Wings Authors

For the Love of a Woman

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Sat, 25 May 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By Paddy Bostock

Suspense/Thriller, 478 pages

Cover art by Richard Stroud

Ravaged by sun, mosquitoes and his partner Claudia’s extended family while on a summer holiday to seaside Italy, PI Jake Flintlock is keen—despite having been asked to stay to solve a local murder—to return to London for good. But then, after a second murder, he and his PI associate Bum Park are made an offer they can’t refuse and once in Rome, discover a whole new meaning to the words la famiglia

But even on the open road, the ride was far from smooth given the absence of rear springs and the smell of first searing rubber, and then sparks flying from the stripped metal of the wheel beneath us. Bum became very tetchy.

Excerpt:

Bum was piqued at the lost opportunity to help a hippy nun rediscover her sexuality, but the sight of a load of blokes striding towards us in blue-and-yellow striped knickerbockers wielding pikestaffs changed his mind smartish. Bum had never seen mediaeval people.

“Wh-who the f-fuck are those guys?” he ululated.

“The Swiss,” I said.

“Swiss?”

“Yes.”

“I thought Swiss dressed in leather pants, milked cows, and were, like, peaceful. These guys look like clowns wid a bad attitude. An’ also wid lances? Boy, oh boy,” he said, donning his undertaker outfit and leaping out through the tailgate.

“Next thing I hear we gonna be lion food too,” he shouted back at me from the pavement. “Whut kinda damn country is this?”

“Italy,” I said, as I joined him and pulled the top-hat veil over my face. “Run!”

And that’s what we did, leaving poor old Massimo all alone to fight his own battles with the police, the Schwizzers, and the rabid crowd of tourists and Christians. It wasn’t until we hit the Piazza Venezia that we stopped to draw breath and ask directions to the Spanish Steps.

~ * ~

Not that our panic was strictly necessary. It wasn’t until long after the case was over and I was back home ensconced in my TV chair watching Liverpool unaccountably losing 2-0 to AS Roma at half time in a European qualifier that the truth hit home.

“Bugger,” I was moaning as the adverts came on and I was levering myself up to go in search of another can of hope-inspiring Carlsberg. But, in mid-lever, I was stopped in my tracks as the screen filled with the exact scene we had so hurriedly vacated all those months ago. Cleverly spliced, edited, digitally enhanced, reduced to only thirty seconds, but was this a déjà vu or was this a déjà vu?

“Bloody hell,” I said collapsing back in my chair and gawping as two blokes dressed as undertakers are seen leaping from a hearse and doing a runner downtown from the Colosseum as a load of Swiss Guards, cops, tourists and sexy-looking Christians gaze in awe at their retreating figures while licking at monster chocolate and vanilla ice creams with cherries on the top.

I was still gawping as the action was replaced by a close-up of the ice cream and a smarmy voice-over saying: “The new Cornetto from Walls. To die for!”

“Nnnngg?” I said, the logic not stacking up. And not only the gobbledigook of the grab-phrase. The illogic of the whole damn thing. We’d been outside the Colosseum by accident, hadn’t we? So how come...?

I still don’t know the answer to this conundrum. Maybe the crew had been intending to film an advert for anti-papal condoms when we just happened along and then postmodernly rearranged the shoot according to contingent circumstances. Who knew?

Mystery at Sunset Ridge

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Mon, 20 May 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By H. L. Chandler

Mystery, 260 pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

A real estate deal turns deadly. The land owner, Charlie Taylor, is killed, and Matt Doran, the developer is missing. Now Kramer Construction is pushing for control of the land. Billie Ross, of Ross Investigation Services, is hired by the missing man’s sister. As Billie digs deeper into the mystery her own safety is at stake.

Is the missing real estate developer a murderer, or a victim? The police suspect Charlie’s death is the reason Matt is missing, and they want to question him. Those who know Matt have doubts, he surely isn’t capable of murder. Billie’s job is to find him, not determine his guilt or innocence. Those who want Matt to remain hidden are intent upon stopping Billie’s investigation. Even if it means making Billie disappear!

Excerpt:

When she rounded the next bend in the road, she found a small housing development. However, the houses were not small. They stood on what looked to be five-acre lots. Several of the homes were sprawling ranch affairs, others two story modern, and a couple of southern types with columns. No two appeared to be the same design. These were custom-built homes. Even so, they all had mailboxes at the entrance to their driveways. There wasn’t delivery to the door out here.

Billie drove slowly and when she saw a lady walking to her mailbox with a letter in her hand, she drove even slower. She tried to reach the driveway about the time the homeowner reached her mailbox. The woman was on the right hand side of the road and looked up as the Explorer rolled to a stop.

The woman was dressed in tan slacks and a light blue sweater set. She frowned and took a step back, obviously suspicious of strangers. Billie quickly got out of the car and walked around the front bumper. She kept well back from the lady. No one went onto anyone else's land without an invitation, at least not in the Arkansas Billie knew. There were plenty of newcomers to the Ozarks, but Billie mostly observed the old ways.

Billie waved. “I'm sorry to bother you,” she called. “I'm looking for a subdivision built by Matt Doran. Am I in the right place?”

Billie stayed on the graveled road, letting the lady inspect her and her car. She put her letter in the brick-enclosed mailbox and raised the red flag. Then she crossed her arms around her waist and took a few steps toward Billie.

“Yes, this is Sunset Ridge. But there aren't any new houses going up at this time. At least not in Matt's addition.” She squinted at Billie. “Have you talked to Matt Doran lately?”

Billie shook her head. “No, I've not talked to him at all. This is the first time I've been up here. It is a beautiful spot.”

“Where are you from?”

“Pinecrest. It's south and east of here.”

“I know where it is. What brings you over this way? You have plenty of pretty country over there if you’re looking for a place to build.”

Billie smiled.

“Actually, the reason I'm here is because I'm looking for Matt Doran. Do you know where he is?”

The woman chuckled. “Nothing like being direct, is there?” She walked closer and Billie could see the deep lines around her mouth and eyes. “Pull your car into the drive. Wouldn't want you to get hit.” She turned and walked several yards back toward her house. Then stopped and waited for Billie.

The Pursuit of the Media Mafia

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Tue, 14 May 2013 16:16:00 +0000

By DB Dakota

Mystery, 455 pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

Vicar warns Congress they who spurn his laws will pay a price. The transmitter engineer finds it, the price, strung up on his station’s tower, a man with a rope around his chest so he can pendulum to and fro with a bare leg swiping across the lightning gap, being zapped with RF.

The detective embeds a spy-mole to root out the cause-hustlers making a buck off the plight of minorities of one kind and another.

Excerpt:

Kain shrugged and nodded. Juan retrieved the phone. “Okay, Mack, come on by.” He folded the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. “Better sit down, Kain. I’ve got a good news-bad news story and it’s not short.”

Kain eased onto the edge of the bed and glowered at his neighbor. “You are not an alien, are you, a dirt-poor peon?”

“Hardly. No, Kain, I am not an illegal.” Juan peeled off his fake mustache, slumped onto the floor, leaned back against their shattered party wall and stretched his legs out. “I don’t really live here, either; don’t sleep here. I come and go. I’ve been fooling you for a purpose I’ll explain. I work for Phil Kraft. It all goes back to your job application at KJT. Something happened at the station, which I guess you don’t know about. You know Joel Ricardo.”

Kain swallowed. “Why, uh, yeah, I know Ric. What happened?”

“He got tortured on one of our transmitter antennas. A couple of gangsters strung him up across the lightning gap and fried him.”

“He’s dead?”

