Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Three Steps Behind (Jeopardy Falls, #3) by Dani Pettrey

THREE STEPS BEHIND

by Dani Pettrey

September 14 - October 9, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

JEOPARDY FALLS

 

When FBI forensic botanist Harper Grace returns to Jeopardy Falls scarred from a traumatic assignment, she seeks refuge at the MacLeod ranch. Her time to recover is short-lived when she learns her dear friend Taylor Jackson has died of a heart attack in her thirties. As questions arise from Taylor's premature death, Harper wonders if something sinister is playing out.

Deckard MacLeod, PI, is thrilled at Harper's return, though troubled by the haunted look in her eyes. When Harper begins investigating Taylor's suspicious death, Deckard realizes she's walking into dangerous territory and joins her in discovering what happened. The closer they get to the deadly truth, the more treacherous their mission becomes. In a race against time, they cannot fall behind or their next breath might be their last.

In Three Steps Behind, bestselling author Dani Pettrey presents another heart-racing countdown in her thrilling romantic suspense series.

Book Details:

Genre: Romantic Suspense; Thriller; Action & Adventure
Published by: Bethany House Publishers
Publication Date: September 15, 2026
Number of Pages: 288, Paperback
ISBN: 9780764238505 (ISBN10: 0764238507)
Series: Jeopardy Falls, Book 3 | Learn more on Amazon & Goodreads
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Baker Book House

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

DECEMBER 19

HARPER SLIPPED INTO THE DARKNESS of the rusty ship-ping container, praying they wouldn’t come, but knowing she was next. Five days and counting. Twenty-two people all gone, save her.

Gunfire echoed through her mind—single shots popping in succession. Never ending. Wailing and pleading had rent the stale night air, but there had been no mercy. None.

Others went by silent measures. Necks slit or torture taken too far. Whimpers had radiated through the metal box before each person was yanked screaming from it, never to return.

Her fate was sealed, and it broke her. God had forsaken her in this godless country. She would die in a land of ghosts. So much death—it rose in the air thick and putrid.

Mounds of fresh basalt littered the harsh scrubland, black volcanic dirt attempting to cover death, but it only showed more. Open pits, not yet full, held bodies tossed asunder. Legs and arms askew.

The stench of death blanketed them—saturating the fibers of their clothes, sticking to their skin like thick lotion. It consumed the abandoned village, seeped between the broken-down trucks

and crumbling walls. No more laughter filled the empty homes, no more families together, no more living.

And she was next to be dumped into a gaping hole.

Pain pulsed through her bruises. Her head, jaw, and side—all mottled in black and purple. All from beatings that had stolen her breath, penetrating deep into her marrow. With each kick, each club cracking against bone, she’d feared she wouldn’t sur-vive but she had—so far. For what? To be tortured and tossed away, becoming one of the faceless. Nameless. No grave marker. No funeral. Just another unknown ghost in this barren Syrian hill country.

Cruel laughter echoed in the dank night air as rain thundered on the metal roof. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her waist—trying to protect herself from the coming death. But there was no protection. No one to save her. No way to save herself.

The laughter grew louder, bouncing off the walls. The door creaked open and a man—the source of her bruises—smiled wide. The lighted poles silhouetted his husky form, framing him in a halo of light, but he was no angel. Quite the opposite. She’d been left to the demons.

“You’re next, American eahira,” he slurred.

She winced. Drunk again. The worst of the beatings had come then. The desire to holler back “I’m not a whore” rose in her chest, but he’d only beat her worse.

“I’ll miss our time together.” The words ran together, but she still heard the merciless lilt of laughter under his ripe breath.

With one last laugh on a belch, he turned and slid the creaking door back, shutting her in darkness—nearly. The door stopped an inch short. A minuscule shaft of light beamed across the excrement-covered floor.

Hope rose inside. Hope. Something nonexistent for the last five days.

Would the shaft of light remain? Was he so stumbling drunk he’d missed sealing her in the coffin?

Her breath held thick in her chest. She counted the seconds, hope rising.

The inch remained.

Tiptoeing toward the door, she paused at the opening, her breath bursting in her lungs.

She braved a glance through the tiny slit. Rain, so thick it marred the land, bounced off the ground. Puddles dotted the barren hill. No cover. Her hope faltered.

The man—if a human term could be used for the swine—was not in sight.

This was her chance—her only chance. If caught, she’d die, but she was about to die anyway. Better to be shot in the back, racing for freedom, than die by torture for nothing she had to give.

She slid the door open another inch. Singing in Arabic over-powered the sound of gushing rain. She inched the door a bit wider and held again—her heart hitting the wall of her chest so hard she feared he’d hear and come running, but the singing grew distant.

Inch by inch she slid the door open. Almost enough to slip through.

A creak echoed.

Save me, Lord! she prayed to the God who’d abandoned her. Rain thudded, thunder cracking.

The man didn’t come.

Her lungs begged for air, but she refused to gasp—to make any noise. Lights gleamed in the distance, their shape marred by the rain into glowing balls. She crept out, then slithered her way to the side of the container.

You can do this. You have no choice. Die now or die worse.

Her chest squeezed tight. She struggled for air, her body trembling.

Peering around the edge of the metal box, she spotted the man standing past the last light, peeing with his back to her.

Crouching low, she headed over the barren landscape—the thin scrub good only for noise if she stepped on it.

Once beyond the edge of the camp, she broke into a run, her weak legs seeming to move without her control as if God were carrying her. But it must be the fear driving her forward.

Cold rain soaked through her ripped pajamas, sticking to her skin.

Was she free? Hope radiated through the fear—the two spar-ring for control.

The ground shifted beneath her feet, tossing her forward. Her chin collided with the loose stones, her body splayed out.

Noise emanated behind her, and light swathed the hill. A high holler rent the sage-infused air.

He was coming.

Scrambling to her feet, she pushed her body beyond its limits—barreling forward and tripping over crinkling scrub.

Light passed by again, and she hit the ground. Thorns scraped her face, tearing her bruised skin. She bit back a yelp.

The light bounced farther away, sweeping a dozen yards to her right.

Getting to her knees, she pulled the thorns from her bloody palms and crawled forward, skittering like a bug over rippling water.

Voices joined his—Arabic filling the hill.

Don’t stop. Push past the pain. Freedom lies ahead.

Adrenaline burned her limbs, the mud-slick ground slipping beneath her.

Time evaporated and somehow stalled at the same time. Was she even making forward progress?

Flashlights shone near her as she hit a grove of olive trees.

Cover. Thankfulness rippled inside.

Low walls—crumbling but freestanding—covered the land as far as she could see in the thick streaking rain and mist rising from the ground.

She bolted through the copse and tangled vines—one grabbing her hair and tugging her back. No. No. No.

Voices grew closer.

She tugged her hair, the vine refusing to let it go. Yanking hard, she broke free—a clump of wet hair remaining in the mass of vines.

Dogs barked in the distance.

She squeezed her eyes shut for the briefest moment—a flash of dogs devouring her skin passed through her mind. Blinking and sweeping away the rain clinging to her lashes, clouding her vision, she broke into a run, tumbling down into the valley below.

Reeds towered over her. “Thank you,” she murmured out of habit. How could she thank the God who’d allowed men to rip her from her bed in the middle of night—tearing her from safety and pummeling her with their fists, then throwing her into a container to wait to die?

A reed shifted, rustling. She powered forward, her feet hitting a narrow stream. Icy water swirled around her ankles as she slipped deeper into the surging water of the Yarmouk River gorge. Adrenaline infused her exhausted limbs.

Safety—if she could make it—lay on the other side.

Howling pierced the air, rising over the gurgle of the raging river, as she plunged deeper still into its seemingly never-ending depths. The freezing water pricked at every part of her, steal-ing what breath remained in her lungs. Flailing her arms, she worked to burst free of the swift current’s icy grip. The other side lay so near.

