The Old Cranberry Ladies Garden Club The Ghost and the Key by Bill Cusano Blog Tour Book Review

 

THE OLD CRANBERRY LADIES GARDEN CLUB

by Bill Cusano

June 1 - July 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

THE GHOST AND THE KEY

With a pitchfork through the man's groin and another through his chest, it is clear that someone had murdered Chester H. Cranberry. It's not something that could have happened accidentally. But that was 192 years ago. As Mildred Cranberry, the current family matriarch, puts it, "We have two women, two keys, two pitchforks, and one dead two-timing man." Who in their right mind would want to dig up that cold case and try to solve it? It's not like the murderer could be prosecuted in 2024, right? But what if a key piece of evidence can be dug up (literally)? And what if a descendant of Chester's illegitimate child can get her hands on it? Mildred will need more than the Old Cranberry Ladies Garden Club members to solve this bizarre case. The spiritual support she needs may not be what she expects when the ghost of Elcira Cranberry, the widow murderess herself, arrives to do what? Tell the truth or protect her reputation?

The Ladies Garden Club of Old Cranberry, Connecticut, has a 200-year history that has remained shrouded in secrecy for so long, it has been lost to history, until now. Elcira Cranberry and freedwoman Deborah Townsend knew the men of the town would have no interest in a garden club, so it was the perfect cover for their secret organization. Now, nearly two centuries later, the current members have no idea what those ladies were up to in the early 1800s, right here in Connecticut. But the secret will soon be out.

My Review:

This historical mystery is complex. It explores the repercussions of a murder two centuries ago. There are many characters. At times I had trouble figuring them all out. There is a court case in an attempt to prove who committed the murder all those years ago. An inheritance of valuable land is at stake. The judge overseeing it said it was a very confusing case (loc 4104/4486) and I agree. There are several side ventures Cusano included, adding interest to the book in general but not essential to the main plot. (An example is the the sick mother and little girl Effie helps.)

This is the debut novel from Cusano. The writing style is good but is in the present tense, something I always find disconcerting. I liked the ghosts and their involvement as well as the humor they generate. I do feel the plot lacked focus, however. The scenes change frequently, at times without sufficiently closing off the previous one. I did find the novel entertaining overall and look forward to reading the rest of the series.

My rating: 4/5 stars. 

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Mystery, Historical Mystery
Published by: 4610 Publishing
Series: The Old Cranberry Ladies Garden Club
Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

The Cranberry Farm, Connecticut, 1832

Dressed in her husband’s shirt, overalls, and boots, to avoid soiling her fine clothing, Elcira Cranberry takes the long way around from the main house to the potting shed at the edge of the carriage house property. She stops to press her face into the down-soft syringa vulgaris, better known as the lilac. Here, bordering the two parcels of land her husband planted all seven colors of the species, one variety each year for each of their children. What a loving thing to do, she had thought, until they started blooming and it became apparent that their spring-like lily of the valley fragrance was the perfect way to overpower the stench from the nearby outhouse. So much for romance. But she enjoyed them, her other children, as she called them, and each year she clips, grafts and coddles a new generation into life, hoping to extend their lives beyond the one-hundred-years they are expected to live.

“Be careful, dear,” he told Elcira when he saw her cradling the flowers to her nose, “some lilacs can be quite toxic.”

“I intend to enjoy every moment of my life with them.”

She steals away to her favorite place and unlocks the potting shed door with a brass key. It occurs to her that, dressed as she is, a passerby or nosy neighbor, like Colonel Townsend, could mistake her for Chester.

Elcira locks the door from the inside and pockets the key. She unbuttons the overalls and lets them drop to the floor. The work shirt becomes a work dress, and its function is to keep her cool.

The sunlight barely sneaks in—a voyeur, a peep, a trickle of light—enough for her to see her potted friends. The scent of lilacs and fresh soil erases all thoughts from her mind. This is her peaceful place. While she works at making a V-shaped cut in the stem of the yellow lilac, a sparrow chirps to her chicks in a nest under the eave of the roof. The nest sits precariously between the crossbeam and the top of the wall. The shed doesn’t offer much protection from the elements, but it provides shade from the sun and some cover from the rain and snow. Mostly, it provides Elcira with an asylum, a place to go to be alone with her thoughts.

“Elcira!” Chester barks. “Where are you? I need something to drink.” She knows he is in the barn again, moving piles of hay from one place to another, pitchfork in hand. He will be loading the hay onto the wagon to bring to the horses. If only the children were old enough to help him, she would have more time to spend with her horses. Theirs is the life, running within their rounded-fenced paddock on the bottom fifty, beyond the hill, drinking from the pond whenever they need refreshment. Why don’t you go down there, stick your head under, and breathe in all you can?

She brushes the dirt from her hands and wipes them on the overalls before stepping back into them. She doesn’t have much time to herself, but at least with Deborah watching the young ones and the older ones at the schoolhouse in town, these few hours are her time unless he calls. At least he’s not twiddling his fingers beneath some young thing’s whalebone corset.

She has thought about hiring one of those newly freed slaves as an all-around domestic as some of Elcira’s garden club ladies have done. No doubt Chester would want to choose one whose looks he fancies. It doesn’t matter to him what the skin looks like. His eyes roam where only modesty and necessity should venture. Freed slaves, like Deborah, do still turn some heads in town, but here,

on the edge of their property, where the Colonel lives, she is safe from wandering eyes and hands. Rumors do make their way from the wagging tongues of the garden club ladies, who are often more reliable than the local newspaper.

Elcira unlocks the potting shed and approaches the well. Deborah is sitting on the ground, her back against the stone well.

“Oh, Mrs. Cranberry. I didn’t expect anyone at this time of day.” Her nose is running, and her eyes look like ladybugs, red and black.

“You didn’t want to be seen. What’s wrong?” Elcira is unaccustomed to involving herself in the affairs of others, but Elcira has known Deborah since she was born. Her mom, Grace, was Colonel Townsend’s slave and nanny to his daughter, Penelope. Now, she is often alone in the house here on the edge of the Cranberry Farm while the colonel is away with his militia. Chester sold this property from the row of lilacs down to the small house to Colonel Townsend for a mangy mule and some seed. One of those neighborly deeds he is famous for, making him look like a true gentleman among all the other “true” gentlemen of this idyllic New England paradise lost.

Deborah places a hand on her belly and starts to cry. Instantly, Elcira understands.

“Who is the father?” Elcira expects her to say it is the colonel, but Deborah puts her head down and wipes her eyes with the hem of her skirt, revealing her legs. Even with her dark skin, Elcira spots remnants of bruises. If this is the twiddler’s work, God help him.

