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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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.)

Last Dance Before Dawn by Katharine Schellman Blog Tour Book Review

 

LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN

by Katharine Schellman

May 25 - June 19, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Nightingale Mysteries

 

Vivian Kelly has finally created a home and a family at the glamorous speakeasy known as The Nightingale, where no one cares who you are in the daytime. After all, in the underground world of 1920s New York City, everyone has a secret to keep, and they’re on the Nightingale's dance floor to leave those secrets behind. But sometimes it takes more than a dance to escape your past.

When a stranger from Chicago shows up at The Nightingale looking to settle old scores, Vivian and the Nightingale's owner, the mysterious and alluring Honor Huxley, send him packing. They soon discover, though, that the stranger was just a warning. Slowly, the people who have made The Nightingale their home realize that someone is following them. Hunting them. And that someone won’t stop until they unravel a mystery that’s been cold for years: a missing girl, a boy out for revenge, and a truck full of cash that disappeared in a job gone horribly wrong.

Vivian just wants to protect the people she loves, and she's willing to dig into the dirt of the past to make it happen. But some questions are safer left unanswered, and now that Vivian has built a family for herself, she has more to lose than ever before.

Now experience this Edgar Award–nominated historical mystery in paperback!

Praise for Last Dance Before Dawn:

"A lively, sprawling crime story that captures the vibrancy of the Roaring ’20s."
~ Kirkus Reviews

My Review:

This historical mystery is an engaging character and relationship driven one. It is firmly set in the prohibition era and well describes the time. There is a prominent speakeasy dance hall, the kind of place where people know your name but do not care about your history. There are heartless mobsters. There are policemen on the take. There are loyal employees and there are rats. There is also a surprise passionate romance.

While this is not the first book in this series, it is the first I have read. There are references to earlier events but I felt it read well on its own. I really liked the dance hall owner, Honor, a tough woman in a tough world. Yet she has a heart ready to embrace love. I also liked the relationship tension experienced by the characters. Will Quinn be loyal to his mob boss or to his own family? Will Danny be loyal to the Nightingale or to his new daughter? I wish there were more in the series to enjoy, but this is the final one.

An enjoyable historical mystery, I recommend it.

My rating: 4/5 stars. 

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Minotaur Books
Publication Date: May 26, 2026 | Paperback
Number of Pages: 350
ISBN: 978-1250325822
Series: The Nightingale Mysteries, Book 4 || Amazon, Goodreads, Macmillan Publishers
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Macmillan Publishers

Read an excerpt:

Manhattan, 1925

Everyone came to the Nightingale looking for something.

They didn’t have much else in common, the folks who snuck down the alley toward a single electric light that flickered like it had been forgotten for years and could burn out at any moment. You never knew who would whisper the password at the door under the light, who would make their way through the midnight velvet curtains that muffled loud laughter and louder jazz.

Maybe your family could have bought half of Fifth Avenue, or maybe you couldn’t even buy new shoes. More likely, you lived somewhere in between, with work that paid your bills and the hope, one day, of something a little more. At the Nightingale, it didn’t matter who you were in the daytime. If you could hold your booze and let loose on the dance floor and keep a secret for a stranger, you were in.

They came looking for excitement, for the thrill of breaking a law that no one liked anyway. They came to dance and drink and maybe find a new friend, the sort of friend who—¬ after a glass or three of champagne—¬ would meet them in a quiet corner to get a little bit friendlier.

They came because they loved the music, the way it curled through the air and carried them across the floor, the way the singer’s voice filled the room and made their hearts ache.

They came for the party. They came to escape.

If they were lucky, they could pretend that whatever waited for them back at home didn’t exist. They could lose themselves in the music and the arms of someone new. They could feel free, even if it would never last, because in that moment nothing mattered but the next dance, the next drink, the next hour.

If they were lucky, they found what they were looking for, and they left before trouble could find them.

But not everyone was lucky.

***

Vivian recognized the sound of danger before she even realized what she was hearing.

Twilight had settled on the city, humid and heavy and speckled with the glow of streetlamps. She and Beatrice Henry—¬ Beatrice Bluebird, as she was known at the Nightingale, where she sang six nights a week—¬ moved through it with the practiced carefulness of two women who were used to navigating New York’s streets alone. Their steps were quick, but their eyes were quicker, always on the lookout for a man who might be trouble or a cop who might be trailing them.