Reach it and you’re safe.

Grappling forward, she reached the shore, crawling onto the riverbank as a light landed on her from the border crossing ahead. She braved one glance back. The men held on the other side of the river, unable to cross into Jordan. She wanted to smile, but she feared she never would again.

ONE

NEARLY A WEEK LATER

HER HANDS CLUTCHING the steering wheel, Harper wove her way up the mountain—the curving road leading to the small ranch town of Jeopardy Falls. Something outside of her pulled her there—an invisible rope tugging her forward, guiding her to Second Chances Ranch and Deckard.

Cold slithered through her body—a chill that refused to leave her bones ever since she’d been shoved into that metal container prison.

Warmth refused to envelop her no matter how high she cranked up the thermostat.

Snow and sleet fell in shards—pelting like the sheets of rain on the night of her escape. The men’s voices clanged in her ears, her skin crawling at the whoosh of their harsh taunts—the memories raw and fierce. She feared they’d found her—saw their shadows bobbing in the back seat as she bounced over the juts in the dirt road. A smothering fear she’d never known until they’d thrown her into that steel container, then it consumed her, thickening in her veins—seeping through every part of her.

Their cruel, merciless faces flashed in the rearview mirror.

No. She clenched the wheel, pain shocking her sliced hands.

They aren’t real.

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them, but the faces remained.

Stop seeing them!

Sparse tears trickled down her cheeks—the moisture still not fully returned to her body.

So dry. Her mouth still parched, her tears as weak as she was. Trembling, she turned left, entering the ranch’s drive. Would this be a second chance for her? Could she find normalcy here, though she hadn’t elsewhere? Her demons taunted that she

never would.

Her car slid sideways across the ice.

Let go. Give into the slide.

But her grip fought with the steering wheel.

She scarcely managed to right her car and avoid sliding straight off the embankment running parallel to the long, winding drive.

Freezing rain streamed down, stabbing the windshield. The wipers swished back and forth at a frantic pace, just like the pulse thwacking in her throat.

Her parents had begged her to stay with them over Christmas, but the need for safety propelled her. Get somewhere safe. Get to Deck. Only he could protect her, at least from external foes—her inner demons she was on her own to battle.

Disconcertion riddled through her. What would he think of her, bruised and broken, showing up on his doorstep like a lost animal? He’d rescue her like a feral cat. Not at the soul level—no one could rescue her there. It was as dead as the bodies littering that otherwise desolate hill in Syria. As vanished as her colleagues, Tracey and Amanda, who’d been pulled from the container—both screeching at their turn—begging the men to stop. But they’d had no mercy.

The three worked with the humanitarian group in Syria, there to identify the dead in a rebel-torn area of the hostile country. Working in an abandoned village of bodies left in the rebels’

cruel wake, they’d identified many victims, then buried them in proper graves.

Her car bounced over another rut in the ice-covered mesa road, jarring her and her thoughts as Deckard’s house—the first of three on the property—came into view. Riley’s sat in the middle and Christian’s home last on the lane. The lights from Deck’s porch glowed like fireflies in the inky black sky. Shone as beacons in the moonless night.

Shifting her car into park, she fixed her attention on the stillness surrounding her. Her bestie, Andi Forester was dating Deck’s brother, Christian. She and Greyson Chadwick, another friend of the group, were already spending Christmas at the ranch. During their call earlier today, Andi had insisted Deck would be thrilled to see Bristol too, but . . .

She bit her scabbed, swollen lip, and the metallic taste of blood trickled in her mouth.

Grabbing a tissue, she swiped at it—the red smearing on white like the victims’ blood had covered the barren scrub outside the rusted metal container, the smell of death assailing her nostrils night and day until the two blended into one inside the window-less box.

Her heart thumping against her chest, she uncurled her fingers from the steering wheel, her hands furling like claws ready to pounce, the movement lancing the slices on her palms.

The frigid temps burned her lungs with each ragged intake of breath. Pain stabbed her cracked rib, stealing the air from her in a whoosh.

She shook it off.

You can do this. You have to, or you won’t survive.

Primal instinct had drawn her here. Now it was time to step out of the car. Her hand wrapped around the door handle as the ghosts whispered from the back seat. She refused to look, to see their shadows—the faces that had tormented her for blurred days on end.

Enough!

She shoved her door open, a groan wresting from the metal screws—the sound too similar to the screeching of that prison door.

You. Can. Do. This. You have to.

The bitter air seared her lungs. Snow and ice crunched beneath her boots as she rounded the car, then grabbed her presumptuous new duffel bag off the passenger seat. Again, Andi had assured her Deck would welcome her to stay, but would it be out of caring or pity?

Hurrying for the porch and what she hoped was safety, she slipped but righted herself, avoiding slamming onto the ice-slicked earth. Reaching the door, she held her trembling gloved hand poised over the doorbell. Deck wouldn’t hound her for answers, for details of her “ordeal,” as her parents called it when they pressured her to talk. Deck held his own secrets, his own demons, so surely, he’d let her have hers.

Forcing her hand, she pressed the bell and waited.

Footsteps and a shadow breaking the inner light through the cutglass door moved toward her. She wrestled the overpowering urge to bolt but held immovable in fear.

“Harp,” Andi said, her voice a whisper as she leaned out and enveloped her with a hug, then pulled back, worry etched on her brow.

Harper had tried not to go rigid. Really, she had. But her body moved and reacted of its own accord now, and it terrified her.

Footsteps sounded behind Andi. Was it her bestie’s boyfriend, Christian, or—her breath caught in her throat—Deckard? The man she’d come to see. The man who’d keep her safe.

“Harper?” His deep voice echoed in her ears.

Deckard.

Warmth flashed through her—only for a second, but it was a second longer than she’d experienced since being thrust into that container.

She squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of how he’d react to the

bruises, to the forming scars, then on a sharp breath opened them. Concern clenched his jaw, an unknown emotion radiating in his eyes. It wasn’t pity, not like how her parents had looked at her.

The man was stunningly handsome. She’d forgotten how much so. His good looks next to her battered body and barrenness of soul marked a stark contrast.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern lancing his raspy voice.

His question . . . Answer it. The words refused to come. She just stood there, frozen before finally managing a nod.

He struggled to get a read on her, his eyes assessing each bruise. But he didn’t freak out like her folks had at the sight of her. She couldn’t blame them on that count, but gratitude that Deck wasn’t losing it welled inside her. Anger held in the fists curled at his side, his shoulders broad, his stance tight. He wanted to take justice on who’d hurt her. But they were a world away. It was all that consoled her.

She shuffled her feet on the deiced porch—gravel-like pellets shifting and grating beneath the soles of her boots. “Can I come in?” she asked, the sound small. She couldn’t even keep the hurt from her voice. Beyond embarrassing.

“Of course.” Deck stepped back, clearing the doorway. “Please,” he said with a sweep of his arm.

Moving inside, he held out his arms, indicating a hug. They always hugged hello and goodbye.

He wrapped her in his arms, and she tried her best not to stiffen, but . . .

Epic fail.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” she pushed on, trying to diffuse the confusion and concern in Deck’s light blue eyes.

“Don’t be silly.” Andi moved to wrap her arm around her shoulders, and she jerked back. Again, not of her own accord.

Andi frowned but quickly masked her disappointment. “Andi, why don’t you get Harper some cider to warm her up.

It’s freezing out there,” Deck said, already looking out for her. Protecting was what he did best, and why she was here, risking the questions that would come. He would keep her safe. She trusted that with all her might, despite how her traitorous body might protest otherwise.

Riley rounded the corner, followed by Greyson—Deckard’s most trusted friend and a fellow PI in their firm. He’d been the one to sell the practice to Deck, though she didn’t know why. Riley stopped short as her gaze shifted to Harp’s swollen eye. Grey held behind Riley, resting his hands on her shoulders.

