New Release - KILL YOUR DARLINGS

 It's embarrassing to admit I STILL haven't managed to get the book listed on Google. What in the world am I doing all day?! But the book is live everywhere else--in fact, it's even available in print. So, hey, maybe I'm finally getting the hang of this thing called publishing. 

I think I mentioned Kale Williams will do the audio (probably in December). 

Anyway, it's live. my first new release since...November? GULP. 

Next up, The 12.2 Per Cent Solution. And then, with whatever time is left in the year, The Medicine Man Murders. I just don't write as quickly as I used to. It's just the way it is now. It's frustrating to you. It's frustrating to me. It's not that I wouldn't love to be able to crank out 13 books a year like I did back in the old days. It's just not possible. 

Anyway, KILL YOUR DARLINGS

BLURB:

At this mystery conference, murder is more than just another plot twist...

 

Nobody likes conferences, but they’re part of the job.

Millbrook House senior editor Keiran Chandler has spent years curating the best voices in crime lit, but when an unsolicited manuscript is handed to him at the Noir at the Shore mystery conference, truth collides with fiction. I Know What You Did is more than just another slush pile submission—it’s a direct threat.

U.N. Owen seems to know what really happened in Steeple Hill all those years ago. Who is Owen? How does he know these things? Clearly the mysterious author is after more than a book deal. But what?

With a potentially career-ending publishing merger on the horizon, the end of his affair with bestselling author and former homicide detective Finn Scott, and not so subtle threats from someone in his past, Keiran has a lot bigger problems than coming up with something witty to say on discussion panels.

 

EXCERPT:

It was much cooler and breezier down by the water. Sea lions barked from the far rocks, and gulls
wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and fleeting.

Finn’s back was to me, and as I grew nearer, I saw that he was on his phone. Or had been. The call seemed to have ended.

The waves didn’t completely drown out my approach—or, more likely, Finn possessed more situational awareness than most people—and he glanced around.

His wary expression changed infinitesimally, but then he held up his phone and smiled ruefully. “The kiddo,” he said, as if our a.m. encounter at the pool had never happened.

The kiddo was Finn’s son, Byron, who was in his freshman year at UCLA.

I asked automatically, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. He’s a little homesick, I think.”

My understanding was UCLA was less than an hour from home, but being homesick is not something I know anything about. I left Steeple Hill the day after I turned eighteen, and I never looked back.

I nodded and said, “Finn, I owe you an apology. You have every right to work with whomever you choose. Lila’s an excellent editor. It probably is time to work with someone who can look at the series with fresh eyes.”

His eyebrows rose. He remarked, “That was interesting, this morning. Outside of discussing books and having sex, I think that was the first completely unguarded reaction I’ve ever had from you.”

He spoke calmly, but the effect of that almost clinical tone was as cold and hard as if I’d been knocked down by one of those waves pounding the shore.

I was still trying to absorb it, when he added, “But, no. I’m the one who needs to apologize. I blindsided you. I’m sorry, Keir. You didn’t deserve that. I should have expressed my concerns two weeks ago.”

Expressed my concerns. Jesus. That was formal. Maybe he should have filled them out in triplicate while he was at it.

I didn’t say that, of course. I took another couple of steps forward, close enough to catch the scent of that herbal aromatic aftershave, close enough to reach out and touch him, though I was pretty sure I’d never touch him again. “Yeah. That might have helped. What are your concerns? Because the last time we were together—”

“Why didn’t you tell me your father had died?” he interrupted.

It was so far out of left field, my jaw dropped.

“I didn’t know you knew him,” I shot back.

“Another gut reaction,” he observed. “You’re offended. And angry.”

What the hell? I was starting to get angry. “I wasn’t close to my father. And that, you do know.”

“I do know that. Yes. That’s the extent of what I know about your family.”

I spread my hands in genuine bafflement. What the hell did my family have to do with anything?

Finn said, “I’m not sure how to put this without hurting you. More than I already have. And that’s the last thing I want to do. I really…really care for you. It’s not about writing or my career, though yes, I’m grateful. I do feel—will always feel—that I owe you. A lot.”

“I don’t want gratitude.”

“I know.” He drew a hard breath. “And that’s not what this is. This is about…us.”

He stopped again. This time I couldn’t think of anything to say.

At least I hadn’t imagined that there had been, briefly, us.

Finally, Finn said, “You’re a good friend. You’re intelligent and charming and…insightful. You’re generous. I think you’re genuinely kind.”

Insightful.

I said through stiff lips, “That’s funny. I thought you were kind, too.”

His eyes, green as the waves pounding the sand, flickered. It hit home, I think, but he hardened his jaw. “I like being with you. And I did want—for a long time I hoped maybe there would be more.”

My heart was slamming against my ribs in heavy thuds. If I’d been hooked to a cardiac monitor, I think alarm bells would have been going off. I could almost hear the panicked jangle of my emotions, like windchimes caught in a hurricane. I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. I wanted to walk away. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“But there’s something…”

Wrong with you.

Those were the words he was looking for.

What he said instead was, “…going on with you. It isn’t anything new. I realized it a long time ago. At first, I thought you were just very reserved. Then I thought it was hard for you to trust. That you’d been hurt. I told myself you had a fear of intimacy. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

I said tightly, “You tell me, Dr. Phil.”

He didn’t bite. “We were together for almost four days and you never once mentioned your father had died the week before. I know you weren’t close, but there should have been some reaction.”

“How would you know, a week after the fact, what reaction I had?”

“You also didn’t mention you’d been in California for his funeral. We’d been talking about seeing more of each other, seeing where this…friendship might lead.”

“That trip was before,” I protested. “Before we talked about any of that.”

In fairness, we hadn’t even really talked about that in any practical sense. We’d just sort of agreed that we both wanted more and that Monterey might be the time to explore some of those possibilities.

“I know.” He seemed genuinely apologetic—but also absolutely adamant. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to put it into words without— What I’m trying to say is, I’ve known—felt—for a long time that something isn’t right. Finding out about your father’s death crystallized it for me.”

I made a sound of disbelief.

“My instinct is you’re…hiding something. And I’m too old to wake up and find myself in a-a Dateline special.”

I think it was random, a shot in the dark, a little flicker of black humor. Or maybe it really was a cop—former cop’s—instinct?

But it hit home, hit the target dead center. Bullseye.

I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t breathe for a moment.

No small part of my horror was the belated understanding of what it would have meant to drag someone else—to have dragged Finn—into the mess I found myself in.

