Monthly Archives: September 2014

Breakfast Conversation with Aunty Lee by Ovidia Yu

Deadly SpecialCan you describe a typical day in your life for us, Mrs Lee?
Typically nobody calls me Mrs Lee. My friends call me Rosie and at my shop, Aunty Lee’s Delights [www.pinterest.com/ovidiay/aunty-lees-delights], people call me Aunty Lee. You know, like on the bottles of Aunty Lee’s Amazing Achar and Aunty Lee’s Shiok Sambal. My picture is on the bottles, you know!

So Aunty Lee, let’s start with breakfast?
At home or eating out? If you know my Singapore (www.pinterest.com/ovidiay/aunty-lees-singapore) you know how easy it is to eat out. Nina tries to make me eat oatmeal with fruits. But if there are newly ripe mangoes or papayas or bananas it is not so bad. Nowadays we don’t get so many fruits. My late husband, ML, always got so many fruits from our garden. I used to laugh at him for talking to the trees, ‘if you don’t give fruit I will chop you down’. But sure enough the trees always had so much fruit. And now I’m the one people laugh at, for talking to his pictures. But then I always get my answers, like my dear ML always got his mangoes, so who knows?

So are mangoes your favourite fruits?
Oh, I love mangoes. But my favourite fruits, very hard to find nowadays are the wild pulasans. These are like rambutans, only sweeter and juicier and the flesh does not stick to the seeds. And then there is durian, that people love and hate. One of my friends told me, if you have children who want to marry foreigners, ask them as a test to eat durian for you. If they eat, that shows either they have been in Singapore long enough to know what they are doing or they really love your child very much.

I see…so, about your typical breakfast?
Typically I like to go to the kopitiam or local coffee shop for the Kaya Toast Set. I don’t like it so much but it is unofficially Singapore’s national breakfast set meal. Kaya toast is toasted bread with butter and kaya, a jam made from eggs, sugar, coconut milk and pandan.

Why don’t you like it? Why do you eat it if you dislike it?
Because my homemade kaya is much better! The kopitiam ones are too sweet or not enough pandan—but I have to keep eating theirs to make sure mine is still better. And the set comes with half-boiled eggs that I eat with soy sauce and pepper and hot tea, coffee or Milo.

The best kaya toast is brown and crunchy with lines on it from the charcoal grill, I still remember them from the old-school coffee shops in Katong where I grew up. A few of them are still there, the kind with ceiling fans, marble-top tables and wooden chairs like they were back in the 1950s. Nowadays you can also get it in modern shops. Like now everywhere you can find soy pudding. It is not the same as the old fashioned tau huay but it is better than nothing I suppose.

Tau Huay or soy pudding is also a breakfast dish?
Oh yes, one of the best! But I’m talking about traditional Soya Bean Curd, dou hua in Mandarin and tau huay in Hokkien,which is not easy to make—even for me. Tau huay should be very silky with a warm heavy slipperiness. Most people eat it with added sugar syrup but I prefer it topped with a little soy milk. People say that eating tau huay daily will give you a smooth, white complexion. I must say that even today people compliment me on my complexion so maybe there is something in that! Oh and the best way to eat it is by dunking a you tiao (crispy deep fried dough fritter) in it. The light salty crispiness provides the perfect contrast.

Some of my favourite memories are of eating you tiao with my late husband. ML would order hot Oolong tea and we would dip our dough sticks in bowls of piping hot peppery Bak Kut Teh or ‘meat bone tea’. He liked his hot peppery soup with a bit of sweetness to it and preferred Bak Kut Teh made with easy to eat prime ribs. I like a really spicy broth made with braised pig knuckles, the meat tender and springy with a slightly translucent, gelatinous texture. It is best eaten with white rice and thin sliced red chilli peppers in soy sauce on a lazy Sunday morning. But it is not a dish to be eaten alone. It is a good thing that Commissioner Raja also likes Bak Kut Teh!


You can read more about Aunty Lee in Aunty Lee’s Deadly Specials, the second book in the “Singaporean” mystery series, published by HarperCollins. The first book in the series is Aunty Lee’s Delights.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on October 3 for the chance to win a copy of AUNTY LEE’S DEADLY SPECIALS. The giveaway is open to U.S. residents only.

About the author
Since dropping out of medical school, Ovidia Yu has been a copywriter and one of Singapore’s most popular playwrights (thirty plays and slightly fewer awards) with short stories, novellas and a children’s fiction published in Singapore, Malaysia and India. Aunty Lee’s Delights, her first mystery featuring busybody widow Rosie ‘Aunty’ Lee, was published to good reviews in America last year and the next book, Aunty Lee’s Deadly Specials will be available from 30th September 2014.

