PILAR SAGASTA steps into a world of cunning deception when she travels to Arizona to connect with her late grandfather’s sister, Virginia. Eager for details of their Mexican history before the family fled the political turbulence in 1916, Pilar realizes quickly that she made a mistake. Far from the loving relatives she envisioned, she finds a group of odious characters who doubt her motives and want nothing more than to drive her away.
Secrets buried deep in the past reach to the present generation and obscure motives in a family where no one is who they seem and everyone has a secret to hide.
Targeted Age Group:: 25-65
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
What inspired me to write this book was a combination of my love of history and the curious dynamics in a dysfunctional family.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I tried to create characters from my observations of people I’ve known. The difference is that I match every negative personality trait with sympathetic qualities that made them human, and make their actions plausible in the setting I created.
Book Sample
September 15, 2006
Cincinnati, Ohio
Pilar Sagasta tapped the touchpad on her Apple PowerBook and closed the window on the scanned documents she had been reading the last three hours. Full of dangerous encounters with defending armies, political unrest brought about by the struggle for human rights, espionage, intrigue, and betrayals by the government and by their own families, the ancestry she had compiled read like a sweeping saga of heroic deeds. The idea that she could have learned so much more about her great great-grandparents if her abuelo had been less guarded when he spoke of his Mexican roots and their immigration to the United States.
“Mexico is our past. The United States is our future. Dwelling in the past keeps you from moving forward,” he would say when she would ask about his parents. Bitterness toward Mexico stayed buried beneath his skin, exposed when someone picked at the scab encrusted over the wound that never healed.
“One thing I will tell you, mija, is that Josefina Paralelos was the gentlest and the bravest woman. Tender to her family. Ruthless to her enemies. No, I take that back, your bisabeula was the bravest person I have ever known. If you want to look up something from our past, look up the Soldaderas. When my father and uncle fought in the Revolution, she was there with the other wives and single women doing what they could to help. She rode a horse on an astride saddle, concocted homemade medicines for the soldiers’ injuries, cooked over an open fire, as well as being a quick draw with the two ivory-handled pistolas she carried in two bandolier holsters. She did all of this in the middle of battle.”
Pilar winced, her memories bringing him alive in her mind. She grinned as she replayed the story he had told often, her fingers moving along the silver frame holding his photograph.
Then she believed he was in the room with her. His weathered faced, creased from a lifetime of smiles, would softened at his own memories. “I remember her bandolier and how I counted the bullet loops on the front, and the shotgun loops on the back while she worked in the kitchen. As a boy, I thought it was normal for mothers to wear their pistols while cooking breakfast. I was so proud of her grace and strength. The saddest day in my life was the day I knew I’d never see her again,” he had said, ignoring the instinct to conceal his emotions.
Remembering the few stories he had told her about their crossing from Mexico to Eagle Pass, Texas, she held the leather notebook that safeguarded those few family stories close to her. She imagined their escape with Obregón’s soldiers close on their heels, hunting them down like criminals. Preserving her grandfather’s stories and adding to them as she learned more, kept him close, at least in spirit.
Loss swept over her as she thought about the gentle, wise man that had raised her after her parents died. She knew the sadness did not come from the absence of lost family members, but from the loss of her guardian angel, her spiritual guide, and her best friend, a void she feared no one would fill again.
Now, mental images played in her mind from those documents. Like the reels from a 1920’s silent film, she saw dashing young men, brave and fearless, fighting for justice and a better life alongside the likes of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata. They risked their lives in the face of death warrants issued by corrupt government officials, coupled with hostility from family and friends afraid of the retribution. Known as the Villistas and Zapatistas, her ancestors struggled for equality that had eluded them for decades. Yet, many like her abuelo and his family fled across the border into the United States for safety, often never returning to the country they had fought to change.
Optimistic, Pilar blinked back tears as she moved to the kitchen. She opened the window over the sink and looked out onto the lush backyards of the homes in her neighborhood. Inhaling the fragrance of freshly mowed lawns lingering in Cincinnati’s moist late summer air, the breeze rushed over her like the embrace of a long lost friend. Energized by her resolve, she refilled her coffee mug, treated herself to a handful of chocolate wafer cookies, and started back to her computer.
The ringing telephone caught her off guard, giving her an adrenalin jolt. “Hello,” she said reaching out for the cordless to stop its insistent ringing.
“Glad I caught you. What are you up to?”
“Hi, Tammy.” She smiled hearing the voice of her closest friend since grade school.
