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excerpt

A mysterious light at the end of the 2020 tunnel!

November 11, 2020 By Barbara 1 Comment

Image by Kristendawn from Pixabay

My newest Double Barrel mystery is hitting the cyber shelves December 1st! I just wanted to share my joyous news, along with an excerpt to get your mystery-loving brains engaged.

I started writing this over a year ago and set it aside, but when I seriously went back to the story this past August, the plot and characters morphed into something quite different than my initial thought process. Sometimes fictional people have a mind of their own and you just can’t make them conform to your plans.

Available Dec 1, 2020! PreOrder now!

If you’ve enjoyed Blake and Shelby’s stories in the Double Barrel mystery series so far, then I know you will love A Man Can Die but Once. As usual, I start off with the murder, so it will come as no surprise to you all if you read the first page that the mayor’s shenanigans are finally coming to an end.

I hope you enjoy this excerpt and be sure to go to your favorite ebook store and PreOrder A MAN CAN DIE BUT ONCE. You won’t be charged until December 1st when it automatically downloads onto your reader device. As simple as that. A fun mystery just in time for Christmas lockdowns! (Sorry, couldn’t help myself)

~PROLOGUE~

Leaning over the body of the mayor, he pressed two fingers to the man’s thick neck, searching for the carotid pulse. Faint but still detectable. Suddenly, he felt the man grip the ragged edge of his untucked shirt and tug him closer as though trying to say something. Eyes wide and staring, the mayor’s blue lips moved faintly, but only a mewling whimper sounded from the depths of his chest. Instinctively, he jerked away from the moist breath of vomit and death that accosted him, and the mayor’s white-knuckle grip was broken. The mayor fell back, pulling his arm in close to his body and appeared to curl around his pain, then he exhaled one last time and was gone.

Slowly, he straightened, standing tall over the mayor’s body, his stance relaxed. Purposefully at ease. Closing his eyes, he allowed his adrenaline-laced heartbeat to slow and his breathing return to normal. No matter how many times he’d watched men die, he still felt a weight of darkness envelope his soul. A feeling he had to fight with every breath in his body. Exactly sixty seconds later, he opened his eyes and stared down on the ashen-faced man crumpled at his feet.

Everyone talked about this man. Locals either hated him or despised him. Some thought he was a necessary evil. A nasty, pushy politician could get things done for the town that nice people could not. But he’d never run across anyone who loved and respected him.

The great Farley Jones. The man who would be king… or at least, mayor of Port Scuttlebutt. He used people. Connived. Pressured. Even blackmailed them into doing his dirty work or going along with him in some unsavory deal or another. He’d heard the tales, but until recently, he’d never had the opportunity to see the man at work in person.

He had no real stake in the welfare of Port Scuttlebutt. Didn’t care whether Farley Jones ran things like a Detroit gangster or was more of a Saint Francis of Assisi, communing with birds and saving pine trees.

Farley’s mistake today was purely subjective.

The Mayor of Port Scuttlebutt had made a choice. He chose poorly. He never should have tried to hurt a woman on a mission. Like PETA zealots who write meat is murder on a butcher’s shop, to save-the-trees groups who chain themselves to bulldozers, or nuts who release thousands of minks from farms to starve to death or be eaten by foxes, people on a mission were the scariest people in the world to deal with logically. To them, the end always justified the means. Even if it didn’t turn out quite the way they planned. Much like war.

Stepping back, he carefully looked over the scene, imprinting it on his memory for possible future posterity.

Blood seeped from a wound on the back of the mayor’s head, glistening wet and dark. The fancy overcoat and loose-legged suit pants did nothing to hide the effects of a man accustomed to overindulgence and lack of exercise; a thickened waistline, fleshy jowls and neck, and overall poor muscle tone. He rested on his side where he’d fallen, one arm beneath him, the other extended across the floor, pudgy sausage fingers splayed out like a fan as though trying to grasp the baseball bat that lay just out of his reach.

Bending, he picked up the bat, twirling it in his gloved hands. There was a splotch of blood on one side. He wiped it clean on the leg of his black sweatpants, admired the scrawled signature, and then carefully placed it back on display above the fireplace with the other baseball memorabilia.

A piece of paper peeked out the pocket of the dead man’s overcoat. He squatted beside him and slipped it out, pressing it open flat on the knotty pine floor. A to-do list. He smirked. Apparently, the man’s mama was every bit in charge of the world and everyone in it as the rumor mill suggested. Even her son, the mayor, had to submit to her authority.

He started to rise, but the last item on the list caught his eye. He read the words and expelled the breath of a laugh. Not surprising, all the errands had been crossed off except this one. A smile stretched across his face and he rifled through the man’s pockets for a pen. Finding one, he leaned over the paper. There. Farley’s last day was complete.

Kill Farley

CHAPTER ONE

One week earlier:

Fanny Arnold kept to the most well-worn deer tracks. She knew the woods in this area like the age spots on the back of her hand, but an early spring snow had crusted the ground again and made for slippery trail walking. She moved slower than usual, planting her stick with each step. The temperature was slightly above freezing this morning and a pleasant change from the sub-zero winter they’d recently endured. She’d felt the cold settle deep in her bones this year and didn’t know how many more winters she could survive. Being outdoors with nature and the animals she loved was what kept her going. Without that ability she would dry up and wither away. Pressing her chin deep into the collar of her coat like a turtle hiding from the world, she moved along, slow and sure.

A twig snapped to her left and she glanced up, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her knit hat. Expecting to see the small herd of deer that often congregated in this quiet, shielded nook of the woods, she was surprised there were only two. A doe and her spotted fawn. She glanced around. Where were the others?