The Nightingale paid off the police weekly, like any other dance hall or juice joint. But everyone who worked there knew to be wary just the same.

It was that wariness that sent a prickle of warning down Vivian’s back when they were two blocks from the Nightingale’s back entrance.

“Bea—¬ ” Vivian tossed out a hand to stop her friend in the middle of the sidewalk. A few steps ahead of them, a cat yowled as it ran out of a narrow alley. “You hear that?”

For a moment, the only sound out of the ordinary was the distant grumble of thunder. Then Vivian heard it again.

“Look a little closer, pal.” The voice was low and menacing, snaking out of the shadows and clearly not meant to be overheard. “I want to make sure you and me is on the same page.”

“Viv—¬ ” Bea hissed, but Vivian couldn’t help herself; she took a step forward, just enough to peek down the alley.

Halfway down the narrow stretch of filthy brick walls, two men were just visible in the fast-¬ fading light. One had his back against a wall. He was the taller of the two, but he still shrank back from the menacing bulk of the second figure. That one loomed toward him, his wide shoulders cutting off any escape as he shoved some kind of paper toward the nervous man’s face.

“—told you, when I have something, I’ll let you—”

The menacing man shoved him against the wall, the gesture nearly careless enough to hide the violence of it. The voice broke off with a grunt of pain, but it had been enough. Usually, Vivian would have stayed far away from anything that sounded like a beating and wasn’t her business. But she recognized that voice.

“Don’t interrupt,” the menacing man snarled. “My boss don’t take kindly to rude fu—”

“It’s Spence,” Vivian hissed.

Bea tried to pull her away. “It’s not our business. We can tell Silence or Benny,” she whispered, naming two of the bruisers who worked at the Nightingale keeping customers—¬ and anyone else who needed it—¬ in line. “They’ll come handle it.”

“That’ll take too long.” Vivian shook her head, pulling away from Bea’s cautious hand and running down the alley toward trouble. “Hey! Leave him alone!”

The bruiser barely glanced over his shoulder at her, just cocked his fist back and drove it, almost casually, into the nervous man’s stomach. He doubled over, heaving and gasping for air, as his assailant tipped his hat mockingly. “We’ll be seeing you soon, boyo. You can count on it.”

He was gone before Vivian could reach them. She stood, panting and staring at the gap between buildings where he had disappeared. A drizzling rain began to fall, plastering her hair against her cheeks. She wasn’t dumb enough to go after him.

“You okay, Spence?” she asked instead, turning toward the remaining man as he braced his hands on his knees.

“Swell,” croaked the Nightingale’s second bartender, a lanky, mouthy, handsome grump. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently chasing off the fella who was about to beat you to a pulp,” she said, stung. Spence had been working at the Nightingale all summer and still hadn’t managed to endear himself to any of the other staff. But Vivian had expected at least some gratitude. Instead, he scowled at her like she was the one who had just punched him in the stomach, not the one who had run the attacker off. “But no need to say thanks or anything.”

He hauled himself upright, wincing. “I had it handled, you know,” he said, still sounding resentful. “I didn’t need a rescue.”

“Sure you did, pal,” Bea said, joining them at last. “That was a stupid thing to do, by the way,” she added, glancing at Vivian as she opened her umbrella and held it over both their heads. “Be glad he didn’t have a friend waiting to beat the stuffing out of you too.”

“My stuffing’s doing just fine,” Spence groused, pushing his wet hair off his forehead and straightening his jacket and tie.

“What was that about?” Vivian asked, laying a hand on his arm. “Spence? Are you in trouble?”

***

Excerpt from LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN by Katharine Schellman. Copyright 2025 by Katharine Schellman. Reproduced with permission from Katharine Schellman. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Katharine Schellman is an award-winning author of historical crime fiction, including the Nightingale Mysteries and the Lily Adler Mysteries, whose work has been called “worthy of Rex Stout or Agatha Christie” (Library Journal). Her books have been nominated for an Edgar and a Silver Falchion, and she has won a Zibby Media National Book Award for "Best Book for the History Lover." A former actor, onetime political consultant, and graduate of William & Mary, Katharine lives and writes in the mountains of Virginia.

