Tag Archives: traditional mystery

A day in the life of Cantor Gold by Ann Aptaker

genuine-goldNew York City, 1952

It begins like any other day in my life of crime; breakfast at Pete’s Luncheonette, a countertop joint where Doris—the waitress who’s been there as long as the linoleum—pours the best cuppa coffee in New York. We make a little small talk, she teases me, as always, for my romantic preference for women and for wearing men’s suits instead of dresses or skirts: “You tryin’ to hide knobby knees?” she says through a smirk that’s still friendly despite distortions from the five-and-dime-store-red lipstick seeping into the lines around her mouth. I tease her back, tell her my knees aren’t knobby, I just like to keep the draft off my ankles. That makes her laugh. I like making Doris laugh. I owe her a joke now and then in return for the ear she lends me when the world—or the Law—presses me too hard. I don’t tell her the dark details of my criminal life, though. I’m sure she’s wise, but what she doesn’t know for fact, the cops can’t sweat her for. Her ignorance really is bliss, for both of us.

After a second cuppa coffee and a pinch of Doris’s cheek, I’m off to my office, my hideaway along the West Side docks, where a basement vault hides some of the fanciest contraband in the world: paintings, sculptures, jewels and other treasures waiting for delivery to people who pay me wads of cash to risk my life to steal the stuff from fancy houses or museum basements and smuggle it through the Port of New York. Rosie Bliss, a jaw droppingly beautiful cab driver whose blonde hair is like a swirl of mist, and whose body fills her cabby’s rough clothes in a way that makes me want to take them off, slowly, is waiting for me at my office. Rosie drives me around in her cab sometimes, when I don’t want my Buick in the crosshairs of cops or other dangerous parties too nosy for my good. Rosie is also in love with me, a love I don’t deserve, a love I can’t return because my heart and soul belong to someone else. They belong to Sophie de la Luna y Sol, kidnapped off the street, swallowed by the night. I’ve been searching for her ever since, calling in favors from every pair of eyes and ears in the streets and along the docks. I’ll find her someday, or die trying.

Rosie’s here to ferry me to a rendezvous with a collector of ancient Roman portrait busts who’s hired me to smuggle one in from a shady dealer in Venice. The guy wants this particular sculpture because he thinks the portrait looks like him, which I suppose it does, around the eyes anyway: cold, hard stone. The guy poses as a high society type, always arriving at the fanciest nightspot with the latest lovely on his arm. Truth is, he’s a gangster, as tough as they come. Cross him, and you’ll end up among his other collection: dozens of dead bodies in a swamp in New Jersey.

So I never cross him, I just deliver his goods and take his money, which is how it goes today: I give him the bust of one Ludovicus Stultis, he gives me an envelope stuffed with cash.

There’s a message for another job waiting for me when I get back to my office, this time in cahoots with Esther “Mom” Sheinbaum, a doyenne of crime, the town’s most successful mover of hot goods. She’s been at it since New York’s gaslight days, mentored a lotta young light-fingers, including me. She used to like me, or so I thought, but I learned some time ago that her motherly warmth was all sham. She thinks I’m filth, sneers at my preference for women. But business is business, and in the underworld we both live in, money soothes even the deepest revulsion. It even soothes the deepest pain, like the pain of hearing from Mom’s own mouth exactly what she thinks of me.

Well, maybe not the deepest pain, the pain of losing Sophie. It’s like a knife in my heart that just keeps stabbing. Until I find her, nothing will ever soothe that.


You can read more about Cantor in Genuine Gold, the third book in the “Cantor Gold” crime series.

New York, 1952. From the shadowy docks of Athens, Greece, to the elegance of a Fifth Avenue penthouse, to the neon glare of Coney Island, art smuggler Cantor Gold must track down an ancient artifact, elude thugs and killers, protect a beautiful woman who caters to Cantor’s deepest desires, and confront the honky-tonk past which formed her. Memories, murder, passion, and the terrible longing for her stolen love tangle in Cantor’s soul, threatening to tear her apart.

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Meet the author
Lammy and Goldie winner, native New Yorker Ann Aptaker’s first book, Criminal Gold, was a Golden Crown ann-aptakerLiterary Society’s Goldie Award finalist. Her next book, Tarnished Gold (Book Two in the Cantor Gold Crime Series), was honored with a Lambda Literary Award and a Goldie Award. The third book in the series, Genuine Gold, was released this January. Told from the point of view of a dapper, custom-tailored Lesbian art thief and smuggler, and set in mid-20th century New York, the Cantor Gold series resurrects the outlaw spirit of Lesbian life, its daring and sensuality.

