Tag: crime fiction

Mystery – Death Opens a Window

Mystery – Death Opens a Window

Mourning Dove Mysteries, Book 2

Mystery, Crime Fiction, LGBTQ

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Date Published: Oct 19, 2019

 

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BEST eBOOK SUSPENSE/THRILLER – New Apple Book Awards

BEST COVER OVERALL – New Apple Book Awards

 

The Mourning Dove Mysteries series includes:

1. MURDER ON THE LAKE OF FIRE

2. DEATH OPENS A WINDOW

3. A LIGHT TO KILL BY (coming August 3)

 

Emory Rome is back in DEATH OPENS A WINDOW, Book 2 of the Mourning Dove
Mysteries and the follow-up to the international bestseller MURDER ON THE
LAKE OF FIRE.

 

As he struggles with the consequences of his last case, Emory must unravel
the inexplicable death of a federal employee in a Knoxville high-rise. But
while the reticent investigator is mired in a deep pool of suspects –
from an old mountain witch to the powerful Tennessee Valley Authority
– he misses a greater danger creeping from the shadows. The man in the
ski mask returns to reveal himself, and the shocking crime of someone close
is unearthed.

 

About the Author

Award-winning mystery author Mikel J. Wilson draws on his Southern roots
for the international bestselling Mourning Dove Mysteries, a series of
novels featuring bizarre murders in the Smoky Mountains region of Tennessee.
Wilson adheres to a “no guns or knives” policy for the
instigating murders in the series.

 

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EXCERPT

Emory tapped the bell on the counter in the lobby of Willow Springs – senior living spaces converted from a nineteenth century Italianate house. Sounds of a mountain forest from overhead speakers pacified the air, and silk flowers sprung from every available surface. This place doesn’t seem so bad. It’s peaceful.

A scream rippled through the tranquility. Emory leapt over the counter and pounded through the door behind it. His eyes darted about in search of danger, but all he found was a fiftyish woman clutching her chest with a horrified look. Before her was an open drawer. Inside was a chicken-bone doll with a bird’s foot attached as if grabbing at the heart. The woman saw Emory and pointed frantically at the drawer. “Get it out of there! Get it out!”

That’s odd. It looks kind of like the one from Corey’s office. Emory threw the doll into a nearby wastebasket. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” The woman’s breathing ticked down from asthmatic. “Okay, I’m fine now. Thank you.” Her chest-clutching hand dropped to her side, revealing a company badge hanging from the collar of her purple polyester blouse. “Can I help you?”

Emory found himself staring at her swept-back, brittle hair – a patchwork of brown shades given a yellow luster from the fluorescent ceiling light. She must color it herself. He pulled his eyes away, glancing at the name on her badge before offering her a smile. “Hi Lucy. I’m here to see Mary Belle Hinter.”

“Ms… Ms. Mary Belle?” Her hand returned to her chest. “Are you a relation?”

“I’m Emory Rome. I’m investigating the death of someone she knew.”

“Oh, good heavens. How awful.” Lucy fanned herself with her hand. “She’s on the veranda. The door down the hall to your right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” Emory pointed toward the wastebasket. “By the way, how did that thing get in your drawer?”

The woman placed a hand over her heart. “I can’t rightfully say. I imagine someone confiscated it from… one of our residents. We’re a Christian establishment.” Emory started toward the door when the woman stopped him. “Em’ry, you don’t believe she had something to do with that death, do you?”

“No, I just need to talk to her.”

Lucy pursed her lips. “Are you sure?”

That’s an odd question.

Lucy continued, “I don’t mean to speak ill of the misfortunate, but that woman is a hellion straight from the loins of the devil!”

“Thanks for the warning.” Emory left Lucy to her shudders. That’s twice I’ve been warned about Mary Belle Hinter. Who is she?

When Emory stepped onto the veranda, he was greeted by a stifling warmth, in spite of the weak winter sunlight slavering through the glass roof. I wonder which one is her. Among the tight scattering of more patio heaters than were necessary, he saw about two dozen elderly denizens – some sitting alone and others playing cards or board games. One small woman with wild silver hair, however, was kneeling in front of a tree and digging in the dirt with her hands, just beyond the veranda’s wood-slat flooring. Emory smirked. Lord, don’t let it be the crazy one.

A thin fortyish man in scrubs approached him. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mary Belle Hinter.”

The man scanned the area before the tips of his mustache reached for his chin. “There she is digging at that tree again.”

Emory’s shoulders slumped. Of course, it’s her.