Catch Up With Katharine Schellman:

www.katharineschellman.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @katharineschellman
BookBub - @katharineschellman
Instagram - @katharinewrites
Facebook - @katharineschellman

 

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Where We Belong by Kim Vogal Sawyer

About the Book:

The life of Hester Haak, a widow with no children of her own, takes an unexpected turn when she opens her Kansas home to children from the bustling streets of New York City. The orphan asylum has entrusted her with two sisters and a young boy, and Hester is determined to provide a safe and loving environment for them. Despite the looming uncertainty of their stay, she rises to the challenge, embracing the opportunity to make a difference in their lives.

Meanwhile, Callum Holbrook is grappling with the loss of his wife and the despair that followed. Unable to provide for his family, he made the heart-wrenching decision to place his daughters in an orphanage, promising it was only temporary. Now, with a stable job and a renewed sense of purpose, Callum is horrified to learn that his daughters have been sent halfway across the country. Fueled by determination and love, he embarks on the difficult journey to bring them back.

Through their struggles and triumphs, Hester and Callum discover that family and love can be found in the most surprising places—and that the journey home is paved with hope.

My Review:

Another novel in the orphan train genre? It needed to have a different twist for me to be impressed by it. This novel is okay for readers who have not read others about the effort of moving orphans west. They would find it informative. Readers who are familiar with the adventure may find this novel a bit predictable. It does contain a good faith message.

My rating: 4/5 stars

About the Author:

Award-winning, bestselling author Kim Vogel Sawyer is a wife, mother, gramma, chocolate-lover, cat-petter, and--most importantly--a daughter of the King! With more than 1.5 million books in print in seven different languages, Kim enjoys a full-time writing and speaking ministry. Her "gentle stories of hope" are loved by readers and reviewers alike. Kim and her retired military husband, Don, reside on the plains of Kansas, the setting for many of her novels.

WaterBrook, 368 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.)

Lies to Forever by Marlene M Bell Blog Tour Book Review

LIES TO FOREVER

by Marlene M. Bell

June 1 - 26, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

 

First they stole her trust. Now they want her life.

April Manning’s generous nature has always been a gift, and her greatest weakness. After being scammed out of her life savings by a trusted friend, April is left with an eviction notice and one last hope: reclaiming her position as an interior designer at her old architectural firm, even if it means a showdown with head architect Hunter Ellis, her cheating ex.

But that’s not the only hitch. When the owner of the firm turns up dead, the last thing April expects to find is the bloody murder weapon on her doorstep.

Now the killer sets a plan for April and suspicion flares at every turn…from the mysterious new handyman, to an estranged family member she’s tried to forget. Chased from her dream home and cornered like prey, April is hemmed by the wintry forests of Tennessee with few options. As chilling memories of childhood abandonment haunt her, it seems everyone has a hidden agenda to take April down.

Only one thing is certain. A monster is stalking Smoky Creek, and April must unmask them before they land the fatal blow.

Readers of Sarah Alderson and Kiersten Modglin will love the twisted betrayals and dark obsession of Lies to Forever, the latest standalone thriller by award-winning novelist Marlene M. Bell.

Praise for Lies to Forever:

"A must-read for fans of smart, character-driven suspense fiction. Highly recommended"
~ The International Review of Books

"Author Marlene M. Bell has crafted a gripping, psychological thriller. ...a suspense-laden drama where the twists and turns of the plot are genuinely surprising and rewarding."
~ The Book Review Directory

Lies to Forever Trailer:

My Review:

This psychological thriller gives the reader a real sense of the disrupted life April experiences. Then her situation escalates as she finds herself in very serious danger. The plot is an exploration of passion gone wrong with a bit of a twist. When the villain is revealed, it was not a total surprise as Bell gave us plenty of hints along the way.

The novel got off to a rough start as we readers come into an unexplained arrangement. April has been in a situation of helping a man recover in lieu of paying rent. Now, for some reason, the whole thing is falling apart. It is not until nearly a fifth of the way into the book we find out how this came to be. I felt that was confusing and would have preferred the information much earlier. The entire plot structure is complex and I identified with one detective when he said, “Can these cases get any more convoluted?” (loc 3,040/3,712)

The suspects in the attacks are many as April struggles to maintain her own well being. Mostly written from April's point of view, it is a good psychological exploration of a person facing the threat of harm. I don't think I'll react favorably to hearing wind chimes for a while.

My rating: 4/5 stars. 

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense, Crime
Published by: Ewephoric
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages:316
ISBN: 9798986340982
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.

When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.

The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover.

He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door.

Without so much as a warning.

My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles.

The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend?

“April.”

My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office.

Whang.

A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface.

A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient.

“I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.”

The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes.

“Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name.

My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees.

A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.”

Haven’t heard that in a while.

Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes.

I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way.

Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped.

A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early.

“Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm.

“Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area.

“Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.”

“He must have a lot on his mind.”

Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.”

I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant.

He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought.

“Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair.

I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.”

From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable.

I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.”

“Miss.”

I turn toward the voice.

“I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.”

My first slam-and-crash date request.

It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared.

Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest.

“If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table.

“Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?”

I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.”

“April, he’s not coming in.”

“That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.”

“Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.”

With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk.

“I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?”

“You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?”

“Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.”

“Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.”

The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.”

Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress.

“Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.”

“You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs.

“It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds.

“Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.”

“Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks.

“Been there a few times.”

“You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso.

Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment.

Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say.

When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude.

The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take.

Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out.

While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain…

A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather.

I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps.

Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow?

A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace.

I don’t smell burning wood.

My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub.

Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck.

That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa.

“Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?”

I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—”

A metallic odor hits me.

“Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived.

Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene.

I can’t be implicated in this.

***

Excerpt from LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M Bell. Copyright 2026 by Marlene M Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M Bell. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Marlene M. Bell shares many traits with the bold protagonists she writes. Her Annalisse series stars a New York antiquities appraiser who chases dangerous criminals in far-flung locales. The series has won eight international literary awards and an avid fan base around the world.

When Marlene's not busy plotting her next novel, she's exploring her wooded Texas ranch with camera in hand and thirty sheep faithfully in tow. As an accomplished painter and nature photographer, she's always hunting for the next spark of inspiration - or the next adventure calling her name.

Catch Up With Marlene M Bell:

www.MarleneMBell.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @dorsetghal
BookBub - @dorsetgalwrites
Instagram - @marlenemysteries
X - @ewephoric
Facebook, Personal
Facebook - @marlenembell

 

Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

Lies, Deception… and a Deadly Giveaway

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Marlene M. Bell. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M. Bell | Prize Pack

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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.)

The Patriot's Daughter by Brittany Butler

About the Book:

When a wave of Russian cyberattacks ignites a disinformation firestorm, the United States is pushed to the brink of a civil war. State governments defy Washington. Militias rise. As trust crumbles and chaos spreads, the CIA races to expose the source behind such unrest before democracy collapses from within.

Brilliant, relentless, and haunted by her mother’s disappearance, Ava was recruited for a moment like this. Dispatched to infiltrate Russia’s foreign intelligence service, her mission becomes personal when she locks onto her target, Konstantine, a charismatic SVR officer whose shadowed past intertwines with her own.

What Ava uncovers is more insidious than she feared. With the country unraveling, she must navigate a minefield of deception. Her only anchor is Ben, a veteran counterintelligence officer with complicated romantic feelings for Ava. But in a world where nothing is as it seems, trusting the wrong person could be fatal.

My Review:

This is a good thriller although I felt it could have flowed a bit more smoothly. The action was not consistent and some scenes did not flow well into the next one. The novel is entertaining and I would be willing to try another by this author, however. 

My rating: 4/5 stars.

 

About the Author:

Brittany Butler is a former CIA targeting officer with years of experience recruiting spies and dismantling terrorist networks overseas. Brittany lives by the ocean with her husband, their three sons, and their beloved dog, Gus.

Crooked Land Books, 336 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.)

Deadly Gold Rush by Landis Wade Blog Tour Book Review

DEADLY GOLD RUSH

by Landis Wade

May 18 - June 26, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE INDIE RETIREMENT MYSTERY SERIES

 

Murder, mines, and missing millions—retirement just got interesting.

When a shady real estate developer is found murdered beneath Harriet Keaton’s family home—shot, stabbed, and surrounded by rare 1830s gold coins—her estranged twin brother Joey is the prime suspect. He insists he’s innocent...but won’t name the real culprit.

With Joey refusing to talk and millions missing from the retirement accounts, the future of the Independence Retirement Community is suddenly on the line. Now, whip-smart Harriet and her sleuthing partners—Craig Travail (savvy lawyer, reluctant romantic) and Yeager Alexander (conspiracy theorist, resident rabble-rouser)—must dig into the past to solve the crime.

Their best lead? A decades-old memoir from Harriet’s treasure-obsessed father and whispers of a long-lost gold hoard.

But treasure has a way of attracting trouble. As fortunes vanish and suspects multiply, the trio must untangle two decades of betrayal—before the killer strikes again.