“Let me finish,” Juan pleaded, crossing his legs. “Phil didn’t forget you or write you off, he liked your style. He figured you could help us sometime, or he could help you find work. Two JungleNet people have been fingered as the sparking thugs, which they aren’t. They’re being framed. Phil is convinced the actual mobsters are VoiceMinor people, your new employer.”

Kain gasped. “That straightens out Ric's rattletrap explanation.”

“So Phil hired detectives to track down the perpetrators and clear us, the station guys. Phil and the investigators want to install you as a mole inside VoiceMinor to flush out the culprits. In order to do that, I was assigned to befriend you and ride herd on your applying for a job with them and getting it.”

“Which accounts for the want ad,” noted Kain, reeling from the whirlwind events. He just stared at the wall.

“That is right. The investigators set up bugging equipment next door to their VoiceMinor office and recorded everything since the day you walked into that place and applied for the fusionist job.”

“What about the psychodrama?”

“The workshop, yep, they got it,” declared Juan, shifting into a more upright position. “They also got big nuncio Nova this morning instructing Silka to hire you.”

“So it’ll be a done deal when I call in and report for work, or go through the motions.”

“Right again. As to what you’re to do next, let’s wait for the investigator. Keep in mind, Kain, one thing. Ah, forget it.”

“What?”

“I was going to say, if you’d fallen into that job, not knowing what you know now, you’d be sucked into one of the damnedest conspiracies I ever heard of.”

Kain squirmed around on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “So what about Ricardo?”

“The PI will show you the surveillance disks if you want to see yourself as proof. She’s got Phil’s cash, as I said, to give you if you sign on as mole. We’re going to move you out of here to a decent place to live.”

“I said, what about Joel!” On his feet, Kain was near shouting.

“One of the investigators has kept in touch with Ricardo’s wife. As of yesterday morning, Kain, we’ve got a murder on our hands.” Juan stood up and slapped Kain on the shoulder. “He didn’t pull through. Congressman Ricardo is dead. Murder

A Change of Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Fri, 10 May 2013 04:30:00 +0000

By Larry Hammersley
Contemporary Romance, 322 pages
Cover art by Artist: Richard Stroud
Blurb:
Leroy Doyle and Jody Stinson suffer unhappy relationships while in school and plan to avoid that when they get to college. Leroy scraps that resolve when he meets Jody, but she won't let him into her life. It takes her six years to wake up, but is it in time?
Excerpt:
Jody thought about Leroy during the New Year's holiday weekend. She tried calling his apartment but got no answer. She regretted not permitting him to speak his piece about leaving. Allowing the plant operations to interrupt them infuriated her. She wouldn't allow work to interfere again.

On the Monday after the holiday weekend, she danced up the steps to the main plant to look for Leroy in the lab. Jensen hadn't seen him. She checked the batch process lab downstairs. Finnegan hadn't seen him. She rushed back upstairs, expertly balancing on her high heels and took the hallway to Gretchen's office. Empty. Exasperated, she plopped down in the chair facing Gretchen's desk, figuring she had gone for her morning coffee.

"Jody?" Gretchen said, entering behind her.

"Oh, Gretchen, I can't find Leroy anywhere. I wanted to talk him out of leaving," she said, anxious to learn his whereabouts.

"You're too late. He's already gone."
"What? When? Why didn't you tell me at least this weekend?" She leaned forward in her chair.

"He tried to tell you December thirtieth was his last day. He wanted to be the one to tell you."

"He's gone back to Indiana?" Jody had a sinking feeling.

"Yes. He sold his car, his apartment rent is paid to the end of this month and he asked me to handle shipping of his furniture out in a couple of weeks. He said he had a couple of interviews back there."

"Didn't you try to talk him out of leaving?" she asked but not in anger.
"Several times. I think you already know his reason for leaving." Gretchen's wrinkled eye brows and frown stung Jody once again.

"Oh, Gretchen, what have I done?" Tears swelled in her eyes and she gritted her teeth.
"Or, what have you not done might also be appropriate." She accepted Gretchen's chastising tone. Besides that tone of voice, Gretchen should be horse-whipping her, too.

"I should have listened to you all along. Better than that, I should have listened to my heart." Jody despaired. Gretchen handed her some tissues which she accepted and dabbed her eyes. The tears continued.
"I do have his home phone number." Gretchen scribbled on a notepad and handed it to her. She looked at it through her blurred vision, then stuck it in her purse.

Antique Legacy

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Sun, 05 May 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By Eileen Harris
Mystery, 254 pages
Cover art by: Richard Stroud
Blurb:
While the almost castle crumbles around them, Alicia desperately searches for the answers she wants and needs. Every creepy room demands a thorough search. Someone is trying to kill her, and she doesn't even know why, let alone, who. Each room she searches is a challenge and each is either fascinating or horrifying. The huge cat now follows her everywhere, even into closed rooms. If she can discover his secret before one of the murder attempts succeeds, maybe she can find the answers she needs.
Excerpt:
There was also a fourth floor. The stairs to this area were wooden like the ones to the third floor, but in much worse shape. We made our way carefully to the floor above. This level was one big attic area. There were some items stored here, but there was also a lot of open space. It was in disastrous condition. We disturbed several bats as we walked around. There were pigeon droppings everywhere, and in some places the roof had leaked and rotted everything underneath. The air seemed almost non-existent, and what was there smelled horrible. Neither of us had any desire to spend much time up there.

As we hurried back to the side of the room where the stairs were, Connie stepped on a portion of the floor that was rotten from years of leaking water. Her right leg went through almost to her hip. I was glad she was wearing slacks to help prevent scrapes. I walked up to the edge of the rotten area intending to reach out and pull her free when her other leg fell through. Now only her head and shoulders were above the floor level. Most of the floor around her looked bad, and she had to be terrified that she would fall completely through. Because of the tall ceilings in the rooms below, slipping through would definitely injure her or worse. I knew I couldn't pull her free, since I couldn't get close enough without risking more damage and causing her to fall. I turned and ran back across the room trying to watch for the dangerous areas. I was sure I'd seen a pile of junk containing some old rope. As I ran she screamed, "No, don't leave me. Please..."

I tuned her out and scrambled for the rope. I found it the first place I looked, grabbed it, and sprinted back toward Connie. Her eyes were huge as she watched me, but she didn't say anything. I dug a piece of the rope that I thought looked sound and long enough for what I needed out of the pile. I leaned out and tossed the middle section behind her back. She didn't dare move to help, so I carefully pulled each end tight to her sides under her arms. When I walked each end around to her back I had her contained. As long as I could hold the pressure on the rope, she couldn't fall. I braced myself and began pulling. She moved a few inches, so I increased the pressure and pulled steadily backward with all my strength. I thought we were almost home free, when another part of the rotted floor around her gave way. Now the only thing holding her was the rope. It was burning my hands, and I didn't know how much long I could hold her whole weight. Using all my strength, I inched backward. When I knew my strength was almost gone, I gave everything I had into one last pull. I backed up with the slack I'd created and bumped into one of the columns supporting the room. I hit it so hard it nearly knocked me unconscious. Sobbing with relief, I tied the ends of the rope securely around the pillar. Now she couldn't fall, and she could help lever herself out of the hole. It took three more tries, with more of the floor giving way each time, before together we had her on solid ground. We both lay on the filthy floor, panting and trying to catch our breath.

When I could almost breathe normally again, Connie rolled onto her side and said, "You saved my life. I didn't know if you'd even try since we've treated you so badly. I'm not sure why we have, since the one we should be blaming is our father. My brothers just don't seem to understand that. I don't have anything to offer you in gratitude except my friendship. I hope you'll accept it."

