June Short Stories and More
Happy summer, everyone! If it’s too hot to handle outdoors, stay cool and read a book. Feed your mind and soul.
Now here’s where we left off in Habeus Corpus (A Sam McRae novelette). (Check out the previous parts, because there’ve been changes made.)
Episode Five
Nicole was at the desk again, so I stopped by to ask how things were going. “You haven’t seen the man who brought the note, have you?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, no.” She even looked sorry.
In my hand, I held one of Daniels’ cards and turned it slowly as I spoke, like it was a nervous habit. “That note was about a matter of concern to my client that may also affect this hotel. By any chance, have the police been here?”
Nicole confirmed that, in fact, the police had been there, and after speaking with her long enough to identify themselves, they were escorted upstairs to see the manager. Which meant the head honcho’s office was located well above the warren in which Ms. Daniels’ workspace was tucked.
“I see,” I said, adopting a tone that suggested this was of mild professional concern. “Any idea what they wanted?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t tell me.”
Her response suggested one of two things: either the second body also disappeared without anyone other than myself and the killer knowing how, or it was removed upon discovery by the hotel management, with or without the cops’ involvement. It was also possible that Nicole was lying or withholding information.
Either way, someone other than the killer had to know about the second body. If the police had searched Room 405, would Nicole necessarily know that? Assuming evidence of a crime was found there, would the manager fully inform the staff with instructions on how to answer or deflect questions from guests about the police presence?
One way or the other, these murders were being hushed up by someone working here. Was it possible to figure out who while protecting Carla as was my ethical obligation? And how did that balance against my obligations as an “officer of the court”? Once again, I reminded myself that it wasn’t my job to do police work. I already had a job and a half dealing with Carla’s situation.
I wondered if there was anything more to be gained from hanging about the hotel. If Nicole knew more, she wasn’t telling, and I was loathe to ask her too many questions. I thanked Carla for her time, then wound my way through the maze of corridors to Daniels’ office. I rapped on the door. There was no answer. So I opened it and observed an unoccupied office. These days, working remotely isn’t unusual, unless the job requires your physical presence. I had no idea what Daniels did, but if she mostly worked out of the office, she might know absolutely nothing about what actually occurred around the hotel.
Rather than head back to my office, I retrieved Carla’s file from my car and parked it on one of the hotel bar’s tables.
I shuffled through my notes, then took another look at the photos of Carla. If nothing else, it showed her as she’d described herself to me. Fully clothed and lying atop the covers. Given the high angle of the shots, the notion of them being taken by a hidden camera seemed highly probable.
And who would be in a position to install such cameras? The likeliest suspects seemed to be anyone with reason to enter the guest rooms. Cleaning crew, maintenance staff, and room service employees at the very least. What would Catherine Daniels think of this? Or did she know?
On a hunch, I connected to the hotel wi-fi and did a quick search on “hotel organization”. Numerous links came up. The promising ones led to charts and descriptions of hierarchies of federal governmental complexity. I suspected Daniels didn’t rank especially high on the food chain. However, as “operations manager,” whatever that meant, she wasn’t above suspicion.
My phone rang. Contrary to my hopes, it wasn’t Reed Duvall or even my client. The number read: 555-3476. The number from the note. Returning my call?
I hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
No one spoke for a length of time. My second “hello” was followed by continued silence. I was ready to hang up, when I heard a whispered voice. “Who is this?”
“Who are you?”
Another pause. “Got your number off caller ID. We need to talk. Will you meet me?” The low, throaty voice could have been male or female. My guess was male. The caller had a faint accent and seemed vaguely familiar.
“You don’t even know who I am and you want to meet me?”
He sputtered a few words I couldn’t make out, then added, “I know the guy who owned this phone. Knew the guy, that is.” From his words and his tone, I got the feeling the phone’s owner might have been one of the victims in Carla’s case.
I wondered what he had in mind. “Who is he or was he? And what do you know about all this?” Keeping the questions open-ended could yield more information, without hinting at what had been sent to Carla. If this guy knew anything about Dead Guy Number One or Two, let him tell me himself.
“Phil. He’s dead. Because of all this.”
“Phil?” And because of all what?
He gulped audibly. “I can’t do this here. Not on the phone.”
I thought of the coffee shop where I’d suggested Carla hang out and proposed that. My caller agreed to meet me there, so we set up a time. I’d make sure to be done with Carla by then.
It was past my lunchtime, so I treated myself to an overpriced turkey club sandwich at the hotel restaurant. It was delicious, but not that delicious.
I’d paid the bill and was heading toward my car when Duvall rang me.
“These people all seem to come out squeaky clean,” he said. “No criminal records. No divorce records. But there is something else.”
“Hang on a sec,” I said. “I’m at the car.”
Shifting phone and files to one side, I opened the passenger’s door and placed the files on the seat. My trip to the driver’s side was interrupted by a sharp pain at the back of my skull and darkness.
Episode Six
“Sam? Are you there?” The voice was tinny. My head was exploding. A parking lot swam around me.
I lay on something hard. Pavement. I blinked. It took some effort. Then, I discovered that with a little more effort, I could breathe.
The drone of the voice persisted. “Sam? Shit.” It came from my phone located about half a foot from my side.
Then, I remembered where the hell I was. “Duvall?” I croaked, fumbling for the phone.
Duvall began to talk, but I urged him to stop while I slowly gathered myself. The car door hung open. Had I opened it? I had no recollection of it. I half-dragged myself closer to the open door and managed to prop myself upright against the running board. My head throbbed, making it hard to think. My extended silence provoked Duvall to speak up again.
“You should go right to the hospital.” He sounded almost as shaken as I felt.
“No, no,” I managed to blurt out. I took a breath. “I’ll be fine,” I added. I pulled myself together, feeling only slightly queasy as I forced myself up onto the driver’s seat.
Once behind the wheel, I noted the time. I hadn’t been out long at all. Maybe a minute. “Whoever knocked me out didn’t steal my shoulder bag or phone. My files are still here.” A glance at the passenger seat established that. Then I noticed the note.
