Tag Archives: mystery

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson: Ten Steps from Baker Street Virtual Book Tour

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson: Ten Steps from Baker Street banner

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson: Ten Steps from Baker Street cover

Mystery

Date Published: 03-01-2023

Publisher: Tekrighter, LLC

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

Return to the streets and alleys of Victorian London, where the game is
afoot once again! The Great Detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his
steadfast companion Dr. Watson are back for ten new cases, spanning the
length of the quintessential detective’s illustrious career. Beginning while
Holmes was still a green investigator in Montague Street, this collection
encompasses the 1880s and the 1890s, up to the dawn of the new
century.  Walk with Holmes as he puzzles over the problem of a drunken
teetotaler, celebrates an old English Christmas at the Red Lion, tracks down
the Camberwell poisoner, and experiences the horror in King Street. If
you’ve been pining for new traditional, canonical Sherlock Holmes tales, Ten
Steps from Baker Street is the collection you’ve been waiting for.

 

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson: Ten Steps from Baker Street tablet

EXCERPT

The Adventure of the Persistant Pugilist

After the singular and baffling affair at Lauriston Gardens, I had an occasion to reconsider my association with Sherlock Holmes, of whom I had learned was employed as a consulting detective and assistant to Scotland Yard. Holmes was gracious enough to allow me to participate in the investigation and observe his methods, and he brought the perpetrator to heel in our very sitting room at 221b Baker Street. Whilst the investigation was in progress, I experienced a thrilling reintroduction to an active lifestyle, which I had eschewed since my return as a convalescent from Afghanistan, and I must say that I found it most invigorating. However, I had not reckoned with the subsequent sequalae that such exertions would bring.

Thus, it was on Monday, March 7 of 1881, I awoke in a bed of pain in the wee hours of the morning, my wounded shoulder throbbing as if that Jezail bullet I received at Maiwand was still in place, with aches in every joint, and a debilitating headache as well. I tried to roll over and retreat once more to the blissful solace of sleep, but that simply was not to be. I dragged myself into the sitting room. It was a mild night, so the windows overlooking Baker Street were thrown open wide. Of course, Holmes was not presentdoubtless he was snug in his bed. I went to the sideboard and poured myself a stiff whisky, followed by a splash of soda from the gasogene. Then I sank into a comfortable chair to sip my drink and reflect on the probable reason for my sudden infirmity.

I have told elsewhere of my misadventures as an Army surgeon in Afghanistan and India. I had first-hand knowledge of the damage that enteric fever could do to a body, but during the thrills of last week’s chase, I had forgotten that my Army doctors had informed me that my recovery was apt to be protracted, and that I should refrain from sustained physical activity and mental strain for many months. But I had been feeling so much better of late that I neglected the doctors’ prescriptions. Now, I was likely paying for my recent lack of attention to my health.

The whisky worked its magic however, and in a little while I was feeling nearly human again, when suddenly there arose a commotion at the downstairs door.

I struggled out of the soft chair and went to the window, where I beheld a street Arab, pounding on our door.

‘I say!’ I shouted from the window. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘Doctor Watson?’, the lad yelled. ‘Mr. ‘Olmes wants youse to meet ‘im at Davies Street and Brooks Mews!’

I was incredulous. ‘What? At this infernal hour?’

‘ ‘E sez ‘e needs youse, Doctor. He told me to say to youse, “Come at once!”’

The unbridled cheek of the fellow! Come at once? Really? It was an open question whether I would even be able to dress myself, never mind hieing off all over London to satisfy Holmes’ peremptory demand.

The boy was lingering at the door, so I tossed him a tanner for his trouble. My earlier pains had ameliorated somewhat, but I was still by no means in the pink. The thought of struggling into my clothes and venturing into the street to find a cab at this hour was disagreeable, to say the least. I flopped back into my chair.

