The Ghosts of Thorwald Place by Helen Power Book Tour and Giveaway

The Ghosts of Thorwald Place

by Helen Power

October 1-31, 2021 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Trust No One. Especially your neighbors.

Rachel Drake is on the run from the man who killed her husband. She never leaves her safe haven in an anonymous doorman building, until one night a phone call sends her running. On her way to the garage, she is murdered in the elevator. But her story doesn't end there.

She finds herself in the afterlife, tethered to her death spot, her reach tied to the adjacent apartments. As she rides the elevator up and down, the lives of the residents intertwine. Every one of them has a dark secret. An aging trophy wife whose husband strays. A surgeon guarding a locked room. A TV medium who may be a fraud. An ordinary man with a mysterious hobby.

Compelled to spend eternity observing her neighbors, she realizes that any one of them could be her killer.

And then, her best friend shows up to investigate her murder.

Praise for The Ghosts of Thorwald Place:

“[An] enticing debut . . . Distinctive characters complement the original plot. Power is off to a promising start.” —Publishers Weekly

“A creative, compulsively readable mystery—haunted by strange entities and told from the unique perspective of a ghost. I couldn’t put it down.” —Jo Kaplan, author of It Will Just Be Us

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller/Supernatural
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: October 5th 2021
Number of Pages: 368
ISBN: 0744301432 (ISBN13: 9780744301434)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | CamCat Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 3

It takes forever for someone to find my body. At six, the elevator is called to the fourth floor, and an early riser greets the sight of my body with a shrill scream. He stumbles backward, clutching his briefcase to his chest. I get the impression that he’s never discovered a grisly crime scene before. I, on the other hand, am enveloped in the cool indifference that seems to accompany death.

He staggers back to his apartment, shrieking hysterically all the way. Several of his neighbors rush out into the hall. Each person is in various stages of undress. A pregnant woman wearing a silk bathrobe and only one slipper. A man whose face is coated in shaving cream, save for a single bare strip down his left cheek. The look of horror on their faces would have been amusing if I were in the mood for dark humor. The elevator doors slide shut, and I am launched to another floor, where I startle another early commuter. The elevator doors close on the stunned woman’s face, lurching toward its next stop. I’m destined for repetition. Perhaps this is hell.

The police finally arrive, call the elevator to the ground floor, and put it out of service. I have now informally met a quarter of the building’s occupants, which is more than I met in the two years I lived here. A handful of police officers form a perimeter, trying to block the sight of my corpse from the prying eyes of my nosey neighbors. I hover by the elevator door as forensic investigators get to work examining my corpse. I try not to watch—disgusted by the sight of my limp body, which is coated in blood that has begun to cake—but the process is mesmerizing. The flash of cameras, the murmur of voices, and the hypnotic movement of pencils as they scribble in pristine, white notebooks. The forensic experts step gingerly around the scene, careful not to disturb anything, as they scrutinize my body from all angles. As they work, I can’t stop staring at my face. My eyes are still open and glazed over with a milky white sheen. My skin is nearly white, a shocking contrast to the deep crimson gash across my neck. My lips are parted in a soundless scream. A forensic investigator in a white bodysuit steps in front of me, cutting off my view. Relief floods through me, and I turn away before the sight of my own corpse enthralls me once again. I know I gained consciousness only minutes after my death, because blood was still dripping where the arterial spray arched across the walls, looking as if an artist had decided to add a splash of color to the monochromatic gray. I was reluctant to leave my body, but I had no idea what else to do. I had no moment of shock, no moment of revelation where I realized I was dead. I knew it from the instant I opened my eyes and saw the world from the other side. A world which looks different in death. Everything is a little grayer, a little faded. Voices and sounds have a slight echo. It’s as though I’m experiencing everything through a thin film—some indescribable substance that separates the world of the living from mine.

But why am I still here? My body has been found; the police are clearly investigating. It won’t take long for them to figure out it was he who killed me. I leave the elevator and glance around the lobby. I don’t see any obvious doorways or bright lights to follow. How will I know where to go? I bite back the pang of disappointment when I realize that none of my lost loved ones are here to welcome me. No husband. No parents. No Grumpelstiltskin, my childhood dog. Where are they, and how do I find my way to them?

I’m self-aware enough to know that I’ve always feared the unknown, and it’s obvious that this hasn’t changed in death. Instead of searching for my escape, I stay locked in place, eyes glued to the crime scene investigators. After what feels like an eternity, the medical examiner deposits my body into a black bag and wheels it out of the building. I begin to follow. Maybe if I slip back into my body, I’ll awaken, and everyone will laugh, like this was all just one big misunderstanding.

I’ll spend the rest of my days wearing a scarf, elegantly positioned to hide my gaping neck wound, like the girl in that urban legend.

I slam into an invisible wall about a dozen feet from the elevator. Slightly disoriented, I shake my head. I press forward.

Again, I’m stopped by an imperceptible force. I reach out, and my hand flattens midair. I run my hand along this invisible barrier, but it seems to run as high as I can reach and down to the marble floor.

I follow the barrier, tracing my hand along it. It cuts across the entire lobby, but not in a straight line. It’s slightly curved. Beyond the wall, I can see the medical examiner exit the building with my body, leaving my soul behind. I slam a hand against the invisible wall once again, but there’s no give.

