Broadcast Blues by R.G Belsky Blog Tour! #BroadcastBlues #NetGalley @partnersincrimevbt

BROADCAST BLUES

by R.G. Belsky

January 1-26, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Wendy Kyle took secrets to her grave— now, Clare Carlson is digging them up

New York City has no shortage of crime, making for a busy schedule for TV newswoman Clare Carlson. But not all crimes are created equal, and when an explosive planted in a car detonates and kills a woman, Clare knows it’ll be a huge story for her.

But it’s not only about the story—Clare also wants justice for the victim, Wendy Kyle. Wendy had sparked controversy as an NYPD officer, ultimately getting kicked off the force after making sexual harassment allegations and getting into a physical altercation with her boss. Then, she started a private investigations business, catering to women who suspected their husbands of cheating. Undoubtedly, Wendy had angered many people with her work, so the list of her suspected murderers is seemingly endless.

Despite the daunting investigation, Clare dives in headfirst. As she digs deeper, she attracts the attention of many rich and powerful people who will stop at nothing to keep her from breaking the truth about the death of Wendy Kyle—and exposing their personal secrets that Wendy took to her grave.

Praise for Broadcast Blues:

"Broadcast Blues is a page-turning, meticulously plotted crime novel enriched by a terrific New York sense of place, Dick Belsky’s wicked sense of humor, and his insider’s view of the Machiavellian world that is broadcast news."
~ Jonathan Kellerman, New York Times best-selling author

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: January 2, 2024
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 9781608095315 (ISBN10: 1608095312)
Series: Clare Carlson Mystery Series, 6 | All of the novels in the Clare Carlson Mystery Series stand on their own and can be read in any order
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Oceanview Publishing

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

From the Diary of Wendy Kyle….

If you’re reading this, I’m already dead.

How’s that for an attention-grabbing opening line?

I know, I know...it’s a bit melodramatic. And I’m not normally the melodramatic type. Really. No, Wendy Kyle is the kind of woman who deals in facts for a living, the kind of woman who doesn’t let emotion cloud her judgment and - maybe most importantly of all - the kind of woman who never blindly puts her trust in anyone.

Especially a man.

Hey, I’m not some man-hating bitch or anything like that, no matter what you may have heard or think about me. I like men. I love men, or at least I’ve loved a few men in my life. It’s just that I don’t trust them anymore.

So wouldn’t it be ironic - or maybe a little bit fitting, to look at it completely objectively - if trusting a man this one time was what wound up costing me my own life in the end.

Here’s the bottom line for me: If I don’t succeed in what I’m about to do in the Ronald Bannister case, well...then it is important someone knows the truth about what happened to me.

And that it was the lies - all of the damn lies men have told - that were the death of me.

----- The contents of this document were among evidence

seized by homicide detectives from the office of

Wendy Kyle Heartbreaker Investigations

218 West 42nd Street

New York City

This entry is listed as: POLICE EXHIBIT A

Opening Credits

THE RULES, ACCORDING TO CLARE

Nora O’Donnell is 50 years old. Samantha Guthrie 51. Hoda Kotb 58, Robin Roberts 62 and Gayle King 68.

The point I’m trying to make here is that TV newscasters - specifically women TV newscasters - don’t have to be cute, perky young talking heads to succeed in the media world where I work.

We’ve come a long way since the days when a respected newswoman like Jane Pauley was replaced by the younger Deborah Norville on the Today show because some network executive (a middle-aged man, of course!) decided Pauley was getting too old to appeal to a television audience.

Or when an anchorwoman named Christine Craft lost her job at a station in Kansas City after a focus group determined she was “too old, too unattractive and not deferential to men.” She was 37.

Well, 50 is the new 40 now.

Or maybe even the new 30.

And let’s get something straight right up front here. I’m not one of those women who normally gets stressed out over every birthday that passes by or every wrinkle on my face or every gray hair or two I spot in the mirror. That is not me. No way. I’m not hung up about age at all.

But I am about to turn 50 this year.

The big 5-0.

The half-century mark.

And the truth is I’m having a bit of trouble dealing with that…

My name is Clare Carlson, and I’m the news director of Channel 10 News in New York City. I’m also an on-air reporter for our Channel 10 news show, and I’ve broken some pretty big exclusives in recent years that have gotten me a lot of attention and made me kind of a media star.

But this whole business of turning 50 still seems odd to me.

When I was in my 20s, I was a star reporter at a newspaper and won a Pulitzer Prize. In my 30s, after the newspaper went out of business, I switched to TV news at Channel 10. And in my 40s, I’ve been juggling two jobs: TV executive as the station’s news director and also as an on-air personality breaking big stories.

Turning 30 and then 40 never really seemed like that big a deal for me. It was more fun than tragic. Look at me: I’m 40! But 50? I’m not so sure about that one. 50 is something completely different, at least the way I see it at the moment. I’m not sure where I go with my life after 50.

It couldn’t be happening at a worse time for me either.

Channel 10, the TV station where I work, is being sold to a new owner - and this has left everyone in our newsroom worried about what might happen next. My latest boss and I don’t get along, and I’m afraid she might be looking for a reason to fire me. My personal life situation is even worse. I’ve been married three times (all of them ending in divorce), and right now I’m not in any kind of a relationship. I have a daughter, but she didn’t even know I was her mother for the first 25 years or so of her life - so we don’t exactly have a traditional mother/daughter relationship.

The only constant in my life - the one thing that I always turn to for comfort when my life is in turmoil - is the news.

This newsroom at Channel 10 where I work is my true home.

My sanctuary.

And so each day I wrap it - along with all the people in it and the stories we cover - around me like a security blanket to protect myself from everything else that is going on around me.

All I needed now was a big story to chase.

The bigger the better.

That’s what I was looking for right now.

But as the old saying goes: Be careful what you wish for – because you just might get it.

And that’s what happened to me with the Wendy Kyle murder…

 

Part I

THE HONEY TRAP

CHAPTER 1

Susan Endicott, the executive producer of Channel 10 News, walked into my office and sat down on a chair in front of my desk.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Talking to you.”

