Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: First Daughter by Marlie Parker Wasserman

FIRST DAUGHTER

by Marlie Parker Wasserman

May 4-29, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

In the summer of 1895, President Grover Cleveland and his pregnant wife, Frances, retreat to their secluded Cape Cod home, eager to avoid Washington’s heat and hassles. The very day that Frances gives birth, their three-year-old daughter vanishes. A ransom note surfaces, demanding a mysterious and peculiar sum.

Is the kidnapper a political enemy or someone closer to home? Secret service agents chase multiple leads but reach dead ends. Desperate, Frances Cleveland searches for answers on her own. As the hunt continues, the kidnapper carefully plots each move and determines to settle a score.

The historical record documents threats against the Clevelands, but no actual kidnapping. Yet, what if the president and his wife, known for keeping secrets, concealed a terrifying chapter of their lives? In this gripping blend of fact and fiction, the line between public duty and private anguish blurs in a mother’s fight to save her child.

Praise for First Daughter:

"Arresting, brilliant, emotional! Marlie Wasserman's First Daughter had me hooked from the very first page. Like her other works, fact and fiction are delightfully blurred by the fantastic level of historical detail, creating an exhilarating ride through the kidnapping of President Grover Cleveland's first child and his obscure misdeeds."
~ Jane L. Rubin, author of the award-winning Gilded City series

"In this masterfully woven historical thriller, the past comes alive with rich detail and taut suspense. In the summer of 1895, President Grover Cleveland and his wife retreat to their Cape Cod estate, seeking respite from political turmoil-until their three-year-old daughter vanishes. A ransom note surfaces, but is the culprit a political enemy or someone in their household? Seamlessly blending fact and fiction, this novel delivers a riveting tale of betrayal, resilience, and a mother's relentless quest for truth."
~ Maryka Biaggio, award-winning author of Gun Girl and the Tall Guy and The Model Spy

"A parent's worst nightmare unfolds for President and Frances Cleveland - their daughter is kidnapped. And no one knows why she was taken. The real motive behind the kidnapping may lie closer to home than anyone dares to imagine. First Daughter is a thrilling tale that clutches your heart and won't let go. This haunting historical mystery steeped in vivid period detail explores the cost of secrets and the burden of public life, wrapped in a mother's relentless instinct to protect her family-no matter the consequences."
~ JF Tanner, author of The King's Collar

"Grabbed from the very first page, Wasserman's tale of the abduction of President Grover Cleveland's young daughter Ruth (Baby Ruth) delivers Gilded Age details, tense characters and no bigger problem than a child in danger. With the deftly structured combination of Frances Cleveland's determination to bring justice to her family and a parallel hard luck tale, readers will forget this is non-fiction."
~ Chris Keefer, author of Find Your Way to My Grave a Carrie Lisbon Mystery

"First Daughter is an intriguing and intricately-plotted historical mystery novel. I loved the depth of research and the evocative setting of President Grover Cleveland's summerhouse Gray Gables at Buzzards Bay. I look forward to reading more from Marlie Parker Wasserman."
~ Margo Laurie, author of The Anarchist's Wife 

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: April 14, 2026
Number of Pages: 324
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

At the western edge of Cape Cod, in the grandest bedroom in the sprawling residence known as Gray Gables, Frances Cleveland couldn’t stifle the rising sound of her own screams. Between pains, she rested. The late morning breeze drifted across the lawn from Buzzards Bay, fluttering the lace curtain and cooling the sweat on her forehead.

Even at this moment, Frances felt grateful that Grover chose to spend summers away from Washington’s heat, away from the prying public. Here, in this secluded haven, she needn’t fear strangers hovering near the windows of the Executive Mansion for a glimpse of their president—or, more likely, of his wife and daughters. She could concentrate her fears on her pains and pray for the safe birth of her third child, in the same way she had for her first and again for her second. Frances expected from experience that her suffering would soon recede, replaced by the joy of motherhood. She did not know that before the day was over, her bodily misery would end, yielding not to joy but to overwhelming terror.

The previous February, after sensing a flutter beneath her gown while greeting a crowd of visitors at a reception, Frances guessed the baby would be her third girl. Practiced at keeping confidences, she never mentioned her prediction to her preoccupied husband. When she gave birth to another girl, the blathering journalists would have their say. They would try out their jokes about the president’s little harem. Most days, Frances ignored the journalists. Most days, she trusted Grover to love each of his babies.

The image of a trio of girls was far from Frances’s mind now, as she suffered in bed. She cried out, too loudly. Dr. Bryant reminded her that she’d survived labor pains before. “Don’t you dare say that again,” she said, in a shrill tone that surprised her.

At last, Frances heard the newborn’s cry, faint but lovely. Dr. Bryant chuckled while he clamped and cut the cord. “Mrs. Cleveland, should I bring the president upstairs to see his new daughter? He’s pacing on the front porch. Once he sees this one—she’s beautiful—he won’t regret it’s not a son.”

