Welcome to BOOK READERS HEAVEN! Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
“A writer must stare at a blank page until blood comes out of their forehead." --Ernest Hemingway
Also, A Dark, Comedic, New Mexico Whodunit (Humorous Amateur Sleuth Noir Crime Thrillers Book 1)
LOL
I have to say that this may be the longest subtitle of a book I've ever seen... I can't quite figure out whether the writer didn't know which to use, or, that, it was very important that the potential reader knew what they were getting into...
Ok Comedic and Humorous could mean the same thing...
Whodunit implies mystery, but this is a crime thriller also... multiple genre, right...
Most books don't declare the setting as Really Important... New Mexico must have different types of stories to tell???
Or does this all mean that the writer wants us to know in advance to beware of the story???
We'll See, I'm game, but are you?
And by the way, when I typed in the title, Google Search automatically changed stiff to stuff...
Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it?
Is this book really worth all this trouble to get to start reading... This one wants to know, So I did start...
My first check is always on You Tube... You guessed it, all the videos came up about Good Stuff...
Doesn't anybody know that Stiff is another word for a dead person?
I did...but maybe I know "stuff" about "stiffs..."
I've read or watched stories enough about them so I'm good for just about any description to say that somebody is dead...
How they're dead is the key...
But I can also remember that Hammer--you know who he is, I hope--called bodies stiffs--I think!
Anyway, all this is to show writers that if you add all this stuff onto your subtitle, readers just may never be able to find you, especially on sites that require a full book title, including subtitle...
Believe me, I know... I could have just been linked to the book, bought it, and then when I wanted to find it again to review, I can't find it! Writers need to know about the full idiosyncrasies of selling books, in my opinion... LOL
Or, I am just silly this morning realizing that I may be the only person in the world that knows what a stiff is...
Writers Beware...
On with the story
But, let's get one thing straight...
Death is not a funny matter
Is Fiction Now Reality?
And can a whodunit ever be a comedy?
I think so, because these actions by authoritarian leaders are NOT LEGAL!
But Robert had nothing new to say. He’d already painted a true picture of Hattie as a promising pianist who stayed out of trouble. Yes, she could be disorganised, disengaged, sullen, but she wasn’t the sort to get involved with the wrong crowd. It was hard to imagine what the wrong crowd would even look like at the academy – students who practised their scales for five hours a day instead of six? Students who thought Beethoven was overrated?...
It was the tricky alternating-octaves passage of "Rondo Alla Turca," which made Hattie cringe at her small hands. She could still play it better than anyone else her age, and better than most pianists in the country, but now she was more aware than ever that her finger-stretching hadn’t helped enough. The piece just didn’t shine. As she waited for Robert to deliver his criticism – which she was beginning to think might actually be deserved after all – she found herself pulling on the ends of her fingers, making the bones click in ways they just weren’t supposed to. “This fingering is all over the place,” said Robert, shaking his head. Hattie waited for the sound of sniggers behind her, but none came. Back at school, everyone had laughed whenever Mr Henderson talked about fingering in keyboard club, but the academy wasn’t a place where people laughed much at all. “I don’t like the octaves,” whispered Hattie. “You can’t like or dislike octaves. They simply exist. You might as well say you don’t like the number eight, or sharps, or flats.” Hattie balled her hands into fists. The tips of her fingers were hurting worse than ever, but that didn’t stop her from clenching in rage. Why did he talk to her like this? Why did he have to belittle everything she said like she was a stupid kid? She was one of the most talented young musicians in the country, probably the most, but all she got for that was punishment and scorn. She was so busy being angry that she barely noticed Robert sitting next to her on the piano stool. Suddenly there was music playing as he blasted through the fast-octave section on the piano, his arms stretched across her but not touching her. His playing was technically accurate, but Hattie knew it wouldn’t make waves on the concert circuit. He played like a teacher, not a pianist. But that didn’t stop him raising his eyebrows once he’d finished the passage, waiting for her to admit that she hadn’t managed to play it like he did. When she said nothing, the applause from the students seated behind her covered the silence. She knew it was mainly girls clapping. They always clapped Robert, because the awkward boys their own age who attended the academy were nothing to clap about. Finally, after another rant – this time about her posture - the session finished and it was someone else’s turn to get torn to shreds. Hattie slunk back to take her place in the semi-circle, relieved to no longer have a piano stool beneath her. She spent the rest of the morning staring at the floor. But even with her eyes averted, she felt Robert’s piercing gaze from across the room.
~~~
Sometimes excellence can become a burden, specially for young teens who have become sufficienly efficient on their chosen instrument to be selected to attend an exclusive academy where they would receive personal attention and support toward moving forward in their skill levels, perhaps sufficient to be chosen to play in a major orchestra... or, even as a premier soloist...
Hattie, our main character was the youngest student to come to the academy. Her parents had supported her love of the piano since she had first started picking out songs... Indeed, her talent had been such that she had already been invited to travel all over the world and had gained a wonderful reputation.
However, here at the academy, where all types of communcation were forbidden... where their parents were not permitted to visit except for scheduled concerts, and where competition was purposely developed as small groups were taught by one tutor to which all compliments and criticisms were heard by all. It was a dismal sort of school environment where the joy of music, their love and passion, was reduced to boredom, tedious repetition, and a feeling that you could just not succeed no matter how your tried...
Hattie had become so tight--frustrated that she had lost the ability which had garnered her such praise. Discussions on fingering occurred often and Hattie became so insecure that she started pulling on her fingers privately, trying to get the ability to handle the octaves that occurred in many classical selections. A concert was coming up and she hoped to select a piece on which she could excel... Practice, practice, practice was demanded constantly once the date was actually scheduled... Her parents had been invited and she was anxiously looking forward to seeing them, having had their support and praise since her early years.