My attention is drawn by the sound of a familiar grating voice. Elias Strickland, the concierge, is speaking with a police officer who looks like he’s desperate to leave. The invisible wall can wait. I approach the pair to eavesdrop.

“We have excellent security here,” Elias says. His perpetually nasal voice is exacerbated by the tears that stream down his face. “How could this have happened? My residents will want an explanation immediately.”

“We have someone reviewing the security footage of the exits. If the killer left the building, we’ll have them on film,” the police officer says.

“If they left the building? Are you saying they might still be here?” Elias tugs at his cheap tie.

The killer might still be in the building. I look around and notice for the first time that the residents aren’t allowed to simply leave. Police officers guard the front door, questioning each individual before they allow them to go to work or to the spa or to do whatever they think is more important than mourning my death.

“What can you tell me about the victim? Ms. Rachel Anne Drake?” the police officer asks.

“Well . . .” Elias runs a hand through his thinning, brown hair. “She is—was—an odd one. She rarely spoke to anyone. She kept to herself. I think I was her only friend in the building.”

I stare at him, just now realizing that the tears streaming down his face are for me. I feel a pang of guilt. I’ve never considered us “friends.” I interact with him once every few weeks—only when I have mail to pick up or complaints about the security guards.

Elias continues, “She even had her groceries delivered. I haven’t seen her leave the building in months.”

The police officer suddenly looks interested. He pulls a small, wire-bound notebook from his pocket and uncaps his pen.

“Do you think it’s possible that she may have been hiding from someone?”

“Possibly . . . She was always really interested in the security in the building. Like that was the main reason why she moved here, not the fabulous party room or the services I provide as concierge.” I wince in pity as he says the word with a dreadful French accent. He should have picked a line of work that he could pronounce.

“Did she have any visitors?”

“There was a man who used to come around, but I haven’t seen him in a few months,” Elias says. At the police officer’s prompting, he continues on to describe him. I realize he’s talking about Luke.

The police officer asks a few follow-up questions, and I’m surprised by just how much Elias knows. He knows the date and time of my weekly grocery deliveries, that once every couple of weeks I’ll treat myself to pizza delivered from the greasy place down the street, and that I get a haul of books delivered every time BMV Books has a sale.

“Well, if you think of anything else, please contact us immediately.” I peer over the police officer’s shoulder to look at the scribbles in his notebook, but he’s used a shorthand that I can’t decipher.

A nearly identical police officer emerges from the security office holding a flash drive. He glances at the concierge, then turns to his partner and begins speaking rapid French.

“The video doesn’t show anybody leaving the building between one and two this morning. But apparently, there was a power outage for about five minutes, and the killer could have left during that window.”

“No! That power outage happened before I died. The power came back, and then he killed me.” I blink and glance around. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to speak.

It makes no difference. Neither police officer reacts to the sound of my voice. I look at Elias, but he’s watching the officers intently. I turn my attention to the rest of the people milling about, but none of them seem to have heard me either. But I’m not yet discouraged.

I approach the pot-bellied man standing the closest to the crime scene tape. He cranes his neck to see into the elevator.

“THERE’S NOTHING TO SEE HERE!” I shout into his face. He doesn’t react. I try to shake him, but my hands fall through his fleshy body. I feel nothing—no chill, no warmth—as I slide my hands through him. I examine his face, but it’s clear that he doesn’t sense me in the slightest.

I strategically progress through the lobby, shouting at each bystander, attempting to reach them through any means.

I try everything I can remember having seen in movies about ghosts—from waving my hands through their heads to shouting obscenities in their ears. No one reacts. No one so much as shivers.

I’m angry, disappointed, and beginning to feel helpless. I brace myself, preparing to do my calming breathing technique, but there are no symptoms of a panic attack. My body is overcome by the numbness of being incorporeal. I could get used to this. I suppose I’ll have to.

I glance around, noticing that the police officers have long gone, and they’ve been replaced by a cleaning crew of four burly men who are crammed into the elevator. They’ve already bleached the walls in an attempt to remove all trace of my messy execution. The lobby is nearly empty now. Only Elias stands at his station, compulsively wringing his hands in between fielding calls from curious residents and the media.

I survey the expansive, high-ceilinged lobby. Unlike the rest of the building, it was designed with the sole purpose of impressing visitors. The floors are marble, polished to near perfection. The wallpaper is a pale blue with gold foil accents in the shape of falling leaves. A hefty, ornate clock is the only decoration on the stretch of the wall across from the front desk. There are two wing chairs and a sofa positioned underneath it. It serves as a sort of waiting area, though in my two years living in this building, I’ve never seen a single person sitting out here.

I can only access half of the lobby, so I need to find a way around this invisible barrier. I approach the elevator and look down the hall to the right. I tentatively step through the wall. I’m in the guest suite that’s reserved for visitors of building residents. The bed is neatly made, with the corners of the bedspread tucked tightly. There’s a lounge area sparsely decorated with cool tones. A gray, leather couch is angled toward an impressively-sized TV.

The room is windowless, but a single painting of a blue sky over a grassy field hangs on the wall opposite the door, creating the illusion of something beyond.

I stride across the plain gray rug and easily pass through this wall as well. I’m in the ground-level parking garage, which is located below the building. I continue to walk until I slam against the barrier. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s disorienting.