“Elcira! My water!”

“Oh hush, you old hoot!” Elcira reaches for the pail to lower it into the well, but Deborah takes it.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

Elcira grabs Deborah’s hands in hers. Their eyes meet. Neither of them moves. “Did he do this to you?” Elcira asks.

Deborah’s lip quivers. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cranberry. I couldn’t stop hi—”

“Hush now.” Elcira reaches for Deborah and hugs her. “I know, I know.”

This was not the first time he’d done it. But this isn’t one of the women who frequent the tavern looking for some company for a price. This is Deborah, her friend.

Elcira tightens her grip on her hands for a moment, taking a deep breath before letting go.

“I’ll take the water to him.” Elcira lowers the rope to fill the pail, her lips tight, pressed against each other as if the pail is too heavy. When she pulls it up, Deborah takes it from her.

“This is something I need to do myself,” she says.

A chill rushes through Elcira. Should she let Deborah confront the man who violated her? Deborah kisses Elcira on the cheek and says,” I’ll be fine. Go back to your lilacs. They will miss you.”

Elcira leans closer and kisses her on the cheek. “I will be in the shed. We can have privacy there.” She hands Deborah the brass key. “Keep it. You can unlock the shed at any time and lock it again from the inside. In case you need to get away by yourself, that is. I do it all the time.”

“What about you?”

“There is another key. I keep it on a hook in the shed, in case I get locked in,” she says, nodding toward the barn. “He won’t miss it.” Elcira walks back to the shed. On the way, she notices that Charley, Colonel Townsend’s horse is tied to a post at the house. Good. Deborah doesn’t have to be alone. She looks up at the barn. Chester wields the pitchfork like a hammer, stabbing bundles of hay to loosen them. Seeds and dust spray the air, glistening against the sun. He wipes his brow, jabs the pitchfork into a bale beside him, plants himself on a throne of hay, and takes the pail of water from Deborah.

Elcira clips a few branches from the white lilac bush near the door and brings them inside. The intoxicating aroma pulls her toward the porcelain white cups of the flower. Several fall off, a sign that the season is waning. Soon all the buds will be cast to the wind and the bushes will go back to serving as a hedge. When the flowers die, time dies with it.

She reaches for the key near the door’s hook. It is missing. It must be in the house.

“Elcira!”

For God’s sake. Leave me be. She grabs the door handle and gives it a turn. It won’t move. It’s locked.

“Deborah!” Elcira calls her name several times, but there is no answer.

***

Excerpt from THE GHOST AND THE KEY by Bill Cusano. Copyright 2025 by Bill Cusano. Reproduced with permission from Bill Cusano. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Bill Cusano is an author, a retired deacon in the Episcopal Church and a believer that it is the process rather than the outcomes that matter most in our lives. Retired from the corporate world and an eight-year stint running a non-profit feeding program, Bill attacks every project as a ministry, giving it his full commitment. Needing to readjust to life after losing the love of his life to leukemia in April of 2024, Bill returned to writing full-time, resulting in The Old Cranberry Ladies Garden Club series, the motivation and inspiration for which came from his wife’s voracious appetite for reading historical fiction. While this is Bill’s debut novel, he has always been a writer, publishing short stories and poems early on, and then beginning a daily spiritual blog in 2008. You can follow Bill’s Reflections From The Garden Bench along with other writings on his Substack account.

Catch Up With Bill Cusano:

BillCusano.com
Bill's Substack
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @billcusano
Instagram - @billcusano
X - @CusanoBill
Facebook - @bill.cusano

 

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I received a complimentary egalley of this book through Partners in Crime Book Tours. My comments are an independent review.

(My star ratings: 5-An exceptional book, 4-Better than average, relevant and liked by me, 3-It is average, 2-It is below average and not liked by me, 1-It is practically unreadable.)

How to Read People by Nathan Soren

About the Book:

 

Read people like an open book — detect lies, decode emotions, and understand what others are really thinking

Have you ever wished you could instantly know whether someone is being honest with you?

Do you struggle to interpret mixed signals, hidden motives, or silent tension in conversations?

Imagine walking into any room and quickly understanding people — without them saying a single word.

This book will show you how.

Whether you want to improve relationships, succeed in business, avoid manipulation, or simply feel more confident socially, this practical guide will help you decode human behavior, read body language with precision, and predict people's actions before they happen.

Inside, you’ll discover:

• How to “thin-slice” people and read them in just a few seconds
• The science of micro-expressions and what they reveal instantly
• A simple lie-detection framework used by behavioral experts
• Body language signals that expose attraction, discomfort, anxiety, and deception
• How manipulators operate — and the signs you should never ignore
• Emotional intelligence techniques to connect deeply and build trust
• Charisma-boosting strategies that make people instantly like you
• How to decode tone of voice, pacing, and word choice
• What your own body language is saying about you (often without you realizing)
• Real-world examples so you can apply what you learn immediately

This is not just a book about body language — it is a complete toolkit for understanding human nature, motives, and behavior on a deeper level.

My Review:

This is an informative little book. I like how he helps us become good observers and get nonverbal clues, like with body language. He has good information on how people communicate, how to be an active listener, how to be a good communicator, including recognizing and using feedback.

Nothing in this book is especially knew. The information contained can be found in other books on the same topic. I liked this one, however, because it is precise and is a good jumping board for further reading. It is a good introduction for those who are new to the topic.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

 

About the Author:

Nathan Soren is a bestselling author, communication and human behavior expert who helps people break free from social anxiety and unlock real confidence.

With a background in Human Resources, Nathan has seen firsthand how communication challenges hold people back—both personally and professionally. Driven by a passion to help others, he’s developed simple, practical strategies that anyone can use to connect better and feel at ease in conversations.

His books offer proven tools for mastering small talk, reading people, and building charisma—resonating with thousands of readers, including introverts and overthinkers eager to feel confident and natural.

Independently published, 141 pages.

(My star ratings: 5-An exceptional book, 4-Better than average, relevant and liked by me, 3-It is average, 2-It is below average and not liked by me, 1-It is practically unreadable.)

The Madness Pill by Justin Garson

About the Book:

A rollicking history of the life and work of an unheralded genius: Dr. Solomon Snyder, whose experiments with mind-altering drugs helped change the way we think about the causes and treatments of schizophrenia.

In the 1950s, the field of psychiatry had nothing to show for itself. While polio was being cured, antibiotics were being discovered, and cancer research was developing, the mental health world had no wins. Asylums were full and nobody had figured out how to fix insanity—specifically schizophrenia, the severest mental illness. Scientists became convinced that if they could engineer a pill to create madness, then they could cure it.

