Publication Date: January 30, 2015

Gabriel Church knows you can’t take a life without first understanding just how feeble life is, how tentative and weak it stands alone. If you desire murder, you hold a life in your hand. Whether you release it to grant life or grip tighter to end it, it is at your command and discretion. Gabriel is a serial killer with a story he wants told.

Christian Maxwell studied abnormal psychology in college but chose instead to focus on a career in writing. His background comes in handy when he thinks of writing about a serial killer. He can’t think of anyone more qualified to write the story of Gabriel Lee Church, and do so in the murderer’s own words. It’s been done before, but never with a killer who has yet to be captured or convicted.

There was never anything more than a gentleman’s understanding between the two men that Christian would record Gabriel’s life story. The killer did not ask for his complicity in any crimes, nor did he ever ask for his silence. Christian’s interest in the man, though, is fast becoming something more than academic. When the writer and his subject become unexpected friends and then lovers, the question remains: What is Gabriel’s endgame . . . and why does he want his story told?

Targeted Age Group:: 18 and up

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
A need to ask the question “What if you fell in love with someone whom you shouldn’t”.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Gabriel Church is a character I have come to love delving into, it appears that many fans feel the same way because he is complex and more than an anti-hero because he is a killer but he is more than that and tortured from the scars which created him.

Book Sample
Tell me your story.” Christian Maxwell began, wetting his lips and leaning in. He stared at the killer across the table and rested his forearms on the notepad before him. His look was imploring, he was begging for good and gory details. Gabe stared at him, who was glassy eyed in anticipation; he squinted a bit, in excitement that was too to follow. He had a wanting expression on his face. Gabe had seen that look many times before.
“Better the devil you barely know” Gabe thought. If someone else’s gonna be making money off my story it might as well be this guy.” He remembered the first time the thought of telling his story had first sprung to mind. The memories of it much like this, detached, more after-thought than close consideration.
“Ever been out to the Florida Keys?” Gabe asked. When he only received a nod from Maxwell to his question he continued absently, “For me it was like driving to the keys, a few miles over the speed limit on that old Highway One…you know, the one they called Highway out to Sea…under fleecy clouds with that fresh coastal winds slapping you in your face, under a vast, unending blue on blue…it is rather freeing.” His hands wrapped around the old dusty cover of the book he was holding, more as an effect than something to read.
Christian listened to him speaking with that far-away gaze in his eyes, knowing he was already back there in his mind. He pretended to jot notes down but concentrated more on that distant expression on Church’s face. Sitting so close to him, he could almost feel the wind slapping his hair, the sun beating down as he rode in the passenger seat of Church’s mental trip along Highway 1. He knew it was going to be a good book when he finished it.
He didn’t want to interrupt the narrator but he couldn’t resist,
“But it didn’t begin in Florida did it? I just presumed it happened elsewhere.”
The killer’s posture changed as he replied. He sat up straight in the chair, his eyes narrowed, “If you think you know where it started then why are we sitting around hashing old news?” The killer’s voice was cold. Dampness built under Christian’s armpits.
“Because no one has ever asked you for your side of it, usually a serial murderer doesn’t get a chance to explain why he kills. But I…” pointing to his own chest, “…I want to give you that opportunity.”
“Mighty big of you.” Gabe leaned back in his chair and smiled a grin that could cut through glass, his mocking words and expressive eyes said it all: this might just prove to be an interesting way to spend his free time. He rubbed his rough forefinger across the lip of the wine glass as a carnal abstraction as he watched Maxwell jot his notes, even though they hadn’t even begun his tale.
“Shouldn’t you wait till I start to speak before you scribble down all those pretty words?”
Christian looked up and smiled sheepishly, “…just mood stuff. You’ll have to get used to that…meaning my process, early on.” He put his pen down and folded his hands neatly to hide his notes. “I’m a little fastidious or obsessive at times.”
“No worries…the same has been said of me.”
That bent smile of a killer reappeared and twisted Church’s face into a mocking evil caricature, sending a shiver down Christian’s spine. He smiled back and returned a look that seemed to place them on equal understanding. ‘This was going to be tough’, he thought, ‘but worth it.’ Christian picked up his pen and sent an imploring gaze at his subject of study.
Gabe recognized the untidy anticipation, and reluctantly continued. “Actually it began in Texas…but we need to go back to where the…umm, desires, I guess is the word…first came into clear focus don’t we? I mean you want the full picture don’t you?”
When the man didn’t offer a conciliatory gesture, Gabe continued.
“Before Florida, before Seattle I had been somewhere else… it was a better place for me, because it still held some type of promise, nothing had been carved into stone…if you’ll pardon the pun.” Church’s head lolled back as if he was about to break into a hearty laugh.
He was a dangerous sick man Christian could see that. His reference to the markers of his varied victims, as his nonchalant manner in describing his affinity to murder was unsettling, even for someone as akin to pathology as Christian Maxwell.
In college, his dark sense of humor and an uncomfortably quiet nature was off-putting to most. His so-called friends would jokingly offer that it was going to be Christian who would be famous, but more for the salvo of bullets which hit other students from his safe vantage in some random clock tower or rooftop. The look on Maxwell’s face as he sat across from Gabe was pensive as if he was about to interrupt again but questioned the insolence. The killer had nothing but time, but he didn’t like breaking his train of thought so early.