Murder, mayhem, and the Carolina gold rush: welcome back to the Indie, where retirement is anything but quiet.

Praise for Deadly Gold Rush:

"Deadly Gold Rush is a satisfyingly complex entwining of events and personalities that proves hard to put down."
~ Midwest Book Review

"Deadly Gold Rush caught my attention from the first sentence and kept me transfixed to the very end. Couldn’t put it down."
~ Readers’ Favorite Reviews

"Lively mystery bubbling with unforgettable characters and historical spirit."
~ Booklife Reviews

"Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees."
~ Kirkus Reviews

DEADLY GOLD RUSH Trailer:

My Review:

This mystery has a senior citizen atmosphere and is firmly set in historic Charlotte. Two plots weave around each other. One follows the accusation of murder against Joey, twin brother of a resident of the Indie retirement community. Another plot involves preventing the people in the community from being scammed and losing their homes.

The characters involved are quirky. They may be older but they have a ton of life left. I loved the idea of their community court. The residents manage to fulfill the requirements of the community bylaws about settling disputes with humor and fun, thanks to my favorite character, Yeager.

There is an informative Afterword on the history of the area with respect to gold. I also appreciate learning some about mining and the relevance of securing underground rights. This is an entertaining mystery with a bit of legal drama, a good dose of financial drama, very interesting characters, and information on Charlotte's history.

My rating: 4/5 stars. 

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Legal Thriller, Historical
Published by: Lystra Books & Literary Services, LLC
Publication Date: March 3, 2026
Number of Pages: 378 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 979-8992136357, Paperback
Series: The Indie Retirement Mystery Series, Book 2 | Each is a Standalone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Death in the Passage

The narrow alleyway walls muffled the gunshot as uptown Charlotte slept. It was one thirty in the morning on Tuesday, April 1.

The phone call didn’t last long.

“It’s me,” the caller said. “I need your help.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have a body.”

“Whose?”

“Chance Landry.”

“Where are you?”

“Lincoln Street. Inside the Rivafinoli Passage in South End. Next to the Queen Charlotte mural.”

“Anyone with you?”

The caller explained who else was still there.

“You leave. Tell them to stay with the body and wait for my call. I need to think.”

Three minutes later, the call was made to the only living person remaining in the passage who could help.

“I am going to text you an address.” Next, they explained what to do with Landry’s body when they got to the address.

“Are you kidding? He’s already dead.”

But the person giving instructions had no sense of humor. “Just do it.”

A text message followed with the address.

The person who received the message knew how to follow directions and did as they were told.

Chapter Two

Vengeance is Sweet

The 11:15 p.m. email on Craig Travail’s phone read: Your friends are about to suffer financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations. You have only yourself to blame.

What?

Travail read the email again, slower this time. He read it twice more. There was no author name. Just an unknown vengeanceissweet email address.

Travail exhaled. His email checking practice was a bad habit, a routine held over from his career when clients expected their lawyers to be available 24/7.

Nothing good ever came of his itch to scratch his email in-box for late-night messages, like now, when it would be twice as difficult to sleep after watching the late night local news—with its smorgasbord of crimes, collisions, and natural disasters—and reading this email.

One news story was about elder fraud, a reminder of how susceptible retirees are to financial fraud schemes. Was that what was coming for his friends at the Independence Retirement Community, which everyone called the Indie? Were the residents about to suffer financial ruin because of risky investments? If so, he’d be angry at the perpetrators for their heartless guile and frustrated with his friends for being so gullible.

The television show made the point, though, and he agreed, that adults spend most of their lives collecting assets to make retirement possible and the rest of their days worried if their accumulated treasure will last as long as they do, leading some retirees to make risky and uninformed choices with their nest eggs. Was that what his friends had done? Made bad choices with their money? Is that what the emailer taunted him about?

Travail’s instinct was to fire off a harsh response to the email with some choice lawyer-like words and warnings, but he ignored the bait—he suspected they wouldn’t respond anyway—and he punched the remote control instead.

The television screen faded to black, and his den fell silent, save for Blue’s rhythmic snores and his jerking legs. Travail’s black and tan coonhound must be dreaming, chasing ducks along the lake behind Travail’s cottage, as he was apt to do in real life, and as usual, failing to catch the waterfowl before they darted back into the water. Travail leaned over his club chair’s arm and let his free hand graze on Blue’s back until his pet stopped running in his sleep.