Visit Ovidia on Facebook or on Twitter

A Day in the Life of Jake Martelli by Ali Brandon

Literally MurderNice to meet you, too, Lance. The name’s Jake Martelli. Don’t even think about calling me Jacqueline, or even Jackie. Only my mother is allowed to do that. Luckily, Ma lives in Fort Lauderdale, and since it’s a good three-hour flight from where I live in Brooklyn, I don’t have to put up with hearing that too often.

Right, scotch and soda…and some of those little pretzels, if you have them.

Yeah, I actually have a pretty nice place there. I’ve got the garden apartment in a three-story brownstone, with dirt-cheap rent and pretty much a lifetime lease. There’s a bookstore on the first two floors, which is pretty nice. My best friend, Darla Pettistone, owns the shop…the whole building, as a matter of fact. Or maybe I should say, her and her crazy black cat named Hamlet. But that’s another story.

So, what’s a good-lookin’ broad like me doing alone in an Atlantic City dive bar on a Tuesday night? Not very original, are you, kid? Oh, and don’t even think about trying to put the moves on me. You’re, what, thirty? Well, I’m old enough to be your mother. But pour me another scotch and soda, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.

You remember that couple at the end of the bar awhile back? The fat bald guy in the pink shirt two sizes too small for him, and the skinny blonde with too much makeup? Well, Baldy’s married, but not to Blondie. She’s his “administrative assistant” down at the machine shop where he’s a manager. Turns out Blondie’s been administering to him, all right…and Baldy’s missus got suspicious, so she hired me to get the lowdown.

Yeah, you got it in one. I’m a private detective, just like the character in that paperback novel I see you’ve got stashed behind the cash register. Don’t worry, kid, I’ve got your number. Keep the scotch and sodas coming, and I promise I won’t tell anyone you’re a mystery fan.

Nah, tracking down these two geniuses was kid’s play. Blondie has a big mouth. All it took was going out to lunch the same place she and her pals go, and I found out all about her out-of-town “date” tonight and the “sick day” she plans to take tomorrow. So I show up here and, voila. I watched the two of them get all cozy here in the bar for awhile, and then I followed them back to their room at the motel next door.

Word to the wise, Lance…always close your curtains all the way. Oh, and skip doing a Chippendales striptease act if your belly hangs over your belt. I could go for a quart of brain bleach right about now, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, see this innocent looking smartphone? All the incriminating evidence that will help wifey get a nice little alimony settlement when she divorces the rat is right in here.

So, you think my life is more exciting than tending bar? Eh, sometimes it is. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about my little trip down to Florida last month with my friend, Darla, and her cat. Glamorous? Huh, not much. You try sitting in a parked car for hours at a time waiting for some cheating wife to show up at her boyfriend’s place, and telling yourself you don’t have to pee, and see how glamorous you feel.

Well, Lance, it’s been nice chatting with you, but time to go. I’m going to catch a few winks in that fleabag motel next door and then head out bright and early in the morning for home. But, don’t worry, there are plenty of cheated-on spouses out there just itching to hire a private investigator. I’m sure I’ll be back here again sometime soon tracking down another Baldy and Blondie.

Oh, and maybe next time we have a drink together, we’ll forget that whole “old enough to be your mother” thing and see what happens.


You can read more about Jake in Literally Murder, the 4th book in the “Black Cat Bookshop” mystery series, published by Berkley Prime Crime. The first book in the series is Double Booked for Death.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on October 2 for the chance to win a copy of LITERALLY MURDER. The giveaway is open to U.S. and Canadian residents only.

About the author
Ali Brandon is the New York Times bestselling author of the Black Cat Bookshop Mystery series from Berkley Prime AliBCrime. Writing under her real name, Diane A.S. Stuckart, she penned the popular Leonardo da Vinci historical mystery series, which has received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Library Journal, as well as a Florida Book Award. Additionally, she is the author of five critically-reviewed historical romances which will soon be re-released as ebooks. A native Texan with a degree in Journalism from the University of Oklahoma, Diane a/k/a Ali now lives in South Florida. She’s a member of Mystery Writers of America and the Cat Writers Association.

Visit her at www.dianestuckart.com or on Facebook

Another Day in the Life of Helen Evans by Susan McBride

Not A Chance In HelenI am never so happy to live in tiny River Bend, Illinois, as in the mornings. After I’ve fed Amber his breakfast—usually something fishy from a can that makes the whole house smell like a Florida beach at Red Tide—I lace up my Tretorns and head out for a walk.

The town sits in a valley between the bluffs, and there’s no prettier moment than post-dawn when the sun begins to rise. It winks between the trees above while the birds twitter their good mornings. Houses still look sleepy with shades drawn and porch lights on, though dogs bark greetings from behind picket fences.

It’s just a mile to the river, and I try not to get distracted by what’s in the windows of the shops downtown. But sometimes I can’t resist a peek into Agnes March’s antiques store or Hilary Wiggins’s stationery shop. Although it’s easy enough to step quickly past the sheriff’s office, which lies in between, since Frank Biddle and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.