Author Bio:
Rodd began writing professionally a couple of years ago trying self-publication then moving to the usual pub houses. Rodd lives in Dallas, TX at the moment but hails from the sticks of Oklahoma. Check out his blog, support his efforts and join the conversation about fledgling authors and their trials and tribulations.

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In the heart of a raging blizzard Sheriff Jeff McQuede discovers a woman frozen to death in her car. At first he believes her death to be an unfortunate accident–until he finds clues that point to cold-blooded murder. Margaret’s husband, Arthur, left her in the stalled vehicle to brave the storm and manages to reach Joe Trevino’s isolated ranch. The case becomes more complicated because of the recent warehouse robberies at Trevino’s store. McQueede finds that Trevino is Margaret Burnell’s business partner, and that she has traveled from their Casper store to conduct a company audit. In addition, Margaret has planned to meet with her only child, a run-away daughter she hasn’t seen in years. Trevino, the missing daughter, and Arthur Burnell would all profit financially from Margaret’s demise. Has a relentless killer tracked and sabotaged the Burnells, or did Arthur simply abandon his wife for his share of the money, leaving her to die an icy death?

Targeted Age Group:: General Readership

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
It’s cold in Wyoming! Cold enough to freeze to death. This fact makes An Icy Death the only book we have ever written inspired by the weather. In winter it’s not uncommon for the temperature to dip to minus seventeen, often with a wind chill factor of thirty below zero. Because many places still exist where cell phones cease to work and help is almost impossible to summon, blizzards and sudden whiteouts are extremely hazardous. We got to thinking of what might happen if a murderer used a blizzard to cover up a crime and AN ICY DEATH was born.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Jeff McQuede, a modern-day sheriff, is a product of the Old West. He was named for his relative, frontier Sheriff Jeff McQuede, and embodies the qualities that had made him famous. He often follows the old westerner’s advice: when you think your right, it’s time to step back and take another look.

After creating McQuede, we added friends and family, such as a very strong and opinionated Aunt Mattie Murdock, the local villains, Frank Larsh, better known as Ruger, and his pal, Sammy Ratone, and Professor Barry Dawson who sometimes helps and sometimes hinders McQuede’s investigations.