Ann’s short stories have appeared in two editions of the crime anthology Fedora, edited by the noted crime author Michael Bracken. Her flash fiction story, “A Night In Town,” appeared in the online zine Punk Soul Poet, and another flash fiction story has been accepted into the upcoming anthology edited by Lee Lynch and Renée Bess, “Happy Hours: Our Lives in Gay Bars.” Ann still occasionally curates and designs art exhibitions, is an art writer for various New York clients, a contributing writer to the children’s science television show “Space Racers,” and an adjunct professor of art and art history at the New York Institute of Technology. Connect with Ann on Facebook and on Twitter.

All comments are welcomed.

Genuine Gold is available at retail and online booksellers.

A day in the life of FBI Special Agent Cesar Mayas, Boston Bureau by Martha Reed

no-rest-for-the-wickedDaisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do . . .

It’s hard to that believe kidnapping wasn’t a national offense until 1932, when President Hoover signed it into law. Until then, authority was held at the state level, which is why these Baby Alice Spenser case notes are so sketchy.

Sit down. Take a load off. I’ve got a few minutes before I need to catch the Island Air shuttle. Boston traffic’s not too bad this time of day.

I’ve got the report analyzing the ransom note, only nowadays, because of the new technology the scum bags text messaged it. Go figure. I emailed the text to a friend of mine who’s a profiler at Quantico. I can’t wait to share what she had to say. Sometimes, it’s like voodoo science, the things she comes up with, but she’s always so right on. It’s spooky.

Of course, I heard about Nantucket, as soon as I transferred to Boston. I knew it was an island thirty miles off the coast, down near Martha’s Vineyard and the Cape. I’ve also heard it was quite a playground for the rich and famous back in the day, filled with shingled summer homes and great shops and restaurants. From what I’ve heard, the foodies are still eating those up. Pun intended. I just never had a reason to visit Nantucket before, until those two state archaeologists dug up the steamer trunk in the dump, and all hell broke loose.

Anetta Nunn called me in to support the investigation. Anetta is Nantucket’s new Chief of Police. She and I go way back, to New Orleans, when Katrina ripped the roof off the Bureau’s office on Simon Boulevard, and all of us first responders had to scramble for cover. It’s a real tragedy what happened to her husband, and her young son. You’ll never meet anyone more passionate about law enforcement than Anetta is. She’s the real deal. That Nantucket Council sure grabbed a tiger by the tail when they hired her.

Me? I’m the CARD team leader for the Boston Bureau. CARD is FBI shorthand for Child Abduction Rapid Deployment. My job is to facilitate access to the Bureau’s in-house behavioral analysts, but my special focus is DNA analysis. I love DNA, because DNA doesn’t lie. Good thing, because from what I’ve seen so far with this crazy cold case, figuring out just who the players are is going to be the real challenge.

Anetta has assigned two detectives to the case. I’m having some fun with one of them. CJ Allamand is purely local talent. I don’t think CJ’s been off that island for more than six months in her whole life. CJ’s their CSI contact, and she’s very intelligent. I think CJ’s smarter than she thinks she is. CJ seems to have a real nose for following the evidence trail, and for logical thought. We may have to find room for her here, with the Boston team.

The other detective, the lead, is this guy named John Jarad. Anetta is having some trouble with him. Jarad seems to be having an issue following orders. I don’t know if that’s because Anetta’s a woman, or if it’s because this Jarad guy was demoted and Anetta got his job. Either way, it makes for a prickly situation, because Jarad knows Nantucket inside and out. That gives him a solid advantage when it comes to interviewing local witnesses, especially since it seems like he’s related to nearly every one of them. It’s not fair, but the truth is that family members will tell him something they’d never share with a mainland law dog like me.

What? Uber’s here? Great. I’ll be right out. Hand me my hat, will you? You’ll be hearing plenty more about the Baby Alice Spenser kidnapping. This one has media frenzy written all over it. Catch you later.


You can read more about Cesar in No Rest For The Wicked, the third book in the award-winning “Nantucket” mystery series.