A rifle shot rang out startling Fanny and the deer. The doe bolted and the fawn quickly followed, disappearing into the thick of the woods. Fanny watched them go, dread settling in her gut. Poachers.

She’d had run-ins with their like before. No-good creatures, intent on destroying wildlife just to impress their buddies. They always ran in packs, like rats, and often were so drunk they couldn’t shoot straight. They ended up maiming rather than killing, which was so much worse. The poor deer would wander off and die alone in agony. Someone had to do something about it! If the DNR weren’t up to the task, then she would handle them her way. Her grip tightened on her walking stick.

She turned up the hill and climbed to the top. Pulling a pair of compact binoculars from her pocket, she scanned the little valley and wooded area beyond. There! On the edge of the woods two figures crouched beside a carcass. One of them was already busy field dressing the poor thing. By the time she hiked to the spot, they’d be done and making their getaway. She’d better get a move on.

Out of breath and panting by the time she reached the patch of blood-soaked ground, Fanny set her lips firmly together and tried not to cry. At least it hadn’t suffered. If they’d taken it with them to butcher, then they weren’t just out for sport. There was some comfort in that.

The trail they’d left behind was easy to follow, and she started after them. It was illegal to shoot a deer out of season. She would get their names or license plate and report them to the authorities as soon as possible. But first, she had to catch up to them. She soon spotted white puffs of chimney smoke wafting above the treetops and suddenly realized where the hunters were heading. Martha Reynold’s place.

The old cabin sat deep in the woods with only rough, dirt-track access from the main road. Martha often went weeks without venturing out to town. When she did, she and her son Lanky would bundle up and take their ancient Honda ATV. Lanky had been born with down-syndrome and he was the sweetest young man. It wasn’t her place to say, but Fanny thought he was capable of far more than his circumstances allowed. Sadly, Martha kept him secluded from the world out of fear that folks would treat him poorly. Fanny had made a point to stop in now and then, checking up on the two of them, and Martha was always friendly enough in her own way. The woman wasn’t accustomed to visitors, but she always offered a hot cup of coffee and a sit-down out on the front porch. Other than herself, she supposed few people even knew where Martha lived.

Fanny wouldn’t be surprised if Martha was desperate enough to shoot squirrels or rabbits so that her son could have fresh meat during the long winter, but to poach a deer out of season? That didn’t sit right with what she knew about the woman. Martha was a law-abiding citizen who just wanted to be left alone to live her life in peace. Poaching would bring trouble down on her head and that would be the last thing she’d want. Her son’s welfare was her biggest concern. She’d told Fanny as much last year when the boy had a rough bout of pneumonia. Her husband had died four years earlier, leaving them to survive on social security and the little bit of income she made making and selling crafts locally.

Voices filtered through the trees. One loud and brash, the other a soft mumble. She pushed aside a branch and peered into the clearing. The deer carcass was wrapped in a tarp and draped across a rickety picnic table in the middle of the yard. A fire crackled and flamed from a rock-rimmed pit nearby. Lanky poked at the fire with a stick, stirring the embers to a blaze.

“Get over here and help me with this!” the taller man yelled, unwrapping the deer in preparation to skin and butcher it. He picked up a long knife from the table and turned around enough that Fanny caught a good look at his profile. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, scraggly brown hair beneath a dark cap. A bushy beard grew thick and red below a Romanesque nose. She didn’t recognize him from Port Scuttlebutt. He glanced her way and she quickly drew back.

“Lanky! I said get over here,” the man bellowed again.

Fanny cringed, fearful for the young man she knew as a sweet soul. Who was this fellow yelling orders and where was Martha? She pressed her back to the trunk of the fir and slowly slid down to sit on the hard needle-covered ground. A shiver ran through her and she wrapped her arms around her middle for warmth. What now? She’d never desired the encumbrance of a cell phone out in nature, but at this moment she wished she’d actually opened Blake’s gift and brought it along.

“Miss Fanny,” a quiet voice whispered through the low-hanging limbs near her ear. “Are you playing hide and seek?”

Fanny looked up into guileless hazel eyes and realized she’d been quietly counting aloud. It was something she did whenever she needed to make a difficult decision. Usually it helped her think through a problem and come up with a clear solution. This time it had obviously made the problem much worse.

A rifle barrel poked through the branch above Lanky’s left shoulder and an angry voice demanded, “Get out here where I can see who I’m shooting!”

Lanky helped Fanny stand and took her hand to lead her into the clearing. “Miss Fanny is my friend, Sam,” he said firmly. “She comes to visit me and Mama sometimes.”

The man lowered the gun, brown eyes still narrow with suspicion. “Since when do you two have friends?”

“Since Miss Fanny started coming,” he said with all seriousness.

“Huh. Too bad she don’t have a friend with a car who could take her to the doctor instead of a nosey old biddy with a stick.”

Fanny felt the man’s dark gaze sweep over her dismissively. When he crouched down to pet Jet, Lanky’s old hound dog, she looked him over quickly. He was very tall, but not thin. Solidly built. His khaki jacket hung open revealing a black t-shirt stretched over a broad, muscular chest. On the right side of the shirt was a gold emblem. An eagle perched on a globe of the world with an anchor struck through it. She recognized that emblem. It was a symbol of the United States Marines.

“Mama don’t like doctors,” Lanky said. He scratched at a knee sticking through worn jeans. “She used up all the medicine she made last year, and the flowers don’t grow back until summer.”

“She’s still using her herb brews instead of seeing a real doctor?” The man kicked at a rock sticking up out of the ground with the toe of a black combat boot, his mouth stretched so tight it nearly disappeared in the growth of beard. He looked up, sudden recognition in his eyes and pointed a finger in Fanny’s direction. “Wait a minute. You’re that healer woman, aren’t you? I remember you from when I was a boy. You used to take care of hurt animals, right? Arnold. That’s it,” he said as though he’d just given her the name. “You’re Fanny Arnold.