Centered around Solomon Snyder, the psychiatrist who ultimately did identify the madness pill, and the community of doctors and researchers he worked with, THE MADNESS PILL recounts the drug-fueled quest to cure schizophrenia. A wunderkind who started medical school at 19, Snyder worked steadily for decades to replicate the illness, ultimately finding in 1970 that amphetamines could trigger a schizophrenia-like state by flooding the brain with dopamine. Five years later, he went on to discover the dopamine receptor and proved that antipsychotic drugs work by disabling dopamine neurons. Snyder’s dopamine hypothesis inspired a generation of researchers to part ways with psychoanalysis and look for the biological basis of schizophrenia and other mental disorders.

Using first-hand research and interviews, THE MADNESS PILL is at once a raucous history and insightful portrait of a remarkable scientist who turned psychiatry into a respected science by transforming how mental illness is treated.

You can read an excerpt here.

My Review:

Garson has a personal interest in this topic as his own father was diagnosed with schizophrenia shortly after Garson's birth. The father did not want drugs and was restored to sanity through psychiatry sessions. He was able to continue work until symptoms returned a little over a decade later. Understanding of the disease had advanced and hospitalization with medication was frequent. The results were not good, however.

Garson explores the change in the medical world's understanding and treatment of the disease over the last decades. He writes of the research, the theories, the attempts to treat the condition. He concentrates on Dr. Snyder and his fellow researchers as they ultimately discovered a biological cause to the disease.

I appreciate this book. Garson has taken a difficult subject and helped me see the personal nature of it. This is a very readable book for those interested in science in general and mental disease in particular.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

About the Author:

Justin Garson, Ph.D., is a philosopher and historian of science at the City University of New York. He’s written numerous scholarly books and articles on biology, mind, and madness, including Madness: A Philosophical Exploration. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and children.

St Martin's Press, 240 pages.

I received a complimentary egalley of this book from the publisher. My comments are an independent review.

(My star ratings: 5-An exceptional book, 4-Better than average, relevant and liked by me, 3-It is average, 2-It is below average and not liked by me, 1-It is practically unreadable.)

Murder in Rome by T A Williams

About the Book:

Former DCI Dan Armstrong has been living and working in Florence for nearly three years—yet somehow, Rome has always eluded him. That is, until glamorous TV celebrity Tamsin Goodfaith turns up with a request he can’t refuse: investigate her uncle’s suspicious death in the Eternal City.

Philip Hastings was a billionaire financier, found dead at his magnificent—if slightly spooky—medieval castle in the Roman hills. Dan and his faithful canine companion, Oscar, soon find themselves surrounded by luxury, secrets and more suspects than sightseeing opportunities.

But when a second murder follows close behind, the case turns dangerously personal. With whispers of ghosts and crumbling alibis, Dan and Oscar must sniff out the truth before he becomes the next victim. Harder to crack than castle walls—and harder still than stopping Oscar from stealing snacks—this Roman holiday is anything but relaxing

 My Review:

This has been an entertaining series and this latest one is a good read too. It is plotted like a closed room mystery as all the suspects were in the castle. Oscar is such a great dog, protecting Dan. Williams has consistently been good at describing locations and he dies it well here. This series is great for lovers of cozy mysteries.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

You can read my review of the previous book in this series, Murder at the Duomo.

About the Author:

I've written all sorts: thrillers, historical novels, short stories and now I'm enjoying myself hugely writing romance and whodunnits. Romantic comedies are what we all need from time to time. Life isn’t always very fair. It isn’t always a lot of fun, but when it is, we need to embrace it. Murder mystery is all very well, but it needs to put a smile on your face, so that's why I like to inject some humour. I'm having a lot of fun writing the Armstrong and Oscar cozy mystery series set in sunny Italy. They are all standalone books but if you really want to do it properly, start with the first one in the series, Murder in Tuscany. If my books can whisk you away to gorgeous locations, put a smile on your face and maybe give your heartstrings a tug, then I know I’ve done my job.

Boldwood Books, 258 pages.

I received a complimentary egalley of this book from the publisher. My comments are an independent review.

(My star ratings: 5-An exceptional book, 4-Better than average, relevant and liked by me, 3-It is average, 2-It is below average and not liked by me, 1-It is practically unreadable.)

The Last Shift by S F Baumgartner a prequel novella

S F Baumgartner is a prolific writer. I have read all of her books, I think, and have watched her mature in her writing abilities. I was happy to see she is working on another thriller series called The Mercer Files. She is offering a free prequel. It is short, only 17 pages, but full of exciting information on the coming series. This prequel features Tom Mercer and the explosion on an off-shore drilling rig. Each novella in the coming series will feature one of his three sons.

Book one is about a hurricane, a buried off-shore oil rig and an investigative journalist. Book two features an inherited Australian mining claim and a teacher investigating the death of her grandfather. Book three involves a ship, a forensic accountant and a master archive that connects everything.

You can find out more about the author and download the short but free prequel at https://sfbaumgartner.com 

You can read my review of her latest full length novel, Stolen Secrets.

 

S.F. Baumgartner crafts fast-paced Christian suspense thrillers, weaving tales of complex characters, secretive operatives, and relentless agents. Her gripping storytelling has earned acclaim, with Living Secrets and Forgotten Secret—Books 1 & 2 of her Mirror Estate series—named Top Picks in the thriller & suspense categories, respectively, at Killer Nashville, and Tangled Secrets—Book 3 of Mirror Estate series—won couple of awards in the Christian Indie Awards and the Incipere Awards. When she’s not plotting her next twist, she’s binge-watching crime TV shows, like NCIS or playing with her cats. Fans of James Patterson’s style, especially those who appreciate short, punchy chapters, will find much to love in her work.  And as always, her books are all clean.

Trafficking in Murder by Jeannette de Beauvoir Blog Tour Book Review

 

TRAFFICKING IN MURDER

by Jeannette de Beauvoir

June 8 - July 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

SYDNEY RILEY PROVINCETOWN MYSTERY SERIES

 

When a Boston TV crew comes to Provincetown to shoot a segment at the Race Point Inn, owner Sydney Riley takes it in stride… until one of the producers mysteriously disappears. The missing producer soon winds up murdered, miles away, the corpse gruesomely displayed in a Wampanoag graveyard. Worse, a bizarre note on the body implies Sydney is responsible!

Meanwhile, a beautiful young Wampanoag woman has also gone missing. Ali, Sydney’s husband and a DHS counter-trafficking agent, is assigned to look into her disappearance. And Sydney needs to investigate who killed the TV producer and left that horrifying note. Are the two cases connected? Has Sydney’s past come back to haunt her—and threaten the people she loves?