But she had been assigned Mozart’s Fantasia in d minor rather than the Mozart selection she had hoped to play... The schedule had been finalized and the control and demand on each student had heighten to a point that each student barely had time to breathe or sleep...and... finally the day was there and they moved to the location of the recital where each student would be given the opportunity to play on the actual instrument they would be using in the concert. Finally Hattie was called to the recital room...
Everyone took it in turns to go and practise alone on the grand piano in the centre of the stage, so that they’d be familiar with the key weightings and the tone. When it was Hattie’s turn to leave the dressing room, she sensed Robert moving to follow her. But then someone asked him a question and his pursuit was stopped. She was relieved to reach the stage alone. It was just her and the dim pre-performance lighting. She could see the shadowy forms of the seats stretching away into the inky black, where only the emergency lights of the entrances and exits rooted her in reality. Breathing deeply, she started the slow, atmospheric climb of the opening bars of Fantasia in d minor. The stage seemed to warp and bend as she transitioned into the dissonant chords that followed, the lights winking at her as she reached the descending bassline, then the trill, then the playful climbing harmonies in the left hand. When she launched into the fast and frenzied scales that signalled a radical change of pace, she felt as though she was lifting steadily off the ground. It was all she could do to keep control of the intricate fingering as she emerged into the slower, dreamy passage that mirrored the start of the piece. Her fingers sang and screamed in a mixture of ecstasy and pain, thanking and berating her for the ritual stretching. At the end of the piece, the silence was life-affirming. She drank in the absence of applause, the absence of chairs thumping, the absence of Robert stern and motionless in the front row. This was what playing was all about. It was about another world altogether, a world barely connected to this one but mirroring all the love and hurt of life. And every time she stretched her fingers, she was reaching closer to that other world and drifting further out of this one. A nagging fear told her this habit was unhealthy, that she was harming herself inside and out, but was it really any more harmful than the pressures of the academy? Hattie let out a long breath. The performance she’d just delivered was the real recital. She promised herself she’d remember the silence, and cling to it when the noise of the academy and Robert made her tremble. Then a thought struck her. If she’d just given the real performance, the one that really counted, then why did she have to perform later? What if she didn’t play the recital at all? What if, during the shadowy intimacy of her playing just now, the emergency lights had been beckoning her to find a way out? A strange tingling sensation spread through her limbs. There were bubbles in her stomach. Her ankles twitched with the urge to make her stand up. For a moment, she felt sick. This urge to move was all wrong. She was supposed to stay seated at the piano almost every hour of every day, and the idea of voluntarily moving away from it scared her. But it was happening. She couldn’t control it. Even the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up now, urging the rest of her body to follow. Slowly, steadily, her heart pounding and her skin prickling with sweat, Hattie rose from the piano stool, pulled her dress up above her knees, and made her way towards the exit.
~~~
And no further music was heard...
Hattie was gone... We learn later that she walked out away from the academy facility... somebody else saw a truck, but had not seen it near Hattie... A complete search was organized, students were returned to their own rooms...finally, the police were called in...
He knew this was the moment something awful had started. This was day one. Disappearance day. In all the confusion, only one thing was clear: He had to get her back.
The major part of this book will be the suspense, the mystery, the questions of whether she is alive or dead... The author has created an intricately enmeshed thriller that will pull readers on to the next page, exploring exactly what happened to Hattie...
Did she run away from the pressure? Was she kidnapped? Did she have an accident somewhere where there is no way to call for help? As everybody is interviewed that day, the pollice worked to narrow down who could have been involved... And, then, a break occurred when a social media poster shared her personal thoughts, which wound up moving the investigation toward a specific person... Only to later have her admit when she was called in with her mother to talk about her providing official testimony at court, that she had lied...
Back to square one? Yes and No, because at that point, readers are not quite sure of anything, including whether a crime had occurred. Let's be truthful, this author had us guessing up to very close to the end of the book! So much so that there is no way I can say more... Especially when you've been talking about classical music that is hundreds of year old... Well, I could only think of one way to move it forward... to turn the beat around!
Prologue~ Moscow, Four Years Ago… His handsome face stricken with concern, US Ambassador Jarrod Taslow ran a harried hand through his dark hair before he stepped into the hospital room. His suit jacket dangled open, and his bright blue tie hung loose below the collar of his white shirt. Quietly, he approached the doctor and nurse standing over a lovely brunette woman lying in the bed. “Doctor Vasiliev, how’s my wife?” The doctor did not look up. He set a syringe next to another syringe on the stainless-steel tray the nurse was holding. The nurse’s eyes cut to a man standing in the corner near the window, back to the ambassador, then she dropped her gaze to the tray. Placing his hand on the unconscious woman’s forehead, the doctor replied in a heavy Russian accent, “She will be fine.” His hand slipped away from the woman’s head. “I have given her a sedative to help calm her. She will need rest. She has much to deal with when she wakes.” Hitching his chin toward the man near the window, he added, “Agent Guseva will watch over her. She will sleep for many hours. You should get some rest as well, Ambassador Taslow.” Without making eye contact with the ambassador nor the agent, the doctor made his way out of the room. Keeping her gaze down, the nurse hurried to follow close behind.