I place my hand on the barrier and follow it around until I reach the wall twenty feet from where I entered. The barrier is clearly circular. Is it meant to keep me contained? I shake my head at that thought, then I continue to follow the barrier through the wall, out of the garage, and into the library.

With gorgeous oak-paneled walls and towering bookshelves, the building’s library is quite a sight to behold. The leather couches look comfortable, with antique copper lamps strategically positioned between them. I’ve been down here several times over the last two years, but I never dawdle. I usually grab a handful of books and hurry back upstairs to the safety of my apartment, where I can actually relax and enjoy my reading.

I walk through the room divider into the “party” area. The dim overhead lights reveal a bar in the corner, which is framed by tall mirrors, making the room seem larger than it actually is. I scan the rest of the room. Circular tables are set up around a polished dance floor. I quickly hit another barrier only a few feet into the room.

I follow this barrier, clockwise, until I’ve made an entire lap of the enclosure. I was right. It is a circle. There are no breaks or gaps in the wall; nothing I can slip through to escape. What is this barrier? Who put it here? I have so many questions and no one to answer them.

Back in the lobby, the cleaning crew has finished their sterilization of the elevator. A starchy-looking woman stands in Elias’ face, complaining loudly about the inconvenience of having only one operating elevator. I’m glad that my death is nothing more than a disruption to her “busy” life. Shouldn’t she be disturbed that a brutal murder occurred hours ago in that very elevator? That the killer hasn’t even been caught? Hell, she should be worried that it’s haunted.

She spins on her heel and leaves a bedraggled Elias in her wake. She scowls at the cleaners, who are gathering their supplies and politely averting their eyes from her shrewd gaze. She presses the elevator button and boards the other one, which was already idling on this floor. She didn’t even have to wait five seconds. I’d love to see what a convenient elevator experience is like for her.

After she’s left, Elias tips the cleaners and reactivates the elevator. The doors slide shut, as if sealing my fate.

A man in snug jogging shorts strolls into the building, salutes Elias, and heads to the elevators. Elias nods and returns to his station. I decide to head over toward him to see what exactly he keeps behind the desk. It lies just beyond the invisible wall, so I might be able to see what he always stares at so intently on his computer.

Just as I reach the edge of the invisible barrier, a powerful sensation of vertigo overcomes me. My skin begins to crawl. I stare down at my arms in astonishment. My entire body is vaporizing, shredding into a million pieces, wisps of flesh fading into the world around me. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, willing the end to come quickly.

***

Excerpt from The Ghosts of Thorwald Place by Helen Power. Copyright 2021 by Helen Power. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Helen Power is obsessed with ghosts. She spends her free time watching paranormal investigation TV shows, hanging out in cemeteries, and telling anyone who’ll listen about her paranormal experiences. She is a librarian living in Saskatoon, Canada, and has several short story publications, including ones in Suspense Magazine and Dark Helix Press’s Canada 150 anthology, “Futuristic Canada”. The Ghosts of Thorwald Place is her first novel.

Catch Up With Our Author:
HelenPower.ca
Goodreads
BookBub - @helen_power
Instagram - @powerlibrarian
Twitter - @helenpowerbooks
Facebook - @helenpowerauthor

My Review

Rachel Drake, the protagonist of The Ghosts of Thorwald Place, is an agoraphobic. She is hiding from the killer of her husband. When she receives a phone call that thoroughly frightens her. She packs a bag and flees the apartment and heads to the garage in the apartment building, Thorwald Place, that she resides in. Her car has been parked for nine months. She never makes it to the car before she is grabbed from behind and strangled. This is just the beginning of the story.

It appears that Rachel is tethered in the afterlife to the elevator in the building, constantly pulled from floor to floor and room to room watching the living. Each of the residents hides a secret, a wife who's husband strays from the marriage, a surgeon who has a locked room in her apartment where she lives along with her son, a man who has a hobby, looking at the apartments across the street with his telescope, a teenager who has an interest in the afterlife and the devil, and a medium who may not be who he says he is.

Each time she is pulled into an apartment, she is able to see more into her neighbors lives. She is also trying to figure out who killed her, her best friend Catalina who has temporarily moved into the building to try to figure out who killed her friend, with the help of Rachel's brother in law who has moved into Rachel's apartment with the explanation that he is there to try to figure out who killed Rachel. Rachel can't have contact with any of these people because she is, well she is dead.

I love a good ghost story and this one is right up there with the best. The writing is top notch and the plot is a new twist on a ghost story. This one kept me turning the pages. I loved it and highly recommend it!

I received the book for review purposes only.

Tour Participants:

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Join In:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Helen Power & CamCat Publishing. There will be Five (5) winners for this tour. Each of the winners will each receive 1 print ARC edition of The Ghosts of Thorwald Place by Helen Power (US, Canada, and UK shipping addresses Only). The giveaway begins on October 1 and ends on November 2, 2021. Void where prohibited.

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Twisted Tea Christmas (A Tea Shop Mystery) by Laura Childs Book Tour and Giveaway!

