Guest Post: MJ Markovski – WHATEVER IT TAKES



Good morrow, my fellow book people. Have you ever wondered what makes us readers vs. writers? What pushes some of us with the desire to write to actually break free and begin writing? Today’s guest, is MJ Markovski, author of Whatever It Takes and she’ll be sharing with us what pushed her into writing and provide some insight into Whatever It Takes and a few of her other books. I hope you’ll enjoy her story. Thank you, Ms. Markovski, for taking time away from your writing to visit with us today.






My name is Marija (Maria) Salapanov Carpenter and I’m writing as MJ Markovski. I became disabled in 2009 after one exasperation from MS that doctors at that time had thought I would die. But here I am in the worst of that I’m in an electronic wheelchair for mobility. I looked at it as God’s way of giving me more time to write.

There are two things you should know about me and these two words describe me very well: tenacious and complicated.

I wrote two stories during my recovery which I will be submitting to my editor for review and they came to me and dreams. One titled, Not Dark Enough and the other one titled Worse Than Bad. Both are dystopian young adult fantasy novels. But my latest book that was published is titled Whatever It Takes. This was spurred upon a dream but completed when my husband at that time had not only left me but my children.

I chose not to wallow in my sorrows but use those emotions to pour into the novel of Whatever It Takes. Here’s the logline on Whatever It Takes:

On the run from a dark conspiracy she uncovered while working as a law clerk in New York, Regan Argent, a whip-smart but naïve Texas girl, seeks refuge in her hometown of Parker, just this side of Dallas, where she meets Hunter, a pararescue man on leave who is trying to enjoy a rare moment of quiet. But when Regan’s past catches up to them, they’ll be faced with a choice: save each other, or die trying.


Okay here’s a snippet from chapter 3. “So help me, if I find out who you are. I’ll slap a harassment suit on you so quick it’ll set your head spinning.”
“I can see you. I can see you’re scared.” The caller hung up.

Whatever It Takes will be known as The Takes Series.

I am a proud mother of two wonderful children. Technically three because my son is engaged to a wonderful woman who I call my daughter-in-law.

Besides the books here mentioned what I am planning on writing in the near future are two futuristic science fiction young adult novels. One about a boy that’s caged by the CDC. The other boy whose soul is ripped from him but the choice he made and now must wonder his existence and find the soul he was supposed to save before he completely loses his humanity.

Needless to say, I plan to be a writer as a career forever! Thanks for allowing me to be a guest on your blog.


MJ







Meet the author


Marija Salapanov Carpenter writing as MJ Markovski was born in Detroit, Michigan to Macedonian immigrant parents, raised very sheltered, and then moved to Arizona for college. Ended up staying in Tucson.

MJ graduated with her Masters from the University of Phoenix in Accounting. She’s worked with government contractor as a Financial Accountant as well as an advisor for taxes. She ran a small business of doing taxes for family and friends for a while in the early 2000s then stopped because of the MS exasperation that landed her in the hospital. But when she regained her health, she put that business aside and she began seriously writing. That self-run business reignited her passion in her writing and to help others as well when the opportunity comes to help other fellow writers.

MJ enjoys spending time with her family and friends when she can, loves reading, watching a movie once in a great while with her daughter, spending some time outside (when it’s cool and not in the heat of Arizona) life is full of complications but every morning getting up in writing with her vitamin smoothies and coffee is a perfect start of the day.


Visit the author at her website






Whatever It Takes, The Takes #1, by MJ Markovski
ISBN: 9781633633773 (paperback)
ASIN: B07ND84Y85 (Kindle edition)
Publisher: White Bird Publications
Publication Date: February 26, 2019



Regan Argent inwardly uncovered a dark conspiracy that has her on the run. Forcing her to return to her childhood home, a small town just outside Dallas, to seek refuge. Unexpectedly, she bumps into Hunter Grainger, a man she never saw coming. An Air Force pararescue man, with only one person who is supposed to know of his return home. The unexpected meeting ignites a chain of events where they will be forced to help each other or be executed.






This guest post brought to you by BreakThrough Promotions



Buy the Book




Support Independent Bookstores - Visit IndieBound.org



   



   



Whatever It Takes

Guest Post: Albert Bell – DEATH BY ARMOIRE



Good day, my fellow book people. There are probably billions of books out there to read and millions of authors. I consider myself fortunate if I get to 0.001% of the books published in my lifetime. Having said that, I’m always eager to learn about new-to-me authors and books and I hope you are as well. Today, I’m pleased to introduce you to a new-to-me author and book, Albert A. Bell Jr. and Death by Armoire, A Palmetto Antiques Mystery. Mr. Bell is a prolific and award-winning author and is going to be discussing with us the importance of not being limited in writing characters and stories today. I hope you’ll enjoy learning from him and, hopefully, you’ll grab a copy of Death by Armoire to read if your interest is piqued. Thank you, Mr. Bell, for stopping by today and sharing with us.





One question that is often posed when people talk about books is whether authors can write about characters who are different from them in various ways—different ethnicity, different sexual identity, different age, different gender. Sometimes today when, for example, white authors write about African American characters, they’re accused of “cultural appropriation.”

But are authors to be limited to writing only about people who are like them? How boring that would be! To be a writer is to try to get inside the minds of different characters and show readers the world from their point of view. Shakespeare was not a love-sick teenager when he created Romeo and Juliet. The ancient Greek playwright Euripides was not a woman, but his Medea gives one of the finest expressions of what a woman’s life was like in that time period. J.K. Rowling is not a wizard-in-training, but she has created a world that shows us what such a character might experience. 