“Hang on,” I said. Donning my gloves, I opened the folded paper.
The note read: Don’t let this case be your last. It was printed on a plain, white sheet of paper.
I took a breath and let it out. Part of me thought of telling Duvall, part of me screamed, Don’t! On top of the headache I now had, the thought of a lecture on safety didn’t appeal in the least.
After taking a moment to organize my thoughts, I opted to reveal what happened. “You were saying, everyone you checked out was clean? Well, someone isn’t, because I just found a note threatening me off this case.”
“That was what I wanted to tell you,” Duvall said. His voice held a mildly disturbing edge, as if he were shoring up an emotional dam. “I looked into the ownership of the Majestic Hotel. It was very interesting.”
Something seemed to be eating at him. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m getting to that,” he said, not bothering with the pretense of denying that there was a problem. It seemed best not to push, so I let him tell the story at his own pace.
“They’re trying to expand and so is their major competitor, The Nonpareil, a regional chain,” Duvall continued. “In fact, there’s a piece of property they’d each love to use for another hotel site. Part of a so-called brownfields project called Camden Heights. You know, where they take unused or contaminated land and revitalize it. This one is huge, almost on a par with Baltimore’s Harborplace.”
I tried to imagine the complexity of legal and political detail involved in the transactional work for that project and risked aggravating my headache. Trial work may be a hassle, but business transactions at that level involved bullshit way beyond my tolerance point.
“Thing is,” Duvall went on. “The plans include space for two hotels. One of those spots is already taken by a nationally-franchised luxury hotel. The second one was, but that deal fell through. Now, The Majestic and The Hotel Nonpareil are competing for the space.”
“Hang on,” I said. Still slightly woozy from my brief nap on the pavement, I gathered a writing pad and pen. Putting the phone on speaker, I poised myself, ready to write and said, “Go ahead. Slowly, please.”
“Word around the Planning Board is that the two of them are serious rivals. So I ran a background check on everyone at the higher supervisory levels of each hotel. Then I looked into the owners. Each of the owners is a limited liability corporation. The people behind those entities are long-time locals.”
He paused, so I asked, “What are you saying?”
“I wasn’t quite finished,” he said. “When I looked into each of their business assets, I was struck by the marked disparity in their holdings. The Majestic’s owner has substantial assets to his name, but The Nonpareil’s owner seems to have bought up half the state.”
Again he paused. I decided to wait this time.
“There’s something else,” he said. “A private investigator and old friend of mine is dead. His body was discovered about an hour ago not far from The Majestic.”
“What?” I barked, causing a spike of pain through my skull. “Where was the body?”
“You know the cemetery south of Contee on Route One? There’s a pond there. They’d dumped him in the pond. He’d been stabbed.”
“How do you know all this?” Surely, not from a police scanner.
Duvall choked up briefly. “I know his business partner, Milt Brentano. He told me that Wayne was working undercover in the area. Milt got a call earlier from the cops. They said a body was discovered by a couple of kids goofing around at the pond. The body had Milt’s business card on it. So they asked him to go there and identify the body, which he did. It was Wayne.”
Could Wayne be the dead man Carla had awakened to? Assuming some or all of the guest rooms had hidden cameras, could Daniels or someone at her level have hired Wayne to discover who planted them? Surely, there hadn’t been even earlier deaths to investigate?
If the photos got out and The Majestic was identified in any of them, that would definitely take them out of the picture in terms of outshining their big competitor, The Nonpareil. How convenient.
I glanced at the time. “Look, I gotta go. I’m really sorry to hear about … your friend.”
After we ended our call, I realized I should have asked if he had a photo of Wayne, along with his full name. I texted the query, and followed it immediately with a call to Carla, to apologize and warn her that I might be a bit late for our meeting.
I’d often passed the cemetery without really noticing it. It was on the right as you go south from Laurel. It would also be on the way to my meeting with Carla. For no particular reason, apart from ridiculous curiosity, I decided to swing by the site where Wayne’s body had been discovered. My headache had diminished to a mild throb, but I could still use the detour to regain more of my bearings.
I turned onto the road leading into Maryland National Memorial Park and, after a brief pause, continued past the turnoff to the pond, a section of which was rimmed by uniformed officers and CSI techs encased in head-to-toe white outfits. Straight ahead of me and off to the left, someone else was being buried. It was like witnessing the Cycle of Death. Such a pleasant thought to go with my headache.
Keeping my distance from everyone seemed the wisest course. Nonetheless, I figured I’d try to get as good a look as possible to the crime scene without being observed. And possibly questioned.
Parking was allowed along the roads leading to gravesites. The funeral mourners provided a handy line of cars in which my own could blend in. The low murmur of final words being uttered drifted toward me. I walked away from them, until they faded into the low roar of traffic on Route 1. The grounds were dotted with tree stands. I ducked behind one the trees, a sturdy looking specimen, close enough to the pond to give me a sense of the situation but try to stay out of sight.
I don’t think the medical examiner had arrived yet. No sign of a vehicle suggesting one was there. Not that I know what a medical examiner drives. This isn’t TV. I don’t make a habit of going to crime scenes, although they’ve found me a few times. A couple of unmarked cars sat to each side of the cruisers. At least one would be a detective’s vehicle. That much I knew.
The body, covered with a sheet, was sprawled on the grass near the pond. One of the crime techs pulled back the sheet long enough to take a video of the body. I couldn’t make out facial features, but the hair was dark and the skin super-pallid. I could just detect a flash of orange on the body that could be the knife handle. Could be Victim Number One. If so, the killer or accomplice must have been under considerable strain leaving the body the way they did, not even bothering to remove the weapon.
One of the uniforms spoke to a man, tall and thin as a beanpole, in a gray suit that hung loose on his skeletal frame. He seemed vaguely familiar. His face was long with a pointy chin, his cocoa-colored features furrowed by age and a scowl.
He shook his head. The uniform kept talking. I wished I could hear them. From that distance, even if I could even read his lips, there was no way I could make out their discussion.
I edged a bit closer, sticking near the trees and tombstones.