Twisted Tea Christmas (A Tea Shop Mystery) by Laura Childs

About Twisted Tea Christmas

Twisted Tea Christmas (A Tea Shop Mystery) 

Cozy Mystery 22nd in Series Setting - South Carolina 

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Berkley (October 5, 2021) 

Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 336 pages 

ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0593200861 

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0593200865 

Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08S7DLKWL

An attack on the host of a fancy tea party sends Theodosia Browning looking for answers in the latest entry in the New York Times bestselling series.

 

Tea maven Theodosia Browning and her tea sommelier, Drayton Conneley, are catering a Victorian Christmas party at a swanky mansion in downtown Charleston. Drucilla Heyward, the hostess, is one of the wealthiest women in town.

 

As the champagne flows and the tea steeps, Drucilla is so pleased with the reception by her partygoers that she reveals her secret plan to Theodosia. The Grande Dame has brought the cream of Charleston society together to reveal that she is planning to give her wealth away to various charitable organizations. However, before she can make the announcement, Theodosia finds her crumpled unconscious in the hallway. It looks like the excitement has gotten to the elderly woman--except that there is a syringe sticking out of her neck.

 

INCLUDES DELICIOUS RECIPES AND TEA TIME TIPS!

About Laura Childs

Laura Childs is the New York Times bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries, Scrapbook Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries. In her previous life she was CEO/Creative Director of her own marketing firm and authored several screenplays. She is married to a professor of Chinese art history, loves to travel, rides horses, enjoys fundraising for various non-profits, and has two Chinese Shar-Pei dogs.

Laura specializes in cozy mysteries that have the pace of a thriller (a thrillzy!) Her three series are:

The Tea Shop Mysteries – set in the historic district of Charleston and featuring Theodosia Browning, owner of the Indigo Tea Shop. Theodosia is a savvy entrepreneur, and pet mom to service dog Earl Grey. She’s also an intelligent, focused amateur sleuth who doesn’t rely on coincidences or inept police work to solve crimes. This charming series is highly atmospheric and rife with the history and mystery that is Charleston.

The Scrapbooking Mysteries – a slightly edgier series that take place in New Orleans. The main character, Carmela, owns Memory Mine scrapbooking shop in the French Quarter and is forever getting into trouble with her friend, Ava, who owns the Juju Voodoo shop. New Orleans’ spooky above-ground cemeteries, jazz clubs, bayous, and Mardi Gras madness make their presence known here!

The Cackleberry Club Mysteries – set in Kindred, a fictional town in the Midwest. In a rehabbed Spur station, Suzanne, Toni, and Petra, three semi-desperate, forty-plus women have launched the Cackleberry Club. Eggs are the morning specialty here and this cozy cafe even offers a book nook and yarn shop. Business is good but murder could lead to the cafe’s undoing! This series offers recipes, knitting, cake decorating, and a dash of spirituality.

Laura’s Links: Website – Facebook

Purchase Links Amazon - B&N - Kobo - IndieBound

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TOUR PARTICIPANTS

October 5 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – REVIEW

October 5 – Brianne's Book Reviews – REVIEW

October 6 – The Avid Reader – REVIEW

October 6 – Sapphyria's Book Reviews - SPOTLIGHT

October 7 – My Reading Journeys – REVIEW

October 7 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT

October 7 – Novels Alive – SPOTLIGHT

October 8 – I'm All About Books – SPOTLIGHT

October 8 – I Read What You Write - REVIEW, AUTHOR INTERVIEW

October 8 – Books a Plenty Book Reviews – REVIEW

October 9 – The Book's the Thing - REVIEW, GUEST POST

October 9 – Author Elena Taylor's Blog – SPOTLIGHT

October 10 – Brooke Blogs – SPOTLIGHT

October 11 – Christy's Cozy Corners - REVIEW

October 11 – Maureen's Musings – SPOTLIGHT

October 12 – Socrates Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

October 12 – Baroness Book Trove – SPOTLIGHT

October 13 – Ascroft, eh? – GUEST POST

October 13 – Reading, Writing & Stitch-Metic – SPOTLIGHT

October 14 – Literary Gold – SPOTLIGHT

October 14 – MJB Reviewers – SPOTLIGHT

October 15 – Laura's Interests – REVIEW

October 16 – Moonlight Rendezvous – REVIEW  

October 16 – Dear Reader – REVIEW

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October 17 – Cozy Up With Kathy - REVIEW, AUTHOR INTERVIEW

October 18 – Here's How It Happened – SPOTLIGHT

October 18 – BookishKelly2020 – SPOTLIGHT 

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Once Upon a Seaside Murder (A Beach Reads Mystery) by Maggie Blackburn Book Tour and Giveaway!

Once Upon a Seaside Murder (A Beach Reads Mystery) by Maggie Blackburn

About Once Upon a Seaside Murder

 

Once Upon a Seaside Murder (A Beach Reads Mystery) 

Cozy Mystery 2nd in Series 

Setting - Brigid's Island, NC 

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Crooked Lane Books (October 12, 2021) 

Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 336 pages 

ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1643858327 

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1643858326 

Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08TV4GK2C

As the holidays approach, bookstore owner Summer Merriwether learns a dark secret in this second volume of Maggie Blackburn's Beach Reads mystery series.

 

There's no place like home for the holidays, even if home is sleepy, beachside Brigid's Island, NC. During this season for giving, the town wakes up to a welcome throng of shoppers--and Beach Reads is no exception. But bookseller Summer Merriwether's Christmas cheer turns to cringing fear when she uncovers a deadly secret about her late mother--a secret someone will kill to keep.