Now, do I have the braggadocio to talk about my writing in the same breath with Shakespeare, Euripides, and Rowling? No, I’m going to sit back, take a couple of deep breaths, and then talk about my writing because that’s what I’ve been invited to do.

I like to write in the first person, but does that mean all of my characters have to be me? My main series is about Pliny the Younger, a wealthy, slave-owning, Roman aristocrat who is about 25 years old. I am none of those things, but readers and reviewers tell me that I’ve created a character who feels real to them. I’ve written three middle-grade mysteries with first-person narrators who are eleven years old. I once was eleven, but that was a long time ago.

In two other books, written in the first person, the main characters/narrators are women. In Death Goes Dutch, Sarah DeGraaf is a Korean-American adoptee in her late 20s. In Death by Armoire, Maureen Cooper is a 45-year-old divorcee. Again, I am none of those things.

So, can a male author write female characters, especially from a first-person p.o.v.? In the movie, As Good As It Gets, Jack Nicholson plays a writer of romance novels. Someone asks him, “How do you write women so well?” Nicholson responds, “I think of a man and I take away reason and accountability.” That’s a highly misogynistic attitude, and I certainly don’t endorse it.

People have joked about me getting in touch with my feminine side. I believe I just write about the character who best fits the situation. My wife had worked with an adoption agency doing the work that Sarah DeGraaf does in Death Goes Dutch. I have two daughters who are adopted from Korea. How could I not write about Sarah in the way that I did? In Death by Armoire, Maureen just stepped onto the stage and took over the story from the very beginning. Next to Pliny, I think she is my favorite character I’ve created in my thirteen fiction books.

So, can authors write about characters of the opposite gender? Some don’t think so. They use pseudonyms or they identify themselves by their initials. When I showed Death Goes Dutch to my publisher, I raised the possibility of using a feminine pseudonym. She felt, though, that if people had come to respect me as an author from my previous books, they were more likely to be drawn to the book if it had my real name on it. Using a pseudonym amounted to starting over.

I felt good about Death by Armoire as I was working on it. I really liked Maureen Cooper, as did my writers’ group. I got some affirmation about the character and the book when it won first place in the Genre Fiction category of Writers’ Digest’s 2018 Contest for Self-Published Books. Yes, I did self-publish it, not because of lack of confidence in it, but because I’m getting too old to spend two or three years chasing agents and/or publishers. I have several other books on my “bucket list,” and I’m working on a sequel to Death by Armoire.





Meet the author

Albert A. Bell, Jr discovered his love for writing in high school, with his first publication in 1972. Although he considers himself a “shy person,” he believes he is a storyteller more than a literary artist. He says, “When I read a book I’m more interested in one with a plot that keeps moving rather than long descriptive passages or philosophical reflection.” He writes books he would enjoy reading himself. 

A native of South Carolina, Dr. Bell has taught at Hope College in Holland, Michigan since 1978, and, from 1994 – 2004 served as Chair of the History Department. He holds a Ph.D. from UNC-Chapel Hill, as well as an MA from Duke and an MDiv from Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary. He is married to psychologist Bettye Jo Barnes Bell; they have four children and two grandsons. Bell is well-known for the historical mysteries of the series, Cases from the Notebooks of Pliny the Younger. Corpus Conundrum, third of the series, was a Best Mystery of the year from Library Journal. The Secret of the Lonely Grave, first in the series of Steve and Kendra Mysteries for young people, won a Mom’s Choice Silver Medal and the Evelyn Thurman Young Readers Award.




Death by Armoire A Palmetto Antiques Mystery by Albert A. Bell, Jr.
ISBN: 9781545320235 (Paperback)
ASIN: B06ZZ26H1P (Kindle edition)
Publication Date: April 16, 2017

Maureen Cooper values her quiet life in the small Southern town that has been her family’s home for generations. Her work as a ghost-writer for celebrities allows her to work from her large, Victorian house. But when her ex-husband Troy is found dead under a massive armoire in the antique store he and his father maintained as an excuse for their hoarding, distressing complexities mount. Who broke into the store and searched through the armoire and related pieces? How does Troy’s current love interest fit in? What about his high school sweetheart who returns from a prison sentence, and who fathered her son? Will Maureen’s involvement with a local police lieutenant give her an advantage in discovering the truth, or will he betray her to protect a crooked cop? 




This guest post brought to you by BreakThrough Promotions



Buy the Book



Support Independent Bookstores - Visit IndieBound.org


   


   


Death by Armoire: A Palmetto Antiques Mystery







Death by Armoire : A Palmetto Antiques Mystery

Guest Post: Frankie Y Bailey – A DEAD MAN’S HONOR



Hello, book people. I’m excited to introduce you to today’s special guest, a criminal justice professor and the author of the Hannah McCabe and Lizzie Stuart mystery series, including A Dead Man’s Honor, Frankie Y. Bailey. Ms. Bailey will be introducing us to Lizzie Stuart and discussing the idea of the past intruding on our present. Thank you, Ms. Bailey, for taking time of your busy school and writing schedule to visit with us today.





Out of the Past
By Frankie Y. Bailey


I love film noir. Out of the Past, starring Robert Mitchum, is one of my favorite noir films. I watch it every time it comes up in the TCM cycle. The movie is about a former private investigator who got into trouble and has settled in a small town and opened a gas station under an assumed identity. But he has not escaped his past. He is summoned to a meeting with the crooked businessman who once hired him to locate a woman and his stolen money. The woman, with whom the PI had a dangerous affair, is back with his former client. Mitchum may hope to do what the businessman has demanded and go back to his new life, but Jane Greer, the femme fatale, has other ideas.  As you might expect of film noir, even the love of a good (small town) woman can’t save Mitchum. 