Jarrod pulled a nearby chair next to his wife, Kira’s, bedside. With a gentle sweep of his fingers, he moved an errant strand of hair from her cheek, then, taking her hand into his, he eased into the chair. From the far corner, Agent Guseva’s voice was quiet. “I am sorry for your loss, Ambassador Taslow. This is tragedy for your wife.” “Kira was so looking forward to this trip to Russia. She couldn’t wait to come home to see her parents. She hasn’t been back in over five years, and when she was invited as a guest pianist for the Moscow Symphony, she was thrilled.” “The Fedorovs were supposed to be at concert, da?” Guseva fished. Jarrod lifted his gaze to meet the agent’s. “Yes. We were given the orchestra box, stage right. I felt like I was sitting next to Kira through the entire performance. The piano was only about ten or fifteen feet away.
When the concert began, I couldn’t believe her parents were late. When Kira took the stage, she looked over toward the box. I could see the shock and disappointment in her eyes that her parents weren’t there. Of course, we had no way of knowing…” His words fell away. “We are looking into incident. We will find who is responsible. But…as you know, the Fedorovs have been politically outspoken for long time. You are wealthy man, Ambassador. I am sure you know wealth is privilege. The Fedorovs were wealthy. But I fear their wealth and privilege made them target. It would be best, after funerals, if you return to Denmark. Take wife away from Russia. Never to return.”
~~~
McDonald has taken a major step to expand the scope of, and additions to the base character list in her latest Fiona Quinn Mystery, Deep Blue Murder. With Fiona's marriage to Detective Nathan Landry, she has also acquired a mother-in-law... But not just any mother-in-law... Rita Landry has an extensive past in government law enforcement and now leads an agency, Global Shield, that provides discrete support to those in the political arena and others needing security assistance.
But when Rita contacts Fiona and her son Nathan to take a short trip to a secluded island, Fiona had visions of sun, swimming, and lots of casual conversation and an opportunity to get to know more about those who will also be there on the island.
But Rita and her associate are on assignment! They have been asked to come to the Island, owned by Ambassador Jarrod Taslow. Interestingly, the island has a history--the former owner supposedly committed suicide and was found at the bottom of a nearby high cliff. But Taslow had bought the island and brought his wife, Kira, who had suffered a traumatic loss of her parents while she had been performing for the Moscow Symphony. Along with his wife's caregiver, there was only three other people on the island, all those who worked to provide basic staff support to the grieving couple.
But years had passed, and things were quiet until the Ambassador had learned of a online site where his picture had been placed and, ultimately, a young teenage girl and whoever was posing as the Ambassador had begun a supposed relationship! Rita and her staff quickly started the investigation to find out not only who the girl was--and notify her parents--but also to discover the background and who was striking out at the Ambassador for...whatever reason!
While those there to handle the investigation got started, Fiona and Kira, the Ambassador's wife, who was being kept from all that was happening, soon became friends. However, Kira's caretaker seemed to resent Fiona for, perhaps, a good reason. In any event, Fiona and Kira was soon spending time on the beach and getting to know each other... That is, until a maid was found dead in the hottub--which had been prepared for Kira...
Believe me, so much is going on, you'll have a tough time keeping things straight, because there are multiple plot lines developing as we move forward. Soon, Fiona's husband was being called upon to handle the possible murder of the maid, while Rita and staff continued to investigate--which got quite complicated when the young girl showed up on the island!
Seriously, with a little bit of the horrid acts of catfishers, together with a murder and who it seemed to be intended for, as well as a disgruntled groundskeeper, there was only one way to discover what was really going on...
Make a friend with an island native to guide you...and maybe even come to your rescue as this little one did... All Fiona had to do was provide lots of banana pieces! So remember, if you are visiting a private island with no or little outside communication, do seek out and befriend the natives and give them a little love...
I was hooked by the first visit from this little fellow during a meal! They decided that something must have happened to separate him from his mother, so Fiona decided to make a friend... You get the picture!
I'm hoping that the inclusion of Global Services staff may come to visit readers in future books. The complexity and wider scope that this allows has taken the Fiona Quinn mysteries a major step toward a significant novel, without losing the wonderful flavor of a cozy mystery! If you haven't met Fiona Quinn, you may not know that she also lives with a ghost back home... So with McDonald, you're going to be thrilled with her slow build of the plot(s) but, now, you just may be able to fully grasp exactly what and whodunit! But nobody would have foreseen this closing! I loved this one!
The idea of spending a night or two in an Airbnb that doubled as one of Brutus’s safehouses did not sit well with Eddie. The last place was compromised, so why should he expect this place to be any different? Given that he did not have another location in mind, the address Brutus gave them was the only safe spot to go to. Eddie only hoped that Brutus had taken care of the mole. Candace turned on the radio and went through the stations, then stopped in the middle of a reggae song. This was a welcome change that Eddie needed, and he wondered why he did not think of this before. He recognized the song “Pressure” by Koffee, having heard it several times on the reggae playlist Corey had made for him. He glanced at Candace and saw that she was bobbing her head to the beat before she sang along. “‘Under the pressure, under the pressure, yeah. Under the pressure, under the pressure. If yuh poor, trouble tek you. When yuh rich it nuh settle. Cuh we all under the pressure my friend.’”
It was the first time he’d heard Candace sing, and she wasn’t bad. Before he knew it, he began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while nodding his head to the rhythm. “‘Sometimes you feel it you cry on. Hurt yuh heart enuh. But do not stress it, yessah. ‘Cause it haffi fi better. Cause you have to live ina the ghetto…’” Eddie noticed that the volume was turned down and that Candace was no longer singing along. He shrugged his shoulders. “What?” “Where did you learn those lyrics?” asked Candace. “I hear them all the time.” Candace shook her head while she made a face. “No, sah. Yuh never hear Koffee sing it like that. She never sing: ‘But do not stress it, yessah.’” “I’m pretty sure that’s what she sang.” “No, sah. You don’t even know the words.” “Jesus, you’re just as bad as Corey,” Eddie mumbled. “What?” “Nothing.” Candance rolled her eyes.