 

When the local library hosts a cozy mystery panel discussion, Summer learns that one of the authors on the panel based her book on an actual murder that shook Brigid's Island thirty-five years before. Worse, she soon learns that her dearly missed mother, Hildy, took a disturbingly deep interest in the case, going so far as to collect clippings and keep a journal of the dark doings. This doesn't jibe with Summer's memories of her usually cheery mother at all.

 

Tidings get worse when Summer learns of her long-lost biological family's involvement in the crime...and still worse when the life of the book's author is threatened. With the help of Hildy's plucky book club, Summer puts her scholarly smarts to work on protecting the cozy author and solving the decades-old murder.

 

But this ghost from Christmas past may still be deadly in the present, and if she can't find the killer, Summer's future will be brief.

 

About Maggie Blackburn

Maggie Blackburn is the pen name of Mollie Cox Bryan. She writes cozy mysteries with edge. She's the author of several bestselling mystery series. She's recently released a novella mystery series: The Victoria Town Mysteries. Her book, "Goodnight Moo," has been shortlisted for a Fresh Fiction Reader's Choice Award. Her books have been selected as finalists for an Agatha Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award and as a Top 10 Beach Reads by Woman's World. She makes her home at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Shenandoah Valley, Va.

Author Links 

  Website http://www.molliecoxbryan.com 

  Facebook https://www.facebook.com/molliecoxbryanauthor/ 

  Twitter https://twitter.com/molliecoxbryan 

  Instagram https://www.instagram.com/molliebryan/ 

  Purchase Links - Amazon - B&N - Kobo - IndieBound 

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October 14 – #BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee Blog – SPOTLIGHT

October 15 – View from the Birdhouse – REVIEW

October 15 – Literary Gold – CHARACTER GUEST POST

October 15 – Sapphyria's Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

October 16 – Celticlady's Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

October 16 – Books a Plenty Book Reviews - REVIEW, CHARACTER GUEST POST

October 16 – Maureen's Musings – SPOTLIGHT

October 17 – Nellie's Book Nook - REVIEW, AUTHOR INTERVIEW

October 17 – Satisfaction for Insatiable Readers – SPOTLIGHT

October 18 – Socrates Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

October 18 – I Read What You Write – SPOTLIGHT WITH RECIPE

October 19 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT

October 19 – The Book Diva's Reads – GUEST POST

October 20 – Ascroft, eh? – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

October 20 – Christy's Cozy Corners – AUTHOR INTERVIEW  

October 21 – Mysteries with Character – GUEST POST

October 21 - My Reading Journeys – REVIEW

October 21 - Baroness Book Trove - CHARACTER INTERVIEW

October 21 - Hearts & Scribbles – SPOTLIGHT

October 22 – Book Club Librarian – REVIEW

October 22 – Novels Alive – REVIEW

October 22 – Angel's Guilty Pleasures – SPOTLIGHT

October 23 – BookishKelly2020 – SPOTLIGHT

October 23 – Brooke Blogs – SPOTLIGHT

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Stitch, Bake, Die! (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) by Lois Winston Book Tour and Giveaway!

Stitch, Bake, Die! (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) by Lois Winston

About Stitch, Bake, Die

Stitch, Bake, Die! (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) 

Cozy Mystery 10th in Series Setting - New Jersey 

Independently Published (October 4, 2021) 

Print length ‏ : ‎ 218 pages 

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B09D5VZFRX

With massive debt, a communist mother-in-law, a Shakespeare-quoting parrot, and a photojournalist boyfriend who may or may not be a spy, crafts editor Anastasia Pollack already juggles too much in her life. So she’s not thrilled when her magazine volunteers her to present workshops and judge a needlework contest at the inaugural conference of the NJ chapter of the Stitch and Bake Society, a national organization of retired professional women. At least her best friend and cooking editor Cloris McWerther has also been roped into similar duties for the culinary side of the 3-day event taking place on the grounds of the exclusive Beckwith Chateau Country Club.

 

Marlene Beckwith, wife of the multi-millionaire pharmaceutical magnate and country club owner, is both the chapter president and conference chairperson. The only thing greater than her ego is her sense of entitlement. She hates to lose at anything and fully expects to win both the needlework and baking competitions.

 

When Anastasia and Cloris arrive at the conference, they discover cash bribes in their registration packets. The Society members, few of whom are fans of Marlene, stick up for the accused and instead suggest that Marlene orchestrated the bribes to eliminate her stiffest competition.

 

The next morning when Marlene is found dead, Anastasia questions whether she really died peacefully in her sleep. After Marlene’s husband immediately has her cremated, Anastasia once again finds herself back in reluctant amateur sleuth mode.

 

With the help of Cloris, Marlene’s personal assistant Rhetta, and a laptop someone will stop at nothing to find, Anastasia soon unravels evidence of insurance scams, medical fraud, an opioid ring, long-buried family secrets, and too many possible suspects. And that’s before she not only stumbles over the body of yet another member of the Stitch and Bake Society but also finds Rhetta unconscious.

Can Anastasia piece together the various clues before she becomes the killer’s next target?

Crafting tips included.

Excerpt Stitch, Bake, Die!