Then the pangs of guilt began to assail me. Perhaps Holmes was in trouble, and had no one else to turn to for aid. One of the things that had attracted us as to share the same abode was that neither of us had family in the City. And Holmes had told me how much he appreciated my assistance with the murders of Drebber and Stangerson, even though I thought my contribution to the solution was minimal, if not non-existent.

The long and the short of it was that, fifteen minutes later, I found myself walking toward Marylebone Road, a major thoroughfare, where I would be much more likely to find a cab at this hour than in Baker Street. Brooks Mews off Davies Street was only about a mile away towards the centre city, but walking such a distance in my present condition was out of the question. I was in luck—I found a cabbie in Marylebone Road who was either starving or an incontrovertible optimist, who agreed to take me to Holmes.

The ride was a rapid one, clattering through London’s empty thoroughfares. Davies Street was just off Grosvenor Square, one of the toniest areas in all of London. As I exited the hansom in the yellow glow of the gas lamps, I noticed a group of men huddled just inside the mews, seemingly studying the pavement with rapt attention. Two of them were constables, recognisable by their tall helmets, and one was shining a bullseye lantern into the mews. I also thought I recognized that ferret-like fellow Inspector Lestrade, who had visited Holmes several times at 221b. I handed the cabbie one and six and approached the group, then I saw that another man kneeling on the cobblestones a little way beyond them. It was Sherlock Holmes, intensively examining the prostrate form of a man.

‘Here now!’ exclaimed Lestrade as I neared, moving to block my access to the scene. Holmes turned his head and saw me.

‘Watson!’ he cried, springing to his feet, ‘How very good of you to come, old fellow!’

Lestrade moved aside to allow me to pass.

Holmes’ obvious delectation at my presence went a long way towards expunging my earlier rancour about his peremptory summons. ‘What has happened here?’ I inquired.

‘That is what I trust you can help me to ascertain,’ said Holmes.

I looked down at the unfortunate chap splayed out on the pavement, obviously dead. He was a man in his prime, about Holmes’ size, and his frock coat, waistcoat and ascot identified him as a gentleman, as did the crumpled Bowler hat lying just a few feet away from him. The dishevelled state of his clothing, coupled with the bruises and dried blood on his face, indicated that he had taken a terrific beating.

‘What would you like me to do?’ I asked Holmes.

‘Please examine this gentleman, and tell me what you think was the cause of his demise.’

I began to kneel, then asked, ‘I should have thought you had already done so.’

‘I have, but I am not a medical man. I want to see if your deductions agree with those of mine.’

I sank to the pavement and began my examination with the chap’s face. ‘He was battered while alive,’ I said, ‘as indicated by the extensive bruising.’ I tried to close his staring eyes with my thumb and met some resistance. ‘He seems to be in the early stages of rigor mortis, which would indicate that he died approximately two hours ago.’ I wiggled his jaw to be certain. Noticing the dried blood in his blond hair, I raised his head from the cobblestones, and found a considerable depression in the back of his skull. ‘This head trauma likely killed him, but I don’t understand how he could have suffered such a deeply depressed fracture like this by hitting his head on level pavement.’ I saw that Holmes was smiling at me now. ‘I really cannot tell you any more without a proper autopsy.’

‘That’s very good, Watson, and it agrees with my observations and deductions perfectly. Constable, would you be so good as to hand me your lantern?’ Holmes played the beam around in the mews, then out toward Davies Street. He continued, ‘In addition to the excellent reason that Watson stated, it is obvious that the fellow did not fall here, as indicated by the position of his hat off to one side. Also, the hat would not be in such a disreputable state if it had simply fallen from his head. Someone picked it up, crushed it, and threw it where it now lies. And consider his jacket, bunched up behind him, as it would be if he was dragged by his feet.’ Looking directly at Lestrade, he accused, ‘Had you and your army not rushed into the mews before inspecting the pavement, we could doubtless follow the marks left when the victim was dragged to his present location, to ascertain the place at which the beating actually occurred. However, that should not prove to be an insurmountable difficulty.’ Holmes moved back towards Davies Street, the beam of the lantern dancing before him as a herald. He held out his arm when the rest of us attempted to follow. ‘Hold, gentlemen. Let us not make the same mistake twice.’ Holmes walked a little way toward Brook Street whilst scanning the ground. ‘Ha! Here is where our unfortunate pugilist met his doom! Watson, come forth!’ He shined the lantern on a crimson splash on the kerbstone, then handed it to me. ‘Stand fast, all of you. The fight took place in the street. Watson, follow me with your light!’