“I mean about tonight’s newscast.”

“Oh, that.”

“Don’t be impertinent with me, Carlson.”

What I was actually doing at the moment was putting together one of those old David Letterman style Top 10 lists. I like to do that sometimes. My topic today was: TOP 10 THINGS AN ASPIRING WOMAN TV NEWSCASTER SHOULD NOT SAY DURING A JOB INTERVIEW. My list went like this.

10. What’s that red light on the camera for?
9. Yes, Mr. Lauer, I’d love to be your intern.
8. I sweat a lot on air.
7. I can name all the Presidents back to Obama.
6. If it helps, I’m willing to get pregnant as a cheap on-air ratings ploy.
5. Katie Couric? Who’s Katie Couric?
4. No makeup, please. I want to let my real beauty shine through.
3. My IQ is almost in three numbers.
2. Can I watch TikTok video during commercial breaks?
And the Number One thing an aspiring woman TV newscaster should not say during a job interview…
1. I have a personal recommendation from Harvey Weinstein!

I wondered if I should ask Susan Endicott if she had any suggestions for my Top 10 list. Probably not. She might call me impertinent again.

“Do you have a lead story yet for the 6 p.m. show?” she asked now.

“Well, yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

“The lead story is about a controller’s audit raising new questions about the viability of the city’s budget goals.”

“That’s not a lead story for us.”

“Hence, my yes and no reply to your question.”

“Do you have a plan for getting us a good story?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Hope some big news happens before we go on the air at 6.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Uh, huh. The news gods will give us something before deadline. They always do.”

“The news gods?”

“You have to always believe in the news gods, Endicott.”

Looking out the window of my office, I could see people walking through the midtown streets of Manhattan below on a beautiful spring day. Many of them were coatless or in short sleeves. Spring was finally here in New York City after what seemed like an endless winter of snow and cold and bundling up every time you went out. But now it was spring. Yep, spring - time for hope and new beginnings. The sun shining brightly. Flowers blooming. Birds chirping. All that good stuff.

In a few weeks New Yorkers would start streaming out of the city on their way to Long Island or the Jersey Shore or maybe Cape Cod. I thought about how nice it would be to be in a place like that right now. Or maybe on a boat sailing up the New England coast. Anywhere but sitting here at Channel 10 News with this woman. Except I knew that even if I did that, I’d probably wind up sooner or later sitting in another newsroom wherever I went talking about lead stories with some other person like Susan Endicott.

Endicott and I had been at war ever since she came to Channel 10. That was after the firing – or, if you prefer, the forced resignation – of Jack Faron, the previous executive producer who had first hired me as a TV journalist from my newspaper career and had been my boss for most of my time here.

Jack was a top-notch journalist, a good friend and a truly decent human being. Susan Endicott was none of those things. She was an ambitious career climber who had stepped over a lot of people in her efforts to score big ratings at the stations where she worked before. That’s what had landed her the Channel 10 job here in New York, and she was determined to keep her star rising no matter what it took for her to do that. She had no friends that I was aware of, no hobbies or interests, no outside life of any kind. She was completely focused on the job and on her career advancement.

For whatever its worth, I didn’t like the way she looked either. She wasn’t fat or skinny, she wasn’t pretty or unattractive, she was just…well, plain. Like she didn’t care about her appearance. She wore drab clothes, hardy any jewelry, no makeup that I could see. It was like her appearance simply didn’t matter to her.

Oh, and she wore her glasses pushed back on top of her head when she wasn’t using them. I disliked people who did that. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s the way I feel. It was the perfect final trait of Susan Endicott though. I detested everything about her. And, as you can see, she wasn’t too fond of me either.

There were two things that had prevented her from getting rid of me so far.

I’ve broken some exclusive stories that got us big ratings. She did like the fact that I was an on-air media star, even if she didn’t like me. So all I had to do was keep finding exclusives.

Also, the owner of Channel 10, media mogul Brendan Kaiser, had backed me in any showdown with Endicott since she arrived here. Always good having the big boss on your side when you’re at odds with your immediate boss. But Kaiser was in the process of selling the station. We weren’t sure yet who the new owner would be. Maybe it would be some great journalist or wonderful human being that would care about more than profits. But people like that don’t generally buy big media properties like a TV station. So I was prepared for the worst once the new owner was in place.

That meant I needed to keep on breaking big stories.

And I hadn’t done that in a while.

I needed to find a big story in a damn hurry.

“You better come up with a good lead before we go on the air at 6 tonight,” Endicott said as she stood up and said over her shoulder as she started to leave my office.

“Or?” I asked.

“Or what?”

“That sort of sounds like you were giving me an ultimatum. As in ‘or you’re suspended. Or you’re fired. Or your cafeteria privileges are suspended. Or you need to get a permission slip to go to the bathroom. Or…”

Endicott turned around.

She glared at me.

Then she pushed her eyeglasses – which she’d been wearing – back on top of her head again.

A nice touch.

Perfect for the moment.

“Keep digging that hole for yourself, Carlson,” she said to me. “It will make it so much easier when the time comes to get rid of you.”

“You have a nice day too,” I said.

As things turned out, it didn’t take very long to find a news lead for the show.

After Endicott left, Maggie Lang – the assignment editor and my top assistant – burst in to tell me we had a big murder that had just happened.

“Someone blew up a woman’s car!” she said excitedly. “On a busy street in Times Square. The victim’s name is Wendy Kyle, and she’s a former New York City cop and a controversial private investigator who’s been involved in a lot of high-profile divorce cases recently. Involving rich people, important people and catching them in sex scandals. Sounds like someone was out for revenge against her. Sex, money, power. This story has everything, Clare!”

Yep, the news gods had saved us again.

***

Excerpt from BROADCAST BLUES by R.G. Belsky. Copyright 2023 by R.G. Belsky. Reproduced with permission from R.G. Belsky. All rights reserved.