Fanny nodded, shooting a worried glance toward the house. Where was Martha? And why was he talking about her as though she was his… “Sam? Sammy Reynolds? Martha told me you joined the Marines and never looked back. She sure missed you. I bet she’s mighty glad to have you home.”

He scoffed. “Home? This was never a home. This was just the hole where my old man decided to dump us when he went on his sales trips.”

“Where is Martha?” Fanny asked, glancing again at the quiet façade of the cabin.

“She’s sick in bed.” He shifted the rifle to his shoulder. “Hey, could you take a look at her? She’s been running a fever and says her belly hurts.”

“I’m not a people doctor,” she said, nervously. She was already getting guff from Farley Jones for taking in strays and wildlife that needed her. He’d sent her legal looking letters with his official stamp from the office of the mayor, accusing her of running a pet hospital without a license or credentials. They were long and wordy, but the gist was that she should shut down now or face prosecution. The last one insinuated that her activities could be defined as mental illness.

Lanky moved to take her hand, tugging her toward the front porch. “Come on, Miss Fanny. You can make Mama better. I know you can.”

She went along, feeling like she didn’t really have a choice. Besides, she was worried about her friend. She glanced back at the big man and saw his grim expression relax with relief. He moved to the deer carcass and resumed his work. ~~

*Please leave a comment and tell me what you think about the excerpt or about your complete and utter surprise that I have finally finished a new novel, or which part of the turkey you enjoy at Thanksgiving, or how much you hate lockdowns. I don’t care. I just love getting comments.

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, the Double Barrel Mysteries, the Second Chances series, and more. She lives in Minnesota because she can’t afford Hawaii.

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Your middle-of-the-week mystery fix!

August 3, 2016 By Barbara Leave a Comment

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Looking for a fun, new series with plenty of mystery, murder, and romance to go
Roadkillsmallaround? Check out my Double Barrel Mysteries series. If you want to start at the beginning of the series, pick up a copy of book one, ROADKILL.

In book two, Much Ado About Murder, Blake and Shelby Gunner are setting up residence in Port Scuttlebutt and opening their own private investigations office. Hope you enjoy the excerpt below!

ImbedMuchAdo2Shelby could hear the whine of the electric saw when she stepped out on the porch with her cup of coffee. Vanilla bean scented steam rose in the cold autumn air as she held her cup between the palms of her hands and sipped. She shivered in spite of wearing an angora sweater beneath a quilted jacket. It was hard to believe that days before Blake was working shirtless down at the boathouse. Today he’d need to wear long johns and flannel. It was already beginning to feel like Christmas. All they needed was snow.

The radio came on in the kitchen where Alice was busy mixing bread dough. It sounded like the weather report. Shelby gulped the rest of her lukewarm coffee and slipped back inside to catch the news. Maybe there would be something about the murder. The police had been tight-lipped about the case when Blake showed up asking questions. Even the brotherhood-of-blue mantra did little to open the way for him.

Blake was still upstairs sleeping, but he’d be down soon. He had an invitation to visit his grandmother at the big house for lunch. Apparently it was a single invitation, since he hadn’t invited her along, but that was okay. She had plans as well.

“Sounds like we might get snow by tonight,” Alice said, turning the radio down when the commercials came on. She slipped a clean towel over the lump of dough in the mixing bowl, and slid it closer to the stove to rise. “Good thing Mr. Dugan started early today. Maybe he’ll have the office windows and door in for you by this evening.”

“That would be wonderful.” Shelby refilled her cup from the carafe and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Especially if he turns out to be guilty.”

“Guilty? Did you find something incriminating out there at his place?” Alice peered over the refrigerator door as she pulled breakfast items from the shelves. “I mean… that would be terrible. For Tucker’s dad especially.”

Shelby shook her head. “Nothing like that. But we didn’t find anything to prove his innocence either, so…” she shrugged.

“Hey. Loose lips sink ships,” Blake said from the doorway. He pulled an imaginary zipper across his mouth. “Mrs. Private Eye, may I have a word with you?”

“Don’t worry,” Alice said, “I haven’t had time to get all the juicy details out of her yet.”

Shelby followed Blake into the sitting room and faced him, hands on her hips. “What was that all about? Paranoid much? If anyone in this town can be trusted, Alice can.”

“I know that. But sometimes things slip out inadvertently. I want to keep this ring business under wraps for the time being. I haven’t even questioned Pete Dugan about whether he knew his ex-wife was seeing someone else or not. First things first. Okay?”

“Fine. I won’t mention the ring to anyone.”

He stepped closer and tipped her chin up with one finger. “You know how beautiful you look when you’re peeved with me?”

“I’m not peeved. I just don’t like lying to my friends.” She’d done enough of that growing up. Lying to protect her alcoholic father from losing his job, lying to keep the social workers away, lying to bill collectors, the landlord, her friends.

“You don’t have to lie, babe. They’ll understand if you tell them you can’t talk about it. The same way you understood when I couldn’t share everything about the cases I worked on as a detective. Information is key. We have to keep it to ourselves until the exact right moment. Get it? Surprise attack. We want to get a natural, unguarded look at our suspect’s true feelings. Most people wear a façade, especially when they feel cornered.

“Now our client is a suspect?”

“Until I’ve proved otherwise.”

She leaned into him and he drew her close. She closed her eyes and breathed in his just-showered scent. “You smell like fresh strawberries.”

“I used your fruity shampoo. Mine was empty.”