Hmm. An unusual personal touch from Grey. He and Riley were close but not that level of close . . . unless she’d missed something.

Riley schooled her features from concern to softness. “Harper, I’m so glad to see you.”

Of course Riley would read the room and react accordingly. “Let’s get you something warm to drink,” she repeated Deck’s

suggestion. “Cider or cocoa?”

Her hollow stomach flipped. Comfort from food and drink, other than water, had alluded her—pounds dropping off—but she craved warmth. “Cocoa, please.”

“You got it.” Riley smiled. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen? I’ve got a whole cocoa bar set up, and we can make it the way you like it.”

Of course Riley did. She was the Christmas elf, according to her brothers. All things merry and festive, they’d said.

“I’m so glad you came,” Deck said, keeping a comfortable distance between them. All the MacLeods, Grey, and Andi kindly did as well.

She placed her order for dark chocolate and whipped cream from Riley’s plethora of offerings.

“Thanks,” she said when Riley handed her the red mug dotted with white snowflakes. She cupped it, hoping it would infuse some heat into her bones.

Deckard’s gaze flashed to the duffel bag she’d set off to the side as they’d entered the kitchen. “I hope you plan on staying awhile.”

She would thank God for Deck’s kindness, but God had abandoned her on that scrubbed hill of death.

***

Excerpt from Three Steps Behind by Dani Pettrey. Copyright 2026 by Grace and Johnny, Inc. Reproduced with permission from Baker Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Dani Pettrey has sold more than a million copies to readers eager to read her next release. She is the bestselling author of the Jeopardy Falls series, Coastal Guardians series, Chesapeake Valor series, and the Alaskan Courage series. A three-time Christy Award finalist, Dani has won the National Readers' Choice Award, Daphne du Maurier Award, HOLT Medallion, and Christian Retailing's Best Award for Suspense. She plots murder and mayhem from her home with her husband in Florida. She can be found online at DaniPettrey.com.

Catch Up With Dani Pettrey:

DaniPettrey.com
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Goodreads - @danipettrey
BookBub - @DaniPettrey
Instagram - @authordanipettrey
Pinterest - @danipettrey
Facebook - @DaniPettrey

 

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THREE STEPS BEHIND by Dani Pettrey | Jeopardy Falls, Books 1-3

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Blurb Blitz Tour & Giveaway: The Booker (Sam Quinton Mystery, #6) by Kevin R. Doyle

THE BOOKER

by

Kevin R. Doyle

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by
Goddess FishPromotions.
Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Mystery
Publisher: Camel Press
Publication Date: August 12, 2025
Page count: 254 pages

SCROLL DOWN FOR GIVEAWAY!

SYNOPSIS:

Sam Quinton hadn't thought much about the entertainment business for several years. His days as a minor celebrity were part of his past, which was fine with him. But when a Hollywood producer walks through the doors of his gym and offers to create a TV show around his life, Sam doesn't say no right away.

 

Then the producer's partner ends up dead in her hotel room, and Sam has to put on his private detective hat to straighten things out. It doesn't take long to realize the TV offer may not have been exactly what it was cracked up to be. Suddenly, a whole lot of seemingly bad folks are gunning for Sam. Forget his budding Hollywood career. He has to do everything possible to keep himself and his client alive.

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ENJOY AN EXCERPT:

He finally leveled his gaze on me. “Monumental Productions is a studio.”

 

“I pretty much figured that.”

 

“We mainly package series concepts for the major streaming services.”

 

“Any shows I may have heard of?” I asked.

 

“Sure.” Carson said. “You ever see Two for Tango?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“How about Three for a Party?”

 

Another shake on my part.

 

“Maybe Sexy Sixes?”

 

I shook my head again. It was starting to get monotonous.

 

“Okay,” Carson canted his head a bit. “Actually, we’re still looking for our first really big hit.”

 

“And your studio’s been in business how long?” I asked.

 

“About eight years, but we’ve got some really good financial backing.”

 

“Must have,” I said, “but what’s all of that got to do with me?”

 

Carson grinned, and I suddenly felt like a mouse that had stepped into a trap. He raised his hand up to me, shaped like kids do to show a gun, and cocked his trigger thumb.

 

“Are you kidding?” he asked. “It’s got everything to do with you. The Blond Bomber? Once a professional wrestling champion and now a big-time private eye? You’re gold, baby, and we’re going to make you the next big thing.”

 

Baby?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

A retired high-school teacher and former college instructor, Kevin R. Doyle is the author of five novels in the Sam Quinton Mystery series, all published by Camel Press. He’s also written four crime thrillers, including And the Devil Walks Away and The Anchor, and one horror novel, The Litter, along with numerous short horror stories published in small magazines over the years. The first Quinton book, Squatter’s Rights, was nominated for the 2021 Shamus Award for Best First PI Novel. A lifelong Midwesterner, Doyle currently resides in Missouri and has loosely based the city of Providence in the Quinton books on Columbia. 

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Book Review: A Camping Conundrum (Liz Adams Mystery, #5) by Stacy Wilder

A Camping Conundrum: A Liz Adams Mystery by Stacy Wilder
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A camping trip turns deadly!

A Camping Conundrum is the fifth book in author Stacy Wilder’s excellent Liz Adams Mystery series, which features the private investigator and her husband, Brad, attempting to enjoy a weekend camping trip to one of his much-loved childhood destinations. Brad, the last living member of his nuclear family, wanted to recapture some of the highlights of his childhood by visiting a campground that was the scene of many happy memories with his parents and younger sister, now all gone. But unbeknownst to Brad, Liz was traumatized as a child on her only camping experience, but she agrees to attend without divulging her past. While at the campground, they discover that guests have been plagued by thefts from their campsites, a factor that reminds Liz of her traumatic childhood trip, making her all the more anxious about their plans. But nature and the otherwise tranquil setting work their magic on Liz until Brad discovers the body of a local woman in the lake, and her death is no accident.

Liz and Brad are a lovely couple, and each is super responsive to the other’s emotional needs, as is their perceptive canine companion, Duke. Both husband and wife are willing to bend to accommodate the special circumstances they encounter during their trip, such as Brad’s need to re-live happier times versus Liz’s unfortunate memories from her one and only attempt at camping when she was a young Girl Scout. I enjoyed all of Liz’s shopping throughout the story, and even Brad gets some new gear; this inevitably led to her crossing paths with the unpleasant commercial landlord in Sumter.

The plot is well-paced, with the discovery of the victim occurring early in the story and unfortunately mirroring the death of Brad’s younger sister, deeply affecting him in the process. The victim was a real piece of work, so it was easy to see the writing on the wall that she was not long for this world. Her nasty attitude and interactions with her business tenants during her life created a wide pool of suspects for her murderer. Liz searches for answers in a methodical and practical manner, and even with some surprising twists, the final resolution is quickly at hand.

I recommend A CAMPING CONUNDRUM to cozy mystery readers, especially those with an interest in camping and shopping while on vacation.

I voluntarily reviewed this after receiving an Advance Review Copy from the author through Great Escapes Virtual Book Tours.

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Bye Bye Blackbird (Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery, #2) by Elizabeth Crowens

BYE BYE BLACKBIRD

by Elizabeth Crowens

February 17 - March 14, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A BABS NORMAN HOLLYWOOD MYSTERY

 

In the summer of 1941, Hollywood heats up again when Humphrey Bogart arrives right after a female corpse with a dead bird stuffed inside her overcoat topples into the office of B. Norman Investigations. While filming The Maltese Falcon, Bogie found a mysterious ancient Egyptian hawk artifact on his doorstep containing a mummified black bird. Someone with dark intentions threatens the main cast, one by one, leaving dead birds, from crows to falcons, as their calling cards.