Book Sample
Chapter 1

After an unexpected and brutal blizzard, the thirty-mile blacktop from Paxton to Durmont had just this morning reopened. The blowing snow and the biting wind had long since subsided, leaving in its wake an icy and ominous stillness.
Sheriff Jeff McQuede glanced from the white mountain peaks that loomed above him back at the narrow, icy road, defined on either side by high stacks of snow. His trip to Paxton had been a wasted effort, and the tedious trek back to Durmont made his eyes burn and tension to cut between his shoulder blades.
He spotted the sign, SNYDER’S OUTPOST, LAST CHANCE GAS, with gratitude. He hadn’t expected the station to be open, and he pulled into the driveway anticipating a hot cup of coffee.
Ron Snyder, a little man with a loud, grating laugh, came from behind the counter. “Only the daring get through,” he said, slapping a hand against McQuede’s shoulder. “What brings you out here, Sheriff? Don’t you have a warm, safe office somewhere?”
McQuede squinted at him. An hour of staring at the snow caused Snyder’s thin face to blotch with white. Yet he couldn’t help being aware of Snyder’s big, toothy smile. “My pay goes on,” McQuede told him. “I have to earn it. Been over to Paxton checking out a clue connected to the warehouse robbery at Durmont.”
“Looks like you’re dealing with some right bold scoundrels,” Snyder said. “Those thugs would have to be bold to hit Trevino’s Sporting Goods. Joe is intimidating enough, even without that special security guard he’s hired.”
Ron Snyder wandered toward an urn and returned offering McQuede a cup of coffee. He watched McQuede sample it before he said, “Joe Trevino’s been calling you a lot of snappy names. Said the next ice age would set in before you caught up with those thieves.”
“From the looks of this weather the next ice age is almost here, and I do intend to catch those crooks.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Snyder went on with teasing good-humor, “Trevino would have to eat his words if he could see you now. Here you are, on the coldest day of the year, bigger than life, out in pursuit of the robbers. All bundled like up Santa Claus and just as dedicated.”
“I’d rather be Santa Claus.”
“Wouldn’t get paid as much,” Snyder reminded him. “Seriously, I don’t know many people who would venture out today. I’ve only had one customer so far, a trucker headed to Paxton.”
McQuede clutched the cup, savoring the steaming heat that warmed his hands. “I passed him a ways back.”
“He told me he thought he saw a wrecked car up on that short-cut road that leads to Durmont. I tried to call it in, but the lines are down.” Snyder shrugged. “He wasn’t all that sure anyway. All that white plays strange tricks on the eye.”
In spite of wishing he could ignore the trucker’s words, McQuede found himself reacting. “That road isn’t good even in the summer. Only a fool would take it in weather like this.”
“Only a fool,” Snyder repeated, then with another grating laugh, added, “But, then, we’ve seen a few fools around these parts, haven’t we?”
As McQuede left the station, he thought of the temperature dipping to below zero, of the wind chill factor of twenty below. He adamantly hoped he’d find no car. If he did, it was certain to spell disaster.
A cell phone wouldn’t pick up a signal out there, which meant a stranded person would not be able to summon help. Faced with this isolation and in a blinding snowstorm, he wouldn’t be able to locate a reachable destination. Moreover, hypothermia made waiting for help filled with dire consequences.
McQuede stopped at the old 231 crossing and skimmed the side road that rose slowly to a summit, but he saw nothing. Since he was here, though, he might just as well do a thorough check. As he left the main highway, he attempted to turn up the heater, which was already running at full capacity. Even wearing gloves, his fingers felt numb as they locked on the steering wheel.
His four-wheeler relentlessly plowed through the deep snow and laboriously gained traction. McQuede skillfully controlled the gas and steering wheel, propelling it safely up the steep incline. Once he reached the summit, he cut the speed, and his sharp, gray eyes skimmed the high drop-off that overlooked the Paxton Road.
He would not have spotted the car had he not been searching for it, for only patches of maroon were visible from its covering of white. Apparently it had gone into a skid and had come to an abrupt stop, not damaged, just hopelessly stuck. The car’s position was in itself amazing, for only the big drift or the rocks beneath it had prevented the vehicle from plummeting over the edge.
McQuede left his four-wheeler and drew closer, kneeling momentarily to brush snow away from the license plate. A long way from home—Natrona County, in or around Casper. The accident had taken place before the road closed, and the travelers must have been trapped here throughout the night. That didn’t bode well for them.
No tracks were visible. The occupant or occupants were either still inside, or they had abandoned the car, and the falling snow had erased all traces of their attempted escape. Either case left them with little to no chance of survival. He stepped closer to the door with dread.
As he did, he railed against their fate. Why would anyone have even attempted this rough byway in the face of such warnings?
The window was iced over. McQuede rubbed a spot clear with his gloved hand, and then drew in a breath. Someone was inside!
His hands felt numb and frozen as he pried at the door. It seemed locked, but he knew it was only the ice that barred his progress. With a powerful tug, he wrenched the door open.
The interior of the car loomed before him, an icy tomb. McQuede’s breath stopped in his throat. A woman who looked to be in her late forties leaned against the passenger seat. Her heavy, wool scarf had slipped away from her face, which was framed on one side with a mass of long, brown hair. Her features possessed a delicate beauty, and she would have looked as if she had fallen into a peaceful sleep, had it not been for the bluish-white pallor of her skin and the ice crystals that had formed on her lashes and hair.
He removed his glove and touched her face. Her eyelids were iced over and her marble skin, blue and white, felt stiff. He determined that she had been dead for some time.
She wore a heavy jacket and a blanket was tucked around her legs. An empty thermos and a chocolate bar wrapper lay on the seat beside her, provisions left within reach to keep her alive.
Keys still hung in the ignition. The heater must have kept her warm until the car had run out of gas, then she had succumbed, probably to hypothermia. In any event, McQuede had arrived way too late to save her.
McQuede felt sick, as he always did when he encountered tragic death. His gaze held to her for a moment. She looked hauntingly familiar, although he did not know why. He was certain he had never met her.
He forced his attention to the car. Lying on the floor near her, he found a bottle of prescription pills, pills for pain. His gaze moved to the blanket-wrapped legs, for the first time noticing the taped ankle protruding from the fleece wrap.
McQuede searched the car and found a registration under the name of Arthur and Margaret Burnell of Casper, Wyoming. Once again he glanced toward the woman, a stranger, who he somehow seemed to recognize. Knowing her name made her death seem more personal.
McQuede looked through her purse, but found nothing of any importance, only a photo of a cultured-looking couple, a happy husband and wife. He studied the man’s face, an appealing one, with high forehead, light brown hair, and a charming smile. He was likely the car’s other occupant.
His wife couldn’t have gotten far, not with a bad ankle. It looked as if he had tried to make her as comfortable as possible and then left in an attempt to get help. Once again McQuede felt a surge of dread. He knew from experience that leaving a car in a blizzard was an almost certain death sentence. He had located people who had wandered around in circles and been found frozen not far from their vehicle. What chance did Margaret Burnell’s would-be rescuer have of surviving?
Would it be possible for him to have found shelter? McQuede tried to recall all he knew about this rugged terrain. Joe Trevino’s ranch was at least two miles east. Nothing between here and there but an old sheepherder’s cabin that Trevino left open for fishermen and hunters. If he drove on from here, he’d intercept the turnoff to the cabin in less than a half mile.
Chances are Burnell would not have known such a place even existed, but just in case he had by some miracle found it, McQuede decided to check there first. Not that it would do any good. He knew he was just going through the motions. Arthur Burnell would likely be frozen to death now, deeply buried by the drifted snow. He, as well as his wife, had doubtlessly died an icy death.

Author Bio:
Vickie Britton, along with her sister Loretta Jackson, are the authors of over forty novels. The sisters have co-authored the Jeff McQuede High Country Mystery Series: Murder in Black and White, Whispers of the Stones, and Stealer of Horses. They have also written the eight-book archaeological Ardis Cole Mystery Series.

Both writers are drawn to western settings, which have provided a background for much of their work.

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After midnight, a mysterious stranger appears at the edge of the woods and the peaceful life fifteen-year-old Ellen has with her beloved stepfather Frank is turned upside down. Small town gossip, jealousy and murder strive to tear them apart in a tale of secrets and unrequited love. Clues to the outcome hide throughout the book!