When state archaeologists lift the lid on a suspicious steamer trunk buried in Nantucket’s landfill, Detective John Jarad’s world explodes. The trunk’s contents reactivate intense interest in the island’s most notorious cold case crime, the Baby Alice Spenser kidnapping in 1921.

Sarah Jarad has a slightly different life focus. Halfway through a twin pregnancy, Sarah is convinced that she is losing her mind. She can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched. She’d like to blame her paranoia on raging hormones, but that doesn’t ring true. Sarah fears that her control freak ex-fiancée Mason has finally tracked her down, and that Mason is on Nantucket, plotting revenge.

As John pursues the Baby Alice investigation, myriad family scandals emerge from the Spenser’s privileged and gilded past. Events flare white-hot when a copycat criminal snatches a second child. John and Sarah must race against the clock to unmask the kidnapper and expose these modern day threats.

Offering an array of colorful island characters and an intricate plot filled with surprising twists and reveals, No Rest For The Wicked promises to be the perfect summer beach read.

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Meet the author
Martha Reed is an award-winning, independently published Pittsburgh-based crime and mystery fiction author. Book one in her Nantucket Mystery series, The Choking Game, was a 2015 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion nominee for Best Traditional Mystery. Book two, The Nature Of The Grave, won an Independent Publisher IPPY Honorable Mention for Mid-Atlantic Best Regional Fiction.

Martha recently completed a four-year term as the National Chapter Liaison for Sisters in Crime, Inc. She loves travel, big jewelry, and simply great coffee. She delights in the never-ending antics of her family, fans, and friends, who she lovingly calls The Mutinous Crew. You can follow Martha online at reedmenow.com or on Twitter @ReedMartha.

All comments are welcomed.

The Nantucket Mystery Series is available in trade paperback and e-book formats from Amazon and other retailers. Support your local bookstores!

Giveaway: Leave a comment below for your chance to win a signed copy of No Rest For The Wicked. US entries only, please. The giveaway ends March 23, 2017. Good luck everyone!

Double Up with Gretchen Archer

double-upChapter One teaser:

“What’s going on in D’Iberville, Davis?” My immediate supervisor, Jeremy Covey, a tank of a man—former Mississippi Bureau of Investigation, current head of security at the Bellissimo, future unemployment-benefit recipient—took his seat at our weekly roundtable on that long ago fateful Monday morning.

“Football,” I announced. “We’re getting a football stadium.”

“Stadium?” No Hair asked. (Jeremy Covey was egg bald, which is why I called him No Hair.) (He said bald was the new black.) “Just a stadium?”

“Well, surely a team too,” I said. “What do you think they’ll name it? The Biloxi Gamblers?”

“Has it been announced we’re getting a football team?” My husband, Bradley Cole, didn’t look up from his P&L, which, at the time, was all P. “I haven’t heard a word about a football team. That’d be big news, Davis.”

I dug for the thin notes I had somewhere in my spy bag and introduced them to Elias Johnson, the Johnsung Corporation, the Semi-Pro Football League of America, and Blitz, Inc. Then I rattled off Hyatt Johnson’s vital and record-breaking statistics. “Football,” I said. “What else would it be?”

“I remember that Dallas game.” A goose walked over No Hair’s grave. “The bottom half of that boy’s leg was going the wrong way.”

Bradley looked out the conference room window and across the Bay. “Football?”

The room grew still as we quietly contemplated tailgate parties. At least that’s what I quietly contemplated.

“Anything out of the ordinary on the land purchase?” my husband asked.

“The blind trust is still blind.”

“How’s that out of the ordinary?” he asked.

“Don’t you want to know who owned it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think it does,” I said. “A mystery man sits on a prime tract of land for decades, turns down a thousand offers, then for some reason, up and sells?”

“What if it was a mystery woman?” No Hair asked.

Bradley was back in his P&L. “Obviously, the seller wants to remain anonymous.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee. “A woman would never sell a bird sanctuary to a football team.”

“If she needed the money, she would,” No Hair said. “Whoever sold that property needed cash. Find someone around here who needed a quick ten million, Davis, and you’ll find the person we can thank for a football team. We’re going to need sky boxes.” He jotted himself a note. “And a corporate suite.”