TRAFFICKING IN MURDER Trailer:

My Review:

This novel starts out in Provincetown and I like how de Beauvoir gives us a good sense of that location and nearby places. The mystery is good and I found Sydney to be a very likable amateur sleuth. She is persistent in finding the truth, often putting herself in danger, much to the dismay of her law enforcement husband. There is a twist with brief suspense near the end. I found the novel's resolution to be quick and a bit unrealistic. With Sydney, I wondered what the villain had planned. It remains a mystery.

I appreciate the informative Author's Note, detailing the facts behind the fiction. My favorite part of the fact based novel was about the Mashpee Wampanoag. Readers will learn much of their history and their struggle to become federally recognized as a tribe.

I recommend this informational and entertaining mystery.

My rating: 4/5 stars. 

You can read my review of the previous novel in this series, The Honeymoon Homicides.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Beckett Books
Publication Date: May 22, 2026
Number of Pages: 322
ISBN: 979-8992594256
Series: Sydney Riley Provincetown Mystery Series, #11 | Each is a Stand Alone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

“Americans,” said my goddaughter, licking cheese and tomato sauce off her fingers, “eat twenty-three pounds of pizza every year.”

I looked at her suspiciously. There’s no doubt in anybody’s mind that Lily is precocious for a seven-year-old, but she also sometimes falls prey to what in artificial intelligence is known as hallucinations, and makes things up if she believes they’ll create a better story. “I don’t eat twenty-three pounds of pizza,” I said, even though we were in fact sitting at the Provincetown House of Pizza and contributing to the statistic.

“Not every American,” Lily conceded. “It’s an average.” She brightened. “So that means, some people eat way more than that!”

“That’s a lot of pizza,” I agreed. The truth is, I do regard it as a treat of sorts. I am part-owner of the Race Point Inn in Provincetown’s East End, and pizza is never featured on our Michelin-starred restaurant’s menu.

Besides, I like spending time with my goddaughter. When my best friend Mirela brought Lily back from Plovdiv in Bulgaria—where her sister had regarded the baby as an inconvenience and readily signed adoption papers so Mirela could bring Lily to the States—I hadn’t been quite as enthused. (To be fair, neither had Mirela: if there were ever someone who manifested zero maternal instincts, it’s her. As a mother, she’s something of a work in progress. That had not, however, stopped her from once becoming the fiercest mother bear ever out in the dunes when the baby’s life was threatened.)

In my defense, there aren’t that many non-parents who can truly embrace the demands of a baby, which morphed into the demands of a toddler, which finally metamorphosed into the very smart conversations one could now have with the girl sitting at the table with me.

“Did you know,” she said, “that some indigenous people call the earth Turtle Island?”

“I did not,” I said. She knows the word indigenous. Of course she does. “Are you going to eat that piece?”

She shook her head, intent on her thought. “The way the turtle shell is curved works okay for half the earth,” she said. “That makes sense. But what about the bottom half? And where does the turtle sit, or stand, and how come people don’t fall off the turtle? And if we’re on Turtle Island, why don’t we just float away? But if we did, what would we be floating on top of?”

“Good questions,” I said. Somewhere in the back of my mind an expression flitted by, turtles all the way down, but I couldn’t remember who said it or what it meant, and didn’t want to further complicate the conversation. I picked up the last slice of pizza and took a bite. “You could look them up and see.”

“Aunt Sydney,” she said to me with dramatic excessive patience, “I already did. I know how to do research! But no one knows.”

When I was seven, I probably didn’t even know the word research. I sighed. Maybe she could make it her dissertation topic. At the rate she was going, that was probably going to happen sometime next year. “It’s their story,” I said. “Lots of cultures have stories to explain how things work.”

“But if everybody’s got a different story, how do we know which one is true?”

We’d gone from alimentation to geography to metaphysics in under four minutes, which had to be a record of some kind. I was rescued by the arrival of my husband. “I see you didn’t save me any pizza,” he said, sitting down at the table and reaching over to tousle Lily’s hair.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” I said.

“Uncle Ali,” said Lily, “How do we know whose story is true?”

“Story?” He raised his eyebrows, amused, and gave me a smile, which always—even after twelve years together—takes my breath away. Ali is Lebanese-American, and is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

“Origin myths,” I told him. “Turtle Island.”

He said to Lily, “Truth can be different from facts, you know? Different stories are true for different people. In my religion, we don’t think the world started with a turtle. We think Allah created it, and did it in seven days.” He paused. “Does that sound like a fact to you?”

She shook her head. “My mom can’t even do a painting in seven days, sometimes,” she said.

“So they’re not facts, our stories, but even if we know they’re not factual, they tell us some truths about who we are,” he said.

“What truths does your story tell?”

He considered the question. Ali always treats Lily like a miniature adult. It works okay more often than not. “Well, it tells me that Allah is good, because the earth is good. It tells me Allah pays attention. It reminds me that he wants me to live in a way that I pay attention, too. And I think that people who tell the story of Turtle Island must be very close to the earth and nature, and the turtle reminds them of that.”

“Okay.” She was probably filing it all away to ask Mirela about later. “Are you going to order a pizza?”

Ali smiled. “I think not,” he said. “I was just passing and saw your Aunt Sydney’s car here so thought I’d stop in to say hello, because I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“It hasn’t been forever, Uncle Ali,” Lily said seriously. “It was last week.”

“Well, it feels like forever,” he said. “What are you ladies doing after lunch?”

“I don’t know about Lily,” I said, “but this lady has work to do.”

“You have to take me home first,” Lily said.

“I know.”

“My mom gave me the key,” Lily said.

“I know. She told me. And you haven’t lost it?”

She made a face. “Of course not, Aunt Sydney. I’m responsible.”

“You certainly are,” I said, smiling. I stood up and began clearing the table. “Want to help me with this? What time’s your mom coming home?”

She finished her soda, sucking noisily on the straw. “When she’s done at the gallery.”

That could be anytime. Mirela isn’t just any artist; even in Provincetown—itself an important art colony, the oldest continuous one in North America—she’s one of the town’s hottest artists. She came to P’town from Bulgaria one summer to work, back when Bulgarian students came here in droves; they still come, but in somewhat smaller numbers; Provincetown is changing. She spent that first summer waiting tables at Joon Bar and The Mews, driving a pedicab, and painting seascapes, mostly of the harbor. The paintings sold, and she stayed on, eventually becoming a US citizen; but over those years her style changed. Now she creates abstract works that sell for tens and even hundreds of thousands of dollars. She’s also marginally psychic, and some of her paintings carry eerie messages that scare the hell out of me.

Lily is, of course, her loudest critic, and often complains that her work doesn’t look like anything in particular; I privately agree with that assessment.

