Trouble
is in the wind for wedding planner and amateur sleuth Sydney
Riley
Her
boss Glenn has grown secretive; her best friend Mirela is hiding
something, and Sydney’s daily routine at the Race Point Inn has
grown stale. Sydney’s boyfriend, Ali, is in town as part of an
investigation whose details he’s hesitant to share, and living
together in her tiny apartment has become a challenge, to say the
least. Any charm she’d found in her hand-to-mouth existence has
disappeared.
Something has to give—and it does: A visit from
Sydney’s father turns treacherous when the investigation of a
hit-and-run death leads her to the intimidating and subterranean
world of high-priced art. Then Glenn vanishes as a dangerous storm
races up the coast, and Sydney comes face-to-face with deception—both
on canvas and in real life.
Jeannette de Beauvoir’s flare
for drama, detail, and suspense brings the art world to life in this
ninth book in the Provincetown Mystery Series.
Jeannette
de Beauvoir didn’t set out to murder anyone—some things are just
meant to be! Her mother introduced her to the Golden Age of mystery
fiction when she was far too young to be reading it, and she’s kept
reading those authors and many like them ever since.
She
wrote historical and literary fiction and poetry for years before
someone asked her what she read—and she realized mystery was where
her heart was. Now working on the Sydney Riley Provincetown mystery
series, she bumps off a resident or visitor to her hometown on a
regular basis.
Jeannette
is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the
Author’s Guild, and the National Writers Union. She presents a
weekly radio show on the arts streaming on WOMR, a Pacifica network
affiliate, and is theatre critic for ptownie.com. Find out more (and
read her blog or sign up for her newsletter) at
jeannettedebeauvoir.com. You can also find her on Facebook,
Instagram, Patreon, and Goodreads.
Annalisse Drury and Alec Zavos are on opposite sides when an ex-lover from Alec’s past introduces him to his alleged son. With Alec’s marriage proposal in limbo, Annalisse accepts a key to her dream cottage—an invitation to a sheep station on South Island, New Zealand—only this time, she travels alone.
Unbeknownst to her, a mutual friend follows on the flight, and together they are confronted by two peculiar deaths—either accidental, or the deliberate acts of a psychopath.
Temuka police investigators are closing these cases too quickly. They want Annalisse to exit their country before she reveals the town’s darkest secrets. Will she return to Alec, or sacrifice their future together to expose it all?
Praise for Copper Waters:
"Marlene M. Bell's COPPER WATERS is a well-written murder mystery with descriptive scenes, an intriguing setting, and enough push and pull between the characters and within the plot to keep readers engaged." ~ IndieReader
"Marlene M. Bell is a master storyteller when it comes to the cozy mystery genre." ~ Book Review Directory
"Copper Waters is an entertaining and fast-paced mystery, where small-town intrigue, family drama, and a high-stakes whodunit will deepen readers' affection for the tenacious Annalisse." ~ Self-Publishing Review
"Copper Waters is emotional and thrilling, surprising and life-changing." ~ Review by Book Excellence
Copper Waters Trailer:
Genre: Mystery (cozy type) Published by: Ewephoric Publishing Publication Date: December 2022 Number of Pages: 342 ISBN: 978-0999539491 Series: The Annalisse series, Book 4 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
Chapter Five
Homicides R Us
“Bill, get left!” I yell while checking for oncoming traffic. That’s when I notice a group standing in a semicircle near a driveway—around limbs. From here, it looks like a person’s body.
“Oh no.” I stare through the windshield.
We slow to a stop and park near the curb of a strip shopping area, leaving our engine running.
“We should help.” I jump out to investigate. Women wearing rompers and a guy in greasy mechanic’s overalls are standing over someone on the pavement.
“What happened?” I ask Bill, jogging to the scene and scanning the narrow two-lane road where no other vehicle has pulled over other than us. A familiar beige fishing hat lies a few feet from the victim.
“A mad driver went on a strop!” a female screams from the gawking crowd.
“It’s Alastair,” Bill mutters, his words loud enough for me to catch them. “Did he have a heart attack or did someone hit him?”
