I was jolted awake just before dawn by a heavy weight on my chest and a low buzz in my ears. My pulse slowed when I realized it was only Boo, the eleven-pound Siberian Forest cat I’d inherited from my aunt Lydie, staring at me and purring at full volume. The cat never woke me from a sound sleep. Something was wrong. She scampered off the bed and ran downstairs as I threw off the covers and swung my legs out, setting my feet on the cold hardwood floor.
I glanced at my cell phone on the nightstand and saw that my friend and neighbor, retired FBI Special Agent Walter Kestrel, had left a message in the middle of the night while I was asleep. Unusual. I pressed the voicemail button and listened, but all I heard was a raspy, garbled, static-filled sound that was impossible to make out.
Alarmed, I threw on some clothes, grabbed a flashlight, and ran toward his cabin, 500 feet down the road, as the full moon cast eerie shadows through the fir trees onto the rural road. There were no lights on in Walter’s house, but the Creamsicle, his two-tone orange-and-cream 1979 F150 pickup, was parked in the driveway, so he must be home.
A spike of apprehension rose when I saw the front door ajar. Gravel crunched under my shoes as I crept forward. A million unspeakable thoughts ricocheted through my head, imagining what I’d find inside, including the possibility that Walter had suffered a heart attack or something even worse. My neighbor had been assigned to counterintelligence at the Bureau. As a spy catcher, he’d put away bad guys who might want payback.
The hinges creaked as I slowly nudged the door open, releasing an unpleasant odor that reminded me of the decay of long-forgotten broccoli in my refrigerator’s vegetable drawer. I bypassed the light switch and turned on my flashlight.
“Walter? Are you home?” I asked in a shrill voice. No response.
My hands felt clammy as I swept the flashlight beam from the living room fireplace on my left, to a sliding glass door that led to the bay’s rocky shore fifty feet away, then to the kitchen to my right. I stopped breathing and clutched the flashlight in a death grip when I saw a pair of bare feet jutting out from behind the counter. They were too small to be Walter’s. They looked like a woman’s feet, and they were covered in blood.
My hands trembled as I fumbled with my phone, then pressed 9-1-1.
A COLD NOVEMBER MURDER
Series: A Justice Bay Mystery, Book 2
Genre: Traditional Mystery
Release: August 2026
Format: Print, Digital
Purchase Link
It’s been two months since Emmaline McCoy moved from L.A. to the remote Northern California coastal town of Justice Bay to settle her aunt’s estate. One cold November morning, as she runs along a rural road, she notices a flurry of one-hundred-dollar bills floating in the air and follows the source to a meadow where she finds a man shot in the head execution-style.
Early suspects range from a billionaire Russian real estate oligarch to a local chicken farmer, but law enforcement’s failure to identify the victim hampers the investigation. Feeling an inexplicable responsibility toward the dead man, Emma uses her resourcefulness to search for a killer, relying on shoe leather and a series of strange visions that lead to a shocking truth, transforming Emma’s worldview and her sense of safety.
About the author
Patricia Smiley is the author of nine mystery novels, including her second book in the Justice Bay series, A Cold November Murder. Her short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Two of the Deadliest, an anthology edited by Elizabeth George. Patty is the former president of Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles and the current vice president of the Southern California Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. For more information, visit patriciasmiley.com.