I don’t write noir fiction. My character, Lizzie Stuart, is a crime historian and the five books in which she has appeared so far are both academic mysteries and traditional classic detective fiction. But, like Robert Mitchum’s character, Lizzie has not been able to escape her past. The fact that she is not sure of who her father was – or is, he might still be alive – means that she must decide later in the series whether she will look for him. There’s also the matter of Becca, her missing mother – who puts in her appearance in Book 4 and can hold her own with any noir femme fatale. 

As the series are being reissued, I’m looking back at how it evolved. Book 2, A Dead Man’s Honor, was initially going to be the readers’ introduction to Lizzie Stuart. Instead, it followed a book set in Cornwall, during which Lizzie’s best friend, Tess Alvarez, a travel writer, and John Quinn, a Philadelphia homicide detective were introduced. Lizzie’s vacation in Cornwall, England, followed the death of the grandmother who raised her. It’s Lizzie’s dead grandmother, Hester Rose, who is front and center in A Dead Man’s Honor.

Hester Rose was close-mouthed about a lot of things – including her childhood in Gallagher, Virginia before she climbed into a boxcar and left the town under cover of darkness. In A Dead Man’s Honor, Lizzie has applied for and received an appointment as a visiting professor at Piedmont State University in Gallagher. She has joined the faculty in the School of Criminal Justice. As is the custom for visiting faculty, she has teaching responsibilities. She also has the research agenda that she described in her application. She wants to investigate a lynching in Gallagher. As a young girl, Hester Rose was witness to a lynching involving a black man accused of murder. She was there in the house with the accused man and the young deaf woman who loved him. As the police and angry white citizens gathered outside the house, Hester Rose was put out of a window. 

It is usually Lizzie’s voice that we hear in the series. She is the first-person narrator. But she sometimes flashes back to a conversation with one of her grandparents. Only a fleeting thought here and there. A Dead Man’s Honor, the only way to describe the lynching was from Hester Rose’s point of view. From the point of view of a frightened child as she hides in the bushes, watching. As Mose Davenport runs out of the house and is shot by someone in the crowd. As, later, she climbs into the boxcar and leaves Gallagher.  

Hester Rose tries to flee her past. Lizzie goes back to Gallagher to dig it up because she wants to know more about her grandmother and herself. 





Meet the author

Frankie Y. Bailey is a professor in the School of Criminal Justice at the University at Albany (SUNY). Her areas of research are crime history, and crime and mass media/popular culture and material culture. She is the author of a number of non-fiction books, including local histories and books about crime fiction. Her mystery novels feature Southern-born crime historian, Lizzie Stuart, in five books, beginning with Death’s Favorite Child and A Dead Man’s Honor. The books are being reissued by Speaking Volumes. Frankie’s two near-future police procedurals feature Albany police detective, Hannah McCabe in The Red Queen Dies and What the Fly Saw (Minotaur Books). Frankie has also has written several short stories, including “In Her Fashion” (EQMM, July 2014), “The Singapore Sling Affair” (EQMM, Nov/Dec 2017), and “The Birth of the Bronze Buckaroo” (The Adventures of the Bronze Buckaroo, 2018). She is currently working on a nonfiction book about dress and appearance in American crime and justice, a historical thriller set in 1939, and the plots of the next Stuart and McCabe books. Frankie is a past executive vice president of Mystery Writers of America and a past president of Sisters in Crime. 


Connect with the author at her website or Twitter




A Dead Man’s Honor A Lizzie Stuart Mystery #2 by Frankie Y. Bailey
ISBN: 9781628158731 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781628158724 (ebook)
ASIN: B07FTYK444 (Kindle edition)
Publication date: June 5, 2018 (originally published on January 1, 2001)
Publisher: Speaking Volumes, LLC.

Crime historian Lizzie Stuart goes to Gallagher, Virginia for a year as a visiting professor at Piedmont State University. She is there to do research for a book about the 1921 lynching that her grandmother Hester Rose witnessed when she was a 12-year-old child.

Lizzie’s research is complicated by her own unresolved feelings about her secretive grandmother and by the disturbing presence of John Quinn, the police officer she met while on vacation in England. Add to that the murder of an arrogant and brilliant faculty member on Halloween night and Lizzie has about all she can handle.





This guest post brought to you by BreakThrough Promotions



Buy The Book



Available from          BookDepository     |
     Alibrisicon




Support Independent Bookstores - Visit IndieBound.org


   


   


A Dead Man's Honor


A Dead Man's Honor




icon
icon

Guest Post: Eleanor Kuhns – THE SHAKER MURDERS


Good day, book people. Today, I’m honored to introduce you all to Eleanor Kuhns, author of the Will Rees Mysteries including the latest addition to this historical fiction series, The Shaker Murders. Ms. Kuhns will be sharing with us insight into the much slower pace of communication in the Eighteenth Century versus the instantaneous connections we seek and crave today. Thank you, Ms. Kuhns, for stopping by and sharing this information with us today. I hope you will all add The Shaker Murders to your TBR list.




Communication – Eighteenth Century

In this hyper-connected world where information is just a few clicks away and communication with another person, even one in another state is as close as a text, it is hard for us to imagine how isolated people were in the eighteenth century. 

In fact, I’ve had questions about this very topic, not just about The Shaker Murders but about all the books in the series.

Why I’ve been asked, isn’t Will Rees hurrying to communicate with the constable? There’s a killer on the loose. (Well, it was night time.)