Connections

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By Vera Berry Burrows
Mainstream, 301 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald
Blurb:
Jane O'Connell did not envisage that her early retirement would completely disrupt her life. With too much time on her hands, she finds it difficult to adjust to her new existence. In her obstinate selfishness, she alienates herself from her family and friends. Running away from all things familiar appears to be her only option, but is it? Will the connections she makes really solve the problems she encounters in her life after work?
Excerpt:
Jane didn't go to the Dog and Partridge for several days. Somehow she felt she wasn't quite ready to face Freddy after their little fling. She had no idea how he'd react when they came face to face again. She worked on Finding Ben and realised her reckless behaviour had fuelled her creative fire. I love this, she thought. It's the catharsis I knew I needed and Ben's character is surely developing through me. I'm beginning to love the little guy. When her phone rang, she was startled. "Hello. Jane Peterson."

It was Barbara. "Jane!" she called almost deafeningly. "Where are you? I have been ringing your bell for days. Has the intercom stopped working?"

"I've been busy, Barbara. I turned off the intercom and my mobile because I needed to work undisturbed. Sorry."

Barbara continued unabashed. "I missed you at the D and P. Freddy hasn't been in either. I have no idea what's happened to him. Have you heard from him? You and he were getting along well when we were last together."

Jane took a deep breath in order to compose herself. "I haven't seen him after that night. He walked me home and that was that," she fibbed. No need to let Barbara into our little secret. "He's not my type, Barbara, so I won't be sorry if I don't see him again. How are you anyway? Anything happening at the D and P?"

"I'm fine thanks, and I'm glad you're okay. You might like to go and see the group that's on in the pub at the weekend. The Country Boys. They are supposed to be very good and the lead singer is an Aussie from Broome. You might know him."

Jane laughed. "Barbara, Broome is just about as far away from where I live as you could get. It's at least a four hour flight. Just think about it. In four hours you could fly to Greece or the Canary Islands from here. Would you know anybody who lives in those places, or do you know anybody in John o' Groats, for instance? At least it's on the same land mass."

Barbara laughed with her. "But Australia looks quite small in the atlas!" she said.

"Australia is vast, believe me," Jane informed her. "I might try to see the group, though. A country boy from Broome, hey? Sounds interesting. Will you be there?"

"No, my better half is home now for a few weeks so I won't be around. We have a lot of catching up to do, if you understand my meaning."

Jane gasped audibly for effect. "Whoa there, girl! Too much information," she said light-heartedly. "Give me a call when you feel like a night out. See yer!"

Barbara's call had added to Jane's guilt as regards Freddy. Well, it seems I really scared off the poor guy if he's stopped going to the Dog and Partridge. I feel really bad now. All we did was to fulfil a need in each other, her conscience told her. He doesn't have to go to ground just because we... Try as she might, she could not dismiss the thought that she might have tarnished the memory of his dear wife and she genuinely felt very guilty about that.

The Onion Caper

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By William O. Weldy
Young Adult 227 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb:
Young Cole Mckenna finds himself with a criminal record for stealing onions. He struggles to overcome the stigmatism by helping Officer Bradley with investigations of a burglary and later drugs in his small town high school. Along the way he discovers the dangers of police work when he's almost killed.
Excerpt:
The man had his back to Cole, totally focused on kicking Jason. Cole sprinted on the balls of his feet. The guy looked up just as Cole drove a shoulder into his side, like blind-siding a quarterback. They both went down. Cole bounced up thinking the other guy would stay down. To his surprise the thug jumped up and squared off in a fighting stance.

They eyed each other a second, before the guy took a wild swing at Cole's head. Cole leaned back from the blow. He tried to see the face under the hoodie but the overhead light shone behind the stranger. Cole started to wade into the attacker when the guy reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. The blade sprung from the handle. Cole stared at the weapon and stumbled back a few more paces. His own right hand dug into his pocket and closed on the lock-blade Buck. He pulled it out and fumbled to open the blade.

What am I doing? I can't get into a knife fight. I'll get killed. But he held it up for the other man to see. They circled each other. Cole's every nerve concentrated on his opponent. Fear gripped his stomach, as his brain screamed-Run! He skittered around defensively, trying to keep his distance from the attacker, and the silver blade he waved. Lurching to the side, Cole bumped into the dumpster and stumbled for balance.

An excruciating pain exploded in the back of his head. Next thing he knew he sprawled face down in the rubble. Multi-colored spots danced in his eyes. His brain refused to focus. Dizziness distorted everything. Shifting to his right side, he lifted a hand to the back of his head. It came away wet. Lying on the ground, Cole fought to remain conscious. He heard another voice behind him.

"Kill both the sons-a-bitches and let's get out of here."

A blurred pair of dirty sneakers approached Cole's head. He tried to push himself up but failed. The grubby sneakers straddled his head. Cole held his breath.

I'm going to die! His mind flashed: Mom-Mikey-.With his last ounce of strength, he lunged up and jammed his Buck knife to the hilt in the leg of the man standing over him. He heard his attacker scream. Cole tried to fight the dizziness. In the foggy distance, he heard, "Hey!" echo down the alley.

Then-a dark void.

The Ferrington Men: Josh

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By Lynette Hall Hampton
Romantic Suspense 319 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb:
While his father is on his honeymoon in the Greek Islands, Josh Ferrington, in charge of his father's vast holdings finds himself torn between the two beautiful daughters of his new step-mother. Laurie, who he has become good friends with and her younger sister, Olivia who makes his heart race every time he looks at her.

To add to this problems, Josh has to continually fight off the advances of his secretary who is determined to become the next Mrs. Josh Ferrington. He then learns his former in-laws are suing for custody of his there and one half year old son, Amos.
To find the happiness he craves, Josh knows he must over come all these situations and get his life on a path that will lead to happiness for not only him, but his son, Amos as well.

Excerpt:
"Good morning, Josh." Dottie Blackwood, his secretary, used her most sultry voice and leaned over the desk so he couldn't miss the view down her low cut blouse. "I heard Gabe's wedding was fabulous. Of course no one would expect less from the Ferringtons. I'm so happy for your father."

"Only family and a few close friends attended, but that's what Dad and Constance wanted. Something small and private."

"I hope they have a big party when they come back from the honeymoon. I want to meet the lucky woman who is now your new step-mom."

"I think that's what they plan." Josh looked through the messages Dottie handed him. "You'll like Constance. She's the perfect woman for Dad. I think he's finally going to have the happiness he deserves."

"That's good. Every man needs a good woman who'll make him happy, don't you think?" She leaned a little closer to him.

As always, Josh ignored her attempts at seduction. He didn't think she could be serious, but only wanted to show him she was all woman. "This note says Aston Chambers wants me to call as soon as I can. Did he give you a clue as to what it's about?"

"No. Just said it was important. I think I put that down."

Josh nodded and went into his inner office. He picked up the phone and dialed Aston's number. He knew it would be busy in the company with his father gone, and the last thing he needed was a problem arising in the legal department of Ferrington Industries, which often happened when the top man in the law firm called personally.

"Yes, Josh, I'm glad you called," Aston said. "I need to see you right away."

"What's up, Aston?"

"I'd rather see you in person. Can you come to my office or would you prefer I come there?"

"With Dad on his honeymoon, I'm pushed this morning. Just tell me what's going on."
"You're not going to like it."

"I probably won't, but spit it out anyway."

"Cindy's parents have decided to sue you for custody of your son, Amos."

The Willows of Sky Pass

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By Mary Brockway
Historical, 409 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Blurb:
Willows of Sky Pass begins in the great depression, and then World War II. The story is told from the viewpoints of two very different families.
Many younger Americans have learned little about thousands of West Coast Japanese /Americans who were ordered from their homes and businesses with only what they could carry.

Excerpt:
The Western Washington Fair had been a yearly pleasure for the Tegano family, an outing planned for months ahead. Mai remembered how proud she had been when Beth won blue ribbons for her canned peaches and embroidered pillow cases last year. Her throat tightened. And Samiko's watercolor of Toby had also merited a blue ribbon. So many things had changed in one short month.