So many things can happen during my walk, moments that catch my breath. In the spring, it’s the sight of flowers blooming, as though they went from buds to blossoms overnight. In the fall, it’s the crunch of the leaves underfoot and the gorgeous colors of the foliage painted across the bluff sides.

But the other morning when I decided to stroll up Harbor Drive, my breath caught in another way entirely. I watched Eleanora Duncan’s cat chase a butterfly into the street and Eleanora come clucking after her…just as a sedan roared its engine and barreled toward them both. If I hadn’t rushed into the road to pull Eleanora aside, she would have been flattened. When Eleanora had regained her wits, she looked at me with frightened eyes and confessed, “Helen, I think someone is trying to kill me.”

I didn’t buy it, not then, despite Eleanora being a very wealthy widow who’d alienated most of River Bend since her husband and son both died the year before. Losing Marvin first to a heart attack had been hard enough. But when Jim had been killed in a car wreck, it had nearly tipped Eleanora over the edge. She’d gone on to blame Jim’s wife, who’d been at the wheel the rainy day the accident had occurred. Eleanora had even gone so far as to instigate a coroner’s inquest, needing to pin the blame on someone. Though Jean had been cleared, Eleanora had never forgiven her daughter-in-law. And Jean wasn’t the only one Eleanora had treated badly since.

Some said it was the hate in her heart that killed her when Eleanora was found dead on her kitchen floor shortly after the near-miss. But when Doc Melville suspected otherwise—and the Jersey County Medical Examiner’s office confirmed Eleanora had been poisoned—all eyes turned to Jean. To say I was shocked is putting it mildly, though it merely angered me to find out that Frank Biddle dragged Jean out of her house early the next morning to grill her about her mother-in-law’s murder. It was just too bad I had to find it out from Clara Foley who was eating breakfast at the diner, across the street from the sheriff’s office, when he pulled up with Jean in his squad car.

“He had someone with him, you see.” Her pale eyes widened, and her voice rattled with excitement. “It was Jean Duncan as it turns out. He hustled her into his office pretty quick-like, which made me wonder if he didn’t haul her down there on official business seeing as how it’s so early in the morning and the expression on his face wasn’t any too friendly.” Clara paused for breath before rushing on. “And Jean, well, she looked like he’d dragged her out of bed and she’d thrown on the first thing she could find. Her blouse was hanging out of her blue jeans, and her hair looked positively wild….”

I had to admit, it didn’t look good for my friend. It was Jean’s pâté that had been poisoned, and she’d taken it over to Eleanora’s house and placed it in the refrigerator herself. Eleanora’s long-time housekeeper, Zelda, had attested to that very fact.

But I knew that Jean didn’t kill her mother-in-law, regardless of how terribly Eleanora had treated her. Jean had been trying to extend an olive branch to Eleanora. She had never intended to send her to her grave.

As usual, Sheriff Biddle paid no attention to common sense. So what else could I do but dig in my heels and prove that Jean didn’t do it. Sometimes all it takes to figure out what’s what around River Bend is a calm head, tight lips, and a pair of good ears. And if there’s one thing I know how to do well after four children, nine grandchildren, and 75 years, it’s how to listen.


You can read more about Helen in Not A Chance in Helen, the third book in the new “River Road” mystery series, published by HarperCollins.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on October 1 for the chance to win a digital copy of NOT A CHANCE IN HELEN or a signed paperback of Mad as Helen. (U.S. only for print), winner’s choice.

About the author
Susan McBride is the USA Today bestselling author of Blue Blood and four other award-winning “Debutante Dropout Mysteries” from HarperCollins including The Good Girl’s Guide To Murder, The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club, Night Of The Living Deb, and Too Pretty To Die. A sixth title, Say Yes to the Death, will be out in September 2015.

Her River Road Mystery series began with To Helen Back in May and Mad as Helen in July. Not a Chance in Helen is the third of these digital-first books from HarperCollins (the paperback will be available in early November). Susan’s first young adult thriller, Very Bad Things, will be published in hardcover by Delacorte Press on October 14, 2014.

You can find out more about Susan and her books at susanmcbride.com

A Day in the Life of Miss Emma Cross by Alyssa Maxwell

Murder at Marble HousePsst, over here. Yes, pretend you don’t see me, but come closer, please. I’m trying not to attract the attention of my Vanderbilt aunts, Alice and Alva. They squabble over everything these days, because each is intent on staking her claim as society’s The Mrs. Vanderbilt. Normally I let them wrangle if it makes them happy, except that upon occasion I find myself caught in the middle of their determined and opposing wills. Aunt Alice’s main peeve with me arises from 1) my driving my own carriage and working as a society reporter for a local newspaper, and 2) her not having successfully married me off to a suitable gentleman thus far. Very well, I can contend with that. However, presently, it’s Aunt Alva making unreasonable demands of me, of a nature that requires me to compromise my values and my very integrity.