“I’ve been going over the research I dug up on Pete’s side of the family. I found two phone numbers of ones still living in Arizona. Pete’s sister Virginia is still alive. At least she has an active number”
“I’m not sure about this. It’s creepy to invite strangers into your life. All you can be sure of is you share the same blood.”
“Is that so,” Pilar said with an edge of challenge hanging on the words.
“They could be any kind of degenerate or murderer, and there you go, walking right into the lion’s den never to be heard from again.”
“I don’t know how you can say things like that. You don’t know anything about them.”
“That’s the point. Neither do you,” Tammy said. “Alright then, who are these wonderful people you found that’s never shown any interest in you your whole life.”
Pilar reached for her family book to pull out a handwritten list. “As I said, there’s Virginia Rodchenko, Pete’s sister. She lives in Flagstaff where she and Pete grew up. The other names are Rod and Sylvie Folsom. I found a second number for Virginia in Phoenix with the Folsom name listed as others in the household. That must mean relatives.
“Or caretakers of the asylum.”
“Good grief, Tammy. You’re too cynical for your age.”
“Someone has to point out the obvious. Since I’ve known you longer than anyone outside your family, that’s my job.”
“I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry. I’m not as gullible as you think.”
“Right.”
Author Bio:
CATHY ANN ROGERS has a penchant for creating literary characters who imitate reality through their skewed sense of justice as well as their bittersweet victories.
Cathy attributes the shaping of her writer’s prowess to her solitary upbringing as an only child. Armed with a library card from her neighborhood branch in Cincinnati, she spent her childhood absorbed in suspenseful scenes depicted within the fiction of Christie and Conan-Doyle. Simultaneously, she built a mental library of potential plots while eavesdropping on the conversations of adults who discussed everything from Hollywood to History. The result of these blended influences is her fascination with plot twists and multi-generational storytelling in novels.
Following the dictates of her left-brain, Cathy pursued a degree and graduate certificate in accounting, establishing a tax and bookkeeping service for entrepreneurs.
Cathy weaves her tales from her Arizona desert townhome in the company of her Bichon Frises, Whitney and Sophie. She is currently working on the next installment of the Pilar Sagasta series Here Lies Hidden.
Young widow, Isobella Bridges discovered and fell in love with The Yellow Cottage as a child. Many years later she returned to the Island, discovered it was for sale and bought it on a whim. Or so she thought.
She had no idea at the time how much it would change her life, nor that it was yet to reveal all it’s secrets. Ones that even Ella couldn’t imagine.
She purchased the cottage from an old lady, but this was no ordinary old lady. And she left her cat, but this was no ordinary cat.
Ella soon realises that this isn’t the only gift the old lady left.
Having only been in residence a few short weeks, and still unpacking boxes, she receives a telephone call from her brother, inviting her up to London for Sunday lunch.
This call sets in motion a series of events that puts Ella’s life, and those of the people closest to her in danger.
‘An Accidental Murder’ is a cosy amateur sleuth novella, with a difference. Set in 1930’s England, it is the first in the series of The Yellow Cottage mysteries.
Targeted Age Group:: 25+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
This book and the future books in the series, were spawned from a FREE short story called The Yellow Cottage, available on my website. I had several emails and messages on social media from readers asking (and in some cases demanding), there be more, because they loved it so much. Up until then, I hadn’t considered turning it into a series, nor in fact writing cosy mysteries. However during the writing phase, I fell in love with the whole process and the characters, but more importantly the genre. I’ve always been a fan of Agatha Christie: Marple and Poirot and of Arthur Conan-Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, and it was a natural extension of a love for those works, that lead me to pen the short story in the first place. Inspiration came from those fans and readers that wrote and asked me for more. I’m very grateful to them.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
To be honest they practically wrote themselves; primarily because the kernel of the idea had been in my head for nearly two years before I actually sat down to write it. Basing it on a short story, I already had a couple of the characters in place, it was then just a case of developing the plot, the secondary characters, and fleshing out the back-story of the main characters. Phantom, the cat, was part of the original short, however he seemed purrfect (excuse the pun) to include in the whole series, and almost all the reviews and messages I have received since, have mentioned how much they love him.
Book Sample
It was a particularly chilly and damp Saturday afternoon in September, and I was taking a momentary break from the unpacking of boxes, to have a quick sandwich and a cup of tea. I’d already laid and lit the log fire, and now sat, sleepy and content in an overstuffed armchair, watching the flames dance and flicker in the grate. And listening to the wind whistling down the chimney, like an irate ghost.
