Targeted Age Group:: Adult, YA

In a fast-paced story of spies and murder, private detective Roger Bowman investigates the death of a Paraguayan agent in Cheltenham, England. The victim was stabbed while sitting in an empty railroad car on a siding in the local railroad station. Roger’s investigation initially takes him to Australia and Malaysia, but it soon becomes apparent that the answers he is seeking will be found back in Great Britain. Following the trail of clues, he meets an attractive agent with an agenda, as well as several additional spies of various nationalities with their own agendas. Available in e-book and paperback formats and free from Kindle Unlimited.

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What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The Roger and Suzanne series tries to introduce readers to interesting places the author has visited or lived in. I spent a couple of weeks visiting Cheltenham in 2020 and thought then of what a good location it would be for a mystery novel. So the locale was part of the inspiration. I've visited Sydney, Australia, as well as Kuala Lampur and Penang, Malaysia, as a tourist and for business, so those locales fit nicely into the story as it evolved.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
All of the Roger and Suznne mysteries are written to be standalone books, but recurring characters appear in these novels. Several of the books, like this one, are set in exotic locales the author has visited or lived in. One-off characters are introduced as needed for the plot, and are often based on characteristics of real people the author met in that location. Other new characters, like "Shasta" in this book, are introduced because they have a specific skill set needed to advance the storyline. They may or may not eventually become series regulars.

Book Excerpt/Sample
I met Rigoberto three times, the first two pre-mortem. He was the guy pointing at the map. Rigoberto looked a lot like Pancho Villa. Unmistakably Hispanic, with a dark bushy mustache extending beyond his lips. The second fellow, standing by his left and leaning over the map to see it more closely, resembled the movie and cartoon character, Colonel Blimp. He was unmistakably British and taller than the Pancho Villa lookalike beside him, with a fastidiously tended dark mustache that was completely symmetrical and ended precisely at the corner of his lips. Overweight, with the florid complexion and broken veins of a heavy drinker, Blimp pointed at the area bounded by an irregular red line delineating its borders with Brazil, Bolivia, and Argentina. There were neither mountains nor coasts in the small landlocked country, which had been considerably larger with a Pacific coast until losing its entire western part in a major South American war more than a century ago.

Rigoberto was a senior espionage agent from Paraguay, semi-permanently stationed in Western Europe, here to keep an eye on the younger trainees to make sure they didn’t get into any trouble that might reflect badly on their country, and to help translate things from English to Spanish and vice versa if that became necessary. In my current identity as Steven Strasser I was posing as another senior spy from Paraguay also delegated to help out here if necessary. Rigoberto and I were supposed to be secret agents in the literal sense of the term, and I was more than a decade younger than Rigoberto, so it was plausible that we didn’t actually know one another.

Colonel Blimp, whose real name was Michael Mosley, pointed directly at Paraguay on the map and addressed the half-dozen other men in the room. “Take a good look, fellows. This is where our new guests come from. They’ll be spending several weeks here with us learning the ropes. I’d like to introduce you to one of them, Rigoberto Ramirez, the gentleman standing beside me here. He likes to be called ‘Berto’. His colleague, Steven Strasser, who is also joining us this morning, is the tall gentleman over by the coffeepot. Berto and Steven are both from Asuncion, the capital of Paraguay. The rest of our new trainees from Paraguay are scheduled to arrive tonight. They’ve been tasked by their government to acquire some of the capabilities we have here.”

All of this was happening at the Government Communications Headquarters, GCHQ or “the doughnut” to the locals in Cheltenham, England. The doughnut is headquarters for the British equivalent of the U.S. National Security Agency, which deals with codes and cryptography, the internet, and interception of messages sent by spies and terrorists to one another. This was a huge building shaped like a doughnut, complete with the hole in the middle, which was supposed to be a secure courtyard where spies could talk freely without fear of being overheard during breaks from deskwork.