I guess I’d gotten away with it for so long, I’d started believing I really had escaped. The risk to someone else hadn’t occurred to me until Finn articulated it. But yes. If—and now it was feeling more like when—the truth about Dom’s death came out, the wrecking ball wouldn’t just hit me. It would smash into whoever was sharing my life. I didn’t want that. Would never have been okay with that. I would never knowingly have done anything to hurt Finn.

As Finn stared at me, realization slowly dawned on his face. He looked stunned. And then aghast.

He said incredulously, “I was thinking more on the lines of secret wife.”

“No, you weren’t.”

His voice dropped; I couldn’t hear it over the crash of waves hitting the shore. But I saw his lips form soundless words, “What the hell, Keiran?”

I had no answer. What could I say? To Finn, of all people.

The idea that we were going to build some kind of Happily Ever After? I must have been out of my mind.

I could feel a weird smile forming. It wasn’t humor. I don’t know what it was aside from an inappropriate response to extreme nervous tension. But I could see Finn’s eyes getting darker and bleaker.

“Is this funny to you?” he asked.

I turned and walked away.

 

WHERE TO BUY:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Kobo

Fourthwall 

J-J-JULY??!!!

 

Obviously, we're a bit overdue on an update.

The problem is, so much has happened over the past few months that I'm not exactly sure where to start. I think maybe I won't try to fill in the blanks. It's enough to just explain what's happening now and what I'm planning (very loosely--I've given up all idea of preorders or predictions) for the foreseeable future.

The immediate news is Corpse at Captain's Seat (Book 8 in the Secrets and Scrabble series) is currently available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and Smashwords. It should be out in print next week--although there's a holiday, so there could be a delay, yes. Matt Haynes and I have discussed the audio, but I can't remember the final timeline. It's coming, that I can tell you. Matt also just finished the audio for Sea Change, the first of the Jack POV novellas (that's a Patreon exclusive, however).

Also in the DONE column: Hearts & Hazards: Writing the Gay Cozy Mystery. If you're interested in writing an M/M or gay cozy mystery, you might find this helpful. It's in print, yes, and digital. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Smashwords and Google.

As a side note, I decided my website needed an update, so I made the TERRIBLE decision to purchase a Nerdly website (formerly Author Cats). To make a long story short, my old website is disastrously out of date and the new website was a complete waste of money. 😯😦😧 So I honestly don't know what to do. The SO gave up. Now my nephews are going to try and sort it all out. And because my newsletter was connected to the old website... ANYWAY. So it's not you. It's me. I'm not sending newsletters until we get this catastrophe sorted out. 

But as catastrophes go, it's low on the list.

Okay, let me answer the questions that keep popping into my inbox.

1 - Yes. The final Kit Holmes book is still going to happen. The 12.2 Per-Cent Solution is now looking like a late Autumn release. I can't give you a firm date, but it is coming.

2 - Yes. Hex in the City is still going to happen. Since the book is set during the Winter holidays, I'd like it to come out before the end of the year. But it is a helluva year, and I can't make any promises, beyond the assurance that this book IS going to happen.

3 - Yes. The final Art of Murder book is still going to happen. HOW COULD I POSSBIBLY LEAVE SAM AND JASON THERE?!?! 😂🤣 The Medicine Man Murders will not come out before 2025. I do not know when. But I do know that book, also, is definitely going to happen. But it's not happening this year. That's for sure.

4 - No. Ghosted will not go wide for the foreseeable future. HOWEVER, it will eventually be available in audio, which means it's probably going to go into print. But that might be a very brief appearance; just long enough to get it listed on Amazon so I can get it up on ACX. I have to think that one through. The book should be finished by the end of July, but the audio is going to take a while because of the narrator's schedule.

5 - Probably not. I don't think Corpse at Captain's Seat is the last Secrets and Scrabble book. But I don't have the next books planned out. I haven't done more than think that we probably want to see Ellery and Jack get married? And there are a lot of comic possibilities for that Happy Halloween! You're Dead remake. But I've already got a list of promised titles to deliver before I start making new commitments. 

Also the entire Art of Murder series should make it into German translation. And the entire--well, the series up until now--Secrets and Scrabble series will go into Italian. 

I think that's all the most urgent stuff. I'll try to remember to check in more regularly, but it's harder than it ought to be. I'm just not online much right now. There's just too much going on in real life. I hope to high heaven that changes within the next few months, but I just don't know. I had one firm-as-concrete plan for this year and that was to go to Finland. AND THAT IS THE ONE THING THAT DID NOT HAPPEN. LOL So, clearly, I'm batting a thousand.

New Release PUZZLE FOR TWO

 

Happy Friday! 

I'm currently in that state of doing all the things in all the places all at once. Which means I've started a zillion projects and finished one. 😂😄😵

That one is PUZZLE FOR TWO, originally written for Patreon.

WHAT'S IT ABOUT? YOU ASK. 

Two can play at this game.

(No, that's part of the blurb. But yes, two can play at that--this--game. Except you're reading the blurb right now.)

 Fledging PI Zachariah Davies’s wealthy and eccentric client, toymaker Alton Beacher, wants to hire an investigator who can pose as his boyfriend while figuring out who is behind the recent attempts on his life. And Zach, struggling to save the business his father built, is just desperate enough to set aside his misgivings and take the job.

 But it doesn’t take long to realize all is not as it seems—and given that it all seems pretty weird, that’s saying something. The only person Zach can turn to for help is equally struggling, equally desperate, but a whole lot more experienced rival PI Flint Carey.

 Former Marine Flint has been waiting for Zach to throw in the towel and sell whatever’s left of the Davies Detective Agency to him. But when the inexperienced accountant-turned-shamus turns to him for help, Flint finds himself unwilling—or maybe unable—to say no.

 

HOWZ ABOUT AN EXCEPT?

(That's rhetorical, but I can hear what you're thinking and yes, there will be audio--James Woodrich has signed on to bring Zach and Flint to life--and yes, there will be print, in our normal laggardly fashion.)

Maybe Flint had read the same How to Succeed in Business articles as Zach because it turned out he had but one available time slot in his busy, busy day, and that was four minutes after Brooke phoned. Whether this was gamesmanship or he really did have more clients than Zach and Brooke calculated, he arrived in their lobby, damp and slightly disheveled, wearing blue jeans and a gray hoodie. He smelled of rain and mouthwash, and did not appear to have shaved for the last three days. He was also slightly out of breath from his jog across the parking lot, dodging numerous cars driven by maniacs desperately seeking spaces closer to the shops.