Or else.

At one point she actually had me backed up against the wall in the Gold Ballroom at Marble House, and I knew full well I would go nowhere until I agreed to do her bidding. No, she didn’t actually say, “Or else,” but the implied sentiment struck like a blunt object between my shoulder blades as I headed toward the Grand Staircase and my cousin’s bedroom upstairs. The matter in question? Aunt Alva wants me to convince her daughter, Consuelo, to marry a man she abhors. He needs her money, and Aunt Alva has decided the family needs a duchess.

Never mind that I’ve managed to elude an arranged marriage for myself until the ripe old age of twenty-one. Never mind that I believe all women should have the right to choose the course of their own future and have the freedom follow their dreams the same as any man. But Consuelo trusts me. She looks up to me. She has always confided in me, and now Aunt Alva wants me to use that influence to persuade an eighteen-year-old girl that I believe this marriage will be for the best.

In other words, I am required to speak bald-faced lies. I believe I mentioned at the outset, dear friends, that I am a journalist, and lately my interests have expanded well beyond my Fancies and Fashions page. Truth matters to me. It is, in essence, my way of life. Lies, therefore, are abhorrent.

But here’s the rub, the very worst of the matter. I could certainly refuse Aunt Alva and bear the consequences, but if I don’t convince Consuelo to marry Charles Spencer-Churchill, ninth Duke of Marlborough, her mother will force the issue and in the end Consuelo will become the man’s wife anyway, but she’ll do so with a good deal more misery than if she willingly walks down the aisle. Aunt Alva is nothing if not determined and with that legendary temper of hers, no one, but no one, will stand up to her. Even her husband, my uncle Willie K., has fled the matrimonial battlefield by retreating to his yacht on Narragansett Bay.


I ask you then, reader, what would you do in my position? Any suggestions left below will be greatly appreciated; indeed, one lucky adviser will win a copy of my dossier, Murder at Marble House, which will enable you to judge whether, in the end, I did wrongly or rightly. The giveaway is open to U.S. residents only and will end October 1, 2014.

MURDER AT MARBLE HOUSE, Coming September 30, 2014

Responding to a frantic call on her newfangled telephone from her eighteen-year-old cousin, Consuelo Vanderbilt, Emma Cross arrives at the Marble House mansion and learns the cause of her distress–Consuelo’s mother, Alva, is forcing her into marriage with the Duke of Marlborough. Her mother has even called in a fortune teller to assure Consuelo of a happy future.

But the future is short-lived for the fortune teller, who is found dead by her crystal ball, strangled with a silk scarf. Standing above her is one of the Vanderbilts’ maids, who is promptly taken into police custody. After the frenzy has died down, Consuelo is nowhere to be found. At Alva’s request, Emma must employ her sleuthing skills to determine if the vanishing Vanderbilt has eloped with the beau of her choice–or if her disappearance may be directly connected to the murder. . .

Meet the Author
Alyssa Maxwell, author of The Gilded Newport Mysteries, began a love affair with the city of Newport while visiting AlyssaMfriends there back in her high school days. Time and again the harbor side, gas lit neighborhoods drew her to return, and on one of those later visits she met the man who would become her husband.

Today, she and her husband reside beneath the palms and bright skies of Florida, but part of her heart remains firmly in that small New England city of great historical significance. The first in the Gilded Newport Mysteries, Murder at the Breakers, was released in March 2014, to be followed by MURDER AT MARBLE HOUSE in September of this year. For more about Alyssa and her books, please visit her at www.alyssamaxwell.com.

A Day in the Life of Caroline Wainwright by Cathy Perkins

CypherI’m rattled today.

If I’m being honest…Being honest is so important… If my dad had been honest…but that isn’t what you asked. You asked about my day. I’m rattled today because… I’m completely devastated. And scared. And I’m not sure what to do next.

That isn’t like me at all.

I’m usually very organized. People expect me to control myself and the chaos around me.

My name is Caroline Wainwright, Cara to my friends. My day usually begins with a visit to the hospital. My mama is ill, and it helps if I make sure she’s settled for the day. Then it’s off to the advertising agency, where I plan major events for our clients—fund raisers, announcement bashes, campaigns. If it requires logistics and breaking enormous tasks into manageable pieces, the event shows up on my desk. Of course, that planning ability is why at least one detective thinks I’m involved with what happened to my friends.

My friends. . . It’s horrible. . .

Breathe. Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

Let me explain how it began. I’d stay overnight at the hospital—Mama had a difficult night—so I missed going to Reese’s party with Natalie. Natalie, my college roommate, had come for the weekend. She and Reese were getting serious, but with all his roommates, she generally stayed at my place. It gave us a chance to catch up and honestly, my condo offered them some privacy.

If only I could go back in time and change that decision, but we don’t get do-overs, do we?