The attendant hurried toward her. “Ms. Mary Belle, what have we said about messing with the foliage?”

Either she didn’t hear him or she ignored him altogether because she broke off a small offshoot of the horse chestnut tree’s root and pulled it from the ground.

“Don’t put that in your mouth!”

Before the attendant could grab it, she sure enough stuffed the piece of root into her mouth and sucked on it as if it were hard candy.

The attendant threw his hands up in the air and turned to Emory. “She’s all yours.”

Emory nodded and extended a hand to the old woman. “Ms. Mary Belle, could I help you to your feet?”

She looked up at him and rasped through cracked lips, “If I’d a wanted on m’ feet, I’d be on ’em.”

“Fair enough.” Emory crouched on the ground next to her. “Ms. Mary Belle, I need to talk to you about Corey Melton. Do you know who that is?”

“I know who he was.” She looked at him with jaundiced eyes and pointed an arthritic finger at his face. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Emory Rome.” He handed her a business card. “I’m an investigator. You said you knew who Mr. Melton was. Why did you say that?”

The old woman buried Emory’s card into one of the oversized pockets of her brown tattered cloak. “I ain’t ne’er forgit a name or face.”

“No, why did you use the past tense?”

Ms. Mary Belle’s lips curled toward her withered cheeks. “I know why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re askin’ ’bout a feller I knew but for one reason. The curse musta met its intention.”

Emory clenched his jaw. Here we go. “Curse?”

“The thief stole m’ prop’ty! So I hexed ’im. Hexed ’im good.”

Yep, she’s crazy.

Ms. Mary Belle laughed so hard, the root fell from her mouth. “When God closes a door, Death opens a window.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Ne’er did. Coward wrote me a letter! Sheriff done his dirty work. Cursed ’im too.” Her last statement added a proud glimmer to her eyes. “He still wit’ us?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, give it time. Give it time. Oh me…” Without warning, a flash flood of tears washed away Ms. Mary Belle’s self-satisfaction.

Emory placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“That prop’ty’s been my family’s for gen’rations. From when I came ta ’wareness as a girl, I knowed I was gonna die there.” She looked over his shoulder as if she could see her erstwhile land from where she sat. “Summer’s always m’ fav’rite. Dancin’ ina black willer seeds that’re floatin’ ina wind. Cooling off ina crick. Course, ’tweren’t deep enough ta swim in, but it’s fun all a same. Ne’er did learn ta swim. And the taste o’ the sassafras trees.” Her tongue poked through her gummy smile to lick her crackled lips. “You e’er had a place like that?”

Emory shrugged. “I can’t say I have.”

Ms. Mary Belle wiped her eyes and focused them on Emory. “So you fixin’ ta ’rest me?”

“What? No, I’m not going to arrest you.”

“Takin’ pity ona ol’ woman.” She patted the back of his hand. “You’re a good young’un.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you he’p me get m’ prop’ty back?”

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Sweet sassafras, you an inves’gator! Inves’gate how ta git back what’s mine.”

“I’m sorry.” Emory shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“I got money. I can pay.”

“It’s not that. It’s just too late to do anything about it now. It’s out of our hands.”

“Our?” The old woman’s pitiable fragility evaporated, leaving behind a desiccated grimace of anger. “You workin’ wit’ ’em! You all in cahoots!”

“No, I meant there’s nothing you or I could do.”

“Stealin’ what’s mine!” Ms. Mary Belle clawed at the back of his hand, drawing blood. As Emory recoiled from her, she sucked the tiny bits of his skin from her fingertips and then spit in his face. “I curse you! No moment’s peace ’til your reckonin’, whena cold handa death’ll come a beckonin’!”

Emory jumped to his feet and backed away, almost tripping. He wiped the spit from his face and glared at her in disbelief.

Ms. Mary Belle screamed, “Git out!” followed by incomprehensible words.

Emory could feel his arm hair shrieking to attention as he retreated to his car.

Crime Fiction – Sniper!

Crime Fiction – Sniper!

 

 A Natalie McMasters Mystery, Book 5

 

Crime Fiction

Date Published: November 16, 2020

Publisher: Tekrighter, LLC

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A crazed sniper. A loved one wounded, in danger of death. The unforgiving
Fake News media. And a hidden villain more loathsome than any that Natalie
McMasters has encountered before.