“It smells good on you,” she said, nuzzling his neck.

“Hold on now.” He moved back out of reach, a silly grin on his face. “Are you trying to get an invitation to lunch, or…?”

“I can’t believe you’d think that. Only married four years and you’re already pouring sand on the flames.”

His brows came together. “Are you messing with me?”

“Of course. Who else would I mess with?” She reached out and tugged him back by the collar of his shirt. “Now kiss me before I leave. I’m going to the café for a chat with Luanne.”

“Heaven help us all,” he said, and then gave her a proper goodbye kiss.

~~~

Ps. Book Three: Midsummer Madness is available now!

 

 

Thanks for stopping! Hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Please leave a comment below.

Barbara

Barbara Ellen Brink is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, Split Sense (winner of the Grace Award), Running Home, Alias Raven Black, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and Roadkill.
Barbara Ellen Brink is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, Split Sense (winner of the Grace Award), Running Home, Alias Raven Black, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and The Double Barrel Mysteries.
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Filed Under: mystery Tagged With: Double Barrel Mysteries, excerpt, Much Ado About Murder, mystery, series

Coming at you with both barrels!

December 17, 2015 By Barbara 2 Comments

I know I keep saying that book 2 in the Double Barrel Mysteries is in the works and coming soon. And it is! But whipping up a murder, clues, suspects, and opportunity, setting it all in the quirky little town of Port Scuttlebutt, and writing entertaining dialogue for my married sleuths, Blake and Shelby Gunner, takes time and finesse and lots and lots of chocolate and licorice breaks. 

But because I’ve made you wait much longer than I anticipated, and you must wait a bit longer yet, here is an excerpt from Double Barrel Mystery #2 (title yet to be determined) for your enjoyment!

DBlogo4x4

Excerpt:

Blake leaned over the sawhorse and braced one hand on the 2X4 he was cutting. The smell of pine floated on the air as the sharp-toothed handsaw steadily chewed through the wood, leaving a sprinkling of sawdust below. Sweat dripped from his brow and soaked his white t-shirt, making it cling to his chest like a second skin. A length of sawed off wood dropped to the ground and he straightened, a look of satisfaction in his blue eyes.

“Okay, I was wrong,” Shelby said, eyeing him with renewed respect. “You really do know your way around a construction site, babe. I never should have doubted you.”

“I told you I worked with a construction crew for six months before I became a cop.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you’d look so good in a tool belt you could sell chain saws to old ladies.” She shielded her eyes with one hand, looking up at the house. “Hey, isn’t that Tucker’s pickup in the driveway? I wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Probably came by to see Alice over his lunch break.”

“I don’t think so. He’s headed this way.”

Blake leaned the 2X4 against the sawhorse and slanted her a grin. “Maybe we can put him to work. The sooner we get these offices finished, the sooner we can take on clients and pay for the place. Double Barrel Investigations may have been your brain child, but I got to be truthful with you Shel… when it comes to wielding a hammer, you suck.”

“If that’s your idea of flattery, I’d hate to be on your bad side.”

“I haven’t got a bad side,” he said flexing his muscles.

She rolled her eyes, trying not to grin. “Who do you think you are, Fabio?”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

He held out the newly sawn board.

She shook her head.

“You want me to do it?”

“You’re the master.

While Blake was busy pounding the 2X4 into place, Tucker stepped into the gutted boathouse. He gazed around with wide-eyed interest at the office area they were busy framing. The smack of the hammer echoed off the walls before Blake turned around with a welcoming grin.

“Hey, Skeleton! You’re just in time.”

“In time for what?” Tucker’s gaze narrowed.

“To help us out. As I recall, you’re an experienced drywall installer.”

“A part-time job for one summer doesn’t make me an expert.”

Blake shrugged. “Okay. You’re a wet-behind-the-ears drywall installer. But we could still use your help. At this rate, we won’t be done before the snow flies.”

The boathouse had been set on fire a month earlier, damaging the entire front wall, door, and part of the roof. Blake had torn down the charred wood, leaving the entrance open to the elements for now. They planned to keep the exterior as rustic as before, while updating the front section with insulated walls and flooring for the offices of their new business. Another door would lead to the rear of the boathouse and the lake beyond. There was still ample room to store a small sailboat there if they ever found spare money in their budget to purchase one.