The hum of conversation had just tickled my ears, when I heard the low crunch of a footfall on grass, followed by a familiar voice. “Hello, Ms. McRae.”
After suffering a small heart attack, I collected myself and turned toward the voice. “Hello, Detective Derry.”
The polite smile I gave took effort.
“What are you doing here?”
“A friend told me about what happened here. The victim was a buddy of his.” Well, that was the truth.
Derry nodded, his expression blank to rival anyone in a game of Texas hold ‘em. “And you were simply moved to come here?”
I nodded, as if unable to speak without breaking down completely.
“Okay.” Derry’s expression never wavered. His blue eyes, normally like frozen lake water, took on the look of Arctic ice. “Do you happen to know anything more about this?” He gestured toward the crime scene.
“I only know what my friend told me.” It was my ethical duty, right? Not to reveal a client or their confidences. “That’s all I can tell you.”
Derry let me go with a look that suggested he’d be in touch. Or maybe I’d just imagined it. This case was fraying my nerves. Between the various dead bodies, strange phone calls, and getting briefly KO’ed by someone, this was far from a normal day.
The College Park coffee shop where I was to meet Carla was roughly twenty minutes away, so I gave myself thirty and lost time looking for parking. Finally, I wedged my old Mustang into a spot barely big enough for a compact car, miraculously running only a few minutes late. With file in hand, I left the vehicle and took another five minutes hoofing it to our meeting place.
Carla waited for me at a table tucked back into a far corner of the coffee shop’s rectangular seating area. I motioned a greeting and pointed toward the coffee bar. She nodded. Patient, but seemingly tense.
By the time I’d ordered my coffee, I’d worked out pretty much how to proceed with my update.
“There’ve been a few developments since we last spoke,” I said. “Apparently, The Majestic is an intense rival of another local hotelier.” I filled her in on what I knew about that, as well as the police inquiry with the manager. “In addition, I’m supposed to meet someone who called me from that number.” I didn’t have to specify which one.
“Now, a body has turned up. A private investigator. They found it less than a mile from The Majestic. I’m wondering—” My cell phone dinged a text, so I stopped talking. Duvall had responded. His text included a photo and the name: Wayne Brinkley. I was reasonably sure I’d seen the face before.
White guy, dark hair, early 30s. I displayed the photo to Carla. “Is this the guy?” I said, keeping my voice low, but leaning closer to my client so she could make me out over the espresso machine. “The one you woke up next to?”
Carla took one look at the photo and her jaw dropped. Her face paled, as she nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “So we’ve established that Body Number One is Wayne Brinkley.”
Late private eye, I added mentally. “For whatever reason, he ended up in your room and, after you came to see me, was moved to another location. Eventually the body’s moved to the pond, where a couple of kids found it. The whole thing smacks of lack of planning. Someone flipped out when they discovered the detective, but didn’t think it through first. Which of the staff is most likely to have pulled this off? Likely a manager, I would think. But how high up? And what about Body Number Two? We know he had Phil Rinaldo’s business card on him and that’s it.”
Carla seemed oblivious to my questions. “Earlier, you mentioned something about a Chester Crane,” Carla said. “How does he fit?”
“I’m still looking into him. Or at least his sustainability consultancy, Greener Future,” I said. “Tracked down an article about a journalist who wrote about them. He appears to be something of a muckraker, as they used to call them.
“Does the name Gerald Lambert mean anything to you?” I asked.
Carla shrugged, as if in defeat. She shook her head. “No.”
“Well,” I said. “Maybe the guy I’m meeting will know him.”
After Carla left, I ordered another coffee and reviewed my notes. As questions I might want to ask this source occurred to me, I listed them on a writing pad. I’d reached Question Three, when the man who’d shown us the security footage at the hotel entered the coffee shop. Ramon.
New releases
Q & A with Ryan Steck Author of Out for Blood
1. How was your approach to writing Out for Blood different from your approach to writing the previous two Matthew Redd thrillers?
The first two books were always building to this story. I knew that from the beginning, so my goal when writing Fields of Fire and Lethal Range was to introduce all the necessary characters—both good and bad—so that they could all come together in Out for Blood. In that way, I think of this book almost as an Avengers-like story, where all the heroes band together to fight a common enemy. But in setting that up, I will say that I did feel a lot of pressure to deliver the story I wanted to tell, and in the end, I am really proud of this book and how it turned out, and I think my readers will really enjoy it.
2. What was the most exciting part of writing this story?
I don’t want to give too much away, but the final act of this book is bigger than anything I’ve ever done before. When Redd, Emily, Mikey, Liz, Blackwood, Kline, and so many other characters have to come together in an effort to defend Wellington, the stakes are as high as ever—and the action is nonstop. I had seen that scene in my head for years, and it was so much fun to finally get to write it. I can’t wait to hear what readers think of it.
3. You have described Matthew Redd as being “with” you for a long time. How has he changed from his original incarnation until now?
At the beginning of the series, Redd mostly identifies as a Marine. That changes rather quickly in Fields of Fire, and he has somewhat of an identity crisis going into Lethal Range. Now I feel like he knows exactly who he is, and in fact, I touch on that early in this book. Redd’s worked hard, alongside his wife, to build a new life and a family together. So, really, when you step back and look at the character we meet in Fields of Fire compared to who he is today, it’s a night and day difference. For me, that transformation has been key, but it’s also far from done. You’ll see Redd continue to grow both in this book and in the next one in a way that might surprise some readers.
4. Out for Blood continues the series’ exploration of the difference between “family” and “relatives.” How do these themes impact the characters in the book?
One thing that Matthew Redd and I have in common is our shared belief that being blood-related to someone makes them a relative, whereas family is something you choose. My best friends in the world are Mikey and his wife, Emily Derhammer. They’re family to me, and I love them as such. So much so that I put them in my books! You might have noticed that Redd also has a BFF named Mikey Derhammer. So, none of that is by accident. When I mentioned before that Redd and his wife have worked hard to build a family, they have. Sure, they have a child now, but they also have Mikey and Liz, Kline, Emily’s parents, and so on. You will absolutely see how that theme plays a major role in this book, but there are also a few negative examples of “family” in Out for Blood too. I can’t touch on that too much just yet, but I’m confident people will spot it when they see it. Moving forward, though, this will stay a present theme in the Redd universe, and while I don’t want to keep teasing the next book too much, I would say that “family” is the central theme of Redd #4, which will hit bookstores in the summer of 2025.