Bill reaches the bystanders on Main Street before I do and throws his arm out, blocking me with his body and a stern glare.
“Annalisse, would you please wait in the car?”
“Can’t someone help him?”
“It’s too late for that.”
I change my mind about approaching Alastair. He’s in a bad way if Bill wants to shield me from viewing him. Travelers like us from the US who allow a local to drive their rental car will shoot us to the top of the authority’s suspect list—even if Ethan sent Alastair to pick us up at the airport. Our first day in Temuka and a nice old man is sprawled out dead on the road less than an hour after he stepped out of our vehicle. We’re so naive when it comes to learning the customs of another country before making the trip. Why didn’t I research this?
I can’t help but think of the police encounters we’ve participated in and the hours of interrogation that happened not too long ago. This time we aren’t witnesses to the crime and weren’t in close proximity of Alastair when he was hit.
Who is Alastair McGregor, really? A chilliness penetrates my hands. Why did he insist on walking along the roadside? Did he want to throw himself in front of a moving car, or is this just an accident?
I wave Bill over at the same time one of the women throws up what appears to be her luncheon salad near Alastair’s prone body. I’ve seen no movement and try not to think about what’s staring me right in the face.
Bill speaks to the male witness and returns to the car. “I hope you didn’t see him like that. According to one of the witnesses, Alastair was strolling his usual path. He takes this walk each day, rain or shine, and his reputation precedes him. They all know him well―a businessman and an environmental activist from their community.”
“Was he hit by a car, or did he collapse in front of traffic?”
“He was struck from behind, then the car came back around to finish the job.” Bill shudders.
“Not an accident?” I’m in utter disbelief. “Activists make enemies. Alastair mentioned a protest next week at Bluebasin Lake. I hope someone didn’t do this on purpose to keep him from the protest.”
“His cranium was crushed. Brain matter everywhere. The crime appears to be more deliberate, according to the ladies who saw the whole thing.”
My fish and chips crawl up my throat where I can taste them again. I close my eyes to Bill’s description of the crime scene and try not to relive it in my mind.
“There’s no chance he could survive?” I ask.
“No way. His head was mashed under the tires. Once struck, he didn’t have a chance to get out of the way. Per the eyewitnesses, the driver sped through like a crazy person in a rage.” He verifies the navigation while we’re stopped and makes his U-turn in the road.
“Shouldn’t we wait around for the police?” If we take off, won’t that look like we showed up to make sure—”
“This country has a constitutional monarchy where England runs the show here. I’m not familiar with how a monarchy works, not yet anyway―homework for later. Let the police interview witnesses who saw the incident as it happened. We’ll go down to the precinct and tell them how we met Alastair and when we saw him last.” Bill glances into his rearview mirror. “I should also bone up on the local government in Temuka. We’re tourists in their country and should understand our rights before going to the police.”
“The cottage is that way.” I point over the seat.
“We’re taking the scenic route. I don’t want to drive past that crowd with police on the way and remind them we could’ve staged this. It’s not like they know us.”
Poor Alastair. If he didn’t meet us, he might still be alive. “I wish he wasn’t sent to the airport to pick us up.” I say what Bill could be thinking.
“We didn’t do this to him. A person in a dark Land Rover did,” Bill announces without warning.
“They saw the car? I hope the driver gets what’s coming for murder. Knowing the make of the car will narrow down the suspects. How many Rover models can there be in a town of a few thousand people?”
“Land Rover has an entire line. Remember, we’re in a British Commonwealth, and Land Rover is a UK company. You might not have noticed how many Brit vehicles we passed leaving Christchurch. Tons. They aren’t all the boxy type we think about,” Bill says. “The police will have their work cut out finding the hit-and-run driver if witnesses didn’t get a license.”
My heart sinks for Alastair’s daughter. “Whoever gets the nasty job of notifying Alastair’s daughter, I pity that person. Before you returned with the rental car at the airport, I spoke to a woman named Jenny at the sweet shop. She may hear about it first.”
“Immediate family notification isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Why?”
“The women had strange expressions when I brought up his family in a general way. It seems that Sidney and her son died two years ago, with Alastair at the wheel of their car.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“According to them, Alastair’s alone and has no living relatives.”