Even so, even damp, disheveled, and disapproving, there was something about Flint. Something that made it hard to dismiss him however much Zach tried. Flint had presence; a raw, vaguely disturbing virility that seemed to charge the air around him.

“Hi, Flint!” Brooke greeted him brightly as he dripped on their welcome mat. She liked Flint.

“Hey, kiddo.” Flint pushed back his soaked hood. His sun-streaked brown hair was a mass of wet ringlets, giving him a slightly crazed look. “Zachariah.”

It took Zach a moment to process that look of hungry anticipation on Flint’s lean face.

Hell.

As Flint’s bright hazel gaze held his own, Zach realized Flint was thinking he’d changed his mind about selling the agency. There was no reason to feel guilty about that misunderstanding, but somehow, he did.

“Did you want to step into my office?” he asked.

Flint shrugged. “Sure.”

“Would you like a coffee, Flint?” Brooke piped up.

“No thanks.”

Zach stepped into his office, closing the door behind Flint.

“I think there might be a slight misunderstanding,” Zach began.

He was interrupted by Mr. Bigglesworth, who—never a fan of anyone or anything that might steal Zach’s attention—made a big production of leaping from the chair in front of the desk across the room and onto the narrow bookshelf, where he proceeded, secret-agent style, to blend into the tidy row of houseplants. His giant sea-glass gaze peered through the foliage.

Flint looked taken aback. “What the hell was that?”

“That’s my cat.”

“That’s not a cat.”

“He certainly is.”

“Nope.”

“Yep. In fact, he’s purebred.”

“That? Purebred? No way.”

“He has the papers to prove it.”

Flint snorted. “Then he forged them.”

Against his will, Zach laughed.

This seemed to encourage Flint, who said, “Admit it. You found him going through garbage cans in a back alley, and he sold you some sob story about a pair of bulldogs mugging him for his fur coat.”

Who knew Flint had a sense of humor? Zach said gravely, “He’s not a client. He’s an associate.”

“Of course he is.” Flint sighed and dropped into the chair vacated by Mr. Bigglesworth. “Okay. What’s the big misunderstanding? Or should I guess?”

“Sorry, but this isn’t about selling the business.” Zach squeezed in behind the desk and sat down. “It’s about hiring you.”

Flint’s obvious disappointment gave way to surprise. His brows shot up. “Hiring me? For what?”

“For surveillance work. The Beacher case is…well, to do it properly, we need more manpower.”

Flint’s smile was sardonic. His large hands fastened on the arms of the chair, and he started to rise. “Sorry. I’ve got my own caseload.”

Zach blurted, “I’ll pay you two hundred dollars an hour—and it’s not that many hours.”

Flint lowered himself to the chair again. He eyed Zach skeptically. “Go on.”

“You already know it’s a complicated situation.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

Flint had the kind of face that was really hard to read. Maybe behind that cool, glinting gaze beat a sympathetic heart, but Zach wouldn’t bet on it. Then again, he hadn’t realized Flint had a goofy sense of humor either. So maybe a more accurate reading of Flint’s emotional temperature was his smile: that faint, ever-present crease in his cheek, like Flint was secretly laughing at everyone and everything. What had Alton called it? Sarcastic. For sure, it wasn’t an all’s-right-with-the-world smile.

“Well, what did Al—Beacher tell you?” Zach asked.

Flint stared at him for a long moment, then gave a little shake of his head, like I give up. “I don’t like domestic cases. I make it a rule not to get in between spouses. Also, Alton Beacher’s reputation precedes him. So he didn’t get a chance to tell me much of anything.”

“What’s his reputation?”

“Are you telling me you took on a messy divorce case without knowing anything about your principals?”

“I’m not being paid to investigate my client. Sometimes people in terrible marriages need help, too.”

Flint considered that, grimaced. “Okay. Fair enough. Your client has a reputation for involving others in sticky situations.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you’re out of your league, junior.”

Zach said shortly, “Do you mind? I’m thirty. I’ve been earning my living since I was twenty-three.” He bit his lip, considered. “Alton’s been receiving death threats. He thinks his wife is behind them, but of course he’s not sure, which is why he hired me.”

“I’m sure it’s not the only reason he hired you.” Flint’s tone was dry. Meeting Zach’s gaze, he added, “Like I said, his reputation precedes him.”

What exactly did that mean? Zach didn’t know Flint well enough to judge whether Flint’s opinion of messy divorces and sticky situations was to be taken seriously. Frankly, Flint was already displaying an unexpected streak of, well, squeamishness Zach wouldn’t have expected.

At least, he thought it was squeamishness. They were both so busy fencing, it was difficult to know if they were even talking about the same thing.

“Okay, well, I can’t discuss the details unless you’re willing to sign an NDA as an independent contractor for Davies Detective Agency.”

Flint’s eyes narrowed, but he seemed to be looking inward rather than at Zach. He said finally, “Two hundred bucks an hour?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the gig?”

“I’m supposed to have dinner with Alton tonight. I feel like I need another pair of eyes on the scene just in case, well, something happens.”

Flint said nothing. Rain ticked against the windows.

As the silence stretched between them, Zach realized something. He’d been thinking he was just being extra conscientious in making sure he could provide the level of service Alton had paid for and rightfully expected. But as he waited for Flint to come to a decision, he recognized he was genuinely uneasy, and that at least some of that unease was for himself.

He could probably count on one hand the things he knew about Flint: that he was an ex-Marine, that he was thirty-five, unmarried and had no children, that he was firearms certified, that he had started his PI business five years earlier (which, ironically, meant he’d been Zach’s age), and that he was a fan of OG Magnum PI.

Not a whole hell of a lot. And yet, somehow, Zach knew that if he did really end up in a jam, Flint would be the guy he could trust to have his back.

The guy in question drew in a long, weary breath. “I’ve got to be honest. I’m already stretched too thin. I spent the weekend on stakeout. I can’t—”

Zach said quickly, “Two, maybe three hours. No more. I wouldn’t ask, Flint, but there’s something weird going on with this case. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can feel it in my gut. Something’s wrong...”

Zach trailed off. He knew exactly what Flint was thinking. How is this my problem?

Fair enough. Flint and Pop had been friendly, but they hadn’t been friends. Zach and Flint barely qualified as friendly. There was always some awkwardness, some odd tension underlying their exchanges. Yet here he was asking Flint for a favor. A well-paid favor, yes, but still a favor.