5. The dog in the book is based on your rottweiler, Rubble. How does the introduction of man’s best friend influence the story?
That’s true! It’s funny because while these books are fiction, I put a lot of stuff in them from my actual real life. So, whereas I mentioned that Mikey is a real person and my closest friend, but also fictionalized in my series, so too is Rubble. I guess it always just made sense to me. Redd is a man of few words, but he is fiercely loyal to those he loves. I always pictured him with a dog, one who doesn’t require constant attention but shares Redd’s loyalty, and it just worked out that I am familiar with that sort of bond because of my own rottweiler. In the end, I am so glad I chose to add Rubble to the cast because not only is he a loyal friend to Redd, but in some ways, he becomes a weapon too.
6. Why is the setting of Out for Blood important?
In this book, Matthew Redd is tested like never before. Not only have the Twelve sent people to kill him but that battle is set to take place just as the worst snowstorm in Montana’s recent history is moving over the region. I tend to see my books in my head before I write them, and I just always loved the idea of these events playing out amidst fresh powder and a chilling white backdrop. Redd isn’t just fighting a team of trained killers. He’s also fighting the elements, and both—or either—is enough to take him out at any second. To me, that heightens the tension and the suspense, and I sure hope readers feel that as the story unfolds.
7. This is the third book in an action-packed series. How do you ensure the excitement remains vibrant throughout the series?
That’s a great question. Up until now, I would say that all of the books really stand on their own and have a different feel to them that’s unique to that story. Lethal Range has a lot of action in it, and so does Out for Blood, but it’s a different kind of action. The key for me, at least while writing it, was to make sure that Redd has nowhere to turn, nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide from the enemies chasing him—ensuing an action-packed showdown in more ways than one. As a whole, though, my goal is to constantly mix it up from book to book. Readers who remember the first two books will notice that Redd isn’t fighting any massive man-giants in this one (like Shevchenko or Baby Boy), so even when there are fight scenes, they have a different feel to them than before.
8. How can aspiring authors make their characters come alive?
I don’t think there is any one right answer to that question, so I’ll just say that a simple suggestion is to allow your characters to be vulnerable from time to time. I’d wager that everyone has experienced vulnerability a time or two in their life, and so that’s something readers can identify with. Moreover, anytime you’re able to work in themes or issues that are relatable, I think readers are more likely to connect with those characters, as they can better understand what your characters are facing, experiencing, or going through. In a lot of ways, the key to writing fiction is to add as much realism as possible.
9. You describe Matthew as a “new Christian.” How does this impact the story?
Redd’s faith is important to him, but it’s not the kind of thing I’m trying to hit the reader over the head with. Meaning, I don’t necessarily want to offend anyone, or write something that would turn them off to the rest of the story. But just as I write what I know from real-life experiences with actual friends or my dog, this was just another thing that naturally worked into the story and my character because it’s another extension of me and my own beliefs. To a certain degree, I think a lot of heroes in fiction have morals or live by a code of some sort. Well, so does Redd, but in his case, you know where those morals come from.
10. How has your work on The Real Book Spy impacted the Matthew Redd series?
I think right from the very beginning of my career as an author, my goal—because I cover so many thrillers—was to write something that was very much unlike anything else in print right now. I had thought long and hard about what I might write long before I ever put pen to paper (or, well, fingers to keyboard), and I kept coming back to this thought that we never see the Mitch Rapp or Jason Bourne types of characters stationed out west. And why not? In a place like Montana, backup—as you will no doubt see in this book—is hours away at best. Worst case, you might not have help for days, maybe longer. To me, that really heightens the tension, but it also fits the “lone wolf” operator well, and so it all kind of clicked. I’m a huge fan of Vince Flynn, Brad Thor, Daniel Silva, Mark Greaney, Brad Taylor, and Jack Carr, to name a few, and it was when trying to come up with something different than what those guys might write that Fields of Fire really took shape for me, and that continues to be true today.
* * *
You can buy Out for Blood as an ebook from any of these retailers.
You can also buy it in print from my online bookstore and support indie bookstores in the bargain.
Author Bio
Ryan Steck is an editor, an author, and the founder and editor in chief of The Real Book Spy. Ryan has been named an “Online Influencer” by Amazon and is a regular columnist at CrimeReads. TheRealBookSpy.com has been endorsed by #1 New York Times bestselling authors Mark Greaney, C. J. Box, Kyle Mills, Daniel Silva, Brad Thor, and many others. A resident of Michigan, along with his wife and their six kids, Steck cheers on his beloved Detroit Tigers and Lions during the rare moments when he’s not reading or talking about books on social media. Ryan’s newest book, Out for Blood, was released on June 4, 2024, from Tyndale Fiction.
Excerpt from Under the Palms, by Kaira Rouda
OC Scoop
Attention, Kingsley fans: your favorite family is back in the limelight! That’s right—hot off the presses in this month’s issue of Vanity Fair is a four-page spread featuring the fabulous new president of Kingsley Global Enterprises, the OC’s very own Paige Kingsley. We all remember how Richard Kingsley shocked the world when he named his daughter-in-law of twenty years as his successor, bypassing his sons and heirs to hand Paige the keys to their billion-dollar kingdom. Admit it, dear readers, we all raised a brow (as much as Botox permitted, of course) at the notion of the tennis-playing stay-at-home mom better known as Mrs. Ted Kingsley suddenly holding the reins of a Fortune 100 company . . . But could it be that Perfect Paige is something of a dark horse? In a few short months, she’s made good on her promise to usher the company into a new era of philanthropy—guess all that time volunteering as CEO of the Orange County food bank taught her a thing or two about giving to those less fortunate. (And let’s face it, who isn’t less fortunate than the Kingsleys?)