Very privately.

Ali stood up and opened his arms for a hug. “I’ll see you soon, habibi,” he said. It’s an Arabic endearment he reserves for Lily. He generally uses Italian ones with me. He thinks they make him sound sexy.

He’s right.

Lily duly deposited at Mirela’s house in the West End, Ali and I returned to the Race Point Inn, which was doing its usual brisk business. It was late June, the start of the tourist season, when Provincetown’s population makes the switch from three thousand residents in the winter to eighty thousand in the summer. The inn’s open year-round, and we’re generally booked up completely from April to December. I’ve been part of the inn now, one way or another, for over fourteen years, and yet am still absorbing what that entails: people, people, and more people.

Ali disappeared into our residence, which is the penthouse on the top floor of the inn, and I went in search of Wendy, the inn’s manager and—I could swear—magician. She soothed ruffled feathers, dealt with crises, handled difficult people, all the things I’m not terribly good at. We all have our areas of specialty.

Mine is murder.

***

That’s not really true, of course; I haven’t actually killed anybody yet, though I’ve come close a few times. In my fantasies, anyway. No; as Julie Agassi, the head of the Provincetown Police detective unit, tells it, if there’s a dead body anywhere in town, I’m going to be the one to have found it. Or known about it. Or been somehow involved with it. And it’s true that I seem to have a Jessica Fletcher/Miss Marple-level of amateur connection to crime.

It started one summer morning when I went to take an early dip in the Race Point’s pool—at the time, I was employed as the inn’s wedding coordinator—and found the body of my boss floating in the water with me. A thousand times ick, as well as a sorrow I’ve never really gotten over: Barry had been the kindest, gentlest man I’d ever known.

So of course I wanted to be part of bringing his killer to justice.

After that, it felt somehow natural for me to be on the scene of other crimes. Provincetown isn’t very big, and my work brings me into contact with a tremendous number of people, so it’s logical, really, that I’d have more success in figuring things out than would the State Police, dispatched from up-Cape to investigate homicides and not necessarily all that familiar with our little quirks down here.

And quirky doesn’t even begin to describe Provincetown. The town is a vibrant art colony. It’s also a gay-resort destination. And an old fishing village that still retains the remnants of the commercial fleet, along with the Portuguese families who worked it. Once upon a time, one of the whaling capitals of the world. And before that, the summer home of an indigenous population. All that history, all that mix makes for people who most decidedly do not do things by the book. Some outsiders find that disconcerting.

I find it… home.

Wendy was sitting in the empty restaurant drinking coffee and going over the evening’s menu with Martin, the maître d’. “It doesn’t matter; she says we have to take it off,” he was saying.

I pulled up a chair. “Take what off?”

“The salmon en croute,” said Martin. “She is not pleased with the quality of today’s delivery.”

Wendy was shaking her head. “Seriously? I don’t get it. Everybody likes salmon,” she objected. “Even people who don’t like fish, like salmon. She’s got it; for heaven’s sake, what else does she want to do with it?”

Martin made a face; I could only imagine what “she” had said to do with it. She was, of course, Adrienne the diva chef, by whose graces we had earned and kept our Michelin rating. She also had absolutely no care for anybody’s feelings; staff had been known to quit their first night of service because she’d completely terrorized them. My co-owner, Mike, seemed to be the only person who took her tantrums in stride. “It is not a local fish,” Martin was saying, his French accent somehow making the remark more persuasive. “And she has two other piscatory dishes on the menu…”

Wendy snorted. “For heaven’s sake,” she said again, but she said it with resignation. We all knew the truth: what Adrienne the diva chef wanted, Adrienne the diva chef got. “I’m going to have to reprint the menus.”

“Such is the nature of our curious enterprise,” said Martin, shrugging; he knows which battles to fight. He turned to me. “Sydney? Was there something you needed?”

“I wanted to check in with Wendy about the TV crew,” I said. We were being featured on one of the local-things-to-do, early-evening programs out of Boston, which was both a Good Thing—it helps to be known as a Weekend Waypoints destination—and also was going to be disruptive of staff and guests alike.

“Arriving tomorrow morning,” she said, changing gears briskly and seemingly effortlessly. “Mike wants you to do the interview, did he tell you?”

“He did.” Mike and I had become co-owners of the inn when its former owner gave up Provincetown for Amsterdam and his new love. Mike had been the manager, so he slipped easily into the role of keeping on top of the practical side of things, whereas once I gave up coordinating weddings, I tended more toward the public-relations side of ownership, attended business guild meetings, helped organize events, went off-Cape to conferences… and, apparently, did interviews for Boston television stations.

I also valued Wendy’s impressive organizational skills. “Where do you suggest it will disrupt people the least? The interview, I mean? The part I’m doing?”

“You’re doing the whole part,” she corrected me. “You’re going to have to stick with them, and take the producers to lunch here, I have a table for you at one o’clock.” She pulled out her smartphone and started scrolling. “Juliet Mills and Bruce Peterson,” she read. “And rooms thirty-four and eighteen will be empty and prepared for the cameras, but you have to be out of eighteen by lunchtime because we have an early arrival for it.”

I raised my eyebrows ever so slightly. “Thirty-four? Do you think that’s a good idea? You know they’ll have done their homework.” I could still hear Lily’s voice saying she knew how to do research; there was absolutely no way television producers didn’t.

It wasn’t that thirty-four is a bad room—it’s actually quite nice, with antique furnishings and a window overlooking the largest of our patios, the one with the arbor. It had been two years since Ali and I had stood on that patio exchanging wedding vows when we were interrupted by a man’s body falling very nearly on top of us.

From room thirty-four.

“They requested it,” said Wendy. “It adds a little pizzazz, knowing a murder happened here.”

Two murders, in fact, if you counted the body in the pool years before that. My instinct was to downplay that particular facet of the Race Point’s claims to fame. But Wendy leaned into it, and her decision had proved successful. There was even talk, sometimes, of a possible haunting. And people liked that. “Your call,” I said, making a face.

“I’ve put together a schedule,” Wendy went on, her voice brisk. Potential ghosts weren’t playing into her agenda—for the day, at least. “They’ll spend the morning shooting the inn, then after lunch they’ll go down Commercial Street, do shots of the town. They call it B-roll. Back here for a wrap-up before dinner service starts. Nine of them in all: producers, director, the on-air talent, and cameras and sound.”

“Okay.” I knew better than to argue: Wendy knew what she was doing. Nothing could go wrong.

Which just goes to show how little I understand about fate, or life, or anything.