Flint opened his mouth, and Zach gulped, “Sorry. You’re right. Not your problem. I’ll figure something out.”

Flint directed a look of exasperation at Zach. He said tersely, “When and where?”

 

New Release: LAMENT AT LOON LANDING

 

I can't even tell you the week I've had. From personal to professional to physical every flipping thing has gone off the rails. 

But I did it. I SURVIVED. 

And the now LEGENDARY book is done. I haven't even had time to make teasers or--heck, I haven't had time to brush my hair. The little finger of my left hand hurts like a ((**^^%$##@! and the book may or may not be any good. I can't tell anymore. I don't even care anymore.

(Okay, yes, I do. I hope you enjoy it AND can now read DEATH AT THE DEEP DIVE.)

BLURB:

Fakes, folk music, and ghost fires

 When legendary folk singer Lara Fairplay agrees to make her comeback debut at Pirate’s Cove’s annual maritime music festival, everyone in the quaint seaside village is delighted—including mystery bookstore owner and sometimes amateur sleuth, Ellery Page.

Better yet, Lara is scheduled to perform a recently discovered piece of music attributed to “The Father of American Music,” Stephen Foster, which will hopefully bring large crowds and a lot of business.

Several mysterious accidents later, Ellery is less delighted as his suspicion grows that someone plans to silence the celebrity songbird forever.

SNIPPET

Watson, apparently under the impression the drawbridge closed at midnight, came racing through the open door behind Ellery, and skidded across the polished wood floor.

Despite his weariness and mounting depression, Ellery chuckled. “Did you almost miss your bus?”

Watson, looking a little sheepish, picked himself up, and wagged his tail.

“I think we could both use a midnight snack.”

Unlike Ellery, Watson had had all his meals that day, but he still thought that was a terrific idea. He trotted into the kitchen after Ellery.

Ellery fixed Watson a small portion of his food and then opened a can of soup for himself.

Campbell’s clam chowder was probably enough to get him drummed off the island in disgrace, but he was too tired to bother fixing himself anything more substantial.

He carried his bowl of chowder into the dining room, listened to the wind picking up, the scratch of branches against the windows. Forlorn sounds.

The knot in his stomach felt the size of Buck Island.

He could not seem to think past…

Well, he could not seem to think.

His brain felt cluttered with all the bits and pieces of information he had collected over the past twenty-four hours, but the puzzle was not taking shape. He was exhausted. That was a lot of it. He’d had one hell of a day.

And, of course, he was distracted, worried about the situation with Jack. Twice he picked up his cell to phone. Twice he laid his phone down. Disturbing Jack at work in order to discuss problems in their relationship was not going to win points.

Tired as he was, Ellery knew if he tried to go to bed, he’d spend the next few hours tossing and turning. Instead, he turned to his tried-and-true method of calming his nerves and focusing his thoughts: Solitaire Scrabble.

There was something soothing, centering, about playing against himself. 

It wasn’t just about relaxation though. Solitaire Scrabble was a way to analyze and work through his problems without consciously trying to do that very thing. Time and time again, the words that popped up during this mental exercise were illuminating, enlightening.

It had been weeks since he’d resorted to Scrabble. Unlike those first months after he’d moved to the island, Ellery no longer had endless time on his own. But as he set up the board and tiles on the dining table, he found comfort in the familiar ritual.

He picked seven random tiles from the soft green bag and placed the first tile in the middle square on the center of the board.

He got THEN (seven points) but THEN, to his bewilderment, was stuck. And remained stuck. He struggled for time, certain that he was after AUTHENTIC, and eventually realized he was so out of practice—or perhaps so distracted—that he was looking at the board the wrong way. In fact, he had the letters for AUTHORITY (15).

It was still a miserable showing and the board was a mess of half-hearted attempts.

What the heck?

Something about that stern vertical line of tiles struck home. He recalled Nora’s and Kingston’s efforts to get him to see the situation at Dylan’s from Jack’s point of view. What they had not said, what only occurred to Ellery now, was that he had directly, if inadvertently, challenged Jack’s authority that morning. Not Jack’s authority as Ellery’s boyfriend. Jack’s authority as the Chief of Police.

Ellery’s stomach did an unhappy flop.

Just as he had been hurt and offended that Jack would pull rank on him, Jack had no doubt been equally offended that Ellery would, well, take liberties. Ellery too had pulled a kind of rank by expecting Jack to do his job the way his boyfriend wanted, rather than the way he thought best.

Ellery could not seem to tear his stricken gaze from that single forbidding strip of letters.

Oh hey. And right next to it was IDIOT (six points).

You got this, genius!

Into these cheerless thoughts came the solemn chime of the doorbell.

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

hahahahahahahaha

I forgot to put buy links!!! 

Amazon

barnes and noble

Smashwords

GOOGLE

NEW RELEASE: 44.1644° North

 

It turns out it took about a week longer than I'd hoped to complete the novella 44.1644° North, so I'm guessing that week-long lag will translate into everything in the first half of the year. 

But it's done! And I'm so happy. I think it's pretty good too. There are a couple of little Easter Eggs in there for readers and true crime buffs alike. I mentioned earlier that the story was inspired by the still-unsolved disappearance of Maura Murray. Fun fact. She disappeared on the night of February ninth in 2004, so realizing the book went live last night--on the 19th anniversary of her disappearance--was startling.  

But yes, it went live last night on Smashwords and Kobo . And this morning it looks like it's available on Google and  BarnesandNoble. It will not be available on Amazon until Sunday. That's because it was a preorder with a planned release of May 10, so it's coming out three months early (and even when you ask for immediate release, it takes ZON three days to let go). On the bright side, if you preordered through Amazon, you probably got that reduced preorder price, so you wait a tiny bit longer, but you saved a buck. 

BEFORE YOU ASK: Yes, it will be available in print. Yes, it will be in audio. Kale Williams is already set to record this one. :-) 

So what's this little standalone about?

The decades-old disappearance of twenty-one-year-old teaching student Deirdre O’Donnell is the Holy Grail for true-crime buffs—and Skylar Brennan, the host of the Ugly Town podcast, is no exception. In fact, on the mean streets of the internet, he’s considered an expert on the case. (In law-enforcement circles, he’s viewed as just another crackpot amateur sleuth.)