“Whatever.” Eddie saw a set of taillights that were not moving. He honked to signal to the driver that he was about to overtake him—a common practice among motorists in the Caribbean—until he saw that there was a traffic backup of at least six cars. He hit the brakes and came to an abrupt stop, missing the car’s bumper by about a foot. There was a construction crew ahead who appeared to be working on the road, reducing the two-laned road to one. A road worker was up ahead with his flags, waving oncoming traffic through. They were a stone’s throw from a gas station on their side of the road where Eddie saw four brothas talking among themselves. One of them had a cigarette. His attention was then drawn to the sound of Candace unbuckling her seatbelt. “What are you doing?” “Just making a quick stop.” “Where?” Eddie nodded to the gas station. “There? To do what?” Candace opened the door. “I just want something to drink. You want something?” “I’ll pass, and so should you because you’re just putting yourself on display for the station’s CCTV cameras,” said Eddie. “Next thing you know Weiss’s hitmen will have the town surrounded.”
“I’m sure their cameras are just there for show.” “You want to take that chance? Besides, I’m sure there are drinks where we’re going. And if they don’t have any, then I bet they’ll get some for us.” Eddie was interrupted by loud laughter coming from the brothas up ahead. He looked toward them to see two of them jumping up and down, another hunched over slapping his thigh, while the other two ran around. He cringed at the thought of what may happen if they spotted Candace. By the time Eddie turned to her she was already standing outside the car about to close the door. Eddie’s hand shot out in her direction. “Wait.” Candace lowered her head to look inside. “What now?” “I have a bad feeling.” Candace shook her head. “Just pull over and wait.”
“Since we’ve met, how many times have I been wrong?” Eddie looked toward the brothas to see that one of them was staring in their direction. No, there was no way the brotha could see him, it was too dark and they weren’t close enough to the gas station’s lights. It was then Eddie realized that the brotha was checking out Candace. “Yo,” the brotha said. Eddie turned to Candace. “Get in.” Candace glanced at the brothas. By then they were all staring at her. “Candace, get your ass in the car now!” Eddie looked back at the brothas to see that they were walking toward them. He then fixed his gaze on Candace, who hurried to get back inside while they continued to call out to her.
“Yuh nuh hear mi a call yuh?” the same brotha said as they got closer. Eddie blasted the horn, but that did not get the traffic to move, nor did it deter the man from approaching. “Is there another way to the Airbnb?” Candace shook her head as she rolled up her window. The car shook as the brotha slammed the hood of the car with his palm, twice, startling them. “Mek yuh nuh ansa mi when mi a talk to yuh?” Something changed in the brotha’s facial expression as he looked at Eddie. From where he stood, he could get a clearer view of Eddie’s face. His stomach tightened when he saw the brotha grab his mobile, tap the screen a few times and stare at it before looking back at him. “A him, yuh know,” the brotha yelled anxiously. “Who bloodclaat Vanessa Pusey a pay out the reward fah.” Eddie grabbed the stick and threw it into reverse then stomped down on the accelerator, scaring the brothas into jumping away from the car. The car rocketed backward for a second until Eddie stomped on the brakes the moment he saw headlights in the rearview mirror. Eddie spun the wheel violently to the right before throwing the gear into drive and stomping on the gas, launching their vehicle into a U-turn. An oncoming car blasted its horn as it screeched to a halt. Again, he threw the gear into drive and floored the gas. He wasn’t successful and had to reverse once before completing the hairpin turn before speeding off...
If you've enjoyed previous books by Russell Brooks, plan on being Blown Away by his latest!
I've been up most of the last 24 hours reading and really didn't want to put it down! It's the best of his best in my opinion.
In this book, we find that Eddie and Corey go separate ways for parts of the story. Each deal with finding out what exactly is happening, hopefully to solve the murder of one of Eddie's biggest fans! But readers will discover that multiple plots are happening simultaneously and only as the book moves forward are you able to identify and follow the amazing cases in which Eddie and Corey have been pulled into... The pace is that of a thriller. The tease of whodunit is a constant mystery. The crimes are those making today's headlines. The overall result left me wanting to see it al in a movie! But, even then, with all that is covered, the book will always be the better media! Russell has hit the big-time with this latest... Can he keep up the excellence in his future tales? In any event, I'm already looking forward to the next Eddie Barrow Mystery
Eddie Barron is an award winning and high profile author, who has arrived in Jamaica for his first stop on a major tour. A tour that never got any further than Jamaica!
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed with the way you’ve been able to evade us for as long as you did. This chase you led us on across Jamaica—your Jam Run —is over.”
Corey travels with Eddie on his book tours. In fact, past trips have resulted in some problems where, if Corey had not been there, Eddie might not have lived. So getting to Jamaica was hopefully going to be a fun trip and the first night Corey talked Eddie into going to the nearest party. This trip was for pleasure since Corey had never been to Jamaica and he didn't want to spend the first night at the AirBnB.
As soon as they got into a local club, in a ghetto on a nearby hill. Eddie wanted to at least get through the evening and be ready and wide awake to sign books tomorrow. Corey had wanted to party in what could be called the real Jamaica--well, he certainly had found that place! Eddie was already hearing the potential gun fire in his head before the night was over.