The ache in my heart increases, as does the sadness.
“The family were in a car accident together, and he was the sole survivor? That’s painful just thinking about it. Why did he tell us that his daughter owns, present tense, the shop on Whaler’s Street? I thought Jenny was an employee.”
“Jenny could’ve stepped in to take over the shop for Sidney, and Alastair might’ve been so lonely after her death that he took on the taxi service to give himself purpose.”
“Whoa. It takes a story like Alastair’s to remind us not to squander our time with friends and family.”
“So true.”
“I’m glad we ate when we did because there’s no way I could handle food after all this mess. Who ran Alastair down in broad daylight—without fear of being seen and then drove away?”
Bill’s detour takes us to the cottage cutoff from the opposite direction. It’ll add a few extra miles, but I don’t mind when we have so much breathtaking countryside to absorb. I power the window down as we pass gigantic, smooth-barked, native trees filled with noisy birds that include hooked beaks and fat little bellies. Purple wildflowers that look like asters dot the meadows, and plants shaped like Scheffleras grow from the bases of those big trees.
A faded green sign marks the dirt road to Woolcombe Station’s cottage on an idyllic triangular property marked by old fence posts. Pristine hedges and more flowering shrubs in pinks and yellows line the wooden porch to the main entrance. Shed dormers break up the A-frame roof, a dead giveaway for their heavy snows during winter. As per Ethan’s description, weatherworn gray planks in vertical lengths give the home a rustic, country feel. Crisscross windows in washed-out white casings add to the ambiance, but the most glorious part of this little house is the pond and stepping stones that wind to the rear. Water spilling over rocks nearby from a stream to our left pulls me in to its sound. The trickle and movement of water is so calming.
We park next to clumps of small pampas-like grass finely maintained by a groundskeeper, I suspect. Not a blade of ground cover is out of place. Mowed volunteer grass on the outer yard matches what’s near the porch—a landscape that looks utterly natural and not at all commercially grown.
“The cottage is larger, and the outside is cleaner than I expected. Quaint and pretty. Ready to check out the inside, or would you rather get some exercise?” I ask Bill.
“Inside first.”
Bill’s standing behind me as I dig into my tote compartment that holds Ethan’s box with the key. I slip the key into the slot and the door opens to a spacious world of twenty-by-twenty neutral tile and monochromatic sage-green area rugs. Two leather armchairs side by side and an exquisite nubby sofa crowd a large, calf-height, wooden coffee table similar in color to the gray exterior of the home. A vaulted ceiling adds size to the space, an illusion of a much larger dwelling than it is.
“Chic. Someone has a knack for decorating.” I glance into the ugly mustard-tiled kitchen. “Ugh. Spoke too soon. We have early seventies over there.”
“Not a guy’s pad, that’s for sure.” Bill wanders past me, leaving the vast room for a short hallway. “Looks like two bedrooms and a main bath,” he remarks loud enough for me to catch his remark from the end of the hall.
The kitchenette is cubbyhole small, as if it’s been left that way from a modern renovation of the living room. One bright window has a view to the pond from booth seating made from the same nubby fabric as the couch. The stove and oven are a single-unit throwback from the Nixon administration, with electric elements and a tea-stained, harvest gold range top.
“Not exactly gourmet cooking appliances.” My fingernail scrapes off some of the old grease. “I see a lot of takeout in our future. Are the bedrooms nice?” I stroll to the hall and smell the pungent odor of fresh paint.
“Rooms are clean. Dresser, mirror, and a queen-size bed in each.”
“I believe we’ve solved our travel problems, having only one car between us. Since the cottage is in the boonies, if you’d care to use the other bedroom, I’d like you to stay here. Having someone in the house will distract me from noticing paranormal activity at night.” I’m holding a straight face but about to burst from his expression. It’s priceless.
“Is that right? Alec didn’t mention that you see ghosts.” Bill settles himself against the wall, with wide eyes and hands hidden behind him.
“Drake, lighten up already. I’m kidding. We have enough to worry about without people in the hereafter joining our vacation.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind?” Bill’s lips flatline. “I don’t want to impose.” He hesitates as something stirs behind his eyes.