A hoarse voice shouted instructions to line up alphabetically by family names at desks along the wall. At the "T" desk, a grim-faced Caucasian woman with a placating tone in her voice, checked their identification and asked, "You speak English?"

"Yes," Taki answered.

After many questions about his residence and family members, she handed him a sheet of paper containing a number and a rough diagram.

Samiko peered over her father's shoulder. "It's where our rooms are located, Pop. Let me see." She turned it sideways and adjusted her glasses. "We're to be in the north parking area. I don't remember any buildings out there."

The loudspeaker announced in English, then Japanese. "When you receive your room assignments, please go to the cafeteria in the restaurant building for further instructions."

Taki shook his head, trying to sort out the message. The speaker's voice echoed through the grounds and static rattled in his ears. "Did you hear?" he asked Kenzo.

"Didn't get all of it. I guess we should just follow the crowd, Pop."

In the big drafty building, they found seats at one of the long tables and piled their belongings under the benches.

A balding army officer with two bars on his uniform shoulder, stood at a microphone on a small stage at the north end of the building. "Testing. Testing. One, two." He paused and tapped on the microphone after someone shouted that they couldn't hear.

"Since its supper time, I know you must be hungry. Please line up by tables starting with number one on my far right, take plates and fill them at the cafeteria counter. After you have eaten, you will be directed to the temporary quarters described on the maps you were given."

Their table was number fifty, so the Tegano family waited patiently while most of the crowd went through the line. A low murmur of voices echoed from the high corrugated metal roof. Mai watched the stoic unsmiling people move through the line, their voices hushed, and faces solemn. "Will our baggage be safe while we go for food?" she asked Samiko.

Samiko moved her legs over the bench. "I'll ask Mr. and Mrs. Onisota at number forty-one to watch it." She took her mother's arm. "Our turn, Mama."
A plump man wearing a spattered white apron scooped rice on Mai's plate. Mai moved on and the next waiter splashed a greasy substance, the gravy Caucasians liked, over it. She got a mound of what seemed to be shredded cabbage, then a slice of cake with white frosting. Everything moved together on her plate as she was jostled to her seat by the crowd.

Mai unfolded a paper napkin wrapped around a fork one of the men had placed on her tray as she passed. In restaurants, and at the Tylers', she had learned to use the hakujin silverware. But tomorrow, she would bring her eating sticks. Before tasting the food, she sampled the tea in a thick white cup. It was cold.

Samiko made a gagging sound. "If this is what we eat, I'll lose weight fast."

Kenzo pushed his fork into the mass on his plate. "They guessed Japanese like rice." He grimaced as he swallowed. "But not drowned in creamed chipped beef."

Noriko took a tiny taste. "You wanted to go into the Navy. Mr. Herbert says they eat gobs of this stuff. It's not so bad and the cake is spice, like Mrs. Tyler makes."

"The raw cabbage is tasty," Mai said, watching Taki silently scrape the gravy from his rice. "Perhaps tomorrow we can cook and eat in our rooms."

Mai's hope died as the microphone rattled again. "When you have finished your meal, stack your dishes in the container at the end of the tables and leave them there. Tomorrow, you will answer the breakfast call at seven o'clock. You must take all meals in this building. From now on, if you have them, bring your own dishes and silverware to meals. After you receive work assignments, you will be responsible for assisting in the preparation of your food and for washing up."

The Snow Queen's Collie

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By Dorothy Bodoin

Cozy Mystery, 365pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb:

A white collie puppy appears on the porch of the Ferguson Victorian farmhouse during a Christmas Eve snowstorm, and in another part of Foxglove Corners, a collie breeder’s show prospect disappears. Is there a connection between the two events?

In the meantime, the collie painting Jennet’s sister gave her for Christmas begins to exhibit strange qualities.

Excerpt:

Julia’s mystery box was large enough to hold a dress or even a coat. I removed the paper carefully. The glossy green with its clever Nutcracker pattern was too pretty to end up burning in the fireplace.

“It’s heavy,” I said. “It doesn’t rattle. It isn’t a fruitcake. What could it be?”

Julia leaned forward eagerly, “For heaven’s sake, open it.”

I lifted the top and encountered sparkling green tissue paper and bubble wrap. Then another box. Finally a framed picture emerged from still more wrapping. It was an oil painting that instantly reached out to my heart, a masterly depiction of a girl in a pink dress and a collie family frolicking against a section of blue porch. I held it up to the light.

The bright chatter and rustle of paper around me ceased as everybody’s eyes came to rest on the painting.

Camille leaned forward for a better view. “Oh, how sweet!”

“It’s beautiful, my dear,” Gilbert said.

Created in shades of green and soft pastels, it was one of those scenes that invite the viewer to step through the frame and into the artist’s world. Like Alice through the Looking Glass, I felt as if I could almost do it.

One could imagine that beyond the canvas, the sun was shining and the scent of newly-mowed grass lay thick on the air. I could almost hear the high-pitched yelping of collies at play. This would be their first time out in the yard…

“More collies,” Brent said. His dessert plate was empty. “Speaking of more, is there any cake left?”

“I’ll cut you a slice of my Noel log,” Camille said quickly and went into the kitchen.

The chatter and paper rustle resumed while I sat quietly soaking in every detail of the painting. Three of the pups were sables like their dam; two were tricolors. The girl was attractive in a subdued way with radiant golden hair that fell in waves to her shoulders. She looked happily confused as if she didn’t know which puppy to play with first.

Not an old-fashioned girl, I decided, although the painting was reminiscent of sentimental turn-of-the-century art and the ornate frame had an antique look. The girl lacked that sweet rose-ivory beauty that vanished decades ago. This was a modern young lady in a dress rather than jeans and a skimpy top. It was the aura that invoked another age.

Now what did that mean?

The painting had a signature: ALL. Allison? Allinda?

“Do you like it?” Julia asked anxiously.

“I love it,” I said. “It’s the best present you ever gave me.”

Julia beamed. “I found it at your favorite shop, the Green House of Antiques. It isn’t really an antique. It just looks old. But you haven’t seen everything. Turn it over.”

I did. On the back, someone had scrawled a brief sentiment in black ink. I read it aloud. “Evil RIP.”

The Smokeout of Blackjack

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By DB Dakota

Mystery/Crime, 339 pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb:

Author of the tell-all about polls has a thing about their MO. Shanghaied, hidden from a blackmailer, all he has to do is write another blockbuster to undo the first book that trashed pollsters. He’s also safe from the blackmailer, trying to nail him for a murder. The top cop claims a renegade cop did it. But the street cop suspects the top badge himself whitewashed it.

The PI plays on the writer’s psyche, moving him to rat on the blackmailer, a relative, swearing, the top gun is the killer—who won’t confess. Media and props from the murder scene roll in to torment him. He can’t stand it and befriends a terrorist bomb. The end.

Excerpt:

“Something else is going on and you’re not telling me about it,” Nadra mumbled, stiffening her arms.

Thornburgh straightened up, clipped the mike back on, smoothed down her shirt front, crossed her legs like a man to finger a piece of gravel out of a sneaker. She cleared her throat and asked, “What is it worth to you to find Blackjack?”

“What! Blackjack? You mean…?” Nadra bolted up out of her seat. “You know about Mom’s death!” Furious, she bowed her neck. “You say you’re a coordinator—Who are you? Who is he!” She pointed to Jorge and sat down.

“Yes, I know about the Brett murder case,” said Thornburgh, the orchestrator of the fake carjack. “It was a hideous crime. In all the papers. And in a few other places as well. In one place in particular, and Jorge was there. He was at the crime scene, investigating.”