Maybe the email was a prank. Maybe, like him, a friend had become bored with life at the Indie. And yet, the email bothered him.

Whose lives—which friends’ lives—were about to be shattered? And how? And for that matter, why? And what did he have to do with it?

Since moving a year earlier into the Independence Retirement Community, Travail had made two best friends, Harriet Keaton and Yeager Alexander, and several other good friends. He’d met many other retirees, some whose company he tolerated and some whose company he could do without. Either way, he didn’t want to see anyone hurt. He certainly didn’t want his close friends to suffer, and he didn’t want to be the person responsible for their pain.

The flame on the candle he’d lit this morning was down to the base of the wick. He turned away from it, detesting the severe loneliness of March 31.

There was no logic for feeling so alone—what with all the crimes, court cases, and historic mysteries Harriet, Yeager, and he navigated since he arrived at the Indie and the time they spent together—but it was hard to control his feelings, especially the feeling of being by himself. A Jewish resident told him about the tradition of lighting a candle on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. It felt loving to strike the match in Rachael’s honor, but as day became night, Travail’s mood shifted. It had been three years to the day.

The flickering light had a strobe-like effect on the things that reminded him of Rachael: her furniture, her quilts, her artwork, her pictures. Travail missed Rachael’s kindness, her playfulness, her creativity, and the rituals they shared. The flicker made the past too present, making him long for another night and morning and day together. She was here, there, and everywhere, but nowhere at all.

Assertive is what he’d needed to be in the moment that changed everything. He and Rachael were in the mountains at a high-elevation rental for a getaway when a freak storm rolled in and dumped six inches of snow on the ground. Rachael decided to drive to the local general store to stock the pantry for their cozy weekend together. He had a work call and offered to go with her after he finished.

“It’s just snow,” she’d said.

“Okay, but be careful,” he’d responded.

“Always, dear.” Then she kissed him on the mouth, patted his bottom, and walked out of his life forever.

The news came in a phone call from the local police. First came the shock, then the grief, and then the Monday-morning quarterbacking. He should have insisted Rachael let him drive her. He should have done more to protect her. If he had, maybe she would still be here. Maybe the out-of-control delivery truck that hit the black ice would have killed him instead of her, or maybe Travail could have prevented the accident.

Spring in North Carolina was supposed to be about new beginnings, not endings, with the dogwoods and azaleas in bloom, but his eyes grew wet from the memories, and he felt a sudden heaviness in his body.

He looked at the email again and became resolute. For sure, he would not make the same mistake twice with the people he cared about. He would protect them.

But who was behind the email?

Whoever wanted sweet vengeance against his friends wanted vengeance against him too, because their pain would be his pain. The question for his lawyer brain—used to solving riddles for years—was: who despised them and him that much?

Like an unexpected electric shock, the answer startled him. This email was exactly the kind of plot his nemesis, Robert Elkin, would conjure. If Elkin hurt Harriet, Yeager, and his other close friends, he hurt Travail worse.

But wasn’t Elkin no longer a threat? They’d exposed his concealment of the truth about the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence, avoided death at the hands of his father, pushed him out of his Big Law leadership position, and seen to it that the state bar took his law license. Elkin no longer had big-time lawyer power. The only thing he had was anger, resentment, and a low-paying job as a paralegal with a former client, though Travail didn’t know the client’s name or their business. It was a sharp drop from the level of influence that had made the man dangerous, and yet, there was reason to be cautious. Elkin was cunning and would hold a grudge till death do they part.

Travail leaned his head back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, and pondered the text again: financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations.

Harriet was too smart to get caught up in a financial scam. Not so with Yeager. He was impulsive, likely to jump at the chance to possess something shiny because it might become shinier.

Travail pulled an olive-colored sweatshirt over his t-shirt, woke Blue, and took him into the backyard to do his business under the stars. While he waited, Travail glanced across Lost Cove Lake to Harriet’s cottage. He inhaled the fresh night air, and he marveled at the main building’s reflection on the lake’s surface. Harriet’s lights were out. She, an early riser, must be asleep.

Seeing Harriet’s peaceful cottage raised a question he’d been pondering. Should he ask her on a date? Carrie Roberts, the Indie Gossip Queen, thought so and often shared her opinion.

Most days, it seemed like the right decision not to ask Harriet—or anyone else, for that matter—on a date. Three years wasn’t that long, really, since Rachael died. And yet, here he was, caught in a web he’d spun for himself, trapped somewhere between what he no longer had and the companionship he wanted but resisted. Harriet was his friend. Should he keep it that way?