“Yes,” Frances said, with the strongest voice she could muster. A girl, as she’d guessed. For an instant, with the last of her contractions, she’d ignored her prediction and hoped for a boy. Now, she didn’t linger on that momentary weakness of character. She let a surge of pride swell over her, above the exhaustion. She’d done it. Again.

Frances turned to the local midwife hired to assist. “Tell the steward, his name is Sinclair, to get Ruth and Esther. I want my daughters to see their new sister.”

Frances raised herself a few inches, enough to see the midwife slip into the hall. The woman returned and gave Frances a nod. The girls would come shortly. Frances sank back and watched the midwife wipe down the infant and swaddle her. She did look beautiful. “Here,” Frances said, crooking her arm to make room for Marion, the name Grover chose that would serve for a girl or a boy. The same name as a town across Buzzards Bay, where many of their friends lived. Frances appreciated Grover’s decision to buy an estate on the outskirts of a different but nearby town, Bourne. The family could escape Washington’s heat and busybodies.

And escape the threats.

Hours earlier, Frances gave thanks for the breeze blowing through the open window, reminding her that Gray Gables was perfectly located on a point overlooking the Bay’s east side. But now she blocked the sound of wind and waves. straining to make sense of other sounds, to hear what Grover would say about a third daughter. The doctor scurried downstairs. The midwife remained stationed over the bed, tending to Frances and crooning softly to the baby. Frances ignored the woman, mindful only of the voices wafting in through the window. First, low tones as the doctor talked to Grover. They were friends. Dr. Bryant saved Grover’s life two summers ago, removing the cancer eating away at his palate. Now, Frances imagined the doctor patting her thickset husband on his shoulder and shaking his hand. She hoped Grover would offer the doctor a contented smile. Seconds later, Grover clomped upstairs. The doctor followed behind, with lighter steps.

“So happy, Frankie.” Her husband used one of her nicknames. After their wedding, she asked Grover to call her by her more dignified name, Frances. He still used Frankie or Frank in private moments. She let him—the nicknames added tenderness to his gruff voice. “The doctor tells me you’re fine. You managed without chloroform this time, too. And the baby’s healthy. Marion, right? Three girls. They will enjoy each other’s company.”

He said the right thing. She didn’t need to feel anxious about another girl. He was a good man, kind to her, whatever others thought. He wouldn’t hold the baby, rarely did. But he wiped his chubby hand on a cloth, then touched Marion’s forehead. He stood there for a few minutes, cherishing their third child. For him, it was a fourth, but no matter. His eyes shifted to gaze at her. He wouldn’t see the tall, slender belle he married nine years ago, the one the reporters called lovely. He’d see a tired, sweat-drenched woman who looked every day of her thirty years.

“Ruth and Esther?” Frances asked again, eyeing the midwife. “Did you send Sinclair for them?”

“Yes, ma’am. The steward went a minute ago.” The midwife spoke quietly, carefully. She’d feel nervous in the presence of the president.

Still almost flat in bed, Frances clutched Marion, admiring the infant. Perfect features. Ten fingers and ten toes. Another blessing from God.

A familiar sound at the door. Sinclair knocked softly. His usual pattern—soft, loud, soft—keeping to the household code. Another sound, when the midwife opened the door. Next, Frances would hear four little feet rushing toward the newest baby.

No feet. Only hushed words.

“Sinclair found Annie,” the midwife said. “She’s your older daughter’s nursemaid, right? He tells me she needs another minute to bring Ruth and to tell your younger daughter’s nursemaid to bring Esther.” The midwife stood far from Frances’s bed, speaking almost in a whisper.

Grover didn’t look concerned. His rough mustache skimmed Frances’s cheek as he kissed her lightly on her damp forehead. She was too tired to return the kiss. She heard him drop into the nearby rocking chair.

“Joseph,” he said, addressing the doctor, “you’re certain Frankie is fine? No complications?”

“Just fine, Grover. Ready for the next one before long.”

Four years earlier, when Ruth was born, Dr. Joseph Bryant told Frances how to manage her family. “Breastfeed for six months.” He looked straight at her, with no awkwardness. “You’ll not get in the family way, and the baby will stay healthy. After six months, well, you and Grover can proceed to another.” And so they had. Esther after Ruth. Marion after Esther. A daughter every two years.

Frances closed her eyes, relying on her ears. Dr. Bryant thanked the midwife for her assistance. The woman tidied up, gathering soiled sheets and opening a chest, hunting for fresh linens. The room went silent, except for the soft, repetitious squeak of the rocking chair. Grover leaned up, then back, up then back. Frances sensed herself drifting off.