While more murders pile up, jeopardizing the film from being finished, Bogie hires private eyes Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, infuriating his volatile third wife, Mayo Methot, or Sluggy, as she’s known in some circles. Unraveling the personal lives of Mary Astor, John Huston, Sydney Greenstreet, Elisha Cook, Jr., Peter Lorre, and Jack L. Warner in their quirky, humorous way, the PIs turn the underbelly of Tinseltown upside down to stop the crazed killer from claiming another victim.

Praise for Bye Bye Blackbird:

"No author can seamlessly blend Hollywood history with and engaging mystery yarn better than Elizabeth Crowens. It’s a jaunty tale that could have been lifted from a Warner Bros. screenplay with all the principals from the studio’s famed stock company: The Maltese Falcon, Bogie, Mary Astor, Greenstreet, John Huston, and Jack L. Warner. Fasten your seatbelts for a wild ride through 1940s Hollywood!"
~ Alan K. Rode, film historian and author, Michael Curtiz: A Life in Film

"Crowens does it again with Bye Bye Blackbird. Babs, Brandt, and Bogart make this rocking novel the stuff dreams are made of."
~ Reed Farrel Coleman. New York Times bestselling author of Blind to Midnight

"It’s like someone shook a movie projector and out tumbled Humphrey Bogart, Mary Astor, Peter Lorre, and a duo from a struggling PI agency bringing all the lighthearted fun of a 1940’s Hollywood mystery. That someone is Elizabeth Crowens."
~ Tom Straw, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

"A creative twist on The Maltese Falcon: Dead birds show up on doorsteps. Humphrey Bogart assumes the role of a real-life Sam Spade, and two young PIs rescue every oddball animal as they investigate. Even the mogul of a major movie studio is no match for a wisecracking myna bird who sounds like a Warner Brothers cartoon. If you’re a fan of Turner Classic Movies and the Golden Age of Hollywood, Bye Bye Blackbird will be sure to entertain."
~ Robert Dugoni, New York Times bestselling author of The Tracy Crosswhite Mystery Series

"An office full of lost pets, a strange dame drops dead in the doorway, and Bogie appears with a knock-off Egyptian hawk … while shooting The Maltese Falcon. Thus begins the wild ride of Elizabeth Crowens’ Bye Bye Blackbird. Babs and Guy, the heroes of Hounds of the Hollywood Baskervilles, continue in this welcome, hilarious and worthy sequel that I can only describe as The Thin Man meets ‘hardboiled’ with both tongues firmly in cheek. Famous names, Hollywood haunts, and a crime I dare you to solve, make this well worth your time. As a lover of Old Hollywood, I loved this book!"
~ Jon Lindstrom, USA Today bestselling author of Hollywood Hustle, 4-time Emmy© nominee, award-winning filmmaker, and veteran actor known for True Detective, Bosch, and General Hospital.

"Elizabeth Crowens’ Bye Bye Blackbird is a welcome addition to the Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery series. Set during the Golden Age of Hollywood and brimming with depictions of its personalities, Crowens succeeds in bringing Old Hollywood to life and offering readers another thoroughly entertaining installment to this series."
~ Annette Bochenek, Ph.D., author of the Hometowns to Hollywood series

"A delectable mystery set in the Golden Age of Hollywood, Elizabeth Crowens Bye Bye Blackbird is a fantastic addition to her Babs Norman series with a treat of a cast featuring Bogart, Mary Astor, Peter Lorre and other screen legends from the era brought to stunning life."
~ Lee Matthew Goldberg, award-nominated author of The Great Gimmelmans and The Mentor

Bye Bye Blackbird Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Golden Age of Hollywood Private Investigator novel with satire
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 28, 2025
Number of Pages: 340
Series: Babs Norman Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery, Book 2 | Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Look at the Birdie!

Hollywood 1941

On Friday, July 4th, only the most essential, dedicated, or insane Los Angelenos punched the clock. Established businesses that usually stayed open closed early that afternoon. For the fledgling ones, like the young private detectives at B. Norman Investigations, there would be no weenie roasts, barbeques, or national holiday celebrations. Death would soon follow. Every electric fan they owned hummed its own tune. Between the fan blades whirring and the cats purring, panting dogs, who could qualify as hotdogs, an injured pelican with its wing in a sling, and their janitor’s wisecracking myna bird, the whole kit and caboodle at Hollywood Boulevard and N. Sycamore resembled a cross between the Humane Society and the Griffith Park Zoo.

Guy Brandt, more detective-partner than secretary, manned the desk upfront. On top of it: a shoebox of magazine clippings, scissors, and a stack of The Times and Herald-Examiner. He undid one more button on his clammy, sweat-stained shirt, flung his tie onto their hat rack, and took a swig of his warm Nehi orange soda, already flat. He hoped to find new clients from newspaper leads but wasn’t getting anywhere. Babs Norman, who always had every pin curl in place, patted off her sticky forehead with a handkerchief. Way beyond a simple touch-up with powder and fresh lipstick, only a masterful makeup wizard, like Perc Westmore, could bring new life to this wilted flower.

“Wouldn’t it be fine and dandy if we could afford to run an ad at least once a week saying that we’re private detectives, specializing in discreet celebrity cases?” she asked.

An adventurous kitten, who strayed from the pack, latched on to Guy’s sock and started to climb his leg. “Maybe we should ask if we can put a note in the downstairs lobby that we’re also a pet adoption service.” He unhooked its claws, returning him to his mama.

“You think that would pay off our debts?”

“Do you always have to sound like a broken record?” An Irish Wolfhound, in need of a bath, sauntered in from the doorway between the two offices. He went up to Guy and plopped his oversized, hairy head into his lap. “Dog days not agreeing with you, Sir Henry?” After rubbing the furry beast’s head, he went to their icebox and plopped chunks of ice in the various water bowls scattered around both rooms. Several prostrated cats laid on their backs, trying to find coolness on the linoleum floor.

From under his pile of clippings, he fished out a copy of Black Mask. Babs, with a wooden clothespin clamping her nostrils shut and carrying an odiferous box of shredded newspapers, walked into his office and stopped short when she caught him reading the pulp. “You think we’re going to find our next client from detective fiction? We need another high-profile case like when we rescued Asta, so MGM could go into production on their next Thin Man film. They paid us an unheard-of amount of money…until you lost it all.”

“Stop being such a sourpuss.” He refused to give her eye contact.

“Do you think I’m enjoying spending time in our stifling office? I’d rather be at the beach with the man of my dreams.” Her inflection had a hint of sarcasm.

“Who’s the lucky fella?”

She went over to their monstrous dog and kissed him on the nose. “Looks like it’s you, Sir Henry of the Baskervilles. Instead of my frog prince, you’re my dog prince. Ah, you’re such a good boy.” She stared at the bulldog in the corner. “But we really need to paper-train Bruno.”

Their adopted bulldog whined. “You hurt his feelings,” Guy said. “Give him a good scratch behind his ears and apologize.”

She scowled. “I’ll give him two more weeks, and it’ll be your job to train him. Otherwise, he can go back to Wiggins, and I don’t care if one of his kids breaks out in hives.” She headed out the door to dump the litter.

* * *

“Our phone rang twice while you were out,” Guy said. “But Wiggins’ stupid bird answered before I could.”

“Hello, sucker!” the myna bird cackled. “Down for the count…1…2…3. Knocked him in the kisser, didn’t ya?”

“By the time I picked up the receiver, whoever it was hung up,” he explained.

“It’s hard to believe a bird can be so smart,” Babs muttered.

“Smart-mouthed is more like it,” he said. “Sounds like Jimmy Cagney, who he’s named after. Maybe we should let him earn his keep. The bird can impersonate him at parties.”

Babs stared at the troublemaker. “The person on the other end probably thought it was a prank.” She looked around the room. “Keep it up and…I got a lot of hungry cats and canines who wouldn’t mind a bowlful of myna bird stew.”

Wiggins, the building janitor, propped their front door open, causing their ginger tomcat to disappear into the hallway faster than gunfire. “My wife said the same. What are the two of ya doing here on Independence Day? With the tenants gone, I heard yer bickering all the way in the basement. Sounded like a married couple in divorce court. How did ya get in?”