Every February, the remote New Hampshire village of Woodlark holds a candlelight vigil for Deirdre. Family, friends, and “supporters” of the long-missing girl gather at the spot where she was last seen. This is Skylar’s first vigil, and his fans are really looking forward to meeting him—though maybe not as much as the anonymous person who emailed him coordinates to Deirdre’s grave.

 

 EXCERPT

The cold should have sobered me up. It was fucking freezing. I was pretty sure my lungs were icing over. I could barely get my breath. And the lights were shooting all over the place.

I stumbled away from the pub and into the trees, and then I couldn’t remember which of the dark cabins was supposed to be mine. They all looked alike when they were asleep. Which started me laughing so hard, I had to grab the nearest tree to stay upright.

“Can I have this dance?” Beneath my bare hands, the bark was rough and textured, and I leaned my face against it and breathed in the bittersweet, earthy scent of tree skin. I stopped laughing and just breathed with the tree. The endlessly spinning tree.

What the hell is happening?

A hand landed on my shoulder. “May I cut in?” someone asked.

I rolled over, but somehow that meant I was no longer leaning on the tree, no longer leaning on anything. I staggered backward, and the hand on my shoulder became two hands, hauling me back on my feet.

“Whoa,” Rory said.

I tossed my hair out of my face and nearly fell over again. “I know you.”

“You forgot your coat. And hat. And gloves. The good news is you still have your pants on.”

“You wish!” I shot back.

He gave a funny laugh. “Uh…well. It’s not high on the list, but…”

I raised my hand and made a broad cutting motion—and found my arms full of my jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves.

“Would you like some help getting to your cabin?”

“Which one’s mine?”

“You got me there.”

“I got myself there.”

“Hey.” He patted my face with his gloved hand. “Brennan?”

I ignored him, dropping my coat and things, patting my pockets for my keys. I frowned into his face. “Did I leave my keys inside?”

“No. Brennan, hey. Hello? Skylar? Sky? Still with me?”

I opened my eyes. Shook my head.

“How much did you have to drink?”

I held my hand up and began to count it out.

“You think? Because I was watching. It didn’t look to me like you had that much. Is it possible someone spiked your beer?”

“Who? You?”

Even in the shadowy light I could see he was taken aback. “Me? No. Not me.”

I said confidently, “I think it was you. I think you’re up to no good, Rory Whatever Your Name Is.”

New(ish) Release: HIDE AND SEEK

 

For museum curator Andrew Allison, the sleepy little Maine village of Safehaven has always lived up to its name—until now. Fleeing an abusive relationship, Andy has returned to Safehaven for a few weeks while he figures out the future and helps his elderly Uncle Cuthbert run his antiques shop. But when Andy arrives, he learns Uncle Cuthbert is in the hospital, critically injured, the victim of a late-night break-in.

Worse, one of the first messages on the shop’s answering machine is from Marcus, Andy’s ex, demanding to know Andy’s whereabouts.

Nor does the bad news stop there. It seems whoever broke into Time in a Bottle is still looking for that mysterious whatever. Something they didn’t find the first time. Something they now believe Andy has.

Something worth killing for?

The good news is former bad boy Quinn Rafferty, Andy’s high school crush, is back in town and interested in renewing their acquaintanceship.

Quinn is not a man to run from things that go bump in the night, be they mysterious midnight prowlers or a relationship-shy, fish-out-of-water museum curator.

But Quinn has a few secrets of his own…

 

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FATAL SHADOWS: THE COLLECTOR'S EDITION

It's live! 

  This special 20th Anniversary edition includes illustrations, character interviews, and holiday codas--including a new and exclusive short story-length coda written for Christmas 2021--as well as other curiosities.

All in all, over 400 pages of Adrien English and Jake Riordan!

BUY HERE

From Christmas Coda 2021

“Whoa,” Jake said. “I could feel that frown from the front door.”

I glanced up from the pages of the glossy magazine Natalie had left on my desk, and stopped scowling. “Hey. I didn’t hear you come in.”

As Jake reached me, I pulled my mask down, and we kissed hello. The pressure of his mouth was warm against mine, and our lips lingered…lingered… Turns out, love is sticky stuff.

We reluctantly parted—and Jake promptly, gently pulled my mask back up. He pulled his mask up.

I sighed. “You know, it’s after-hours. We’re alone now.”

He touched the tip of my masked nose. “Yep. It’s just you, me, and fifty billion germs.”

The agreement we made was I’d continue to work at Cloak and Dagger through the pandemic, but promised to be extra-diligent and super-vigilant about following all virus protocols. Which I complied with because A – I’m not an idiot, and B – making Jake happy is a priority for me.

I mean, it’s a mask. Try being on a fucking ventilator. Been there, done that, and will do everything in my power to avoid repeating the experience.

“Speaking of catching germs. How’d your day go?” I asked.

In September, Jake had landed a job with Brannigan Investigations, one of LA’s oldest PI firms. It hadn’t been an easy transition. For one thing, it closed the door, once and for all, on his career in law enforcement. Which…that door was already closed, but this was like installing a deadbolt. But also, Jake liked the freedom of being his own boss. What he hadn’t liked was the unpredictability of the kinds of cases that came his way—when they came his way—or the precariousness of his finances. So he’d taken the job at Brannigan Investigations.

Fortunately, they seemed to really like him there, and he liked the owner, Mary Brannigan, the granddaughter of the original Brannigan. Jake liked having resources, and respect, and a steady paycheck.

“Good,” he said. “Even better, I’ve got the next four days off.”

“Four days? Wow. They gave you Christmas Eve, Christmas, Boxing Day, and whatever Monday is?” That was more than cool because I too had Christmas Eve, Christmas, Boxing Day, and whatever Monday was. Taking time off was part of my commitment to a new healthier and more balanced lifestyle.

Jake said, “I’m thinking Monday is a travel day.”

My brows shot up. “A travel day? Where are you going?”

“We can talk about it on the drive home. You ready to head out?”

“Just waiting for you. Let me grab my coat and cat.”

He made a sound of amusement, waiting as I rounded up Tompkins, hustled him into his carrier, and struggled into my coat.

Jake took the carrier from me. On our way out, he glanced at the stairs leading to my former flat. “Is Natalie out?” he asked.

What he really meant was, Is Larkin out? Larkin, my three-month-old nephew, was Natalie’s son. Jake adored Larkin, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. Granted, Larkin seemed to adore everyone. I’ve never been much of a fan of babies, but that kid was pretty cute and not entirely objectionable.

