Death by Chocolate by Sally Berneathy

Lindsay’s only secret is the recipe for her chocolate chip cookies, but she is surrounded by people with deadly secrets. Suddenly she finds herself battling poisoned chocolate, a psycho stalker, and a dead man who seems awfully active for a corpse. She will need more than a chocolate fix to survive…but that’s always a good start.

She gets help from her mysterious neighbor, Fred, an OCD computer nerd. Fred also has secrets. In spite of his mundane existence, he possesses tidbits of knowledge about such things as hidden microphones, guns, the inside of maximum security prisons and how to take someone down with a well-aimed kick to the chin.

Come for the Cookie Chip Cookies, stay for the murder, mayhem and fun!

Targeted Age Group:: All audiences
Heat/Violence Level: Heat Level 2 – PG

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
“Write what you know,” they said. I’d been married three times. I wrote romances.
Fast forward ten years.
“Write what you know,” they said. I’d been divorced three times and fantasized about murdering my ex. Only massive doses of chocolate kept my finger off the trigger.
Now I write about murder and chocolate.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My heroine, Lindsay, loves to make chocolate desserts, an evil ex, and a snarky sense of humor. There are those who say she sounds a lot like me. Well, I do write her dialogue. Fred is loosely based on a friend I went to high school with. It occurred to me one day that I'd known him for most of my life but didn't really know a lot about him. What secrets was he hiding? Fred gets his own fan mail, which I forward to my friend. King Henry, Lindsay's cat, is my cat, Leo, who now lives only in my books. He came up one day and announced he was living with me, just as King Henry does to Lindsay. Fred and Henry are my favorite characters.

Book Sample
Seated on Paula’s sofa, drinking Cokes and eating chocolate chip cookies, Paula, Zach and I laughed. I’m sure Zach didn’t know what he was laughing at, but his mommy and his Aunt Lindsay were laughing, and that made him happy.
A knock on the front door stopped the laughter.
Paula’s eyes went wide, and the blood drained from her face. Total terror. She used to do that regularly at work, freak out every time somebody came into our shop. Fortunately for our profit margin, many people come in every day, and she finally got used to it, but visitors at home were apparently still scary. Of course, she didn’t normally have visitors at home except for the postman and me.
I was sitting on the sofa and the mail didn’t come on Sunday.
She set her cup on the table, her hand shaking so badly the coffee sloshed onto her fingers.
“I’ll get it.” I bounced up, handed Zach to her and was at the door before she could protest.
Not that I think she was capable of speech at that moment.
I opened the door to see two cops on the front porch—a Suit and a Uniform.
The Uniform looked like a nice guy…young, pleasant expression, a little apologetic as if he hated to interrupt somebody’s Sunday morning. In contrast, the Suit’s face was a study in sharp angles.
The Suit flashed his badge. “Police,” he said, as if I couldn’t recognize the uniforms—both of them.
I lifted my chin and looked down my nose at him. “Chocolatier.” I couldn’t help myself. Blame it on the Coke and cookies. With all that sugar and caffeine, I was feeling ten feet tall and bullet proof.
The Uniform looked puzzled but one corner of the Suit’s mouth quirked upward as if he wanted to smile but knew he shouldn’t.
He looked me over from my messy hair to my bare feet, so I did the same to him—not that I could tell much from the blue suit, sedate tie and white shirt. Well, the tie was knotted a little crooked and the white shirt was kind of rumpled. Add all that to the way he’d almost smiled at my joke, and I was prepared to like him…unless he wanted to write me a speeding ticket.
“Are you Paula Walters?” he asked.
“No.” I felt reluctant to volunteer any information, and not just because of my paranoia about traffic tickets. I could sense waves of fear emanating from Paula who remained on the sofa behind me. She was always a careful driver, so careful I sometimes wanted to lean out the passenger door and push off with one foot to make her go faster. This wasn’t about a speeding ticket.
“Is Paula Walters here?” the Suit asked, exasperation evident in his voice. The angles of his face seemed to become even sharper.
“Yes,” I answered.
He waited.
So did I.
“Could we speak to her?” He was practically gritting his teeth. Now I was the one who had to suppress a smile. It’s not often I can frustrate a cop though I always make an effort.

