Enemies of Doves Blog Tour: Excerpt + Giveaway

Tour June 1-14, 2020

 

Enemies of Doves
Author: Shanessa Gluhm
Genre: Historical Mystery
Publication Date: March 20, 2020
Publisher: Touchpoint Press

Number of Pages: 328

Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads 

Synopsis:

On a summer night in 1932, twelve-year-old Joel Fitchett wanders into an East Texas diner badly beaten and carrying his unconscious brother, Clancy. Though both boys claim they have no memory of what happened, the horrific details are etched into their minds as deep as the scar left across Joel’s face.

Thirteen years later, both men still struggle with the aftershocks of that long-ago night and the pact they made to hide the truth. When they find themselves at the center of a murder investigation, they make a decision that will change everything. A second lie, a second pact and for a time, a second chance.

In 1991 college student, Garrison Stark, travels to Texas chasing a rumor that Clancy Fitchett is his biological grandfather. Clancy has been missing since 1946 and Garrison hopes to find him, and in doing so, find a family. What he doesn’t expect to discover is a tangle of secrets spanning sixty years involving Clancy, Joel and the woman they both loved, Lorraine.

Told in alternating timelines from World War II to 1992, Enemies of Doves is a tale of family secrets, jealousy and deception perfect for fans of Kate Morton and Allen Eskens.

Joel woke up to a white world: white walls, white sheets, a white pitcher of water, and a stranger wearing white. White like Mama’s favorite flowers, white like the coat Daddy wore to work, white like the doves that…
No, don’t think about doves. Don’t think about doves ever again.
The white was better than his last memory: black. Ravenous black. It had swallowed everything.
Harsh light speared into the room, painting sharp rectangles on the linoleum floor. Joel blinked involuntarily. The lady in the white uniform noticed. “He’s awake!” she called. “Mrs. Fitchett, he’s awake!”
Mama and Daddy charged in, talking at the same time, asking the same questions.
“I’m okay,” Joel said.
Mama’s hands hovered a few seconds before settling on his arm. “I’m sorry we weren’t here. I told your daddy we shouldn’t both leave but—”
“Are you in pain, son?” Daddy rarely let Mama finish a sentence.
“My stomach hurts.” Joel didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, so small and croaky.
“Nurse! Bring this boy something for the pain,” Daddy yelled.
“A magnesia tablet.” Mama put her freezing hand on his forehead. “He might have a fever too.”
The nurse let out a noisy breath. She didn’t bother with his temperature, but the two bone-white pills she handed Joel appeased his parents, got them quiet at least. Joel raised his head, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead. Or was it blood? He touched the bandage covering his face and winced. The details of the night before seeped into his mind. He could think of nothing that wasn’t contaminated by this memory.
The pills tasted like chalk and made his throat burn. “Can I have some water?” Before anyone responded, two taps at the door drew their attention away from him, away from that perfect pitcher of water.
Mama rubbed her forehead. “Can’t we go ten minutes without a knock on the damn door?” Joel knew Mama must be upset to use a word like that. Nancy Fitchett taught Sunday School and had taken soap to Joel’s mouth for less.
“Oh, for god’s sake!” Daddy threw up his hands. “He just woke up. Give us a minute with our boy.”
Two figures stepped through the door. A cigarette hung immobile in the mouth of the stubby police officer in front. “I understand, Mr. Fitchett, but the more time that goes by, the more victims forget. It’s vital we speak now.”
Forget? Joel knew better. He couldn’t forget, not till heaven anyway, and at twelve, heaven was a long wait.
The other officer stepped from the shadows. Like Dick Tracy, he wore a black suit and fedora instead of a uniform. He looked at Joel like he already knew the truth or could figure it out in the same effortless way Detective Tracy did in the comics. “Truth is,” —he reached into the hallway and pulled Clancy into the room — “we can’t get any information from this one. We hope your other boy will be more cooperative.”
Joel’s head sank into the pillow. So, Clancy hadn’t told. Even now, he only wanted to protect his little brother. Poor kid looked scared out of his skin.
“You all right, Joel?” Clancy’s voice shook.
“Don’t you worry about me, Clancy. I’m as right as rain, good as gold.”
“Nice as nectarines,” Clancy said. They often played this game, but Joel couldn’t think of another simile, so he offered a smile instead. It hurt like hell, but he wanted to assure Clancy he was okay. Joel was only a year and a half older, but the gap felt wider. Joel had always been mature for his age; everybody said so.
“I have nothing to say, sir,” Joel told Dick Tracy. His voice was still high pitched, but he tried to make it boom like Daddy’s. Tom Fitchett had a way of making people listen when he talked.
“And why’s that?” The tiny officer lit his cigarette.
“I don’t remember what happened.” The bed gave a muffled creek as he adjusted his position.
The detective looked at his partner. “Get Clancy out of here, will you? And the folks too.”
“We won’t leave.” Daddy pushed his shoulders back.
“Have it your way. Look here, Joel; we know who did this to you.”
The words made Joel forget his stinging face and terrible thirst. He watched a cockroach scuttle into a floor crack. Did they know? No one was around for miles. He was bluffing.
“Then go arrest the bastard,” his father said. “Don’t waste time traumatizing injured and frightened boys.”
Had Joel heard Daddy right? Had he demanded these important men, lawmen, stop traumatizing his boys? Something he did for sport? How strange to have Daddy in his corner for once.
“You may reconsider your statement when you learn who hurt the boy.”
“Impossible!” Daddy slammed his hand on Joel’s tray and knocked over the pitcher of water. Mama grabbed a towel and sopped it up. Even in crisis, her instinct to clean up Daddy’s messes took over. “Who did this?!” Daddy yelled.
Joel cringed, but at least this time Daddy’s fury flew at somebody else. Joel took a few deep breaths. Maybe if he stayed calm, everyone else would calm down too.
“It was him.” The officer stuck his finger in Clancy’s face.
Mama clutched him tighter, her arms a shield against the accusation.
The detective knelt in front of Clancy. “You did this. The only question I have is why?”
The room spun again. Joel looked for an anchor, but the patterns on the linoleum played leapfrog, and the walls closed in. His parent’s gasps faded into the white surrounding him, and once again, the world went black.
***
Excerpt from Enemies of Doves by Shanessa Gluhm. Copyright 2020 by Shanessa Gluhm. Reproduced with permission from Shanessa Gluhm. All rights reserved.