“We don’t need a corporate suite.” Richard Sanders, owner of the Bellissimo, blew in the door and around the conference table dropping thick glossy folders in front of everyone. “We need deck shoes.” He took his seat and smiled. “We’re going on a cruise.”

It was the first we’d heard of a cruise and the last we heard of football for a long time, because from that moment on, our energies, waking hours, and capital gains were devoted to the Bellissimo’s quarter-billion-dollar investment in a luxury floating casino, the S.S. Probability. That’s a quarter billion. But it was Mr. Sanders’s money. And he could spend it however he wanted, or, as it turned out, lose it however he wanted.

The cruise ship experiment almost put the Bellissimo under, and it wouldn’t go away. In the aftermath of the maiden, and only, Bellissimo-sponsored voyage, the books bled red. We were operating at a loss for the first time since the doors opened. The adventure was behind us, thank goodness, but far from over, because we were defendants in a class action lawsuit opposite forty-eight plaintiffs suing the Bellissimo for “abstruse winnings.” And the irony there was that the forty-eight plaintiffs could buy our operation with the loose billion-dollar bills they pulled out of their pockets and threw down with their Rolls Royce keys at the end of the day. Yet they were suing us, because we couldn’t verify what they’d won or lost in the Probability casino. Thus the abstruse winnings.

Which, ahem, also turned out to be my fault.

My point? We’d known for a year that Blitz bought the Bay. Three months after the papers were signed, we lived in a dust cloud when they brought in fifty bulldozers and cleared the land. A month after that, it was the lead story at five for a week when Blitz bought every Katrina Cottage the Mississippi Emergency Management Agency had been trying to unload for ten years, shipped them in, dropped the mini-houses in the parking lot of a long-defunct Kmart in the next-door town of Gautier, then moved in a construction crew of twelve hundred.

Blitz built a Company Town.

They put La-Z-Boys, Netflix, and pool tables in the empty Kmart.

Why?

I couldn’t begin to answer that question before Blitz made their most disconcerting move: They closed the construction site. They built a twenty-four-foot-tall privacy fence around the fifty-two acres, and another interior privacy fence near the waterline at—I assumed—the stadium site. Visibility zero, guards posted around the clock, and the property just happened to be in a thin strip of nearby Keesler Air Force Base’s no-fly zone, so we couldn’t even get an aerial peek at what Blitz was doing behind the black fences. We never saw it coming because we couldn’t see it coming.

And now the Bellissimo was going under.

Thanks to me.

If I’d been doing my job, I could have stopped it. Or at least slowed it down. At the bare minimum, we could have been prepared. To say I felt responsible was to say there were stars in the sky, the desert was hot, and Bill Gates had a little money in the bank.

There was a reason I’d dropped the ball so hard. In fact, there were two.

The day my husband and I stood on our terrace and watched through binoculars as bulldozers mowed down the Bay was the day we found out we were pregnant. The day the news broke that Blitz bought hundreds of tiny houses from MEMA was the day after Bradley and I learned we were having twins. The day the construction crews rolled in from all over the southeast to occupy Kmart Estates just happened to be the day our general operations and casino manager, Bryant Ramsey, walked off the job. He left a note on his desk: Sanders, Cole, and you too Covey, I’m thrilled to inform you I’m resigning as of this minute. Consider this bridge burned. And when the fences went up, which was when I should’ve dropped everything, I couldn’t drop anything, because I was six-months pregnant with twins cruising the Caribbean on the S.S. Probability.

What happened next would prove to be the worst day ever for the Bellissimo Resort and Casino and the very best day ever for Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Cole. The day the privacy fences came down and the scaffolding shot up, the day Blitz could no longer hide the fact that they weren’t building a football stadium, was the very day our twins were born. Bradley and I became parents to two perfect babies on a Friday morning in July, and the Biloxi Sun Herald headline read, “A Forty-Story Football Stadium? We Don’t Think So.”

From my living room on the twenty-ninth floor of the Bellissimo, I spent the rest of the year breastfeeding, truly, around the clock, and looking through my Celestron 127EQ PowerSeeker telescope watching Blitz build out their hotel-resort-casino. Billboards went up across the Southeast: Blitz. The Best Play.