Another soft knock, barely a sound, followed by a pause, and two more soft knocks. Not Sinclair. One of the nursemaids. Annie? The midwife opened the door. “Ma’am.” Annie’s voice came out as a croak. “I can’t find Ruth.”

***

Excerpt from FIRST DAUGHTER by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Copyright 2026 by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Reproduced with permission from Marlie Parker Wasserman. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Marlie Parker Wasserman loves writing historical crime fiction. She has published three novels--First Daughter will be her fourth. After a career in publishing in New Jersey, she moved to Chapel Hill, NC with her husband. When she is not writing, she travels, reads, and sketches. One of her goals is to visit every national park in the U.S., and she is close to her goal.

Catch Up With Marlie Parker Wasserman:

www.marliewasserman.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @marliewasserman
Instagram - @marliepwasserman
Bluesky - @marliewasserman.bsky.social
Facebook

 

Review:

5 stars!

Compelling fictional story of an imagined kidnapping of Grover and Frances Cleveland’s eldest daughter, Ruth. 

First Daughter by Marlie Parker Wasserman is a compelling fictional account of the imagined kidnapping of President Grover Cleveland’s eldest daughter, three-year-old Ruth. Occurring during Frances Cleveland’s confinement in the aftermath of the birth of her third child, daughter Marion, Frances feels immense helplessness as the woman who had briefly but successfully removed Ruth from their summer home remained at large and unidentified; while her husband, the President, seemingly moved on, his thoughts returning to issues of state. 

Told from multiple viewpoints, especially those of the frantic Frances Cleveland and a distant domestic, Mary Brinski, the story is rich in the details of the time and thick with the rising tension that the unknown kidnapper would soon try again. Frances is the frightened mother, helpless to pursue her own ideas of who is behind the crime, as she slowly recuperates from her recent and difficult childbirth. The constant dismissal of her ideas was hard to stomach in this day and age. 

Mary Brinski, a domestic in the service of a wealthy Pontiac, Michigan, family, has entirely different struggles: a missing common-law husband and the lack of funds and opportunity to search for him. Their converging stories make for compelling, tense, and ultimately satisfying reading. 

I recommend FIRST DAUGHTER to readers of historical fiction.

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: You Will Know Me By My Deeds by Mike Cobb

YOU WILL KNOW ME BY MY DEEDS

by Mike Cobb

February 24 - March 21, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Billy Tarwater thought he had left the troubled past behind, until a series of ominous incidents threaten to destroy everything he and his wife hold dear.

Someone is out to get them, and he is determined to uncover the truth before it’s too late. But as he delves deeper into the mystery, he realizes that the dark forces at play may be connected to the events of seventeen years ago.

And to the Atlanta Child Murders.

Join him on a heart-pounding journey of suspense and intrigue as he navigates the dangerous waters of his past and fights to protect the ones he loves.

In a race against an unknown enemy, Billy must confront his darkest fears. Will he be able to uncover the truth before it’s too late, or will he and his wife become victims of the sinister forces at play?

Praise for You Will Know Me by My Deeds:

"Mike Cobb’s You Will Know Me by My Deeds is a taut, propulsive tale set against the harrowing backdrop of the 1980’s Atlanta Child Murders. Entertainingly addictive and menacing."
~ Robert Gwaltney, award-winning author of The Cicada Tree and Georgia Author of the Year

"Mike Cobb's Atlanta-based historical fiction easily holds its place on the bookshelf next to Caleb Carr’s Alienist novels."
~ Joey Madia, author of Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of M and the Stanton Chronicles historical fiction series

"Mike Cobb’s enthralling and meticulously-researched mystery, You Will Know Me by My Deeds, sets a lofty standard for contemporary thrillers. Set in the heart of the ‘new’ south, Cobb’s vividly-wrought tale propels his readers through the tumult of an era and illuminates race relations at a difficult moment in Atlanta’s modern history. Grab this book for a satisfying and uplifting read."
~ Steve Klein, Civil Rights Activist

"I couldn’t put this book down and had to finish it in one sitting! Once again Mike Cobb has crafted a plausible story with strong characters, a sense of place, and rich historical detail regarding a tragic chapter of my beloved Atlanta’s history – the missing and murdered children from 1979 to 1981."
~ Lisa Land Cooper, Author and Historian

"Mike Cobb’s prose is powerful, and his plot is dark, complex and full of surprises. You will find a rich, earthy view of old Atlanta complete with all its beauty, weaknesses and the diverse attitudes of the Old South."
~ Jeff Shaw, author of Who I Am; The Man Behind the Badge and Lieutenant Trufant

"A bracing historical thriller that further enriches this top-notch series."
~ Kirkus Reviews

"This is an excellent book with an engaging mystery and an intriguing conclusion. It’s clear that research is paramount to Mike Cobb’s writing. I could really identify with how he wove true crimes into this fictional one. I look forward to reading more from him."
~ Ed Begley Jr., Award-winning actor, producer, environmental activist, and author of To the Temple of Tranquility…and Step On It!: A Memoir

You Will Know Me by My Deeds Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction
Published by: Waterside Production
Publication Date: January 2025
Number of Pages: 444
ISBN: 978-1962984720
Series: Sequel to The Devil You Knew
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Cynthia Tarwater

Monday, December 14th, 1981

Two blurred headlights, ragged halos in the rearview, broke the Stygian pitch.