***

Excerpt from Trafficking in Murder by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2026 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Jeannette de Beauvoir is the author of historical and mystery/thriller fiction and a poet whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She has written three mystery series along with a number of standalone novels; her work “demonstrates a total mastery of the mystery/suspense genre” (Midwest Book Review) She’s a member of the Authors Guild, the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and the Historical Novel Society. She lives and works in a seaside cottage on Cape Cod where she’s also a local theatre critic and hosts an arts-related program on local community radio.

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(My star ratings: 5-An exceptional book, 4-Better than average, relevant and liked by me, 3-It is average, 2-It is below average and not liked by me, 1-It is practically unreadable.)

Voices of the Elysian Fields by Michael Rigg

About the Book:

Two days before Christmas, Jonathan Gray, M. D., Chief Deputy Coroner for Orleans Parish, receives shocking news. Robby O'Malley-Jonathan's mentor for nearly forty years-has died under mysterious circumstances. Within hours after Robby's death, Gray takes the oath of office as Coroner and participates in autopsies of an elderly couple murdered in their Garden District home. After mass on Christmas morning, Archbishop Phillip Fontenot asks Gray to investigate the sexual assault of one of his parishioners, as well as the disappearance of her sister-without involving the police. As Jonathan winds his way through what appear to be separate incidents, he uncovers connections and secrets that members of the city's power elite would just as soon remain hidden.

My Review:

I enjoyed this mystery set in New Orleans. Gray is a good sleuth, a mix of amateur and law enforcement. As coroner for New Orleans, he carries a weapon but he has not been trained in police procedure. Nonetheless, he does a good job investigating the puzzling death of his boss. Then there are more deaths. Powerful people in the city may be involved in not only murder but in the cover up of additional crimes. That comes to light when Gray is asked by the Archbishop to investigate a possible need for sanctuary. Missing women and unfiled death certificates deepen the mystery.

Rigg has given readers a good mystery involving puzzling evidence, powerful politicians and wealthy families. The setting is done well and the main characters are fully developed. The plot is believable right up to the surprising twist and the final action which seemed beyond belief for me. Nonetheless, this is a fine debut effort and I look forward to reviewing the second novel in the series in a few weeks.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

About the Author:

Agatha and Anthony-nominated author Michael Rigg, a lawyer for more than four decades, writes mysteries and thrillers set in two very different locations: Virginia Beach (where he lives) and New Orleans (which he visits as often as possible “for research,” including participation in three Mardi Gras Krewes). He is a retired Navy Judge Advocate and a retired civilian government attorney, formerly working for the Department of the Navy Office of the General Counsel. He is a member of International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America, and both the Sisters in Crime national organization and its Southeastern Virginia Chapter—Mystery by the Sea.

Level Best Books, 344 pages.

I received a complimentary egalley of this book through Partners in Crime Book Tours. My comments are an independent review.

(My star ratings: 5-An exceptional book, 4-Better than average, relevant and liked by me, 3-It is average, 2-It is below average and not liked by me, 1-It is practically unreadable.)

Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove by Paul Charles Blog Tour Book Review

 

HI LOVE, YOU JUST DROPPED YOUR GLOVE

by Paul Charles

June 1 - July 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A McCusker Mystery

 

Thomas Barry, Lefty Kelly, and Brendy McCusker were all teenage boys who were roaming the streets of Portrush, County Antrim, in Northern Ireland in 1976 when Thomas Barry quite literally bumped into Isabella Scott, and he uttered the words of the title. In July 2019, the same Thomas Barry's remains were discovered at the foot of the Pilgrim's Steps in the Portrush Harbour. There were an extra 200,000 people visiting Portrush that week as The Royal Golf Club played host to Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy and the UK Open Tournament.

McCusker and DI Lily O'Carroll are conscripted from the PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) in Belfast to help the already stretched local police force work on the case. They discover McCusker's childhood friends Barry and Isabella Scott had married and then...well then, everything became very complicated relationship-wise involving Isabella's sister, Colette, lawyers, accountants, and showband singers. Thomas had become an ultra-successful property developer, sometimes in partnership with the Buckley Brothers, at least one of whom doesn't mind the cowboy approach to work. Meanwhile, McCusker is pining over a recent relationship he had started back in Belfast with O'Carroll's sister, Grace.

Set against the backdrop of the (actual) UK Golf Open taking place in a small seaside town, where absolutely everyone has an opinion, and their opinions they are keen to share.

Praise for Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove:

"Paul Charles' Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove is a page turner par excellence. Written written with Charles' customary verve. Another brilliantly compelling atmospheric effort from a master crime writer."

"A welcome return for Brendy McCusker... Charles crafts with such a careful eye on the sparks that can fly—some of them charming, some witty, some downright menacing—between characters who don't happen to see eye to eye, or sometimes even to be operating in the same galaxy. Once again, it's hard to resist a hero who realizes, 'He just had a habit of opening his mouth and not knowing what was going to come out."
~ Kirkus Reviews

"Charles's skillful depiction of the many sides of love and its strange bypaths lifts this clever novel well above the genre average."
~ Publishers Weekly

"Paul Charles is an outstanding author of crime fiction novels. They are models of character development and powerful observations of people the detectives meet. I enjoy reading his books."
~ Irish American News

"Charles's skilful depiction of the many sides of love and its strange bypaths lifts this clever novel well above the genre average."
~ Publishers Weekly

"Charles has a wealth of experience in the crime genre from his past Kennedy and Starrett novels and the McCusker series delivers the same blend of mystery and engaging protagonists. The characters have an authenticity that Charles has fine-tuned throughout his writing career. Charles ability to weave real-like details helps bring the story full to life. A Day in The Life of Louis Bloom is both a love letter to Belfast and a gripping thriller."
~ Aoife Bradshaw, Hot Press

"Charles In Full Bloom With Novel... a thrilling page-turner."
~ Sunday World

"Amusing light-hearted entertainment from Paul Charles."
~ The Irish Independent

HI LOVE, YOU JUST DROPPED YOUR GLOVE Trailer:

My Review:

This mystery is deeply set in Irish culture. The murder mystery itself is complex and involves many relationships. There is no evidence to speak of so McCusker and the other investigators do a number of interviews, trying to understand all the relationships. And there are many. There are marriages, divorces, remarriages and affairs that need to be straightened out to find the murderer. Surprisingly, there was some humor I enjoyed too.

Charles is not a concise writer. His style reminds me of Dickens or Hardy. There is a great deal of cultural material included in this book and I have to admit I skimmed some of the lengthy descriptive paragraphs. This is a book for readers who would like a deep dive into the culture of an Irish community like Portrush and appreciate a long and involved investigation. Liking golf would be a plus as there is a major tournament taking place of great interest to the locals.

My rating: 4/5 stars. 