I’d only been living in the cottage for a few short weeks, but it felt as though I’d lived there all my life. From the moment I stepped inside, at the initial viewing, it had wrapped itself around me like a second skin, and I knew I’d come home at last.
It had, or so I thought at the time, been a spur of the moment decision, to come back to the island after so many years. But it seemed now as though fate had conspired to steer my actions.
As a child, my family had chosen the island as a holiday destination for two weeks each summer. And one year, the last as it happened, I’d seen, and fallen in love with The Yellow Cottage. Coming back so many years later, on a whim, I had discovered it was for sale, and to cut a long story short, I bought it.
As I sat there drinking my tea, remembering the rather strange circumstances in which the cottage had become my home, the cat came in. Not a particularly interesting event in itself, I’d agree, except this cat, walked in through a solid wall.
I’d idly been wondering why he always chose that particular spot to enter from the back garden, but once I knew the answer, it was obvious. I was cleaning the small snug area under the stairs a couple of days ago, having decided it would be a perfect place to use as an office.
Going through the bookshelves, I came across a large hardback book, and folded inside were some of the old building plans. Looking closer, I realised that the current door to the back, wasn’t the original. That had been bricked up, and a new opening made further along. Phantom, as I’d named the cat, in a particularly unimaginative moment, was using the old doorway. The same one I expect he always used when he’d lived there, as a flesh and blood companion.
Phantom was a legacy from Mrs. Rose, the previous owner. She and I had met when I first came to view the cottage a few months ago. And had chatted briefly, whilst simultaneously saving a swan from, ‘death-by-fishing-line’. It wasn’t until I returned to the cottage, and Mr. Wilkes, the patiently waiting estate agent, that I found out she’d already been dead for seven months.
As it turned out, Phantom wasn’t the only thing Mrs. Rose had left me. But it wasn’t until the phone rang, and set in motion a series of extraordinary events, that I realised, just how strange the rest of my life was going to be.
Author Bio:
J. New is a British author who writes Mysteries and Thrillers. Her books are set in various era’s; The Yellow Cottage cosy mystery series is set in 1930’s England and one of a her works in progress is an English Victorian Mystery. She’s also working on a police procedural mystery thriller, set in modern day England, and a paranormal mystery romance series, again set in the modern day, but this time in the US. Her interests include psychology, spirituality and the metaphysical, which she integrates into her story telling. She’s also a fine artist and keen gardener, nature and animal lover, as well as a hands-on dog rescuer. She reads a vast array of books and loves connecting with and reading the works of Indie-authors. She loves all works by Terry Pratchett, as well as Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Neil Gaiman and the Harry Potter series.
The short story which inspired her Yellow Cottage cosy mystery series is available FREE on her website for those joining her Readers Group.
When Wilson McKenna’s bank tells him he’s written $4,000 in bad checks on an island he’s never been to, he’s one unhappy haole. Things get worse when he’s nearly arrested for impersonating himself, the woman who trashed his credit turns up dead, and he realizes he’s up to his ‘umi’umi in hot lava.
Targeted Age Group:: 45-70
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
This is the second in the McKenna Mystery series, which I knew I wanted to set on Kauai. We’ve visited Kauai for more than twenty years and it’s an island that seems to help bring everything into perspective. I felt it would be the perfect place for McKenna to learn more about himself. The other influence was an incident about twenty years ago when my identity was stolen while we were vacationing on Kauai. Once the thieves had my checks, it was a simple matter for them to create a “new me.” McKenna shares my feelings of those days after I discovered what had happened, then keeps charging long after I would have let up.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
McKenna was one of those characters that just started writing himself. He and I share the some of the same professional background, but he stuck at it far longer than I did. We’re both snarky, but he’s quicker and braver than I am. The difference between us is that he’ll spout off first, then think. I tend to do the opposite.
One of the other major characters in Kauai Temptations is Buster the car. Buster is very, very real. We rented Buster when we were visiting Kauai one year and many of the incidents that happened with Buster happened to us.
Book Sample
“The Hawaiian language doesn’t include a word for crappy day, does it?”
My friend Alexander, who was born and raised here on Oahu, laughed. “That something we leave to you haoles.” He gave me a bright smile, the one wide enough to cause the little laugh lines around his mouth to crinkle as he pointed at the bold text on his navy blue tee. “Slow down, brah. You live too fast.”