Shanessa Gluhm works as a librarian at an elementary school in New Mexico where she lives with her husband and children. It was during her own elementary days when a teacher encouraged Shanessa to write and share stories with the class. She hasn’t stopped writing since. Enemies of Doves is her debut novel.

Catch Up With Shanessa On: ShanessaGluhm.wordpress.com Goodreads
BookBub
Instagram
Twitter
Facebook

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

This is a Rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Shanessa Gluhm. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on June 1, 2020 and runs through June 16, 2020. Void where prohibited.

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Release Day Spotlight + Giveaway: A Murderous Relation by Deanna Raybourn

A Murderous Relation (Veronica Speedwell #5)
Author: Deanna Raybourn
Genre: Historical Mystery
Release Date: March 10, 2020
Publisher: Berkley

Description:

Veronica Speedwell navigates a dark world of scandal and murder in this new adventure from New York Times bestselling and Edgar Award nominated author Deanna Raybourn.

Veronica Speedwell and her natural historian colleague Stoker are asked by Lady Wellingtonia Beauclerk to help with a potential scandal so explosive it threatens to rock the monarchy. Prince Albert Victor is a regular visitor to the most exclusive private club in London, known as the Club de l'Etoile, and the proprietess, Madame Aurore, has received an expensive gift that can be traced back to the prince. Lady Wellie would like Veronica and Stoker to retrieve the jewel from the club before scandal can break.

Worse yet, London is gripped by hysteria in the autumn of 1888, terrorized by what would become the most notorious and elusive serial killer in history, Jack the Ripper--and Lady Wellie suspects the prince may be responsible.

Veronica and Stoker reluctantly agree to go undercover at Madame Aurore's high class brothel, where another body soon turns up. Many secrets are swirling around Veronica and the royal family--and it's up to Veronica and Stoker to find the truth, before it's too late for all of them.  

New York Times and USA Today bestselling novelist Deanna Raybourn is a 6th-generation native Texan. She graduated with a double major in English and history from the University of Texas at San Antonio. Married to her college sweetheart and the mother of one, Raybourn makes her home in Virginia. Her novels have been nominated for numerous awards including five RITAs, two RT Reviewers’ Choice awards, the Agatha, two Dilys Winns, a Last Laugh, and three du Mauriers. Her Lady Julia Grey novels are currently in development as a television series in the UK and she launched a new Victorian mystery series with the 2015 release of A CURIOUS BEGINNING, featuring intrepid butterfly-hunter and amateur sleuth, Veronica Speedwell. Veronica’s second adventure is A PERILOUS UNDERTAKING (January 2017), and book three, A TREACHEROUS CURSE, was published in January 2018. A DANGEROUS COLLABORATION will be released in March 2019. Further books in the Veronica Speedwell series are contracted through 2020.

Author Links:
http://www.deannaraybourn.com/ 
https://twitter.com/deannaraybourn 
https://www.pinterest.com/deannaraybourn/ 
https://instagram.com/deannaraybourn/ 

  (1) Finished copy of A MURDEROUS RELATION - Open to US only!

 

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Book Blitz + Giveaway: Finding Our Morning by Mickie B. Ashling

 

Finding Our Morning
Author: Mickie B. Ashling
Genre: Adult Historical Mystery
Publication Date: January 28, 2020


Description:

May 1977

Ginny Tate bides her time on the family stud farm in San Antonio, Texas, waiting to start veterinarian school in the fall. Bullied as an adolescent, she’s finally shed her old skin, but the emerging beauty still harbors insecurities and would rather hang out with horses than people.

Sponsored by his uncle, the Shah of Iran, Dariush—David—Akbari, a twenty-five-year-old NYU grad with a degree in International Law, is also a skilled polo player. He joins the royal traveling team for a tournament in Plano, Texas.

A decade in America has gradually altered David’s views on certain aspects of his culture. Torn between familial obligations and his adopted country, David resists the idea of returning to Iran so soon after graduation.

At the traditional after-party, David strikes up a conversation with Ginny, who is refreshingly honest. He receives an invitation to visit Tate Stud Farm and, on the pretext of buying another polo pony, persuades the shah to make a detour.

Great horsemanship coupled with self-effacing charm sets David apart from the entitled braggarts who normally populate the sport, and Ginny falls hard. His visit turns into a life-changing week that neither can foresee. Will they walk away unscathed or live to regret their impulsive behavior?

Inspired by events preceding the fall of the Pahlavi dynasty, Finding Our Morning is a love story that catapults us from Texas Hill Country to the epicenter of a monarchy on the brink of collapse. 

Goodreads / Amazon

So much time had elapsed since Ginny issued the invitation, she didn’t know what to expect when David called two weeks later to arrange a meeting. Was he passing through town or was this an intentional stop? Either way, the days leading up to his arrival were pure torture.

On the morning in question, Ginny took longer than necessary to get ready. She left her hair loose instead of tying it back in her usual ponytail. Her luxurious locks were the only thing she could count on to draw eyes away from her face. The dark blond strands fell in a silky curtain to her midback and had been compared to a palomino’s coat on many occasions. As for the rest of her, it was business as usual. Faded jeans, a checked cotton shirt, and her favorite red cowboy boots. Her complexion was clear this morning, thank God, and she took her time applying eye makeup. It was out of the ordinary to get dolled up during the day, and her parents noticed as soon as she sat down to breakfast.

“Going to a party?” Margery asked.

“No, but you know the Shah of Iran is about to grace our doorstep, and I thought I’d look nice for a change.”