Author Bio:
The author, a two-time winner of The Indie Book of the Day Award, writes “tweener” mystery books (tough mystery stories that follow the cozy conventions of no graphic sex and no cussing), all published as e-books on Amazon Kindle, with the more recent novels also published as paperback versions. They are all fast moving and designed to entertain the reader. Several of the books introduce the readers to Latin America, a region where he has lived and worked that is a long way from home for most English speakers. Jerry selects the most interesting places, including the locale for the present novel, that he has lived in or visited for Roger and Suzanne to solve miscellaneous murders. Jerry and his wife Elaine breed, show, and hunt test prize-winning German shorthaired pointer dogs. Elaine also edits all of the books.

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Targeted Age Group:: 13-18+

In the Spring of 1970, fifteen-year-old Dee Anderson wants a boyfriend she can trust as well as a spot on Lindell High’s varsity twirler line, but neither will come easy since she suffers from social anxiety and feels insecure in her twirling abilities. When Slate Garrett, Lindell High’s popular linebacker, literally walks into her life and shows an interest in her, Dee panics. And no wonder, given her past failures with boys. Will she give Slate a chance? Will her older sister, Carol, keep her hands off of Slate if Dee decides to come out of her shell? And if Dee doesn’t make twirler, what then? Will Slate stick around?

To Love Someone is the first novel in Claire Nance’s Christian teen romance series and has received three five-star reviews from Readersfavorite.com reviewers. Here are excerpts from those reviews:

“The plot will pleasantly surprise you in many places. Dee’s ability to avoid some of the obvious traps that romance heroines fall into makes her a likable hero that I rooted for from start to finish.” K. C. Finn

“To Love Someone stands out because the characters are realistic, and the story is beautifully crafted.” Cecelia Hopkins

“To Love Someone by Claire Nance is a charming faith-based romance novel with an inspiring main character.” Edith Wairimu

Link To To Love Someone On Amazon Kindle Unlimited

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
When my two sons entered junior high and high school—the same junior high and high school that my husband and I had attended, it brought back many memories. I dug out my old diaries and relived the social anxiety and lack of self-confidence I felt during those years. I realized I could’ve saved myself so much grief if I had known how to handle my fears back then. And the idea for To Love Someone was born.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
After going back and forth between my old diaries and my husband's notes written to me during our high school years, my imagination took over.