As a relative newcomer to the islands, a mere five years and counting, I was only beginning to wrap my head around that concept. If I lived to be 113, another 50 years, maybe I’d learn to live that way. As it was, today’s crisis came in the mail. Overdraft notices from my bank. And yes, that was plural.
Nearly a dozen pink slips of paper, all addressed to me, Wilson McKenna, littered the glass top of my wicker dining-room table. They totaled nearly $4,000. Once upon a time, a very long time ago on the mainland, I’d been a bill collector and skip tracer. I thought nothing of calling the people who received the little “duns” schmuck or dirt bag or flake. Now I was the schmuck, so those references weren’t quite as funny.
I had no clue as to who had written the checks in question or pulled me back into the financial services world on the opposite side of the credit equation. For once, I realized how frightening these things were.
There was no aloha, no mahalo, or thank you, for my business. Each notice, which had arrived in its own envelope, was a little ransom note for my credit record. “Hey, Mr. Moneybags, if you don’t follow our directions, your precious little bank account is a goner.”
I had two simple choices. The first, paying up, was impossible. The second was to let the bank declare me a blight on their profit picture. Choosing the latter option would force the bank to sanitize their good name. In corporate-speak it would mean clean up their profit picture by removing said blight from said profit picture by the addition of appropriate fees, penalties, and black marks on my credit. I navigated my way through phone-tree hell, all the while envisioning my bank account in a body bag.
“Account number, please.”
Jeez, talk about sounding like a pit bull. I gave her the number.
“One moment.”
Had she gotten a memo about me already? She sounded perfectly capable of sinking her bite into my financial private parts until I screamed for mercy and coughed up whatever blood the bank thought I owed. “Look, Miss, I didn’t write these checks.”
“One moment.”
Keyboard sounds in the background emphasized the obvious. This pit bull came equipped with teeth and claws. She growled. Maybe she’d only cleared her throat, but it sounded as though she was preparing for her next customer meal. “Mr. McKenna, are you denying writing these numerous checks which have overdrawn your account?”
Ouch. When she put it that way, even I hated myself. My jaw felt tight. “I may be 63, but I’m not senile. Not yet, anyway. I didn’t write those checks.” My adrenaline level was spiking somewhere in the “about to die” range and my sweating palms made the phone feel slippery in my grasp. Not normal, not for me. I wiped my free hand on my khaki shorts, then switched the phone to the other hand. This time, I used the back of my “I hate L.A.” T-shirt to dry the sweat.
“Then who did?”
“How the hell should I know?” I had to admit one thing, the pit bull had put me on the defensive without breaking a sweat. “I’ve been gone for a week. I got back today and picked up my mail. I didn’t know anything was wrong until I got your little ransom notes.” Oops.
She snarled, “Those overdraft notices are to let you know that you have overdrawn your bank account. It’s my job to make arrangements with you. Or, you can make a deposit sufficient to cover your overdraft.”
While I silently mimicked her “it’s my job” line with a prissy face, Alexander snickered, then scolded me with an index finger he waved back and forth. My gut reaction was to insult her for having an obviously short and insignificant job description. The problem was, I’d been on the other side of this call far too many times to count and knew how many fish that would net me. “But I didn’t write those checks.” Crap, talk about sounding whiny.
She, on the other hand, became matter-of-fact. “You’d have to take that up with the branch.”
Uh, okay. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Oh, wait, I had. “I don’t have time to traipse into town. I’ve only been home for a couple of hours. I need to get some things done for both of my employers before they send me their own little pink notices.”
“You need to speak to the branch unless you’re going to make arrangements for a deposit.”
Her business tone, the same one I’d used so many times pissed me off. I slammed down the phone. “Bitch.”
With the exception of the check incident, it was a typical Tuesday afternoon in paradise—eighty-seven degrees outside, sun shining, but willing to take a quick break for an intermittent rain shower, and gentle trade winds caressing the palms along the shore. Inside my little condo living room, however, the cold hand of a big financial institution’s clerical error had picked my wallet clean. I could tell they’d gotten not only my wallet, but also my self-confidence, because I felt a chill run through the room.
Author Bio:
Terry Ambrose started out skip tracing and collecting money from deadbeats and quickly learned that liars come from all walks of life. He never actually stole a car, but sometimes hired big guys with tow trucks and a penchant for working in the dark to “help” when negotiations failed.
A resident of Southern California, he loves spending time in Hawaii, especially on the Garden Island of Kauai, where he invents lies for others to read. His years of chasing deadbeats taught him many valuable life lessons such as—always keep your car in the garage.