“You always look good,” Ray commented. “Anyone who thinks otherwise is a blind fool.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“What about your chores?” Margery inquired. “Won’t your hair get in the way?”

“I’ll get ’em done,” Ginny promised.

“See that you do,” Margery replied. “I know you want to make a good impression, sweetie, but those foreigners aren’t coming to socialize. We have to present our best, and a clean, well-organized farm is just as important as our livestock. You wouldn’t eat in a dirty kitchen.”

“For Christ’s sake, Marge. Leave the girl alone.”

“Seriously, Mom. You’re overreacting as usual.”

“Then explain why you look more like a debutante than a rancher’s daughter this morning?”

“He offered dinner and dancing the last time we were together. I don’t want him to change his mind.”

Aghast, Margery exclaimed, “The shah?”

“God no,” Ginny said. “David.”

“Which one is he again?”

“Their number-three player.”

“He was good,” Margery recalled.

“Right?”

“What are you going to wear tonight?”

“I’m not sure it’s happening, but I bought a new dress in case.”

“What color is it?”

“Black.”

“You’re too young to wear black,” Margery opined with a tsk.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Give it a rest, Mom. I’m eighteen.”

“Black is more appropriate for someone older and more experienced.”

Ginny refused to take the bait. Her mother was being overprotective, given her dating history, and was understandably worried. Nonetheless, it was too early in the morning to argue. She scooped up the last of her egg yolk on a piece of toast, swallowed it down with orange juice, and stood up to go. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

Standing on the steps outside the kitchen door, she paused and scanned the horizon. The sun was already a bright ball of pulsing heat in the cloudless blue sky, and she could tell it was going to be another scorcher. Ginny hoped the Iranians had the good sense to come early to avoid the worst of it.

As she headed toward the stable where they kept the horses for sale, she scrutinized their property and tried to see it through the eyes of a stranger. Theirs was a small operation compared to other stud farms, but they had a stellar reputation. Margery Tate was the driving force behind their prosperity. The woman was a stickler for order and quick to remind new employees that pride in ownership was as important as a good pedigree.

Margery acquired her code of ethics from her parents who’d started the stud farm with one stallion and a few mares. As their only child, she’d inherited the bulk of the estate, with small portions divided among the loyal ranch hands who had been around until her father finally passed, a year and a day after her mother died of cancer. Her gender had never been a good enough excuse to avoid the hard work necessary to ensure the success of the farm, and Margery expected her only daughter to work as tirelessly as the rest of them.

She did have a point, Ginny conceded begrudgingly, but her advice was often framed in criticism, which usually rubbed people the wrong way. Horse breeding could be a messy business when things got out of hand, and organization was key.

She made the rounds swiftly this morning, inspecting each area with a critical eye, paying particular attention to the horses for sale. This would be their first stop and she wanted the area to be in tip-top shape. She could only imagine what the royal stables must look like with dozens of helpers at the shah’s beck and call. Well, they might not have his manpower, but over the years, the stud farm had gained a well-earned reputation for their excellent stock and integrity.

By the time the shah and his entourage arrived two hours later, her nerves were frayed. The group of six, dressed in casual attire, climbed out of a gleaming limousine. Ginny wasn’t sure what to expect, given their status, but these men looked like any prospective buyer, albeit better dressed. Her parents greeted the Iranians deferentially and offered to be their guides as they toured the premises. While they concentrated on the shah, Ginny walked up to David with an outstretched hand.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

“Was there any doubt?” he asked, stepping forward and clasping her hand in his. He was so close she could smell his sweet breath, overlaid with a hint of coffee. His eyes weren’t black as she’d first thought. They were deep brown with a touch of caramel and were gazing at her appraisingly. Now that he was actually here, Ginny’s confidence faltered as she met his intense scrutiny. Had he come to buy a horse or check her out? Her heart rate sped up as nerves and anticipation made her breath falter. It was at once unexpected and exhilarating. Ginny withdrew her hand and stepped back, laughing off the moment awkwardly.

Mickie B. Ashling is the pseudonym of a multi-published author who resides in a suburb outside Chicago. She is a product of her upbringing in various cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West.

Since 2009, Mickie has written several dozen novels in the LGBTQ+ genre—which have been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, and German. Lately, her muse has been nudging her in a different direction, and she’s learned through past experience to pay attention to creative sparks that show up unexpectedly. Her pen name is a part of her now, and will travel along on this exciting new journey, wherever it might lead. She promises to be very specific in her book blurbs and cover art to avoid any confusion.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Bookbub

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The Naming Game Blog Tour: Excerpt + Giveaway

Tour April 22 - June 22, 2019

 

The Naming Game (The Company Files: 2)
Author: Gabriel Valjan
Genre: Historical Mystery/Crime Fiction
Publication Date: May 4, 2019
Publisher: Winter Goose Publishing

Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Synopsis:

Whether it's Hollywood or DC, life and death, success or failure hinge on saying a name.


The right name.


When Charlie Loew is found murdered in a seedy flophouse with a cryptic list inside the dead script-fixer's handkerchief, Jack Marshall sends Walker undercover as a screenwriter at a major studio and Leslie as a secretary to Dr. Phillip Ernest, shrink to the stars. J. Edgar Hoover has his own list. 

Blacklisted writers and studio politics. Ruthless gangsters and Chief Parker's LAPD. Paranoia, suspicions, and divided loyalties begin to blur when the House Un-American Activities Committee insists that everyone play the naming game.