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Whispered Wishes by Sue Lilley

Three people are hiding secrets. Time is running out. Secrets can’t stay buried forever…

The reclusive millionaire is protecting his motherless young daughter. The last thing he needs is a romantic distraction. His new neighbour is an intrusion. Yet he can’t get her out of his head…

The ruthless celebrity photographer will stop at nothing and never looks back. He’s the fame-hungry darling of reality TV. But past demons are catching up with him and he’s clinging too close to the edge…

The woman has sworn off men forever. Duped and humiliated, she seeks refuge in her dream cottage in the middle of nowhere. But it’s almost derelict, far from the rural idyll she craves. The guy next door is maddening. A single dad, as hostile as he’s hot…

Then tragedy comes snapping at their heels…

The child goes missing. She’s alone in the depths of winter and the three are intent on blaming each other. After all that’s occurred, old hurts run deep and trust is not on the agenda. But they must team up to find her before it’s too late. Unless they bury their toxic past, they’ll squander all hope of a happy-ever-after.

If you like your relationships fiery and unpredictable, you won’t want to miss this suspenseful romance. Get right to the heart of this sizzling love triangle. An intriguing tale of bad choices and second chances.

Targeted Age Group:: adult
Heat/Violence Level: Heat Level 4 – R Rated

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
It was inspired by a real life encounter I witnessed on a train. He was a total surf-dude and she was a young executive lawyer type. They started off bickering but after three hours on the train, they were all over each other, clearly heading for a hotel. I was intrigued and desperate to follow them. But I reined in my stalker tendencies and wrote it down instead.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I start with a situation between two people. I know why they’re there and where they’re trying to get to and then I develop them scene by scene. It’s like when you meet a new person. Only the external characteristics are visible at first then as you spend more time with them, you find out more about their background and personality. It’s their story I’m writing so for me that’s the best part of it and I have been known to walk around the house talking to them when I’m working through some dialogue. I particularly love a misunderstood rebel character, the bad boy with a soft centre. Who would love him enough to put up with that behaviour and still believe in him?

Book Sample
Olivia crushed every image of poor lost Katie, alone outside in the driving snow. She’d convinced herself the wind had sent her imagination wild. How would she bear it if she’d ignored the little girl tapping at her door?

Nathan was beating himself up. He stalked around her lounge, frantic hands tearing at his hair. Desperate to keep busy, she tidied the room. Her phone was under a magazine she hadn’t bothered to open. It was dead as a dodo again. What was wrong with the thing? She stuck it on charge in the kitchen, guilty that she could feel such relief to be out of the room.

Nathan wrenched the front door open. A blast of sleet spewed over him. She tried to pull him back but he swiped her hand away.

“I can’t sit here doing nothing. I need to be out there, searching for my daughter.”

“You’ve been out already. The police said wait.”

“So where are they?” He yanked up the zip on his battered green parka. The terror in his eyes challenged her to stop him. “This damn snow will cover every last footprint. When did it get this heavy?”

Then Bob appeared, hunched against the blizzard. He had Rufus with him. The dog struggled in the snow, deeper than its legs where it had drifted. What did that mean for Katie if she’d fallen and couldn’t get up? Olivia felt sick.

Bob closed the door behind him. Beneath the wind-burn on his cheeks, his pallor was ashen. “How far have you been? Down as far as the beck?”

“Why would she go down there?” Nathan growled, knuckles bloodless as he worried at his zip. “She’s terrified of the beck. Oh God! You think she fell in? This is your fault,” he lashed at Olivia. “If you’d bothered to put that fence up, this wouldn’t be happening.”

Tears stung her eyes. There was nothing she could say in her own defence.

“No need for that,” Bob said. “Far as I know, that land’s never been fenced.” He thumped a torch into Nathan’s palm. “She’ll be home before you know it. But let’s look anyway. Put your mind at rest.”

Olivia dreaded being alone with her morbid thoughts. But someone had to stay and wait for the police. The empty house echoed with Katie’s infectious chuckle. What if they never heard it again?

Nathan’s wishing well sat on its shelf, the hopeful gift neglected in the gloom of their falling-out. She stroked the inscription and made a wish, whispering in the shadows for Katie to be found unscathed…

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Could an old-fashioned ballgown be used to commit murder?

Daiyu Wu is aware that fear of the Yellow Terror has made her nationality a rare breed in the Lone Star State. Being Chinese and blind makes her doubly unique in 1930 Dallas. Despite these impediments, anyone who dismisses her for either fact does so at their peril.