“I’ll let Alec know the arrangements, don’t worry. Unless he plans on showing up unannounced? I don’t know what the two of you talked about.”
“He knows he’s being slightly overprotective, but it’s well-founded. Trouble seems to like you… a lot.” Bill shoves a hand in his pants pocket and twists his mouth into a pucker.
Alec does the same pocket thing when he’s frustrated with me.
“Come on.” I bump him on the elbow. “I want you to camp here. Alec trusts you, as I do.”
Bill’s serious nature is absorbing everything I say as truth. I’ll have to be careful teasing him. He hasn’t crossed any line since we met last year, so I feel protected in his presence, as if Alec were here. “I hereby promise not to make a nuisance of myself. Cross my heart.” I cross myself and hold up the Boy Scout salute. “Scout’s honor.”
He looks at the sofa and touches it as if soothing the fabric. “Considering the incident with Alastair, it’s a good idea not to hang around town for lodging until we talk with police and explain how he showed up at the airport.”
“I agree. The last time you spoke to Alec, what was his general mood?”
“Crazy worried,” Bill says. “In his shoes, I’d be the same way.”
I drop my gaze to the floor and consider how I left Alec with Noah. “He put you on the flight because you’d keep me from harm. You can’t do that from a motel in town. I’ll call Alec and give him the details about Alastair and tell him you’re staying at the cottage. I considered keeping the hit-and-run from Alec, but he should be told everything.”
“I’ll bring in our things. Thank you for taking pity on a detective out of his element.” He’s outside before I can thank him for his mediation.
Homicides R Us is back in business.
***
Excerpt from Copper Waters by Marlene M. Bell. Copyright 2022 by Marlene M. Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M. Bell. All rights reserved.
Marlene M. Bell is an eclectic mystery writer, artist, photographer, and she raises sheep on a ranch in wooded East Texas with her husband, Gregg.
Marlene’s Annalisse series boasts numerous honors including the Independent Press Award for Best Mystery (Spent Identity,) and FAPA— Florida Author’s President’s Gold Award for two other installments, (Stolen Obsession and Scattered Legacy.) Her mysteries with a touch of romantic suspense are found at her websites or at online retail outlets.
She also offers the first of her children's picture books, Mia and Nattie: One Great Team! Based on true events from the Bell’s ranch. The simple text and illustrations are a touching tribute of compassion and love between a little girl and her lamb.
Copper Waters is #4 in A New Zealand Cottage Mystery ( featuring Annalisse Drury)
Annalisse (Anna) is an antiques expert appraiser and she and her man friend Alec Zavros have kind of hit a snag in their relationship. Alec has a child from a previous relationship, or rather thinks he does but the mother refuses to have a DNA test done. So until Alec gets that taken care of Annalisse thinks that they need some time apart. So off to New Zealand she goes with a good friend of Alec's, Bill Drake, to act as bodyguard. She is actually there because of Ethan, a former worker on Alec's ranch.
Upon arrival at the airport, while Bill is taking care of the rental car, an elderly man comes up to Anna and wants to take them to the station where Ethan lives it is owned by Ethan's mother and her husband who is a politician. Anna is leery at first with the offer but Bill thinks that it would be ok. Shortly after they drop him off where he requested, they hear the squeal of tires and go to investigate and find that the man, Alastair McGregor has been involved in a hit and run and has died.
Anna and Bill are questioned by the police, even though they were not witnesses to the scene of the crime, it is determined that Alastair was murdered. Who would want to kill an elderly gentleman who was looked at with great regard by the people of the town.
Anna and Bill get settled into their "cottage" Anna is eager to meet up with Ethan and get a tour of the sheep station. She has a lot of questions for Ethan regarding her mother Kate, who up until recently, Anna thought was her 'aunt'. After they met Ethan and his mother and her children, there is another murder, the station manager is attacked by a Corriedale sheep named Dax. The questionable part is how did the sheep get into where the station manager was, did someone leave the door open? No matter how many times they ask the local police, their questions are brushed off.