Praise for The Naming Game:

"With crackling dialogue and a page turning plot shot-through with authentic period detail, Gabriel Valjan pulls the reader into the hidden world of the 1950's Hollywood studio scene, involving murder, McCarthyism and mayhem."
~ James L'Etoile, author of At What Cost and Bury the Past


"Terrific historical noir as Gabriel Valjan takes us on a trip through post-war Hollywood involving scandal, McCarthyism, blacklisting, J. Edgar Hoover and, of course, murder. Compelling story, compelling characters - and all the famous name dropping is great fun. Highly recommended!"
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson Mystery Series


"Brilliantly written, Gabriel Valjan's The Naming Game whisks the reader back in time to postwar Los Angeles. Spies, Communism, and Hollywood converge in a first-rate thriller."
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, Agatha Award nominated author of Beyond the Truth

At seven minutes past the hour while reviewing the classified documents at his desk, one of the two colored phones, the beige one, rang. He placed the receiver next to his ear, closed the folder, and waited for the caller's voice to speak first.
"Is this Jack Marshall?"
"It is."
"This is William Parker. Is the line secure?"
"It is," Jack replied, his hand opening a desk cabinet and flipping the ON switch to start recording the conversation.
"I don't know you Mr. Marshall and I presume you don't know me."
A pause.
"I know of you, Chief Parker."
"Were you expecting my call?"
"No and it doesn't matter." Jack lied.
"Fact of the matter, Mr. Marshall, is an individual, whom I need not name, has suggested I contact you about a sensitive matter. He said matter of security so I listened."
"Of course. I'm listening."
"I was instructed to give you an address and have my man at the scene allow you to do whatever it is that you need to do when you arrive there."
"Pencil and paper are ready. The address, please."
Jack wrote out the address; it was in town, low rent section with the usual rooming houses, cheap bars, about a fifteen-minute drive on Highway 1 without traffic.
"Ask for Detective Brown. You won't miss him. Don't like it that someone steps in and tells me how to mind my own city, but I have no choice in the matter."
Jack ignored the man's defensive tone. He knew Detective Brown was a dummy name, like Jones or Smith on a hotel ledger. Plain, unimaginative, but it would do. Most policemen, he conceded, were neither bright nor fully screwed into the socket. A chief was no different except he had more current in him. The chief of police who ruled Los Angeles by day with his cop-syndicate the way Mickey Cohen owned the night must've swallowed his pride when he dropped that nickel to make this call.
"Thank you, Chief Parker."
Jack hung up and flipped the switch to OFF.
Whatever it was at the scene waiting for Jack was sufficient cause to pull back a man like Bill Parker and his boys for twelve hours. Whoever gave this order had enough juice to rein in the LAPD.
Jack took the folder he was reviewing and walked it across the room. He opened the folder once more and reread the phrases 'malicious international spy' and, in Ronald Reagan's own choice of words, 'Asia's Mata Hari', before closing the cover and placing it inside the safe. His review will have to wait. He put on his holster and grabbed a jacket.
Betty came out on the porch as he was putting the key into the car door.
"I won't be long. Please kiss the children good night for me."
"Can't this wait, Jack? The children were expecting you to read to them tonight. Jack Junior set aside the book and you know Elizabeth will be crushed."
"It can't wait. I'm sorry. Tell them I'll make it up to them."
"You need to look them in the face when you tell them sorry."
He opened the door as his decision. She understood she dealt him the low card. "Want something for the road?"
"No thanks. I'll see you soon."
He closed the door with finesse. He couldn't help it if the children heard the car. He checked the mirror and saw her on the porch, still standing there, still disappointed and patient, as he drove off.
Detective Brown, sole man on the scene, walked him over to the body without introducing himself. Jack didn't give his name.
At six-fifteen the vet renting a room down the hall discovered the body. Detective Brown said the veteran was probably a hired hound doing a bag job - break-ins, surveillance, and the like. Recent veterans made the best candidates for that kind of work for Hoover, Jack thought. Worked cheap and they went the extra mile without Hoover's agents having to worry about technicalities like a citizen's rights going to law.
"What makes you think he was hired out?" Jack asked.
Brown, a man of few words, handed Jack his notebook, flipped over to the open page he marked Witness Statement and said politely, "Please read it. Words and writing are from the witness himself."
"The man was a no good 'commonist'."
"Nice spelling. A suspect?"
"No, sir. The coroner places the death around early afternoon, about 2ish. Our patriot was across the street drinking his lunch. I verified it."
Jack viewed the body. The man was fully dressed wearing a light weave gabardine suit costing at least twenty-five. The hardly scuffed oxfords had to cost as much as the suit, and the shirt and tie, both silk, put the entire ensemble near a hundred. Hardly class consciousness for an alleged Communist, Jack thought.
The corpse lying on his side reminded Jack of the children sleeping, minus the red pool seeping into the rug under the right ear. The dead man wore a small sapphire ring on his small finger, left hand. No wedding band. Nice watch on the wrist, face turned in. An odd way to read time. Breast pocket contained a cigarette case with expensive cigarettes, Egyptian. Jack recognized the brand from his work in the Far East. Ten cents a cigarette is nice discretionary income. Wallet in other breast pocket held fifty dollars, various denominations. Ruled out robbery or staging it. Identification card said Charles Loew, Warner Brothers. Another card: Screen Writers Guild, signed by Mary McCall, Jr. President. Back of card presented a pencil scrawl.
"Find a lighter or book of matches?"
Detective Brown shook his head. Jack patted the breast pockets again and the man's jacket's side-pockets. Some loose change, but nothing else. The man was unarmed, except for a nice pen. Much as he disliked the idea Jack put his hands into the man's front pockets. Nothing. He found a book of matches in the left rear pocket, black with gold telltale lettering, Trocadero on Sunset. Jack flipped the matchbook open and as he suspected, found a telephone number written in silver ink; different ink than the man's own pen. Other back pocket contained a handkerchief square Jack found interesting, as did Detective Brown.
"What's that?" he asked, head peering over for a better look.
"Not sure," answered Jack, unfolding the several-times folded piece of paper hidden inside the hanky. The unfolded paper revealed a bunch of typewritten names that had bled out onto other parts of the paper. It must have been folded while the ink was still wet. It didn't help someone spilt something on the paper. Smelled faintly of recent whiskey. Jack reviewed what he thought were names when he realized the letters were nonsense words.
"Might be a Commie membership list. Looks like code." But Brown zipped it when Jack folded the paper back up and put it into his pocket.
"The paper and the matches stay with me. We clear?"
"Uh, yes sir. The Chief told me himself to do whatever you said and not ask questions."
"Good. Other than the coroner - who else was here? Photographers, fingerprints?"
"Nobody else. Medical pronounced him dead, but nothing more. Chief had them called off to another scene - a multiple homicide, few blocks away. We're short-staffed tonight. The Chief said he'd send Homicide after you leave. They'll process the scene however you leave it. They won't know about the matches or the paper. Chief's orders."
Jack checked his watch. Man down, found at six fifteen. Chief called a little after seven. He arrived not much later than seven forty. The busy bodies would get the stiff by eight or eight thirty, the latest. Perfectly reasonable Jack thought. He squatted down to see the man's watch, noticing light bruising on the wrist and the throw rug bunched into a small hill near the man's time hand. Intriguing.
"Thank you, Detective. I'll be going now. If I speak to the chief I'll let him know you've done your job to the letter."
"You're welcome. Night."
Jack knew he and the chief would be speaking again.
Outside on the street, Jack pulled out his handkerchief and wiped both hands for any traces of dead man as he headed for the parked car. Compulsive habit. He pulled up the collar on his jacket. It was cold for late May.
The street sign said he was not far from Broadway. In this part of town thousands lived crowded in on themselves as lodgers in dilapidated Gothic mansions or residence hotels, working the downtown stores, factories, and offices, riding public transit and the other funicular railway in the area, Court Flight, a two-track railway climb towards Hill Street.
Los Angeles changed with the world. The war was over and there was a new war, possibly domestic, definitely foreign. Court Flight is gone, ceased operations. Its owner and his faithful cat had passed on. His good widow tried. In '43 a careless brush fire destroyed the tracks and the Board of Public Utilities signed the death warrant; and now Jack was hearing whispers Mayor Bowron planned to revitalize the area International Style, which meant dotting the desert city with skyscrapers.
Jack opened the door and sat behind the wheel a moment. He took the family once to nearby Angels Flight. Junior wondered why there was no apostrophe on the sign. Betty tolerated the excursion, indifferent to Los Angeles because she preferred their home in DC. He released the clutch. Betty disliked LA because it changed too much without reason. She might have had a point. He shifted gear. Pueblo city would level whole blocks of thriving masses just to create a parking lot. He pulled the car from the curb.
***
Excerpt from The Naming Game by Gabriel Valjan. Copyright 2019 by Gabriel Valjan. Reproduced with permission from Gabriel Valjan. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gabriel Valjan is the author of two series, The Roma Series and The Company Files, available from Winter Goose Publishing. His short stories have appeared in Level Best anthologies and other publications. Twice shortlisted for the Fish Prize in Ireland, once for the Bridport Prize in England, and an Honorable Mention for the Nero Wolfe Black Orchid Novella Contest, he is a lifetime member of Sisters in Crime National, a local member of Sisters in Crime New England, and an attendee of Bouchercon, Crime Bake, and Malice Domestic conferences.