Eddie saw her almost immediately:
A sista caught Eddie’s attention, clearly not hiding the fact that she was eyeing him. The woman’s jet-black hair with blond highlights reached the top of her midnight dress—one which conveniently stopped just below her thighs. When she turned to the side it was as though the world moved in slow motion. Yeah, she wanted him to notice her, especially her peach-shaped booty. Eddie’s eyes then dropped to her feet, and he nodded in appreciation. A wicked pair of stilettos. This sista had polished herself literally from head to toe. He no longer thought of getting a rum drink because his nerves were calmer than ever. He gazed around now. There must be at least a dozen brothas there, all ready to jump her bones. Eddie shook it off and found Corey—lost in his own world—doing the Gully Creepa. At least the crowd wasn’t as dense, and the air was less tainted by the smell of sweat and perfume.
Eddie did find someone with whom he was interested enough to begin dancing... but even while he was enjoying the dance, he felt there was something unique about Shenice's appearance. Indeed, when she agreed to a selfie with another girl there, it was that picture, studied days later that led to a major break in one of the crimes in which he became involved.
“People say that Jesus speaks through our pastor. But I never knew Jesus to show anyone so much hatred.”
In fact, it was that night, when the individual with whom Eddie had danced was murdered, that the story really takes off. It was because Jalissa, his fan's sister who he met the next day at his book signing, that Eddie was told what had happened and was asked, by Jalissa, to find out who and why her sibling was killed.
Getting into the book, I was intrigued that an author is actually the amateur detective, sans cozy. The breadth and complexity of the story, plots and sub-plots is far beyond a mystery. Yet, by having an author as the amateur detective, he ablely presents the nuances of a truly great writer in his development of characters, scenes, and integration of multiple situations. Though the character, Eddie's writing is not actually shared in the book, I noticed the character, Eddie's, writing expertise because of the character created. Eddie Barrow feels life, experiences incongruities even though he doesn't exactly know what or why, and has the intellectual capacity to weave the possibilities and arrive at exactly what the issue is, was, or could be. Frankly, I haven't noticed this in Brooks' earlier books and I am excited and fascinated to watch this writer move forward in this writing career!
The asset known as Hansel chilled in his private box as he watched renown operatic soprano, Kathleen Battle, unleash some of the most powerful yet soothing, vocals he’d heard in weeks. He’d heard enough reggae and dancehall music to last him a lifetime. What graced his ears now was serenity.
It’d been five days since he left Jamaica and he was ready to lose the sling. As for the person responsible for it, that was a lucky shot. He was fortunate that he had hit him at all, as the bullet passed through his shoulder without leaving any permanent damage. He’d heal in no time. Switching from one plane to the next while island hopping was not only tiring but frustrating.
He turned to the vibrations he felt in the floor behind him. Someone was approaching, and quick. But not as quick as Hansel clutched his steel pen from the upper pocket of his blazer—ready to gouge out the eyes of whoever was going to rush in here. If they’d managed to get past security with a weapon, then he’d disarm and neutralize his assailant, popping off a single head and chest shot in the same breath.
Ms. Battle and the Paris Opera Orchestra would drown out the kill shots—especially if his would-be assailant brought a noise-suppressed gun. A shot from a regular gun may go unnoticed, but only an amateur would be dumb enough to use one. Then again, an amateur wouldn’t even get past the security. The curtains drew, and Hansel relaxed his grip on his pen when he saw that it was one of the female ushers whom he had already analyzed and determined not to be a threat.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” said the young woman who handed him an envelope. Hansel took the envelope and nodded. “Merci.” It was so good to be able to speak again in public. That one screw-up at Citrusville was a potential hazard. Never let anyone hear you...
Coming Next!
With all the arrests or deaths of those involved in the various events which occurred during Jam Run, only one man remained alive to escape the country. This man is not somebody you would want to have after you! But it seems we will be seeing him again in the next book!
Watch for what this brilliant wordmaster has coming for all of us in the near future, (I hope.)!
Led Zeppelin was singing about a stairway to heaven while Kyle was feeling as though he was trapped in hell. Every time he moved, it seemed, he walked into another land mine. The bombs were fragmenting his psyche and it was getting more difficult by the day to think straight or reason right. He ran his months with Jessica over and over in his head. The closer he came to finding some answers, the more devastating the next explosion. He had always suspected Jessica’s agenda included men other than himself. James had sure nudged him often enough about it. But after their visit with Luke Arnold, the extent of her betrayal—and Gloria DiAngelo’s as well—overwhelmed him...
~~~
Spending about four years online with C.K. merging our emotional responses of the chaotic political arena in which we found ourselves "fighting" for change, certainly makes one feel like we are trusted acquaintances... But never during that time, had I thought of her life outside of that shall, we say, Obsession...?! LOL
But I was pleasantly surprised when C.K. announced that her book, The Mystery of Jessica Benson, was available... Of course, all my readers know that I love mysteries. Still, there is an entire world in which to set a book, and I had discovered that this writer is not only writing about sports, but has an active career in the field. I admit I learned this at the end of the book, so admit I was shocked when her expertise was very apparent--at least to me, who has little interest in anything using a ball, except, maybe, bowling...LOL
Still, overall, this book was one of the best whodunits I've read for a long time! The story is fast-paced because of the setting where ball players gain such notriety that their personal lives often are known to the world... Yet, for many, that is only a small percentage of those who actually wish to participate in the spectacle that comes with celebrity... Kyle Sands was one of those figures who normally played it lowkey, as a veteran quarterback for the Miami Demons.
Until he became involved with model Jessica Benson.
Even then he was not totally happy with what he was beginning to hear about her when he had out-of-town games and decided to call it off, unfortunately, over dinner... Which turned into a fiasco that was seen and heard by all participants in the restaurant and by neighbors when he escorted her home...