“This stand alone story is fabulous. It was a little nostalgia for me. The setting and all the drama surrounding a woman who’s car breaks down in a small town when she takes a wrong turn. There is love, a mystery and a lot of emotions.” Amazon reviewer

Targeted Age Group:: 16 and older

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
A recurring idea to follow the course of a young girl in a healthy relationship with her stepfather was my inspiration. The relationship between the mother and a friend was inspired by Norah Lofts book Lovers All Untrue which is pretty dark. The mother is at the mercy of her friend and because of her situation isn’t able to circumvent the relationship. The daughter, Ellen, figures out what’s happening on her own, and the knowledge guides her to the end.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I’m one of those writers with an overactive imagination, so there are always swarms of people trying to get into my stories. It’s a frequent criticism. So many interesting people in the world just clamoring to get into a book!

Book Sample
Slow Dancing
By
Suzanne Jenkins

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
Friedrich Nietzsche

Chapter 1
Fifteen-year-old Ellen MacPherson sat on a wooden step off the porch of her house in Seymour, Alabama. It was getting late, after eleven, her stepfather Frank watching the news in the living room just behind her. The smell of beer wafted out of the screen door while he listened for the weather report, familiar and comforting voices echoing out onto the porch. The light from the TV cast a blue glow through the window, competing with the yellow lamplight from the street. Their front lawn stretched to the river’s edge, the smooth, green expanse broken by a thread of dirt road. She waited for Frank to shut the lights off in the house so she could watch the fireflies, the light from the moon revealing the disturbance in the water as the bugs hit its surface. When she first saw the pings make concentric circles on the smooth sheet of the river, she thought they were fish coming up for air, but Frank said it was the bugs.
“Watch careful,” he said. “You’ll see the bugs hit the water, and the rings travel away from where it hit.” She did as he said, and sure enough, the bugs came in for a drink. The circles drifted out from the center, stronger at first until they faded away, back into the smooth surface of the river.
She heard the TV switch off. “I guess I’m goin’ to bed, Ellen. Don’t stay up too late.” She turned around to look at him standing in the door behind her, just as he glanced over at the woods, concerned leaving her, but wanting to show her he understood she was growing up and needed time alone.
“I won’t Frank. Night,” she replied. He turned the lights off in the house but left the one over the kitchen stove on so she could see her way back in the house when she was ready. With the dim, yellow light coming from the streetlamp, the black outline of the trees to the right of their property came into focus. The neat lawn stopped at the woods; tall oak and pine trees with little underbrush. Sun light didn’t penetrate deeply enough to support undergrowth and the trees grew so tightly packed together that it was difficult to walk through. Ellen had lived next to the woods as long as she could remember and she knew what was on the other side, downriver.
The thread of the road ended in front of her house, at the woods. Every so often, a car would come down the road and stop at the woods. The driver would look around confused, put the car into reverse, back up onto their lawn, and drive off again. Rarely, someone would come up to the door and ask for directions, but neither Frank nor Ellen knew much about the area beyond the village, even after living there all of their lives, so they were of no help. They went to town to buy food, Ellen to school, and Frank to his garage. That was about it.
When Margaret was alive, they drove to Hallowsbrook to visit her, in the town of Beauregard. Ellen normally didn’t want to think about Hallowsbrook, built on the same river she was looking at now in front of their house, ten miles downriver. But when she got melancholy, she liked to remember what it was like to get ready on visiting day.
Frank would wake her up earlier than usual on Saturday, the one day they had to sleep in. He’d have her breakfast made, and it was always something special; pancakes or corn muffins or scrambled eggs with cheese and biscuits. She’d walk into the kitchen, and Frank would be dressed with his suspenders on, his white shirt draped over the back of the chair. The ironing board would be down from the wall where it was stored in its own recessed cabinet. Standing at the ironing board, he’d be ironing one of her pretty dresses; something with a full skirt. They dressed as if they were going to a party when they visited Margaret. He always asked Ellen the same thing.
“You ready for this, sister?” and she’d nod her head and say the same thing she always said.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Since she was just a little child she’d say the same thing, and Frank laughed. It was the way they’d get through the ordeal. Frank tried to do everything he could to soften it for her; the breakfast, the pretty clothes, shopping when they left the hospital, even a movie if she wanted it. But more often than not they’d be so exhausted, Ellen would reach over the seat from the back and tap Frank on the shoulder. “I guess I want to go home,” she’d say, and he’d nod and look at her in the rearview mirror.
“Me, too. I reckon we both had enough adventure for one day.”
Finally, in March right before Ellen turned fifteen, Margaret died suddenly. It was a relief. Although in the weeks preceding her death Margaret appeared to be getting better, it must have been just a smokescreen. Several months after she was admitted, she ceased acknowledging them half the time, and eventually they stopped trying to engage her.