Cynthia gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles blanched.

The rain cascaded down the windshield in gelid sheets. The wiper blades thwacked the edge of the Suburban’s cowl like a metronome.

For the past twenty-four hours, Atlanta had been beset by a heavy downfall and scant visibility.

She struggled to make out the road ahead.

For the first five minutes of the drive, Billy Jr. and Addie had jabbered away in the back seat like sugar-high Energizer Bunnies. Then they sank into oblivion. Just like that, she thought. Nothing like a weekend sleepover at Grandma Alice’s to wear the kids out.

She stopped at the intersection of Flat Shoals and Glenwood. The barbershop to her left was long gone, a victim of white flight, its plate glass windows boarded up with fly-posted plywood. She could almost hear the snip snip of Mr. Batson’s clippers beckoning from yore. The snap of Sam Jepperson’s shoeshine cloth beseeching a generous tip. The redolence of Bay Rum and Kiwi polish. Not that she ever got her hair cut—or her shoes shined—there. But her father Cecil dragged her along on more than one occasion with the promise that they’d go next door for a vanilla shake if only she’d sit like a “good girl” and watch him get trimmed. She had often wondered whether he did things like that just to piss her off. His way of controlling. Or did he really want her company?

The car that had been following her since she pulled out of Billy’s mother’s driveway lingered half a block behind. When the light changed, she turned left onto Glenwood. She looked in the mirror. The car turned left and kept its distance. Probably nothing.

At the Gresham Avenue intersection, she glanced over at what had been Harry’s Army Surplus. Now, like the barbershop, just another padlocked casualty.

A long-suppressed memory welled up. Saturday, September 28th, 1963. She was thirteen. So capricious and carefree, like most girls her age. She left the East Atlanta Pharmacy by the front door and headed west toward Moreland Avenue. Just past Harry’s, she looked back and saw a car following her. When she stopped, it stopped. When she went, it went.

That had been her last recollection from before the erasure—what she later came to know by its medical name. Localized psychogenic amnesia. For seventeen years, the next thing she had remembered was waking up at Grady Hospital with an officer standing guard outside her door. The nurse had said You’re not Cynthia now. You’re Patti. With an i. Or something to that effect. She would later learn that the police had contrived the alias to protect her from her abductor.

It wasn’t until October a year ago that everything began coming back to Cynthia in a torrent. What had been an eradication of five weeks of her past, leaving in its wake a deep, dark abyss, had begun to come back in a matter of days. This wouldn’t have happened without Billy’s help. And his dogged determination.

Did she welcome the recovered memory? There were times when she wondered whether knowing was better than incognizance. Closure would feel right. But knowledge alone doesn’t bring closure.

And could closure ever come for the families of the girls who didn’t survive? Why had she made it out alive, and the others hadn’t?

She inched her way down Glenwood past Moreland Avenue. At the Boulevard intersection, she glanced across the street at Fire Station No. 10. A half dozen firemen were huddled under the overhang in front of the station. For a moment, she thought she saw Billy’s brother Chester standing there smoking a cigarette and chatting up the others. But Chester hadn’t lasted a year as a fireman before bugging out for the merchant marines, thinking he could avoid the draft. He ended up on the SS Mayaguez ferrying supplies through combat zones in Vietnam. Came home intact but with a chip on his shoulder.

She turned right.

She drove up Boulevard past Memorial Drive, hugging the eastern edge of Oakland Cemetery before assuming a northwesterly course past the shuttered Fulton Cotton Mill and through the railroad underpass.

She looked back. The car continued to follow her. That’s when she realized that it wasn’t nothing.

Perhaps she should have taken the expressway. But she had chosen not to. Visibility was bad enough on the surface roads.

As she neared the intersection with Ponce de Leon, the light turned yellow. She accelerated and took a hard left, hoping the car would stop on red. It didn’t. When she turned right on Peachtree, then left on Fifth, the driver continued to dog her.

Cynthia eased into The Belmont courtyard. The other car stopped briefly at the turn-in then crept down Fifth. She craned her neck, trying to get a good look at it. At the driver. But she could see little through the relentless downpour and the fogged windshield.

She parked the Suburban at The Belmont entrance. She waited for the rain to abate enough for her to get the kids inside without a drenching. Then she hurried them into the lobby under her flimsy throwaway umbrella made for one.