Tucker slipped his hands in the front pockets of his oversized green hoodie and leaned nonchalantly on one hip. “I’ll do you one better. What if I could promise you free help from a real construction expert?”

“That has the definite twang of tight strings attached.”

Shelby gave Blake a playful swap on the backside. “Looking a gift horse in the mouth much?” She grinned at Tucker. “Don’t mind him. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind. What’s your deal?”

“It’s not exactly my deal. Just think of me as your agent. I have a client for you who’d be willing to pay your fees in hard labor.”

“Bartering? How medieval.”

“Wait a minute. A client? What are we investigating? A cheating spouse?” Blake’s brows pulled together.

“Hear him out, Gun. After all, beggars can’t be choosers. We need the help.”

“Fine. Who cheated on who?” he asked, slipping the hammer into the loop on his tool belt.

Tucker shook his head. “You got it all wrong. This is serious and right up your alley. Pete Dugan and my father go way back. They’ve been friends since high school. Dad wanted me to ask you if you would take on this case as a personal favor to him.”

“Well, I can’t really say no to that, can I?”

Shelby sat on an overturned bucket. “What are we investigating?”

“Pete found a body buried on his property a couple days ago and now the police are treating him like their number one suspect. He thinks someone set him up and he needs you to help clear his name.”

“A murder?”

“Looks that way. Bodies don’t usually bury themselves, do they?” Tucker asked with a straight face.

Blake stroked a hand over his jaw, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Shelby knew he was intrigued and ready to take off in pursuit of a killer, happily leaving manual labor behind. She could see his wheels spinning already. He was still a cop at heart, despite his forced retirement last year after a shooting that left him with a bum leg and a burning desire to move back to his hometown.

“The police don’t usually jump to conclusions without good reason,” he said. “Who was the victim?”

Tucker cleared his throat and his gaze shifted to the partially framed wall. “Dugan’s ex-wife.”

Blake’s laughter was anything but mirthful. “You’ve got to be kidding me. A man’s ex-wife turns up buried on his property and you think it’s strange the police view him as a suspect? Nine times out of ten it’s the husband or boyfriend.”

“I know. I know. But my dad is certain Pete’s innocent and I had to ask.” He blew out a breath and slowly backed toward the dock. “Sorry to interrupt your work.”

“Hold on!” Shelby jumped up and ran to Tucker. Clasping his hand, she tugged him gently back. “Blake didn’t say no. He’s just stating facts. That doesn’t mean your father’s friend is a murderer. He may well be that one time out of ten. Right, Blake?” she said, shooting him a hard look.

He shrugged. “Sure. I’ll talk to him. But I can’t promise anything. If I think he’s guilty of murder, hell or high water won’t keep me from assisting the police in their case.”

“That’s fair.” Tucker gave a short nod and dug his pickup keys out of his pocket. “I’ll let Dad know.”

“Your dad was always good at seeing through lies and deception, Tuck.” Blake swiped sweat from his forehead with the edge of his shirt. “He certainly never fell for any of our wild stories. So it’s hard to believe he’d be a lifelong friend to a man capable of murder. I’m going to work this case on the assumption that Pete Dugan is an innocent man, because I trust your dad’s instincts.”

“Thanks.”

“What about the construction help?” Shelby reminded him. “If Blake and I are investigating the murder, someone has to be here to finish this.”

“Dugan was a construction foreman for over thirty years. He’s newly retired, but if he’s anything like my dad he’ll jump at the chance to get back into it.”

“So,” Shelby narrowed her gaze, “you haven’t actually discussed bartering labor in exchange for our services, have you?”

“Not technically, no.”

“Great!” Blake threw up his hands and huffed. “We’re back where we started.”

“Quit being a whiner, Acky Breaky. I got this covered. If Mr. Dugan chooses to pay you in cash rather than hard labor – which I can’t see happening – I promise to come back and help out as much as I can. I’ve got a new kid working part-time at the store now and he’d probably love some extra hours.”

“Thanks, Tuck,” Shelby gave him a hug and wasn’t surprised to feel ribs beneath his baggy sweatshirt. He definitely lived up to his nickname. He ate like a three hundred pound linebacker but never seemed to gain an ounce. “You should stop up at the house and have some of that raspberry pie Alice baked this morning. You are wasting away.”

“I thought you told me you were working out,” Blake said.

Tucker lifted a brow. “This is me in the best shape of my life. You can’t see it? I’m totally ripped. Alice says I’m buff.”

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,” Shelby teased.

His cell buzzed and he slipped it out to read the message. “What a coincidence. I’ve been invited for a slice of pie. Later, you two!”