I had read the first two books in the series so I kind of knew the characters, I did miss the third one, hope to get to it soon. I enjoyed the storyline, even though I had not read the third book, I was easily brought up to speed about the main characters pretty quickly. I enjoyed the fact that Annalisse is a strong woman with a mind of her own, she knows what she wants. The ending kind of surprised me a bit though. Did not see it coming. A really good mystery, with believable characters.
I give this book 5 stars
I received a copy of the book for review purposes only.
Other books in the series:
Stolen Obsession Book #1
Spent Identity Book #2
Scattered Legacy Book #3
Copper Waters Book #4
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This grumpy man of the month wants to be a daddy and he thinks he’s found the one. But Candy Cane Key’s newest resident and self-proclaimed cat lady is on a mission and doesn’t have time for love, marriage, and babies. Can the town grump steal enough sunshine to woo her stubborn heart? Readers who love a little grumpy with their sunshine will enjoy Come to Papa by Matilda Martel, a steamy, small town, friends to lovers, age gap romance.
This grumpy man of the month wants to be a daddy. Reclusive writer Felix Mercer came to Candy Cane Key to find silence but quickly discovered peace and quiet are overrated. Disgruntled and unhappy, he can’t figure out what ails him until he meets the town’s newest resident and self-proclaimed cat lady, Harlow Jane. Harlow loves two things--- Christmas and cats. When she reads an article about an island in the Florida Keys that celebrates Christmas all year round and with a long-suffering stray cat population, she knows she’s found her own personal paradise. Felix is instantly enamored, and a casual acquaintance quickly becomes an obsession. Harlow’s hot little curves drive him to distraction. Her kind, nurturing heart confirms he’s found the one. But Harlow’s on a mission to save the world--- one cat at a time. She doesn’t have time for love, marriage, and babies. Can the town grump steal enough sunshine to woo her stubborn heart?
Stray cats need to be on their guard night and day--- that’s the only way they survive. I hold my breath, watching her take two steps back and three steps forward, with one more to go. Her pupils suddenly dilate to saucers. Her back arches then a low guttural growl catches me by surprise. I scramble back like a crab, but my momentum stalls against a brick wall, and the kitty runs away. “Do you need some help?” The brick wall speaks. My head snaps up, and I glimpse the source, a fair-haired man with dark eyes, a wicked smile, and a body sculpted by the gods. I blink rapidly, blinded by the sun and his unspeakable beauty. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like him, not here or in Sycamore Mountain--- not even on television. But this creeper ruined my plans and threw away five days of hard work. “No, you’ve done enough.” I groan, then bite my tongue, too frustrated to hide my intense displeasure for a man who was only trying to help. It’s not his fault, but my failure could result in tragedy if I don’t catch that cat soon. Stray dogs roam this beach at night in search of food, and they might mistake this fat little Calico for their next meal. I scramble to my feet, shifting aimlessly in the soft sand to regain my balance. The handsome stranger clears his throat and offers his hand. I hesitate but ultimately place my palm in his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. Attractive does not mean harmless. We’re alone on a beach, and my mother didn’t raise me to be a trusting fool. “Thank you, and I apologize for my snarky comment. I’ve been trying to catch that cat for the past few days, and this is the closest I’ve come.” I stammer, embarrassed by my rudeness and hoping my contrite behavior will make amends or prevent him from carrying me into the ocean and drowning me. “You mean Buster?” His deep voice jumps an octave, and he points to the chunky Calico reclining against a nearby palm tree, frantically cleaning his behind. “Buster? That’s a silly name for a girl.” I tiptoe towards the cat and consider my next course of action. He may be huge, hot, and handsome, but I have a one-track mind. There are far more important things on my to-do list than flirting with strange men who smell like cocoa butter, and what is that? Sandalwood? A storm is scheduled to pass through later this evening, and I hate to think of this little girl spending another night cold, wet, and alone. “Buster isn’t a girl. He’s a boy.” The strange man follows close, oddly fixated on lending a helping hand. I glance over my shoulder