 

R.G. Belsky is an award-winning author of crime fiction and a journalist in New York City. His newest mystery, BROADCAST BLUES, was published on January 2 by Oceanview. It is the sixth in a series featuring Clare Carlson, the news director for a New York City TV station. 

The first book, Yesterday’s News, was named Best Mystery of 2018 at Deadly Ink. The second, Below the Fold, won the Foreward INDIES award for Best Mystery of 2019. Belsky has published 20 novels—all set in the New York city media world where he has had a long career as a top editor at the New York Post, New York Daily News, Star magazine and NBC News. 

He also writes thrillers under the name Dana Perry. And he is a contributing writer for The Big Thrill magazine and BookTrib.

Catch Up With RG Belsky:
www.rgbelsky.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @dickbelsky
Instagram - @dickbelsky
Twitter/X - @DickBel
Facebook - @RGBelsky

My Thoughts

Warning: This book has sexual and murderer references

Broadcast News by R.G.Belsky is the 6th book featuring Clare Carlson. Clare is a TV broadcaster in New York City who will have a milestone of a birthday, the big 50. She is the news director for New York Channel 10 and hopes for lead story regarding Wendy's 

Wendy is a former NYPD officer who has made many enemies. She was let go because of some s*xual abuse and decided to become a private investigator. Wendy is not who she would have people believe. People that will do away with her without batting an eye.

Wendy in her PI business, where she explores men who cheat on their wives, significant others so it is quite possible that someone she exposed could be the murderer. 

Hoping to get a big story so she can prove to herself that she a good reporter. Clare does not like her boss but they eventually agree to disagree so Clare can find the murderer. The further she gets her investigation the more attention is paid to her, and she could be in trouble with her life.

Clare is also trying to get to know her daughter who she recently connected with after a long estrangement. So, getting to know her daughter, dealing with her upcoming birthday and trying to find the out who was behind the car bomb. She is concerned with the possible sale of the news station.

Exposing of corruption in the New York City police department, and all the other secrets that Clare hopes to expose. A myriad of characters that enhances the storyline. The author tells a great mystery that will keep the reader engrossed in the the story.

 I have only read one other book by this author and I am enjoying the series. Definitely a book that will have you reading the other five in the series, Broadcast News certainly be read as a standalone novel. I received a copy of the book for review with Partners in Crime Tours and was not monetarily compensated.

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Blood Relations by J. Woollcott Book Tour!

 

September 18 - October 13, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Belfast, Northern Ireland: early spring 2017. Retired Chief Inspector Patrick Mullan is found brutally murdered in his bed. Detective Sergeant Ryan McBride and his partner Detective Sergeant Billy Lamont are called to his desolate country home to investigate. In their inquiry, they discover a man whose career with the Police Service of Northern Ireland was overshadowed by violence and corruption. Is the killer someone from Mullan’s past, or his present?

And who hated the man enough to kill him twice?

Is it one of Patrick Mullan’s own family, all of them hiding a history of abuse and lies? Or a vengeful crime boss and his psychopathic new employee? Or could it be a recently released prisoner desperate to protect his family and flee the country?
Ryan and Billy once again face a complex investigation with wit and intelligence, all set in Belfast and the richly atmospheric countryside around it.

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: August 2023
Number of Pages: 327
Series: The Belfast Murder Series, 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

1

Monday, APRIL 24, 2017
Ryan

Detective Sergeant Ryan McBride stared into Mullan’s bedroom, the metallic smell of old blood stronger here. Prisha Hill, the supervising crime scene investigator, laid her hand on his arm.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Prisha said. “Have you?”

“No,” Ryan said. “No, I haven’t.”

Fifteen minutes earlier, arriving at the scene, Ryan roared past several patrol cars cluttering up the grass verge in front of Hungry Hall, a decaying country house outside Antrim. A few constables stood talking by their vehicles. He jammed on the breaks, pulled into the driveway then backed up. Saw them glance over; a bit edgy now. A stocky woman officer, with short dark hair curling under her cap, leaned against a car beside two male constables, both tall and pale. Ryan lowered his window, getting a whiff of country air, manure, cut grass, and peat.

“Word to the wise.” He flashed his warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant McBride, Senior Investigating Officer.” He nodded towards the house. “That’s a crime scene. You’re supposed to be protecting it, not standing around chatting like a bunch of schoolgirls. Next time anyone tries to enter this driveway ask for ID, unless you fully know who it is.”

Their faces closed up with anger and embarrassment.

Ryan held up his hand. “That’s one of ours lying dead up there, a retired senior officer. If you let Chief Inspector Girvan drive past you like I did, it won’t just be a bollocking you get, it’ll be school-safety visits. Understand me?”

The woman broke from the group and walked over.

“Sorry, we just assumed, you know, by the way you hammered in. But you’re right, we should have stopped you.” She nodded over to one of the constables, shuffling his feet by the car door. “Frank there knows the son, Andrew Mullan, went to primary school with him. He’s right and upset. We didn’t see the victim but one of the other fellas up there did and was sick.”

At the house, Ryan’s partner, DS Billy Lamont, was talking to a crime-scene tech while struggling into a white Tyvek suit and trying to tuck his messy brown curls under a hood. Billy stood a little shorter than Ryan at just under six feet. He had light grey eyes in a pale, freckled face. He lifted his hand in greeting.

One of the crime-scene guys threw Ryan a suit and booties. He had his own gloves and he hopped along, trying to tug on the booties as they headed for the front of the house.

“Grim sort of a place, eh?” Billy said as they approached the door.

Hungry Hall stood four-square and solid enough on an acre of land, Ryan noticed the stonework, originally painted white, now had a grey, mossy tinge. A feeling of disuse, almost abandonment, lingered. The day didn’t help, either, overcast and sullen with low clouds.

“Who found him?”

“The cleaning lady. She’s waiting in the kitchen.”

They stopped at the door and looked in. The main hall was large, gloomy, and cold. Crime-scene officers bustled about. Even so, the place felt desolate. Ryan couldn’t put his finger on it. He shivered.

“Jesus, it’s freezing in here.”

“That’s a desperate smell.” Billy unzipped his suit a bit and pulled his hanky out, holding it to his nose.