She closed the umbrella and hooked it on her wrist. She held Billy Jr. and Addie’s hands tight, lest they slip on the marble floor.

They crossed the threshold into the elevator cab, leaving a trail of dripping water behind. She punched 4.

When the doors opened, Billy was standing in the fourth-floor vestibule. He was in his light beige mackintosh and floppy yellow rain hat.

“Clairvoyant, are we?” Cynthia said.

“I saw you out the window and was on my way down to help. But you beat me to it.” He placed his hand on her upper arm. “Cynthia, you’re trembling.”

“It’s just the biting cold. I’m fine. I need to get these rug rats out of their wet clothes and into their PJs. And then sit for a while. You can park the car if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. That’s the least I can do.”

She held out the umbrella. “Want this?”

“No thanks.” He knelt in front of Billy Jr. and Addie. “How’s Grandma?”

“Feisty as ever,” Cynthia answered. “She sure knows how to cut a look. But the kids adore her, and that’s what matters most. And compared to my mother…let’s just say you’re the lucky one and leave it at that.”

When Billy returned, Cynthia was already curled up in her favorite overstuffed chair with a glass of Merlot. Her socks and Clarks slip-ons lay pell-mell on the floor about her. The open umbrella stood atilt in the corner of the room.

“That was quick,” he said.

She took a sip. Notes of black cherry, of vanilla and sandalwood, teased her throat. “I’m sure the kids are deep into sugar-plum dreams by now. Grab a pour and join me. There’s something you need to know.”

Billy, glass in hand, plopped into the chair beside her. “What is it?”

“I need to tell you about a flashback I had. And about a car.”

He listened as Cynthia told him about the car that had followed her from his mother’s house. “Could you tell what kind it was?” he asked.

“I couldn’t tell a thing, Billy.” She ran her finger along the chair’s piping, tracing in her mind the path she had taken. “All I know is it looked big. Maybe a sedan.”

“I don’t think you should be out late at night by yourself, Cynthia. It seems like every day more shit happens. Carjackings. Murders.”

“At least Wayne Williams is locked up.” She searched her thoughts. “Those poor children. And their grieving families.”

Billy’s hesitation baffled her. He just sat there for a minute without saying a word. He finally spoke. “Tell me about the flashback.”

“The whole thing with the kidnapping came rushing back tonight. It hit me hard, just as I passed the old army surplus. I guess it was my being right there where my thirteen-year-old self had been lured away.” She held her glass in the air. “More, please.”

He refilled it and topped his off. He set the bottle on the side table, leaned over, and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Cynthia.”

“It wasn’t what I expected. I thought I had finally put it all behind me, with Kilgallon…excuse me, the Reverend Kilgallon…dead and Sam Jepperson exonerated and freed. But now I’m not so certain. Maybe it’ll haunt me forever.”

“I hope not. I just wish there was something I could do to make things better.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Life goes on, doesn’t it? And I don’t believe I have a choice in the matter.”

***

Excerpt from You Will Know Me by My Deeds by Mike Cobb. Copyright 2025 by Mike Cobb. Reproduced with permission from Mike Cobb. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Mike’s body of literary work includes both fiction and nonfiction, short-form and long-form, as well as articles and blogs. He is the author of three published novels, Dead Beckoning, The Devil You Knew, and its sequel You Will Know Me by My Deeds. His fourth novel, Muzzle the Black Dog, a novella, is scheduled for release in May 2025. He is also working on Kathleen, a fictionalized account of a cold case murder from 1970.

While he is comfortable playing across a broad range of topics, much of his focus is on true crime, crime fiction, and historical fiction. Rigorous research is foundational to his writing. He gets that honestly, having spent much of his professional career as a scientist.

A native of Atlanta, Mike splits his time between Midtown Atlanta and Blue Ridge, Georgia.

Catch Up With Mike Cobb:
www.MikeCobbWriter.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @cobbmg1
Instagram - @cobbmg
YouTube - @mikecobbwriter
X - @mgcobb
Facebook - @MGCobbWriter
LinkedIn - @mgcobb

 

Review:

5 stars!

A journalist and his family are targeted when he investigates rumors of Klan involvement in the Atlanta child murders. 

You Will Know Me by My Deeds is the sequel to author Mike Cobb’s spectacular The Devil You Know and takes up where that novel left off. Journalist Billy Tarwater investigates the rumors that the Atlanta child abductions and murders are linked to the Klan and soon discovers he and his family are targets of someone who doesn’t want Billy stirring up the past. 