One day, at her family-owned laundry business, Dai detects the scent of burned garlic. With the help of her companion, Jacques, the source is soon discovered. It is a green ballgown. The gown has money pinned inside it to pay for the cleaning, but oddly, it came with no address label to identify its owner. Her extensive knowledge leads Dai to believe someone has committed murder using arsenic. The perpetrator is trying to use White Laundry to hide the evidence. But no mention of foul play turns up in the newspapers, and there’s not enough proof to convince the police there’s been a crime.

Her curiosity and intellect stimulated like never before; Dai ignores the possible consequences and sets out to solve the mystery with the help of her canine companion, Prince Razor, and her confidant, Jacques Haskins. It’s either that or let the killer get away with it — assuming a spoiled popinjay, his jealous self-appointed girlfriend, and Dai’s overprotective parents don’t get in her way.

A Daiyu Wu Mystery – Book 1

Buy Black Jade – A Daiyu Wu Mystery Here

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“For anyone who loves Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, or who enjoys cleverly plotted mysteries dressed in period costumes.” – Kansas City Jewish Chronicle

Lady Marblehead is not pleased. In fact, she’s furious. Not only is someone trying to poison her, but the impertinent scoundrel is after her jewels too.

All the clues seem to point to her new doctor, a young Jewish man recently arrived in London. But is he really the one responsible? Or is there some darker, more malevolent force at work?

In this first book in the Jewish Regency Mystery Series, it’s up to wealthy-widower-turned-sleuth Mr. Ezra Melamed to find the culprit — before the poisoner strikes again.

Targeted Age Group:: Adults

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I love mysteries – Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, et al. I'm also interested in Jewish history. So, when I first thought about creating a mystery series, I thought, "Why not combine the two?" And I love the fact that I'm writing about a Jewish community that most people know very little about – the Ashkenazic Jews who were living in England while Jane Austen was writing her novels and Napoleon was causing trouble on the Continent.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
At the risk of sounding a bit weird – and trust me, I don't know how this works, myself – my ensemble of main characters were already waiting in the wings when I had to write up a series synopsis for my original editors. The only latecomer was Miss Rebecca Lyon. One of my editors wanted the series to be a bit more "feminine," because the publishing house was going to target a primarily female audience. So instead of using an omniscient narrator, I decided to have a female character narrate the story. That was Miss Lyon, a young aspiring author, and I'm happy I made the change because her point of view adds a lot of humor to the story.