Holmes whipped out a glass from his pocket and dropped to his knees, crawling about on the cobblestones like a child at play. I could see nothing special about the areas he scrutinized, but given the plethora of grunts, groans and ejaculations he uttered, he must have been learning much. Finally, he rose to his feet again. ‘All right, Lestrade. You and your men may approach.’ When the policemen arrived, Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and began lecturing them as if in a university hall.

‘This was no common robbery, gentlemen, even though no valuables were found on the victim. My examination of the street revealed that two men engaged in fisticuffs there, and it is no difficult deduction that our man in the alley lost the match, likely when he was struck and fell to be mortally wounded by yon kerbstone.’

‘Then the assailant drug his lordship into the mews to get the body out of sight,’ offered Lestrade.

‘His lordship?’ I asked. ‘Then you know who he is?’

‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘The miscreants did an exceedingly poor job of searching the body. They left his calling cards in the inside pocket of his frock coat. He was Sir Aubrey Strongheart, Lord Redthorne, a sitting member of the House of Lords.’

 

About the Author

Thomas A. Burns, Jr.

 is the author of the Natalie McMasters Mysteries. He
was born and grew up in New Jersey, attended Xavier High School in
Manhattan, earned B.S degrees in Zoology and Microbiology at Michigan State
University and a M.S. in Microbiology at North Carolina State University. He
currently resides in Wendell, North Carolina with his wife and son, four
cats and a Cardigan Welsh Corgi. As a kid, Tom started reading mysteries
with the Hardy Boys, Ken Holt and Rick Brant, and graduated to the classic
stories by authors such as A. Conan Doyle, Dorothy Sayers, John Dickson
Carr, Erle Stanley Gardner and Rex Stout, to name a few. Tom has written
fiction as a hobby all of his life, starting with Man from U.N.C.L.E.
stories in marble-backed copybooks in grade school. He built a career as
technical, science and medical writer and editor for nearly thirty years in
industry and government. Now that he’s retired to become a full-time a
novelist, he’s excited to publish his own mystery series, as well as to
contribute stories about his second-most favorite detective to the MX Book
of New Sherlock Holmes Stories.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook Group

Twitter

Blog

Goodreads

Instagram

Tumblr

Bookbub

Purchase Now

Amazon

B&N

Kobo

Smashwords 

Apple Books 

Tolino

 


RABT Book Tours & PR

Comments Off on Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson: Ten Steps from Baker Street Virtual Book Tour

Filed under BOOKS

Gillespie Field Groove Blitz

Gillespie Field Groove banner

 

Gillespie Field Groove cover

Mystery

Date Published: March 15, 2023

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

An obscure rock’n’roll roadie dies under mysterious circumstances. His
prized Jimi Hendrix guitar has gone missing. Can Rolly Waters save his new
client from the ruthless collectors looking for it?

When nurse and fledgling pilot Lucinda Rhodes hires guitar-playing private
detective Rolly Waters to track down a Stratocaster guitar owned by her
deceased father, Rolly is thrilled to take on her case, especially when he
learns the guitar’s original owner may have been Jimi Hendrix. But
Gerry Rhodes’s reckless personal history leads to more questions than
Rolly and Lucinda have bargained for, as an aging rock’n’roll
impresario, his trophy wife, a Russian gangster and the FBI get involved.
When a forty-year-old shooting accident reveals a surprising connection to a
pop star’s hit record, Rolly sees darker forces at work. And his and
Lucinda’s lives hang in the balance.