An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery

© 2021 Lois Winston

ONE

“Solve any murders over the weekend?”

Cloris McWerther, AKA American Woman food editor and my best friend, entered the break room as I helped myself to a cup of coffee, my second since arriving at the office half an hour ago. It was one of those mornings. I scowled into my coffee cup. “Monday morning gallows humor? Definitely not appreciated, especially today.”

“Uh-oh! Do tell.”

I glanced at the large bakery box she clutched in her hands. “Only if you’re about to bribe me. And it better include chocolate.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Or?”

“I refuse to take responsible for my actions.”

Cloris shoved the box into my outstretched arms. “In that case, take the entire dozen. I don’t want to be charged with accessory to whatever crime you’re contemplating this morning. Or worse yet, wind up your victim.”

“Smart woman.” I placed the box on the table and lifted the lid to reveal twelve chocolate éclairs. I grabbed one and took a huge bite. An explosion of raspberry pastry cream mamboed around my mouth, mingling with chocolate ganache and sending my taste buds into gastronomic bliss.

After rinsing the mouthful down with a swig of coffee, I said, “I’m nominating these for a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“I don’t think they give Nobels for food,” said Cloris, helping herself to an éclair.

“Well, they should. If given a choice between these and war, peace would reign supreme.”

Cloris consumed the éclair and helped herself to another. I forced myself to exert massive self-control as I stared longingly at the remaining nine éclairs. Superior metabolism is Cloris’s superpower. No matter what she eats, she remains a Size Two. Me? I probably gained three pounds staring into the box.

“So?” she asked.

I nibbled at the remainder of the éclair in my hand. Best to make the pleasure last as long as possible. “My Lucille reprieve ended yesterday. She’s back home.”

Cloris frowned as she pushed the bakery box toward me. “When dealing with the mother-in-law from Hades, one éclair is never enough.”

I definitely deserved to lose myself in éclair heaven, but with a courage I normally lacked, I shook my head and slid the box back to her. If I caved, I’d regret my weakness when I stepped on the bathroom scale tomorrow morning. Besides, with a wedding on the horizon, I should be eating escarole, not éclairs.

“Are we talking general Lucille belligerence, or something specific?”

“No point boring you with details. You’ve heard it all before in one form or another. Let’s just say the reprieve was far too short, and she spent yesterday making up for lost time.”

When my husband, Karl Marx Pollack, so named due to his mother’s communist convictions, died suddenly in Las Vegas a little more than a year ago, Lucille Pollack became my permanent houseguest and albatross—along with her French bulldog Manifesto. The dog’s ill-tempered disposition, most likely the result of his political moniker. I’ve yet to meet a commie with a pleasant personality, and thanks to my mother-in-law, I’ve met far too many.

If I could, I’d set Lucille up in an assisted-living facility. Unfortunately, thanks to a well-hidden gambling addiction, Karl left me in debt greater than the GNP of the average Third World nation.

My name is Anastasia Pollack. I’m a widowed mother of two teenage boys, a women’s magazine crafts editor, caretaker to a Shakespeare-quoting parrot, and ever since Karl’s death, a previous member of the middle class and reluctant amateur sleuth. Don’t ask me how many dead bodies I’ve stumbled across. I’ve lost count. Seriously.

Lucille had spent the last three weeks convalescing at a rehab center, the result of a car accident that saw the demise of a misguided assassin. Said assassin had taken it upon herself to eliminate several people she deemed problematic to me and my family, including my fiancé’s father, my mother’s ex-husband, and a boorish misogynist. We believe Lucille was her next intended target.

Cloris left the remaining sinful confections in the break room for nine lucky coworkers. Coffee cups in hand, we headed down the corridor to our cubicles, which lay across the hall from one another. Before we arrived, we heard our names called from behind.

We turned to find the ever-efficient Kim O’Hara, our editorial director’s assistant, waving to us. As usual, she held a stack of file folders cradled in one arm, her phone clutched in her other hand as she held it overhead and continued waving. A curtain of straight auburn hair whipped around her face as she race-walked toward us, Manolo Blahnik’s clicking a staccato beat along the terrazzo floor.

Half-Chinese, half-Irish, Kim had lucked out in the gene lottery, inheriting the best features from both branches of her family tree, but unlike our self-absorbed fashion editor, Kim was as sweet as she was gorgeous. When she caught up to us, she said, “Naomi wants to see you both, ASAP.”

“About?” I asked, fighting back the trepidation growing inside me. Although the best of friends, Cloris’s work and mine rarely overlapped, and with our monthly staff meeting still two weeks away, we certainly hadn’t forgotten to show up for an issue planning session. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why Naomi wanted to see both of us at the same time unless we were about to be fired.

Rumors concerning major editorial changes constantly whipped around the office at 5G speed. We’d had several upheavals since the hostile takeover that had absorbed us into the Trimedia a few years ago. With so many magazines on life-support, I immediately expected the worst. I glanced at Cloris and saw the same thought reflected in her eyes.

Kim merely smiled cryptically as she shrugged and said, “You’ll have to ask Naomi.”

“Spoken like a true acolyte,” said Cloris.

Kim chuckled as she zipped past us on her way to carry out her next task.

“Never let it be said that Kim allows any moss to grow under her designer stilettos,” I said, amazed at her ability to stay upright in five-inch heels as she jogged down the hall. “I’d twist an ankle before I managed two steps.”