You see, when I finally got home, police officers filled my courtyard. At first I thought maybe it was a drug bust or someone was robbed, but then I realized the police were concentrating on my condo. When I asked what was happening, two officers whisked me into the manager’s office.

And then. . .

The office door jerked open. Cara whirled around. Two men entered, gold badges shining, police ID clipped to their shirts.

The detectives had arrived.

Finally.

The first detective was in his fifties. Seriously overweight—heart-attack serious. His shirt strained to contain his belly. Slacks and a belt rode low on his hips, disappearing under the ponderous mass.

He sauntered forward with a bully’s swagger.

The second man was younger, maybe a few years older than she was. Casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, he had the relaxed carriage of an athlete—wiry, aerobic strength rather than the bunched bulk of a weight lifter. She caught his double take as he cleared the door. For just a second, his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned.

Cara stepped toward the center of the office. “Why are you holding me here?”

The older detective brushed past her, rounded the desk, and claimed the manager’s chair. She got the impression she’d given up a strategic advantage, but she was far more interested in the younger man. There was an intelligence in his expression she didn’t sense behind the heavy man’s cynical façade.

He notices things. Whatever’s going on, he’s the one to watch—and maybe to trust.

“I’m Detective Pennell.” The older man flipped a business card onto the desk. “That’s Detective Morris.”

The younger man stepped forward and placed a card beside his partner’s. If she had to deal with this pair in the future, she already knew which one she’d call.

“Miz Wainwright.” Pennell pointed at the straight chair in front of the desk. “Sit down.”

Cara wanted to refuse, just because he was being rude, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. Resisting the urge to glare, she took the designated seat.

She’d dealt with men like Pennell for most of her career. If she reacted, Pennell would keep the power play going and make the rest of the interview as uncomfortable as he could. Clasping her hands in her lap to hide the shaking, she straightened her exhausted spine and met his glare with a cool expression.

Morris leaned against the wall. A quietly watchful air surrounded the detective, making her more aware of him than the florid officer who was apparently in charge.

Pennell pushed a button on the recorder, then looked at Cara, eyebrows raised. “Let’s start with your name.”

“I’m Caroline Wainwright.”

The detective’s mouth twisted. “What’s your real name?”

“Caroline Wainwright. My driver’s license is in my wallet. That policeman looked at it when he took my things.” She pointed toward the outer office.

Pennell pulled a Polaroid from an inner pocket and threw it on the desk. “If you’re Caroline Wainwright, who’s she?”

Cara gaped at the photo. Even with the blood and bullet hole, it was clearly Natalie. Roaring started in her ears, and her stomach rolled over. “Oh God.”

More photos hit the desktop. “I got two dead people. I want to know why.”

I don’t know who did it and I don’t know why, but I’m going to find out what happened to my friends. Even if it kills me.


You can read more about Cara in Cypher, published by Red Mountain Publishing.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on September 30 for the chance to win a copy of either HONOR CODE or THE PROFESSOR, winner’s choice. The giveaway is open to U.S. residents only.

About the author
An award-winning author, Cathy Perkins works in the financial industry, where she’s observed the hide-in-plain-sight CathyPskills employed by her villains. She writes predominantly financial-based mysteries but enjoys exploring the relationship aspect of her characters’ lives. A member of Sisters in Crime, Romance Writers of America (Kiss of Death chapter) and International Thriller Writers, she is a contributing editor for The Big Thrill, handles the blog and social media for the ITW Debut Authors, and coordinated for the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense.

When not writing, she can be found doing battle with the beavers over the pond height or setting off on another travel adventure. Born and raised in South Carolina, the setting for Cypher, Honor Code and The Professor, she now lives in Washington with her husband, children, several dogs and the resident deer herd.

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A Day in the Life with Veronica Jadzinski by C.L. Pauwels

Forty and OutOccupation: Toledo Police Homicide Detective

Six a.m.? Wow – I actually got to sleep until the alarm went off. That doesn’t happen often these days. It seems like ninety percent of the homicides in Toledo happen in the middle of the night. Don’t murderers ever sleep?

Sorry, I suppose that could be considered crass. Cop humor – gets us through the rough stuff, and believe me, there’s plenty of that. The birthday murders weren’t particularly gruesome, just creepy, but if I wasn’t at another crime scene, I was out chasing red herrings on that one. I hardly slept until we nailed the bastard.

Same with all the gang shootings in the projects. When temperature and humidity rises in Toledo, so do tempers, and everybody has a gun these days. People don’t realize how much damage a 9 mm can do at close range, or how far a bullet can travel. The innocent bystanders…those are the victims who keep me up at night.

I never wanted to work Homicide in the first place. I was quite happy on the Drug Task Force, thank you very much. Dad worked Narcotics for almost thirty years until he…. I barely made it five before my cover was blown and they put me on a long-term desk assignment. Not for me! My husband Nate wasn’t happy when I took the opening in Homicide. He’d just as soon I’d stayed on the desk. He’s my ex now, but for unrelated reasons. Still a good guy though, and my best friend.