Book Sample
CHAPTER I

“Re…be…cca! Reh…! Beh…! Beh…! ”
“Rebecca, why do you vex the child, when Isaac cannot speak? Your time would be more profitably spent in helping us hem these clothes.” Mrs. Rose Lyon gave her daughter a disapproving glance and then returned her attention to the tiny dress that sat in her lap.
Rebecca stroked the cheek of her nephew, Master Isaac Goldsmith, age four weeks, to reassure the infant that his inability to articulate the name of his eldest (and surely favorite) aunt was no aspersion on either his intelligence or his affectionate nature. “You want to say my name. I know you do,” she whispered. When she was greeted by a smile, or something that seemed very like, she, in turn, was reassured that her high estimation of her only nephew had not been misplaced.
“Give me the dress, Mama, and I will hem it,” said the infant’s mother, Mrs.Hannah Goldsmith. “Rebecca is much better employed in amusing Isaac.”
Rebecca could feel the tips of her ears turn red. She dearly loved her older sister, considering Hannah to be everything that a Daughter of Israel should be, but wished that Hannah had not brought up the subject, even subtly, of Rebecca’s inability to sew her stitches in an even line.
“She must learn to master the needle,” Mrs. Lyon said with a heartfelt sigh, plying her needle with expert motion. “What will people say when her children enter the Great Synagogue with ragged hems and uneven sleeves?”
“That is still several years away. She has ample time to improve her needlework. The main thing is to want to improve, which I am sure is a thing that Rebecca desires as much as you do. Is that not so, Rebecca?”
Rebecca did not answer at once. The truth was that she much preferred to wield a pen or a paintbrush than a needle, which always seemed to play pranks with her fingers and make the most disconcerting movements on the cloth. When she had heard Mr. Franks, the father of her good friend Miss Harriet Franks, discuss with her father a machine that could cut cloth, sew seams and hems, and even produce a tolerable buttonhole, she had begged her father to procure the wonder at once.
“Is such a machine in existence today?” Mr. Lyon had asked.
“Oh, I do not speak of today,” Mr. Franks had replied. “I speak of a future time, when the machine will perform many of the mundane tasks that currently occupy our hours.”
At the time, Rebecca had been contented with this answer. Now, however, she silently wondered if that future epoch might occur within the next six or seven years, when she could expect to take her place among the married matrons of London’s Jewish community. If so, she would be spared much agony. In the meanwhile, though, she was aware that both her sister and her mother were waiting for her reply.
“Yes, Hannah, I should like to improve. And I am sorry you no longer live with us in Devonshire Square, as I am sure that now that I am older I should make a much better pupil.”
“Bury Street is not so very far.”
“No, but you are so busy, since you have become a mother.”
“I have not the time, it is true, but perhaps Miss Taylor could perform the duties of a teacher.”
Mrs. Lyon, who had been following the conversation with interest, said with astonishment, “Why should a stranger teach Rebecca sewing, when she has a mother to instruct her?”
“I did not mean to offend, Mama, but I think you will like my little scheme when you hear it.”
At that moment the patriarch of the family, Mr. Samuel Lyon, entered the drawing room. In place of his usually genial manner, a more serious expression was etched upon his face. “What is this, Hannah? Motherhood should elevate a young lady, not turn her into a schemer or gossip.”
“Yes, Papa, but before you judge me, please do me the favor of first hearing what scheme I have planned.”
Mr. Lyon took his accustomed seat by the hearth and motioned for his eldest child to proceed.
”It has come to my attention that the situation of Mr. Taylor and his sister is not all that it should be,” Hannah began. “Their rooms are above ours, on Bury Street, as you know, Papa.”
Mr. Lyon, having unintentionally fallen into the role of judge, nodded his head in what he hoped was a suitably judicial manner.
“Knowing that they are but newly arrived in London, and apparently without family or acquaintances,” Hannah continued, “I have on more than one occasion invited Miss Taylor to my apartments for tea. But she has refused my overtures.”
“This surprises me,” said Mr. Lyon. “They accepted our invitation to the Seder. Miss Taylor seemed to be a sensible, well-bred young lady.”
“She praised my special recipe for gefilte fish exceedingly,” added Mrs. Lyon, by way of agreement with her husband.
“I believe she is a well-bred person, as well,” Hannah replied, “and that it is only the embarrassment of a too limited income that prevents her from accepting my invitations. If she were to have tea with me, she would feel obligated to invite me in return, and it is my belief that she and her brother do not have enough food for themselves, let alone others.”
“I do not understand you, Hannah,” said Mrs. Lyon. “Is not Mr. Taylor employed as physician to the Jewish orphanage? And how can he engage rooms on Bury Street, if he does not possess a comfortable income? The building is owned by Mr. Melamed, who maintains his own apartments in the house next door. It is fantastic to suggest that Mr. Melamed would let his property to paupers.”
Mr. Lyon cleared his throat loudly and rose from his seat.