Which made him the prime suspect for when she was discovered beaten to death in her apartment--the same apartment where Kyle had left her that evening...
Readers learn early in the book that one of the homicide investigators assigned to solve the case of Jessica Benson, is someone who had been the younger sister of a friend of Kyle's who had died early. It was a traumatic experience for both Kyle and Karen Brandt. So when Will and Karen arrive, to talk to Kyle, who apparently was the last person to see Jessica alive, Karen played it so that she would not seem to know him so she would not be kicked off the case before the investigation even started.
Too soon, there were so many people with whom Jessica had been involved--yes--sexually, that most of the homicide division was soon involved in trying to gather anything that could tie the murder to someone. And, that, for Karen, meant anybody else but Kyle.
Laurence briefly mentions early that Karen's partner is in love with Karen, although not ever discussed. But, when Will sees the quick sign of recognition (or, really, a sign of interest in each other by the two), as lead investigator he pulls out all the stops to ensure a quick arrest and conviction of the quarterback...
Playing a bad cop during any and all interviews, including getting quite belligerant toward those who he felt he could threaten in any way; e.g., from a different country, toward a gay witness... Karen was fuming and didn't know how to handle his fixation, except to keep on forcing other options to be considered...
Until a second murder occurred...
A black Jaguar sat in the huge circular driveway at the address Feyzi had given Karen. The ornate wrought iron gate was wide open, like an invitation. She cautiously pulled through and parked behind the Jag but remained sitting in her car for another minute. Only two days had passed since they had first questioned Feyzi Batan. Although he was obviously shaken by their visit, today when she got his call, he sounded like a desperate man. His exact words were he was ‘sick at heart’ since the interview and needed to ‘cleanse his soul’ to rid himself of the bad karma. Whatever, Karen thought. So long as you give up a piece of this puzzle. She got out of her car, quickly surveyed the grounds and headed toward the guest house, which she assumed was somewhere behind the main residence. The backyard was a tropical haven. Mango and citrus trees dotted the lawn and multi-colored bougainvilleas lined the gate walls. Banana plants with heavy hanging arms, the hands of which sported full fingers of ripe, yellow bananas. Various fruits were scattered throughout the property, and a twenty yard square was cordoned off with a carefully tended vegetable garden. Slabs of peach and russet slate led down to a wooden dock. A yacht Karen figured to be about a sixty-footer was docked there and quietly bobbed with the ripples of the teal bay. Eden, Karen thought. Just stay away from those nasty old apples and you never need to leave the estate.
Feyzi’s so-called cottage was a replica of the main house and sat very close to the dock. She rang the bell and could hear chimes inside. A minute or so passed with no answer so she rang again and called out his name. Still no response. Something wasn’t right. He had been too anxious to meet with her not to be around. She banged on the door a couple of times, and then, suspicious, she tried the handle. It was locked. She stepped through a hedge of plumbago to get to his front windows and peered inside. Nothing. She blew out a stream of air in disgust and turned to leave. It looked like another lead was slipping through her fingers. When she was almost to her car, she thought to check the main residence to see if perhaps he was waiting for her there. She muttered to herself that she should have checked the big house in the first place. Yes, he had probably decided to wait for her there and that was why the gate had been open.
The wooden door was huge, very impressive, as was everything on the estate. She leaned on the bell and again heard chimes sounding very much like parents to the ones in the back cottage. In less than a minute the door cracked open a notch. A woman with short, spiky blonde hair and a cigarette dangling from her mouth looked out at her. She was clearly on the other side of fifty, looking a bit annoyed and rather curious. “Something you need?” she asked in a raspy, smoke-burnt voice.
Karen flashed her badge and said “Detective Brandt, police, ma’am.”
The woman’s brows lowered, and she said “Police? Sorry honey, you got the wrong house,” then she started to close the door.
“Wait!” Karen snapped. I don’t have the wrong anything. I need to speak with your tenant, Feyzi Batan, Is he here?” The door opened. The chunky lady stepped out and asked, “Feyzi? Is he in trouble?” “That’s what I need to speak with you about.”
The woman beckoned Karen to follow her inside. She introduced herself as Mazie Rose. “I knew it. I just knew it! I told that boy he was going to get himself into a shitload of trouble. Too many women with husbands and boyfriends, and his workouts weren’t just aerobics. So, who’d he finally piss off?” “I don’t know that he pissed anyone off, Ms. Rose. He’s a possible witness in a murder case. He called me about an hour and a half ago and said he needed to talk to me, but now that I’m here, he isn’t.”
“Hmmm. That’s curious, even for Feyzi. He’s pretty good about keeping appointments. Time is money, you know. How about some coffee. We’ll talk.” “Thanks, no. But about Feyzi...” “A Danish maybe? From Epicure, very fresh. Excellent.” Karen shook her head and said she had just had a big lunch. Then she cleared her throat and asked, “Did he mention anything about what’s been going on?” “Like what, honey? Are you sure he isn’t in any trouble?” “That’s what I’m trying to find out. So, has he mentioned anything at all to you about the Jessica Benson murder? Or about anything at all that might be unusual, even for him?”
"Nah. I’ve been holed up here working on some paintings and haven’t seen much of him lately. Usually we visit two, three times a week. He cooks me up a little of that Turkish coffee he makes, and sometimes we munch some baklava. He even tries to get me in shape when he has some extra time, light exercises, you know? None of ’em are light enough for me, though. I get jazzed up and it aggravates my smoker’s cough.” She laughed, but it was broken up by a fit of phlegmy hacking. “See. Just thinking about it aggravates the cough! I gotta get off these things.” She nodded her head toward the cigarette she was lighting. “My cousin the doctor says they’re bad for my health. But what isn’t bad for you today? Don’t eat red meat, too much fat. Stop the fish, too much mercury. Chicken? Hormones!
