Reviews!

To any authors/publishers/ tour companies that are looking for the reviews that I signed up for please know this is very hard to do. I will be stopping reviews temporarily. My husband passed away February 1st and my new normal is a bit scary right now and I am unable to concentrate on a book to do justice to the book and authors. I will still do spotlight posts if you wish it is just the reviews at this time. I apologize for this, but it isn't fair to you if I signed up to do a review and haven't been able to because I can't concentrate on any books. Thank you for your understanding during this difficult time. I appreciate all of you. Kathleen Kelly April 2nd 2024
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13 January 2024

The Chameleon Killer by Gina Cheyne Mystery Blog Tour!

 The Chameleon Killer Mystery

Who is the Chameleon Killer?

When you are having a really bad day, drink yourself legless, abuse everyone around you, pass out and try again tomorrow.Trouble is; every day is bad in Rupert Fletcher’s world. He threatens his ex-wife, mocks his girlfriend, abuses his neighbours, and gets into a fight in the pub.

Next day, he is found dead.Who’d want to kill him? Well, almost everybody, but it looks like only one person did. The police arrest his ex-wife’s therapist, Anthon. Anthony’s family claim he is innocent and employ the SeeMs Detective Agency to find the real killer.Cat, Miranda, and Stevie uncover clues that point them back to an intricate web of family injuries and an unexpected connection between the victim and his killer.

Could Rupert’s murderer be The Chameleon Killer, who has already killed before and is bent on revenge? They need to act fast before the killer strikes again.

Purchase Links

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Chameleon-Killer-Mystery-Detective-Agency-ebook/dp/B0CNZL4TG4

https://www.amazon.com/Chameleon-Killer-Mystery-Detective-Agency-ebook/dp/B0CNZL4TG4

Gina has worked as a pilot, physiotherapist, freelance writer and dog breeder. As a child, Gina's parents hated travelling and never went further than Jersey. 

As a result she became travel-addicted and spent years bumming around SE Asia, China and Australia, where she worked in a racing stables in Pinjarra, South of Perth. She then lived and worked in various places in Spain, the USA and London before settling in West Sussex with her husband and dogs. 

This is her fourth crime novel in the SeeMs Detective Agency series. This book is set between Sussex and London.

https://ginacheyne.com/

https://www.instagram.com/ginacheynewriter/

https://www.facebook.com/gina.cheyne.books

https://reedsy.com/discovery/user/ginacheyne

https://www.tiktok.com/@flyfizzi

Extract from the beginning of The Chameleon Killer Mystery

  

By Gina Cheyne 

 

 In the last book Victoria escaped from the SeeMs Detectives, this scene briefly recaps how she escaped and leads on to what happens next in the book.


Chapter One: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Ups 

 

As the car stopped, Victoria looked up at the sky. It was clear with a light wind: a perfectly lovely afternoon for flying the Tiger Moth. A perfect evening for dying? Perhaps. She glanced at Stevie, who stared back emotionless. 

‘So,’ said Victoria, ‘now you know why I told you everything?’ 

Stevie was silent. 

‘I think you do!’ Victoria allowed her voice to be triumphant. ‘And we are going down as one. Tonight we will be together … where, do you think? Cosy in Hell? I doubt Heaven has room for people like us. By the way, don’t think of staying alive by tripping me over, hoping the gun will kill me by mistake. I’ve left all the information on my phone. The police will enjoy reading it all, I imagine.’ 

She licked her lips, her gun hand completely steady. She manoeuvred her legs out of the small car and picked up the cushion she’d been sitting on. She tucked it under the arm leaning on the walking stick. 

Leaning on her stick she slowly moved down the path to the Owly Vale flying strip, dragging her withered legs, the gun still steady in her hand. She motioned Stevie to walk slightly ahead of her. 

At the bottom of the garden, they reached the hangar, and Victoria collapsed onto a low wall. This was the furthest she’d walked for a long time. 

Stevie opened the electric doors, dived into the hangar to fetch the plane. 

Victoria watched, hunched on the wall. Regaining her strength. Stevie looked about twelve years old, Victoria thought, with her pixie haircut and her wiry frame. Hard to believe she was a first officer at British Airways and an important member of the SeeMs Detective team. Victoria herself was slim, but compared to Stevie she was a giant. 

She gave a low whistle. ‘Woohoo. Did you put this all down yourself? Build the hangar? All the concreting? Even the electric doors?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘You really will be a loss to society, won’t you? Shame.’ 

‘You’d better sit in the front seat,’ Stevie said gruffly. 

Victoria spat. ‘Pah! You must think I’m green. I’m sitting where I can see what you are up to. I know there’s only a radio in the back, not in the front. You won’t be able to call for help, and I’m certainly not going to. Now I’m going to show you how brilliantly Victoria flies. Even after all this time.’ 