“Sort of,” he snorted, hunching his shoulders, glancing in the rear view mirror.

Thornburgh sighed and shook her head. “Jorge used to be a Wenden cop. He wants to get back on the force and needs you to help him. That’s why you’re sitting there. Nadra, you’ve got to help us.”

Nadra cocked her head sideways. “Are you an investigator?”

“Me, a detective? Damn right.”

“How come you drive a Mercedes?”

“It belongs to a client.” Thornburgh rubbed the back of her head. “I borrowed it to make an impression on Cletus. What I’m doing now is a special assignment to help Jorge collar Blackjack.”

“You do sound confident.” Nadra puffed, looked aside and stroked her face with an icy hand.

“That we’ll take him down? Listen, we’re not doing it like—oh, shut my pie hole. Jorge was on your mother’s case. He found her town car at Gold Diggers restaurant where her attacker had abandoned it. Jorge got disgusted with police bungling, as you called it, exactly as you called it, and quit. He works for a surveillance and security outfit now.”

Nadra covered her burning face with both hands for a moment and stated, “We could never get anything out of those cops. Mom wasn’t anybody important, just a real estate saleswoman, and the family, well, we didn’t have any pull.”

“That was over two years ago.”

“June ninety-three. Long time ago, Mack, but it hurts so bad it seems like last night. She had taken over this apartment house on Lafasing at Eleventh near Chero Park and was converting the place into condos. Doing a lot of the work herself.”

“All by herself that evening.” Thornburgh shook her head slowly.

“So uninformed, I guess you’d say.” Nadra nodded and stared at the floor. “She was sure that was a safe neighborhood. Yes, she was all alone. With nobody to help her, not a soul.”

“And this brute, this ogre sneaked up and beat her…” Thornburgh choked up, hacked and didn’t finish the sentence.

“She wasn’t robbed or raped or anything.”

“He bludgeoned her. Beat her to death.”

“You do know about it!” Nadra gasped and rubbed her eyes. “So awful. She had no enemies, Mack, not a single one. It was somebody who saw the lights on, I guess.”

Finders Keepers, Losers Dead!

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 05:00:00 +0000

By H. Susan Shaw

Mystery, 331 pages

Cover art by: Richard Stroud

Blurb:

Kate Tucker seeks the people who threaten her and her foster daughter. Since Kate is a finder of lost, missing, stolen, or unpaid merchandise, she uses her skills to bring a murderer to justice. If Kate doesn’t locate the killer, she and her foster daughter will be his next victims.

Excerpt:

I needed to be able to prove that this smuggling was happening. If I and my hunches hadn’t been in such an all-fired rush, maybe I could have interested the police and the Coast Guard in my theory. Then I’d have been hiding in the dark with a whole slew of good-looking uniformed men. Some days, I swear, my brain is on vacation.

I also knew I wasn't going to dash out there and grab a box and run. Those boxes seemed much too heavy.

My curiosity was killing me, though. Since I didn’t feel suicidal, I just let the curiosity hurt real bad.

Being patient and hidden were the only tools I had. If I waited long and quietly enough, maybe I could get a peek at a crate’s contents. Was I ever glad I’d brought the camera!

I had already loaded it with one roll of fresh film, still cool from the refrigerator. The other five rolls were chilling my thigh through my jeans pocket.

I loved this old manual camera. We'd seen a lot. If I had a chance for a picture, it would be a snap shot. The Canon’s controls were all set. This old heavy rig would take pictures of whatever I wanted. Good clear ones, too.

All I needed now was an opportunity.

No one was paying attention to anything but the task of unloading the boat’s cargo into the truck. The night was so still I could hear the whine and shriek of the pulley as it lifted each box out of the boat's hold.

The sound stopped, followed by curses from the busy bait shack. Both of the musclemen stopped and listened, then one of them sat his load on the wharf and re-entered Berth 19. When he called for help, the other lad sat his box on top of the first box and followed his mouth-breathing buddy.

The door was left standing open. I could see into their area well enough to watch them cross the room to the door leading to the boat.

My educated guess was the winch had jammed with a load halfway up. The water was too shallow and the area too busy to allow a box of smuggled whatevers to sit on the bottom of the bay in daylight. Cutting the line was out. For the same reasons, a load couldn't dangle halfway up the winch's line, either. The line had to be untangled and the load brought into the bait shack.

By now, I was positive whatever was in the boxes had to be illegal, immoral, or fattening. The boxes seemed too heavy to contain cholesterol-loaded goodies, so fattening was out. The immoral part was easy to disqualify; there was too much of that available right on the street. No need to import immorality.

That left illegal.

The Satellite

noreply@blogger.com (Storm Savage) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 20:13:00 +0000

The Satellite on sale now!
When Flame goes up against and incubus known as the Satellite, there can be only one winner...or can there?
Gripping, sensual, one you will not forget!
Just released!

Faith and Frenzy

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 05:00:00 +0000

by Kev Richardson

Historical, 384 pages

Cover art by: Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:

This tale of love and hate in the name of God exposes many travails in 17^th century England.

Hadn’t the English had enough of invaders, the Vikings, Normans, Picts, and Scots without their world now erupting in religious mayhem? Can Richard’s family avoid division? Were their decisions wise? Did either side win?

Religion is shattered as families opt to support this or that faith or faction. Peace and order are themselves ripped into frenzied shreds as faith in God is torn asunder.

Excerpt:

“The King holds Market Harborough again.”

After the Battle of Marston Moor and the fall of York, and believing the Royal army disintegrated, Cromwell retired south and permitted his army to take leave. All were to report to Cambridge by the first of next June.

King Charles retained the services of nephew Rupert and his army, every man in it happy at respite from fighting despite the Prince remained chafing at the bit for more action. Charles’ exhausted troops had been driven from Scotland, so he had these men at hand, also resting. He had also been successful in convincing further Irish divisions that Cromwell intended a hard crackdown on the Catholic religion in Ireland, if winning the war.

“Isn’t their execution of Archbishop Laud sufficient proof that they will make war on all other religious sects?” gloated Charles to the Irish.

After so many defeats, he was feeling somewhat buoyed by having his own troops under his control, and even some Irish, more frightened of Cromwell than they had ever been of Charles. Aware that Leicester was being held by only a small Roundhead force, he led his army there, to easily overwhelm it to again free that city. And again took the half-day march south to free Market Harborough before returning to Oxford.

Relieved that Cromwell had dispersed his army, he left but a token force to hold the re-acquisitions.

“The King obviously does not see the war over,” I replied to Leyton Burgess’s statement that peace had returned. “Especially when Soloman reports Cromwell’s demand that all servicemen report back come June.”

The families were gathered to celebrate his birthday and mine. They fell within days of each other.

“Why seem the particular towns of Leicester and Market Harborough so significant to his sense of security?” I posed. “With the war convincingly swinging Parliament’s way, is the King using the same opening gambit to begin another? Or is this but an undeclared truce in the present?”

Only Soloman was convinced more was to come.

“Did Rupert take his contingent back to the Ruhr, do you know, Soloman?”

“I know not, Father. I would imagine he did. His force was sorely bruised. Surely they would have believed the Royalists soundly beaten.”

Beatrix raised a finger.

“Are we all believing the war is over only because we hope so? Peace is what we have prayed for, and it has now arrived? Yet with the King taking our very neighbouring towns again, it affirms he sees the war still in progress. He refuted any truce by retaking Leicester and Market Harborough.”

Hoodoo Murder

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 05:00:00 +0000

by H. L. Chandler
Mystery, 376 pages
cover art by: Pat Evans
Blurb:
When the small town of Rosemont, Louisiana wakes up to find a bank vice-president murdered, bank funds stolen, and his little stepdaughter, Darla, missing the police and the FBI rush to the scene. However, the parents and grandparents of the missing child wants a more personal touch. They hire Ladonna of the Rose Detective Agency.