“What are you doing, Mr. Lyon?” asked his helpmeet, as she watched him search behind the high-backed settle that stood in a corner of the room. “Passover has finished. There is no longer a need to search for chometz.”
“It is not unleavened bread that I am searching for,” he replied, turning his attention to the long-case clock and looking inside. Satisfied that the case was empty of all but the workings of the stately clock, he next walked over to the door that led to the library, which he quickly opened and just as quickly closed.
“Then what are you looking for?”
“Joshua,” he replied, striding down to the far end of the drawing room, where he opened the door that led to the hall.
“Joshua and Esther and Sarah are in the nursery, in bed.”
“In theory, but I wish to be certain.”
After casting a careful eye behind the curtains, and finally assuring himself that a certain inquisitive six-year-old boy was not hidden in the room, Mr. Lyon returned to his place by the mantelpiece.
“What I am about to say must go no further than these four walls,” he began, casting a solemn glance upon each of the ladies in turn. “Mr. Taylor and his sister are, indeed, without family or friends. Their parents died of the fever in Jamaica, as I understand, and Mr. Taylor used the small legacy he received to undergo training as a physician. I believe he studied somewhere on the Continent.”
“If I recall correctly, at the Seder he mentioned that he had studied in Gottingen,” said Hannah.
“Why did he study medicine in a German city and not in England?” asked Rebecca.
“There is only one medical school in England that will accept young men of our faith, and places are limited,” replied Mr. Lyon. “Mr. Taylor was not accepted, perhaps because he was neither born nor reared in this country.”
Rebecca accepted this answer, but as so often happened, no sooner had one question been resolved than another one rushed into her mind. “I wonder that he did not return to Jamaica, to become a physician there. Jamaica must be very beautiful.”
“The island might have its charms for an artist,” said Mr. Lyon, well aware of his daughter’s interest in painting and drawing. “But Mr. Taylor has an unmarried sister, and the Caribbean is not the place to find her a suitable husband.”
“But if she has no fortune, what good will it do her to be in England?” asked Mrs. Lyon, who was always very practical when it came to matrimonial matters.
“Once her brother is established as a physician, Miss Taylor’s prospects should improve.”
Mrs. Lyon remained doubtful. “His work at the orphanage cannot bring him much. Has he other patients?”
“I believe that Mr. Melamed engaged his services before Passover. And should anyone in our family require a physician, I have assured Mr. Melamed that we shall send for Mr. Taylor, as well.”
“Thank G-d, our children are healthy – pooh, pooh, pooh,” said Mrs. Lyon, looking nervously about her to make sure that no demon harbingers of disease had crept into the room. “I should not like to have a physician as a regular visitor to our home, unless, of course, it was to invite Mr. Taylor and his sister for a Shabbos meal.”
“I only say that should one of our children develop a cough or a sore throat, we would be doing Mr. Melamed a favor by sending for Mr. Taylor. You, Rebecca, for instance, if I am not mistaken, this evening you are looking a little pale. Are you perhaps not feeling well?”
“I am very well, only I am puzzled. Why would we be doing Mr. Melamed a favor by engaging the services of …?” Rebecca suddenly blushed. “Oh, I see. Mr. Taylor and his sister are Mr. Melamed’s current charity case, is that it, Papa?”
“Mr. Melamed is most likely letting the rooms on Bury Street for a minimal sum, until Mr. Taylor’s medical practice is established,” said Hannah, taking up the conversation’s thread.
“Our Sages tell us that the highest form of charity is to help set up a person in business, so that one day he will no longer need public assistance,” said Mr. Lyon. “Therefore, it is the responsibility of all of us to help newcomers to our community, not just Mr. Melamed.”
“But we do not have to make ourselves sick to do so,” insisted Mrs. Lyon.
“That is why I should like to tell you my scheme, Papa. I have also tried to think of a way to help Mr. Taylor and his sister.”
“If your intention is to help and not harm, Hannah, I should very much like to hear what you have to say.”
“You, Papa, would not notice the expert manner in which Miss Taylor has mended and refashioned her walking costume from last year, but such things do attract a lady’s eye. I therefore thought that perhaps she could be employed to teach needlework to Rebecca and Esther and Sarah. We could say that she would be doing us a great favor, since Mama and I are so busy with making bed linen for the baby that we do not have the time to instruct the girls ourselves.”
“If Miss Taylor would give her assent, it would be a very good scheme, indeed. Do you not agree, Mrs. Lyon?”
“With all my heart,” said Mrs. Lyon. “Invite Miss Taylor to pay us a call the day after tomorrow, Hannah. I shall inform Mrs. Baer.”
“Mrs. Baer?” Mr. Lyon protested. “Surely her duties at the coffee house would prevent her from attending a sewing party.”
“I do not like to contradict you, my dear, but I assure you that once Mrs. Baer hears that there is an orphaned young lady in London who is in search of a husband, there is nothing that will prevent her from making Miss Taylor’s acquaintance.”