Ryan picked up the scent of blood, along with rubbish, rotting food, and dust in the air.

“How often did this cleaning lady come?” he asked Billy. Billy, his partner of over three years, was quick to pick up all kinds of information at scenes.

“Not blooming often enough, you ask me.”

“Hello.” A slim woman in her fifties approached them. A CSI in a blue suit, she carried a metal case and had shoved a pair of plastic glasses on top of her hood. She had dark, almost black eyes, and sallow skin. In need of a bit of sun, Ryan thought. Like me.

“I’m Prisha Hill,” she said, nodding behind her as she spoke. “I oversee this bunch. I was just on the phone to my boss and he said you two were a couple of comedians. Well, I’ll tell you this for nothing, you won’t be laughing when you get upstairs.” She hesitated. “DS Calvert, the local detective sergeant here, has been called away, but he got things started before he left.”

Ryan and Billy had been pulled into this investigation by their boss, Chief Inspector Girvan. They usually worked closer to Belfast. “Okay then, Prisha, lead the way. Is Alice the pathologist?”

“No.” She shook her head and smiled as they moved on, acknowledging their Senior Pathologist, Dr. Wallace McAllister’s nickname. “He’s on holiday in Wales, so we have his deputy coming. Dr. Mervyn Wheeler. Good man, I’ve worked with him before.”

“Oh, yes,” Ryan said with a quick smile. They had almost reached the first-floor landing. “I know Mervyn.”

The scene in the bedroom was shocking. Blood everywhere, even on the ceiling. Prisha followed Ryan’s gaze.

“Arterial spray.”

“Jesus, that’s a lot of rage….”

Prisha nodded. “I know, right? And the victim being one of ours––a retired Chief Inspector for God’s sake, Dr. Wheeler understands this will be a priority. He should be here any minute.” She hesitated for a moment. “Don’t take too long, detectives, he prefers a quiet room to work in.” She turned to leave.

“Thanks,” Ryan called after her. They stood for a moment, just looking. “Mervyn’s getting as bad as Alice with all his little fussy habits,” Ryan said.

“Who has fussy habits?”

Ryan turned and nodded to the white-clad figure standing in the hall. Dr Mervyn Wheeler. Jolly, rotund, and ginger-haired, his easy-going exterior hid a sharp mind.

“Oh, hello, Mervyn, about bloody time.”

Ryan had shared a flat for a while with Mervyn when they were both at Queen’s, Ryan studying law and Mervyn medicine. They had co-existed fairly amiably, considering their differences. Or perhaps, Ryan thought, because of them.

Mervyn hesitated at the bedroom door, like the others before him.

“My God, it looks like the Red Wedding in here. Hi-ya Ryan.”

“Bit of respect, Mervyn, wouldn’t go unnoticed.”

“Fuck off, Ryan. Bit of respect my arse.”

“So,” Ryan said. “I know you like a bit of peace and quiet to work so we’re going to have a quick recce around, leave you to it…”

They left the bedroom and walked along the hall, entering a box room with a few cupboards pushed to the far wall, and a single bed with a bare mattress.

“It’s almost as if no one lived here. What a bleak house,” Billy said, shuddering a little.

“Nice to see your English ‘A’ Levels coming in handy there, Billy.”

“What?”

“Bleak House, Dickens.”

“Oh that.” Billy crossed to the window and looked out. “I never read the whole thing, too long.”

“Yet you finished Lord of the Rings.”

“Different thing, altogether.”

It was, and Ryan left it. He opened a couple of closet doors and peered in. Empty except for wire hangers jangling on a rod. The scent of mothballs wafted out.

“It looks like Mullan hardly used these rooms.” Billy said, as they continued up the hall.

Ryan stopped for a moment. “That was awful, that bedroom. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. Really bad.”

They both stood for a moment. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it,” Ryan said.

“No, me neither.”

A white-clad technician peered out of Mullan’s bedroom, saw them there, and shouted over. “Come on back, Detectives, Dr. Wheeler wants to share.”

“Ah, there you are. Couple of things.” Mervyn stood in the blood-drenched room and beckoned them in.

Ryan looked at the body again. Mullan was dressed in boxers. He was a mess of blood. The sheets were soaked in it, all semi-dry now. Mullan’s heart had pumped arterial blood onto the nearby wall and around the room. An overturned lamp base had fallen at the side of the bed and a whiskey bottle lay in the middle of a brown stain on the carpet. The room smelled ripe, a mixture of blood and drink and other things Ryan didn’t want to think about.

“He thrashed about a lot,” Ryan said.

“Yes, indeed,” Mervyn replied. “He must have had a powerful will to live,”

He paused.

“Because he was killed twice.” 

Excerpt #2

Mervyn waited to see the effect of his words and, satisfied that he had their full attention, he continued.

“To clarify. The blow to the head could have proved deadly if a bleed had occurred, and I’ll be able to tell you more later, but that’s not what killed him.”

He pointed at the blue stoneware lamp base lying on the floor beside the bed. Its white shade, now crumpled and blood-soaked, lay in the corner.

“I’m thinking the intruder picked up that lamp and bashed our victim on the head. A nasty blow. Later, the assailant, possibly realising that he had not killed Mullan, stabbed him in the chest, all over the belly, and one shallow thrust in the side there. Then the throat, in the carotid. Bit frenzied actually, seems to me, the roughness of it, the tearing. The blood loss would have been massive and irreversible. I say that only because Mullan was older and likely had a heart condition.”

“How can you tell?”

“An educated guess. Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if we come upon some kind of blood thinners in the medicine cabinet. Warfarin, probably.” Mervyn then addressed a white-clad techie dusting for prints by the wall. “Have you found anything at all in this room? And did you check the bathroom cabinet yet?”

The man stood, removed his mask and shook his head. “No, but I found a small bloody mark on the bathroom floor in the corner under the shower curtain. It looks like a heelprint. I think the killer missed it. Everywhere else, wiped on most surfaces anyway. Used towels and took them away I assume.”