Excerpt:
As Ladonna searches for Darla she runs into family deceit, hoodoo spells, and the answers to mysteries in her own past. Confronting the kidnapper she learns the shocking reason for the child's abduction. In this terrifying moment she and Darla face death. Like her favorite city of New Orleans, Ladonna is an exotic beauty with a tough, gritty side.

The oak and pine trees thinned and patches of brown water glittered in the sunlight. Mats of water hyacinth with their slick green leaves and lavender flowers spread across the ponds and wild iris grew in clumps on the road banks. Tall white thunderheads massed on the horizon and the land beneath the faint blue sky stretched on in a maze of green and brown, the land and water mixing like an interlocking puzzle.

When I'd driven approximately two miles, a road opened to the right. A few tall yellow pines stood guard at the corner and then turned the duty over to tangled brush and spiky palmettos. I eased the Mazda along the built-up road and it occurred to me that, even if I wanted to turn around, I couldn't. Then the road dropped down closer to water level and larger patches of dry land appeared. I crossed a low wooden bridge that spanned a narrow waterway, and then I saw a house standing on short stilts.

There was a rough circle drive that curved up in front of the veranda and back out to the road. I was relieved to find a place to turn around. The pink board house had green louvered shutters, and a rust-stained tin roof rose above it. Two high-backed rockers shared the veranda with tubs of purple and white petunias, while a trumpet vine climbed up one side of the house. Off to the right of the house stood a chicken coop with a sagging wire fence around it. There were three large white chickens scratching at the bare dirt inside the pen and several red hens loose in the yard, darting back and forth after bugs. I wondered how many of the birds had made a meal for some hungry alligator.

I pulled up near the front steps and sat in the car. In a minute, the screen door opened and a tiny black woman the color of a long submerged swamp log stepped onto the porch. Her small ebony head had a covering of springy white hair and her features were like currants stuck onto a withered damson plum. Her eyes glittered like bits of mica. The long, flowered-print shift she wore was sleeveless and fell nearly to her bony ankles. Her withered feet were bare but a pair of water-warped brown loafers stood beside the door. She shuffled to the edge of the porch and peered at me.

I opened the car door and stepped out, keeping one foot inside, and leaned over the top of the car. "Does Havana Guidry live here?" I called.

The woman beckoned with a shriveled hand. "You come in. Havana see you now."

The Swiss Guard

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Sat, 16 Mar 2013 05:00:00 +0000

by Joel Goulet
Historical, 315 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Blurb:
A young Swiss mercenary falls in love with a woman, then loses touch with her, only to find her again in Rome, married. Heartbroken he joins the Swiss Guards before the Sack of Rome. Imperial soldiers run off with the woman. The young Swiss Guard leaves Rome to rescue her.

Excerpt:
The oak and pine trees thinned and patches of brown water glittered in the sunlight. Mats of water hyacinth with their slick green leaves and lavender flowers spread across the ponds and wild iris grew in clumps on the road banks. Tall white thunderheads massed on the horizon and the land beneath the faint blue sky stretched on in a maze of green and brown, the land and water mixing like an interlocking puzzle.

When I'd driven approximately two miles, a road opened to the right. A few tall yellow pines stood guard at the corner and then turned the duty over to tangled brush and spiky palmettos. I eased the Mazda along the built-up road and it occurred to me that, even if I wanted to turn around, I couldn't. Then the road dropped down closer to water level and larger patches of dry land appeared. I crossed a low wooden bridge that spanned a narrow waterway, and then I saw a house standing on short stilts.

There was a rough circle drive that curved up in front of the veranda and back out to the road. I was relieved to find a place to turn around. The pink board house had green louvered shutters, and a rust-stained tin roof rose above it. Two high-backed rockers shared the veranda with tubs of purple and white petunias, while a trumpet vine climbed up one side of the house. Off to the right of the house stood a chicken coop with a sagging wire fence around it. There were three large white chickens scratching at the bare dirt inside the pen and several red hens loose in the yard, darting back and forth after bugs. I wondered how many of the birds had made a meal for some hungry alligator.

I pulled up near the front steps and sat in the car. In a minute, the screen door opened and a tiny black woman the color of a long submerged swamp log stepped onto the porch. Her small ebony head had a covering of springy white hair and her features were like currants stuck onto a withered damson plum. Her eyes glittered like bits of mica. The long, flowered-print shift she wore was sleeveless and fell nearly to her bony ankles. Her withered feet were bare but a pair of water-warped brown loafers stood beside the door. She shuffled to the edge of the porch and peered at me.

I opened the car door and stepped out, keeping one foot inside, and leaned over the top of the car. "Does Havana Guidry live here?" I called.

The woman beckoned with a shriveled hand. "You come in. Havana see you now."

Win an autographed paperback

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 21:18:00 +0000

Of Fiona McGier’s Love Therapy.

Love Therapy is book #6 in the Reyes Family Romance series of contemporary erotic romances by Fiona McGier. Each book is a new romance, but the characters from previous books make appearances since they are all family. Go to Fiona’s blog and answer the question “Do you like romances involving single parents, and if the age of the kid(s) matters?” Leave your answer in the comment section at http://www.fionamcgier.com

The winner will be selected the last week of March. Good luck!

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 05:00:00 +0000

My Red Cross by Kev Richardson
Historical, 452 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:
A Red Cross Agent in occupied France juggles peoples' heartbreak with Nazi officialdom, dances with Gestapo capers while trying to balance belligerence.

A journey through homesickness? This love or that love? Evaluating importunity and running red lights on conscience?

A tale of learning to cope with false friendship, stumbling through intrigue, discovering where acting crumbles and bravery blossoms?

Excerpt:
I was utterly dumbfounded.

Do I suddenly like and admire this guy? Or is he a Goebbels disciple with the gift of influencing millions? Bloody hell. Am I an Englishman in this war or a neutral? And can Germany, or Nazism, win this war anyway?

At least I don't have to commit one way or the other. All he's done is ask a question. Should I agree, if only to stop his pestering, then I break my first RC vow. Yet nor do I want to agree or disagree with him. I need him onside so I can do my job properly. Anyway, his entire concept is based on an 'if'. 'If' Germany wins the war! And bloody Christ, I don't want that to even be part of my consideration, let alone a forecast!

My mind was in a whirl, yet not such that I thought his offer worth even a smidge of consideration. It was preposterous. Yet I envied the fellow having a faith in which he could envisage such a future. Yet a blind faith. Faith of an indoctrinated mind. Ill-considered and dangerous.

I just want to quickly get out of this little anteroom-through those curtains that suddenly make it claustrophobic. I just want quickly out of this impossible situation he is trying to embroil me in.

Antique Discovery

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 06:00:00 +0000

by Eileen Harris
Mystery, 313 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud

Blurb:A vacation becomes complicated by murder, discovery, and friendship. Danger lurks in too many directions. Alicia and her friends will have to stay alive and sort through the clues carefully if they want to save an innocent friend and prevent the destruction of an historic treasure.

Excerpt:As we continued riding, rather than getting better, both horses were shying at every shadow. We thought they must have eaten something toxic to their nervous system, but Nick had no idea what or how it could have happened. We decided to return to the ranch and hoped the horses wouldn't get totally out of control before we arrived. As we rode back the way we'd come, they actually seemed to calm down a little, and I had begun to believe they would be fine when someone fired a gun. The horses went crazy, and Nick and I both ended up in a shallow ravine next to the road. There were two more shots, and I heard the sound of the horses galloping away. When I thought of being stranded out here, I could feel panic crawling through my system. Counting to ten and taking several deep breaths, I worked to beat it back. I crawled over to Nick to make sure he hadn't been hit. He said, "Are you okay? Were you hit or hurt in the fall?"