“We visit just so the nurses know she’s cared about,” Frank said. “They’ll know once a month someone will come to see she’s okay. That’s why we gotta mix up the times, not let ‘em anticipate it.” They’d walk into her room and look at her skin and her hands, make sure her nails were nice and her hair was clean. She was well taken care of; they didn’t need to worry after all, but still were untrusting. They’d sit with her in silence until someone brought her lunch. She’d feed herself, which hit home to Ellen. If she can feed herself, why won’t she look at me? She asked Frank about it.
“Margaret’s a lunatic, sister. Don’t take it personal if you can help it. She checked out long ago. We kept ‘er home as long as we could, but it ain’t fair to you when she got bad and started wanderin’ off.” Ellen looked out the window as they drove. It wasn’t so terrible, having a mother locked up, out of town. Not many people in the village who knew the real details about it; that Margaret got sick shortly after she and Frank were married and the mechanic had his hands full taking care of her and her toddler, spoke of it to their faces. Gossips embellished the story with cruel lies about Margaret, that she was a kleptomaniac or worse. Word got back to the family that people in town said Frank was a better parent than Margaret ever could be, but when Ellen was old enough to understand, she didn’t think that was fair. How’d they know? She could feel that way, but didn’t want others to say it. She and Frank made a pact that they’d never speak ill of Margaret to others. To each other, anything was fair game. But if someone would dare to say anything untoward, they planned to look to the ground and sniff, like tears were near the surface. It worked every time.
After a few months of responding in this way, no one inquired after Margaret again. “It’ll make ‘em too sad if you ask,” people around town whispered. It was as if she had died long before it really happened.
Ellen, brooding, so out of character, had teenaged angst. She tried to reason it away, but couldn’t. Her mother dying might have had a little bit to do with it, but when the thought came to her she disregarded it. There isn’t much to look forward to, she thought. Her school friends got summer jobs in Beauregard; waitress jobs and babysitting jobs. Finally, she asked Frank if he’d let her come work at the garage.
“I can answer the phone,” she said. “Check people in. I’m gettin’ too old for a babysitter, and Mrs. Edwards is gettin’ too old to babysit.” He chuckled while he rubbed his chin, thinking. It made sense letting her come into to town. He didn’t want her alone all day; the thought frightening him.
“Just for the summer, now, not during school. You got to do good in school so you can go to college,” he said.
“What’ll you do if I leave for college?” Ellen asked. The thought of leaving him alone frightened her more than going away.
“I reckon the same thing I’ve been doing all along. Goin’ to work and waitin’ fer you.” They laughed out loud. Then seriously, he frowned. “You keep gettin’ good grades, sister. You’re a smart girl. No point in hanging around this place jus’ cause you grew up here.”
“You stayed! What good did college do you?” she asked. He went to college for four years so he could take over his father’s auto garage.
“If I’d gone away, I’d never met you and Margaret. So you need to go to college, regardless.”
“Not too far, though,” she said. “I want to come home each night, like I was workin’ a job in the next town.”
“We’ll see about it,” Frank answered.
By the middle of June, the routine was set. She got up with Frank as usual, but instead of sitting with him while he had his coffee, she had a cup, too. He’d put her bicycle into the back of his truck so she could leave a little earlier to start dinner each day, and they would drive off to town together. Ellen loved being in the garage right from the start. It smelled like clean oil and cigar smoke.
“How’s oil smell clean?” her best friend, Marisa Dalton asked.
“You can tell it’s from the earth,” she replied.
“But the earth isn’t clean,” Marisa would argue. “You need to come with me to Dairy Bar. I made six dollars in tips Sunday afternoon.” But Ellen didn’t want to be away from Frank; spending the day at the garage with him had always felt right to her. Since she was little, walking home from school and waiting for him at the garage was something she looked forward to.
The oil smell and the bubble gumball machine Frank polished up each week and refilled with colorful, shiny gumballs were memories from the childhoods of the children whose parents brought their cars in for repair. The garage was in the center of town, on the same side of the street as the auto supply store and Miss Logan’s Beauty Parlor and across the street from the post office, the grocery store and the café. Frank set up a low table and chairs with coloring books and crayons for the children to use while they waited, a fresh box every week. At the end of the week, he dumped the broken bits of crayon into a big metal can bolts originally came in and although a few children liked using the new crayons, most children preferred the nubs, sifting through the big can to choose just the right color. Frank papered the window facing the beauty parlor with the most recent works of coloring book art. Women getting their hair done inside would brag about their child’s page of coloring book drawings.
“That’s my Wendy’s elephant in Frank’s window today!” Whenever Frank had time, he’d box up the drawings left behind and drop them off at the local nursing home, to distribute among the residents.
For the adult customers, instead of the typical row of uncomfortable chairs with ripped vinyl seats like other garages had, he set up a bigger table and chairs, and an electric coffee pot. In the center of the table, a neat pile of current magazines he picked up at Family-Owned waited for customers to look through. Every hour he faithfully made a fresh pot of coffee. When Ellen came to work, she asked him if he’d like her to make the coffee.