~~~

You can purchase the 1st book in The Double Barrel Mysteries, ROADKILL, at these fine stores:  Amazon  Barnes&Noble  iTunes  Kobo  Smashwords

ps. ENTANGLED and CHOSEN are both still FREE at all online stores as well. Get your copies to read over the holidays!

Thanks for stopping! Leave a comment and tell me what you think about the excerpt!

Barbara

Barbara is the author of the Fredrickson Winery Novels, the award winning thriller, Split Sense, The Second Chances series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and ROADKILL, the 1st book in the new Double Barrel Mysteries. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and pups.
Barbara is the author of the Fredrickson Winery Novels, the award winning thriller, Split Sense, The Second Chances series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and ROADKILL, the 1st book in the new Double Barrel Mysteries. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and pups.

 

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Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: cozy, Double Barrel Mystery, excerpt, Port Scuttlebutt, series

Reality is just a dream

December 7, 2015 By Barbara 2 Comments

~~~FALL BOOK BASH ~~~ FALL BOOK BASH ~~~ FALL BOOK BASH~~~

So many terrific authors have dropped by this fall to share excerpts from their books in The Fall Book Bash. I love reading bits from so many different genres and finding things I probably would never have picked up otherwise. My to-be-read list has definitely grown in the past two months, but I’m planning to take care of that over the holidays by reading as much as I can. I hope you have been able to find some great holiday reads and gifts as well.

Today, Beth Honeycutt is sharing an excerpt from her young adult novel, What Dreams May Come. So if you love young adult novels or if you know someone who does, check out the excerpt below and find your next great book.

New-Ebook-Cover-Design2-alt~He knows her darkest secrets, sees into her dreams. Math class will never be the same.

Reality is overrated. Or so Ellie Cross believes. She greatly prefers the dreams she shares with her imaginary friend and lifelong BFF, Gabe, to the nightmare of her real life. And okay, so yeah, lately Ellie’s noticed that Gabe’s kinda hot. Make that incredibly hot. But that doesn’t mean she’s crazy or anything. So what if she happens to have an itsy-bitsy crush on her reality-challenged friend? Who’s it hurting, really?

But when the hot new guy at school walks into her math class, Ellie finds herself staring into eyes remarkably like the ones she’s been dreaming of all her life. To make matters worse, the new guy seems to know things about Ellie that he shouldn’t have any way of knowing. Has Ellie finally lost it, started confusing dreams with reality? Or is there something else going on, something she never could’ve imagined, even in her wildest dreams?~

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME (excerpt)

Ellie handed a menu over to Gabriel. “You have to try a piece of pie,” she instructed. “You can’t miss it—their pie is the best. And I bet I can find just the kind you’d like,” she said, pointing to a small blurb on the back of the menu entitled, The Psychology of Pie. “You can learn a lot about a person from the type of pie they like,” she teased.

“Oh really?” Gabriel returned, joining in the lighthearted fun. “I’ll take that challenge. I bet I can pick out the kind of pie you like best, too.”

“You’re on,” Ellie challenged. “You order the pie you think I’d want and I’ll do the same for you. Then we’ll see who knows the other best,” she finished smugly, sure she was going to win. She’d been thinking about this for a while now.

They both studied the menu until the waitress came over to take their order. She was a middle-aged woman who looked tired from the long day and, no doubt, the long evening of dealing with teenagers.

She was quick and efficient taking their order and returned in just a couple of minutes with the pie and their drinks. She placed their respective refreshments in front of them and laid the bill to the side, then went back to the front.

Gabriel pushed the plate that was in front of him toward Ellie. It held a single slice of cream-colored pie with a slightly darker, golden-yellow top, all supported by a delicate crust with fluted edges. He took his fork and cut off the tip of the pie, putting it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed and nodded to himself, satisfied. “Sugar cream pie,” he said, supremely confident that he’d pegged her favorite.

“Interesting,” she responded, refusing to give anything away just yet. She wanted to hear his reasoning first. “Why that one?”

“It just seems like you.” Gabriel shrugged. “Light, unpretentious, with a delicate crust that’s not too thick or too thin. There’s hidden depth to the flavor that you aren’t expecting. It’s sweet, but not so rich that you can only take it in small doses. You could eat a whole pie and still want more. And it’s a classic—good for any occasion, any time. The perfect pie.” He held her gaze as he listed the attributes and she found herself blushing again at the message in his eyes.

It was probably ridiculous to feel so complimented, being compared to a piece of pie, but she did. He forked up another bite and held it out to her, waiting for her to take a taste. She did, closing her eyes at the creamy texture and light sweetness nestled within the flaky crust. It was the perfect piece of pie.

When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her closely. His eyes were dark and kept straying to her lips, making them tingle. She decided a change of topic was in order, so she pushed the piece of pie she’d chosen out to the middle of the table. It had a thick coating of nuts on top, with golden-brown, gooey filling hidden beneath. Its crust was thick and firm. Like he had done, she forked up a bite and ate it slowly, testing it on her tongue, thinking through what she wanted to say. She swallowed and took a drink of her water. “Pecan,” she declared decisively, pleased with her choice.

“Oh, really?” he asked, one brow raised. “And why is that?”

She smiled impishly. “Tough and strong on the outside, gooey and sweet on the inside. Oh, and a sturdy, dependable crust. And maybe just a little nuts,” she added with a smirk. She forked up a bite for him and held it out, her eyes alight with good humor.

He rolled his eyes, but leaned forward to take the proffered bite. He chewed carefully and swallowed. “Not bad,” he conceded.

“Oh, come on!” Ellie protested. “You know you loved it!”

“What about you?” he challenged. “How was the sugar cream?”

“You’re right, it is my favorite,” Ellie admitted. Though she put on a good show, she was secretly thrilled that he knew her so well. “How’d I do with yours?”

“Truthfully, I’ve never really had a favorite kind of pie,” Gabriel said, sounding almost apologetic.

“Pie’s not something I’ve had a lot of.” Ellie felt her heart squeeze at this reminder of how very different his upbringing had been from hers. But then he grinned, face alight with happiness. “I gotta say, though, I think pecan is my favorite now.” His gaze on her was warm. “Though let’s not let that ‘gooey and sweet on the inside’ stuff get around, all right? I mean, pecan pie has a reputation to protect, yeah?”

Ellie burst out laughing. “I’ll do my best to keep a lid on it,” she promised, eyes twinkling.

A professional writer and editor, Beth has written everything from poetry and short storiesauthor-bio-1 to proposals for government contracts, science textbooks, and standardized tests (yes, you have her to thank for those!). Her real love is writing fiction, though, especially YA. She loves to travel and has been to nine different countries (more if you count layovers!). At home or abroad, she can usually be found with her head in a book or madly scribbling down ideas for a book of her own. She loves spending time with family, stories of all kinds, and happy endings. She firmly believes in the enduring power of love.

Connect with Beth online:

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Buy What Dreams May Come

Hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Please leave a comment or question for Beth below!

Barbara

Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, Second Chances Series, the award winning thriller, Split Sense, and the Double Barrel mystery, Roadkill. She hangs out in Minnesota with her husband and their pups.
Barbara is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, Second Chances Series, the award winning thriller, Split Sense, and the Double Barrel mystery, Roadkill. She hangs out in Minnesota with her husband and their pups.
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Between the Lies on The Fall Book Bash

December 2, 2015 By Barbara 3 Comments

~~~ FALL BOOK BASH ~~~ FALL BOOK BASH ~~~ FALL BOOK BASH ~~~ 

Author Joy DeKok is sharing an excerpt from her novel, Between the Lies, with us today. I’ve read this one and I can tell you that it is an absorbing story. It would make a terrific addition to your Christmas gift selections for that book-loving friend or family member you have a hard time buying for… or a little holiday gift for yourself.

Joy2Joy has been writing since she was a little girl. Her dream of being an author was front and center in her mind and after years of hard work, she has several books in publication. She has been traditionally published, but is now an indie author.