and lift my hand to my brow, shielding my eyes from the sun to get a better look at his face. There’s no denying he’s yummy, but he doesn’t know the first thing about cats. “Calicos are almost always girls,” I huff, confident with my assessment. He chuckles and points to the cat. “He’s got balls. I’m pretty sure he’s a boy.” I squint and squat to get a better look. My jaw drops. My tongue ties. “Oh... my... God. Oh, my God. We’ve just found a polydactyl male Calico. Do you have any idea how rare he is?” I flail my arms, squealing with glee, then accidentally strike his calves. He hardly flinches. He’s a golden slab of sculpted marble, and I couldn’t hurt him If I tried. “We need to get him. He must be guarded like the Mona Lisa.” I creep forward, and he drops to his knees, crawling next to me. “I’m Felix, by the way.” He stops to extend his arm, and I give him a quick shake, one eye on his sinewy forearm and the other on my fat Calico boy. He mustn’t escape. “I’m Harlow. I’m new to the island--- on a mission to save the world, one cat at a time.” I laugh, crouching low, careful not to lose the element of surprise. “Can you crawl that away and block his exit?” I gesture with my head and slink forward like a snake. “That’s a lovely name.” His brown eyes twinkle as his mouth tips into a slight smile. My heart skips a beat, and for the first time, it has nothing to do with cats. “If I help you catch Buster, what do you plan on doing with him?”
Matilda is a Texas girl in love with a Philly boy who loves to write dirty books about two people who trip into love and fumble their way into a Filthy, Funny, Happily Ever After.
I live in Austin, with my husband, two crazy Chihuahuas and an even crazier cat. And I spend most of my day writing dirty romance books about older men who fall in love with younger women and make fools of themselves trying to win their hearts.
When TJ, a famous country star, finds out he has cancer, he retreats to his hometown to heal away from the paparazzi. Uncomfortable living with his parents, he gets a job as a beer truck driver.
Harvey is the owner of a local bar. He’s been following TJ’s career because the two of them used to be lovers. But TJ insisted on being in the closet. Now that Harvey’s older, he can’t imagine burying himself like that ever again.
But when TJ walks into his bar, both men are shocked by the attraction that still blossoms between them. But neither will budge in their beliefs. How can they possibly find happiness in each other’s arms?
The music for the gathering was the weirdest mix Harvey had ever heard. As he served drinks for the extremely co-ed bachelor party, he heard the Carpenters, Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, Evanescence, Lily Allen, and a host of others that he didn’t know. He knew the music had no significance for one of the bachelors, Peter, because Peter was completely deaf. So, maybe Abe, his soon-to-be husband, had chosen everything? That didn’t seem likely. Peter and Abe were a team and rarely did anything solo anymore. Ever since their first night, when they’d met in this very bar, they’d operated almost as one unit, or at least that was how it looked from the outside.
Harvey remembered fondly approaching Abe, pronounced Ah-Bay in the Japanese style, on Christmas Eve a few years ago, asking if he and Peter wanted to be Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Considering that Abe was the shorter and smaller of the two, Harvey had presented him with the blond wig and belted jacket/skirt combination. Abe had asked Harvey to wait to offer Peter the other half of the costuming, but Harvey had jumped right in, loving Christmas in general and especially Christmas Eve at Maurice’s. He’d fumbled his explanation because even though at the time Peter could still hear the low thrum of a loud bassline, he hadn’t been able to hear speech and Harvey couldn’t sign more than “I love you.”
It had gone off rather smoothly after Abe stepped in. Harvey would never forget the way Peter’s eyes widened with obvious appreciation and lust as he’d viewed Abe in that red skirt.
Now, here they were, ready to get married in a couple of days.
Harvey pressed his lips together and turned away from the sight of the couple swaying on the dance floor, Abe guiding Peter with discreet touches that looked only slightly sexual. But from the shine of Peter’s eyes, he was feeling the full effects of his lover’s motions.
Being grumpy at a couple’s bachelor party wasn’t kosher or polite, so Harvey refocused on pouring drinks. Or would have, if anyone had been there asking for more. Instead, everyone, damn, every single person in the bar, was paired up and dancing.