How can he take out that poor horse again? That horse is worked so hard. (He could walk or use the horse or a mule. There are no other choices.)

Why is Rees driving into town again? (How else is he going to speak to the constable and others?)

Email as a common form of communication is less than thirty years old and texting is even more recent. So, let’s go old school. Telephone. Alexander Graham Bell put in a patent for the telephone in 1876. Welcome to the world of the switchboard and party line. By 1904 there were three million phones in the United States. Cell phones were proposed in 1947 but the technology did not exist then and didn’t until the 1960s. It took several more decades before the cell phone (or the mobile phone) became ubiquitous.

What about the telegraph? Although the telegraph was posited in 1774, the technology didn’t exist at that time. It was not until the early 1800s when several scientists built varying forms of the telegraph. It came into use in the United States in 1861, (using the Morse code) and putting the end to the Pony Express.

Both the telephone and the telegraph were dependent on another nineteenth-century invention: electricity.

The Pony Express was a service that delivered messages, newspapers, and mail and was not an arm of the Post Office. It was instead a private business set up by three men:  William Russell, Alexander Majors, and William Waddell. By utilizing a short route and using mounted riders rather than stagecoaches (which were used by the post office) they proposed to establish a fast mail service between St. Joseph, Missouri, and Sacramento, California, with letters delivered in ten days.  In these days of instantaneous communication, ten days seems slow. But at that time it was considered too fast to be possible. They did succeed, however.

From April 3, 1860, to October 1861, it became the West’s most direct means of east-west communication before the telegraph was established (October 24, 1861), and was vital for tying California to the Eastern United States.

All of these methods happened decades after Will Rees did his detecting. So, there were only two avenues of communication available to him: the Post Office or face to face.

Yes, there was mail. During the Colonial period, most of the mail went back and forth between the colonies and Great Britain. It took months. In 1775 Ben Franklin was the postmaster who began setting up a postal service to take the place of the Crown Post. He set a standardized rate and set up routes from Maine to Florida. At this point, there were no post offices and mail was delivered to inns and taverns. (By 1789 there were 75 post offices in the United States.) The U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1788, gave Congress the power to set up a Postal Service. In 1789 George Washington appointed Samuel Osgood to the Postmaster’s General position, which he held until 1791.

So, Rees would have had to meet with every person he wishes to question. And he is limited by time of day (no electricity so he does not often drive at night) and weather. In The Shaker Murders, I avoid this problem by setting the murder where Rees and his family are living so they are on-site. But as soon as he wishes to speak to the constable of investigating elsewhere, he must take himself physically to them.

He would be astonished by the variety of rapid communication methods we enjoy.






About Eleanor Kuhns


Photo by Rana Faure
Eleanor Kuhns is the 2011 winner of the Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel. A lifelong librarian, she received her Masters from Columbia University and is currently the Assistant Director of the Goshen Public Library in Orange County New York. 



Connect with the author:
Website URL: http://www.eleanor-kuhns.com
Blog URL: http://www.eleanor-kuhns.com/blog
Facebook URL: http://www.facebook.com/Eleanor-Kuhns
Twitter: @EleanorKuhns
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/eleanor-kuhns-36759623






The Shaker Murders A Will Rees Mystery by Eleanor Kuhns
ISBN: 9780727888372 (hardcover)
ISBN: 9781448301720 (ebook)
ISBN: 9781974930661 (audiobook)
ASIN: B07KX3C1WZ (Kindle edition)
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Publication Date: February 1, 2019

A peaceful Shaker community is rocked by a series of bizarre accidents, but is there more to them than first appears? 

Fresh from facing allegations of witchcraft and murder, traveling weaver Will Rees, his heavily pregnant wife Lydia and six adopted children take refuge in Zion, a Shaker community in rural Maine. Shortly after their arrival, screams in the night reveal a drowned body … but is it murder or an unfortunate accident? The Shaker Elders argue it was just an accident, but Rees believes otherwise.

As Will investigates further, more deaths follow and a young girl vanishes from the community. Haunted by nightmares for his family’s safety, Rees must rush to uncover the truth before the dreams can become reality and more lives are lost. Yet can the Shaker Elders be trusted, or is an outsider involved?



Add to Goodreads badge


This guest post brought to you by BreakThrough Promotions



Buy the Book


Available from          BookDepository     |
     Alibrisicon



Support Independent Bookstores - Visit IndieBound.org


   


   


The Shaker Murders


The Shaker Murders






eBook: icon
icon

audiobook: icon
icon


Shaker Murders, The


icon
icon

Book Spotlight: THE DEVIL’S COLD DISH by Eleanor Kuhns

The Devil’s Cold Dish, Will Rees Mystery #5, by Eleanor Kuhns
ISBN: 9781250093356 (hardcover)
ISBN: 9781250093363 (ebook)
ISBN: 9781520015613 (audiobook)
ASIN: B018E6TUXE (Kindle edition)
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Release Date: June 14, 2016


In the next 1790s historical mystery from MWA Award winner Eleanor Kuhns, Will Rees’ small farm town begins to suspect his wife of murder by witchcraft

Will Rees is back home on his farm in 1796 Maine with his teenage son, his pregnant wife, their five adopted children, and endless farm work under the blistering summer sun. But for all that, Rees is happy to have returned to Dugard, Maine, the town where he was born and raised, and where he’s always felt at home. Until now. When a man is found dead – murdered – after getting into a public dispute with Rees, Rees starts to realize someone is intentionally trying to pin the murder on him. Then, his farm is attacked, his wife is accused of witchcraft, and a second body is found that points to the Rees family. Rees can feel the town of Dugard turning against him, and he knows that he and his family won’t be safe there unless he can find the murderer and reveal the truth…before the murderer gets to him first. 