Nattie’s in the crosshairs as a series of seemingly random
shootings terrorizes the city. She must fight to keep her polyamorous
family from disintegrating, her emotions from running wild and her
personal integrity uncompromised. This would be a formidable task for
anyone, much less a twentysomething college student who just wants to
graduate and get on with her life. Nattie must rely on old friends and
new, but how can she even, when friends can become enemies in the blink of
an eye? As Nattie nears an emotional meltdown, society collapses along
with her, as the sniper’s depredations take their toll on the
city.

Sniper! is a twisted, sexy, absolutely gripping descent into darkness jam
packed with nail-biting suspense. Don’t miss it!

  About The Author

 

Thomas A. Burns, Jr. is the author of the Natalie McMasters Mysteries. He
was born and grew up in New Jersey, attended Xavier High School in
Manhattan, earned B.S degrees in Zoology and Microbiology at Michigan
State University and a M.S. in Microbiology at North Carolina State
University. He currently resides in Wendell, North Carolina. As a kid, Tom
started reading mysteries with the Hardy Boys, Ken Holt and Rick Brant,
and graduated to the classic stories by authors such as A. Conan Doyle,
Dorothy Sayers, John Dickson Carr, Erle Stanley Gardner and Rex Stout, to
name just a few. Tom has written fiction as a hobby all of his life,
starting with Man from U.N.C.L.E. stories in marble-backed copybooks in
grade school. He built a career as technical, science and medical writer
and editor for nearly thirty years in industry and government. Now that
he’s a full-time novelist, he’s excited to publish his own mystery series,
as well as to contribute stories about his second most favorite detective,
Sherlock Holmes, to the MX anthology of New Sherlock Holmes Stories.

 

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Crime Fiction / Noir – The White Field

Crime Fiction / Noir – The White Field

 

Crime Fiction, Urban Fiction, Noir, Drama

Release Date: September 18, 2020

Publisher: TouchPoint Press

 

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The White Field is a fast-paced journey of a man, Tom, fresh out of prison
and trying desperately to rebuild his life. But he is caught by mysterious,
unseen forces beyond his knowledge or control. After his release from
prison, he is dropped back into the world in the wastelands of the city. In
the menial work afforded the underclass, he begins his new life among
characters at the edges of society, dwellers of the netherworld such as
Raphael, a former cop from Mexicali singing Spanish arias in the mists of
the industrial night among drug addicts and crooked cops; Tony, a stoner
scholar with an encyclopedic knowledge of history based solely on the
intricate study of rock and roll; and Larry, the bloated, abusive manager
trapped as much as his workers in a world of tedium and repetition and
machines. Think, The Three Stooges on acid. Unable to reconnect with
what’s left of his family, Tom embarks on a criminal path more
harrowing than the one that led him to prison in the first place. Lured in
by the nefarious, Thane, he slips into a plan that will leave him with no
way back. And with no place left in this world to go but prison, he makes
one last run for freedom. Will he escape?

 

Praise for The White Field:

 

“The White Field is a rabid yet tender odyssey into the oscillating
abyss of an ex- convict degenerating into redemption. Cole writes with
haunting splendor, illuminating the dreams of the doomed.”
—Matthew Dexter, author of The Ritalin Orgy

 

“Author Douglas Cole’s breakneck prose places us squarely in
the hectic mind of a man influenced from all sides, seeking a life free from
fear. The result is a stunning narrative that is simultaneously frightening
and familiar.” —Kerri Farrell Foley, Managing Editor Crack The
Spine.

 

 

 Excerpt

 

I walked into the sun. It seared the road and the rooftops, intense,
blinding. I went up Eighty-Eighth Street through the homes and the old elms
with their heavy summer growth and darkness along their limbs, light
strobing through the shadows. I knew someone might recognize me. They might
even call the police. But I couldn’t resist. I was free, now. Nobody
could touch me.

Only those who cared, and by now there were none, would have known my
release date. My wife may have known. At one time, I imagined her writing it
on a wall calendar, marking off each day leading up to it with a big, black
X. But I knew I’d fallen far from her thoughts.

I couldn’t be sure of my children, though. They were so young when I
went in they could have forgotten all about me. My wife had remarried. Very
likely they called her new husband daddy. Very likely, they thought he was.
Events had erased me. After all, I’d made no contact. And while I had
no idea what my wife might have told them, unless she’d changed in
ways I couldn’t foresee, I knew she’d tell them the truth if
they asked and say nothing if they didn’t. At worst, they believed I
was dead.