“Wiped?” Ryan did a slow three-sixty of the room.

“Not perfect, but enough to mess the scene. Didn’t care about the mess, just removal of any evidence, fingerprints etc. Anyway,” Mervyn continued. “As I said, the killer, as far as I can tell, bashed Mullan on the head, assumed he was dead, decided to check the place out. Perhaps picked up some items, went walkabout, came back a while later, realised they hadn’t quite killed him, picked up that knife there–it’s Mullan’s, his initials are on the handle, and proceeded to stab the bejesus out of him. Although at this point I can only assume it’s the murder weapon. Break-in gone wrong maybe?”

“Right then. Thanks Mervyn. And since you’re well on your way to solving the case and all, shall I just pop over later and perform the post-mortem for you?”

“Lordy, Ryan. I was just trying to help. You’re such a touchy boy.”

Ryan ignored him. “And no prints anywhere?”

“Apparently not on any surfaces we’ve checked so far. We’ll need to access family and friends, anyone who might have been normally in the room. Get some shoe prints, too, of course.” He nodded at the bathroom, “If that turns out to be a heel.”

“Okay.” Ryan had a final look around, followed Billy to the landing, and stood with him at the bannister. “Mervyn assumed the knife was just lying around, but what if he kept it by his bed for protection?”

“Protection from who?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go talk to the cleaning lady.”

“We can assume for now that the front door was the site of ingress,” Billy said.

“’Ingress?’ Really?”

“Means place of entry, Ryan. Keep up.”

“I know what it means, Billy, I’ve just never heard you use that particular word in a sentence before,” Ryan said, heading down.

“So facetious,” Billy replied, clattering behind.

Mrs. Reynolds, the Mullan’s’ cleaner, sat at a well-worn farmhouse table in the kitchen. Behind her, a picture window faced the rear garden, a large, grey-green rectangle of patchy mixed grass and weeds. A copse of thin pines quivered in a gusty wind at the back. Grey clouds huddled together and spat fat drops of rain against the glass. That same wind pushed through the windows and produced an occasional desolate, high-pitched keening. The kitchen was warm. Someone had lit the cooking range. Ryan noted scuff marks on the floor and a trace of black powder here and there. The room had been processed, things were in motion. DS Calvert had indeed started the investigation before he’d left.

Mrs. Reynolds sat with a mug of tea cooling in front of her. A formidable woman, square jawed and big boned, she wore a fraying, full-coverage linen apron, washed to a light shade of parchment. Her face matched the apron in texture and colour. She cut a dowdy figure, except for a large pink shower cap pulled down firmly over her hair.

A young policewoman washed dishes in the sink.

“Sir?” The constable looked from Billy to Ryan while she dried her hands.

“Thanks, Constable,” Ryan squinted at her badge, “Evans. No need to stay, I think.”

She hurried out, and Billy rubbed his hands together. “Finally, a bit of heat. Here, Missus, can I warm up that tea for you? Ryan, you want a cup?”

“Thanks Billy, wouldn’t say no.” Anything to shake the chill from his bones. He sat down across from Mrs. Reynolds.

“Okay, love? How’re you doing?”

“As well as––you know.” She glanced over at Billy, who was fussing with the kettle. “Aye, make a fresh pot, will you, son? And put a couple of extra teabags in it. The cup that wee lassie made was weak as water.”

“Right you are, nice strong cuppa coming up.”

Ryan smiled briefly, a woman after Billy’s heart. Mrs. Reynolds seemed to notice Ryan’s expression.

“Oh, I completely forgot about this. Won’t be needing it now I suppose.”

She pulled off the shower cap, revealing tight grey curls lined up with military precision down the middle and both sides of her head. Ryan studied her hair, impressed despite himself. Mrs. Reynolds favoured him with a coy smile.

“My daughter, Francine, does my hair.” She patted her curls. “She’s a hairdresser over in Antrim there. She’s a waiting list for appointments as long as yer arm.”

“Yes,” Ryan said. “That’s a lovely hairdo you have there. Very neat.”

She beamed. “If yer wife or yer mam want an appointment, I’m sure I could…”

She was not to be dissuaded. He eventually handed her his card and she scribbled her home number on it. “There you go, call anytime. I’ll sort you out with our Francine.”

Billy interrupted the conversation by placing a tray between them. He passed the cups around and they settled in.

Mrs. Reynolds drank her tea with relish. She didn’t seem to be suffering from any of the usual signs of stress. Billy’s colour, on the other hand, was only now returning to normal, which for Billy was the shade of curdled milk.

“Did you notice anything strange when you approached the house? Was the front door locked?” Ryan sipped his tea, strong enough to curl your toes.

“Nothing strange, just the same as always. The front door was locked, yes, I used my key to get in. I noticed the smell just after I arrived. I knew what it was. We’ve a farm, you know, we slaughter animals. I’m used to it. I went upstairs. I got to the end of the hall and saw blood on the bedroom wallpaper. Called Mr. Mullan’s name, but I didn’t go any further, didn’t look at anything else. Just came back down and called the police.”

“To clarify, you didn’t actually see the body?”

“Do you think I’d be sitting here like Lady Muck if I had?”

***

My Thoughts

Monday, April 24th 2017

"Detective Ryan McBride stared into Mullan's bedroom, the metallic smell of old blood stronger here. Prisha Hill the supervising crime scene investigator, laid her hand on his arm. "I've never seen anything like this, " Prisha said. "Have you?" "No," Ryan said. "No, I haven't."

Blood Relations by J.Wollcott is part of the DS Ryan McBride two-book series. The first is A Nice Place to Die both books take place in Belfast Northern Ireland. In Blood Relations retired Chief Inspector Patrick Mullan is found deceased in his bed. Detective Sergeant McBride and his partner Detective Sergeant Billy Lamont are tasked with investigating the murder. The question is, can a man be murdered twice?

In their investigation, they found that the deceased had a past of corruption and violence. As they question who it could be, a person from the past or present. Patrick Mullan was bashed over the head, stabbed in the torso, and throat slit. Someone must have really wanted him dead. 