“You and me both.” Cloris took a deep breath and exhaled with a rush. “I suppose we’d better see what Naomi wants.”

A minute later we stood outside the office of our editorial director. Cloris raised her hand and rapped twice. From the other side of the door we heard Naomi call, “Come in.”

We found Naomi Dreyfus seated behind her desk. She waved us forward, directing us to take the two seats that faced her.

Naomi had recently turned sixty, but you’d never know it by looking at her. Statuesque and regal with emerald green eyes and silver hair always styled in an elegant chignon, she gave off an aura of old money and finishing schools. She reminded me of Grace Kelly—back before the former actress-turned-princess had added the menopause pounds that robbed her of her waist. At sixty, Naomi still maintained her girlish figure, not to mention her flawless, wrinkle-free complexion.

She offered us a warm smile as we settled into the chairs. I took that as a positive sign. If you’re about to be canned, you might receive a malicious smirk from the boss, but a friendly smile? Not likely.

Without any chitchat-filled prelude, Naomi got right to the point. “Are either of you familiar with the Stitch and Bake Society?”

“I think so,” said Cloris. “Aren’t they a women’s social group similar to the one where members wear purple and sport red hats?”

Naomi nodded. “Similar but different. The Stitch and Bake Society began several years ago when a recent retiree realized she’d spent her entire life as a single, workaholic executive and now had few friends and fewer pastimes to occupy her days.”

I stole a quick glance at Cloris and caught her eye. I could think of dozens of activities we’d both enjoy if only we had both the free time and funds of a financially well-off retiree.

Naomi continued, “She remembered how her mother, grandmothers, and aunts had always enjoyed needlework projects and baking, activities she’d deemed as old-fashioned and a waste of time.”

“Why make what you can easily buy?” asked Cloris.

“Exactly.”

“That’s not why people pursue hobbies,” I said.

“You and I know that, but she didn’t,” said Naomi. “Anyway, out of boredom, she took a few classes and found herself falling in love with the very hobbies she’d eschewed her entire life. Through social media, she connected with other retired professional women in similar circumstances and eventually founded an organization devoted to women exploring these shared passions in their golden years.”

“Are we giving them a write-up?” I asked.

“More than that. The organization has grown to include chapters across the country. The New Jersey chapter is holding their first mini-conference next week, a three-day event at the Beckwith Chateau Country Club.”

Cloris whistled under her breath. “These ladies are definitely not getting by on only their IRAs and Social Security checks.”

“Not by a longshot,” said Naomi. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Marlene Beckwith is president of the New Jersey chapter.”

“Nothing like having well-placed friends,” I said. Marlene’s family owned the most exclusive country club in the state. Rumor had it membership was by invitation only, and if you needed to ask the initiation fee and annual cost, you couldn’t afford to join.

“American Woman has agreed to be one of the sponsors,” said Naomi, “which leads me to both of you. Along with hosting speakers, as part of the festivities they’re holding a baking competition and a needlework show. The two of you will each give a one-hour talk once a day and also judge the two competitions.”

“Which three days?” I asked. “Are we talking giving up a weekend?”

“Tuesday through Thursday,” said Naomi.

“That’s a relief,” said Cloris.

“Something doesn’t add up,” I said. When Naomi raised an eyebrow, I continued. “This conference is scheduled a week from tomorrow, and they’re just now requesting speakers, judges, and corporate sponsorship? Most conferences take a year to plan and execute.”

“Most conferences don’t have Beckwith resources behind them,” said Naomi. “But you do have a point. It does seem odd the way this was thrown together so suddenly.”

“Not to mention,” said Cloris, “if they have Beckwith backing them, why do they need our sponsorship?”

“For the publicity we’ll give them in an upcoming issue,” said Naomi. “We’re not supplying any funding, only corporate merchandise, like the tote bags and other publicity items left over from last year’s consumer show at the Javits Center.”

“Still, it would have been nice to have more time to prepare,” I said. “Judging a cooking and crafting competition doesn’t require planning. But working up three one-hour presentations will take hours, if not several days.”

“Not to mention the three days we’ll be away from the office not getting our regular work done,” added Cloris.

“Exactly,” I said, glad Cloris had broached the subject.

“Would it help if I comped you both three days?” asked Naomi.

“Definitely,” said Cloris, “given that we’ll have to work nights to meet our deadlines.”

“Overtime would be preferable,” I said. The way to this impoverished craft editor’s heart is through her depleted bank account.

Naomi grew silent as she weighed her options. On the one hand, she was aware of my financial situation. On the other, I was aware of the magazine’s financial situation. Finally, she clasped her hands on her desk and said, “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

“You think she’ll come through with the money?” asked Cloris a few minutes later as we made our way back to our cubicles.

“Hard to say. I guess it depends on how much her discretionary fund was slashed in this year’s budget.”

“At least we’ve got three comp days if nothing else.”

“All in all, not a bad negotiation.” Yet I still couldn’t help wondering why an organization would throw together a conference with so little prep, not to mention scheduling it for March. Even though the conference began on the first day of Spring, historically, New Jersey had suffered through some of its worst snow storms the end of March. If one hit the day of the conference, the chapter would wind up hosting an event devoid of attendees.