I said, “They’re spending the holiday weekend with Lisa and Bill.” Three and a half years ago, my mother married Councilman Bill Dauten, thus supplying me with three ready-made sisters, all accessories included. The latest accessory being the aforementioned Larkin.

Jake frowned. “Then who’s running the bookstore?” Jumping to the conclusion that I was backing out of our agreement.

I said patiently, “Which means, Angus and Bliss are covering tomorrow, and then we’re closed until next Wednesday.”

Bliss was my latest hire. She was…interesting, as girls—young women—with mermaid-colored hair so often are. I felt she was a woman of possibilities. One possibility being—though I denied it when Jake suggested such a thing—that I thought Bliss might provide a good distraction for Angus, who continued to be worryingly smitten with Natalie.

Jake relaxed. I held the door for him, patting his back as he carried Tompkins out.

 

 

“What is it about the extravagance of minimalist coats and soft layers that so disturbs you?” Jake asked as we merged onto the I-210.

“Huh?” I stared blankly at his profile.

“That magazine you were reading. The one you were muttering over. The one you rolled up and stuck in your coat pocket.”

I smiled reluctantly. “Was I muttering?”

“Yep.” He glanced my way, his hazel eyes humorous, though the question was sincere.

“It’s not winter fashion that worries me, though if you’d seen some of those boots… It’s the results of a compatibility quiz.”

His brows drew together. “You don’t think we’re compatible?”

“Us? We’re compatible. I mean, I don’t know if we’re compatible on paper, but we’re compatible in real life. No. Natalie was taking the quiz.”

“I see.”

I wasn’t sure he did.

“Whoever she was trying to answer on behalf of is not someone she should be marrying. Or even rooming with. These answers are a Dateline waiting to happen.”

“Hm.” I always loved the way the hard line of his mouth would twitch when he found something funny but wasn’t allowing himself an actual smile.

Reaching into the back seat, dodging Tompkins who tried to claw me through the bars of his crate, I fished the rolled magazine from my coat pocket. I unfurled the pages of pouty-looking girls in coats that looked like crayon-colored collapsed parachutes (How could something that bulky be minimalist?).

“Seriously. Listen to this. How many times a day would you call your spouse to know how he/she is doing?”

Jake was silent.

I said, “Natalie’s answer is three times. Which…okay. Maybe? If a lot of stuff was going on? Her stalker’s answer—whoever he is—is eight. Eight times a day! He’s calling every hour.”

“That sounds like Angus.”

“Does it? But she’s working with Angus, so he can just yell hey you across the aisle. It sure as hell isn’t Warren. If he called her once a week, I’d be impressed. Part of my worry is, I’m not sure if she’s guessing this guy’s answers, or if these are actually his answers. What does that tell you?”

“That we don’t know,” Jake replied. “We also don’t know if this is the new guy.”

I stared. “What new guy?”

He gave me a sideways look. “I think there’s a new guy.”

“Why would you think that?”

He nodded at the magazine. “Aren’t compatibility quizzes the kind of thing people do when they first meet?”

My heart sank. But yeah. He was probably right. I said darkly, “Some people. Don’t ask me. I never filled out a compatibility quiz in my life. Did you?”

“No.” His mouth quirked. “Maybe that was our mistake.”

“Yeah. That was the holdup. We never took the time to see if we agreed on…” I looked down at the magazine page and read aloud: “What is your idea of a romantic date?”

“Obviously a crime scene.”

“Right? It doesn’t get more romantic than that.” I tried another one. “Do you have a huge tolerance capability?”

“What does that mean? For alcohol?”

“I doubt it’s alcohol.”

“Does huge make sense in another context?”

I snorted, but said doubtfully, “Could they mean tolerance as in patience?”

“What answer did Natalie give?”

“Natalie says yes. No surprise there. Mr. X says no. No. I’m telling you, Keith Morrison is going to be knocking on our door any minute now.”

“Maybe this guy’s just being funny.”

“Maybe. Okay, here’s a weird-ass question. I mean, what mad scientist came up with these? What are the things you would like to take control of in your partner’s life after you both get into a serious relationship?”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly. What does that mean?”

Jake asked, “What were their answers?”

“Natalie wrote: I would like to be there to share his burdens and ease his worries. I would like to be a true partner in all things good and bad.”

Jake said noncommittally, “That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, and she means it. She’s doomed. Bachelor Number One answered: her finances, her relationships with others who take advantage of her, and, and, listen to this one: be a role model for her son!”

Jake was silent for a moment. “You know, we aren’t sure whether these answers are Natalie’s wishful thinking. Also, this guy may not be good at expressing himself. Also, some of the questions are a little off. Like that last one. I’m not sure there’s a right answer to that.”

“Fair enough.” I tried to decipher some of Natalie’s scribbled notes. “I can tell you right now, these responses are not from Angus. And I doubt they’re Warren’s. Not from anything I’ve seen of Warren.”

“No, this is somebody new.”

I murmured, “Why wouldn’t she tell us if she’s seeing someone new?”

Jake grunted. I’ve never known anyone who could pack so much into a nonverbal utterance.

I made a face. “Yeah. Okay. The thing is, I’d love for Natalie to find a nice guy who would treat her well and be a good father to Larkin. It’s not like I want to get sucked into the family drama.”

“I know.”

“Just when I thought I was out, they pullll me back in.” I did my best Michael Corleone impression which, granted, was not very good.

Jake made a pained sound.

“She’s still fighting establishing the kid’s paternity.”

That time, Jake’s “I know” was a lot more disapproving.

“Angus is on pins and needles, waiting for her to figure out what she’s doing. Warren’s started hinting that he needs some kind of financial support in order to stay in her life. And I know it’s her life and that most, if not all of this, is none of our business.”

“You care. You’re concerned. That’s understandable. But we don’t know that there’s anything to worry about yet. Nat’s still at the filling-out-compatibility-quizzes stage.”

I shook my head, read: “How good are you at keeping secrets? Natalie says she’s great, which proves she’s delusional. Mr. X says excellent.”

Jake and I exchanged looks.

 

NEW IN AUDIO: Body at Buccaneer's Bay!

Woohoo, me hearties! Or... Yo ho, me hearties! The audio for BODY AT BUCCANEER'S BAY (narrated by the oh-so-talented Matt Haynes) is now available.

This is the 5th installment in the Secrets and Scrabble series. 

Mystery Bookshop owner Ellery Page and Police Chief Jack Carson are diving for the legendary pirate galleon Blood Red Rose when they discover an old-fashioned diver’s suit, water-damaged and encrusted with barnacles. Further examination reveals that the twentieth century suit contains a twenty-first century body.