Add to Goodreads badge




Read an excerpt:

Chapter One


When Will Rees finally arrived home, much later than he’d expected, he found his sister Caroline in the front parlor. Again. Since Rees and his wife Lydia had returned from Salem several weeks ago, Caroline visited often and always with the same demand: that Rees support her family. Almost eight years ago, in the spring of 1789 he had surrendered his farm to his sister in exchange for the care of his then eight-year-old son, David. Caroline and Sam had not only used the farm so carelessly it still wasn’t as productive as it had been, they had beaten David. Treated him like a hired man instead of their nephew. Rees had sent his sister and her husband packing over two years ago, but Caroline still felt the farm should belong to her. And she was even more determined since last summer, when Rees’s punch had left her husband, Sam, touched in the head.

This time she’d brought Sam with her, no doubt to impress upon Rees his culpability in Sam’s disability.

“Look at him,” she was saying to Lydia when Rees paused in the doorway. “My husband has no more sense than an infant.” Although Rees did not like his sister putting pressure on his wife, his gaze went unwillingly to Sam. He was trying to catch dust motes floating through a patch of sunlight and humming quietly to himself. “I must mind him just as I would a child,” Caroline continued. “Sam can’t work or help at all.” The truth of that statement sent a quiver of shame through Rees, although he knew he’d had no choice. Sam had attacked Rees and would have beaten him bloody if not stopped. “You see how he is—” Caroline gestured, her voice breaking. Rees eyed his sister. Dark rings like bruises circled her eyes, her hair was uncombed, and she looked as though she hadn’t slept in weeks. Despite himself, Rees felt guilt sweep over him.

“I promised we would help you, Caro,” he said, startling both women and drawing their attention to him. “I promised and we will.” Lydia’s forehead furrowed with worry when she saw his dirt-smudged clothing and the cut on his cheekbone. He acknowledged her concern with a slight nod; they would speak later.

“Finally,” Caroline said. “You disappear for weeks and even when you do return to Dugard, you don’t stay home.”

“I’ve been home this fortnight and more,” Rees said, keeping his tone mild with an effort. “I had an errand.” He’d promised himself while still in Salem that he would try to treat his sister with more understanding and respect. But he was finding that promise almost impossible to keep. “Sometimes I suspect you come calling when you know I’m not at home.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Caroline’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ve told you more than once your paltry help isn’t enough.” Her shrill accusation rode over his measured tone. She glanced at Lydia. “I’d hoped another woman would sympathize but I’ve been disappointed in that as well.” Her furious countenance swung back to Rees. “Why don’t you understand? I can’t manage on my own. I want to bring my family here. To this farm. We can stay in the weaver’s cottage. You aren’t using it anymore, not since you and Lydia wed.”

Rees sighed, tired of this well-worn argument. He didn’t want Caroline and her family living so close. Rees knew his sister. Caroline would expect her sister-in-law to cook and clean for her family and would order her around like she was help instead of the mistress of this farm. As if that weren’t enough, Caroline would find fault with everything. Her oldest, Charlie, would help David, but the two girls were too little to work much. “We’ve discussed this,” he said. “You own your own farm.”

“Charlie can have that farm. Oh, why won’t you help me?” Caroline wailed. “You have plenty. This farm is rich. You have sheep and cattle as well as chickens and other poultry.”

Rees could not bear to see his sister’s anguished expression and looked at Lydia. She almost imperceptibly shook her head. Although a Shaker when he met her and well-used to offering charity, Lydia had no more desire to see them move in than he did. Lydia knew how difficult Caroline could be.

Caroline, catching Lydia’s negative gesture, turned on her with a furious glare. “You think you’ve fallen into a soft bed, haven’t you?” she shouted. “You greedy—”

“We’ll help you bring in whatever you planted in your fields,” Rees said, his deep voice cutting off his sister’s charge. Caroline sent one final scowl toward Lydia before returning her attention to her brother.

“And what would that be?” she retorted. “Sam can’t work. Charlie planted only a few fields and a vegetable garden.”

“You must have hay,” Rees said. He wanted to point out that she could have put in winter wheat last fall. The wheat, once it was harvested, would have given them a bit of cash. But he elected not to repeat something he’d said several times already. “If the fields went to grass…” Haying should have been finished weeks ago but perhaps something could be salvaged.

“Will you and David bring it in?” she asked. “Maybe I could sell it. I’ve sold the horses and most of the livestock … well, I had to,” she said, catching Rees’s expression.

“I’ll help you in the garden,” Lydia volunteered.

“Most of that’s been eaten,” Caroline said angrily. “It’s not doing well anyway. I couldn’t keep up with the weeds and now the squash has some kind of insect; the vines are withering. There isn’t anything to put by for winter.”

Rees sighed. “We’ll offer you what we can,” he said. “I promise you, you won’t starve. I’ll make sure your family always has food. But you can’t live here. And that’s final.”

Caroline stared at him for several seconds. Rees had the clear sense she did not believe him. “But Will,” she said, tears starting from her eyes, “what happens if it snows and you can’t get to us? And my children are in rags, how will they be clothed? They won’t be able to attend school.”

Rees opened his mouth, but before he spoke his wife rose from the sofa and moved to his side. With the birth of their first child two months away she moved slowly and clumsily. “We will do everything we can do for you,” she said. “Of course we don’t want you and your children to live in privation.”