Joy works part time for her husband and puts in as many hours writing as she can. She prefers writing in the solitude of her office, but can also be found in area coffee shops now and then where the voices and energy of the real world infuse the words on the page.

She’s been married to Jon for 38 years. They live on 35 acres of woods and field between Pine Island and Rochester. Joy loves riding their John Deere Gator with her dogs, Sophie & Tucker, taking pictures and enjoying God. Although unable to have children of their own, they love their nieces, nephews, and the children of their friends. And most of them are having kids of their own and don’t mind sharing them with Joy and Jon at all.

Her latest release is Between the Lies. It’s the first book in a mystery/suspense series. Joy took some risks with the main character. As a former “kept” woman, Olivia Morgan is not easy to like, but she’s the character Joy was given to write about. Writing is like that.

Connect with Joy online:  Facebook   Twitter  Google+  Tumblr  LinkedIn

~~~~~~~~~~~~~      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BTLNorthernLightSeriesRGB1600x2400pxBETWEEN THE LIES (excerpt)

Security called to let me know the private elevator was out-of-order, and I was told to use the public elevator. That had never happened in the ten years I’d lived there, but then neither had the night ahead of me.

A black stretch limo waited at the curb to take me to the ball. And I did it all without a fairy god-mother. Who needed a fat little old lady with a wand and a warning? Not me. No way.

Not until I found the dead guy anyway.

Lloyd, the building security guy, called to tell me my ride was waiting. When the elevator doors whispered open, I stepped in with a practiced little swish. I say practiced, because I had taken three trial runs and added what I thought might be an elegant little entrance move.

The guy in the elevator didn’t notice. He stood in the corner with his chin on his chest and his eyes half-closed and with a Twins cap sitting off-kilter on his head. What a stiff.

When the doors shut, our descent began with a slight shudder, and the man lurched forward and fell face-down near my feet.

“For crying out loud, man, it’s too early to be so drunk,” I muttered.

When the doors opened, I called out to the head of security who was seated at the front desk, “Can you help me with this guy?”

Lloyd, a former marine, rolled the man over, then jumped back. “Olivia, this man is dead.”

I gasped and stared at the guy and noticed his eyes were empty—devoid of life. His face, neck, and scalp were severely scarred. His cap now lay on the floor beside him. I assumed he used it to cover his face which looked tight and melted.

Instead of screaming or fleeing I went to my secret place; the one deep inside me I’d discovered the first time my father came to my room. I hadn’t been there in a long time, but I let the calm flow over me as I shut the door to my feelings. Besides, I had someplace to be, and losing it was not an option.

“Lloyd, I have to get going. You can handle this, right?”

“No. You are a witness and may have evidence on your dress or the bottom of your shoes.”

“Can you please get me out of here?” The body was blocking my exit, had ruined my elegant entrance into the foyer of the building, and was going to make me late for the evening.

Lloyd raised his hand as I tried to explain why I had to get out. He was already on his cell phone, telling someone Mr. Lyons would not appreciate it if the St. Paul police department didn’t send someone over “pronto.” When he hung up he looked at me and said, “Stay put.” He left no room for argument so I stayed with the guy. The very dead guy.

Within minutes, a swarm of police and other officials had the area cordoned off with yellow tape, and hustled around like bees in a hive. At first glance, it seemed chaotic, but their movements were strategically choreographed.

And there was a coroner. I’d always pictured people who work with the dead all looking like old Dr. Frankenstein: gaunt and grisly. This guy was movie-star handsome. “Hello. I need your corner.” His voice sounded so warm it could melt an iceberg. “Would you mind stepping onto these slightly sticky sheets of paper? They will catch any particles from your shoes we might need.” He offered me his hand and helped me step over the dead guy onto large sheets he placed on the elevator floor.

I have no idea what came over me, but I heard myself say, “Thank you, kind sir,” and I curtsied. Maybe it was the dress.

Whatever it was, it must have been contagious because he bowed slightly and said, “My pleasure, lovely lady.”

“Olivia, are you okay?” Lloyd’s bushy eyebrows nearly met in the middle as he narrowed his eyes at me. His voice sliced through the air, ruining a fun moment, and I felt myself stand a little straighter. I squelched the urge to salute and swallowed a giggle.

Instead, I took a deep breath and said, “I suppose I’m a little shocked, but this night is important. I have to go. Please help me . . . it’s for Jillian.”

Lloyd walked over to an officer in regular clothes and pointed at me. They talked for awhile and she made a couple of calls. When she hung up, she walked over to me and said, “I’m detective Harper, Homicide Division. I understand you have an important event to attend tonight. I’ve talked to my boss, and Mr. Alan Lyons, who vouched for you. Both said you can leave if you allow me to inspect the bag you are carrying. I also want to meet with you tomorrow at time decided on by me. Do you agree with these stipulations?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

After she inspected my clutch and tucked a card into the pocket, the detective said, “Your driver is waiting.”

I walked toward the handsome doctor of the dead and heard him say, “The body is still in the elevator. I’d like to get it out of there so your team can look for evidence.” I noticed him look in my direction. As I turned, my dress swished just so. Funny the things that matter at a crime scene and when a handsome man might be watching.

The driver who held my door open looked familiar, but I had no idea from where. He wore reflective sunglasses that wrapped around his eyes almost to his temples.

Something about him made my nerves jangle. Just like the homeless guy did at the cemetery. I wrote it off as anxiety from looking into the eyes of a dead man.

I opened my clutch and took a moment to apply powder to my face and freshen my lipstick. The little beaded purse held those two items, along with a credit card, my key cards, and my cell phone. I looked at the card the detective had tucked inside. On the back was her cell phone number under the words, Talk to you soon. ~~~

Purchase Between the Lies:  Amazon

~~~

Thanks for stopping! Did you enjoy this latest excerpt? Leave a comment or question for Joy or myself below.