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural, Crime Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: March 31, 2026
Number of Pages: 382
ISBN: 9798898201050
Series: A McCusker Mystery, Book 3 | Stand Alone
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I was born here and I’ll die here, against my will.
—Dylan

‘Hi love, you just dropped your glove.’

When she turned to face him, he was amazed. He remained totally in shock to the extent he became a blabbering idiot.

‘Just now as it fell from your coat pocket…’ he continued, ‘I caught it before it hit the wet ground… Honestly it didn’t get wet. I mean it’s a little wet, but only from the rain and not the pavement…agh…’ and mid-sentence he reluctantly turned and chased after his two mates.

She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever set his eyes on during his seventeen years on this earth. When she’d passed him a few life-changing seconds beforehand, she was walking, arms interlinked in the midst of two friends with her head bowed to the pavement. Consequently, he’d missed her green eyes, hidden by her long black hair, and he’d missed her quiet demeanour, but, most of all, he’d also missed the chance to make a connection.

He insisted his two mates, Brendan and Lefty, continue walking around the streets of Portrush with him until darkness fell ninety minutes later. He was working on the theory they’d bump into the three girls again. They’d discovered, to his cost, the only thing more difficult than finding someone in Portrush in the peak holiday season was finding someone on the deserted streets of Portrush during the off-peak season, when Ulster’s number one tourist centre reverted to its more comfortable status of winter ghost town, aka Ghostrush.

Thomas Barry—Tommy to his acquaintances, Tom to his good friends—minus his two mates was back on the streets the following morning, just before eight o’clock. He walked the short distance from his parents’ house in the sedate Antrim Gardens to the nearly (but not quite) refurbished railway station in Eglinton Street, passing the moth-balled Barry’s (historic) Amusement Arcade on the way. It was a journey just like he’d done most days of his life. Most other days of his life. though, he’d just taken Barry’s (no relation) and every other local landmark, for granted. That Sunday morning in October 1976 though he’d studied every nook and cranny around the streets of the Port as if his life depended on it.

He felt it did.

When his friends met up with him just before lunch time, he admitted to them he’d already had tea and toast in Portrush’s Holiday Hostel, with its ultra-colourful rooms; the once elegant Adelphi Hoteland The Atlantic Hotel, with its spectacular views, in the vain hope the three girls were out-of-towners. The other hotels and guest houses were all closed for the winter, he claimed. Still, he’d tried them all, “just in case, you understand.” He also, for one who’d always gone to great trouble to keep the majority of his feelings inarticulately to himself, articulately explained he felt for the sake of his well-being, if not his life, he needed to find this girl. He also admitted that, not only did he not know what he was going to say to her when, and if, he met her, but if such an accidental, on purpose, meet happened he’d be so tongue-tied again, he might even need to walk on past her. He just knew he really needed to find her. He told them he’d been awake all-night thinking about her. Lefty put him out of his misery by offering to take him to some of the out-of-town hotels. The two of them hopped on Lefty’s trusted red Vespa 125 scooter and headed off out past Kelly’s trailer park and bar and on to Castle Rock, Portstewart, Portballintrae and even Bushmills.

They returned just over an hour later with the Vespa’s petrol tank empty and their four arms all the one length.

Thomas Barry admitted to his two best friends he’d never felt so convinced about anything before in his life. A real-life girl had never ever had such an effect on him before. Isabella Adjani on the silver screen yes, but a real live human, certainly not. He most certainly accepted the fact he was never ever going to meet the long-haired, green-eyed girl again in his life.

He admitted how weird this feeling was to him.

Nonetheless he continued his search.

He thought of all the things he could have done, should have done. Perhaps all of them were things capable of scaring her off for life. But what did it matter now? He’d most certainly lost her for life.

The lads wanted to go to the Old Harbour Bar. Even with the new glitzy restaurant extension, accessed by a half a flight of wooden stairs, it was still the cosiest bar in the winter and their favourite watering hole. He declined, suggesting he might join them later. Once again, he took to the streets of Portrush. The same familiar streets he had taken for granted all his life, but which now took on major importance due to the fact they may be keeping him from finding the green-eyed girl. He tried chastising himself for feeling sorry for himself. It didn’t work. How could it possibly work when someone, something, a God even, if such a spirit existed, had allowed him to experience this special creature and then not equip him properly about how to approach her? He chastised himself further for not considering what he’d say to her if, or when, he met her. He’d already let himself down once by blabbering away when he had the perfect excuse to greet her. Equally he felt if he had something rehearsed it would have sounded too false, stifled, insincere and a chat up line. He kicked himself over his rap about her glove being wet not because he had let it fall on the wet pavement but because it had gotten damp in the rain.

He’d never been one for the chat up lines. They’d left those to Lefty. Funny enough this approach hadn’t worked out for their lead wingman either. Thomas Barry had often wondered if they’d become mates, “blood brothers” just so they could hang out together and look for girls. Anyway, they had launched their little gang, the BLTs. They even had their own unique motto: May the Sauce be With You. It was funny at the time. They’d picked it over a meal together in Morelli’s as they simultaneously chased the food-saving flavouring known as HP. They’d also debated using: Life is a Beach and Then the Tide Goes Out,. Considering their endgame objective, they had unanimously voted against this option on the grounds it was too negative. As he wandered around the deserted streets, now it had gotten down to the nitty-gritty, he wasn’t so sure about their motto either, or even about their gang in the first place. Lefty was always complaining three wasn’t a good number to hang out in. If they met two girls and got through the even more complicated task of chatting them up, then the girls would surely feel sorry for the additional boy they would have to exclude due to the mathematical impossibilities. He reckoned maybe they could possibly have made the problematic maths work down in the more liberal Belfast. In the meantime, they had agreed they would figure out such a scenario as and when it arose. Lefty had claimed the girls would probably make their preference known and they, the boys, would just have to deal with it. They’d been happy to leave the tactics to Lefty. Even though Lefty’s tactics had, so far, been 100% unsuccessful, they still left him in charge. The alternate didn’t bear thinking about.

Tommy wondered if it would be any easier if, and when, one of them found a girlfriend and peeled off their gang as it were. He wondered who’d be the first to find a girl. He thought if you were a betting man and you followed the odds, then Lefty should be the first to find a girl. But then what would they do? They’d surely be lost without the tactics man. Or would they?

‘At least the rain has stopped,’ he said aloud, as he rounded the corner of the forsaken Mark Street Lane and into the desolate Atlantic Avenue.

‘Hi Love,’ he thought he heard a ghostly breathy voice say, not much above a whisper, ‘you haven’t found another glove, have you?’