“But you can’t move in with us,” Rees repeated.

Caroline’s mouth turned down and her eyes narrowed. “You’ll be sorry,” she said. “You and this—this blaspheming wife of yours. Oh yes, I’ve heard what debaucheries those Shakers get up to in their services.” Lydia flinched. “Come, Sam,” Caroline said, sounding as though she was calling a dog. But Sam stood up and meekly followed her from the room.

“Blaspheming?” Lydia repeated. “Debaucheries?”

Rees frowned. “Don’t pay any attention to my sister,” he said. Caroline seemed to think Lydia should be ashamed of her Shaker past.

“Charlie,” Caroline shouted to her son as she ran out the front door. “Charlie. We are leaving.” Rees and Lydia followed Caroline out to the front porch and watched as she climbed into the cart. It, and the oxen Charlie used for plowing, were quite a comedown from the buggy and fine horses she’d once owned.

Charlie came out of the barn with David close behind him. Charlie was almost as tall as his cousin but his fair hair had begun darkening to brown and he had Sam’s brown eyes. He wore the embarrassed and impatient expression of a boy with unreasonable parents. He and David slapped one another affectionately on the back and then he trotted rapidly toward the cart. He waved at Rees and Lydia before scrambling into the driver’s seat. The battered vehicle hurtled down the drive in a cloud of dust.

“Don’t feel guilty,” Lydia said, turning to her husband with a fierce glare. “We will help them as much as we’re able. And remember, Will, Sam attacked you. Besides, their farm would be more productive now if he hadn’t spent most of his time gambling and drinking in the Bull.” She did not say that Caroline could work harder but Rees knew she thought it. His sisters hadn’t been raised to work the farm. Both Phoebe and Caroline had gone all the way through the dame school and, unlike many of their contemporaries, could read and write. Caroline fancied herself a poet and believed farmwork was beneath her. Unlike Lydia. Rees didn’t know very much about her childhood and his wife avoided his questions, but he understood she had been raised in an affluent family from Boston. Still, her strong sense of duty and her years spent with the Shakers, where work was a tribute to God, had instilled in her a willingness to turn her hand to anything. Even pregnant, she’d thrown down her cooking utensils to help with the haying at the beginning of the month. And Dolly, Rees’s first wife whom he had lost to illness along with the babe she carried, had loved the farm, just like David did now. David did the work gladly and although only sixteen he worked harder than most men. Thank the Lord, Rees thought now, most of the haying had been done by the time he had returned home. Of all the jobs on the farm, and Rees disliked the majority of them, he loathed haying the most.

“I’ll take some of the cloth I purchased in Salem,” he said, “and add some of the homespun so she can sew clothes for the children.”

Lydia’s lips twisted. “I suppose she’ll want us to do that as well,” she said. And then added quickly, “That was uncharitable of me. I’m sorry.”

“Unfortunately,” Rees said, “you’re probably right. Caro hates sewing too. I swear, my sister could try the patience of a saint.”

Lydia sent Rees a glance indicating she could say more if she wished. But she chose not to, instead closing the door to the parlor and preceding him down the hall to the large kitchen at the back.

Rees felt the familiar lift of his spirits as they entered. This was the room they lived in, a large room with east-facing windows and a door opening to the south. Rees’s parents had added on a room to the side and a large southward-facing bedroom over it. Rees had always used that space for weaving, since the best light streamed through the windows. He and Lydia, once they’d married almost eight months ago, had chosen it as their bedchamber as well. Fifteen-month-old Joseph slept in the crib next to the bed and the other four adopted children occupied the rooms on the old side. But not David. He had moved himself into the weaver’s cottage, claiming it was just for the summer. Rees suspected the boy would not return to the house even with winter. He said there was no room in the house. But while it was true the house was cramped now with five extra children, Rees thought David had moved less because of space and more because he resented these interlopers. Rees groaned involuntarily. David reacted to every perceived slight with hurt and anger, as though Rees had abandoned his son all over again. Rees sometimes wondered if David would ever forgive his father for leaving him with his aunt and uncle as a child.

Abigail, the Quaker girl who came in to help, glanced at them from her position by the fireplace but didn’t speak. She’d returned to their employ with Lydia’s arrival home and seemed even quieter than before. Jerusha, only nine but already a capable and stern young woman—well, she’d had to be with a drunken mother and the care of her younger siblings—looked up as Lydia and Rees approached.

“Where are the little ones?” Lydia asked. Jerusha nodded at the back door. Through it Judah, Joseph, and Nancy could be seen, running around and shouting.

“Nancy’s watching them,” she said. Turning her gaze to Rees, Jerusha said, “Your cheek is bleeding.”

“Yes, it is,” Rees agreed.

“Fetch me a bowl, Abby,” Lydia said. “And put some warm water in it, please.” She urged Rees into the side room and into a chair, despite his protests. “What happened?”

“Oh, Tom McIntyre had another customer. Mr. Drummond, a gentleman from Virginia by his accent. One of those land speculators. He was holding forth on George Washington and why he should have been impeached. I don’t know why people can’t leave the man alone.” With last fall’s election, John Adams had won the presidency and Thomas Jefferson the vice presidency. Washington had gone into retirement, a battered, aging lion.

“Was Mr. Drummond the one who did this?” She gestured to the cut upon his cheek.

“No,” Rees said. Drummond had already left when the argument exploded.

“I suppose you had to speak up,” Lydia said, her voice dropping with disappointment. “I love your sense of justice but I do wish you didn’t feel the need to fight every battle.” A former Shaker, she abhorred violence. Besides, she worried about the consequences, especially now after the serious injury to Sam.