Billy is a dedicated husband, father, and reporter, and when the story he’s investigating gets personal, he’s not about to let it go. He calls in help from his longtime friend, Sgt. Gary Alford with the Atlanta PD and knows he’s got to be especially wary and keep his wits about him as he digs even deeper. Cynthia Tarwater, a past abductee and survivor herself, is a loyal and loving wife, mother, and teacher who fears for her husband even as he is keeping secrets from her. A terrifying encounter, though, galvanizes her to take charge of her life and heal the trauma of her past. 

Set against the backdrop of the early 1980s and the trial of accused murderer Wayne Williams, whom most characters believe is responsible for the death of numerous young black children, the plot is suspenseful from page one. In addition, someone is following Cynthia as she drives her children from home to daycare and back. She can’t get a good look at the driver or get complete vehicle details, so there is the constant fear of the unknown hovering over each page. While the story is told from multiple points of view, Billy’s is the main perspective, so readers are in on his thoughts, fears, and speculations. I was on the edge of my seat, wondering if Billy would be able to connect the dots before it was too late. 

I recommend YOU WILL KNOW ME BY MY DEEDS to readers of historical thrillers, suspense, or mysteries after having enjoyed the previous novel.

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: the Devil You Knew by Mike Cobb

THE DEVIL YOU KNEW

by Mike Cobb

June 3 - 28, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Atlanta. 1963.

Three adolescent girls go missing. And a killer is on the loose.

Young Billy Tarwater, eleven years old at the time and infatuated with one of the girls, thirteen-year-old Cynthia Hudspeth, finds himself caught up in the drama and suspense of the kidnappings.

Fast forward to 1980. Tarwater, now an up-and-coming newspaperman, sets out to find the killer and free an innocent victim of injustice.

THE DEVIL YOU KNEW masterfully combines coming-of-age poignancy with the cliffhanging suspense of a noir thriller.

The reader is taken on a journey of twists and turns to an unexpected end.

Praise for The Devil You Knew:

"A sinister, masterfully penned drama. Supported by a rich cast of three-dimensional characters, a host of red herrings, and a looming suspicion that readers have known the culprit all along, this is a powerfully written thriller. Cobb has constructed a complex procedural mystery with poignant historical accuracy, never letting readers forget about the timeless issues at the novel's core, resulting in a dark and enthralling historical thriller."
~ Self-Publishing Review, ★★★★½

"A dynamic cast drives this striking, historically rich crime thriller."
~ Kirkus Reviews (Recommended Book)

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: September 1, 2022
Number of Pages: 480
ISBN: 9780578371436 (ISBN10: 057837143X)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I, Billy Tarwater
1963

“Won’t you come.”

The Reverend Virlyn Kilgallon’s baritone reverberated in a thunderous cannonade, his voice at once magisterial and dark. The altar call always came at the end, when the congregants were sufficiently energized by his twenty-five minutes of prophecy and supplication. The sermon was timed with precision. I know because I clocked it with my Caravelle self-winding, a gift from my Granddaddy Parker.

The year was 1963. I was a tow-headed eleven year old, not quite ready to make the lonely walk to the chancel rail, but old enough to feel pangs of guilt, accompanied by a generous dollop of fear. Looking back, I now understand that my anxiety was borne of both a dread of the curtain-cloaked water vessel behind the choir loft and a sense that I was missing out on something big.

Was there some great, liberating secret lurking behind the curtain––a secret shared only by members of the club, manifest in a covert handshake or a knowing back-channel glance––a secret that I dared not ponder until I made The Walk myself? The Walk. The dreaded Walk. Each Sunday I would steel myself and stand on the edge of the precipice. But every time, I would throttle. Back away. No, not yet. Not ready. Not today. Maybe next week.

What lies behind the curtain carries great weight, conjuring all sorts of images, both good and bad, hopeful and foreboding. But more often than not, when the curtain is finally drawn back, the ordinary, the mundane, dispels any notion of mystery. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, the Wizard said. A part of me yearned to ignore the Wizard––to throw open

the faux velvet. But another part of me reveled in the impenetrable mystery.

My ignore-the-Wizard self would sometimes conjure memories of the fourth grade experience at the Nathan B. Forrest Elementary School, a two-story red brick on the edge of my neighborhood, around the corner from the public library and Fire Station No. 13, and a block away from the A&P. Downstairs were K through 3, upstairs 4 through 7 (we didn’t have middle school back then). In ’60, as a third grader, I had never been upstairs. We of the lower classes were forbidden to make the journey to the upper reaches––our day would come, we were told. The two fourth grade teachers, Misses Throckmorton and Sexton, both spinsters, looked––to my eight-year-old eyes––to have been at least a hundred, maybe a hundred and one. In the minds of all of us third graders, they were the oldest, meanest creatures we’d ever known. We feared what lay ahead for us next year. And believe me, the images we concocted were not pretty. But then, when we finally made it to the top, we learned that upstairs was really no different from downstairs––just a little more worldly, a little more challenging. And Miss Throckmorton, my teacher, was an innocent compared to the ogre I had imagined. I should have learned a lesson from that.