"I'm okay. I'll probably be one big bruise tomorrow and the fall knocked the wind out of me, but all the parts seem to be working."

He said, "We need to crawl farther down where the ravine gets deeper. There's a rock overhang not too far down that will protect us from above."

I began crawling, but when I glanced back at Nick I could see his grimace of pain. I stopped until he caught up, and said, "Okay, obviously you aren't fine. What aren't you telling me?"

Blaze of Fury

noreply@blogger.com (Storm Savage) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 00:01:00 +0000

Blaze of Fury

What does a woman do when there is no way out of an abusive situation? She hires a man with enough power to kill—a man proven to show no mercy.

Ice has been favored by the Shasta realm—a gap between mortal and immortal worlds where human spirits join those of their ordained animal spirit to become shifters. Those chosen receive one name, which embraces the nature of their soul. He…is a stone-cold killer, but only in the name of justice.

After twenty-two years of hell, Sasha finally escapes the people that have tormented her for over two decades. Her freedom came with a high price—the loss of her oldest daughter. Now the sharks are circling again. This time she’ll do whatever it takes to save the only family she has left.

Ice is surprised when he meets the woman who secretly contacted him to kill not one—but three men! She does not look like a killer. When she offers him the little money she has, he refuses. This is a job he will do for free.

Can a man who put his heart on ice decades ago and a woman who lost the ability to trust find love on common ground? Or will they go their separate ways once the deed is done?

Blaze of Fury

noreply@blogger.com (Storm Savage) — Sat, 02 Mar 2013 05:53:00 +0000

Blaze of Fury

The Search For The Icon Bandit

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 06:00:00 +0000

by DB Dakota
Mystery/Crime, 342 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Blurb:
His tortured face signals fear and anguish for his upcoming exploit … does not want to do it: Creep into the museum and heist the million-dollar icon. "Set a thief, old Beelzebub advises, to catch a thief. So I be thief two." To trap number one. "And go to Leavenworth." When caught.

Midnight, with crowbar in hand the contractor creeps up, pries open the side door and makes off with the famous silver cross to gift the developer. Reckoning comes. He's invited into moneybags' home. There on a pedestal, unrecognized, converted to a sculpture, is the great cross. The museum property takeover scheme unfolds: "Me, sabotage the Old Stone Church?" the contractor asks. Answer, "You bribed me, I'm bribing you."
Excerpt:
Driving to a retail customer parking lot close to the Mission, Thornburgh dialed Dawn's number, hoping she was through classes for the day and Earthala had talked to her. The line was busy, so Thornburgh kept trying, and finally Dawn answered. After introductions, Dawn said she had talked to Earthala, was anxious to contribute what she could and did have new information.
Thornburgh responded, "What Earthala and I chatted about, let's not bring it up. Phones are not user friendly. So watch what you say and don't use real names. Now, I understand you have..." Thornburgh coughed and cleared her throat a few times as a signal. "This documentary you're working on-run me through a scene or two."
"Hmm. Okay, in this scenario are two academic junkies, Hot-water Lucky and Monkey-brain Heather."
Lucky was Zenny. Heather was Dawn herself.
"The action goes like this," Dawn began. "Lucky is in a panic and shows Heather a photo of, of a grade D exhibit and blames her for it. Lucky, see, blames my, er, blames Heather's friend. Heather starts running her friend down to Lucky, which is bullshit to get him going. Heather puts him on-Lucky, that is-which drives him so out of it he dirties his shorts, and his eyes yo-yo. Flashback. Lucky asks for Heather's picture, she gives him some swimsuit poses, expecting her grades to go up, and damn if they don't.

"Cut back to live," Dawn went on. "Because of the confrontation, Heather asks for her pix back, keeps asking, but Lucky ignores her and won't promise to return them. With horror on his face, he slumps off like a wobbly wheel. That makes Heather so mad she stews a minute and takes out after him to have it out and, know what? She spies Lucky breaking into a pickup truck outfitted with one of those camper sheds. It has a little window, and Heather watches what he's doing in that little mobile bunkhouse. Lucky pries out an inside panel and fishes out a bunch of shiny gadgets. One is a pitcher or a cup and, so help me, he drinks out of it, or looks like he does, but for this scene it's empty, because Lucky is just nutso."

Earthala kept going with her scenario. "Oh, and he barks, 'Okay, uhm, Hoot, I got the loot, thank you,' and so on, talking to himself. The loot includes a couple of crucifixes, and Lucky laughs at one of them, a Jesus thing, because it has bloodstains on it. Makes Heather gag real-time, like, shriek. She is sure he hears her screech, so she runs like hell away from all that. Dissolve to the scared little monkey-brain, moping in her dorm, fiddling with her keypad, trying to figure out the next scene, and that's it."

"Sounds good for a first draft," Thornburgh retorted. "I'll have my A-team transcribe and story-board your idea, flesh it out with dialogue and shop it around. The back room will want to meet with you and run down your next assignment. You're available?"

"Like a zit-faced hooker. Sooner the better, chief."

"We'll touch base, then, in the near term, and zip your lip until the brass picks up the option. Be talking to you." Thornburgh clicked off and laughed, eager to meet this Dawn character who witnessed what a detective could only itch for: catching a thief red-handed. The objective now was to see that the icons never left Zenny's care.

The Ghost In The Machine

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 06:00:00 +0000

by Jane Senese
Paranormal Romance, 354 pages
Cover art by Erin Roberts
Blurb:
For two years, widowed photographer Naddy Lewison has lived with her husband's ghost. Now she finds herself drawn to a living man. Marshal Bill Crawford is handsome and cynical, yet beneath his bluff exterior Naddy sees a kind heart, and a loneliness to match her own.

But her jealous husband has no intention of letting her go…

Excerpt:
Nadia Lewison awoke to the warmth of the morning sun on her face. She moaned softly and pressed her face against her pillow. Not yet. When she felt a pair of fingers playfully walk across her bare shoulder, she gave a groan of annoyance.

"Time to get up," a voice purred against her hair.

"Don't want to." Groggily, she reached around behind her and took his hand. "Stay here," she begged, as she pulled his arm snug about her waist.

His warm breath teased at the nape of her neck. "But I have to go."

She felt him slowly disengage his hand from hers. She rolled over to stop him before he could rise. "Walter..." she mumbled, hearing the childish whine in her voice and hating herself for it. After ten years of gentle rebukes, her only excuse was that she would never be a morning person.

He was. He was made for the mornings. The same sunbeams that burned her eyes and set the dust motes dancing seemed to electrify him. The light turned his dark blond hair golden; his skin took on a youthful flush, the fine lines under his blue eyes seemed to melt away. He was handsome in all lights, her Walter, but never so radiant as at dawn.

She was seized by a need to tell him so, an irrational fear that this would be her last chance. But sleep had drugged her tongue, and she was only able to manage a slurred string of sounds she hoped he could decipher as "You're beautiful."

He grinned, wide enough to crinkle his eyes, and flash his crooked right incisor. For some reason she thought back to their early courtship, when he had been so reluctant to smile.
"Sleepyhead." He bent his head to kiss her brow.

She snuggled against him gratefully, closing her eyes against a rain of feather kisses as he tried to coax her out of sleep. Their old morning ritual, from half-forgotten newlywed days.

She felt his touch withdraw. "Don't go..."

"But, Naddy, it's time to wake up."