Book Excerpt/Sample
“Hey.”
The deep voice spooked me. My heart lurched, and I jerked my head to the right as Slate Garrett stepped around the corner of the bookshelf. I took in his broad shoulders, coal-black hair, and velvet brown eyes and willed my knees not to give way.
He raised his left hand, palm facing me, in apology. “Libraries are too quiet,” he said, advancing toward me.
Instinctively, I retreated and backed into an abandoned book cart, which set off an avalanche of hardbacks. I gasped. Heat flamed my cheeks. The Klutz strikes again.
“Whoa! Nice block.” Flashing an incredible smile, he squatted on his heels and scooped up the books at my feet.
He juggled them between his hands—the same hands that intercepted numerous passes and tackled opponents during our high school football games.
In my mind’s eye, I could see him in his purple jersey, a white 52 on his back, catching a punt, racing down the field, and diving into the end zone for the Lindell Warriors. My heart fluttered, and that annoyed me. I wasn’t into hero worship. “I—I can get those,” I said weakly.
“I have them.” He stood again, his height dwarfing me, and handed off a book.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, shelving it on the cart.
He handed me another. “Aren’t you Carol Anderson’s little sister?”
I hid the cringe I felt. “Uh—yeah. I am.” And I knew what came next.The mental comparison. Carol’s golden blond hair to my ash brown, her clear, sea-green eyes to my muddy blue, her unblemished olive complexion to my freckled ivory, her outgoing personality to my introverted one. And inevitably, that concluding statement—as if it were my fault: “You two aren’t anything alike!” My standard reply: “We’ve learned to live with it.”
I had that reply ready now; but, surprisingly, Slate didn’t say a word. I didn’t know how to take that. I glanced up at him. I had seen him exit the high school earlier with two cheerleaders in tow. I wondered what made him come back.
He fed me the last book. “Carol’s in my history class.”
“Lucky you.”
He chuckled.
I seemed to have trouble breathing. Leaving the book cart, I continued the search he had interrupted, my fingers tapping nervously on my plaid bell bottoms as I scanned the spines of the biography section. I could feel his eyes on me. Why didn’t he just leave? Didn’t he have spring training or something? His good deed was done, and I was no one special. I wasn’t in student council, or a cheerleader, or anything. I played the clarinet in band, but so did fourteen other people.
Carol was the popular Anderson. She had been a cheerleader in middle school and as a sophomore at Lindell High. Last April, she decided to try out for the dance/drill team, (Mom had been a member when she attended Lindell); and, of course, Carol made it. In September, Mom said it was exciting having two daughters on the football field at half-time. I found it sort of humiliating—me in a unisex band uniform and Carol in a swingy miniskirt with white boots and tights.
“Which book are you looking for, Dee?”
He knew my name? That was a surprise. “Number eight-zero-eight-point-five-one-two,” I said over my shoulder.
“Eight-zero-eight—”
“Skip it. I can find it myself.”
He stepped closer. “Yeah, but there may be other book carts lurking back here.”
Ha, ha. The numbers were beginning to blur when I spotted “The Life and Times of William Shakespeare” on the top shelf. I stood on tiptoe and stretched. Just as my fingertips grazed the spine, Slate’s blue shirtsleeve appeared above me, and he grabbed “Shakespeare” first.
“Hey!” I pivoted on my toes and found myself mere inches from Slate’s nose. His light breath tickled my cheeks. I looked up into velvet brown eyes that now twinkled with suppressed laughter. Outlining those eyes were thick black lashes any girl would kill to possess. A bomb went off in my stomach. I came down on my heels with a jolt, my heart racing.
“This the one you want, Little Miss Sunshine?” He dangled the book above me like a dog biscuit. I reached for it. He whisked it away. “Good reflexes, but not good enough.”
“Give me the book,” I ordered, ignoring the heat rushing to my face.
He taunted me, holding it just out of reach. “Try again. You might get lucky.”
I folded my arms and stared at him.
He brought the book down slowly by degrees until it touched the tip of my nose.
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have time for this. “Are you going to give it to me? Carol’s waiting in the car.”
Slate tucked the book under his arm. “This is true. Carol sent me to hurry you up. I’ll check this out for you.” He spun around and headed for the librarian’s desk.
I stood frozen for a moment. “Carol sent—”
Anger quickly replaced my initial shock. I bolted for my purse and notebook and started after him. I didn’t get far. My purse strap caught on a chair causing my keys, compact, contact lens travel kit, and lipstick to spill onto the linoleum.
Mindlessly, I shoved everything back into my purse. When I looked up again, Slate had disappeared.
Running out into the parking lot, I found him by Carol’s gold four-door sedan. Slate’s arms were folded on the edge of Carol’s window, and they were laughing.
I could imagine what they were laughing about. I had a sudden, mad desire to leave Lindell by any means necessary. Please God, take me up in a whirlwind. My prayer went unanswered. The laughter continued.