“We had an extra set of keys,” Guy said.

Wiggins planted his hands on his hips. “More like makin’ a copy of my set while my back was turned. There’s no foolin’ me. Come on now. Who’ll be the first to confess?”

Both detectives buried their noses in their newspapers.

“All right, if none of ya willin’ to come clean, why aren’t you out having fun?”

“Paying our overdue office rent is my idea of fun,” Babs replied.

Wiggins looked confused. Guy explained, “We’re hurting. Nothing but small potatoes since retrieving our dognapped canine stars.”

“We might be forced to move out, if we don’t land a decent case,” said Babs. “I’m not looking forward to setting up shop at my house.”

Wiggins inhaled but choked. “You make sure you keep this place spic-and-span. If your neighbors start belly achin’…”

From inside his desk, Guy took out a sardine from its wax paper wrapping and tossed it to their pelican.

“Sniff…sniff… If you don’t get rid of this stench,” Wiggins continued, “my boss’ll make sure he throws you out on your arse.”

She plucked a bottle of cheap toilet water from her purse and spritzed the room. “Better now?”

Wiggins pointed toward the exit. “Goin’ after that mouser. Left the back door open to the alley downstairs. He’s liable to slip out and get lost forever.”

Babs handed her partner a feather duster. “Do something.” Then she returned to her lair with a stack of discarded tabloids to make fresh litter and to do her own skewed interpretation of housekeeping.

Guy reset their wall clock, which was a few hours behind the last time they had a power outage, and gave the reception area the minimal once-over by removing accumulated grime from the top of file cabinets. He was just about to straighten the frame displaying his private investigator’s license, when out of the side of his eye, he noticed a shadow. A large, irregular object leaned against the pebbled glass window of their front door. At first he paid it no mind and continued his cleanup crusade.

When minutes passed and it hadn’t budged, he called out just above a whisper, “Do you mind coming over? Make it quick, but be quiet.”

A startled canary flew out their open transom as Babs breezed toward the front. Guy pointed to the silhouetted figure. “I tidied up, like you asked, but don’t recall hearing anyone approach. This thing…it appeared out of nowhere and hasn’t moved since.”

Babs called out to see if it was Wiggins, but whomever it was didn’t respond. She inquired again. “The door is open. Come on in. We’re too hot and tired for practical jokes.”

With a nod, she gave Guy the go-ahead to open the door, but when he did, a young woman they’d never seen before, wearing a hat and an oversized coat despite the heatwave, fell face-forward onto the floor.

“The casting office is on the fourth floor,” Babs said, until she realized the lady hadn’t moved or said a word. Horrified, she squealed and froze in place.

Guy, also shaking, reached for the phone and called Wiggins’ downstairs office. His voice broke up. “Come up—pronto!”

As soon as he put down the receiver, she demanded he call the cops. Without thinking, she leapt up on a wooden chair as if she’d seen a mouse. Her legs wobbled, and she continued to holler.

Wiggins returned, heaving as if he had skipped waiting for the elevator and sprinted up the stairs. He had the missing tomcat draped over his shoulders. “Heard screams echoing down the hallway. You better keep better tabs on your tabbies. What the blarney did ya think was so important—Holy moly! Mary, Mother of God!”

Guy poked the stranger with his feather duster. Not having any luck, Wiggins, who was bigger than the two detectives combined, got a firm toehold with his work boots and rolled her onto her back. All three stared at the stiff.

“Oh, she’s dead alright,” Wiggins assured them. “Ever seen her before?”

Both PIs shook their heads. Guy tiptoed around the corpse and closed the front door. Wiggins fended off their curious menagerie.

“Something dark and…fea-ther-y is protruding from her coat. Like she was trying to conceal whatever she was carrying.” Babs wrinkled her nose. “Smells like she or someone else doused her with…men’s cologne. Not flowery enough to be one a lady would wear. Wiggins, how do you think she got in?”

“Through the back-alley door, I suppose, ’cause I locked the front. Could’ve snuck in and been here a while. Maybe passed out in a stairwell while my back was turned and crawled up to your floor before she expired.”

Guy paced the room and checked the clock. “The cops seem to be taking their time.” He pulled a flask from his file cabinet and took a swig. He offered some to Babs, but she declined.

Wiggins wrested the flask out of Guy’s hand and finished it to the last drop. “Sure as hell, this would have to happen on a holiday when the police are short-staffed.” He took a swatter from off the wall and clobbered a pesky fly that landed on the stranger’s ear. Babs trembled.

“She can feel it no more than if you were all doped up at the dentist,” Wiggins said.

Babs commented that the police could examine the body. She wasn’t touching it.

Guy suggested to Wiggins to wait for the cops downstairs. “They’ll need you to unlock the building.”

Keeping his distance, Guy asked, “Babs, how do you think she died?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She made it clear she wasn’t even interested in slipping on gloves to search for an ID.

He suggested that this could be the lead they’ve been looking for. She didn’t see it that way. “This is no way to spend a holiday. Let the police and the medical examiner do their jobs. They’ve expressed they don’t want us meddling in their homicide cases, anyway. I just want her out of here.”

Soon, they heard footsteps and the sound of crunching paper. She took for granted the cops had arrived. “Come in. It’s unlocked.”

She and her partner didn’t make a move until the front door creaked open.

Instead of the police, Humphrey Bogart stood there holding a parcel haphazardly wrapped in brown paper and twine. “I called twice. Assumed you had an answering service to leave a message. Dialed the right number, but someone with a peculiar voice like a Warner Brothers cartoon picked up. When I tried to explain my predicament, he mocked me and cracked a few jokes. Figured I better stop over.”

“How did you get into our building?” Guy asked.

“Your janitor recognized me. When I asked to see you, he figured I was harmless. He said he was waiting for—” Babs interrupted his train of thought. Still standing on the chair, she covered her eyes with one hand and pointed to the floor without making a sound. Bogie backed up. The blood drained from his face. “Whoa! Guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he was expecting the cops.”

A black cat jumped on top of the victim and started making biscuits. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Guy bent down to throw him off.

“Wh-a-a-t happened?” Bogie’s words came out choppy.

Babs regained her voice, which, at first, came out in squeaks. “Not sure. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for a private investigator. You came highly recommended as some of the best private dicks in town.”

Babs flushed. She preferred a more ladylike elucidation. With no further introductions needed, she ushered Bogart into her office, and Guy followed, grabbing a notepad off his desk. Even though she hated staring at the corpse, she kept her door open to keep an eye out for the police. She kept reminding herself to take deep breaths and not to panic.

“Do you mind clearing your desk?” Bogie held out his parcel. “I’d like to show you what I found on my doorstep this morning.”

With one fell swoop of her arm, the papers went into a spare box, which Babs said she’d sort through later. Bogart put his parcel down on her desk and fanned out his jacket.

“I guess we can skip formalities when the weather beats us into submission. Mind if I take this off?” His shirt was soaked. “This has been one of those days where I’ve felt like an omelet slapped on the Devil’s griddle.”

Babs identified his mysterious object as a museum replica of an ancient Egyptian canopic jar of Horus, the Hawk, the offspring of Isis and Osiris.

“This is much smaller and lighter than the falcon prop in our movie. Ours is about forty-seven pounds of lead. If you dropped it, you could break someone’s toe.” Bogie lifted its lid and revealed a mummified object. Taking special care, he unwrapped its gauze, stained but far from looking ancient, to reveal a sizable dead crow.

“I have no idea what this is supposed to symbolize, but now it looks like I’ve got competition from what’s in your front room as to which gives me the worst case of the heebie-jeebies,” Bogie remarked.

Guy pulled the privacy shades down on the pebbled glass windows on the walls and door separating the front office from her inner sanctum. “One would presume to find a dead falcon, not a raven, considering you’re in the middle of production for The Maltese Falcon.”