Rees knew how she felt. He was trying to curb his temper, mostly because he wanted Lydia and his adopted children to be happy in Dugard. But so far he’d broken every promise to do better that he’d made to himself.

“We wouldn’t have a country without the president’s leadership during the War for Independence,” Rees said, hearing the defensiveness in his voice. After fighting under General Washington during the War for Independence, Rees would hear no criticism of the man who’d become the first president. Those who hadn’t fought, or who had only belonged to the Continental Army between planting and harvest, could not possibly understand what Washington had achieved.

Rees hesitated, fighting the urge to justify himself, but finally bursting into speech. “Mac and that Drummond fellow both favor Jefferson and the French. Drummond said that President Washington’s actions during the Jay affair smacked of treason. And when I said that the president had done his very best and that if anyone was guilty of treason it was John Jay, Mac said that the problem was that General Washington was a tired, senile old man.” He stopped talking.

When McIntyre had called Washington senile, Rees’s temper had risen and he had pushed the smaller man with all his strength. Since Mac probably weighed barely more than nine stone, he flew backward into the side of the mill. Flour from his clothing rose up at the impact, filling the air with a fine dust. That was when Zadoc Ward, Mac’s cousin, jumped on Rees and began pummeling him. Rees had already had a previous fight with the belligerent black-haired fellow who was usually found in the center of every brawl. Rees had caught Ward bullying Sam in the tavern and would have knocked him down if Constable Caldwell hadn’t broken up the fight and sent Rees on his way.

Rees permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction. At the mill, he’d put down Ward like the mad dog he was. But by then Mac’s eldest son, Elijah, and some of the other mill employees had arrived. They’d grabbed Rees. In the ensuing altercation, Ward, who was looking for revenge, had hit Rees in the face and sent him crashing to the ground in his turn. But Rees had bloodied a few noses before that. He didn’t want to admit to Lydia that he had participated in the brawl just like a schoolboy, but he suspected she already knew. She frowned anxiously.

“Well, you can hardly blame Mr. McIntyre for his unhappiness,” she said, turning Rees’s face up to the light. “The British have continued capturing American ships. Wasn’t his brother impressed by the British into their navy? Anyway, it’s not only the French who were, and still are, angry about Mr. Jay’s treaty. You were the one who told me he was burned in effigy all up and down the coast. And that the cry was ‘Damn John Jay. Damn everyone who won’t damn John Jay and damn everyone who won’t stay up all night damning John Jay.'”

“Yes,” Rees admitted with some reluctance.

“And now, with the Bank of England withholding payments to American vendors, Mr. McIntyre might go broke and lose his mill.”

“But none of this was President Washington’s fault,” Rees argued. “He has always striven for fairness. To be neutral in all things. Personally, I blame Mr. Hamilton.”

“I’m certain Mr. Jefferson bears some of the responsibility,” Lydia said in an acerbic tone. “He is so pro-French.” Rees wished he didn’t agree. Although he concurred with many of Jefferson’s Republican ideals, the vice president was pro-French and a slaveholder besides. And Rees could not forgive Jefferson for turning on Washington and criticizing him. “Discussing politics is never wise,” Lydia continued. “You know better. Passions run so high. And I see your argument resulted in fisticuffs.”

“Mr. McIntyre struck me first,” Rees said as Lydia dabbed at the cut above his eyebrow. The hot water stung and he grunted involuntarily. “You know how emotional he is.” Mac had spent his life quivering in outrage over something or other, and for all his small size he had been embroiled in as many battles as Rees. But now, with the wisdom of hindsight, Rees was beginning to wonder why Mac had been so eager to quarrel with him. They’d always been friends. Yet Mac had been, well, almost hostile.

“He can’t weigh much more than one hundred twenty or so pounds soaking wet,” Lydia added in a reproachful tone.

“I know. This,” he gestured to the cut, “came from his cousin, Zadoc Ward.” In fact Ward would have continued the fight, but Elijah had held him back. “I knocked him down, though,” Rees said in some satisfaction. Lydia did not speak for several seconds, although she gave his wound an extra hard wipe. “Ow,” Rees said.

“I hope Mr. McIntyre will still grind our corn,” Lydia said after a silence.

“Of course he will. Politics doesn’t have anything to do with business,” Rees said. “Tomorrow I’ll ride over to pick up the three bushels I brought over this morning.”

A scrape of a shoe at the door attracted Rees’s attention and he looked over. “What did Aunt Caroline want?” David asked. As usual, seven-year-old Simon stood at David’s elbow. After Rees and Lydia had adopted Jerusha and Simon and the other three last winter and brought them home, Simon had developed a severe case of hero worship for David. Now one was rarely seen without the other.

“Same thing as usual,” Rees said. “To move in.” Since Rees’s return from Salem, David spoke to him only when necessary—or when he was shouting accusations. He hadn’t forgiven his father for abandoning the farm during a very busy time when Rees traveled to Salem. Besides, Rees had left David to bear the censure of the neighbors. Rees knew many people in Dugard blamed him for Sam’s condition, but it was David who’d suffered for it. In fact, during one of Rees’s frequent arguments with the boy, he’d accused his father of running away and leaving his son to face the name-calling and worse. How much worse Rees didn’t know. David refused to say but Rees could see how much it hurt him.

Nonetheless, David and Rees saw eye to eye about Caroline.

“I better count the chickens then,” David said.

“Why?” Rees asked, catching Lydia’s frown. “What’s the secret?” For a moment no one spoke. David fixed his eyes upon Lydia.

