Murder Mystery! Spunky Leads the Charge!

While the boys frolicked among the trees, Mom and I stuck
to the trail. Our here, Mom lets me run free, but I still stay
close. Today, her pace was brisk, and she seemed energized
by the beautiful weather. "Doesn't spring smell beautiful
girl? Everything's so crisp and fresh. Just look at those
beautiful crocuses. And what about that sky? It's such a
magnificent blue! As soon as the lilacs and honeysuckle
bloom, it will smell just like heaven."
Abruptly her steps slowed. "Oh, Spunky, what has John
gotten himself into? I sure hope he can explain all this,
but between you and me, I'm worried. A lot of cops in this
town aren't known for their liberal viewpoint. In fact,
I've met some who act like they enjoy the power of a badge
and a gun way too much...                                                ~~~

Hi Everybody! It's been awhile since we first visited Book Readers Heaven, so first wanted to say that I'm so happy to be back to tell you about our latest adventure! If you haven't read the earlier book review of our series debut, check it out before you leave Blogger... An Army of Noses certainly kept me busy because Mom was worried about the man who had been arrested for the murder...he was in one of her groups and a friend...So I had to take the lead and help her--I think we had just about every single cat and dog in town on this case. But believe me it was worth it because the real killer got caught, of course...  The "nose" did it again! 

Oh, two of my mates are here with me! Bobby had us all scared during this investigation and had to be taken to the vets twice. Sweetie, his brother, was so concerned that they had to take extra time to ensure things were going well for him. You know how siblings are! We also wanted to let fans know that he is doing well after all the chaos and confusion! 

An Army of Noses:

A Spunky Murder Mystery

By Holly L. Lewitas

You may not be aware that Mom, played by the author, is a psychologist who does her counseling

After her last session, Mom
checked her cell phone and played
back Frank's message, "Hannah,
I got your message. I'll try and see
what I can learn about John's arrest
but I want to be very clear about one
thing--I'm not butting into another
cop's case. Call me when you're
done seeing patients, and I'll let
you know what I've learned."
~~~

electronically! Cool, right? Lots of time we even participate... Imagine, one of us might sit on Mom's lap and start talking or hold our paws up to the person. Almost always we are able to get their minds cleared and feeling a little bit better as they smile and talk to us. It works really well. I'm letting you know about that because her work has to take priority and it puts more on me sometimes, to solve the mystery. It was especially important this time because Mom didn't know the cop that had been assigned to the murder, so wasn't satisfied he would do the job as it needed to be done

Mom and I have a long relationship--much more than the others and we have establish a form of non-verbal communication plus, although she hasn't yet realized it, I can give her mental thoughts if I can get her settled enough--I call it in the zone-- to place ideas in her mind... You see, I knew who the real killer was almost right from the beginning...or, at least, I knew what he smelled like! I had found a bit of the shirt that he had worn!

Before Mom could comment, John raised a
hand. "I know, I know. It was a stupid choice.
I wanted him to like me, so I let myself be
manipulated into something I didn't want to
do. Believe me, I've learned my lesson! But
I learned it too late. I went with him to that
private club for gays...Turns out it's really
the private home of some rich dude...
I was disgusted. This time I did stand up for
myself, and I told Richard I wanted to leave.
...I didn't stick around to see what
happened...
~~~

Later, though, I also smelled the same scent in the office of a professor friend of Mom's so the entire campus and town became the possible locations to find this man. 

Mom had also made arrangements with another friend to have his firm represent John. They had soon been able to get him out on bail. For a short time... Then he was arrested again! To say that Mom was mad would be quite true, of course...

"Hannah, hush a minute. This isn't about being gay or
straight." Frank's tone became slow and firm. "This is about
murder."
"What?"
"Hannah, two hours ago, Richard Keeley, the same guy who
took John to that club, was found murdered in his apartment.
It appears he was strangled to death. The evidenced suggests
that it may have3 occurred during a sexual encounter. John's
fingerprints are all over the place...
~~~

Fancy-Pants stuck his nose up a little
higher. "We prefer the term 'free
spirits...'"

By this time, I have all my feline friends totally involved with what I was thinking, and I knew even with their help it wouldn't be enough. When I mentioned this, Fancy Pants my other friend here with me today, spoke up and told me about a couple of guys who lived in the campus library basement. I immediately asked if they were feral since sometimes these guys and me don't get along..

And before I knew it, I was meeting the Lion King. Let's just say it was a little bit tense when we first met...

Every cat respects boundaries--every cat, that is, except Lion King. He rules, and he walks wherever and whenever he wants. He can go anywhere, anytime, any day. No one messes with the King. He struts his stuff down the street as if he owns it--and none of the regulars ever questions that he does.
When he struts his stuff, the message is clear, "Get out of my way or I'll hurt you." Fancy dropped his voice. "But, I'll let you in on a secret. When I was living on the streets it was common knowledge among the regulars that if you paid the King the respect he was due, then he'd look out for you. He saved my young cojones on more than one occasion. He stays the King because all the cats respect him. If he's your friend, you're safe. He's like you, Spunk!"
~~~

So first I had to establish a relationship with the Lion King so that his army of critters would

help. We wanted to check out all the buildings on the campus, for one thing. But as we learned more and more, I knew we needed even more backup...wonder whether I can get the dogs and cats of the community to work together... And then I was surprised to even get help from a specialist in communication...Ollie! What a great help he was! 

Now of course I had a plan, but everybody keeps telling me to keep it all hush-hush for now, so maybe sometime in the future, if we meet, I'll be able to tell you all the gritty details how it all came together. Even Frank was there to help make the arrest!

Well, both Bobby and Fancy-Pants are making faces at me to get me to shut up...But, shucks, it isn't often I get to shine as a "hero" as I guess I did leading this Army of Noses..." But, it sure would make me proud for you to check out the book that tells you all about what happens! That way, I won't have to embarrass everybody when I tell the world how me and all my friends got together to chase down a murderer...with our noses!

Oh, yeah, one more thing... I'm supposed to let everybody know that this is BRH Recommended! And thanks so much for inviting all of us to Book Readers Heaven!

Have a great week! Spunky...

Holly Lewitas loves a good mystery and she loves animals. So she decided to combine the two and that is how the Spunky Murder Mystery series began. Holly lives with one dog and eighteen cats - all rescues.

Holly is a transplanted Yankee, now living in Alabama - living in the south means all 18 cats do not HAVE to live inside - which makes the dog very happy -and the cats are all quite content with their heated beds. Holly never met a cat yet who didn't like a box or a basket.