Catch Up With Gabriel On: gabrielvaljan.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Twitter, & Facebook!

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

 GIVEAWAY

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Gabriel Valjan. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on April 22, 2019 and runs through June 24, 2019. Void where prohibited.

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The Hummingbird Dagger Blog Tour: Excerpt + Giveaway

 

The Hummingbird Dagger
Author: Cindy Anstey
Genre: YA Historical Mystery
Publication Date: April 16, 2019
Publisher: Swoon Reads

Description:

From the author of Suitors and Sabotage comes a suspenseful and enthralling new Regency novel, perfect for readers who like their Jane Austen classics with a side of mystery and murder.

1833. A near-fatal carriage accident has deposited an unconscious young woman on the doorstep of Hardwick Manor and into the care of young Lord James Ellerby. But when she finally awakens, it is with no memory of who she is or where she came from.

Beth, as she calls herself, has no identity; the only clue to her circumstances is a recurring nightmare of a hummingbird, blood dripping from its steel beak.

With the help of James and his sister, Caroline, Beth tries to solve the mystery of her own identity and the appalling events that brought her to their door. But nothing could prepare her for the escalating dangers that threaten her and the Ellerby clan. From the hazardous cliffs of Dorset to the hostile streets of London, Beth will fight to reclaim her past, hunted by a secretive foe with murderous intentions.

Fans of Cindy Anstey’s previous novels won’t want to miss The Hummingbird Dagger, a dark and twisty new offering that blends romance, danger and mystery.

Praise for Duels & Deception:

“Delightful … It is Jane Austen spiced with action, suspense, and humor.” —VOYA, starred review

“Jane Austen fans in need of a good new book, look no further.” —Entertainment Weekly

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Without a knock or a by-your-leave, the library doors burst open. Walter entered with great energy; Henry followed in his wake. Paying no heed to the fact that he was interrupting, Walter launched into a dramatic declaration.

“Life is so wild and unexpected! Life holds such excitement, especially in the spring. Do you not find?” he asked no one in particular and continued without hesitation, “Here I was in a fit of blue devils, for I was cruelly deprived of my curricle, suffered unwarranted criticisms, and then duties were pressed unjustly upon me. Bored and bored again, only to find Henry this morning with great news.” Walter’s drama was affecting no one but himself. “They have a guest at Risely Hall, recently of the West Indies. Full of stories and adventures. I am revived!” He turned to leave the room, as self-involved as when he entered it. “I am off.”

“Walter.” James did not raise his voice. “Where are you going?”

Walter’s smile slowly disappeared. “Why to Risely Hall, of course.”

James crossed his arms, and without taking his eyes off Walter, addressed Henry. “Thank you for dropping by, Mr. Thompson. Walter will, unfortunately, be unable to join you at Risely today. Or tomorrow.”

Walter snapped his jaw shut.

Henry bowed without a word and stepped into the hall. The footman quietly closed the door behind him. Stealthy footsteps faded away.

“Now see here, James. You cannot keep me here twiddling my thumbs in penance. I did not mean to force the stagecoach from the road.” Walter turned his appeal to Caroline. “Do not let him bully me like this, sweet sister. I will be miserable.”