Different storylines within the novel tell the story of each of the characters. Morris Sweet is the local crime boss and a man by the name of Dinger Bell who was recently released from prison, for a crime that he took the fall for. He has since disappeared.

Other characters are Dereck McGrath who is an IT expert, and young officer Maura Dunn. He has a current girlfriend Rose and an ex Bridget. I noticed that even though this book/series takes place in Northern Ireland, it is not bogged down with names and places that are hard to pronounce.

The story is very detailed in the descriptions of people and places and can be read as a stand-alone novel. I am interested in any stories that take place in Ireland. The author is very knowledgeable and tells a great story!

I give the book 5 stars.

I received a copy of the book for review purposes only.

 

Excerpt from BLOOD RELATIONS by J Woollcott. Copyright 2023 by J Woollcott. Reproduced with permission from J Woollcott. All rights reserved.

J. Woollcott is a Canadian author born in Belfast, N. Ireland. She is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers and BCAD, University of Ulster. 

Her first book, A Nice Place to Die won the Daphne du Maurier Award, was short-listed in the Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence in 2021 and was a Silver Falchion Award finalist at Killer Nashville 2023.

Catch Up With J Woollcott:

JWoollcott.com
Goodreads
Twitter - @JoyceWoollcott

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Blooming with Murder (A Sierra Pines B&B Mystery) by Kathryn Long Blog Tour!

 

About Blooming With Murder

 

Blooming with Murder (A Sierra Pines B&B Mystery) 

Cozy Mystery 3rd in Series 

Setting - California 

Camel Press (March 14, 2023) 

Paperback ‏ : ‎ 220 pages 

ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1684920671

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1684920679 

Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0B6YB1ZL9

Spring is blooming in Sierra Pines, and everyone’s busy preparing for the annual Spring Fling Festival. Ali Winston takes her B&B guests for a tour, and their first stop is the face painting booth. Local school board president, Melvin Renville, is there to honor a bet he lost to the student body by having his face painted. However, things turn tragic when he has an allergic reaction and ends up dead. No one is more surprised than Ali’s best friend and art teacher, Lyla Lane, when it’s discovered her face paint contains peanut oil, an ingredient Renville was highly allergic to. Lyla insists she’d never use store bought paint, only homemade, because in teaching elementary school, she’s aware many kids have food allergies.

Ali suspects someone wanted Renville dead and cleverly framed Lyla for the crime. The question is who had motive and the opportunity to pull off such a daring deed? Of course, rumors spread and fingers point at Lyla when word gets out that Renville had notified her, merely hours before his death, that the art program and her job would be cut next year. Talk about a motive to kill. With Sheriff Sterling painting Lyla as his prime suspect, Ali is determined to help her friend by discovering the true killer and to keep spring blooming in Sierra Pines.

About Kathryn Long

Kathryn Long is a native Ohioan who spends her days plotting murder and writing mysteries. She's a member of Sisters in Crime as well as of International Thriller Writers. She’s actively involved in the writing and publishing worlds and stays up to date on her social media platforms. Kathryn lives with her husband and furry friend Max in the quiet suburbs of Green, Ohio. The B&B series also includes Boarding with Murder and Snowed Under Murder. Inspiration for the storyline comes from her classic movie obsession, particularly Arsenic and Old Lace, and her love for Cary Grant. Kathryn also writes the PAINT BY MURDER mystery series under the name Bailee Abbott.

Author Links 

Website - https://www.kathrynlongauthor.com 

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/authorkathryn.long 

Twitter - https://mobile.twitter.com/BaileeAbbott1 

 Purchase Links: Amazon Barnes&Noble Kobo Apple 

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Ghost Cat of Ocean Cove (A Tenth Life Cozy Mystery) by Mollie Hunt Book Tour, Excerpt and Giveaway! @MollieHuntCats

Ghost Cat of Ocean Cove (A Tenth Life Cozy Mystery) by Mollie Hunt

About Ghost Cat of Ocean Cove

Ghost Cat of Ocean Cove (A Tenth Life Cozy Mystery) 

Cozy Mystery 1st in Series Publisher ‏ : ‎ Independently published (August 3, 2021) 

Paperback ‏ : ‎ 249 pages

ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8519309813 

Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0992WH2CL 

Publication date ‏ : ‎ August 17, 2021

A new feline cozy from the author of the award-winning Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries.

 

Septuagenarian Camelia Collins and her cat Blaze move to the Oregon Coast to fulfill a lifelong dream, but that dream becomes a nightmare when Camelia learns she has purchased a murder house. The former resident, reclusive businessman Jonathan Chamber, was brutally killed on the stoop, and the killer is still at large.

 

What’s more, Camelia discovers an ancient gravestone at the back of her garden belonging to a cat named Soji. Dead long ago, this seventh black kitten of a seventh black kitten now returns incorporeal form. Will Soji’s haunting help Camelia solve the murder mystery or send her screaming back to Portland?

 

About Mollie Hunt

Native Oregonian Mollie Hunt has always had an affinity for cats, so it was a short step for her to become a cat writer. Mollie Hunt writes the award-winning Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery series featuring Lynley Cannon, a sixty-something cat shelter volunteer who finds more trouble than a cat in catnip, and the Cat Seasons sci-fantasy tetralogy where cats save the world. She also pens a bit of cat poetry.

Mollie is a member of the Oregon Writers’ Colony, Sisters in Crime, the Cat Writers’ Association, and Northwest Independent Writers Association (NIWA). She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and a varying number of cats. Like Lynley, she is a grateful shelter volunteer.

Author Links 

Website: https://molliehuntcatwriter.com/ 

Follow Mollie’s Amazon Page: www.amazon.com/author/molliehunt 

Facebook Author Page: www.facebook.com/MollieHuntCatWriter/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7768987.Mollie_Hunt Twitter: @MollieHuntCats 

  Sign up for Mollie’s Extremely Informal Newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/c0fOTn. 

  Purchase Link - Amazon 

GHOST CAT OF OCEAN COVE Excerpt!