Mom agreed with Nate. She wanted me to be a teacher – of what, I’m not sure. Probably kindergarten or something, considering how fast she melts around any rugrat under age five, and even more so since she’s a widow. I keep telling her to coax Betty into getting married again if she wants grandkids, but Mom knows that’s a lost cause. And even though we mostly patched things up after I saved her life, Betty certainly doesn’t want my advice.

Now the guy we pulled out of the Maumee River, shot to death in his car – that was a stinking mess. No ID, no evidence, until his mother hired a private investigator to retrace our investigation. Not that I minded having it solved. I hate loose ends, but I almost lost my best friend, my partner, and my job over that one.

Enough of my whining. I need to feed Ford, my cat, before he shreds the sofa. And there’s an autopsy I’d like to sit in on at nine for the body patrol found outside Mud Hens Stadium at oh-dark-thirty yesterday morning – another long night where the alarm didn’t matter. Then we have an evidentiary hearing at two. Some new defense attorney who has no idea how careful my partner is when it comes to logging cases and tracking evidence or she’d never have filed her motion to suppress. She’ll learn.

Where’s my coffee?


You can read more about Jadz in Forty & Out, the debut novel published by Deadly Writes Publishing.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on September 29 for the chance to win a copy of FORTY & OUT. The giveaway is open to U.S. residents only.

Meet the author
C. L. (Cyndi) Pauwels’ debut novel Forty & Out has just been released through Deadly Writes Publishing. Since Pauwelsher first short story found its way into print in 1989, Cyndi has published a number of short pieces – both fiction and essays – and a non-fiction book, Historic Warren County: An Illustrated History (2009). In addition to writing, her portfolio career includes book editing (The Enduring Legacy of Kahlil Gibran and The Essential Rihani), teaching freshman composition at a local community college, and serving as assistant director for the Antioch Writers’ Workshop.

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A Day in the Life of Eliza Doolittle by D.E. Ireland

Wouldnt It Be DeadlyWelcome to 27A Wimpole Street in central London. King Edward VII died three years ago, and they say we are now in a post-Edwardian age. All I know is that the year is 1913. My name is Eliza Doolittle, and I used to live in rather shabby digs along Angel Court off Drury Lane. That was when I was a Cockney flower seller, but now I’m a proper lady, I am. This past year, I’ve been transformed into a “duchess” by the brilliant and infuriating Professor Henry Higgins. Although I began by welcoming you to Wimpole Street, I must confess that at the moment I no longer reside there with Higgins and dear Colonel Pickering. After the Professor and I had a falling out the night of the Embassy Ball, I moved in with Professor Higgins’ mother, who has a loverly flat in Chelsea.

If you haven’t heard of Professor Higgins, (and he’d be insulted if you hadn’t), he’s a confirmed bachelor and famous phonetician who can tell right off where a person comes from just by listening to them speak a few words. Blooming amazing, he is. But don’t tell him I said that. Anyway at the moment he and my friend and mentor Colonel Pickering are in Spain, so I can say anything I like about the Professor.

While he’s been gone, I am proud to announce that I’ve become a teacher of phonetics myself. I now teach for his chief rival and former pupil, the Hungarian Maestro Emil Nepommuck. One of my students is Mary Finch, the pretty wife of a West Yorkshire businessman. Both she and Mr. Finch have come into money and want to learn how to speak like the swells. Unlike Higgins, I never lose my patience with my pupils. Unfortunately, Mrs. Finch seems more interested in my fashionable clothes and the Maestro’s flirtatious ways than in my lessons. Might be a bit of trouble because of that, seeing as how her husband is coming for lessons too.

I’d never admit this to the Professor, but I miss living at 27A Wimpole Street. There is far more activity there, and the housekeeper Mrs. Pearce is a wonder. Plus she bakes the most delightful currant scones. Life on the Chelsea Embankment is a tiny bit dull, but Mrs. Higgins is a dear. However once Higgins returns to London, I suspect things might get a bit dodgy.

You see, the Maestro has claimed in the newspapers that he was the one who taught me how to speak like a duchess. A right blighter he is, taking credit for the Professor’s work. And the Maestro won’t correct his lies no matter how much I nag at him. All I know is that when the Professor returns, he’ll fly into a foul temper. With his pride and professional reputation at stake, I’m afraid he’ll get angry enough to take his revenge on that peacock of a Hungarian. I only hope Colonel Pickering can talk him out of doing anything rash.

As for the Colonel, he is the soul of kindness. And I’m a bit embarrassed at how he continues to indulge me by purchasing the latest gowns, parasols, shoes, hats and gloves at Whiteleys or Selfridges on Oxford Street. Blimey, look at the time. My next pupil is due any moment. Ta for now. It’s time to earn a living again.