“Unfortunately, I can’t even think about the conference right now,” said Cloris. “I’m spending the day mentoring culinary students at the local vo-tech.” She glanced at her phone. “I have to leave shortly.”

“My day is already booked,” I said. “I’ve got a photo shoot this morning and an interview with a breakout Etsy crafter this afternoon. We’ll have to start brainstorming tomorrow morning.”

Cloris made a face. “Which leaves us one less day to get everything done before next Tuesday.”

~*~

I arrived home to find that my mother-in-law and several of her Daughters of the October Revolution octogenarian comrades had taken over my dining room table. In assembly line fashion, they folded neon yellow flyers and stuffed them into envelopes that others then sealed, labeled, and stamped.

I glanced at the stack of flyers, curious to see if they were planning yet another protest regarding who-knew-what in Downtown Westfield or preparing to flood congress with a massive letter-writing campaign on the topic of your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine.

One of Lucille’s minions noticed me and smacked her hand on top of the stack of flyers. “This is private business!”

I shrugged, having satisfied my curiosity. The over-the-hill commies were launching a fundraising campaign to finance their next tilting-at-windmills cause du jour. Good luck with that. Whatever the project, if past efforts were any indication of future success, they wouldn’t raise enough money to cover their printing and mailing costs.

Previously, Lucille thought nothing of helping herself to my office equipment and supplies. In true communist fashion, she believed what was mine (or anyone’s) was hers. Yet the philosophy never extended in the opposite direction. Go figure. But with Zack now living in the house, the apartment above the garage was once again an office, one we now shared and kept under lock and key. Problem solved.

“You need to remove all of this before dinner,” I said with a nod to the mess covering my dining room table.

Harriet Kleinhample, Lucille’s second-in-command, tore her attention away from her folding and scowled at me. “We won’t be finished by then.”

“Too bad,” I said. “And before you assume otherwise, you’re not invited to stay for dinner.”

“I’ve already invited them,” said my mother-in-law in a voice that brooked no defiance.

“Then I suggest you make other plans. I don’t have enough food to feed five extra mouths tonight.”

One of the other women glared at me. “Lucille is right. You’re not a very nice person, Anastasia.”

I glared back. “You have fifteen minutes to clean up and clear out.”

Contrary to communist propaganda, I’m actually a very nice person. Just ask anyone besides my mother-in-law and her fellow rabblerousers. Or the various killers I’ve had a hand in catching. Or the identity thief who preyed upon my elderly neighbor. Or the kidnappers in Barcelona who mistook me for someone else. I wouldn’t expect any of them to think kindly of me. But Lucille? If not for me, she and her dog would reside in a homeless shelter. You’d think that would count for at least an occasional kind word. It hasn’t so far, and I doubt it ever will.

With virtual daggers shooting toward me, I exited the dining room, walked into the kitchen, and stared at the slow cooker on the counter. Could I trust the Bolshevik Brigade not to help themselves to dinner? Probably not. Instead of heading to the apartment, I texted Zack and the boys that I was home and needed their help. 

Then I released Ralph from his cage. “What should we do about these unbidden guests?” I asked him.

He squawked once, lifted his wings, and took flight. As he flew into the dining room, he channeled the Duke of Bedford, “Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone. Henry VI, Part One, Act Two, Scene Two.”

The women jumped from their seats and made a mad dash for the coats they’d piled onto my living room sofa, their shrieking drowning out Ralph. You’d think I’d unleashed the Kraken instead of a housebroken African Grey parrot with a knack for situation-appropriate quotes from The Bard of Avon.

After the last Daughter of the October Revolution had fled, my mother-in-law hoisted herself out of her chair and waved her cane at me. “You did that on purpose!”

Yes, I had.

“Did what?” asked Nick, ambling into the house, Mephisto close on his heels, his brother and Zack bringing up the rear.

My two sons and my fiancé took in the apparent standoff and formed a protective phalanx around me. Ralph, spying his favorite human, flew to Zack and settled on his shoulder.

Outnumbered, Lucille’s mouth tightened. She turned her attention to her dog. “Come to mother, Manifesto.”

Devil Dog refused to budge. At some point over the last few months, he’d transferred his allegiance to Nick.

Lucille stomped over to Nick and grabbed the leash out of his hands. “Give me back my dog!” When she yanked on the leash, the dog responded by sitting on his haunches.

“He doesn’t want to go with you,” said Alex, stating the obvious.

Drawing her eyebrows together and narrowing her gaze, Lucille pounded her cane once, then pivoted and clomped toward her bedroom.

Zack kissed me hello, then motioned to the coat I still wore. “You staying?” 

He grabbed the coat as I slipped it off my shoulders. “Just one of those days. I was hoping to come home to a drama-free house.”

Alex snorted. “Really, Mom? In this house?” 

“Well, at least a house with only one belligerent Bolshevik.”

A sudden loud crash brought further conversation to a halt.

About Lois Winston

USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry.

Author Links 

Website: loiswinston.com 

Newsletter sign-up: https://app.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/z1z1u5 Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog: anastasiapollack.blogspot.com 

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Twitter: https://twitter.com/Anasleuth 

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/722763.Lois_Winston Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/lois-winston 

Purchase Links Kindle - Nook - Kobo - Apple Books 

Paperback (link to come after 10/4) 

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