She capitulated with a sigh. “Every time Caroline comes here, something goes missing, usually a chicken,” Lydia said.

Rees stared from his wife to his son. “She’s stealing from me?”

“Your sister’s family is hungry,” Lydia said. “I think they’re eating them. And of course they need the eggs.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Rees asked. He had the clear sense that the entire story remained untold. And although he usually loved his wife’s ability to see and sympathize with other people, in this case he wished she’d told him about his sister outright.

“This time Sam never left the parlor and Caroline went straight to the cart,” Lydia said, turning to David. “I think the chickens are safe today.”

“Charlie…?” Rees suggested reluctantly.

David shook his head. “No. Charlie would never steal from us.” He hesitated a moment and then blurted, “I hired him on to help us and promised we’d help with whatever little work he has. He’s trying to support that family all on his own.”

“I offered something similar to my sister,” Rees said, directing a warm smile at his son, “but she turned me down.”

“Charlie was glad of the offer,” David said. He added with a wicked glint in his eye, “He hasn’t finished his haying. You escaped most of that job here but I’m certain you won’t refuse to help him bring in his hay.” He knew his father hated this job above all others. Rees fought with himself, torn between the urge to refuse and the desire to placate his son. Finally, surrendering to his wish to please David, Rees nodded and stretched his lips over his teeth in what he hoped David would see as a smile. But he didn’t fool his son. David laughed.

A fusillade of knocks sounded on the front door. Now what, Rees wondered, starting down the hall. Before he reached the door it crashed back against the wall. Sunlight streamed into the hall. Lit from behind, the figure was identifiable only by his odor: Constable Caldwell.

“Zadoc Ward has been found murdered,” he said.

“What?” Rees said “When? How?”

Caldwell came into the hall and shut the door behind him. Although his shabby clothing was as dirty as Rees remembered, the constable had made some recent attempt to clean up. He’d washed his face and hands and tied his hair into a neat queue. “Where have you been these past few hours?” he demanded of Rees.

“You can’t think I had anything to do with it,” Rees said. He and the constable had worked together to solve Nate Bowditch’s death last summer, and Rees counted the constable among his friends. In fact, one of his best.

Caldwell’s muddy eyes flicked to Rees and focused on the scabbed cheekbone. “Earlier this morning witnesses saw you and Ward engaging in fisticuffs at the mill.”

“Yes. So?” Rees said belligerently.

“If the positions were reversed, you would wonder about me,” Caldwell said, keeping his gaze fixed on Rees’s face. Unwillingly Rees admitted that was true. “So, where were you?”

“Here,” Lydia said, the whisper of her skirts coming up behind him.
Caldwell nodded at Lydia respectfully but said, “Can anyone else confirm that?”

“My husband arrived home while his sister, Caroline Prentiss, and her husband were visiting,” she said. Rees thought visiting was far too polite a term for his sister’s scene but did not protest. “Also,” Lydia continued, “Abigail Bristol is here. As you know,” she added as a reminder of the many times Caldwell had visited and eaten at their table, “she comes every day but Sunday to help.”

Caldwell heaved a sigh. “I had to check. You understand.”

“How did Ward die?” Rees asked, brushing off the apology.

“He was shot.” The constable grinned at Rees’s stunned expression.

“It wasn’t a brawl. That would be no surprise since Ward bullied so many men in town. I’d have a lot of suspects then. But how many would take the time to plan a murder?”

Rees nodded. It was odd that Ward’s murder occurred so soon after their fight this morning. Their previous brawl in the tavern had taken place only a few days earlier, but no doubt Ward had quarreled with many others between then and today.

“I won,” Rees said. “I’d have no reason to go after Ward again.”

“It would be more like Mr. Ward to try and murder my husband,” Lydia pointed out. Rees, who knew she worried about his safety, put his arm around her and drew her close.

“I didn’t really think you had anything to do with the death,” Caldwell said, meeting Rees’s eyes. “Are you coming to see the body then?”

“Of course,” Rees began. At that moment David came into the hall with Simon at his heels.

“What’s going on?” David asked.

“I have to go out,” Rees said, purposely vague. “I’ll tell you about it when I return.”

David’s mouth turned down. “Come on, Squeaker,” he said to Simon. “Let’s go outside and count the chickens.” He threw an angry glance at his father before turning around and disappearing into the kitchen. Rees sighed with regret. But he had begun to find this placid life at the farm mind-numbing, although he’d tried to ignore his boredom for David’s sake, and the lure of an unexplained death was too enticing to resist. He followed Caldwell out of the house.



Excerpt from The Devil’s Cold Dish. Copyright © 2016 by Eleanor Kuhns. All Rights Reserved. 



Other books in the Will Rees Mystery Series

A Simple Murder – 2012
Death of a Dyer  – 2013
Cradle to Grave  – 2014
Death in Salem   – 2015
The Shaker Murders – to be released February 2019



Meet the Author

Eleanor Kuhns is the 2011 winner of the Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel. A lifelong librarian, she received her Masters from Columbia University and is currently the Assistant Director of the Goshen Public Library in Orange County New York.





Connect with the author via Facebook, Twitter, and her Website.




This spotlight brought to you by Breakthrough Promotions



Buy the Book



Available from          BookDepository     |     Alibris
icon



Support Independent Bookstores - Visit IndieBound.org


   


   


The Devil's Cold Dish



The Devil's Cold Dish: A Mystery



The Devil's Cold Dish :  A Mystery



icon
icon

icon
icon



icon
icon






The Devil's Cold Dish



The Devil's Cold Dish