This charitable spirit is certainly a new look for Kingsley Global, and those of us who worshipped at the altar of King Richard can hardly be blamed for wondering what the diehard capitalist thinks of this bold new direction. Is he proud of his protégée, or does he privately wish he could turn the page on Paige? And what about Ted, the golden child of the Kingsley clan, who was rumored to be Richard’s first choice to helm the company before Paige got the gig? He plays the part of the doting husband in public, but one can’t help but wonder how Ted feels about his wife sitting in the office he thought would be his.
Then again, maybe Ted’s just happy that Paige is still alive, unlike his sister-in-law. Older brother John’s wife, Rachel, as you’ll recall, died tragically during a weekend mega-yacht trip to Catalina Island, à la Natalie Wood. They say she fell overboard during the storm, poor thing. A chilling death, really. And a good reminder to always wear one’s life preserver while aboard one’s yacht.
Of course, John’s marriage wasn’t the only one to end abruptly that fateful weekend. It’s no secret that Richard’s fifth wife, Serena, absconded to Italy with her Italian lover and baby daddy shortly after their return to shore. Nubile young bachelorettes around the world are no doubt bidding her a buon vioggio as they daydream about becoming the sixth Mrs. Kingsley. We hope for Richard’s sake that he finds a more faithful signorina this time around!
ARTICLE CONTINUES BELOW
Speaking of signorinas, we hear Richard’s wayward daughter, Sibley, also ditched her boyfriend after that weekend on the yacht. And good riddance. Colson was hardly appropriate marriage material for the Kingsleys’ only princess, in this reporter’s humble opinion. Then again, perhaps that’s why Sibley dated him in the first place. The rebellious youngest Kingsley does seem to have a knack for making choices Daddy Dearest disapproves of. Which might explain why she’s currently hanging out in Florida with her uncle Walter, Richard’s estranged brother. Nobody seems to know quite what the two black sheep of the Kingsley clan are up to in the Sunshine State—but we do know that where Sibley goes, drama follows. We await her next scandal with bated breath.
Oh, who are we kidding—we await news of all the Kingsleys with bated breath. They are, after all, the family we love to hate and hate to love. Let’s hope they never change.
Richard Kingsley, CEO, and Paige Kingsley, President,
cordially invite you to
ARTICLE CONTINUES BELOW
THE FIRST ANNUAL
KINGSLEY GLOBAL ENTERPRISES EXECUTIVE RETREAT
Plus-ones are invited for dinner each night.
Business casual daytime dress.
Formal evening attire.
February 24–26
Twin Palms Resort, Laguna Beach
Kindly RSVP to Justin by February 14.
The future is bright when we all work together.
Remember, teamwork makes the dream work.
FRIDAY
Paige
They say it’s always the husband—and in my case, that’s the truth. Well, to be clear, it’s always my estranged husband, Ted. I remind myself I’ve found a good divorce attorney and take a deep, cleansing breath.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of my office, I see him, pacing back and forth, today’s ridiculous gift in hand, trying to get my attention. It’s childish, this behavior. Unoriginal. This is an every-morning performance: sometimes he brings doughnuts; other times, flowers, or a single sparkling water tied with a pink silk bow. He keeps making these offerings, I suppose expecting a different response from me. Or maybe it’s all for show, for his family, for his ego.
I pick up my phone, pretend to be on a call, and wave him away with the flick of my hand. I shouldn’t be surprised he has betrayed me again. Fool me once, and all that. But this time it’s business. I’m not sad. No—this time, finally, I’m angry. For so many years, I looked at his handsome face and couldn’t believe he was mine. The first word that came to my mind those days was love. Now the only word I have for him is betrayal. Oh, and the phrase I’m filing for divorce.
I know I need to talk to Richard, my father-in-law and boss, and tell him what I discovered and why I’m ending it with Ted. I spent the morning reading and rereading the letter from the city; the attached legal notices all amount to a big stop sign for the largest project Kingsley Global Enterprises has ever greenlit. The first big land deal I approved as president. All based on Ted’s insistence it was a clean deal that would mean everything for Kingsley’s future. Because of this deal, Ted has driven a huge wedge of doubt into Richard’s opinion of me, after I’ve worked so hard to turn things around at the company.
I know the employees have begun to see me as an effective leader. While I’ve been winning them over slowly, Richard’s admiration has been slipping away quickly. It’s the look in his piercing blue eyes, the downturn of his lip. He’s disappointed in me, and I have no idea why. Could it be he’s jealous of me? Of the fact the staff seems to like me? My eight months on the job have been marked by Kingsley Global Enterprises’ reemergence into the community as a philanthropic force. A community-spirited company gains a certain type of protection from enemies, especially if ugly secrets are unearthed. And besides, I enjoy doing good in the community, and this company can certainly afford it. I could attend a fancy charity event every weekend evening if I choose to, and we have been equally well received by the media, too, touting fresh female leadership at one of Orange County’s most powerful companies.
There’s a knock on my door, and before I can say anything, Justin pops his head in.
“Hey, here’s today’s offering,” he says with a crooked grin. Justin is my assistant—a dashing, too-good-looking, dimple-sporting man who is ten years younger than me. When Richard hired him six months ago, I was wary; he was too good to be true. Maybe he still is, but I’m embarrassed to say I enjoy every moment in his presence.
I stand up and walk over to his side. “What is it today?” I hold out my hand, and he drops a red silk bag into it.
“I’m guessing jewelry. He hasn’t done that lately.” Justin grins again, pushing a hand through his dark, thick hair. He’s distractingly cute.
I open the pouch, and sure enough, it’s a heart encrusted with pavé diamonds on a gold necklace. I drop it back into the pouch, trying to decide which of my twin daughters will get this latest gift. I roll my eyes.
Justin smiles at my reaction. “Are you all set for the retreat? Need anything else from me? If not, I’m going to head on over to the resort, get you checked in, and walk the space once more.”
“I think I’m set. I just feel like I need to speak to Richard before I head over. Is he here? Can you try to get me a meeting?” I ask.