The liturgical plunging into the depths at the hand of the reverend––there wasn’t much to it, really, as I would later find out.

* * *

“Won’t you come.”

We always sat in the second pew from the front, in the very center, facing the reverend head-on so that, when he proclaimed the inerrant word of God, we would be assured he was speaking directly to us, as if we were the only souls in the room. I would be flanked by

Grandmother Tarwater on my left and my mother on my right. My brother Chester would be somewhere in the balcony, where the teenagers sat, surely to enjoy some semblance of privacy for whatever-they-did-up-there. It was only on the rarest occasion that my father would grace us with his presence, even though it was his mother who sat beside me and who would, on occasion, retrieve a stick of Doublemint gum from her purse and slip it to me when her daughter-in-law wasn’t looking. I can still remember the pear green packaging with its dark green and white logo. Her beam of diabolical satisfaction as she surreptitiously passed it. The double-strength peppermint juice coated my tongue and drifted down my throat. Somehow, that seemingly simple indulgence allayed the discomfort of my bony frame against the hard mahogany surface (I was skinny back then––would that I could recapture that aspect of my youth), the cold clime of the sanctuary, the jarring from the sermon that, as it went on, bore more opprobrium than good news.

* * *

I wasn’t Billy back then. I was Binky. Not a nickname I would have enthusiastically chosen. But it was given to me when I was much younger and, to my abiding chagrin, it stuck. The name had nothing to do with pacifiers, by the way––I’m told I would puff my cheeks and eject the tasteless abomination, formed of rubber and plastic, across the room whenever my mother tried to force it on me––a poor excuse for the real thing, I must have thought. Rather, the moniker had derived from my odd habit as a tot, hopping restlessly, doing a little twist, and sticking my backside in the air like a lapine doe in heat. Anyway, the nickname stuck, and I lived with it until the age of twelve-and-a-half, at which time Binky left home for good and Billy arrived, standing at the door, shuffling back and forth, raring to be let in.

* * *

“Raise a hand. I see your hand…and your hand…and your hand.”

I would sit on that cold, hard bench and watch the hands go up throughout the congregation. Some old and wrinkled. Some young and firm. Some worn and calloused. Some pale and smooth like mine. Within minutes, most of the fold would have both hands in the air, waving them back and forth and beckoning the firmament.

“Now rise before God.”

My grandmother would reach down and pull me up by my bony elbow as she leapt from her seat. My mother followed suit. The entire congregation stood before the reverend and swayed like a mighty wind casting back and forth on a restless sea.

“Won’t you come. Your name was written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. Show Him you love Him. Confess before all.” He swept his hand across the room in a wide arc. “And you. You who have not found Him. Will this be the day you cross the line of faith?”

The choir would open up with the invitational hymn, their sotto voce voices gradually rising to a crescendo that rattled the twelve-station stained glass windows along the side walls of the sanctuary. On Christ the solid Rock I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.

One by one, damned near half the flock would leave their rows, sidle gingerly in front of their more reluctant pewmates to the aisle, and promenade to the chancel rail, their hands clasped before them or, on occasion, still raised in the air. One or two of the petitioners my age or a year or so older would profess his or her lust to be gulfed in that big, awesome tank of water. The occasional adult, finding himself having reached maturity without knowing God’s salvation, would plea for the gift of immersion, tears streaming down his cheeks.

My grandmother would sashay to the front of the sanctuary, a queen pink lace handkerchief held tight in her hand. My mother would follow. I would sit alone, with my palms flat against the seat, my thumbs and forefingers slightly under my scrawny thighs, wondering when I would be ready to make The Walk, stand before the congregants who would have chosen on that particular Sunday to remain in the pews, and profess my love of the Almighty, praise be.

At the time, I reckoned that all Southern Baptist churches behaved like my grandmother’s. I would later learn that some preachers assumed God didn’t require multiple trips to the rail––one profession of faith, followed shortly thereafter by the dunk in the tub, was sufficient. But not Virlyn Kilgallon. He expected it every Sunday––I once heard him refer to it as “hitting the sawdust trail,” something about a reference to tent revivals. But thank God he didn’t require multiple dips in the bath. Otherwise, we would have been in church all day on baptism Sundays.