Author Bio:
Libi Astaire is the author of the award-winning Jewish Regency Mystery Series. While her main interest is the Jews of England, she also writes about Jewish history for several publications and her assignments have taken her to Catalonia, Poland and Ukraine, Hong Kong, and other places. She lives in Jerusalem, Israel.

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Of all times to travel to upstate New York, Megan Cary told herself as she hurried into Grand Central Station, it was at the height of a blizzard.
It is January 1928. Megan Cary, a young and stylish librarian, is on her way to the state library conference. On the train, Meg meets Janet Faraday who confides that she killed her son’s father six years earlier—and got away with it.
With her marriage crumbling, Meg can no longer tolerate her husband Adam’s moodiness and philandering. She harbored thoughts of divorce but murder?
During a family visit, Adam mysteriously dies. Meg finds a suicide note and the police want to quickly close the case. So does Adam’s mother Helen, the stern matriarch of the family. Skeptical that Adam would kill himself, Meg hires a private detective whose investigation ultimately unravels family secrets as a series of surprising deaths occur over two cold and snowy weeks in Albany.
Janet falls under a trolley and is killed. Yet a witness claims she saw someone push Janet to her death. Then comes the abrupt death of Helen’s maid. Soon after, a neighborhood busybody, who was present at the time of Adam’s death, falls down her cellar stairs and dies. Meg wonders if these deaths could somehow be related.
THE LATE MR. CARY is a classic mystery set in the stately home of an upper crust family in the 1920s, bringing the 1920s to life—amidst a parade of death!