“Sure, let me go find out,” Justin says. He touches my shoulder, and a tingle zips down my spine. “You know, he’ll be at the retreat. He promised to attend. You could speak to him there.”
“I know. I just want to get ahead of this land deal story. The reporter is running it tomorrow.”
“It’s not your deal, Paige. It was Ted’s. Everyone knows that,” Justin assures me. “I’ll go find out if Richard has time to talk.”
“Thank you,” I say, closing the door behind him. Yes, it was Ted’s land deal. Yes, his brother, John, agreed it was a great deal. But Richard said I had to make the final decision.
I believed Ted. Again. After everything he’s done. After all his lies, his cheating, his gambling, his dalliance—or whatever it was—with his own stepmother. John assured me he’d looked at the numbers, and Ted promised he’d looked at all the land-use issues. Even Richard said the deal looked doable, but he left the ultimate decision up to me. I knew in my heart Ted was a liar. I never should have approved the deal. If I’m not careful, this will give Richard the ammunition he needs to get rid of me, replace me with someone else.
Sometimes, I think he wants to push me aside—I do. But other days, he seems . . . well, like the old grumpy Richard who is fond of me and likes having me around as president. You just never know where you stand with the Kingsley men. That’s why, from now on, I will stand on my own two feet. I’m stronger now. A role model for my daughters, who are working here this summer. Hear me roar. And I’m not going to allow any of them to walk all over me again.
Particularly—and especially—not Ted.
Justin’s back. “He’s already left for the resort. I’ll head over, tell him you would like a meeting before the retreat starts. Don’t look so worried. Everything’s fine.”
I shake my head. “I’m well aware this weekend will be a lot like herding cats, but I must make my mark. I have a lot to prove here. You know that.”
“You do, and you are. Remember, when I first started here—working with you—I honestly didn’t think you would make it.”
He’s told me this before, but it stings every time. “I know. I seemed too nice.” I take a deep breath and walk over to my desk.
“Yep. And maybe easy to manipulate, for some people,” he says. “But the truth is, you’re tough and smart. So pack up your things, and I’ll see you over there. It’s a gorgeous day. Santa Ana winds are predicted tomorrow and Sunday, unfortunately.”
“I didn’t know that,” I tell him, filling my briefcase with my computer, extra phone, and all the charging cables life requires these days. “I hope they aren’t too strong.” Those winds put everyone on edge. The air changes, people’s moods shift. It’s dry—and itchy. Really unsettling.
Justin sighs. “Well, it is what it is. At least it’s warm and sunny, even with the winds.”
I don’t make eye contact. I remember the wind-driven fires in Laguna Beach, the roaring red flames of destruction above us on the hill, the ash swirling, choking the air. Our frantic evacuation. I shake my head, try to force the memories away.
The winds are not what we need this weekend. The winds remind you of how tentative everything is and how fast it can all be lost.
__________________________________
Author bio
Kaira Rouda is a USA Today, Amazon Charts, and internationally bestselling, multiple award–winning author of contemporary fiction that explores what goes on beneath the surface of seemingly perfect lives. Her domestic suspense novels include Best Day Ever, The Favorite Daughter, All the Difference, The Next Wife, Somebody’s Home, The Widow, and Beneath the Surface, the first book in the Kingsleys series.
She lives in Southern California with her family and is at work on her next novel. She is a founding member of the Killer Author Club, supporting other suspense and mystery authors.
Excerpt from What Fire Brings, by Rachel Howzell Hall
Some things are unknowable.
I blink and—
Stop!
—slam my foot on the car’s brake pedal. The Volvo skids to a stop on the side of the road. My heart booms as I try to catch my breath.
What . . .
Not paying attention on a twisty road while listening to this podcast about . . .
What . . . ?
I jab the stereo’s power button, dropping the cabin into silence. Since I’m stopped, I close my eyes. Force my pulse to slow. Force my hands to unclench the steering wheel and for my lungs to take deep—
A knock on my driver’s-side car window.
I yelp, jerking away as far as I can.
An old Black man is stooped outside the car, his knuckles still resting against my window. “Hey, you okay in there, young lady?” he asks, concern and sweat bright against his grizzled face. He wears a black baseball cap and a black satin jacket. A writing pen is clipped to his shirt pocket, and his gold tin badge—Russell Walker–Privatas Security Patrol—should also say “Marshal–Dodge City,” that’s how fake it looks.
“I saw you swerving just now,” Russell Walker says. “You’re lucky you didn’t go flying off this mountain.”
I gape at him, my mind still revving.
“You okay in there, young lady?” he asks again.
Am I okay in here?
I’m breathing so . . . I guess?
My purse sits on the passenger seat. My phone sits in the cup holder. There’s gas in the gas tank. So . . . yeah? An envelope addressed to Bailey Meadows sits atop my purse along with a postcard-size invitation:
JOIN US
Emerging Writers Reception
May 12, 2021, 5:00 pm
61147 Old Topanga Canyon Road
Topanga, CA 90290
RSVP to Margo Dunn
*Masks Required*
I force myself to smile at Russell Walker–Security Guard, and through the small crack in the window, I shout, “I’m okay. All good, Mr. Walker.”
Beyond the old man, there’s chaparral and old thick trees and hillsides covered with more chaparral and old thick trees. To my left, there are orange skies and the sun sinking behind a hill already lost in shadow. In front of me, there’s a battered Wagoneer with a Privatas Security Patrol sticker on its rear and a bar of orange lights on its roof. Those orange lights are now swirling.
Swirling lights signal danger.
I want to write all of this down, capture it in the here and now because Topanga Canyon is a mystery to me—I’ve never visited this part of the county before today. It’s too far from my home in South Los Angeles—thirty-nine miles—for a casual visit. This road carved through the Santa Monica Mountains is too twisty for a casual drive. A population of eight thousand people lives nestled around these parts. I roll down my car window and smell sage, wood, wildflowers. That sky, colored blue-orange-yellow—
“Where you trying to reach?” Russell Walker asks.