Barbara

Barbara Ellen Brink is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, Split Sense (winner of the Grace Award), Running Home, Alias Raven Black, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and Roadkill.
Barbara Ellen Brink is the author of The Fredrickson Winery Novels, Split Sense (winner of the Grace Award), Running Home, Alias Raven Black, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and Roadkill.
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Politics as usual…

November 30, 2015 By Barbara 2 Comments

It may be the last day of November, but The Fall Book Bash continues with another great excerpt, this time from author Paul Cwalina. Reviewers of Paul’s first novel, DROPPING STONES, have used the words gripping, emotional roller coaster, disturbing, and literary classic to convey their appreciation of his story. Many of them hoped for a sequel. Well here it is! Today Paul is sharing an excerpt with us from the second book in his Dropping Stones series, KINGMAKER.

0bf6549f-0134-4dc0-8fb4-ab3f96b3b129-large~~After a man destroys his own life, where does he go from there? Lost and confused, the mayor starts over, his new life a delicate balance between mourning and moving forward. A second shot at a political career comes to him, so he pursues his dream of becoming part of the Washington, DC power scene. Just when he thinks he’s getting it together, the balance is threatened as a woman bearing the fruit of his sinful past confronts him and demands accountability. Her determination and uncompromising ways force him to choose between what he wants and what he needs. He thinks he’s finally got it right until another equally determined woman relentlessly pursues him. She may have the ability to deliver his dreams and more, but at what cost? He squandered his first chance at success and true love. Will the siren call of power politics be his down fall again? ~~

Born and raised in northeastern Pennsylvania, Paul Cwalina is the grandson of immigrant

61bcamfKK-L._UX250_coalminers. By day, he is a marketing executive and an economics geek, as well as a politics junkie.

Citing Ernest Hemingway’s “Farewell to Arms” as the spark that ignited his desire to write, the author is now turning his long-dormant passion and hobby into a way to tell a story to the world.

“I don’t write ‘comfortable’ stories. I want my readers to be affected and to think; to get out of their comfort zones just a bit. The biggest compliment I receive on ‘Dropping Stones’ is that the story stays with a person long after they’ve read it. To me, that says ‘mission accomplished’.”

Paul lives with his wife and children in Drums, Pennsylvania. 

Connect with Paul online:  Facebook  Twitter   Amazon author page

KINGMAKER (excerpt)

The doors to the elevator opened as soon as I got back and we stepped in.  The doors closed and I was still processing what I had just seen in the restaurant when Jennifer stepped in front of me and poked her finger into my chest.

“Don’t you ever try to stop me from speaking my mind again.  I’m not some accessory you’re going to wear to cocktail parties,” she said.

With the back of my left hand, I swept her finger away.  “Don’t give me that I-am-woman-hear-me-roar garbage.  Do you have any idea what you cost me in there?”

“What I cost you?  Excuse me?” she said in a raised voice.

“There is no way he’s going to put someone on the White House staff who has a loose cannon for a spouse!” I yelled back.

She stopped and stared hard into my eyes.  Her anger melted into disappointment and hurt.  “White House staff?  You lied to me.  You’re still planning to work here.  To live here.  You’ve been lying to me this whole time.” She stopped me cold. I was so consumed with anger that I unwittingly revealed what I had to keep hidden from Jennifer: that I never gave up on moving to DC.  I put my head down and exhaled hard.  “I wasn’t lying.  I was just hoping you would change your mind.”

Jennifer turned, stepped back to my side and leaned against the back wall of the elevator.  When the doors opened, she practically bolted for the door and kept walking.  With her pregnancy it was easy to catch up to her, but that clearly wasn’t what she wanted.  We were silent for the entire walk back to the hotel and the elevator to our floor.

“I’m going to bed,” she said as soon as we entered the room.  “Turn around so I can get undressed.”

I turned and stared at the wall.  I heard her slip out of her clothes.  “There’s a time and place for everything.  That wasn’t the time or place,” I said.

“And when would be a good time?  You keep telling me this guy is going to be president.  Should I wait until then?  Should I wait until he’s insulated and cut off from the real world and surrounded by a bunch of sycophants and yes-men?  I had the chance to point out the error of his thinking and I took advantage of it.”

“You embarrassed him.”

“His lack of insight did that, not me.  And if he can’t handle it, tough,” she said confidently.  “And if you can’t handle it, you know where the door is.” I heard her slip into bed.

“I certainly do,” I said, frustrated. I got undressed in the dark and collapsed into my bed.

I spent two restless hours trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep.  I thought about the dinner with Rick, but mostly about the tension between Jennifer and me.  I couldn’t tell which was more frustrating—our differences or the fact that I was falling in love with someone who wasn’t impressed in the least with my success or what I did for a living. 

~~~

Thanks for stopping! Leave a comment or question for Paul and make sure to pick up your FREE kindle copy of the the 1st book in The Dropping Stones series November 30th!

Barbara

Barbara is the author of the Fredrickson Winery Novels, the award winning thriller, Split Sense, The Second Chances series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and ROADKILL, the 1st book in the new Double Barrel Mysteries. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and pups.
Barbara is the author of the Fredrickson Winery Novels, the award winning thriller, Split Sense, The Second Chances series, The Amish Bloodsuckers Trilogy, and ROADKILL, the 1st book in the new Double Barrel Mysteries. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and pups.

 

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When a senator and pharmaceutical giant partner to experiment with a new drug on pregnant women, they tap into a world they never knew existed – the supernatural touching the natural – and it will cost the innocent more than they know. Grace Awards Winner!

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