I slid into the front seat of the car and slammed the door. “I need that book,” I said firmly.
“Better let her have it, Slate,” Carol laughed. “When her face turns that color, she’s really upset!”
Slate bent his head down so he could see me. “Okay, Little Miss Sunshine,” he teased. “It’s all yours.” The book sailed past Carol and into my lap. “You don’t have to thank me for finding it for you.”
My mouth fell open.
“Too late to apologize. Just remember it’s in my name so, uh, don’t lose it or anything, okay?”
I leaned back against the seat in cold silence.
“Do you need a ride home?” Carol asked sweetly, her golden blond head strategically cocked to one side.
I had seen her practice that look in the mirror at age fourteen. I waited to see if Slate would take the bait.
“Thanks, but my truck is at the fieldhouse.”
Slate: one. Carol: nothing.
He bent his head down again and grinned at me. “So long, Little Miss Sunshine.”
“Good—bye!”
He laughed. “Later.”
While Carol watched him round the corner of the school library, I wiped the perspiration from my upper lip, then rummaged in my purse for my compact. I licked my finger and wiped the powder off the mirror before checking my face.
My makeup was okay, although my nose and forehead were as shiny as a polished apple. Luckily, my mascara hadn’t smudged. I cringed at the thought of going around with raccoon eyes.
“That Slate is so-o-o good-lookin’,” Carol purred as she turned on the ignition.
“Calm down, Carol. You’re going with Chad Williams now. You remember him: brown hair, blue eyes.”
“Funny, Dee.” She backed out of the parking lot and shifted into drive. “I want to know every word he said to you in there. Did he mention me at all?”
“What? Are we back in middle school? I’m not your go-between anymore.”
“I bet you were too scared to talk to him. I bet you didn’t say two words.”
“Which is why you sent him in after me.”
“Of course. Shy little Dee in the library with ‘Slate the Great’ Garrett! I wish I’d been a fly on the wall.”
“Spider would be more like it. Didn’t he fill you in? Weren’t you two laughing about me when I came out?”
My “spider” comment sobered her. “No, smart aleck. In fact, he didn’t mention you. He was telling me about Coach Smith getting a leg cramp during algebra. They were taking a pop quiz, and everything was real quiet, and then Coach Smith screamed all of a sudden and jumped right out of his desk grabbing his calf.” Carol giggled.
“Oh.” I brushed imaginary powder off my cheek. I was not in a giggling mood.
“Little Miss Sunshine…. Why did Slate call you that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Do I know?”
“You must have made an impression. He gave you a nickname.”
“Yeah, well, he can keep it.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
I looked out my window. “Not a thing. Just because I don’t want to date every boy I see like you do.”
“As if you could. Face it, Dee. You wouldn’t know what to do on a date. And double-dating doesn’t count,” she added quickly as I opened my mouth to contradict her.
“Too bad Slate’s never asked you out,” I jeered. “Guess you’re not his type.”
Carol stuck her nose in the air. “The year’s not over yet.” She turned up the radio to end our conversation.
I smiled. The truth hurts, doesn’t it? I closed my compact with a triumphant snap and dropped it into my purse. The car hit a bump in the road, and “Shakespeare” slid from my lap and onto the floorboard. I placed my right hand on the glove compartment and reached down. I had to really stretch for it. Just like in the library….
Without my permission, my mind replayed that moment when Slate grabbed “Shakespeare” before I could. Suddenly, I was face-to-face with him again, staring up into his big brown eyes. My heart lurched; my stomach tightened. I turned to the window to hide my reddened face from Carol.
Minutes later, we turned onto our street, Woods Lane, a newer part of Lindell away from its three refineries built nearly a quarter of a century ago and the change-of-shift traffic. Tall oaks lined the sidewalks, forming an arbor of green shade overhead. Honeysuckle vines climbed chain-link fences while English dogwood and azalea bushes added splashes of white, pink, red, and fuchsia to emerald lawns. How I loved Spring in Southeast Texas.
“Are you sure Slate didn’t say anything about me?” Carol asked again.
“He said you were in his history class.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
At the front door, I heard the telephone ringing.
So did Carol. She knocked me aside and plunged down the hallway toward my bedroom.
“Carol, keep your paws off my phone!” I yelled, struggling to stay on my feet.
“Hello, Chad.”
I threw my books on my bed and glared at her. She turned her back to me, the cord of my pink French phone wrapped around her shoulders. Ignoring me was Carol’s favorite pastime.
Frustrated, I headed for the kitchen, grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table, and washed it. Glancing out the window, I saw Mom surveying the rose bushes bordering the patio. A first-grade teacher, she usually didn’t get home before we did. I noticed the tired look on her face.
Stepping outside, I said, “Hi, Mom,” and sat down on the patio swing which looked out onto the yard. “You’re home early. Rough day?” I took a bite out of the apple.
She turned around to face me. “Hi, Sugar,” she replied, taking off her gardening gloves. “You could say I had a rough day. I had a parent conference that almost ended in a shouting match, one of my children tried to run home during recess, and Michael Greene threw up during math.”