This is the third stop on the Wouldn’t It Be Deadly Debut Mystery Virtual Book Tour. For other stops on this tour, CLICK HERE.

You can read more about Eliza and Higgins in Wouldn’t It Be Deadly, the first book in the new St. Martin’s Minotaur mystery series.

About Wouldn’t It Be Deadly
Following her successful appearance at an Embassy Ball—where Eliza Doolittle won Professor Henry Higgins’ bet that he could pass off a Cockney flower girl as a duchess—Eliza becomes an assistant to his chief rival Emil Nepommuck. After Nepommuck publicly takes credit for transforming Eliza into a lady, an enraged Higgins submits proof to a London newspaper that Nepommuck is a fraud. When Nepommuck is found with a dagger in his back, Henry Higgins becomes Scotland Yard’s prime suspect. However, Eliza learns that most of Nepommuck’s pupils had a reason to murder their blackmailing teacher. As another suspect turns up dead and evidence goes missing, Eliza and Higgins realize the only way to clear the Professor’s name is to discover which of Nepommuck’s many enemies is the real killer. When all the suspects attend a performance of Hamlet at Drury Lane, Eliza and Higgins don their theatre best and race to upstage a murderer.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on September 26 for the chance to win a copy of WOULDN’T IT BE DEADLY. The giveaway is open to everyone. Two lucky winners will be chosen at random.

About the authors
D.E. Ireland is a team of award-winning authors, Meg Mims and Sharon Pisacreta. Long time friends, they decided to DeIcollaborate on this unique series based on George Bernard Shaw’s wonderfully witty play, Pygmalion, using the beloved characters from Eliza to Higgins to Pickering, Mrs. Pearce, Freddy Eynsford Hill and his family, while adding a slew of new characters. They both live in Michigan, have patient husbands, brilliant daughters and share a love of good books, tea and history.

For more information, check out their website, Twitter or Facebook

A Day in the Life of Cheryl Greyfield by Christina Freeburn

Embellished to DeathMy granddaughter Faith walked around the Scrap This and slapped Post-It notes on the shelves. A kaleidoscope of color decorated almost every inch of the room and the store looked like an art gallery for slips of paper. There were slips on the paper racks, journaling pens, trimmers, and embellishment packages. Not one product was safe from being tagged by stickers.

“Are you color-coding the store?” I asked as Faith made another lap around the store.

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

I bit my tongue. I was trying harder these days to treat my granddaughter as a young woman and not a child needing constant redirection and a scolding. Though, there were times she made it a huge struggle. Like now. I lost a little of the battle when I allowed a huge sigh to escape.

Faith slapped a couple of sticky notes underneath the shelf holding the glitter glue. “I’m using the Post-Its to remind me what product I’m bringing to sell at the retreat this weekend.”

The girl was just like her grandma Hope. She loved sparkle. “Don’t you think you’re being a tad optimistic about how much the store will sell this weekend? Scrap This won’t be the only vendor.”

“We’re the main vendor.” Faith grinned at me. “Don’t worry, Grandma. We’ll do great.”

“I’d love for you to leave us some merchandise. We have our own National Scrapbook Day retreat this weekend at Scrap This.” I pointed at the white van parked out front. “Besides, you are not going to fit everything you want to bring into the rental.”

Faith’s gaze roamed around the store, taking in the product she marked then contemplated the van. Her brows drew down.

I grinned. She arrived at the conclusion that grandma was right. Like always. One day I hoped the lesson stuck.

Faith rushed over to the counter and pulled out the phone book. “I’ll find a bigger vehicle.”

Once again, I forced myself to let Faith problem-solve for herself. We had plenty of merchandise in the storage room I could unpack for this weekend. Hope and I wanted Faith to take over the store in a couple of years and I needed Faith to believe in herself. She never would if I second-guessed all her decisions.

And on the positive side, this time her intense focus was on selling at the weekend crop and not on a solving a murder.

A shadow near the window caught my attention. Turning my head slightly, I spotted Steve Davis sauntering toward the store. The man reminded me so much of my late husband Joseph. Tall, handsome, and chivalrous. Steve had moved to Eden a year before Faith returned home and had rented the townhouse next to Hope and me. He had been a great help to us, and had taken a keen interest in our granddaughter. Steve would do anything for her.

Steve knocked on the door. Faith hustled over to let him in, a bright smile on her face.

My heart danced. Well, maybe she’d at least listen to me about Steve and marry the man. If there was one area item I wanted her to take my advice on, it was on who was the perfect man for her. Grandmas just know.


You can read more about Cheryl in Embellished to Death, the third book in the “Faith Hunter Scrap This” mystery series, published by Henery Press. The first book in the series is Cropped to Death.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on September 25 for the chance to win a copy of EMBELLISHED TO DEATH. The giveaway is open to U.S. residents only.