I’m glad I’m closer to going out than coming in. Another couple of years and between the food, the air we breathe, and the terrorist attacks, what do we do? Stay duck-taped in our homes with canned crap to eat, and watch government terror alerts change colors.” Karen nodded, prompting her to continue. Mazie looked down at her watch and said, “Look doll, I’m late for my nail appointment and that’s sacred. A bunch of us old broads have been meeting at Toy’s Place for over twenty years. It’s a religion. Saves a bundle on psychiatry bills. “I’ll do you one quick favor, though. Come with me.” She gestured for Karen to follow her and headed toward the back of the house. Karen’s eyes were big. Each room was more magnificent than the next. The ceilings must have been twenty-five feet high, but there was a coziness about the place. It was warm, inviting and saturated with class.
“You don’t live here alone?” she asked. “Most of the time. My nephew’s away at school, but when he’s in town he stays with me. And my grandson—only eighteen months old and already a heartbreaker, poo poo poo—comes to me when my daughter’s miserable husband allows it. That’s usually when he wants to go out and they can’t find a sitter. “The kid’s a genius. Not just because he’s mine, no one’s more objective than me. I’m telling you, the kid’s a genius!” They entered a small sunroom off the kitchen. It was an artist’s studio with canvasses in various stages of finish lining the walls. An easel stood in the middle of the room displaying a brightly colored modern piece. “Your work is so Brito,” Karen said, referring to the popular South Beach artist. “I guess that calls for a thank you. He certainly has inspired my style. C’mon, stay with me here.”
She opened French doors to the outside and led Karen around to the side of the house. “Ha. I thought so. His motorcycle is still here, so he has to be in his place. Feyzi doesn’t go anywhere without the bike. It’s his car.” “I rang the bell and called to him,” Karen replied. “This is strange. Considering that he phoned me and was in such a hurry to speak with me. It took me longer than I thought to get over here, though, and maybe something better to do came along. I don’t know, I’m just not feeling good about this.”
“Now this is odd. He usually has his mashugana music blasting. Says it keeps his mood aligned with his body or the moon or some such nonsense. So what’s it to me? If it makes him happy, fine. He’s a good tenant, and today that’s a difficult commodity to find. Aw, truth is, I like the kid. He’s got a good heart.” “You got a key?” Karen asked. “You got a warrant?” Mazie shot back. “No, I don’t want to search his place. I just thought maybe you could go in there and make sure everything’s okay. I think something’s off.”
“All right. I know what you mean. He’d almost have to be dead not to have his music blaring.” She lit yet another cigarette and sucked in a chest full of smoke, which threw her into another coughing spell. When it ended, she gasped, “Sometimes I think my cousin might be right.” “Well, um, that is a pretty nasty cough you have there.” “Yeah, really. Honey, I hear that so many times a day I should write a book about it.
Let’s go. I’ll get my key and we can make sure everything’s copesthetic with my boy here.” She looked at her watch and said, “Damn. I’m going to have to call Toy and tell her I’m running late.” Mazie told Karen to wait in the living room, where she tried to make herself comfortable on a Jean Harlow lounger. But the detective’s mind was racing and none of her thoughts were good. Her sixth sense had kicked in and she was anxious to get into that back house to allay her fears. “Okay, doll face. Let’s go see what’s going on at Feyzi’s.” It took a moment to adjust to the darkness in the guest house. The silence was deafening, and it smelled like pot with an overlay of incense. Patchouli, Karen thought. She remembered the scent from her early years. Her mother was a flower child in the 1960s and people were always teasing that she got time-warped and never made the transition to the conservative world of today. Karen couldn’t remember when, if ever, her mother had been without a cause to champion.
Mazie’s gravelly voice snapped her from her musings. “Feyzi! Hey! You got company.” There was no response. “His bedroom’s just upstairs, I’ll check on him.” Then she stopped and looked back at Karen. “You know what? You should come with me. The exercise’ll do you good.” “I’m right behind you.” Karen stayed close. Even in the guest house the appointments were exceptional. A sleek wood banister led up a graceful curve of heavily carpeted stairs. Mazie walked into one of the bedrooms without announcing herself. There was a short silence and then she bolted back out and grabbed Karen. “Oh my God, no!” She burst into a retching cough and Karen thought for a moment the poor woman was going to vomit. Then she got it together and gasped, “Karen! Come! It’s Feyzi!” And then she continued coughing.
Gunpowder. The smell of cordite accosted Karen’s senses. Mazie stood there with her mouth hanging open, her eyes the size of tennis balls. She reached out toward the body. Karen blurted, “Don’t touch anything!”
~~~
Aside from the actual players and associated staff related to football, I wanted to share the above scene which has no ability to give something away, except how wonderfully the author has written this particular character, who I really enjoyed getting to know through her words, and all of the other characters that were so wonderfully designed, as well as the solid, scenic description of those places used within the area where the author writes, such as City Hall (the restaurant).
Seriously, folks, the climax of this book is exceptionally spectacular--extraordinary--and truly unforgettable! Perhaps the best I have ever read--until Laurence's next book, at least...! And, she's done it right, by clearing all the questions that sometimes are left hanging...Hey, C. K. are there other books out there waiting? Without being a sports fan, I've still selected you as a new favorite author!
The start of a delightful new cozy mystery series in which two American women are drawn into solving a series of crimes set in each Parisian arrondissement.