James watched Caroline struggle to maintain her composure. Her mouth opened and closed silently until the heat in her face flushed to the roots of her hair.

“How dare you! How dare you think of your own selfish wants while that poor girl lies in bed half demented because of your carelessness!” She rose and stood in front of her younger brother. Somehow she managed to tower over the taller boy. “You had better make yourself useful, not only to James and me, but more important, to the young woman that you injured.

“Her family and friends will be sick with worry, sitting up night after night watching and waiting, praying for some word of her safety. And you, you are worried about being bored!” Caroline sat down, shaking with emotion.

The room was silent. No one mentioned that only one night had passed.

Walter had the good sense to look contrite and cowed. “I had not thought of it that way. Mrs. Fogel said she was doing fine. I thought...I thought—”

“That is the trouble, Walter; you were not thinking.” James shook his head, swallowing the lump of anger in his throat.

Walter’s shoulders dropped, and he found great fascination in the pattern of the carpet.

Caroline took a deep breath and rose to her feet. “James, could you introduce your brother to our guest? I am in need of some fresh air.” She turned to Walter. “You will do whatever you can to make her comfortable. You will talk to her, you will make her laugh, and you will read to her. You will ease her troubled mind and distract her. You will fetch her tea if she wants it.” She raised her hand to silence him before he spoke. “Daisy has other duties. Beth will be yours. There will be consequences if I find you dallying.”

Tight-lipped, Caroline left the room. Her careful footsteps and the swish of her gown could be heard through the doorway.

Whenever she is not sitting at the computer, throwing a ball in the backyard, gardening or reading, Cindy can be found–actually, not found–adventuring around the world with her hubby.

She has lived on three continents, had a monkey in her yard and a scorpion under her sink, dwelt among castles and canals, enjoyed the jazz of Beale St and attempted to speak French.

Cindy loves history, mystery and… a chocolate Labrador called Chester.

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Excerpt + Giveaway: Murder on Millionaires' Row by Erin Lindsey

Murder on Millionaires' Row
Author: Erin Lindsey
Genre: Historical Mystery
Release Date: October 2, 2018
Publisher: Minotaur Books

Description:

In Gilded Age New York, some secrets are best left in the shadows. Author Erin Lindsey’s debut historical mystery, MURDER ON MILLIONAIRES’ ROW, is a delightfully charming tale that takes readers on a chase through 1880's Manhattan, filled with wonderful period details, magic, ghosts, romance, and Pinkerton detectives.

Rose Gallagher might dream of bigger things, but she’s content enough with her life as a housemaid. After all, it’s not every girl from Five Points who gets to spend her days in a posh Fifth Avenue brownstone, even if only to sweep its floors. But all that changes on the day her boss, Mr. Thomas Wiltshire, disappears. Rose is certain Mr. Wiltshire is in trouble, but the police treat his disappearance as nothing more than the whims of a rich young man behaving badly. Meanwhile, the friend who reported him missing is suspiciously unhelpful. With nowhere left to turn, Rose takes it upon herself to find her handsome young employer.

The investigation takes her from the marble palaces of Fifth Avenue to the sordid streets of Five Points. When a ghostly apparition accosts her on the street, Rose begins to realize that the world around her isn’t at all as it seems—and her place in it is about to change forever. 


Advanced Praise:
 
“The first in a projected series, this should win fans with its plucky protagonist, who defies expectations of her class and gender; genre-blending plot; brisk pace; and potential for romance.” – Booklist

“Lindsey kicks off her new series with a spooky paranormal mystery/thriller filled with historical tidbits, a touch of romance, and a talented and delightfully gritty sleuth.” – Kirkus Reviews

“Promising series debut…Rose’s sparkling perspective and an appealing cast of characters shine throughout. Lindsey’s quirky mix of supernatural shenanigans and well-drawn historical detail augurs well for future installments.”  – Publishers Weekly

“MURDER ON MILLIONAIRES’ ROW is utterly charming, scrupulously researched, and beautifully felt. I enjoyed every page and cannot wait for Rose to stick her fingers into ever more perilous pies.” – Lyndsay Faye, bestselling author of Gods of Gotham and Jane Steele 

“Sharp, insightful, and more than a little sassy, Rose Gallagher is a heroine to cheer for. Lovers of historical mysteries and all things supernatural will devour MURDER ON MILLIONAIRES’ ROW and clamor for more.” – Tasha Alexander, New York Times bestselling author of Death in St. Petersburg 

“A charming mystery of manners. Ghosts, murder, magic, and a heroine who's impulsive but also refreshingly smart about her choices. What's not to love?” – Mary Robinette Kowall, Hugo-award winning author of Shades of Milk and Honey 
 

EXCERPT:

 

Chapter 1:

ROSE GALLAGHER OF 55 MOTT STREET—

 JUST ANOTHER DAY— CLARA’ S ADVICE— 

THE FIRST CLUE 

As I tell you this story, I’ll thank you to remember that I was young and in love. That’s not an excuse, but if you’re looking to understand what happened on that day in January 1886 - what really happened, mind you, not the version you read in Harper’s

Weekly or The New-York Tribune—then you ought to have the whole picture. So yes, I was nineteen years old, and yes, I had a blinding crush on my employer, one Mr. Thomas Wiltshire of 726 Fifth Avenue, and those facts together led me to make certain choices in those early hours, choices that might charitably be called naive. Some of the actions I took I’m not particularly proud of. But I wouldn’t take a one of them back, either—which is saying a lot, considering how near they came to getting me killed.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I really ought to start at the beginning, which means I should say a little about where I’m from. If you’re from around here, then you know that in New York, where you come from is everything. It defines your place in the world—your past, present, even your future if you let it. Why, just your name and address tell a stranger pretty much everything he cares to know about you. Not just where you live, but how: what parish you belong to, how much money you’ve got, where your people came from before they were Americans. He can even make a fair guess as to what you do for a living. Your name and address label you a certain type of New Yorker, a creature with particular habits and distinctive plumage, not unlike a species of bird. Black-capped chickadee. Northern mockingbird. Italian fruit vendor. Chinese laundryman. So when I say that my name is Rose Gallagher of 55 Mott Street, well, that’s a whole story right there, and a common one at that. The story of an Irish girl from Five Points.