Question: What was your most memorable moment at a casino? Was it a life-changing jackpot? Did you see Wayne Newton at the Flamingo’s Paradise Garden Buffet? Did you check into your casino hotel room and find baby sharks swimming in the bathtub? (It happened to Davis Way.) If you’ve never been to a casino you can still play. Tell us why you’ve never stayed up all night playing Double Diamond Deluxe. And call Gretchen. Tag along the next time she’s off on a casino research mission. (Hard job. Hard, hard job.)

Random winner will receive a full autographed paperback set of the Davis Way Crime Caper Series. Doubles Whammy, Dip, Strike, Mint, Knot, and Up. US entries only, please. The giveaway ends March 22, 2017. Good luck everyone!


You can read more about Davis in Double Up, the sixth book in the “Davis Way Crime Caper” series.

On behalf of USA Today bestselling author Gretchen Archer and the entire Henery Press crew, welcome aboard flight Double Up. Fasten your seatbelts for non-stop action as stiff competition blows into town and the resulting turbulence threatens to take down the Bellissimo Resort and Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi. Super Secret Spy Davis Way Cole, who lives on the twenty-ninth floor of the hotel with her CEO husband and newborn twins, takes it hard. If the casino goes belly up, she won’t be a stay-at-home mom because she won’t have a home. Not to mention her husband won’t have a job.

Davis can’t find a way to stop the inevitable end of the Bellissimo life she loves until her ex-ex-mother-in-law shows up, unexpected and definitely uninvited. Davis makes the best of a bad Bea Crawford situation and recruits her for a little corporate espionage work, which would’ve been great, had Bea not turned out to be the world’s worst spy.

Ever.

Seatbacks and tray tables in their upright positions as we prepare for a bumpy ride with babies, bankruptcies, besties, and shrimp. (Shrimp?)

Enjoy your flight.

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About the author
Gretchen Archer is a Tennessee housewife who began writing mysteries when her daughters, seeking higher educations, ran off and left her. She lives on Lookout Mountain with her husband, son, and a Yorkie named Bently. Double Up is the sixth in the Davis Way series published by Henery Press. She’s a USA Today bestseller, and her short story, Double Jinx, available at all eReader retailers, has been nominated for an Agatha Award. Connect with Gretchen at gretchenarcher.com.

All comments are welcomed.

Double Up is available at retail and online booksellers or you can ask your local library to get it for you.

My Musing ~ Double Up by Gretchen Archer

Double Up by Gretchen Archer is the sixth book in the “Davis Way Crime Caper” mystery series. Publisher: Henery Press, March 21, 2017

double-upOn behalf of USA TODAY bestselling author Gretchen Archer and the entire Henery Press crew, welcome aboard flight DOUBLE UP. Fasten your seatbelts for non-stop action as stiff competition blows into town and the resulting turbulence threatens to take down the Bellissimo Resort and Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi. Super Secret Spy Davis Way Cole, who lives on the twenty-ninth floor of the hotel with her CEO husband and newborn twins, takes it hard. If the casino goes belly up, she won’t be a stay-at-home mom because she won’t have a home. Not to mention her husband won’t have a job.

Davis can’t find a way to stop the inevitable end of the Bellissimo life she loves until her ex-ex-mother-in-law shows up, unexpected and definitely uninvited. Davis makes the best of a bad Bea Crawford situation and recruits her for a little corporate espionage work, which would’ve been great, had Bea not turned out to be the world’s worst spy.

Ever.

Seatbacks and tray tables in their upright positions as we prepare for a bumpy ride with babies, bankruptcies, besties, and shrimp. (Shrimp?)

Enjoy your flight.

Gretchen Archer has done it again. She has delivered another dynamite mystery where nothing is left to the imagination when shrimp is involved. Davis has to work her way through a caper and it’s with her tenacity and determination that sets the stage for this deliriously amusing tale that only Davis Way Cole can be featured.

The strength of the narrative embraced me as the tempo of this page turning drama reached its crescendo knocking me off my feet with the non-stop action that kept me immersed in all that was happening in this fast-moving drama. The author did a brilliant job in capturing the essence of all the players and the roles they played in this wild ride that soared as the stakes got higher and higher. Expertly written with engaging dialogue and a great cast of characters, this is the best and now my favorite book in this terrific series and I can’t wait to see where Davis and the gang take me next.

FTC Full Disclosure – I received a digital ARC of this book from the publisher via NetGalley.