“No, no, that’s all right, I’ll keep doin’ it,” he answered. “When school starts again and you leave, I’ll forget and the coffee will get thick and black and smell up the place.” She knew what he meant. Once, when she was thirteen, she got her hair cut at Miss Logan’s and the first thing she noticed when she went into the beauty parlor, above the rank ammonia smell of the hair dye and the chemicals women used to put permanent curls in their hair, was the odor of old coffee. She thought it was odd that her mechanic father kept his coffee pot shining clean and used good coffee and real cream, a little half pint carton set in a bowl of ice. Yet in a beauty shop with a bunch of women, they’d have horrible powdered junk to lighten coffee often left over from the day before. Customers coming into the garage remarked that they patronized Frank’s Garage because it was so clean and Frank made the best coffee in town.
Frank put a stool behind the counter for Ellen. He never needed one because he didn’t have time to sit down. He’d finish with a car and walk behind the counter to write the bill, and then after the customer paid he went back out into the garage to work on the next car. Now that Ellen was there, he’d walk into the office and write the bill, but give it over to Ellen who’d take the payment while Frank lotioned his hands up. “When you go back to school, my hands are gonna miss this care,” he said, teasing.
While she waited for customers to come in, Ellen read. She always brought a book with her and when she finished whatever little tasks Frank found for her to do that day; sorting nuts and bolts into their proper bins, or transcribing sales receipts into a ledger, she took her book and went back to the counter to read. Sometimes he’d have her come into the garage, which was her favorite place, and she’d do inventory of the belts and parts and other items necessary to keep an auto repair garage in business. At four each day, he’d come into the office and say the same thing. “You about ready to call it a day, sister?” She’d hop down from the stool.
“Okay, I guess it’s time,” she’d answer. He’d watch her put her helmet on, buckling the strap snuggly under her chin, and he’d resist the temptation to check it for safety.
“Be careful, now, you hear? Walk your bike across First Street, and stay up on the sidewalk as far as you can.” Ellen smiled, didn’t get ornery or defensive the way some kids got when their parents fussed. She knew he was just worried about her. “And please call when you git home.” She never forgot to call; the moment she unlocked the door and went into the house, she reached for the phone. If he couldn’t get to the phone, she’d holler into the answering machine so that her voice echoed throughout the garage.
“I’m home, Frank!” He’d grin at the car he was working on and when he got a chance always called back.
They’d have stayed in this mode of mutual love and respect forever, if it hadn’t been for that one summer night when she couldn’t sleep. After the lights went off in the house, and she saw that he’d left the light on above the stove for her, she put her head down on her knees and swept a little sand that had accumulated on the step into a pile. Meditatively, she swirled the pile into a design, first this way and then that, until she was almost mesmerized, sure she could go to sleep as soon as she could get the gumption to go inside for the night. When she started to lift her head, she knew.
The hair on her arms rose up, and the goose bumps appeared on her skin; someone was there. She could feel the difference in the way the air was coming off the water. Too afraid to move, to turn her head to look, she waited until her heart slowed down from the racing pace to which it had climbed, her throat dry, closing up so that screaming for Frank wasn’t an option. She got the courage to slowly turn her head while keeping it down on her knees, and that’s when she saw him. He was on the edge of the woods, just at the bank of the river. Having crept out of the woods, or along the bank, she could clearly see the outline of a tall, lanky man, watching her in the moonlight. His was a black silhouette, but the moonlight shone on his head as a beam of light.
With speed and precision, she leapt up from the porch and opened the screen, slamming the big door shut and locked it while she yelled for her stepfather, her voice trembling. “Frank!” There in seconds, dressed in t-shirt and sweatpants, handgun in his right hand, he grasped her arm.
“There’s someone out there,” she breathed. He went to the door and looked out the four by six inch window at eye level, automatically looking to the wood line, but seeing nothing.
“No one’s there now,” he said. “No one I can see. Man or woman?”
“Man, I’m pretty sure it was a man. He was right at the river edge, right by the big pine.” A tall pine tree towered over the rest, its roots in the soft embankment of the river so the weight of the tree was slowly pulling it over, but it was still the tallest tree.
“Stand back, stay inside,” he said, gently pulling her around behind him as he unlocked the door and opened it. Stepping out on the porch, he looked close to the house before scanning the wood line and the riverbank, but nothing popped out. “It looks like the coward retreated into the trees.” He turned to her.
“You okay?” She nodded. “It’s a durn shame a person can’t sit on their own porch after dark.” He came inside and locked up the door again. “No need to be frightened now. I’ll see to the windows and doors if you want to go back to your room.” She nodded her head. Tonight, they’d sleep with the doors to their rooms open. He called out for her, asking permission to come into her room to check the window, low and facing the front of the house.
“Just as a precaution, tonight I’m gonna pull your dresser in front of this window,” he said.
“Okay,” she answered, watching him work. Slowly, the fear the interloper instilled in her was fading; she was safe in her own house and her stepfather wouldn’t allow anyone to harm her.