What do those words conjure in your head? A photograph of some fair-haired, reedy thing leaning out of a tenement window to hang washing on the line while drunks and ragpickers loiter in the alley below? Well, you wouldn’t be far from the mark. But there’s more to me than that slip of a girl, just as there’s more to Five Points than the vice and violence you read about in the papers. Oh, it’s a wretched enough corner of the world, to be sure, but it’s home. And it’s where I learned that if you don’t take care of you and yours, there’s nobody else will do it for you.

Which brings me back to the day Mr. Thomas Wiltshire disappeared, and everything I knew in the world went spinning down the drain.

Funny, isn’t it, how the days that change your life forever start out like any other? I don’t remember much about that morning, except that it was a Sunday and my day off, so I took my mother to church. I’d have spent the afternoon scrubbing Mam’s floors and putting dinner on the stove, though I’ve no recollection of it. My first clear memory of the day is hanging off a strap on the Sixth Avenue el, trying to hold my copy of Harper’s Weekly steady while the train rattled and swayed beneath me. The el, if you haven’t had the pleasure, has all the lumbering grace of a three-legged bull, which makes reading the fine print of Harper’s a bit of a trick, especially when it’s coming on to dark outside. Luckily, I wasn’t trying to read the print; I was too busy poring over the illustration on the cover.

It featured Mother Earth seated on her throne at the heart of the world, attended by her children as she greeted the New Year. She looked like a Roman goddess, serene and beautiful, smiling benevolently down at the cherubic 1886. I’d never seen anything so fantastical, so thoroughly exotic. Children of the world clustered around her, African and Indian and Celestial. Skins of lions and tigers beneath her sandaled feet. The volcano looming in the background, the waterfall plunging majestically over a cliff. What wondrous places had the artist traveled that he could capture images like these in such sumptuous detail? I felt a familiar pang of longing, and for a moment I imagined myself standing in a steaming jungle, brushing up against leaves the size of an elephant’s ear while I listened to birds shriek and insects sing, the roar of a waterfall in the distance.

Maybe it was longer than a moment, come to think of it, because the next thing I remember it was full dark and I was making my way down the steps of the Fifty-Eighth Street Station in the rain. I must have made a pitiful sight hurrying along the sidewalk with my bonnet pulled low and my precious paper tucked under my arm, because the nighthawks seized on me the moment I turned onto Fifth Avenue, the clip-clop of hooves and calls of “Cab, miss?” trailing me down the block.

I burst through the servant’s door at Number 726 with my usual grace, stumbling over the umbrella someone had left open to dry in the entryway. I couldn’t wait to show Clara the illustration on the cover of Harper’s, sure she would appreciate it as much as I did. But as I made my way down the hall, I heard a frightful clamor of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, and I drew up short.

Warily, I peered around the doorframe. “Clara?”

My greeting was met with a crash of the oven door and a string of language as doesn’t bear repeating, the gist of which was this: Clara was having a bad day.

“People starving in this city—starving—but that’s no bother, just fine, I’ll toss away three hours’ worth of cooking!”

I braved a single step into the kitchen. “What’s happened?” She whirled on me, hand on hip, eyes flared with righteous anger. “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because His Lordship Sir High-and-Mighty can’t be bothered to come home for his dinner! Again.”

“Oh.” I tried to think of a reasonable excuse. “Well, I suppose he’s very busy with work.”

“I suppose he is. Too busy to send word, even. So important.”

“Careful,” I said, throwing a worried glance at the foot of the servants’ staircase. Mrs. Sellers had a way of appearing on those stairs at the most inopportune moments. “She might hear you.” I didn’t need to say who she was.

“Don’t care if she does,” Clara said, but she lowered her voice all the same. She needed her position as much as I, and the housekeeper was always looking for an excuse to get after the both of us, since the only stock of people she cared for less than the Irish were the coloreds. Mrs. Sellers might not have the authority to dis- miss us outright, but she could make things difficult with Mr. Wiltshire, and that was cause enough to fear her.

“Did you ask her if we might...” I stopped myself short of asking a silly question. Mrs. Sellers never let us keep leftovers. To her way of thinking, that would only encourage Clara to prepare too much food in the hopes of keeping some for herself. It wouldn’t occur to her that Clara was too decent, not to mention too proud, to do any such thing.

“So I can listen to her lecture me about how it’s practically the same as stealing? No, thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, Clara. It’s an awful shame.” My gaze slid longingly to the roast beef and potatoes cooling on the stovetop. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had Sunday roast. Easter, prob- ably, some years past.

“Well.” Clara surveyed the kitchen, her temper cooling along with her cooking. “Some of it’ll keep, and there’s always soup to be made. But the nerve of the man, not sending so much as a hint of warning. Uncivilized, is what it is. You’d think a proper English- man would know better.”

“I’m sure he had a good reason.”

She gave me a wry look. “You’re sure of no such thing, except that Thomas Wiltshire can do no wrong.”

I felt my skin warming, so I changed the subject. “Look, I’ve got something to show you.” Drawing her over by the lamp, I smoothed out my copy of Harper’s Weekly. “What do you think of that?”

Clara squinted. “I hardly know. What is it?”

“Why, it’s only the most incredible drawing I’ve ever seen!” “Is it now?” She raised her eyebrows. “More incredible than the hot springs of Iceland?” “Well, I suppose—”

“More incredible than the jaguar fishing in the Amazon? Or the squad of saluting elephants in India?” She made a trunk of her arm, raising it high.

“You’re making fun of me.”

Looking closer, Clara grunted. “All I see is a white lady with other people’s babies in her lap.”

“Well, I think it’s grand,” I said, snatching the paper off the table.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she laughed. “I’m only teasing. I think it’s fine how you get all lathered up over your magazines.”