 

Gillespie Field Groove is the fifth book in the Rolly Waters mystery
series

About the Author

Corey Lynn Fayman

Corey Lynn Fayman has made a career of avoiding the sunlight in his
hometown of San Diego, California, where he’s done hard time as a
keyboard player for local bands, a sound designer for the world-famous Old
Globe Theatre, and an interactive designer for organizations both corporate
and sundry. Armed with a B.A. in Creative Writing from UCLA and an M.A. in
Educational Technology from SDSU, he’s also taught technology and
design courses at various colleges and universities in Southern
California.

Fayman’s adventures working for the infamous Internet startup MP3.com led
him to conceive the character of Rolly Waters, the guitar-playing detective
first featured in the San Diego Book Awards nominated mystery, Black’s
Beach Shuffle. Unduly encouraged by this early success, he set about writing
a second Rolly Waters Mystery, Border Field Blues, winner of the Genre Award
at the 2013 Hollywood Book Festival. Desert City Diva, the third novel in
the series, was a bronze award winner in Foreword Reviews 2015 Indiefab Book
of the Year Awards. The latest in the series, Ballast Point Breakdown, was
awarded the best-in-show Geisel Award at the 2021 San Diego Book
Awards.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

 

Purchase Links

Amazon

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

Comments Off on Gillespie Field Groove Blitz

Filed under BOOKS

Book Tour Madness Blitz

Book Tour Madness banner

Book Tour Madness cover


Mystery

To Be Published: 4/11/23

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

A Widow Writer Mystery

 

Jaynie Floyd, a celebrated mystery writer, has a book on the New York Times
bestseller list. It’s wonderful news and her agent wants to send her
on a book tour to promote it. However, Jaynie is newly widowed and
doesn’t want to go. As she works through her grief, a myriad of
problems arise with family and life.

Once she finally decides to go on the book tour, partially to escape, all
hell breaks loose. One of the other authors on the tour is murdered and
Jaynie’s instincts as a mystery writer are called into action. Soon
she is chasing down leads and suspects, all the while avoiding requests from
police and family to keep out of it. Her skills and curiosity take Jaynie
into dangerous territory, from which she may not escape. Bodies pile up as
she gets closer to the truth. Truth that could make sure she bothers the
killer no more.

Book Tour Madness is a story of survival after the death of a spouse, mixed
with an old-fashioned murder mystery.

 

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE started her career as a language arts teacher. When she began
writing, her initial interest was children’s stories, but then she
moved on to western romance, mysteries and historical fiction. She has
published 30 novels. Her website is www.sjslagle.com. SJ has established
Twitter and Facebook fan bases, and a quarterly author newsletter.

SJ Slagle has written several western romance series including: THESE
NEVADA BOYS, RANCHER, and THE WESTERNERS, as well as mystery series: FLOYD
SISTERS MYSTERIES and SHERLOCK AND ME. All her books are distributed in
digital, paper and audiobook formats.

Her first historical fiction novel, LONDON SPIES, was awarded a B.R.A.G.
Medallion in 2018. She was given the Silver Award with the International
Independent Film Awards for her screenplay called REDEMPTION. She conducts
writing/publishing symposiums in her local area.

SJ Slagle lives and works in Reno, Nevada.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Instagram

Tumblr

 

Purchase Link

Amazon

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

RABT Book Tours & PR

 

Comments Off on Book Tour Madness Blitz

Filed under BOOKS

Canyon of Shame Blitz

Canyon of Shame banner

 

Canyon of Shame cover

The Bungalow Heaven Mystery Series Book 2

Mystery

Date Published: July 21, 2022

Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

In Canyon of Shame, the second part of The Bungalow Heaven Mystery Series,
detective Peter McGinnis from the Pasadena homicide unit has to solve the
murder of a forty-year-old woman whose body was discovered in Eaton Canyon.
What at first appears like a routine investigation, turns into a career and
reputation salvaging operation for the detective, who is not only the main
witness in a prominent Black Lives Matter case, but who becomes more and
more entwined with the case the more facts he uncovers.