The police won't listen to the suspicions of a woman who has nothing more than an inappropriate bottle of wine on her side, so Rachel knows she, and her best friend Magda, will have to solve the mystery on their own. As the two women investigate, the list of suspects grows. Could it have been Edgar's son, who stands to inherit his money and lavish apartment? His icy ex-wife? His spendthrift new girlfriend? It seems like everyone close to Edgar had a reason to want him dead.
But then the suspects start dying, and Rachel and Magda realize the murderer is one step ahead of them, with no intention of slowing down. It's up to the two amateur sleuths to solve their first case, before someone gets away with murder…
Death in Paris
By Emilia Bernhard
"Edgar Bowen died in his soup." Rachel Levis said to her husband, looking up from her newspaper. They were just finishing breakfast, and the table was crowded with jams and mugs and the bag that had held the morning's croissants, now flattened in the center with some buttery crumbs still resting on it..."
Of course, telling her husband about the oddity of somebody dying in their soup, literally, was common breakfast discussion over reading the newspaper. That it was unusual, was, needless to say, true. After all, drowning in a bowl of soup, sitting in front of you on your dining table, was just not the way to go!
But that wasn't what bothered Rachel Levis so much... She did not share that Edgar Bowen had once been her lover many years ago, when she had first come to Paris. No, for that discussion, she needed her best friend Magda... Having been friends for about 20 years, Magda knew just about everything, including the time she had lived with Edgar... For Rachel, it had been her first adult love affair. Now, with Magda, Rachel could mourn and look back on her lost love, with love, regret and nostalgia of her youth. And when Rachel wanted to attend the funeral, of course, Magda went with her. It was her only time to say a last goodbye...
So, Rachel was not totally surprised to be called to the reading of his will, realizing that, as they had greeted each other over the years when they met, that he had, like her, considered the other a good friend... Rachel shared to Magda that "he was a good man." And then wondered what his son was like, now, as an adult, knowing that she had once tied his shoelaces and helped him through the day...
We have to go," Rachel hissed. "We have to go now." She smiled apologetically...
"God, what are you doing? What are you doing? Magda struggled to free her arm, Ow! What's the hurry?"
"I heard something."
"What do you mean, you heard something?"
"Wait." Rachel handed their tokens to the coat-check girl. She didn't speak again until they were out on the sidewalk...I'm sorry. But I didn't want to say anything until we were a safe distance away."
"Away from what? What is it?
"It's just...well, I was listening to some people on the other side of the room from you, and a woman said Edgar had been drinking rose' with the vichyssoise he drowned in."
"Rose' with vichyssoise?" Magda's tone made it plain that she had no idea what was going on. "Well, it wouldn't be my choice, but I don't see what it's alarming."
"No!" Rachel spoke through gritted teeth. "You don't understand. Edgar never drank rose'."
"Oh come on, Never?"
Rachel shook her head.
"He wouldn't even have settled for it if there was nothing better in the house?"
"He always had something better in the house," Rachel's tone was explanatory. "He hated rose', He said it was a good white spoiled."
..."The point is, something is wrong here."
"Where?" Magda was lost.
"Here. With Edgar's death."
"Okay," Magda held up a hand. "Calm down. What is wrong?"
Rachel thought for a long minute. "I don't know," She thought again. "I don't know." Then her voice firmed. "But something is. Something feels strange..."
~~~
Thinking through all that had occurred, it was soon reasoned by Rachel that Edward had been murdered. And she was going to find out what happened. Of course, Magda was totally ready to participate.
It turned out to be quite easy because, in his will, Edgar had asked Rachel to inventory and deal with his library and, in return, she could pick out the one book that she wanted in payment. Of course, many would think that wasn't much of a remembrance, but Rachel and Edgar had spent many hours enjoying books in their lives and she would be quite happy to have one last memory of that precious time...
But, working in the library would also help! She would be right there where she could try to find out more information about Edgar's heirs, especially since they had ruled it as an accidental death--drowning...
Readers are right in the midst of discovering and discussing every single clue as their investigation began. There were four other heirs, including the majority going to Edgar's son. The other three were women--his former wife, a present lover, and a young woman who was going to school and helping Edgar with his work... And all of them became suspects, since they were each given a sum of money that confused everybody as to the amounts... Why did this person get that amount, and so on.
The heirs were all suspects, especially the women... They all enjoyed drinking rose'. And, the wine had obviously been there for their pleasure...
The plot thickens, as it is said, quickly and effectively, as one by one each individual's lives was explored, only to have something else occur that pointed to another...I admit it, I was totally caught off-guard! Cool, right? I love it when I don't even think of whodunit! Bernhard writes with complex twists and turns, leading us through a labyrinth of possibilities. And the various, intriguing characters all lead the story forward without one single clue...
Until we are moving into the climax. Rachel realizes...And she is in danger...
A great, solid mystery--more complex than the normal cozy and an excellent debut to this new series. Highly recommended. By the way, a French glossary is included for reader assistance.
GABixlerReviews
Emilia Bernhard was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1968. She got a B.A. from the University of Iowa, an M.A. from Boston University, and a Ph.D. from Brandeis University. A keen mover, she has lived in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Iowa City, Iowa; London, England; Boston, Massachusetts; Fayetteville, Arkansas, Cambridge, England, and Exeter, England. She is a passionate lover of baked goods and cats.
Although she has been writing all her life, _Death in Paris_ is Bernhard's first published novel, and the first in the continuing Death in Paris series. The series' two detectives, Rachel Levis and Magda Stevens, are based in part on her and her best friend.
In her other capacity, she works at the University of Exeter in Exeter, England, teaching Nineteenth-Century British Literature and Academic Writing.