A day in the life when Zoe Chambers hits the trail by Annette Dashofy

no-way-homeNothing beats horseback riding through the woods on one of those rare gorgeous days in November, blue sky instead of the usual dreary gray that we get here in southwestern Pennsylvania from October until May. I might be exaggerating. But only a little. Those of us with horses treasure these anomalies. Especially those of us who don’t actually get to ride all that often.

My name is Zoe Chambers, and my mind is wandering a lot on this particular trail ride. My best friend’s teenaged daughter is riding with me and she’s merrily rambling on about school and being back home after spending the summer out west.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking about how things rarely turn out the way you imagine. Jobs. Romances. Even hobbies. I’m a paramedic, and I love it. But I’m also a deputy coroner. You know those crime TV shows with the women running around in sexy clothes and high heels investigating murder scenes? I guess I watched too many of those. Let me tell you, here in Monongahela County, it’s nothing like that. My boss in the Coroner’s Office and our Forensic Pathologist are both cruel and sadistic. Not really. But they take great pleasure in forcing me to assist in autopsies. And by “assist” I mean tackle the most disgusting parts of the procedure.

Not what I had in mind.

Even this, my third “occupation,” which is managing a horse farm, hasn’t been all it’s cracked up to be. Oh sure, I get to board my horse “for free.” But there’s a darned lot of work involved. I’m not complaining. Honest. I love horses and love just being around them. It may sound strange, but horse manure is perfume to true horse lovers.

However. . .

I never get to ride! I have no time.

Not what I had in mind.

Today was supposed to be different. A beautiful Sunday in November. A few of the boarders at the farm and I organized a group trail ride, and the weather cooperated. It was going to be a perfect day.

Except one of our boarders had gone out on his own earlier in the morning, which was fine. Then just when the rest of us were mounted up and ready to hit the trail, his horse came galloping back to the barn. Without him.

Not that big a deal actually. If you’ve never been bucked off, you haven’t ridden much. It happens. His horse was skittish and gun shy. We’d been hearing gunshots in the distance all morning. Not unusual this time of year. Deer season is only a couple weeks away. Hunters all over the county are out sighting in their rifles, fine tuning their aim on paper targets. But this horse tended to think he was the target and never stuck around to find out otherwise. The problem was how far from the barn had he been when he’d bucked off his rider? Did the poor guy have to walk 200 yards back? Or two miles?

I liked the guy, so I broke our group into pairs, and we split up, taking different trails. I’m the paramedic, so if he was hurt, whoever found him was directed to call me on my cell.

Not exactly what I had planned.

My teen riding buddy spotted him first. Not walking—or even limping—along the trail. The young girl’s face paled. “Is that. . .?”

I squinted through the leafless woods. Yeah. It was.

No, this was definitely not what I had in mind.

To be continued in No Way Home. . .


You can read more about Zoe and what happens next in No Way Home, the fifth book in the “Zoe Chambers” mystery series.

A relaxing trail ride turns tragic when Paramedic and Deputy Coroner Zoe Chambers discovers the body of a popular county commissioner in her Pennsylvania woods. Inconsistencies surround the horrible “accident,” but before she can investigate further, she’s pried away by a plea for help from her best friend whose son has been deemed a person of interest in a homicide over a thousand miles away. When he vanishes without a trace, his mother begs Zoe to help clear him and bring him safely home. The task takes Zoe out of her comfort zone in a frantic trip to the desolate canyons and bluffs of New Mexico where she joins forces with the missing boy’s sister and a mysterious young Navajo.

Back at home, Vance Township’s Chief of Police Pete Adams must deal not only with the commissioner’s homicide, but with an influx of meth and a subsequent rash of drug overdoses in his rural community. Bodies keep turning up while suspects keep disappearing. However little else matters when he learns that half a continent away, a brutal killer has Zoe in his sights.

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About the author
Annette Dashofy is the USA Today best-selling author of the Zoe Chambers mystery series about a paramedic and deputy coroner in rural Pennsylvania’s tight-knit Vance Township. Circle Of Influence was a finalist for the Agatha Award for Best First Novel of 2014 and Bridges Burned was nominated for the 2015 Agatha for Best Contemporary Novel. No Way Home, the fifth in the series, hit bookstores March 14. Connect with Annette at annettedashofy.com.

All comments are welcomed.

No Way Home is available at retail and online booksellers or you can ask your local library to get it for you.