 

About the Author

Faye Duncan

Faye Duncan is a writer from the San Gabriel Valley, California. She is the
author of Murder on Wilson Street, the first part of The Bungalow Heaven
Mystery Series. She has published several short stories and volunteers as a
script reader for International Film Festivals. Faye has an undying passion
for ballroom dancing and lives with her son Max and her two dogs, Sammie and
Lamby

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

 

Purchase Links

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Publisher

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

Comments Off on Canyon of Shame Blitz

Filed under BOOKS

Book Tour Madness Teaser

Book Tour Madness banner

Book Tour Madness cover


Mystery

To Be Published: 4/11/23

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

A Widow Writer Mystery

 

Jaynie Floyd, a celebrated mystery writer, has a book on the New York Times
bestseller list. It’s wonderful news and her agent wants to send her
on a book tour to promote it. However, Jaynie is newly widowed and
doesn’t want to go. As she works through her grief, a myriad of
problems arise with family and life.

Once she finally decides to go on the book tour, partially to escape, all
hell breaks loose. One of the other authors on the tour is murdered and
Jaynie’s instincts as a mystery writer are called into action. Soon
she is chasing down leads and suspects, all the while avoiding requests from
police and family to keep out of it. Her skills and curiosity take Jaynie
into dangerous territory, from which she may not escape. Bodies pile up as
she gets closer to the truth. Truth that could make sure she bothers the
killer no more.

Book Tour Madness is a story of survival after the death of a spouse, mixed
with an old-fashioned murder mystery.

 

Excerpt

 

          No one responded to my single knock on her door, so I pounded on the door.
Still no answer.

          My nose twitched. Her
overpowering perfume from the other night drifted my way. There was no
mistaking that pungent aroma. She had to be close by. Without thinking
twice, I headed downstairs to find the hotel manager.

          Even before the short,
balding man put a magnetic card into the door lock, I had a sinking feeling
that we weren’t going to like what we found. Chalk it up to writing
murder mysteries for the past ten years, but I didn’t dismiss
feelings. They were a natural part of the selection process and a dogged
reminder of human frailty.

          He opened the door
wide.

          At first, there was
nothing to see, save an unmade bed, clothing and cosmetics scattered around
and a standing ice bucket with a bottle of champagne.

          Champagne?

          We’d checked into
the hotel at 11:30, Hilda and I had gone to lunch with Marliss begging off.
She was entertaining at noon when we had the signing event at two?
Curious.

          The hotel manager stepped
aside and I walked over by the ice bucket. I was about to pull out my cell
phone to take pictures when a furry pink shoe on the floor by the massive
bed caught my eye. We had been booked into suites with four-poster beds that
occupied seemingly half of our bedrooms. Marliss’ room looked just
like mine.

          I walked two steps toward
the furry shoe with heels too high for me when a leg suddenly stretched out
not far from it. I froze in my tracks when the rest of the body came into
view. Crystal clear.

          Marliss!

          My stomach pitched with
the mixed aromas of perfume and body fluids. She lay crumpled on the floor
with a small amount of blood oozing from the side of her head. Her eyes were
open, yet unseeing. I didn’t expect to find a pulse.

          I turned to the short man
immediately behind me. He rubbed his eyes as if they were deceiving him and
took a step back.

          “Call
9-1-1.”

          He looked from Marliss to
me and back.

          “Now!”

          With a shaky breath, he
nodded and backed all the way out of the room, shutting the door quietly
behind him. The idiot.

          I snapped to and
remembered I had my phone on me. As I made the call, I was careful not to
touch anything in the room, especially by the body. I had written scenes
like this too many times to be unaware of the liability I had put myself
into just by being here.

          Marliss was dead. I knew
that for sure, but my troubles were just beginning. 