* * *

Excerpt from Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright 2025 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Crowens is bi-coastal between Los Angeles and New York. For over thirty years, she has worn many hats in the entertainment industry, contributed stories to Black Belt, Black Gate, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazines, Hell’s Heart, and the Bram Stoker-nominated A New York State of Fright, and has a popular Caption Contest on Facebook.

Awards include: Leo B. Burstein Scholarship from the MWA-NY Chapter, New York Foundation of the Arts grant to publish the anthology New York: Give Me Your Best or Your Worst (no longer in print), Eric Hoffer Award, Glimmer Train Awards Honorable Mention, Killer Nashville Claymore Award Finalist, two Grand prize, six First prize, and multiple Finalist Chanticleer Awards. Crowens writes multi-genre alternate history and historical Hollywood mysteries.

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Review:

4 stars!

A bizarre mystery and murder set during Hollywood's Golden Age threatens the filming of The Maltese Falcon. 

Bye Bye Blackbird is the second in author Elizabeth Crowens's Babs Norman Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery series featuring PI partners Babs Norman and Guy Brandt. The story opens on July 4, 1941. The war is on in Europe, and principal photography on the film, The Maltese Falcon, has just started when a dead woman tumbles into the reception area of B. Norman Investigations. As Babs, Guy, and Wiggins, the property caretaker, await the police, Humphrey Bogart arrives with a bizarre mummy-wrapped crow in an Egyptian canopic jar that was left at the front door of his home that morning. A similar bird is found to be tucked inside the dead woman's clothing, and the following day, Mary Astor, Bogart's co-star in the film, receives one at her home as well. Babs and Guy are hired to discover who is behind the creepy deliveries and why. 

Babs and Guy, the two friends and partners, are a fun duo to watch as they conduct a well-structured investigation on their way to finding the truth. Babs still struggles to be taken seriously as a PI (even by her mother), while Guy is constrained from revealing his true nature. I enjoyed their brother-and-sister style relationship, their closeness, camaraderie, and constant bickering. I worried about Bab's decision to get involved with Detective Felix Allgood to gain him as a sympathetic source of insider information eventually. He was smarmy and more, and something just didn't feel right. 

The plot moves steadily forward as Babs and Guy must work their case around the activities of the two Hollywood police detectives, and there are few clues to jump-start the process. Starting from scratch, they interview Bogart's fellow castmates and others involved with the making of the film as the dead birds and the appearance of the dead woman seem to mirror aspects of its story. Their suspect list reads like a Hollywood's "Who's Who," and the individual interviews, with the likes of John Huston, Sidney Greenstreet, and character actor Elisha Cook, Jr., to name a few, are full of Hollywood gossip, trivia, and history. Slowly but surely, the story comes out. 

I recommend BYE BYE BLACKBIRD to readers of historical cozy mysteries, fans of the previous novel in the series, and those who are interested in stories featuring filmmaking or the Golden Age of Hollywood.

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: The Dead Detective Casefiles by Tj O'Connor

THE DEAD DETECTIVE CASEFILES

by Tj O’Connor

October 28 - December 13, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

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DYING TO KNOW

 

Detective Oliver Tucker’s dead—murdered—and back as an earth-bound spirit to help his wife, Professor Angela Tucker, crack the most important case of his life—his own. But, this is not a ghost story; it’s a murder case.

Tuck knows why he is back among the living but not one of them—Detective Solve Thyself. Perhaps he was murdered because of his last case—a murder involving a retired mob boss, a local millionaire land developer, a New York hit man, and the local university elite. Or could it be that Bear Braddock, his best friend and partner for more than fifteen years, wants Angela? Tuck knows that everything surrounds Kelly’s Dig where the discovery of Civil War graves may put an end to a multi-million dollar highway project. If it does, who stands to gain the most? Enough to kill?

Using his unique skills, Tuck weaves through half-truths and generations-old lies chasing a madman. And he’s not alone—others, dead and alive—are hunting the same killer. Still nothing can change the truth—it is the living, not the dead, who are most terrifying.

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DYING FOR THE PAST

 

Still an earth-bound spirit-detective, Tuck is on the case of the murder of a mysterious philanthropist with ties to the Russian mob and 1930's gangsters. With the help of his wife, Professor Angela Tucker, and his former partner, Detective Bear Braddock, they must find the killer and be the first to read “the book”—an old gangster’s journal of the roots of espionage, racketeering, and corruption leading to the identity of modern-day powerbrokers and spies. Tuck finds a colorful cast of allies in a tough Assistant U.S. Attorney General, a secretive FBI agent, and the spirits of a long-dead 1930’s gangster and his sassy girlfriend.

As Tuck searches to learn the secrets of “the book,” he begins to unravel his own ancestry of mobsters, adventurers, and wayward spirits. Is being a ghost hereditary?

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DYING TO TELL

 

Detective Oliver Tucker never knew how perilous dying was until he stumbled onto William Mendelson—murdered in a hidden vault where Egyptian relics and World War II secrets were once stashed. Now those relics are missing. The secrets are coming out. The dead are talking.

Tuck, the detective for the dead—the Dead Detective—is pulled into the case by the spirit of a World War II Office of Strategic Services operative with his own agenda. OSS Captain Ollie Tucker I—Tuck’s namesake—knows the past is catching up to the survivors of an Egyptian spy ring from more than seventy years ago. With the help of his beautiful and brilliant wife, Angel, and his gruff former partner, Detective Bear Braddock, Tuck must unravel a tale of spies, murderers, and thieves.

As Tuck’s case unfolds, he confronts the growing distance between his death and Angel’s life—and the solution is a killer of its own.

Praise for The Dead Detective Casefiles:

"O’Connor’s The Dead Detective Casefiles series is a must read for those who like mysteries with a dash of history, a hard-boiled twist, and a pinch of paranormal."
~ Heather Weidner, Author of the Jules Keene Glamping Mysteries

"Tj O’Connor is a master storyteller who can have you gasping in suspense one moment and snorting coffee through your nose the next. In the Dead Detective Casefiles, he seamlessly merges mystery, humor, and paranormal so authentically that the reader never gives a second thought to the concept of the main character, Detective Oliver Tucker, actually being dead. "
~ Annette Dashofy, USA Today Bestselling author of the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series

Book Details:

Genre: PI Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 2024
Series: The Dead Detective Casefiles

Read an excerpt from DYING TO KNOW:

One

Dying is overrated. Murder, on the other hand, is not.

Trust me, after fifteen years as a detective, I know a lot about both. Like death and murder are always complicated, but not always related. You can have death without murder, but not the other way around. That’s what I used to think anyway. I changed my mind after an episode of my recurring nightmare. I’d been having it for years and it always turned out the same. While chasing a bad guy in the dark, he turned and shot me. I was about to die when something always pulled me from the nightmare.

This time, it was Hercule’s hot breath.

My four-year-old black Lab was standing beside my bed alternating between low growls and a tongue-lashing. Both demanded my attention. When my eyes first opened, he lapped at my face and nudged me with his big, wet nose. I forced my eyes open wider and at the same time realized that Angel was not snuggled beside me in bed. She was standing across the room and listening at our bedroom door.

“Angel, did you hear something again?” She always heard things late at night and always felt compelled to share them with me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Tuck. Herc can hear it, too. Wake up, will you? What kind of detective are you?”

“The asleep-kind.”

“Just get up. Please?”

Hercule froze, nose down, staring at me as we both heard creaking floorboards in the downstairs hall. I rolled sideways and sat on the side of the bed. Hercule crept away and crouched near the door. For the third time, something interrupted Angel’s sleep. The first two times were just our old house’s creaks and groans, and both failed to wake Hercule out of a stone-cold sleep. Now, after summoning me, he was poised for homeland defense.