Targeted Age Group:: Adults

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I enjoy history and especially the era of the 1920s. I set my mystery in the 1920s as it is a fascinating period in American history.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
As a librarian and foreign language teacher, I know the intricacies of research and have painstakingly recreated the historical setting in which this mystery occurs, as well as spent countless hours developing the book’s tightly woven plot. I look forward to writing further novels in this series. Relevant critiques of this work include participating in the NYS Summer Writers Institute and the Bouchercon Mystery Festival. The main character of my novel is also a librarian and the story is told through her point of view. In keeping with the times, she is also a flapper!

Book Sample
Chapter 1
January 1928
Grand Central Station, New York City

Of all times to travel to upstate New York, Megan Cary told herself as she paid the taxi and hurried into the station, it had to be the height of a blizzard.
She thought she must be foolish to take this trip. Yesterday afternoon, as she finished work at the library and read the notices in the newspaper, the weather prognosis hadn’t seemed too bad. Accumulating snow, which already created havoc for the Midwest was slowly approaching the Northeast. By late afternoon, the winds were predicted up to forty miles an hour and winter storm watches were posted. The picture worsened by the hour, along with Meg’s mood.
She looked up at the departures board. Then she found the staircase to take her to the boarding platform for the four-forty train to Albany. She shivered at the chill wind, thinking how lonely train stations could feel. She heard an announcement that her train was pulling into the station after a ten-minute delay. Her husband Adam told her he would meet her at the station to say goodbye before she left. He was too busy at the pharmaceutical company and as he put it “just couldn’t take time off.” She looked at the crowd and could not see him. But then she finally spotted him. He came, after all, to see her off. She called his name, but he was swallowed up in a mad rush of people. She caught a glimpse of his back, retreating up the platform. At that moment, an announcement was made to board the train. Meg turned, walked down the platform, and turned once more hoping Adam might be there. She realized she was blocking other passengers from entering. Abruptly she turned and boarded quickly but then found she had to fight another crowd,
only this time in the train itself. She saw an empty window seat. She put her suitcase on the rack above her head and then stretched out in the seat, filled with the mixed emotions of leaving home and her husband.
Megan Cary was on her way to Albany to attend the state library conference. Meg was employed as a librarian at the New York Public Library in Manhattan. She planned to stay with her in-laws who lived in Albany and looked forward to seeing her sister-in-law with whom she attended graduate school at New York University. Both she and Iris, Adam’s sister, were librarians. They planned to attend the convention. Meg enjoyed hearing about the state library where Iris worked, and they often talked shop about their diverse library endeavors.
She looked out the window at the darkness of the underground station, seeing her own reflection. At twenty-five, Meg had been told she was attractive. Although she knew she was not pretty, her golden hair was neat, her white skin and delicate features a source of gratification. She was sensibly dressed in a long skirt and a heavy fur coat to keep warm. She wore a light lipstick, some earrings, and a string of pearls. Overall, as she finished brushing her hair and replaced the brush in her purse, she was pleased with her appearance.
As if in a trance, she continued looking out the train window. The feelings she had experienced prior to boarding suddenly came back, quite strongly. It wasn’t the idea of leaving her husband Adam. She thought more than once of leaving him and even considered not returning to New York City after the convention ended. She thought of staying in Albany, making a new life for herself. But she knew she would never be free of Adam. And with her mother-in-law in Albany, that would be foolish.
She tried to shrug it off. It’d be good to get away for awhile. She’d go shopping with Iris when she had spare time. Satisfied with her plans, she opened her pocketbook, not exactly sure what she was looking for. Lipstick, her wallet, aspirin, loose change, business cards. She looked through the cards, her hairdresser, a florist, Sloane Sheppard. She looked again at this last card. Her mind raced back several years. She had met Sloane at the New York Public Library when he was there for research. She had helped him find information from the 1920 census for somebody or other, she couldn’t remember. He was a private investigator and a librarian, too. Didn’t she read how some wives had their husbands investigated if they suspected infidelity?
She saw the New York Times stuffed in the magazine holder in the seat ahead of her. The article on the front page made her look twice and shake her head in disbelief.
Meg read about Ruth Snyder, a housewife from Queens who killed her husband and was put to death yesterday, January the twelfth, for her crime. She died in the electric chair in Sing- Sing Prison! She shivered as she looked at the photograph of Ruth Snyder strapped in the electric chair and the article underneath it. She wondered incredulously how a wife could kill her husband. Did that really happen? Apparently so, she mused and continued reading the Snyder article.
Her reverie was broken by a conductor walking down the aisle and loudly announcing a weather-related delay. Meg sighed impatiently at another delay when suddenly another conductor approached and stopped at her seat.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked Meg and didn’t wait for a response before he said, “Here’s a seat, ma’am!”
So much for polite conductors, Meg thought. She looked up to see a woman hastily making her way down the aisle.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” the woman called. She smiled at the conductor, and then sat down rather eagerly next to Meg.
She was hoping no one would sit next to her and that she’d be alone for the entire trip. But with the way the train was filling up Meg realized that was highly unlikely.
She then smiled despite herself as she looked at the woman next to her. She seemed like an agreeable sort, middle age at the most. She had gray hair of a pretty tone and was sensibly dressed in a long skirt, blouse, and a heavy sweater. She had a winter coat on her lap and on the floor near her feet was a rather large traveling bag from which she extracted a ball of yarn. She immediately began to knit. The conductor hoisted her suitcase onto the rack above and then took his leave.
“These trains never leave on time,” the woman said, consulting her watch. “We were supposed to leave about fifteen minutes ago.”
“I heard someone say the weather up north is worse,” Meg commented.
“Oh, don’t worry, dear," the woman said pleasantly. “Where are you headed?”
“Albany.”
“Oh, how nice. Don’t worry about the snow. The trains run in any weather!”
“Where are you going?”