There she was, there right in front of him on what would now become the hallowed, Atlantic Avenue. His green-eyed girl’s green eyes were smiling straight at him.

He was so intent on finding her he pretty much nearly walked straight into her. He knew if she hadn’t spoken first, he would have walked past her. Lucky enough before he’d a chance to figure out what he was going to say she spoke again.

‘What am I like?’ she started, ‘I’m forever losing a glove, thankfully never both at the same time, mind you, always just the one at a time. The one you picked up for me I…’

‘I’ve been looking for you all day,’ he admitted, his voice sounding a lot calmer than he felt.

‘Mmmm,’ she replied, studying his face and sounding like she knew, and accepted, such an admission wasn’t as weird as he feared, ‘you’d look good with a moustache.’

Of all the things he’d imagined her to reply, and most of them also included her rushing off as quickly as her shapely legs would carry her, this was not even in the top 1000. It wasn’t as though he had actually come up with more than three possible replies.

Before he knew it, they were involved in a natural freewheeling conversation.

She seemed inclined to linger rather than to walk away.

At a very brief lull in the conversation, they both silently acknowledged they didn’t want the conversation to be stifled, so they spurted out their next questions simultaneously.

‘Do you live here?’ Tommy asked.

‘Who were you talking to as you walked around the corner?’ she asked over the top of his question.

‘No, I’m at the University of Ulster in Coleraine and one of my course mates invited me and another friend over to her parents’ house for the weekend. Her parents own a wee guest house over by the West Strand,’ she said in response to his question.

‘I was talking to myself,’ he admitted, ‘what’s your friend’s name?’

‘Gilly Hutchinson.’

‘Oh,’ he said, without even meaning to.

‘You know her?’

‘Well I know of her,’ he replied, ‘I know her sister.’

‘Which one?

‘Gilly would have been a few years ahead of me,’ Tommy replied.

‘Right,’ she replied, without allowing him to finish, ‘so you’d know the youngest, Emmi Mae.’

‘Yeah we were really good friends when we were…oh 13 ish and then she outgrew me.’

‘Ah yes, it happens at 13 or even 13-ish.’

‘Tell me about it,’ he offered more to himself, ‘so was that Gilly the blonde-haired girl with you yesterday?’

‘No, Gilly was swotting, you saw the eldest sister, Adele, who’s just great craic altogether.’

‘Okay, figures, I don’t know her at all,’ he replied.

He looked at his green-eyed girl out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see her as well as he’d seen her yesterday when they’d met face to face. She still looked stunning even though her long dark hair covered the side of her face. He couldn’t see those amazing green eyes though. On the upside what he’d missed yesterday was her personal scents. She smelt of a blend of soap, shampoo, mixed with little hints of a heather based perfume. The combination was totally intoxicating. ‘I’m Tommy,’ he offered, extending his hand, and knowing it was an excuse to steal another glimpse of her stunning emerald eyes, ‘Tom Barry.’

‘I know,’ she said, offering her own hand in return.

‘You know?’ he said, surprised while noticing two of her top teeth protruded a wee bit to the extent it looked like her top lip was going to have trouble covering them.

‘Yes, Adele told me,’ she said, as she smiled, ‘she also said you weren’t part of the other Portrush Barry family.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he said, still holding her soft skinned hand and shaking it gently, determined to never let it go again if he could get away with it. ‘’Fraid it also means I’ll not be able to get you free rides on the dodgems.’

‘I’d be more of a Barry’s Big Dipper kind of girl, anyway.’

‘Ditto on the Big Dipper, although I can’t pull any strings there either,’ he offered regretfully, while thinking he didn’t see her as being a Big Dipper kind of girl. All that screaming seems so alien to one so reserved and private. ‘I could get you a pony ride on the beach though if you wanted?’

‘Accepted,’ she replied, seeming content to leave her hand where it was, she leaned towards him, her nostrils wriggling the more they bridged the gap to his ear, ‘but not being part of the amusements also means you won’t smell of petrol and grease and candyfloss.’

‘Or Daulse and Yellowman,’ he added, attempting to complete her list and praying it was a compliment, ‘oh look…’ he continued and pointed with his free hand to the cuff of her red duffle coat, ‘there’s your missing glove, stuck up the sleeve of your coat.’

Sadly, for Tommy, this gave her an excuse to break away from him.

‘I’m Isabella,’ she said, retrieving her glove, ‘Isabella Scott and the pleasure to meet you on this wintery weekend, is all mine. That’s twice you saved me, Tommy, which means I’ll never forget you.’

And that, was how Tommy Barry and Isabella Scott first met.

Neither Isabella, her two friends, Gilly Hutchinson and Jane Murray nor Tommy Barry’s two friends, Lefty Kelly and Brendan ‘Brendy’ McCusker, would ever forget Tommy Barry. This fact was even more definite now that forty-three years later (bar three months) on Wednesday July 17th, 2019, the very same Tommy Barry died a very unnatural death.

***

Excerpt from Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove by Paul Charles. Copyright 2026 by Paul Charles. Reproduced with permission from Paul Charles. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Paul Charles began his career in music at fifteen years old, managing his first band, The Blues by Five, in his hometown of Magherafelt in Northern Ireland. He moved to London in 1967 intending to study civil engineering but was quickly drawn back into the music world. In the 1970s he worked in multiple roles for the Belfast prog rock band FRUUPP, who signed to Dawn Records and toured widely across the UK and Europe. Charles lyrics for Sheba's Song were later sampled and used as Soon The New Day by Talib Kweli featuring Norah Jones on the album Ear Drum which debuted at #2 on the Billboard Top 200 chart in 2007. After FRUUPP disbanded Charles co funded the Asgard Agency and has represented major artists including Crosby Stills & Nash, Jackson Browne, Tom Waits, The Kinks, Van Morrison, Robert Plant, Ani DiFranco, Gordon Lightfoot, Nick Lowe, Elvis Costello, Loudon Wainwright III, John Lee Hooker, and Ry Cooder. He has programmed the Acoustic Stage at the Glastonbury Festival for the last 38 years. A life long writer he published his first Christy Kennedy mystery in 1997 Level Best Book have just published his 22nd mystery - Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove.

Catch Up With Paul Charles:

PaulCharlesBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram - @paulcharlesbooks

 

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A CHANCE MEETING, A CHANCE TO WIN

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HI LOVE, YOU JUST DROPPED YOUR GLOVE by Paul Charles | Gift Cards

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I received a complimentary egalley of this book through Partners in Crime Book Tours. My comments are an independent review.

(My star ratings: 5-An exceptional book, 4-Better than average, relevant and liked by me, 3-It is average, 2-It is below average and not liked by me, 1-It is practically unreadable.)