“Ugh!”
Mom ran a hand through her salt-and-pepper hair and scratched the back of her neck. “Things went downhill from there,” she continued, “so I decided not to stay late. I’ve been enjoying the humidity-free afternoon and deadheading my rosebushes.” She jiggled her pruning shears at me. “Very therapeutic.” Then she spotted my apple. “Did you wash that first?”
“Yes, Mother,” I assured her. “I washed it, and dried it, and now, thanks to Michael Greene, I’ve lost my appetite for it.”
“Sorry.”
“Remind me not to teach first grade when I get my elementary degree.”
She dusted off the knees of her jeans with her gloves. “Don’t teach first grade when you get your elementary degree.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Dad called from Fort Worth,” she continued. “Said he’s learned so much about that new accounting program this week that he can’t imagine what’s left to learn in the next five. He’ll call again tomorrow. He has to study tonight. He said it feels like he’s back in college cramming for exams.”
I started the swing with my big toe. “That’s what he gets for being a refinery comptroller without any serfs under him.”
“Serfs?”
“Yeah, if he had serfs, he could stay home and send them to these computer training seminars.”
“I think that Shakespeare unit is having an effect on your vocabulary.”
I scratched a mosquito bite on my arm. “Me thinkest thou art correct. I don’t think we’ll ever finish this unit on Julius Caesar.”
“Speaking of which—Got much homework?”
“Oh, yeah,” I sighed.
“Well, you always manage to get it done. You better go change for twirling practice. And try to eat that apple. We’ll have supper late. Where’s Carol?”
“On my French phone. You’d think it was her Christmas present as much as she uses it.”
Mom set her gloves on the bench by the back door. “To tell you the truth, I enjoy using it myself occasionally.”
I stopped swinging. “‘Occasionally’ is the key word. Every time I turn around, she’s on it. And that’s not all. She’s borrowing my clothes without asking, takes my records and leaves them who knows where, uses up my hairspray whenever hers runs out, borrows my makeup—and you know that’s not sanitary. You need to have a talk with her.”
“Why don’t you talk to her?” Mom came and sat beside me. “I referee enough disagreements at school.”
“I don’t know why she thinks she needs my stuff,” I continued. “She’s already got it all. Looks, personality, a wonderful guy like Chad wrapped around her little finger….”
“Do I detect a little envy?” Mom gave me a one-armed hug. “I know you’ve had your share of boy troubles, but think of them as stepping stones to the right fella. I’ve told you God has someone special picked out for you. Just wait and see.”
“Waiting is hard work.”
“Tell you what. This weekend you can help me plant those begonias I bought to go along the walkway to the tool shed. Get your hands in some peat moss. It’ll do you good.”
I grimaced, and she laughed. As she went inside the house, Trixie, our tan-and-white Chihuahua, trotted out with her tail wagging furiously. She looked up at me, her large brown eyes hopeful, and whined. I picked her up one-handed and set her in my lap. Immediately, she curled into a ball, then heaved a huge sigh as though she’d been waiting for this moment all day.
“What’s the matter, girl?” I asked. “Have you had a tough day, too?” I gently stroked her head along the white streak that ran between her brows. Her pointed ears twitched back and forth like antenna trying to pick up a signal. Then she yawned, stretching her mouth wide, her pink tongue curling upward.
Feeling sleepy myself, I took a deep breath of air and absorbed the “humidity-free afternoon.” Living about fifteen miles from the Gulf of Mexico, we didn’t get many of them. My big toe started the swing again, and I relaxed against the smooth wooden slats.
The afternoon sun shone through the branches of the maple and sycamore trees, casting leafy shadows on the lawn. A light breeze brought the sweet perfume of the roses to the patio, along with the sound of a woodpecker drilling tree bark. Edging its way down the rough trunk of the maple, a gray squirrel with raisin eyes hopped to the ground, started rooting in the grass. Overhead, purple martins were soaring above the martin house, chirping like parakeets.
“De-e!”
Trixie and I jumped.
“If you want to make it to practice on time,” Carol yelled through the window, “get a move on.”
“So much for tranquility,” I said to Trixie. I picked her up and looked her in the eyes. “Just wait until I get my license in June. Then I’ll be in the driver’s seat. Literally!”

Author Bio:
Claire Nance lives in Texas with her husband and their precocious chihuahua. She writes in order to share her faith and to glorify God. He is worthy of all glory, honor, and praise.

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About Featured Book: Run Don’t Think by C. C. Bolick

Angel was a normal teen until going on the run with a mysterious case of money. She never knew about a vampire legacy or her dad’s job with an agency that’s watched her for years. Can Angel reach a safehouse and escape a monster out for her blood?

Free to Download 2/28-3/2, 2022

This YA book is available in these Formats: eBook, Print

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