Harvey bit his tongue to keep from frowning or showing any other sign of displeasure. He wasn’t actually displeased, just feeling left out. Granted, on nights like this, he or whoever was tending bar usually made a hefty surplus of tips, but he hadn’t wanted to be here for this. He had been invited, told he could bring a plus one. But he had to work instead. His business partner, CeeCee, was busy. Her daughter had some sort of medical emergency. And the regular Saturday afternoon bartender had COVID.
He tried to focus on thoughts of CeeCee’s daughter, who was like a niece to him, but he honestly couldn’t, and not just because CeeCee hadn’t revealed the nature of her teenager’s medical issue.
It was the sheer number of couples. From Mike and Aidan Delaney, easily the oldest pair in the room, to their nonbinary young adult, Ash and Ash’s lover, Theresa, the youngest, everybody was in a twosome. He wasn’t jealous. Or at least he refused to be where anyone could see him. But, damn, he missed having someone in his life.
All right, that wasn’t exactly true. He had occasional flings. But nothing serious. Not since college. Even his three-week, whirlwind relationship with CeeCee had ended, although not badly. They’d both decided working and sleeping together wasn’t for them. During that time, he’d casually referred to CeeCee as his partner, more out of desperation to have someone in his life than because he’d actually thought they had a hope in hell of making things work out. When they’d broken up right after Christmas, he’d blushed to think he’d given her that title.
He longed for a return to the days of his early twenties, when life had been a song and --
“And I was trapped in the closet, banging a man who dropped me the first chance he got.” Realizing he’d been speaking aloud, if softly, Harvey shut his mouth. And here came Aidan, almost the tallest man in the room as well as the oldest. Okay, oldest among the partygoers. At forty-two, Harvey had a year on him. And, damn it, he was the only single person here.
Forcing a smile, knowing the blind man couldn’t see it but also understanding the expression would carry in his voice, Harvey asked, “Get you anything, Aidan?”
“Just wanted to check on Dustin and CeeCee.”
That made Harvey’s smile genuine. “Dusty has the VID, which he’s probably tweeted to half the town by now because he’s so bored. He doesn’t have many symptoms but knows our zero-tolerance policy. CeeCee…” What could he say when he knew so little and wasn’t sure what she wanted bandied around? “She’s okay.”
Aidan nodded. “And you’re okay?”
Damn it, the man was too perceptive for someone who couldn’t see light or dark. Or maybe it was just a casual question. Maybe Harvey was just being paranoid because he’d had run-ins with Aidan’s intuitiveness before. So, instead of lying, because that might be caught, he asked, “How’s Mike? Are you two really going to go for a third adopted child?”
Aidan grinned. “Mike’s fabulous, and yes we are.” Then he sobered. “But are you okay?”
Damn. He should’ve known he couldn’t fly under the radar. “I’ll be fine.”
Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.
Art curator Jessamine Rhodes has left behind her gig at a prominent gallery in the city to open her own community art center in the small town of Rose Shore. She’s all set to host an extravagant opening watercolors class and has even booked a famous artist to teach it.
Gabriella Everhart brings along her priceless painting Tranquil to showcase as the centerpiece of the event.
The opening class is just wrapping up when suddenly Tranquil disappears before Jessamine’s eyes. Next, the lights of the art center flicker out and leave the crowd in complete darkness as a scream pierces the air. To her horror, Jessamine’s flashlight reveals that prestigious art collector Victor Carlisle has been murdered, and now her dreams are as shattered as the champagne glass found near the scene.
Determined to save her now teetering reputation, Jessamine sets out to search for answers and the missing painting on her own. She has invested everything into her art center and is too anxious to step back and do nothing. Along the way, she teams up with a handsome paramedic who seems to have his own reasons for wanting justice for Victor’s tragedy.
After having called many places around the world home, Holly Yew has settled in the Okanagan, BC with her husband, son, and two rescue dogs. When she’s not writing or reading, she’s playing the piano, watching Star Wars, or enjoying a Dole Whip in Disneyland.
Holly is a member of Sisters in Crime and International Thriller Writers. She loves connecting with other writers and bookworms on social media, and you can find her at hollyyew.com.
Cozy Mystery
1st in Series 