Stevie said nothing. 

Victoria clambered into the back cockpit of the Tiger Moth, keeping her gun trained on the younger woman. 

‘Switches on.’ 

Stevie pulled the propellor and the obedient little craft started immediately. She pulled out the chocks, storing them by the trolley, then climbed into the front cockpit with a single lithe movement. 

Victoria stored the gun in her flying suit, then, smiling slightly, she pulled out a second, a toy gun, and placed it in the map pouch. When Stevie saw that she had been fooled by a toy gun, she was going to be so embarrassed. Victoria chuckled quietly, thinking how angry and upset Stevie would feel.  

Victoria taxied away from the hangar and along a neat grass alleyway to where Stevie had mown a long wide strip with an orange windsock on one side. She turned the Tiger Moth to face into the wind. 

Taking off, Victoria climbed to a thousand feet. Although her damaged legs vibrated on the pedals, unused to the pressure, she was surprised how quickly her ‘flying muscles’ returned. However, she knew they would not last very long, but then it wasn’t going to be very long before they died. 

She began circling, getting used to the feel of the light machine, so different from the airliners she used to fly. Laughing, she pulled back the power and dived down to the level of the trees sinuously. Propelling the machine low over the grass, rising for the bumps in the field, pulling straight up to avoid the trees, nipping over the branches, hearing the leaves tickling the underside of the canvas as she straightened up. 

‘Yay! Yay! Yay!’ She whooped ecstatically down the elderly speaking tube. ‘I’d forgotten how much fun it was to fly.’ 

Stevie said nothing. 

Victoria began climbing to height. One thousand. Two thousand. She levelled at three thousand feet and smiled at the countryside spread out like toys in the sunshine. 

‘I’ve always wondered,’ she purred into the intercom. ‘How long can you stay upside down before the fuel runs out of the engine? Haven’t you?’ 

Stevie said nothing. 

Victoria undid her seat belt, letting the two pieces fall to the side. She rolled the Tiger Moth upside down and counted, holding herself in the machine with her hands. 

‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …’ 

The engine stopped. 

The world was silent. 

For a moment Victoria held herself, suspended between life and death. 

Then she let go. 

Screaming. She fell. 

Looking up, she watched the plane disappear above her. One. Two. Three. 

Victoria pulled the rip cord. Her parachute blossomed above her. 

She laughed. 

In the sky Stevie was righting the machine, too busy to see what Victoria was doing, fighting to land a plane with a dead engine in an area of small fields intersected by trees and avoiding the village of Owly Vale. 

Victoria laughed again. Let them imagine she was dead. Let them believe what they liked. 

They wouldn’t recognise her when they saw her again. They had no idea of her genius. Her ability with disguise. Not even Stevie understood she was a chameleon amongst humans. 

Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance! And her planning was perfect. 

 

 


09 September 2023

Reckoning by Baron Birtcher Book Tour!

 

RECKONING by Baron Birtcher Banner

September 4 - 29, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

RECKONING by Baron Birtcher

Ty Dawson is a small-town sheriff with big-city problems, in this riveting crime thriller from the award-winning author of Fistful of Rain.

As lawman, rancher, and Korean War veteran, Ty Dawson has his share of problems in the southern Oregon county he calls home. Despite how rural it is, Meriwether can’t keep modernity at bay. The 1970s have changed the United States—and Meriwether won’t be spared.

A standoff looms when the US Fish & Wildlife Service seeks to separate longtime cattleman KC Sheridan from his water supply—ensuring the death of his livestock. If that’s not enough trouble, a Portland detective is found dead in a fly-fishing resort cabin. Though the Portland police, including the victim’s own partner, are eager to write off the tragedy as a suicide, Ty has his own thoughts on the matter—as well as evidence that points to murder. His suspicions soon mire him in a swamp of corruption that threatens nearly everyone around him. Turns out that greed and evil are contagious—and they take down men both great and small . . .

Praise:

"Combines the mystery and honesty of Craig Johnson’s Longmire with the first-person narration of a fiercely independent Oregon character."
~ Sheila Deeth, author of John’s Joy

"A masterful work of a time gone by . . . Ty Dawson is a cowboy, lawman, father and philosopher like none other."
~ Neal Griffin, Los Angeles Times–bestselling author of The Burden of Proof

"Outstanding... Readers will crave more from Dawson."
~ Publishers Weekly

Book Details:

Genre: Neo-western crime thriller
Published by: Open Road Integrated Media
Publication Date: June 2023
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: 978-1-5040-8280-8
Series: Sheriff Ty Dawson Series, #3
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Open Road Media

Read an excerpt:

Prelude:

A TRANSITIVE NIGHTFALL

NO CHILD IS brought into this world with any knowledge of true evil. This they learn over the passage of time. In my experience as a Sheriff, and as a rancher, I have found this precept to be true.