“Umm . . . I don’t . . .” I swipe through my head for the address, then nervous-laugh. “Let me look . . .” I push the stereo’s off button as I peek at the invitation and then peek at the directions on my phone now dangling from its charger between the cup holder and my knee. “I’m trying to reach . . . 61147 Old Topanga Canyon Road.”
Some things are unknowable.
And you’ll never know enough, even if you know everything.
Why am I thinking about the unknowable—
“Oh, I know exactly where you’re going,” the old man says, his head bobbing. “You’re going to the Beckham place, ain’t you?”
I swallow—my throat feels lined with sandpaper. “Yes. That’s right.” I grab my phone to confirm that, yes, I missed a right turn off this main road. There’s a text message banner still sitting at the top of the phone’s screen:
Some things are unknowable.
Ah. My eyes had left the road for just a second to read that text, and just like that . . .
“People always pass these turnoffs,” Russell Walker–Security Guard says now. He chuckles, then adds, “Happens all the time if you ain’t used to it. You from the city part of LA, ain’t you?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Uh-huh. It’s gonna take you a while to get used to how they do things up here, then. The Beckhams’ driveway is almost hidden. Like everybody up here, the family likes their privacy. Margo shoulda told you to slow down once you passed that first turnoff with all them trash bins.”
“She may have,” I say. “She probably did, and I still missed it.” And now, that sandpaper sensation travels from my throat and up to my mind, scratch-scratch-scratch.
__________________________________
Author bio
RACHEL HOWZELL HALL is the author of the acclaimed Lou Norton series, the standalone thriller They All Fall Down, and co-author of The Good Sister with James Patterson, which appeared in the New York Times bestselling anthology The Family Lawyer. She is the senior development officer for the Donor Relations Department at Cedars Sinai. Currently she serves on the Board of Directors for the Mystery Writers of America, is a member of Sisters in Crime, and has participated as a mentor in the Association of Writers and Writing Programs’ Writer-to-Writer Program. She lives in Los Angeles.
From Around the Web
Charlie Kondek: Acceptable Margin of Inventory Loss. From Yellow Mama Webzine.
“Mob Mentality” by James Patrick Focarile. From Shotgun Honey.
Eye on the Ball: A Few Words with Judy Penz Sheluk. From King’s River Life Magazine.
Indie Publishing: The Ins and Outs of Distribution.
Date: Tuesday, June 25, 2024
Time: 8:00 - 9:30 pm pm ET
Cost: Free for members
Robert Lopresti, Authorfella, Spring Newsletter.
Plus my latest group ebook giveaway! You can get a copy of my book, Fatal Connections, along with several other crime novels.
PLUS all my books will be half-priced on Smashwords throughout July 2024!
MY LATEST BOOK REVIEWS
My Book Review of ‘One of Us Knows’
My Book Review of ‘The Last Word’
FROM MY BOOK REVIEW ARCHIVES
‘And Mozart Was Taught’: Nurture, Nature or What?
Review: AND MOZART WAS TAUGHT (CovingtonMoore 2010)
Author: Ara 13
(originally posted November 13, 2010)
At the risk of sounding clichéd, where do I start?
To begin with, AND MOZART WAS TAUGHT is in no way an average novel. It's well above average both in reading level and the ideas expressed. It is, in fact, metafiction -- a post-modern form of writing that most authors would probably find difficult to pull off without slipping into totally self-conscious lecturing mode.
I'm happy to say that wasn't the case with this book (or, at least, it's kept to a minimum). The book has a central story about a girl named Emily who's bullied mercilessly (and for seemingly no particular reason) by her peers. She also happens to be brilliant -- her nose always in a book, which can't help matters. Jean, a math teacher, seeks to intervene on Emily's behalf after an incident culminates in violence (arguably, self-defense). Her concern for Emily grows stronger as she observes the laissez-faire attitudes of Emily's, um, father, Joe, and the school principal. All attempts on Jean's part to protect the girl simply seem to aggravate the situation, by setting her even farther apart from the other kids. Jean feels her hands are tied.
And even though Jean thinks Joe lacks intelligence and compassion, he has both in abundance. Joe is a frustrated newspaperman who encourages Emily to develop her intellect, but recognizes that he can't protect her from everything. In fact, Joe's so busy grappling with his own misplaced guilt and unrealized potential it's a miracle Emily registers on his radar at all.
During one visit to the principal's office, Jean vents her frustration after a particularly unfruitful exchange by exclaiming, "Isn't she the reason we become teachers?"
Hold that thought. Because it seems to be the essential point of the story. How much of who we are is shaped by genetics versus nurturing? How much can be taught as opposed to being intuited? And how much protection do we offer our children before it becomes overprotection? These questions are raised in myriad ways throughout the book. (And as for random chance and fate, let's not even go there ...)
Lest you think this book be nothing more than an intellectual discourse, nothing could be further from the truth. It was a most engrossing read with characters I cared about. Ara 13's prose is a playful flow of words (some of which may have you guessing at their meaning) that run the gamut of being evocative, bittersweet, clever, funny, blunt and mind-blowing. The book kept both my heart and mind fully engaged.
And while it may seem this is all about Emily, Jean and Joe, the story takes an odd turn about two-thirds of the way into the book and follows another person's narrative. Is it a spoiler to say there's a connection? I don't think so.
The book is filled with various plotlines (big and small) that cross over and connect with one another at random points. Things that may or may not have affected the outcomes of people involved in different ways.
However, fear not. Despite any narrative deviations, the reader eventually learns how Emily ends up. So that storyline gets resolved. In a highly satisfying way, in my opinion.
Interestingly enough, the conclusion introduces yet another character. One whose story is more implied than told. And the essential point -- Jean's plaintive query in the principal's office -- ironically, gets turned on its head.
* * *
Green Books Campaign: The Three Fates of Henrik Nordmark
(originally posted November 10, 2010)
This review is part of the Green Books campaign. [The link is dead, so don’t bother with it.] Today 200 bloggers take a stand to support books printed in an eco-friendly manner by simultaneously publishing reviews of 200 books printed on recycled or FSC-certified paper. By turning a spotlight on books printed using eco- friendly paper, we hope to raise the awareness of book buyers and encourage everyone to take the environment into consideration when purchasing books.