          While waiting for the police to arrive, I stayed away from the body, but my
eyes searched the room. Marliss’ suite, like mine, had a bedroom
separated from a nice sitting area with a table and chairs situated by a
large window overlooking the city. The sleek paneled doors were wide open to
the sitting area. An ice bucket sat by the table, but a chair had tipped
over. It lay on its side pointing the way to Marliss’ body in the next
room. The champagne in the ice bucket hadn’t been opened and had to be
plenty cold by now. Two champagne glasses sitting on the table indicated she
had been expecting company.

          The rest of the sitting
room held little interest for me, so my eyes strayed back to the body.
Marliss was wearing lingerie. Sexy lingerie. A frilly lavender number,
I’m sure by a famous designer, with a barely-there bra, thong and tiny
lace skirt. I couldn’t be sure from this distance, but the skirt
appeared to be torn. The whole outfit didn’t cover much and I was
tempted to reach for a blanket. Tempted, but I didn’t. The crime scene
needed to be kept as it was.

          Her face was turned to me
and I was sad to see her blank eyes. The Marliss I’d known and, okay,
disliked, had eyes that could look right through you or knock you down with
her deadly glare. Hilda had been the recipient of that look more than
once.

          The blood splatter
pattern indicated she’d been killed where she had fallen—yes, I
knew about patterns from years of research—and the red mark on her
face indicated a hard slap. Maybe the slap had caused her fall and she hit
her head on the corner of the bed when she fell.

          Maybe her death was an
accident.

          Maybe. Oh, no. My eyes
saw more than I wanted. A small shaft of sunlight flashed on something shiny
by the bedpost. My feet itched to move closer to see what it could be when
my brain came back online.

          Hilda’s emerald
ring.

          No, it couldn’t
be.

          I remembered my
conversation with Hilda. She’d remarked that she had left it back in
her room. But her body language belied her words. Her chin dipped to her
chest as she spoke and she’d averted her eyes from mine. I could swear
she was lying, and her comment hadn’t made sense. I knew how much she
loved that ring because Antoine gave it to her.

          Maybe Antoine had
returned to the scene and asked for it back. Had he then gone to see
Marliss, killed her and dropped the ring to implicate Hilda?

          Food for thought.

          Where could I find
Antoine?

          I checked back through my
texts from Marliss. She’d mentioned something I was trying to
remember. Ah, here it was. She had to miss lunch because she had a quick
meeting with a secret admirer. Apparently, the “meeting” was
code for a nooner and needed to be quick because the signing event would be
starting at two.

          So whatever happened to
her, happened between noon and two o’clock. I glanced at the
door’s heavy security locks. She must have let him in, another
indication she knew the killer. It would have been nice if she’d let
me inn 
on her little secret, but that was the way Marliss worked. She was always
cloaked in secrecy, which didn’t save her.

          The man opening the door
wasted no time.

          “I’m
Detective Sloan from LAPD.  You the one who found the
body?”

          “Yes,
sir.”

          “Your
name?”

          “Jaynie
Floyd.”

          “What’s your
connection to the deceased?”

          “I was on a book
tour with her.”

          Although the man wore
wire-framed glasses, I could see the squint aimed my way. His fake smile
wasn’t filling me with confidence.

          “A book
tour?”

          “Yes, sir.
We’re fellow authors at a book signing event.”

          I could tell he
didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, so I babbled some
more.

          “It’s when
authors go to bookstores to sign books purchased by readers.”

          While he stood still
sizing me up, I suppose, I had a good look at him too. A wrinkled jacket
over jeans with a crooked tie. All that was missing from his costume was the
felt hat and he could have been straight out of a Mickey Spillane novel. He
looked more like Spillane’s detective, Mike Hammer, from what I read,
than Stacy Keach from the old television show. A hard-boiled detective faced
me as the color bleached from the hotel room placing me in the middle of a
classic film noir.