I got to my feet and gathered my clothes littered in a strategic path across the room. I nearly toppled over slipping on my jeans and a black tee shirt and did manage to trip over my running shoes.

Angel motioned for Herc to return to the bed. To me she whispered, “Hurry up.”

“Look, if I’m going to get killed tonight, I don’t want to be naked.” I grabbed my 40-caliber Glock from the nightstand and checked the chamber. Then, I retrieved a .38 revolver from our walk-in closet and handed it to Angel. “Just in case.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“Keep Herc close, babe. If it’s your imagination, stay awake and lose those pjs. If it’s trouble, give me fifteen minutes—then lose them.”

Even in the dark, I could see her eyes roll. “Just be careful.”

At the door, I listened but heard nothing. I winked at Angel and Hercule on the bed and whispered, “I love you—you too, Angel.”

Hercule wagged his tail.

In the hallway, I waited for my eyes to adjust a little more to the darkness. I shifted them to use my peripheral vision, looking for any telltale movement. Still nothing. From the top of the stairs, I could just make out the foyer below and did not see or hear anything. There were no wispy shadows, no running feet, and no creaking floorboards. Yawning, I eased down the stairs with my Glock out in front of me. At the bottom landing, I stopped.

Darkness and the grandfather clock greeted me—it chimed two.

The downstairs was quiet and I checked the front door. It was still locked and there were no signs of splintered wood, broken glass, or other forced entry. The only sound I heard was my own breathing. The only curious sighting was the half-dressed, frumpy guy in the hall mirror who looked tired and irritated.

Maybe Angel would be losing those pjs sooner rather than later.

I started with the kitchen and worked my way around the first floor, searching room by room—all five of them—ending in my den. Nothing. The most dangerous thing I found was Hercule’s squeaky frog that scared the crap out of me when I stepped on it. I felt foolish and decided to head back to bed.

It hit me when I reached to turn off my desk lamp.

The light shouldn’t have been on. I looked around. My briefcase wasn’t in its ritual place on my credenza. It was on my chair and the contents strewn over my desk. Everything was dumped out—my gold detective’s badge and I.D., several files, a notepad, tape recorder, and my .380 backup piece.

No, the Walther wasn’t there—the holster was empty.

“Angel …” I bolted to the stairs and looked up.

Floorboards groaned above me. A door opened in the darkness beyond the landing. Movement—a shadow.

Somewhere above, Angel called, “Tuck.”

There was a flash at the top of the stairs … a shot.

I lunged for the third stair. A figure stepped out of the darkness twelve feet above me.

Another flash.

“Angel!”

***

Excerpt from DYING TO KNOW by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2014/2024 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.

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Review:

Its ghostly premise and historical mysteries make this three-book series a must-read! 

The Dead Detective Casefiles is a three-book series of mysteries by author Tj O’Connor that features former Police Detective Oliver “Tuck” Tucker. However, there’s a BIG twist. Tuck is killed off at the start of DYING TO KNOW, Book One of the series, and he returns as a ghost to solve his own murder and later crimes by communicating with his widow, Professor Angela Tucker, and his former partner, Bear Braddock. Thankfully, his dog is on board with Tuck’s change of substance from the start. 

Tuck was a good investigator when alive and an engaging character with a sense of humor, although he, at times, can be a bit obstinate. He loves Angela and still views her as his wife throughout the series, which, sadly, becomes a rub. Angela loves Tuck, but as time passes, it becomes apparent she needs to pursue a second chance at a fully satisfying life, which is an emotional revelation for everyone. 

The plots of the three books all involve mysteries with ties to the past: the Civil War, a 1930s-era gangster, and WWII. While I loved the premise of the ghostly detective, it was the historical mysteries that kept me engaged and compelled to read each new addition to the series. As the stories unfold, so do the details of Tuck’s previous life and the intricacies of his afterlife. He never knew death would be so complicated. But little by little, he gets used to his new “life” and gains a handle on his new skill set. Each book contains multiple storylines related to the main mysteries, some more complex and some with connections more immediately obvious than others. However, they all twist and turn their way to a robust and surprising whole in the end. 

I recommend THE DEAD DETECTIVE CASEFILES to mystery readers, especially those who enjoy a touch of the paranormal in their stories.

 

 

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Burn This Night (Kate Myles, #2) by Alex Kenna

BURN THIS NIGHT

by Alex Kenna

November 4 - December 6, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Kate Myles Detective Series

 

Told in alternating timelines, this gripping mystery about a PI and her quest for answers is full of twists and turns, perfect for fans of Allison Brennan and Gytha Lodge.

Struggling private investigator Kate Myles is shattered to learn her late father isn’t her biological dad. She’s still reeling when she discovers that an unknown distant relative is the prime suspect in a decades-old murder investigation. Trying to convince her to take on the case for free, an old colleague recommends her as an investigator for a recent arson murder in the same small town.

After giving up on a failed acting career, Abby Coburn is starting over as a promising social work student. With her life on the right track, she’s determined to help her brother, Jacob, whose meth addiction triggered a psychotic break and descent into crime. But when Abby dies in a fire that kills two other people and destroys part of the town, the police immediately suspect Jacob.

As the Coburn family grapples with the tragedy, Kate begins unraveling the cold case but finds herself caught in the middle of an emotional minefield. Pretty soon, she discovers that this town is full of dark secrets, and as she comes closer and closer to figuring out the truth, Kate must solve both murders before she becomes the next victim.

Praise for Burn This Night:

"The twists keep coming in this devilish PI mystery . . . Lisa Unger fans will devour this."
~ Publishers Weekly

"Solid, heartfelt spadework into an alarming range of graves."
~ Kirkus Reviews

"A true page turner . . . Full of twists, turns, and suspects."
~ Book Review Crew

"Burn This Night is a fast-paced thriller that masterfully utilizes alternating perspectives to tell an absorbing, character-driven mystery. This is an electrifying read that had me engaged and on the edge of my seat until the very end!"
~ Elle Grawl, Amazon Charts bestselling author of One of Those Faces and What Still Burns

"An absorbing read told from multiple layered perspectives, Kenna ranges from finely observed domestic scenes to adept portrayals of grimy addicts living on the ragged edge. Burn This Night is smart and satisfying."
~ Adam Plantinga, author of The Ascent

"Burn This Night is an utterly-absorbing mystery. Alex Kenna skillfully weaves a tale of two women who both face emotional and physical danger as they fight for truth and family love. Kenna masterfully draws the reader into the dark exploration of the secrets hidden in small towns and the depths some will go to hide the truth. With fiendishly smart dialogue, a captivating setting and a plot that keeps you on the edge of your seat, Burn This Night is absolutely fantastic!"
~ Elise Hart Kipness, author of Lights Out

"A dark, lyrical crime novel, Burn This Night weaves a complex and twisty spell about addiction, family ties, and how sins of the past can't stay buried. Kate Myles is a great addition to LA's canon of troubled PIs—real, flawed, smart, and very human—and I can't wait to see what's next for her."
~ Halley Sutton, USA Today bestselling author of The Hurricane Blonde

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Thriller - Private Detective
Published by: Crooked Lane
Publication Date: November 12, 2024
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 9781639109371 (ISBN10: 1639109374)
Series: Kate Myles private detective series, 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Penguin Random House Books

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Eight Months Ago—Grace

My eyes shot open when I heard the yelping. Barney was going to wake the baby. I dove toward the old dog, grabbed his snout, and held it closed with both hands. “Shh,” I pleaded.

I lowered one hand and rubbed Barney’s back, trying to calm him. He let out a whine, and like clockwork, Liam started to cry. I closed my eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and braced myself for another late-night nursing session. My body felt heavy with milk and stress and exhaustion.

Carefully, I scooped up the howling baby, carried him over to the rocking chair, and lifted my T shirt to feed him. Liam quieted down and nestled against me. I sniffed his hair and stroked his cheek as we rocked back and forth. Part of me wanted to stay like this all night. But a bigger part of me longed to be under the covers, passed out in a warm oblivion.