Time passes nevertheless, even if it passes slowly. Here in rural southern Oregon, sometimes it seemed as if it hadn’t moved at all, advancing without touching Meriwether County, except with glancing blows.

That is, until the day it caught up with us all, and came down like a goddamn hammer.

CHAPTER ONE

ORDINARILY, AUTUMN IN Meriwether County would come in hard and sudden, like a stone hurled through a window. But this year it snuck in slow and mild, lingered there deceitfully while we waited for the axe to come down.

The sky that morning was turquoise, empty of clouds, the altitude strung with elongated V’s of migrating geese and a single contrail that resembled a surgical scar, the narrows between the high valley walls opening onto a broad vista of rangeland some distance below. I had expected ice patches to have formed on the pavement overnight, but the weather had remained stubbornly dry, even as temperatures closed in on the low thirties. I tipped open the wind-wing and let the chill air blow through the cab of my pickup as I stretched, and drank off the last dregs of coffee I had brought for the long southward drive from the town of Meridian.

I had received a phone call at home the night before from an unusually distressed KC Sheridan. I had known KC for as long as I can remember, a pragmatic and taciturn cattleman whose family history in the area dated back to the late 1800s, much like that of my own. Three generations of Sheridans had stretched fence wire, planted feed-grass and run rough stock across deeded ranchland that measured its acreage in the tens of thousands, and whose boundaries straddled two separate counties, one of which was my jurisdiction.

But the decade of the ’70s thus far had not been any kinder or gentler to cowboys than to anyone else, and KC and his wife, Irene, had found themselves increasingly subject to the fulminations and intimidation of both local and federal government. While the Sheridan ranch had once numbered itself among a dozen privately held agricultural properties in the region, KC now found himself surrounded on three sides by a federally designated wildlife refuge that had swollen to encompass well over three hundred square miles; a bird sanctuary originally conceived under the auspices of President Theodore Roosevelt’s white house. All of which would have been perfectly fine and acceptable to the Sheridan family, given the understanding that the scarce water supply that ultimately fed into the bird sanctuary belonged to the Sheridans by legal covenant, as it had for nearly a century.

I turned off the paved two-lane and onto a gravel service road, headed in the direction of the ridgeline where KC sat silhouetted against the bright backdrop of clear sky, mounted astride his chestnut roping horse. KC climbed out of the saddle as I parked a short distance away, switched off the ignition and stepped down from my truck. KC trailed the horse behind him as he moved in my direction, took off his hat and ran a forearm across his brow, then pressed it back onto his head. His hair and his eyes shared a similar shade of gunmetal grey, and the hardscrabble nature of his existence as a rancher had been recorded in the deep lines of his face.

“What the hell am I supposed to do about these goings-on, Sheriff?” KC asked, and cocked his brim in the general direction of a reservoir that was the size of a small mountain lake. Two men wearing construction hardhats were surveying a line on the near shore where a third man studied a roll of blueprints he had unfurled across the hood of his work truck.

“Is that who I think it is?” I asked.

“They aim to fence off my water. My cows won’t last a week in this weather.”

“Have you talked to them, KC?”

He nodded.

“’Bout as useful as standing in a bucket and trying to lift yourself up by the handle. It’s the reason I finally called you, Ty. I didn’t know what else to do.”

The vein on KC’s temple palpitated as he cut his eyes toward the foothills and spat.

“I’ll have a word with them,” I said. “You wait here.”

A wintry wind had begun to blow down from the pass, pushing channels through the dry grass and the sweet scents of juniper and scrub pine. A harrier swept down out of a cluster of black oaks and made a series of low passes across the flats.

I averted my eyes as the sun glinted off the US Department of Fish & Wildlife shield affixed to the driver side door of a government-issue Chevy Suburban. The man studying the blueprints didn’t bother to lift his head or look at me as I stepped up beside him.

“Care to tell me why you and your men are trespassing on private ranch land?” I asked.

The man sighed, scrutinizing me over the frames of a pair of steel-rimmed reading glasses. He had a face that put me in mind of an apple carving, and a physique that resembled a burlap sack filled with claw hammers.

“Who the hell are you now?” he asked.

“Ty Dawson, Sheriff of Meriwether County. That’s the name of the county you’re standing in.”

He took off his reading glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket, hitched a work boot onto the Suburban’s bumper and offered me an approximation of a smile.

“Well, Sheriff, I’m with Fish and Wildlife—that’s an agency of the federal government, as I’m sure you’re aware—and I have a work order that says I’m supposed to put up a fence. And that’s exactly what me and my crew are doing here.”

I gestured upslope, where KC Sheridan stood watching us, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“You’re on that man’s private property,” I said.

The government man made no move to acknowledge KC.