Harriet would most likely turn him down anyway. He was a project, and he knew it, starting with the lesson she’d had to teach him last year that retirement living is not life’s dead end but a fresh path forward. And now, with him being a sixty-six-year-old widower afraid to address his feelings, she’d be quick to beg off.

Blue finished up, and the two headed inside. His watch told him it was a new day. He blew out the dwindling flame on the candle and headed to his bedroom, where Blue was already curled up on the end of Travail’s queen-size bed. Wearing only striped boxers and a white cotton t-shirt, Travail pulled the covers up to his chin. With a good night’s sleep, he’d be fresh in the morning to put his effort into stopping Elkin. He still had his law license, after all, and as Yeager would tell him from time to time, “You ain’t dead yet.”

He closed his eyes and imagined tying a dry fly rig with two nymphs on a dropper line, the key to catching river trout on and below the surface at the same time. This falling-asleep system was better than counting backward from three hundred by threes. It worked its charm in less than five minutes.

Travail didn’t know when he dozed off that the murder train had left the station. He didn’t know when he began to snore that someone had already set the trap for his friends. And he didn’t know when he fell into a deep sleep that when the sun came up, he would ponder, and not for the first time, how he could have been so wrong to believe retirement living would ever be boring or lonely.

***

Excerpt from Deadly Gold Rush by Landis Wade. Copyright 2026 by Landis Wade. Reproduced with permission from Landis Wade. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Landis Wade is a recovering trial lawyer turned author who writes award-winning mysteries and legal thrillers with a historical bent. His publication credits include six works of fiction, eight non-fiction writing books, many short stories, and a podcast that produced 400 episodes of author interviews and writing discussions. His first novel in his Indie Retirement Mystery series, Deadly Declarations, won ten awards and Kirkus Reviews said of his second in the series, Deadly Gold Rush, that “Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees.” Landis splits his time between Charlotte, Durham, and the North Carolina mountains. He is the recipient of the 2025 Founders Award for service to the Charlotte Writers Club and the literary community.

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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.)

Entangled States by Karmela Padavic-Callaghan

About the Book:

A young queer millennial physicist unveils some of the most mind-bending physics concepts in the universe—and uses them to illuminate their own fascinating life story. 

“I see physics everywhere,” Karmela Padavic-Callaghan writes. “It offers itself to me when I try to make sense of all the paths my life did and did not take, it reassures me when I try to reconcile all the identities that I feel describe me.” Born in Croatia in 1991, Karmela grew up against the backdrop of the Yugoslav wars. They grew to love science and hair metal, and they began longing to see more of the world. At age 16, they received an offer to study at a boarding school in New York, setting them on a path to a physics PhD.

Now a science writer in New York, Karmela uses physics to meditate on building a life in a new country, on being nonbinary in a field dominated by cishet men, and on cause, effect, future, and destiny. Each chapter examines a moment in Karmela's life through the lens of a physics concept. Knot theory becomes a lens for the story of Karmela visiting a Croatian healer. Ultracold atom labs lead to a meditation on societal expectations that women be unfailingly warm and nurturing. And the workings of an electron microscope become a framework for Karmela's evolving relationship with cosmetics as they realized they are nonbinary.

Taking us from Croatia to New York, from quantum computing to Queen, Entangled States offers readers a unique and unforgettable journey—and shows how the world of physics and the world of humanity illuminate one another.

My Review:

This book is a combination memoir, commentary on quantum physics and thought provoking thoughts on life. Physics principles are related to life events. Entropy and music are contemplated side by side. Schrodinger's cat is compared to being both American and Croation and neither and as a nonbinary person.

This is a good book for readers interested in understanding physics a bit more as well as the path to gender identity.

My rating: 4/5 stars.

About the Author:

Karmela Padavic-Callaghan is a scientist, a journalist, and an educator based in New York City. A staff writer at New Scientist, they report on physics, materials science, and quantum technology. They hold a PhD in theoretical condensed matter physics and atomic, molecular and optical physics from the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Their research has been published in peer-reviewed journals, including Physical Review Letters and New Journal of Physics. Their popular science writing has been featured in such publications as Wired, Scientific American, Aeon, Slate, and MIT Technology Review. Photo credit: Sylvie Tamar

Beacon Press, 246 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.)