Author Bio:
A retired Operating Room Nurse, Suzanne Jenkins writes from a huge vault of characters, acquaintances, co-workers and wild Greek family members. A grandmother to seven, former shepherd, she is a prolific storyteller with over twenty-five books on Amazon.

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Death sneaks in the back door of the peaceful town of Twin Lakes, Texas and nothing is ever the same again. Homicide detective, Barbara Hobkins, is thrust headlong into the investigation. A product of the ‘new direction’ in law enforcement, her strength comes from a degree in psychology and an intuition that has served her well. But will that be enough when up against a sadistic killer?

Her partner, Keith Reeves wants nothing more than to solve this case so he can have one normal night at home with his family. He fights the pressure to nail somebody, any ‘somebody’ to satisfy the powers above.

The suspect, Royce Wertco is a teenage punk; capable of the numerous petty crimes he’s been convicted of in the past, but not murder. Barbara knows this with every fiber of her being, but can she prove it?

Convinced the real killer is also responsible for a series of murders in Dallas, Hobkins tracks him to his seedy hidey-hole. There, her investigation turns into a chilling race for her life, and she almost becomes a victim of DOUBLETAKE.

*** 2015 Best Mystery by the Texas Association of Authors ***

Targeted Age Group:: Adult

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I’ve always enjoyed police-procedural stories, especially the 87th Precinct series by Ed McBain. When Margaret contacted me to see if I wanted to collaborate on a mystery novel, I thought, why not. She also had a fascination with crime and criminals and the people who catch them, so this was a good fit. Working with Margaret, I discovered that she had strengths as a writer that she brought to the project and her strengths and mine blended well. Reading the book now, I cannot pick out a scene and say, “Oh, I wrote that.”

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
In some ways, Barbara, the central character is a composite of the detective that Margaret and I secretly wanted to be. But she also has characteristics of some of the officers we interviewed. Since we knew nothing about law enforcement, it was vital that we do a lot of research. As we did that, mostly via interviews, we were able to take characteristics from the real people and create the supporting cast. While I can’t distinguish the individual writing in the book, I do know that one of the bad guys is uniquely Margarets creation, as is the medical examiner.

Book Sample
Saturday, July 29 – Dallas

Dusty stairs, shrouded in shadows, groaned in protest under his weight. Fourteen steps to the top. Six more to go. His right hand slid across the rough, peeling banister and the harsh rattling in his chest faded, replaced by a tremble of apprehension. What if someone else has been here since…
Forcing his mind to blank out that possibility, he opened the door and smiled. The room was exactly as he’d left it. The intruding streetlight cast eerie ghost-like slashes across her bare form and the dancing quality of the light mesmerized him. Against his will, his gaze was held, then transported back to the grisly scene that had played only twenty-four hours before with him in the lead…
He had been participant and spectator alike, until his brain seethed with a terrible hatred that jangled the very bones of his massive skull. His hands tore into soft flesh as he repeatedly slammed her limp body to the floor. Then her neck snapped with an audible crack When the body gave its final death twitch, he relaxed his fingers. Trembling hands wiped a river of sweat and tears across his face as he gazed at her. Madness filmed eyes didn’t see the horrid death mask.
“You really are so beautiful.” He ran his fingers through long chestnut hair, stroking it into some semblance of neatness. “There. That’s better, isn’t it?”
He hunched over the body, his mind switching crazily between reality and a foggy area of fantasy. Suddenly, a voice wailed at him. It seemed to come from the face in front of him: a face that no longer held any beauty but loomed like a buzzard waiting for its share of the spoils. The slack mouth released a vile gush of abuse, damning him, mocking him, and castrating him.
He covered his ears in a vain attempt to block the voice, but it didn’t stop. “You weren’t even worth the moment it took to make you…”
“Noooo!” He staggered into the fetid bathroom where the dank, dirty walls echoed his misery. “It’s not my fault. I never meant for anything bad to happen. Ever.”
As suddenly as it had come, the anger subsided, leaving him in a state of deathly calm. It was the only right and just thing he could have done.
He splashed cold water on his face and methodically dried himself with a well-used towel, careful to avoid the dark brown stains embedded in the cloth.
Closing the bathroom door softly, he stole one last look at the woman’s body, now mottled in death. “You look lovely in yellow,” he said.

Thursday, August 31
Releasing the air in slow spurts from his buoyancy compensator, Brad followed the grapnel guide rope to a pre-determined twenty-foot mark.
One, two, three, four…breathe. One, two, three, four…breathe. So still. So quiet. Can’t use more air than everybody else. Slow down. Three to four foot visibility? Hell! Looks more like three to four inches.
Brad relaxed his tense muscles as he reached the marker on the rope. His breathing no longer came in short, frightened spurts and his ears had finally lost the piercing pain present before equalization.
This isn’t so bad. Just a huge old pool, that’s all.
Eyes now adjusted to the cloudy, yellowish water, Brad made out the vague forms of several large boulders below. Must have been thrown there during the excavation that created this man-made lake. He’d been waiting weeks for the opportunity to play here.
Brad checked his depth gauge where the red needle quivered over the twenty-foot line then he tugged once on the guide rope to signal the next diver.
He felt something brush lightly across the back of his knees and turned awkwardly to see what it was. His movements only served to tangle his legs in yards of bright yellow, nylon rope. He fought the urge to shoot to the surface.
Don’t panic. Fear drowns. Just stay cool. Use what you learned.
The diving knife felt natural in his hand as he slashed at the strong, slender rope. Man, if ol’ Fox could see me now. He reached further down toward his ankle and felt something soft and –
His teeth clamped down on the hard, rubber mouthpiece, trapping the breath in his throat.
Rotted flesh gave way beneath his fingers and floated around him like bits of wet tissue. Tethered at the end of the rope was what had once been a living, breathing person.