Meet the author
The Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery series brings together Christina Freeburn’s love of mysteries, scrapbooking, and West Virginia. When not writing or reading, she can be found in her scrapbook room or at a crop. Alas, none of the real-life crops have had a sexy male prosecutor or a handsome police officer attending.

Christina served in the JAG Corps of the US Army and also worked as a paralegal, librarian, and church secretary. She lives in West Virginia with her husband, children, a dog, and a rarely seen cat except by those who are afraid or allergic to felines.

Visit Christina at her website, on Twitter or on Facebook

A Day in the Life of Pete Adams by Annette Dashofy

LOST LEGACYOccupation: Chief of Police for Vance Township, Pennsylvania

Most people see the title “Chief of Police” and assume I spend my day in my office, supervising my officers and doing paperwork. Not true. Not in my case. We don’t have the budget or the manpower for me to have the luxury of sitting on my—um—backside all day. From 8:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m., I’m the officer on duty. The only officer. At least Vance Township has police coverage 24 hours a day. A lot of local municipalities around here can’t claim that.

I arrive at the station about an hour early as a rule. Gives me time to make some coffee. I miss the days when Sylvia Bassi was my secretary. No matter how early I arrived, she’d already be there with a fresh pot brewed. The young woman who replaced Sylvia is competent enough, and I can count on her being here a few minutes before eight. But as for the coffee? I’m on my own. Note to the powers-that-be at Starbucks: Have you considered opening a franchise in Dillard? I’d be a regular.

Last night, Officer Seth Metzger worked the midnight shift. He rolls in from patrol about 7:30 and we sit and discuss anything I need to know about the calls he handled overnight. This morning that amounts to a report of a prowler over on Covered Bridge Road—Seth checked it out and didn’t find anything, but I’ll head over there later and talk to the neighbors—and several reports of kids driving around and bashing mailboxes up on Ridge Road. I have a sneaking suspicion who those kids are and will pay a visit to their parents first thing.

Most days life here is quiet. Oh, we have our fair share of crime, but it’s rarely anything like what I had to deal with when I worked with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police. I like the slower pace, except when we do have a big case, I don’t have access to the crime lab like we had there. There’s this young hotshot Monongahela County detective who takes entirely too much pleasure in stepping in and taking over those cases, claiming to be “helping.” What makes him really maddening is—damn it—he’s good. Then again, I trained him.

By 8:30, I’m ready to head out on patrol with plans to follow up on those overnight calls. I’ll touch base with you later.

Noon. I think I solved the case of the prowler. A masked bandit. With four feet. Yeah, a raccoon was raiding trashcans making a racket and a mess. No arrest was made. As for the kids and the mailboxes? Neither the parents nor the kids were admitting to anything. But from the looks on their faces when I pointed out tampering with mailboxes constitute a federal offense, they were guilty as hell. Hopefully I scared them straight by quoting the penalties for such foolishness.

Now I’m grabbing some lunch at Parson’s Roadhouse, a not-so-well-kept secret. It’s not on the main drag, by any means, but the parking lot is always full. I admit, I had hoped Zoe would be here. Zoe Chambers. She’s a local paramedic and deputy coroner. We’re…friends. Just friends. Her idea. But considering my history with women is almost as bad as hers with men, that might be for the best. Still, a fellow can dream, can’t he?

Anyhow, she’s not here. So I eat alone.

I may not spend all my day doing paperwork, but I do have to work on some reports after lunch. Have I mentioned I hate paperwork? There have been days I’ve let someone off with a stern warning, not just because I’m a nice guy and the idiot wasn’t likely to be a repeat offender. But because I didn’t want to have to write up a report. If you repeat that, I’ll deny it.

Around 3:00 I head back out to make another pass through the township before my shift ends. As quitting time nears, it looks like a storm is brewing. Maybe I’ll get home before the clouds open up. Uh-oh. My secretary Nancy has just radioed me. Earl Kolter, Zoe’s partner on the ambulance, called in a request for police. Dead body. A hanging. Damn. Responding with lights and sirens…


And if you’re interested in what Pete finds when he responds to this call, pick up Lost Legacy, the second book in the “Zoe Chambers” mystery series, published by Henery Press, available now. The first book in the series is Circle of Influence.

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment by 6 p.m. eastern on September 24 for the chance to win a copy of LOST LEGACY. The giveaway is open to U.S. residents only.

About the author
Annette Dashofy, a Pennsylvania farm gal born and bred, grew up with horses, cattle, and chickens. After high school, she spent five years as an EMT for the local ambulance service, giving her plenty of fodder for her Zoe Chambers mystery series including Circle Of Influence (Henery Press, March 2014) and Lost Legacy (Henery Press, September 2014). Her short fiction, including a 2007 Derringer nominee, has appeared in Spinetingler, Mysterical-e, Fish Tales: the Guppy Anthology, and Lucky Charms: 12 Crime Tales.

You can visit Annette at her website, on Twitter or on Facebook