 

Chapter 1: Arrival and a Surprise

Camelia Collins hesitated, the key halfway into the lock. What on Earth have I done? she wondered to herself. How many people my age pick up and move house, leaving their old life behind to try something completely different and new?

Not many, she imagined, again pondering her sanity, but they probably should. After all, if one doesn’t follow one’s lifelong dreams by the age of seventy, when does one? 

Turning, she surveyed the modest neighbor¬hood with its rustic homes perched on the bluff overlooking the sea. A rim of stunted pines clung to the edge of the cliff, and beyond that, Ocean Cove, where the surf beat upon the shore as it had done for millennia before and would do for millennia to come. Tiny and sheltered, its pebbled strip of shoreline curved in a flawless crescent. 

Yes, this had always been Camelia’s dream. Now there she was, the dream come true. So why did she feel like she’d fallen into Alice’s rabbit hole?

Camelia returned her gaze to her new home. A rough driftwood plank hung by the front door, the words, “Love Cottage,” spelled upon it with seashells. Presumably the sign had been made by the Loves, the folks who had built the little cottage back in the fifties. There was already a house on the property when they purchased, so the story goes, but it had fallen into decay as places were prone to do in the wet coastal weather. Instead of sinking their nest egg into the old derelict, the Loves had opted for something fresh. They constructed the new house from scratch and zealously maintained it ever after. No one would guess by looking that it had stood its ground for over half a century. 

Camelia shook off her wisp of apprehension and finished unlocking the door. Stepping inside, she gazed around the cheerful room with approval. She had bought the house furnished, and with a few minor adjustments, it would suffice until she had a chance to add her own personal touch. The bulk of her possessions would be arriving in a movers’ truck the next morning—then it would be perfect!

Again she marveled at her luck. Property on the Oregon coast was expensive, yet this one had been quite affordable. The inspection had turned up no surprises—the pipes weren’t broken nor was the roof falling in. The realtor had explained that the man who bought it from the Loves had died, and his beneficiary was looking for a fast cash sale. After a long and convoluted probate, the elderly European uncle wanted nothing to do with the place. Camelia figured his loss was her gain.

A folded sheet of paper sat propped upon the coffee table, “Mrs.” scrawled in bold cursive across the front. Camelia could guess what it was: a note from the cleaners she had hired to get things spick and span for her move-in. She glanced at it, read that all was in order and would she please pay the enclosed invoice in a timely manner. The charge seemed a bit high, but it was worth it to know the sheets were newly washed and any spiders that had moved in during the house’s three-year vacancy had been evicted from the eaves. 

Camelia set the note aside and went back to the car to retrieve her overnight bag. Rolling it through to the bedroom, she smiled as she took in the bright, cozy space. A big window facing northwest would get the afternoon sun. A dresser, a wooden chair, and a single bed draped in a yellow chenille spread left her lots of potential to add her own special touch.

“Yes, this will do nicely,” she said out loud, her habit of talking to herself so well-established that half the time she didn’t know she was doing it. “Very nicely!” she added with glee. 

Making a second trip to the car, she hefted a large cat carrier from the back seat. Its sulking inhabitant, her big tuxedo boy Blaze, gave a rauw of displeasure at the joggle. 

“Can’t be helped,” Camelia told him. “I know how much you kitties hate change, but you’ll like this one, I promise.”

Camelia lugged the carrier, along with a tote full of cat things, directly into the little bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door and opened the carrier gate. Blaze inched his way out, first a pink nose, then a white paw, then finally the whole black and white cat. He looked up at his cohabitor with eyes green as an old-fashioned 7Up bottle as if to say, “What in the world have you done?”

“You’ll be fine,” said Camelia. “I’ll get your box and food station up directly. Be a good boy and hold it for just a few minutes longer.”

Blaze shot her a dirty look, then hopped onto the bed and proceeded to scrutinize his new digs. Camelia pulled a small, pre-filled litter pan from the tote, pulled off the cling wrap covering, and placed it on a towel on the floor. Going into the bathroom, she filled a travel bowl with water.

“Food’s coming.” She gave the cat a pet and left him to it. 

As she headed back to the car for a third time, she dawdled along the pathway to take in the warm June day. The weather couldn’t have been nicer, and the air smelled of sea salt and roses. 

Someone must have loved roses, she thought to herself. They grew everywhere in the patch of garden. Old-fashioned climbers twined in blooming profusion up the columns of the front porch, and bushes of cabbage roses lined the walkway, each of their pink, yellow, and white blossoms as huge as an entire bouquet. Though in need of pruning, they seemed healthy and thriving. Whoever had owned this place had taken good care, and it showed. 

Besides the roses, other perennials were crowded together in the English cottage style—delphiniums and hollyhocks, alstroemeria and canyon poppies. Any empty spots had been filled by nasturtiums gone wild, their gray-green pads and rust-red blossoms dotting the scape like a Monet painting. 

“Just lovely!” Camelia said out loud, wondering offhandedly how she was ever going to keep it up.

Startled from her reverie by a squeaking sound, she turned to see a woman shambling up the drive with the aid of a four-wheeled walker, the source of the noise. Aging and frail, the woman appeared to be in her sixties. Her hair was done in the classic gray curls that might have been popular in her mother’s day. Her large and loudly patterned housedress made no attempt to hide her spare figure. She wore little or no makeup, but her smile painted a blush on the pale face, or perhaps it was the exertion of climbing the slight hill.

“Are you the new tenant?” the woman asked between breaths. “I’m Vera, Vera Whitcomb, from next door.” She gestured to a small house surrounded by a classic white picket fence. 

Camelia held out a hand, trying to keep from looming over the bent woman—at five-foot-eight, that was no easy feat. “Camelia Collins. Nice to meet you.” Vera let loose of her walker and took the hand in a warm shake. “But I’m not a tenant,” Camelia corrected. “I bought Love Cottage.” 

 Vera frowned. “Is that so? Well, um, welcome to the neighborhood, dear. Goodbye.” 