“I’m not lathered up. I’m trying to better myself, is all.”

“Better yourself, or escape to the jungle for a spell?”

Escape. It’s a strong word, when you think about it. A strong word, and exactly the right one. “And where’s the harm in that?” I gestured vaguely at the kitchen. “Is it wrong to want to see more of the world than...this?”

“I know, honey.”

That was the thing about Clara. She did know. She understood me better than anybody, probably because we had so much in common. Clara came from the Tenderloin, which is just about the only part of New York that can give Five Points a run for its money for sheer infamy. She’d seen her share of wickedness and faced more than her share of bigots. Like me, Clara had an ailing mother to take care of. And like me, she dreamed of bigger things - in her case, marrying her sweetheart, Joseph, and saving enough money to buy a little dairy farm in Westchester.

But if Clara’s dream seemed just out of reach, mine was down- right unattainable. I wanted more than anything to be a Travel and Adventure writer, or maybe an illustrator. But if being a woman wasn’t barrier enough, I was also Irish and poor as a church mouse. The four-story town house at 726 Fifth Avenue was about as close to travel and adventure as I was likely to get in this life.

“I just don’t want to see you set yourself up for disappointment,” Clara said. “You got to be realistic. Dreams is one thing. Goals is another.”

“I know.” I rolled up my Harper’s and stuffed it into the pocket of my overcoat. Forcing a smile, I added, “And right now, my goal is to get some supper in my belly.”

“Now that I can help you with.” Clara went over to the stove and carved off a slice of the roast, crusty and fragrant, steam rising from it like a chorus of angels. Somehow she’d managed to keep it pink in the center, in spite of it having languished in the oven since late afternoon.

My mouth watered as I watched her load up the plate with golden potatoes and thick, greasy gravy. “What about Mrs. Sellers?” “I don’t see her anywhere, do you?” Clara’s smile had just a hint of spite in it. “Now skedaddle. She catches you, we’ll both wind up working in the box factory.”

I didn’t need to be told twice; I grabbed my plate and bounded up the narrow servants’ staircase to my room, a little shoebox in the attic where I spent six nights a week.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, hunched over my food like a savage, licking gravy off my fingers as I paged through Harper’s. I’d like to tell you that I studied the articles carefully, absorbing worldly details about the Irish question and hostilities in the Balkans, or that I tutted disapprovingly over the latest spiteful cartoons from Thomas Nasty. But I never did care much for politics, and there were no Travel and Adventure stories in this issue to tempt me. So instead I pored over the illustrations, wondering if my own sketches demonstrated enough skill to impress an editor at Harper’s or Frank Leslie’s. Reaching for my journal, I let it fall open to its most beloved page: a charcoal sketch of a certain gentleman whose like- ness I knew nearly as well as my own. I hope it won’t sound boast- ful if I say that even Mr. Wiltshire’s own mother would have called the resemblance striking. Every feature had been lovingly rendered: the pale eyes beneath straight dark brows; the high cheekbones and fine nose; the angular jaw framed by a neatly trimmed beard. It was true in every detail but one: I couldn’t seem to cap- ture the soul of him, that thoughtful expression that was at once gentle and sharp, reserved and yet curious. The eyes in my sketch were dull and flat, with nothing to suggest the man behind them had any depth at all.

I put the drawing away, resolving to try my hand at reproducing the illustration on the cover of Harper’s. I’d wait until month’s end, and if there was enough money left over after I’d paid Mam’s rent, I’d treat myself to a new journal and maybe even some ribbon to fix my bonnet. “There, you see, Clara?” I murmured to myself. “I know the difference between dreams and goals.”

I brought my plate back down to the kitchen before heading up the main staircase to prepare Mr. Wiltshire’s bedroom for the night. I knocked softly, though I knew he wasn’t there, having learned the hard way that it was best to make sure. (That, my friends, is a story all its own, and may have more than a little to do with the origins of my feelings for my employer. If you should find yourself becoming spoony for a young man, seeing the object of your budding affections in nothing but a pair of half-unbuttoned trousers will surely seal your fate.)

But I digress.

Satisfied the room was empty, I set about my chores, winding the clock and trimming the lamps and so forth. I fussed with his fountain pen and his shirt studs and his griffin cuff links, straightening them all just so. But it wasn’t long until I noticed something out of place. Being meticulously tidy, Mr. Wiltshire was not given to leaving his papers strewn about, so the envelope sitting on his dressing table fairly cried out for my attention. Taking it up, I saw that it was unsealed, so I opened it (yes, I know— you will have many such occasions to exclaim at my behavior) and discovered a pair of tickets to the Metropolitan Opera. Nothing much in that, but two things struck me as unusual. First, the op- era in question was by Richard Wagner, and it so happened that I had heard Mr. Wiltshire express a particular dislike for Wagner not two weeks before, over sherry with his good friend Mr. Burrows. Second, the tickets were for the evening of January 2, 1886—in other words, for a performance that had taken place the night before.

I glanced about the room. Had he even come home last night? The bed didn’t look to have been slept in, but that didn’t tell me much, since Mrs. Sellers would have tidied the room this morning. Taking a quick inventory of his shirt studs, I saw that the mother-of-pearl set was missing. He’d worn those on Saturday, and he never wore the same set two days in a row. No, he definitely hadn’t come home. I wondered what sort of urgent matter had arisen to cause my employer to be so detained.

I didn’t know it at the time, but detained was quite possibly the understatement of the year.

I went to bed feeling troubled. And by the time I woke up, the coppers were already there.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

 

ERIN LINDSEY has lived and worked in dozens of countries around the world, but has only ever called two places home: her native city of Calgary and her adopted hometown of New York. She is the author of the Bloodbound series of fantasy novels from Ace and the Nicolas Lenoir series of paranormal detective novels from Roc. MURDER ON MILLIONAIRES’ ROW is her debut mystery. She divides her time between Calgary and Brooklyn with her husband and a pair of half-domesticated cats.

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