“I don’t split hairs over those types of details, Sheriff. The work order I’ve got lays out the metes and bounds of the line, and me and my crew just install the fence where it says to. It ain’t brain surgery.”

“Scoot over and let me have a look at that site map.”

“I oughtta radio this in.”

“You do whatever you think you need to,” I said. “But do it while I’m looking at your map.”

He lifted his chin and looked as though he was conducting a dialogue with himself, then finally stepped to one side. I studied the blueprint for a few moments, looked out across the rock-studded range and got my bearings.

“Looks to me like the boundary line for the bird refuge is at least a hundred yards to the other side of this reservoir,” I said. “Your map is mismarked.”

“The agency doesn’t mismark maps, Sheriff.”

“They sure as hell mismarked this one. You need to stop your work until this gets sorted out.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Care to repeat that? There’s clearly been a mistake.”

“No mistake. You need to step away, Sheriff.”

“Let me explain something to you,” I said, removing my sunglasses. “It’s the law in the State of Oregon that the water that comes up on Mr. Sheridan’s property belongs to Mr. Sheridan. Period. If you fence off his reservoir—especially this late in the season—you’re not only stealing his water, you’re murdering his herd.”

The agency man lifted his foot off the bumper, set his feet wide and faced off with me. He slid both hands into the back pockets of his canvas overalls and rocked back on his heels.

“Now it’s my turn to try to explain something to you, Sheriff: I been given a job to do, and I intend to do it. If you don’t walk away right this minute and leave me to it, I will be forced to radio this in. Long and the short of it is, the guys who will come out here after me will have badges, too. And their badges are bigger than yours.”

“I won’t allow you to trespass onto private property, steal this man’s water and kill his livestock.”

He glanced at his two crewmen staking the line then turned his attention back to me.

“You going to arrest us?” he asked.

“What is it with you agency people? Why is it that your first inclination is to slam the pedal all the way to the floor?”

“When me and the boys come back out here, it won’t just be the three of us no more.”

“I’m finished talking about this,” I said. “Pack up your gear and go.”

I could feel his eyes boring holes into the back of my head as I picked my way back up the incline where Sheridan stood waiting for me.

“I can tell by your stride that you had the same kind of dialogue experience I had with that fella,” KC said.

“Bureaucrats with hardhats.”

“I ain’t no cupcake, Dawson. But, you know that those sonsabitches have been tweaking my nose for years.”

“Those men are part of a federal agency, KC, make no mistake. If you’re not careful, they’ll try to roll right over the top of you.”

“What do you call what they’re doing right now? I don’t intend to lay down for it.”

“I’m not saying you should.”

“What, then?”

“Get on the phone and call Judge Yates up in Salem,” I said. “Ask him if he can slap an injunction on these clowns until we get it sorted out.”

Sheridan’s horse pinned back his ears and began to shuffle his forelegs, responding to the tone our conversation had taken. KC calmed the animal with a caress of its neck, dipped into the pocket of his wool coat, snapped off a few pieces of carrot and fed it to the gelding from the flat of his palm.

“I’ll do it, Ty, but I swear to god—”

“KC, you call me before you do anything else, you understand?”

***

Excerpt from RECKONING by Baron Birtcher. Copyright 2023 by Baron Birtcher. Reproduced with permission from Baron Birtcher. All rights reserved.

Baron Birtcher

Baron R Birtcher is the LA TIMES and IMBA BESTSELLING author of the hardboiled Mike Travis series (Roadhouse Blues, Ruby Tuesday, Angels Fall, and Hard Latitudes), the award-winning Ty Dawson series (South California Purples, Fistful Of Rain, and Reckoning), as well as the critically-lauded stand-alone, RAIN DOGS.

Baron is a five-time winner of the SILVER FALCHION AWARD, and the WINNER of 2018's Killer Nashville READERS CHOICE AWARD, as well as 2019's BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR for Fistful Of Rain.

He has also had the honor of having been named a finalist for the NERO AWARD, the LEFTY AWARD, the FOREWORD INDIE AWARD, the 2016 BEST BOOK AWARD, the Pacific Northwest's regional SPOTTED OWL AWARD, and the CLAYMORE AWARD.

Baron's writing has been hailed as "The real deal" by Publishers Weekly; "Fast Paced and Engaging" by Booklist; and "Solid, Fluent and Thrilling" by Kirkus.

"YOU WANT TO READ BIRTCHER'S BOOKS, THEN YOU WANT TO LIVE IN THEM" -- Don Winslow, NYT Bestselling author

"BIRTCHER IS PART POET, PART PHILOSOPHER, AND A CONSUMMATE WRITER" -- Reed Farrel Coleman, NYT Bestselling author

"REMINISCENT OF THE LATE, GREAT ELMORE LEONARD" -- Shots Magazine (UK)

Catch Up With Baron Birtcher:
Instagram - @baronrbirtcherauthor
Facebook


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