CHAPTER ONE
Monday, October 4
Susan Delgrave woke and rolled over to look at the clock on Tom’s nightstand. Five forty-five. What on earth was she doing awake at such an ungodly hour? Some strange sense of unease had brushed across her like a chill wind, bringing her fully awake, but she couldn’t pin down the source. She lay listening for something, anything, but the house was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Only Tom’s soft steady breathing convinced her she was being silly. Everything was all right. Still, there had been something.
Another chill made her shiver and snuggle deeper under the blanket, seeking the warmth of her husband’s body. As she brushed against his back, he stirred and rolled toward her. She softly traced a pattern across the smooth surface of his chest and felt her own body respond, marveling at the almost mystical bond they shared.
The magic started from the first moment she’d met him in an English Literature class at Baylor and hadn’t diminished since. A man of tender sensibilities, Tom was the final ingredient for Susan’s total happiness. Recalling what measures she’d used in order to convince him of that, brought a smile to her face.
Leaning closer, she whispered, “Tom! Are you awake?”
“Who wants to know?” He opened dark brown eyes and grinned at her.
“The upstairs maid.”
She moved her hands further down his chest. He drew in a sharp breath. “If you don’t stop that in exactly three hours, I’ll tell your mother.”
Susan laughed. “She warned me that you might not respect me after. Guess I’ll just have to risk it.”
Tom slipped the straps of her gown over her shoulders, revealing breasts already eager for what was to come. He touched one peaked nipple and leaned over to kiss her. First her eyes. Then her cheeks. Finally her lips, creating a surge of passion that drew her so close she thought she could enter his very soul.
Then his lips were everywhere, searing into her chin, her neck, and her shoulders. Passion thundered through her body until it reached a fever pitch.
Oh! It was so good just to touch, to feel his hardness pushing urgently against the tiny mound of her belly. His hands trailed fire across her whole body, caressing, teasing, urging, until…
~*~
“My, God, it’s almost seven.” Susan struggled free from the tangle of blankets and Tom. “Remember, I have to use your car again. Wish you’d call the garage. All I get is, ‘sorry, Ms. Delgrave. We’re still waiting on parts.’”
“For a small fee I might consider it.” Tom stretched his large frame across the bed.
“Okay, Smarty. While you’re considering, consider this. Shower alone with no hot water.” She pulled free and ran to the bathroom, closing the door in his face.
Tom smiled, grabbed his robe and went to make coffee.
They pulled in front of Twin Lakes High School at seven fifty-five and Tom gave Susan a long, lingering kiss. She pushed him away. “What would Mrs. Temple think if she saw us now?”
“She’d probably say, ‘My, my, my, that Susan Delgrave is one lucky lady.’”
“You’re a mess,” Susan said as Tom stepped out and slammed the passenger door.
He walked around the car and leaned through her open window where he had a clear view of her open coat and the lush roundness of the top of her breasts. He reached in and pulled her coat together, caressing her at the same time. “Watch it, kid,” he said in an affected Bogart voice. “You’ll incite some poor bum to take advantage of you.” He kissed his fingers then touched her cheek.
She smiled. “Better hurry or you’ll be late.”
Walking up the pitted sidewalk to the front of the school, Tom decided he had to be the luckiest man alive. He greeted the gray-haired Mrs. Temple with a bright smile. She tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes. He continued toward his classroom, making a mental switch from lusty thoughts to the assignment he’d give the English Composition students.

Author Bio:
Maryann Miller, who hails from Winnsboro, Texas, writes the critically acclaimed Seasons Mystery Series that debuted with Open Season, and continued with Stalking Season. More recent releases are Boxes for Beds, a mystery set in Arkansas in the 60s, and Doubletake, a police procedural set in Texas. Other titles include One Small Victory, Friends Forever, The Wisdom of Ages, and Play it Again, Sam.

Miller has received the Page Edwards Short Story Award, the New York Library Best Books for Teens Award, first place in the screenwriting competition at the Houston Writer’s Conference, a semi-finalist at Sundance, a semi-finalist in the Chesterfield Screenwriting Competition, the 2015 Best Mystery Award from the TX Authors Association, The Trails Country Treasure Award from the Winnsboro Center for the Arts, and Woman of the Year from the Winnsboro Area Chamber of Commerce. She is the theatre director at the Winnsboro Center for the Arts, where she directs adult and youth productions and coordinates the annual Youth Drama Camp. Onstage, Miller has appeared in numerous productions, most recently in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

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A pregnant woman friend of Mick Murphy’s is beaten to death. As shy lay dying Murphy promises to make the killer face justice. His pursuit takes him and his mismatched eclectic friends to the Ocala National Forest looking for a meth lab run by outlaw bikers. That brief, deadly encounter leads them to the Tit-4-Tat strip club in Dayton Beach where they run into a FBI/DEA/ATF stakeout and investigation. Cooperation is short lived and the Feds are not what they seem as Murphy and his friends head back to the forest and St. Johns River to get their man.

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I grew up in the Ozark Mountains and helped my uncle run a fishing camp on the Jacks Fork River during the summer. I wrote the novel Blue Hole, which has received over (500) reviews and 126,000 downloads, based on a story my Grandfather told about a dead man he found in his swimming hole.

Because readers wanted more I wrote the SEQUEL River’s Edge. In that story I aged Dub (12) and brother Tommy (15) by 50 years and made them Grandfathers who take their Grandsons to the Blue Hole where a murder occurred the last time they were there in 1949. They become a family of cold case detectives. It’s not easy to solve a (50) year old murder but they are up for the task.

Blue Hole and River’s Edge are enjoyed by ALL ages.

(Review By) AMAZON KINDLE — Featured Author Review — Rolland Love “Love’s writing transfigures his Ozark Mountains stories into a series of fantastic tales Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer could have only dreamed of.”

Hundreds of readers have compared my writing style to Mark Twain.

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