I heard the shower turn on down the hall. Ted must be back from serving his warrant. A few months ago, he’d gotten smart with a lieutenant, who then started feeding him late-night assignments. These frequent absences were brutal now that I was back from maternity leave and needed sleep to function at work.

Barney whined again and clawed at the bedroom door. Clutching Liam, I rose to let the dog out of the room.

I looked down at the baby, who was asleep and making little catlike snores. With slow, deliberate steps, I made my way toward the crib and lowered him until his back rested against the fabric. But the change in angle caused his eyes to open and his lungs to inflate. Then came the cry—and Barney ran back to the bedroom, joining Liam in a horrible wailing duet. I reached out toward the dog and felt wet fur. Damn it—Barney must have peed in the house. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. What I wouldn’t give for one night’s sleep.

The door opened and Ted walked in with a towel around his waist. “I need help,” I snapped.

“What?” asked Ted, surprised by my tone.

My eyes were closed, and I was crying. But Ted couldn’t see that in the dark. He just sensed the anger in my voice. I knew it wasn’t his fault that the baby wouldn’t sleep, that the dog couldn’t hold it, and that his boss was a jerk. But I’d reached my limit, and Ted was the only living being in earshot who understood human language.

“Barney peed in the house. Take Liam so I can let the dog out before he does it again. Just try to get him back to sleep.” I placed the screaming, wriggling infant in Ted’s arms before either of them could protest.

Flipping on the hall light, I made my way to the kitchen. Barney scampered ahead of me, spinning in circles. I threw on Ted’s faded hoodie. It reeked of old sweat, but I was too tired to care. I hooked Barney’s leash to his collar, and bracing myself for the cold, I unlocked the back door and stepped outside.

The Santa Anas blew hard, and I shivered as cold air soaked through the hoodie’s weave. I could hear the Jeffrey pines rustle in the wind. Thrusting my hands into the central pocket, I rubbed them together for warmth.

A smoky odor hung in the air—maybe the residue of a neighbor’s barbecue dinner. But the wind should have blown away the scent by now.

Barney tugged at his leash. I let him drag me toward the street. Now that we were outside, he wouldn’t be satisfied without a walk, and it might clear my head as well.

The sky was lighter than I’d expected. Idlewood doesn’t have streetlights. It’s a conscious decision to preserve the log-cabins-in-the-woods feel of the place. Darkness adds to the storybook charm, and it can be hard to find your way on moonless nights. But the sky had an orange-gray glow that reminded me of LA smog. Maybe it was later than I thought, almost morning.

Barney tugged on his leash, half-dragging me up the road toward the intersection. He seemed agitated, and I wondered what had gotten into him. As we passed the Hernandez’s place, our footsteps activated the motion sensor, and the automatic light above their garage snapped on with an electric hum.

I noticed something floating in the air. Tiny particles, like gray snow or dryer lint. The flecks danced in the air, and Barney snapped at one as it fluttered toward his jaws. The smell of smoke was growing stronger.

Oh my god.

Clutching Barney’s leash, I ran the rest of the way to the cross street, which cut straight to the mountain. High in the pines, I saw an orange glow—luminous against the dark sky. My vision tunneled, and all I could see was the fire on the hillside. The light was near Abby’s cabin. But I couldn’t tell how near.

I grabbed my phone and scanned my recent calls, but it had been weeks since I’d spoken to my sister, and her name didn’t pop up. I pulled up my contact list and clicked on her name. After four rings, a cheerful recording prompted me to leave a message. Maybe she’s already fled. No, Abby would’ve called if she were awake. She might hate me, but she’d warn me about a wildfire.

I called back, praying that her cell wasn’t on silent. Come on Abby, answer the phone. When I heard the prerecorded message again, I started to panic. I left a voicemail: “Abby, it’s Grace. There’s a fire by your cabin—you need to leave now!”

The orange glow was getting bigger as the Santa Anas blew the flames toward Idlewood. It was how I’d always imagined an erupting volcano would look, with lava flowing down its sides. I called Abby a third time, cursing under my breath. Across the street, a door opened, and an old man stepped outside, holding a little white dog. “There’s a fire!” he shouted.

I looked at him and then back at the mountain, ringing phone pressed against my ear. Dammit, Abby, pick up! “My son works at the fire station,” said the man. “They’re about to put out an alert. We have to evacuate. The whole town could burn.”

“My sister’s cabin is on the hillside, and she’s not answering,” I shouted. “Can you call your son and tell him someone’s up there?”

I heard a chime and looked down at my phone. It was a text from the fire department, ordering us to leave Idlewood. But my feet stayed planted. My sister was on that mountain, with nothing but a narrow dirt road leading down to safety. If the fire overtook the path, she’d be trapped.

“Jeffrey, it’s Pop,” I heard the old man say. “There’s a lady here whose sister has a cabin near the fire.”

Hearing those words unleashed a fresh wave of panic. Abby’s cheerful answering machine message sounded for a fifth time in my ear. “Abby, get out of there!” I screamed into the phone.

“We have to go,” said the neighbor. “This thing could spread faster than they can contain it.”

My phone chimed and I looked down at the screen, hoping to see Abby’s name, but it was a voicemail from Ted. Before I could call him back, a text flashed across my screen: FIRE—COME HOME NOW

I looked back and forth from my screen to the mountain. My sister was up there. But my husband and son were at the house. I couldn’t wait any longer. I tugged at Barney’s leash and ran home.

***

Excerpt from Burn This Night by Alex Kenna. Copyright 2024 by Alex Kenna. Reproduced with permission from Alex Kenna. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Alex Kenna is a mystery writer, prosecutor, and amateur painter. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, son, and giant schnauzer. Alex's first novel, WHAT MEETS THE EYE, was a 2023 Shamus Award Finalist for best first P.I. novel. Her second novel, BURN THIS NIGHT, is coming November 12, 2024.

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Review:

5 stars!

Two fascinating cases, one current and one decades in the past, in one riveting story. 

Burn This Night is the second book in author Alex Kenna’s Kate Myles detective series and features the former LAPD detective turned private investigator as she pursues two urder cases, committed decades apart, in the small tourist town of Idlewood, California. Readers new to the series should have no problem absorbing enough backstory from the current narrative to read and enjoy this latest story as a standalone. This time, Kate is helping out an old contact in the sheriff’s department working on a 20-year-old cold case of murder. 

Kate is the healing but still vulnerable main character, trying to gain control of her life after a messy divorce, which resulted in her ex-husband getting custody of their only daughter. She’s moved in with her widowed mother for a number of good reasons and inadvertently discovers the man she always knew as her father is actually no blood relation at all; her parents had used a sperm donor after years of failing to conceive. While a shock, she also feels a sense of relief because growing up, she always knew she was somehow different from the rest of her family and was treated differently than her cousins. However, her relief is quickly followed by surprise after surprise when the results of her DNA test reveal that the unknown perpetrator of a two-decades-old unsolved murder case is an, as of yet, unidentified relative. As Kate methodically investigates the more recent case that took place earlier in the year, she pursues leads to locate blood relations that may lead to the unknown killer in the cold case. She ends up meeting a kindred spirit in a local, divorced father who sparks long-suppressed romantic interests. 

The plot moves quickly as Kate works her way through the painful details of Abby Coburn’s death and her past relationship with the brother who is accused of her murder as well as that of the elderly neighbor who died in the fire that was set to cover up the crime. She develops several possible theories as she questions people in Abby’s life, resulting in a couple of good suspects who must be examined further and ruled out. Her investigation into her own origins is a great secondary storyline, and the resolutions of the murders are surprising but plausible. 

I recommend BURN THIS NIGHT to mystery readers who enjoy strong female protagonists.

*See my review of WHAT MEETS THE EYE, Kate Myles, #1) HERE!

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