* * *

When the altar call was not afoot, I amused myself in assorted ways, some harmless, some not so much. My diversions of the latter kind shall remain, at least for the time being, unadvertised. But they often involved some clandestine desecration of the hymnal pages. As for the former, my favorite distraction involved carefully examining the odd members of that motley group that called themselves a choir, for whom I made up aliases. There was No Neck Nancy––the woman (she must have been in her early thirties) whose head literally sat smack-dab on her shoulders with nothing in between. Whenever she wanted to look to the right or the left she had to turn her entire body. I now know the malady for what it is, or was (I have no idea where she is today or, for that matter, whether she is anywhere)––Klippel-Feil syndrome. But at the time, she was just one more freak, likely having escaped from a carnival midway somewhere. And there was See Me Sylvia. My grandmother claimed she came to church primarily for one reason––to show off her fancy hats and jewelry––but there didn’t seem to be much there worth flaunting. Launchpad Leonard would, out of the blue, produce the loudest, most explosive belch you’d ever heard––so loud, in fact, that it sounded like one of those Atlas rockets blasting off from Cape Canaveral. And whenever I saw him do it outside the choir loft without his robe, his quaking beer belly spilling over his belt buckle, my first instinct was to run for my life.

How would I have survived Sunday mornings without diversions? My brother, perched high above the sanctuary floor in the balcony with his friends, no doubt had his own amusements. More than once, I suspected him of sneaking out of the church just as the service began, sitting in the back seat of the Brookwood Wagon reading Mad Magazine, only to scurry back in a few minutes prior to the service’s ending so he could walk out with the rest of the assembly and my mother would be none the wiser.

* * *

Almost every Sunday, Reverend Kilgallon’s mien and comportment would take a bleak and sinister turn about halfway through the sermon. It was as if he became a different man altogether. Not the paternalistic pastor calling his flock to salvation, but, rather, a demonic, truculent savage condemning all in his presence to a life of eternal damnation.

I would always see it coming. He would remove his wire-rimmed bifocals and whack them onto the lectern––I awaited some Sunday when he would send shards flying across the room. His face would redden. The veins in his temples would pulse. A curious tic would come upon him––an emergent twitching around his right eye. Then he would let loose, pointing to the

balcony and setting free a stentorian roar. “Sinners all. The whole vile lot of you. You will roast in Hell––like sizzling bacon at the men’s fellowship breakfast.” (Okay, he didn’t really say that last part about the bacon––I made that up––but the thought may have crossed his mind.) Then he would turn on the assembly at large, sweeping his finger across the room and damning every single one of us.

An electric charge would run down my spine as if I had been sitting on metal, rather than mahogany, and the Almighty Himself had let loose a bolt of lightning onto the church. I would give a little shake and look back at the balcony.

Is my brother up there? Or is he in the station wagon, reading The Lighter Side or Spy vs. Spy, oblivious to the judgment, the condemnation, that has just been leveled on him?

On all of us.

***

Excerpt from THE DEVIL YOU KNEW by Mike Cobb. Copyright 2024 by Mike Cobb. Reproduced with permission from Mike Cobb. All rights reserved.

 

 

Review:

5 stars!

Mesmerizing storytelling! 

The Devil You Knew by Mike Cobb, with its recognizably Southern speech patterns and rhythms, was absolutely gripping; I was completely content to sit and read and let the author transport me to Atlanta’s past. 

I was immediately charmed by young Binky (Billy Tarwater as an eight-year-old Atlanta schoolboy) as he set the stage for what was to come. Billy’s voice is fresh yet familiar, straight out of my memories, as were those of most of the other characters. I am a contemporary of this character, and at eight years of age in the early 60s, I was a bit further west in Shreveport, Louisiana, so I could almost hear the narrative in my mind. 

The plot initially wends its way along, building the setting and paying careful attention to period details. Binky grows to become Billy and eventually an adult. Still, his sensibilities, propagated in childhood, continue to supply him with a never-ending supply of curiosity and the belief in the innocence of a man he knows in his gut has been wrongly convicted of murder. 

The author is a wonderful storyteller, crafting exquisite yet easy-to-read prose and building a tight and suspense-laden mystery. As the tension increased, so did my compelling need to keep reading to get to the final resolution. As the author mentions up front, historical fiction walks a tricky path between accuracy and adapting the uglier aspects of previous times to align with what is acceptable now. This author has opted for accuracy so readers should be prepared for the language and attitudes of a different time and place because he nails it. There are words and scenes that could be triggering for some. 

I recommend THE DEVIL YOU KNEW to historical mystery and suspense readers, especially those who enjoy noirish tales, coming-of-age stories, and authentic Southern fiction.

Author Bio:

Mike's body of work includes both fiction and nonfiction, short form and long form, as well as articles and blogs of literary interest.

While he is comfortable playing across a broad range of genres, much of his focus is on historical fiction, crime fiction, and true crime. Rigorous research is foundational to his writing. He gets that honestly, having spent much of his professional career as a scientist.

Mike splits his time between midtown Atlanta and a lake in the North Georgia mountains, far away from the rat race of the city. The balance between city life and mountain life inspires his writing.

Catch Up With Mike Cobb:
mikecobbwriter.com
Goodreads
Instagram - @cobbmg
Twitter/X - @mgcobb
Facebook - @MGCobbWriter

 

 

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