“To Plattsburgh. Northern New York is beautiful in January.”
“I’ve lived in New York City my whole life,” Meg said, “the seasons are lovely.” “New York isn’t usually this snowy,” the woman commented.
She paused and looked out the window, at the darkness of the underground of Grand Central Station.
“My name is Mrs. Irene Hanson," she said and smiled.
“Megan Cary,” Meg said. “You look as if you’ve traveled by train before.”
“Many times, dear,” Mrs. Hanson smiled. “I never learned how to drive.”
Meg smiled and hoped the conversation would end there. In the somewhat melancholy and reflective mood she was in, she did not feel like exchanging small talk with a stranger. But the woman seemed intent on continuing the conversation.
“Will you be visiting someone in Albany? Or do you live there?”
“Yes, I’m staying with my in-laws and it is for business,” Meg said. Before Mrs. Hanson could ask what type of business, Meg added, “I’m a librarian. I’m attending the state library convention.”
“How exciting,” Mrs. Hanson commented.
“I work at the New York Public Library,” Meg said, “I enjoy helping patrons.” She
thought that wasn’t saying much. It seemed to bring an end to the conversation, for Mrs. Hanson smiled, leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
The train now jerked forward, doors were slammed shut and after a delay that seemed to Meg an eternity the locomotive drifted slowly out of the station. She also must have dozed until Mrs. Hanson roused her with another question.
“Is there a cafe car? I should wait till the conductor has checked my ticket.” Meg told her she heard a ticket agent mention a cafe car several cars back.
“Do you have children?” Mrs. Hanson asked suddenly.
Meg looked at her curiously and was rather taken aback by her bluntness. Does she have children? What business was that of hers? Just what she needed; a busybody as a traveling companion, prying into things that were not her concern. But then Meg forced a short smile and knew Mrs. Hanson meant no harm by her question.
“My husband and I plan to have children eventually. He’s a chemist and is busy with his work.”
“I have just one son,” Mrs. Hanson commented somewhat sadly as if she either regretted it or regretted not having another.
“Well, Adam had never really wanted…”
Meg stopped suddenly. People passing in the aisle, the train at full speed, the conductors checking tickets; everything you’d expect to see and hear on a train was going on this moment and here she was telling her personal life to a complete stranger.
Really Meg, she thought, you don’t know this woman. Yet she seemed so kind with that benign face. Meg felt, somehow, that she could confide her innermost feelings to her, as if all her pent-up frustrations could be understood by the kindness of this total stranger.
“Is there something wrong, dear?” the woman asked sympathetically as though she could read her mind. Perhaps, Meg thought, she could. “Of course, it’s none of my business,” she continued.
Meg found herself nodding. “My husband Adam and I have had our share of problems. He gets moody at times.”
She looked out the window. In the glass she saw Adam going up the platform. Why hadn’t he tried to get nearer to her? Of course, the mad rush of people. Was that the cause of her apprehension? The fact that she didn’t kiss her husband good-bye. That deep down she felt she couldn’t trust him? That he may be seeing someone else, especially in her absence. Meg awoke from her reverie to hear Mrs. Hanson ask her another question.
“Did he bring you to the station?”
Meg nodded. “He met me there because he was extremely busy at work. I just missed him in the crowd. We’re successful in our own careers.” She spoke as if she was trying to convince herself that what she was saying was true.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, dear. I never had a career. Many years ago, a man caused me great pain. But I took care of it.”
Meg asked, “Are you divorced?”
“Oh no, dear.” Mrs. Hanson looked appalled at the thought. “He already had a wife, which I didn’t know at the time. And was involved with another woman, too. Besides, people in small towns rarely divorced, too scandalous. So, I did away with him.”
If Mrs. Hanson had been the type of woman who enjoyed causing an impact, perhaps one that an actress would give upon reading a dramatic line or an army general upon giving orders to attack, then she’d have been pleased at the expression on Meg’s face.
“Don’t look upset, dear,” Mrs. Hanson said pleasantly. She continued knitting placidly. “It was an accident. Well, at least it seemed like one.”
“When did it happen?” Meg asked in disbelief.
“Six years ago,” she answered and sighed.
Meg swallowed hard and went white. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve never told it to anyone. Strange how I felt I could confide in you.”
Yes, it was strange, Meg thought, because she felt the same way about her.
“He was on trial for murder?” Meg asked.
“Yes, my son’s father was accused of killing his girlfriend’s husband. He and the other man struggled with a gun; the other man was shot and died instantly. He said the man pulled on gun on him first. I believed he had the gun and they argued, struggled, and the gun went off. He had a great attorney, too.”
“Wasn’t there proof of his guilt?”
“Hardly any,” Mrs. Hanson said rather scornfully. “With his acquittal, he was even more arrogant and wouldn’t think of changing his lifestyle. He was drunk, and that morning was nothing new. I fixed some coffee and crushed a few tablets in it to make him sleepy. When we were getting ready to go to the lawyer’s office, I told him to go to the garage to warm up the car. It was winter then and cold just like it is today. As we were about to take off, I told him I left my gloves in the kitchen. I waited a few minutes, then returned to close the garage door and went back inside the house.”
“You mean he…”
Mrs. Hanson’s needles clicked. “Yes, dear, carbon monoxide. It happens all the time in winter. People sit in their cars to get them all warmed up and then fall into a nice, deep sleep and never wake up again. When his attorney called, I pretended I just woke up and then went to the garage. When I went back to the phone, I cried and carried on for the lawyer.” She paused. “I regretted doing it at first but when I think of how I suffered because of him, I have no regrets.”
“And did the police suspect you of killing him?”
Mrs. Hanson shook her head and continued knitting. “No, dear, no breath of suspicion fell on me. It was deemed an accident and was soon forgotten.”
Meg was dumbfounded. With her mouth open, she looked at Mrs. Hanson. She didn’t know whether to believe the woman. How could she kill someone and get away with it? This sweet woman a killer? She fought a desire to laugh. Did she expect Meg to believe her?
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Mrs. Hanson whispered. “No one would believe it anyway.” She put her knitting in the magazine holder. “But you know, it really is quite easy to kill someone,” she added upon reflection. She looked around and then at Meg. “I’m dying for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Care to join me?”
“No, thank you,” Meg said. She watched as Mrs. Hanson walked down the aisle and disappeared into the next car.
She looked out the window, saw the Hudson River covered in snow and wondered where they were. They could not be too far from Poughkeepsie. She would have to contend with this excitable woman for just two more hours. She settled more comfortably in her seat. She decided to put this woman with the overactive imagination out of her mind and she soon fell asleep.

Author Bio:
As a librarian and foreign language teacher, author Michael Campeta knows the intricacies of research and has painstakingly recreated the historical setting in which this mystery occurs, as well as spent countless hours developing the book’s tightly woven plot. He looks forward to writing further novels in this series. Relevant critiques of this work include participating in the NYS Summer Writers Institute and the Bouchercon Mystery Festival.

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