The campaign is organized for the second time by Eco-Libris, a green company working to make reading more sustainable. We invite you to join the discussion on "green" books and support books printed in an eco-friendly manner! A full list of participating blogs and links to their reviews is available on Eco-Libris website. [No longer there. Sorry. That’s the Net for you.]
This book is printed on FSC-certified paper.
Review: THE THREE FATES OF HENRIK NORDMARK (ECW Press 2010)
Author: Christopher Meades
Henrik Nordmark may be the plainest, most uninteresting person ever. Henrik is so alienated (and alienating) that he manages at one point to drive people out of a chat room by trying too hard and saying the wrong things. This would make for a very dull story – except that things change quickly. One day at the corner grocery, Henrik chases an errant plum he's dropped outside to the street and bumps into a stranger (who prevents him from lunging into traffic) wearing a tuxedo (in broad daylight!). The stranger stoops to retrieve the plum, a photo is snapped by a distant photographer and the stranger tells Henrik, "You must be careful, my friend," hands him the plum and disappears. For good.
Henrik ponders his near-death experience and vows that he shall become unique if it's the last thing he does.
The tuxedoed man is (of course) the photographer's intended target. However, the photo snapped is Henrik's. This photo is presented to three assassins, all of whom are over 90 years old and living in a retirement home. Their leader, Conrad, is blind. His cohorts Billy Bones and Arthur are (essentially) deaf and mute, respectively. Together, they comprise the world's worst assassination team.
There are three other players in this comedy of errors. Two of them are Roland and Bonnie, customers buying lottery tickets when Henrik dropped the plum. In all the excitement, their lottery tickets get switched. One is the winning ticket, but it ends up in the wrong hands.
Roland is almost (although, not quite) as hopeless as Henrik in the pathetic department. He tends to create his own problems, actually. He has a job and a girlfriend. He has a life Henrik would probably envy. However, he sees himself as a victim.
Meanwhile, there's Bonnie. She's married to Clyde. (Yes, cute, isn't it?) And they each secretly hate and plan to kill the other.
In any case, these people keep crossing paths. While Henrik searches for ways to become unique, the others keep showing up in some fashion or other, and suffer consequences. Meanwhile, the three assassins keep trying to kill Henrik and each attempt goes horribly and humorously awry.
And while the assassins' thwarted attempts may devastate others, Henrik wanders off, contemplating his plight in oblivion.
Will Henrik find salvation? Will it come from Parminder, the Indian woman who dispenses advice on the sly while working the phone banks for a religious organization?
This story, which is thought provoking and hilarious, will appeal to fans of the Douglas Adams sort. Readers who enjoy absurd humor and a bit of screwball comedy.
However, you'd be mistaken to take it for mere slapstick. THE THREE FATES OF HENRIK NORDMARK is about weird coincidence, fate and the ways life can be unfair. It's actually a harsh message, but Meades delivers it with humor, which helps it to go down easier.
The story culminates in a big finish, in which everyone may or may not get their just desserts. And Henrik's three fates? You'll have to read the book to find those out.
* * *
Looking for Laughs? ‘Take the Monkeys and Run’
Review: TAKE THE MONKEYS AND RUN (Ebook 2010)
Author: Karen Cantwell
(originally posted October 30, 2010)
Barbara Marr, a typical (if slightly frazzled) suburban mom, has her world go topsy-turvy. First, her husband, Howard (who resembles George Clooney -- hmm), walks out on her without explanation. (Something vague about needing "space.") As the book opens, Marr is investigating strange goings on in the night at the house next door.
This house (which Marr and her neighborhood pals have come to call "The House of Many Bones") has something of an odd history. The house has been vacant for years and the fellow who comes around to cut the grass occasionally has been less than gracious. Being a woman of active imagination (perhaps, overly so) and fascinated with film, Marr would like to know just what's up with that, anyway.
Things really take a turn when, after her nocturnal wanderings, Marr wakes up to find a raft of monkeys swinging from the trees in her backyard. This development leads to a closer examination of the empty house next door. This examination leads to the discovery of something horrible. Let's just say the House of Many Bones lives up to its name.
This sets off a chain of events that lead Marr to call upon an old suitor from college (a hunky sort who Marr compares to Robert Redford -- yow!). As the (now single) mother of three daughters, she needs all the help she can get. She occasionally gets a little too much help from her mother (a real force of nature, in her own right). Marr is also ably assisted by a couple of neighbor moms. Altogether they make a charming and funny team of people who simply want to know what's happening. Especially when guys who'd qualify for appearances on Jersey Shore or The Sopranos start showing up.
Oh, and did I forget to mention the cop who resembles Brad Pitt who's called in to investigate the monkey infestation? Hmm ... methinks there's the tiniest bit of potential for romantic tension here.
TAKE THE MONKEYS AND RUN has a lightness and confectionary quality that balances well with the dark and dreadful aspects of the danger Marr eventually faces. Karen Cantwell has a quick and nimble wit that makes the serious stuff more palatable. (And for cat lovers, don't let, um, a particular scene put you off. Keep going. You won't be sorry.)
As the plot builds up in danger, suspense and intensity, Cantwell never loses her focus on the funny. As each scene unfolds, nothing is as it seems in this rollicking send up of the various action movies and gangster films that Marr (as a wannabe film blogger) often mentions.
The story builds to a big finish, its exposition coming at you in a rush and a tumble. Totally in keeping with the beleaguered protagonist's thoughts. (And the "quick mental recap" in Chapter 19 is priceless!)
Combining the wackiness of its (ostensible) Woody Allen namesake with the antics of The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight, TAKE THE MONKEYS AND RUN has enough LOL moments (literally!) and wild twists to keep you turning the pages, until you reach the end. An ending that simply begs for a sequel -- starring George Clooney, Robert Redford and Brad Pitt, of course. :)
Be seeing you, next month!
Meanwhile, happy reading!