She swung her walker around and started to shuffle away as fast as the contraption would carry her. Camelia found herself as much stunned by her departure as she had been by her original appearance. Was it something she’d said? 

“Yes, and I’m very excited,” Camelia aimed at the receding figure. “We’re here for the duration. At least that’s the plan.”

Vera paused. “We? Your husband as well then?”

“No, I’m a widow. I was referring to my cat. So Vera,” Camelia quickly continued, “maybe you could tell me a little about the area—if you have the time.”

That seemed to spark Vera’s interest. “Well, yes, alright.” The smile returned as she hobbled back to the other woman. Spinning her walker so the chair faced Camelia, she put on the brake and sat down with a grunt. “Certainly, I’ve got the time. I’ve got nothing but time. What would you like to know?”

Camelia thought about it. What did she want to know? Why Vera had reacted so strangely at the news she’d bought Love Cottage? Why, since her arrival, had a shadow of foreboding permeated Camelia’s mood like a San Francisco fog? 

She settled on something more neutral. “Have you lived here long?”

“Ed and I bought the place, oh…” Vera gathered her thoughts. “Some twenty years ago, when we got back from New Zealand. The only ones here longer are the Linders.” She pointed to the stately home at the top of the hill. “By boundary, we’re both in the Cliffmont district, though you’d never get them to admit it, they tend to be a bit squirrely when it comes to their heritage.”

Camelia wasn’t sure what Vera meant by squirrely, but the woman didn’t elaborate. At least not about that.

“Lydia’s nice enough, but she enjoys playing the lady of the manor. Of course we know differently, don’t we? Her folks were farmers, poor as dirt. If Mr. Linder hadn’t come along and fallen for her, she’d be slinging hash in a drive-through, I bet you.” Vera gave a little wink for emphasis.

“Now Larry Linder’s another matter. He comes straight from old money. The official version is the railroad, but no one mentions the stuff his great granddaddy shipped on those trains.”

Vera’s gaze slipped from the Linders’ to Camelia’s neighbor on the other side. “That’s the Smiths then,” she said, fluttering a hand at the yellow house. “Aiden and Nao. He’s a plumber, and she’s a housewife—homemaker, family manager, chief cook and bottle washer—whatever you call it these days. Nao helps me out from time to time since she’s home a lot. She likes to bake, and she’s good at it. Wins prizes at the county fair for her marionberry cheesecake. They have a teenage kid, Yui. She’s a good girl, smart, though she plays it down. Yui’s a whiz with animals—she never met an animal she didn’t like.” Vera chuckled. “She’s all about horses at the moment—you know the type.”

Vera indicated the building across the street. With its stucco façade and square lines, it looked more like a business than a beach cabin. “That one’s a rental, mostly for the summer folk. You never know who’s going to be there. The host is picky though. His guests have always been well-behaved… so far.”

“Good to know,” Camelia remarked. 

“The general store is over the rise on the other side of town,” Vera said, continuing her virtual tour. “There’s a path between your place and mine that runs straight to Linder Square so you don’t have to drive all the way around. If you need gifts or books, we have a little mall just up the road. The big grocery is in the mall and so is the print shop and the library. Do you read, Amelia?”

“It’s Camelia,” Camelia corrected. “Yes, and I love libraries. I’ll need to get a card.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, since you’re going to live here.” Again the hint of a frown shaded Vera’s face.

“You seem to know a lot about the community.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” The fragile woman defended. “A little osteoporosis doesn’t stop me from getting around.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time. People think when the body is feeble, then so is the mind. My feeling is, it’s just the opposite.”

“I would never consider you feeble, in mind or body,” Camelia blurted, realizing she had done just that.

“Ha-ha,” Vera spluttered. “You’re a good egg, Camelia. How’d you ever decide on Ocean Cove, if you don’t mind my asking? This isn’t exactly your trendy retirement destination. It’s not even a blip on most maps. Ed and I, we came across it totally by accident. We’d been looking for somewhere else entirely.”

“I’d never noticed it either,” Camelia agreed, “and I’ve been all up and down this coast. It was a friend of mine, a real estate agent, who discovered it. She knew I was looking for a beach place at a reasonable price, so when this one came along, she jumped on it.”

Camelia glanced at her new home. Only a single story, and the rooms were small, but it was cozy—just right for an older lady and her cat. “I couldn’t believe my luck finding something so nice within my price range. And with such a view of the cove, too!” She cast her gaze along the shore and far out into the never-ending blue. Wow! Camelia said under her breath, not for the first—or last—time. 

Her eye rolled around to Vera, who was staring, mouth open as if she had just seen a ghost.

Camelia started. “What? What is it?”

“Then you don’t know?”

Camelia frowned uneasily. Was there something wrong with her place after all? Of course there was! She should have known that an ocean-view house at the price she paid was too good to be true. Possibilities deluged her mind. Was there a lien? An old meth lab? But those things would have shown up in the sale. Plans for a future freeway cutting through? Not flood-prone at this elevation, though it might have been built on a fault line. Was the cliff about to crumble? 

“What?” she gasped. “What don’t I know?”

“You should probably ask your realtor,” Vera hemmed. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you straight out.”

“No, you tell me,” Camelia demanded, her concern overtaking her good manners. “What’s the matter with my house?”

Vera turned an even lighter pale and rung her hands, a gesture rarely seen outside of films.

“It’s not the house, dear. Mr. Chamber kept it up properly. The house is fine. It’s what happened outside the house. Right there, in fact.”

She nodded to the front stoop, newly painted a lovely color of blue that shone and sparkled in the summer sun. Camelia waited, but Vera had stalled.

“What, Vera? Please,” she insisted. “I need to know.”

After a further pause, the woman gave in. “Yes, sure you do.” She spoke slowly, as if pulling the words from a faraway place. “I’d want to know if it was me.”

A robin chirped in a nearby fig tree. A car crawled past, backed out again, the driver realizing the road was a dead end. Finally Vera took a deep breath and turned her dark eyes on Camelia. 

“He was killed, dear,” she said in a near whisper. “Jonathan Chamber was murdered.”

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