Who was the mysterious diver? No one seems to be missing from the quaint and cozy town of Pirate’s Cove. Was the victim really diving for pirate’s gold? And if not, what exactly did he do to earn that bullet hole in his skull?

 

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New Release - MYSTERY AT THE MASQUERADE

AVAILABLE NOW (long story) THROUGH AMAZON AND SMASHWORDS. All other sites are still Sunday. 

BLURB:

Love is in the Salt Sea Air—and So is Murder!

Ellery Page, aspiring screenwriter, reigning Scrabble champion, and occasionally clueless owner of the village’s only mystery bookstore, the Crow’s Nest, is both flattered and bemused when he’s invited to the annual Marauder’s Masquerade, the best and biggest social event of the season in the quaint seaside village of Pirate’s Cove, Rhode Island. The event is hosted by the wealthy Marguerite Bloodworth-Ainsley, a descendant of the famed pirate Tom Blood.

Ellery doesn’t even know Mrs. Bloodworth-Ainsley—nor, it turns out, does Mrs. Bloodworth-Ainsley know him. But Marguerite’s son, Julian, wants to know Ellery. Julian, handsome, rich, and engaging, is a huge mystery buff. In fact, he’s bought quite a few books at the Crow’s Nest bookstore, but never quite worked up the nerve to ask Ellery out.

As his relationship with Police Chief Carson seems to be dead in the water, Ellery is grateful for a little flattering attention from the village’s most eligible bachelor, but any hopes of romance hit the shoals when Julian is accused of murdering his mother’s unlikable second husband during the Masquerade’s annual ghost hunt in the family’s spooky cemetery.

EXCERPT

Julian wrapped his arm around Ellery’s shoulders and gave him a quick hug. He whispered, “You want to see the family crypt?”

Ellery laughed. As romantic invitations went, Julian could afford to brush up on his technique. “Um, well… Don’t you want to look for some ghosts?”

“We can look up there.” Julian pointed to the small marble structure atop the hillock. “There’s a bench with a perfect view of the cove. If Captain Blood should decide to make an appearance tonight, we’ll have a front row view.”

“Wouldn’t that mean someone in the Bloodworth clan has to die?”

Julian said bleakly, “I can think of someone I wouldn’t mind not seeing at breakfast tomorrow. Not that he’s ever up for breakfast.”

Ellery had no response to that, and he didn’t resist the gentle tug Julian gave him.

They wandered through the headstones, not speaking. Julian seemed to know his way even in the dark. That wasn’t exactly amazing. Not only was his family buried here, he had probably played in the old cemetery growing up. Kids would find it a cool place, with all the old statues of marble angels and robed mourners and tall stone crosses.

“What’s that?” someone called from a few yards away.

“Where?”

“Over there. I see a figure.”

“It’s just the mist.”

“No. No, look. It’s a figure. By that stone coffin. It’s moving. It’s trying to hide!”

Ellery began, “I think they mean us—”

But his words were cut off as Julian kissed him.

It wasn’t totally a surprise. He could hardly have missed Julian’s continued efforts to position himself, the octopusian meanderings of his arm, the way he leaned in and out as he tried to decide between whispering sweet nothings or just going for it. Inevitably, he was going to go for it, and Ellery was okay with that. They were in a pretty good place for it, sheltered as they were between a stalwart bronze of one of Pirate Cove’s founding fathers and a narrow tomb about the size of a small toolshed.

Ellery liked Julian and found him attractive, but he had pretty much already made up his mind that Julian was not for him. The last half hour of wandering through the graveyard while Julian made cryptic pronouncements had cemented his feelings.

However, he was curious, so he let Julian kiss him—and he kissed Julian back.

It was nice. A sweet kiss. Julian was eager but tentative, and even when he got encouragement, he was very gentle, maybe a little shy. There was nothing not to like in that warm, diffident press of mouth to mouth.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Julian whispered when their lips parted.

Which, frankly, neither could Ellery. Not that he hadn’t done plenty of kissing in graveyards—those scenes were a staple of the Happy Halloween! You’re Dead flicks—but it was definitely different with lights and reflectors and cameras and crew.

He opened his mouth to say something tactful when, just like in the Happy Halloween! You’re Dead movies, a figure seemed to materialize from the shadows. However, unlike in the movies, it was not a vengeful ghost or an ax-wielding maniac. Oh no, it was much worse.

It was Jack.

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Aaaaaaaand we're off!!!

 

Hm. Maybe I should have added AND RUNNING! :-D 

But yes, it's a whole new year, a whole new world, and I am feeling alarmingly hopeful. 

But seriously, I do feel different. Of course part of that is the clear mandate of both the presidential election and the Georgia runoff. Part of it is (and this is kind of sad) I'm just getting used to living in a pandemic and a country teetering on the brink of slipping into Fascism. 

Hey. So it's true. You really CAN get used to anything.

I have a lot planned for this year. And I'll be the first to admit that I may (as is my wont) be overly optimistic about what I can achieve in these twelve tiny months. I'm not immune to what happens in the world around me. Like most of the country--most of the world--I was glued to my television set last week while we watched insurrection happening in real time. Needless to say, not a lot of writing happened. Impeachment? Another distraction. Necessary, sure. But not good for the creative process.

So I'm excited and energized and I'm setting stretch goals for myself. Which means I might be shooting for the moon. We'll see. 

YES, I REGRET SETTING UP ALL THOSE PREORDERS. BUT THEY'RE UP AND THERE'S NO GOING BACK. OKAY? I KNOW. I ALREADY KNOW.

So first up is Mystery at the Masquerade. Why the switcheroo with BB&S? I felt I needed something easy and light to begin with. I mean, I haven't really written--other than managing to complete one little short story--in almost a year (ten months) so I felt like I needed an easy win before I tackled Bell, Book and Scandal. 

If I can hit both of those targets, I'll feel a lot more confident of tackling the rest of the year. If I slip on either of those, well, I still might pull manage to pull off most of the year, but it's going to be more slippery, more fraught with peril. 

Usually at this point I'd list what I have in mind for the year, but like I said, I'm optimistic but also cautious. The last couple of years have been BRUTAL on my productivity and ability to hit deadlines. So we'll see. 

Take this list as more of a My Publishing Hopes and Dreams than my hard and fast schedule for the year. 