And that life seemed like something unreal. There were no traces of it
around here. But my sense of time was way off. From counting, literally,
minutes as they passed, I went into a vast timeless trancezone where whole
years vanished. In the midst of this, I reemerged from time to time to peer
into my little cell of life with seconds hanging like drops of water on a
window ledge and refusing to fall. But now, walking this street, I was the
last person anyone around here was expecting to see.

So, as I went up Eighty-Eighth to the old house, I had this strange feeling
that I was invisible. In the dusk light, I saw the windows of the houses
blazing. Commuters on their way home shot by and curved around the meridians
in the intersections, their faces steel traps that snapped and flashed
mirror eyes and grim lips and frenzy, frenzy for home, motion so fast they
blurred into tracer ribbons. And the sun only cloaked me that much more.
Even my shadow was a rail.

And I heard it, that high tension ping, like my own past ringing from the
driveway and those days when I was a kid, too, playing into evening as our
faces disappeared in the darkness with only the square of the backboard
above and the black sphere of the ball and the heat and breath of the other
players around me. Then I saw them, three boys playing basketball in the
driveway. One was a tall gangly kid with long black hair and ripped jeans
and a T-shirt with the word ENEMY printed on it. Another kid stood beside
him, but the light made it hard to see his features. Then, the ball landed
on the rim, bounced up, arced over to the other side of the rim, hung there
suspended in the net for a moment and then dropped through. The third boy
stood back from his shot with his hands on his hips, breathing hard, turning
his head slowly as I saw, I swear, my own face there in front of me.

With a brow of concentration like a hawk’s predatory gaze, he looked
at me as our eyes locked for an eternal moment that I thought carried some
recognition, but the moment changed before I could read it.

Then, I was passing on, and my son returned to his game.

About the Author

Douglas Cole has published six collections of poetry, a novella and has a
novel, The White Field, coming out in September with Touchpoint Press. His
work has appeared in several anthologies as well as The Chicago Quarterly
Review, The Galway Review, Bitter Oleander, Louisiana Literature and
Slipstream. He has been nominated twice for a Pushcart and Best of the Net
and received the Leslie Hunt Memorial Prize in Poetry. He lives and teaches
in Seattle. His website is https://douglastcole.com/.

 

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Publisher

Crime Drama – Eating the Forbidden Fruit

Crime Drama – Eating the Forbidden Fruit

 

Crime Fiction / Family Drama / Women’s Fiction

Date Published: March 30, 2020

Publisher: Pearl Publishing

 

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Eating the Forbidden Fruit is a gritty fiction novel loosely based on true
events in author Roland Sato Page life. The newcomer author delivers a
personal journey into his rise and demise as a St. Louis City Police
Officer. He takes the readers on a roller coaster ride of good old family
memories to the nightmarish reality of being a police officer indicted on
federal drug charges. During his trial, he wrote memoirs as a testimonial of
redemption. Roland’s case stems from the conflict of his childhood
affiliation and his oath to uphold the law. What is certain one can’t run
from sin for karma is much faster. The author actually wrote the novel years
ago however after battling Lupus he lost his motivation to complete it.
Promising his mother, Fumi Karasawa, who recently passed that he would
finish what he started. Roland opened his computer to complete telling his
story. He also would like to encourage others with determination they too
can reestablish position as a productive citizen.

 

Roland was a popular tattoo artist in the St. Louis area however once
diagnosed with Lupus he lost his hand and eye coordination bringing the body
art career to a halt. No other choice he had to reinvent himself
transforming visual art into literary art. Writing is quite therapeutic for
the newly ordained writer. The silver lining is his family support kept him
going. “With tragedy comes blessings”.

 

About the Author

Author Roland Sato Page was born in Brooklyn New York in a military
household with a mother from Osaka Japan and a combat trainer father with
three war tours under his belt. He grew up in a well-disciplined home with
five other siblings. As he got older his family relocated to St. Louis where
the author planted his roots and also pursued a military life in the Army
Reserves.

Roland married his high school sweetheart and started a family of four.
Roland joined the St. Louis police department where his career was cut short
when he was convicted of federal crimes due to his childhood
affiliation.

After enduring his demise, Roland rebounded becoming a tattoo artist
opening Pearl Gallery Tattoos in downtown St. Louis Mo. The company grew
into a family business yet another unfortunate incident tested his fate. He
was diagnosed with Lupus which halted his body art career. However, with
tragedy comes blessings. Roland’s sons took over the business and
propelled the shop to a higher level. Consumed with depression, Roland began
writing to occupy the time. With a newfound passion, he traded visual art
for literary art.

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