          I knew there’d be a
holstered gun under the jacket, and a badge peeked out from his belt. He
wasn’t any happier to see me than I was to see him. If more minutes
ticked by, I would be breaking into a cold sweat.

          His gaze dropped to the
body and he moved toward it. A uniformed officer stood by the door keeping
me in his sight at all times. What did he think I was going to do? Make a
run for it? I sure did think about doing exactly that, but I was pinned in
place by his steely look. My knees had locked up and I seriously hoped I
wouldn’t tip over. I’d be lying next to poor Marliss.

          The detective’s
gaze flicked over Marliss, taking her in. I bet he had a snapshot of her in
his head and details would come back to him as he thought over the scene.
I’d written about detectives like Sloan, so I wasn’t
uncomfortable being around him. I just didn’t appreciate being
considered a suspect because I happened to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time.

          When a police
photographer entered the room, Detective Sloan moved me into the sitting
area. His questioning look returned to an otherwise neutral face.

          “How did you happen
to find the body?”

          “She missed the
signing event today at Book Soup and I came to look for her.”

          “She hadn’t
said anything to you about possibly being detained?”

          “Actually, she
did.” When I reached for my cell phone in my pocket, the detective
took a step back as the uniformed officer at the door took a step
forward.

          “Easy, guys,”
I said. “I’m getting my phone out.”

          Sloan didn’t
exactly relax, but his shoulders weren’t hunched around his ears
anymore.

          I scrolled through my
text messages until I found what I was looking for.

          “Here.
See?”

          He took my phone and read
the message. His face remained as vacant as a blank chalkboard.  I bet
he was a good poker player. He handed the phone back.

          “We’ll need
to copy all your messages from Marliss Kendall. Could you come down to the
station today?”


“Certainly.”

          He jerked his head toward
the officer at the door. “Officer Petrie will give you the information
you need.”

          I glanced at Petrie who
embodied those uniformed guards at Buckingham Palace. An expression on his
face was as useless as my presence in a hotel room with a dead body.

          “Can you add
anything else to what you’ve told me?” asked Sloan.

          “No,
sir.”

          “You
sure?”

          I could tell he thought I
knew more than I was saying and maybe he was right. I didn’t mention
the ring because I wasn’t supposed to have seen it. I had been closer
to the body than I should have been and I wasn’t going to tattle on
myself. Besides, Sloan didn’t appear to be a dummy. He’d learn
whose ring it was in due course.

          “Yes, sir. May I
go?”

          He nodded curtly.
“Give your contact information to Officer Petrie and go down to the
central station to make your deposition. I’ll need it as soon as
possible.”

          “I can do
that.”

          I left as quickly as
possible. Being close to poor Marliss for so long had me rushing back to my
room for a long, hot shower. With soapsuds rinsing off, several things
occurred to me:

1.    What was the Detroit connection?

2.    Was she being blackmailed? The scene in the alley back
in San Francisco could have been about blackmail. Maybe a rabid fan?

 

 

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE started her career as a language arts teacher. When she began
writing, her initial interest was children’s stories, but then she
moved on to western romance, mysteries and historical fiction. She has
published 30 novels. Her website is www.sjslagle.com. SJ has established
Twitter and Facebook fan bases, and a quarterly author newsletter.

 

SJ Slagle has written several western romance series including: THESE
NEVADA BOYS, RANCHER, and THE WESTERNERS, as well as mystery series: FLOYD
SISTERS MYSTERIES and SHERLOCK AND ME. All her books are distributed in
digital, paper and audiobook formats.

 

Her first historical fiction novel, LONDON SPIES, was awarded a B.R.A.G.
Medallion in 2018. She was given the Silver Award with the International
Independent Film Awards for her screenplay called REDEMPTION. She conducts
writing/publishing symposiums in her local area.

 

SJ Slagle lives and works in Reno, Nevada.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Instagram

Tumblr

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

 

Comments Off on Book Tour Madness Teaser

Filed under BOOKS