Mystery at the Masquerade

Bell, Book and Scandal

Scandal at the Salty Dog

Body at Buccaneer Bay

The 12.2% Per-Cent Solution

Murder is Served

The Movie-Town Murders

Mr. and Mrs. Murder 

Anyway, that's it. That's the plan. Let's hope life cooperates this year. 

 

New Release: REQUIEM FOR MR. BUSYBODY

 New short story out today.

Not the book I had planned for or originally intended to write, but... I can't lie. I'm hugely, HUGELY relieved to have broken through whatever that was. Burnout? Dry spell? Creative force field?

I don't know, because the last time I suffered from burnout, it was actually a really productive period. I did a ton of planning and reading and note-taking. This wasn't like this. This was like a prolonged blank. I wasn't interested in reading or watching movies--I could tolerate nothing fictional. After an initial burst of listing preorders and a few sales, I suddenly lost interest in...everything. Well, other than my dogs, my garden, my family. I've never felt anything like it.

Writing was an absolute impossibility. 

I'm not sure what exactly broke the spell given that the pandemic is spiking bigtime and my anxiety over the election is absolutely out of control. But something has changed. I feel calmer. Not optimistic, exactly, but calmer. Fatalistic? Whatever. I've started writing codas again for Patreon, I felt driven to complete this little story, and I'm actually looking forward to losing myself in the world of Cosmo and John.

That said, I don't trust myself right now. I have no idea how I'll feel after the election or in the coming months. But I'm writing right now and that's the good news.

BLURB:

“Maybe you’ll be next, Mr. Busybody!”

 

From well-respected investigative journalist to resident busybody.

When former crime reporter Michael’s elderly friend Maurice suddenly disappears, he fears the worst. But Michael is unable to investigate, and no one is taking his suspicions seriously—least of all Nico, Maurice’s too slick, too smooth, possibly guilty boyfriend.

The only person Michael can think of who might listen is Leonard Drake, now a Lieutenant Detective with NYPD.

In fact, this excuse to contact his ex might just be what Michael has been waiting three years for.

 

EXCERPT

The phone at the other end rang long enough that I started to count, and then it clattered off the hook and a deep, pleasant voice said, “Drake. Homicide.”

Never one to waste words, NYPD Lt. Detective Leonard Drake.

Given that we hadn’t spoken in three years, I was caught off guard by how familiar his voice was. The warm rush of memories? Equally unexpected.

I released the breath I’d been holding. “Hey,” I said cheerfully. “Your misspent youth is calling.”

A couple of very long seconds ticked by before Len said slowly, “Michael Woolrich. There’s a blast from the past.”

Not that I expected confetti and kazoos, but that total lack of emotion was hard to read.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Len added.

“I don’t know about honor, but I might have a murder for you.”

Maybe I imagined the creak of a chair in the background, but Len’s voice was definitely more cordial, more relaxed as he replied, “Do tell.”

Murder was what had first brought us together. Our mutual raison d’être. Murder had been the only thing we had in common, as it turned out. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

“The victim—possible victim—is Maurice Moreau. He went missing—appears to have gone missing—four nights ago. I think his partner killed him.”

“And you know Maurice how?”

“He’s a friend.” I corrected, “He’s a neighbor I’m friendly with.”

Len repeated thoughtfully, “A neighbor you’re friendly with.”

“Yes.”

“Where are you living now?”

“The Fontainebleau in Chelsea.”

“Swanky.”

I laughed. “Maybe once. Maybe in the forties. But yeah, great atmosphere if you don’t mind a few ghosts.”

“And you think your friendly neighbor Maurice has now joined the celestial choir?”

I felt myself smiling at Len’s turn of phrase. You don’t expect metaphors from a cop, at least not outside Chandler, but Len was not your ordinary cop. For one thing, he was no-bones-about-it gay, and while yes, every police force in the country is trying to be—or appear that they’re trying to be—more diverse and less discriminatory, in my experience, openly gay officers are still a rarity.

“I’m afraid so. Yes.”

“Maybe he’s on vacation,” Len suggested. “Maybe he’s visiting relatives. Maybe he and the boyfriend are on a second honeymoon. What makes you think Maurice is dead?”

I didn’t really want to go into the Rear Window aspect, didn’t want Len to know how much time I spent observing my neighbors, didn’t want him to think I was developing voyeuristic tendencies in my old age. Although, Talese was right—all journalists are voyeurs at heart.

I said, “Partly because of the way Nico, Maurice’s partner, is behaving. Partly because Maurice once said if anything ever happened to him, look no further than Nico.”

Silence.

Len said in his slow, considering way, “That’s quite a revelation from someone you describe as a neighbor rather than a friend.”

“I know. And he was joking—mostly—when he said it. But…”

“But now that Maurice has ‘disappeared,’ you think maybe he was serious. You said something about the way Nico is acting. How is Nico acting?”

“Evasive, in my opinion.” Also dismissive, patronizing, bored, annoyed—but that was Nico’s usual attitude toward me, so I didn’t place undue importance on it.

Len’s tone remained neutral as he suggested, “Maybe Nico feels that Maurice’s whereabouts are none of your business.”

“Maybe.”

I waited. If Len was the Len I remembered… But three years is a long time. Len didn’t owe me any favors. And no one knew better than me how far-fetched my story sounded.

Len said finally, “I’ll be blunt. This is so thin, it’s transparent. Anyone but you, Michael, I’d be tempted to tell you to butt out of other people’s relationships.”

I winced, opened my mouth, but Len wasn’t finished. “You always had a nose for trouble, so unless you’ve changed a lot, I have to assume you’re maybe onto something.”

We could take it for granted I’d changed a lot. Physically, for sure, but also mentally, emotionally, and probably spiritually. Not that I’d ever been very spiritual, unlike Len, who was a practicing Episcopalian and sang in his church choir every Sunday.

“I could be wrong,” I said. “I hope I am. But if I went missing, I’d like to think someone out there might notice and at least ask a couple of questions.”

“And that’s about all I can promise,” Len said. “We’ll ask a few questions and see what the boyfriend has to say.”

Relief washed through me. Not just the relief that here was help for Maurice, help I couldn’t provide on my own. The relief of being believed, of being taken seriously again. I missed being taken seriously.

But the last three years had taught me to be cautious.

“If my name could be kept out of it, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Len.” I meant it. “I owe you one.”

He said crisply, “No. You don’t owe me anything. I quit keeping score a long time ago.”

I was still trying to think of a reply when he hung up.

----

It's not listed everywhere yet, but I'm getting there.

 

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