Elephant In The Room

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 06:00:00 +0000

by Diana J. Febry
Mystery/Crime, 380 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Blurb:

Penny Jackson is slowly re-building her life after the abrupt end of her marriage, when she falls in love with the charismatic hotelier, Robert Carver. When dark unspoken family secrets start to surface, Penny has to re-evaluate everything and rely on her own wits to stay alive.

Excerpt:

With a flicker of regret, Josh turned his full attention to the voice becoming increasingly agitated on the end of the phone. “I understand, Mac, but I can’t interrupt him at the moment. I’m sure he won’t be much longer.”

Josh held the phone away from his ear to avoid Mac’s rant perforating his eardrum. Satisfied Mac had finished, he tried again. “The circus isn’t scheduled for another fifteen minutes. I’m sure he’s aware of the time and he won’t want to keep them waiting.”

Josh struggled to attach his cufflinks with his free hand. “I don’t need to ask him. I can categorically say he will not want a private interview with Wendy Humphries. There’s not a chance of him agreeing to that.”

Josh held the phone against his suit leg to try and mute the sound and listen to the raised voices on the other side of the thin partition wall. “I’ll knock on the door in ten minutes. I will tell him the black widow is here, but he isn’t going to happy about it.”

Josh carried the phone into his adjoining room, opened the first closet and selected a tie. From an early age he’d realised the office was his father’s home and it was the only place he was likely to attract his father’s attention. “If that’s really what you want, I’ll let you know when he’s free.”

He closed his phone and wandered back to the wall separating his suite from the vast expanse of the office next door, making a mental note to improve the soundproofing when he moved in there. He had not seen Sophie arrive, and he didn’t want to see her leave. The noise of something hard thrown with force across the room sent a vibration through the wall. He heard the anger in her voice and reluctantly had to admire her guts. “Absolutely no way—I want nothing to do with you. I’m not interested and never have been. You’re all imprisoned in those expensive dark suits you swan about in. Did you really think I could be handcuffed to a Louis Vuitton handbag?” This was followed by the slamming of the door and silence.

Josh slipped out his phone and speed dialled Mac. “Give us another five minutes.” He counted to ten and checked that his tie and the crease in his trousers were perfectly straight, a habit Josh as a small boy had picked up from his father. Appearances are everything. Josh knocked tentatively on the door to his father’s office and opened the door when instructed. Pulling himself erect, he strode purposefully forwards, his eyes warily searching the elegant frame of his father for signs of fatigue.

Without turning or averting his gaze from the bay below, Robert said, “Sit down, son.”

Josh sank into the deep leather seat and ignored the shattered paperweight on the floor. Then he checked the heavy gold watch his father had presented to him on his twenty-first. “Mac would like to see you before the press conference.”

Robert turned from the window, sat on the edge of his heavy, old-fashioned desk and said, “Stupid girl.”

Josh focussed on his father’s shiny black shoe rhythmically swaying backwards and forwards. “I take it things didn’t go well with Sophie?”

Coyote's Flute

noreply@blogger.com (Rhobin Lee Courtright) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 06:00:00 +0000

by JoEllen Conger
Paranormal, 222 pages
Cover art by Richard Stroud
Blurb:
Recently widowed, Barbara Livingston flies to New Mexico to stay with longtime friends for the summer. However, instead of her friends, a sexy, Spanish cowboy meets her at the airport. While awaiting her friends to retrieve her, he takes her home to his working ranch. Trini Montoya tells her about Kokopelli, the shape-shifter in local Navajo legends and folklore. When she hears Coyote's mystical flute music drifting on the wind, she understands there is to be a 'Promise of Change' in her life.

Trini has no idea just how much he wants her until she and his favorite horse suddenly disappear into the devastating heat wave on the New Mexican desert. The search begins to find her.

Excerpt:
Anxiety chewed at her confidence as Barbara Livingston searched the crowded Albuquerque airline terminal, anticipating to locate her longtime friends at any moment. Other deplaning passengers pushed and bumped against her. She stepped aside, feeling her irritation rising.

Her friends should have been with the crush of people waiting at the crowded debarkation gate. But they weren't. In fact, no one had stepped forward to meet her. A quaver of anxiety rippled through her stomach. She suddenly felt like a little girl, lost in a frighteningly strange and unfriendly city. Her heart fluttered, pounding against her ribcage. Barbara pressed a splayed hand across her heart. She had a hard time catching her breath.

She pivoted in her search, eyes darting to detect someone she recognized. Anyone. She could feel her throat constricting, her heart pumping wildly. It wasn't just the unexpected heat wave that made perspiration trickle down her temples. With instant clarity filling her mind, she realized her anxiety medication was right there in her suitcase, just for such a possible attack of nerves, but she didn't want to rip open her bag in front of God and everybody, just to get to it.

It was her first excursion away from home-alone, since her late husband's passing. She was used to his reassurances when she fretted about unexpected changes. I can do this, she assured herself. After all, I am a mature adult. She drew in a deep breath.

She searched again for her missing friends. Then gulped. Her mouth felt as dry as New Mexico's desert outside.

Did I remember to send them the correct flight information? Do I have the right day? Sheesh, Barbara, come on! You managed to get yourself to the ticket counter. They took your ticket in San Jose, didn't they? Today is the right day.

Could Annah and Gerod have forgotten? She drew in a quick breath to calm her frantic thoughts. Don't panic! There could be good, logical reasons why they've been detained. Possibly they've gotten held up in traffic. Or...had trouble finding a parking place. So keep your cool, Barbara! Just take another deep breath.
Her carry-on seemed to grow heavier, the leather strap cutting into her palm. Her camera bag jabbed her back at every step. You're hyperventilating, Barbara. Get control!-Take another deep breath and hold it.
She rearranged her hold on her luggage as she labored to control her racing heart. The shoulder strap holding her camera equipment: a small Digital camera, and a 35.mm Olympus with a flash attachment and all her lenses, macro, wide angle and telephoto, cut deeply into her shoulder. In the same hand she juggled her weighty, suitcase-sized hard-pack video case. She had never given up the full-sized camcorder for the smaller 8mm. When she had tried one, she hadn't cared for the dizzying-film produced by her wrist action.
Although heavier, the full-sized camera at least sat solidly on her right shoulder and steadied the videography. Resigned, she settled her bags by her feet. Then as she searched the area again, she scrubbed her sweating palms against the knobby texture of her raw silk skirt. She was soaked in sweat; her matching jersey clung to her.

With a shuddering in-breath, she slowly placed her heavy camera bag on top of her laptop and fastened them to the handlebars on top of her wheeled suitcase. She wound the camera cases' straps tightly around the pull handle. Now all she had to worry about were her carry-on bag and camcorder case. She'd heard the sad story about her friends losing their photo equipment when they had been traveling, so she'd become extra vigilant of her surroundings. Someone had nabbed their equipment when they had been distracted and looked away for only a moment. It won't happen to me, she declared emphatically, hoping her declaration would calm her inner trembling.

Even her brother-in-law had lost his briefcase in Japan. He'd set it down between his feet to talk to an airline agent and some deft robber had swiped it. She wanted to make sure that didn't happen to her, here. Her livelihood depended upon her cameras and her laptop. Even backed-up before coming on the trip, she couldn't afford to lose all her research material...reels of video-film and proposed plots she hadn't written yet, and photographs of every place she and Jed had ever traveled. Her heart jerked at the very thought of losing them.

She studied everyone in the terminal. Everyone seemed to be dashing for their intended destination with no one showing any particular interest in her expensive equipment...or her, for that matter.

Her misgivings tumbled crazily in her mind as she scanned the airport's vast expanse one more time. Where could they be? Surely I'll recognize them. They couldn't have changed that much since I last saw them...at Jed's funeral. She scowled, feeling very alone without Jed holding her arm. He had no right to go on without me. He said we'd be together forever. How am I supposed to manage without him?