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I'm very pleased to announce that Missing Pieces launched on April 17th. I was much more nervous about the release of this book than with any of my others. I suppose it is because there is so much truth about my life within the pages of the beautiful cover, Elle Rossi of Tirgearr Publishing , designed. The two photographs she used are of my father--before and after the grenade blew. The novel tells the story of a daughter's journey with her crippled father-- from hate to understanding, forgiveness and ultimately love. My father, a carpenter by trade, lost most of his right hand when a grenade blew up in that hand. He sustained injuries so severe that he was kept in VA hospitals for years. The grenade uprooted trees and killed his best friend. And when he was finally released, he suffered from what we now call PTSD. He self-medicated with alcohol and was often angry and abusive to his children. We sometimes felt as if the bomb had exploded in our hands as well. Weeks before the release, I had nightmares in which reviewers labeled the work, "self indulgent drivel." I worried about how my family would react to my divulging all those well-kept "secrets."

But that's not what happened. The reviews so far have been excellent, averaging 4.9 stars, and I couldn't be more pleased with the way readers are responding. I've received letters from other post WWII children who grew up with veterans damaged by the war--telling me that my story was their own. Hearing another human being's life story has the ability to change us. Learning all the important things about my father's life certainly changed me.

What Reviewers Are Saying

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️This is a review of Missing Pieces, the latest novel by Susan Clayton-Goldner. Before I dive into the review, I need to mention that I was provided a review copy of the book by the author and this is the eighth book of hers I have read and reviewed.

I admit to liking all of her books that I have read so far and I am going to start by telling you right up front that this is her best work yet. In Dale Carnegie classes they tell you to talk about what you know and according to Susan Clayton-Goldner's synopsis of the book, this story is about her and her father and their relationship. I don't know the author personally so I cannot comment on what parts are fiction and what parts are true, but I can tell you that the characters came to life in front of me while I read and I could not put it down. On the beach in Hilton Head with sand blowing into our tent, on the plane to New York City, and while visiting with my daughter and two grand daughters, I was totally absorbed by the story. Not even when the not-quite-2-year-old was climbing over my back to get my attention, could I put it down!

I know from my relationship with my father that I only knew parts of his story. Thank God my older brother interviewed him once about his family's emigration to the United States and the effort that it took to get here. He also recorded it so we now have his story in his words and when we need to we can listen to him tell it in his words.

Each of us has a family with a story. Some are more interesting than others. This book is about Susan Clayton-Goldner's.

The book starts with the writer character receiving a call from her older brother telling her to come and visit her father as he has to have surgery and it is risky. He could die. She doesn't want to as her memories of her father are not pleasant. Her brother “guilts” her into it and she comes and spends time with him. As she doesn't have anything nice to say to him she asks him to tell her his story. When he does, old memories return. But these memories are not of the times that caused her to hate him. These memories are of more pleasant times. So she starts to wonder if she ever knew the man at all. The more stories he tells her, the more she needs and wants to hear!

I will warn you that this book will tug at your “heartstrings” and probably bring on a few tears. I know it did for me. It also reminded me that our time here is limited. Some will have more time than others. We need to make sure that we treat those we love with kindness while they are here as we don't know how long they will be with us or us with them. And those we don't love? Try walking a mile in their mocassins before you even think about judging them. When you do, maybe you will see the world from their point of view.

The title Missing Pieces comes from the memories that were missing from the “puzzle” that was her father. As she found them, she put them together with those memories she had, and she ended up with a new version of the story of her life. It is that story that is slowly revealed to her and the reader as she listens to her father's story.

I loved the book and I think you will too. Read it; see if I am right. I bet I am!

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️Lilianna has been trying to put her father's abusive treatment behind her for almost twenty years. But when her brother asks her to come back and stay with him before surgery, she finds herself unable to say no. Soon she's finding a side to her father she never thought she'd see.

"Missing Pieces" is an engrossing story, in turns heartwarming and heart-wrenching, about family relationships and family legacies. It's a story of how drinking and abuse get passed down from generation to generation--but also a story of overcoming hardship and loss through love. Lilianna's father tells her his story of losing his mother and growing up during the Depression, and Lilianna realizes there are parts of him she never knew about, or that she suppressed in order to focus on her resentment of his abuse. She even recognizes her own behavior in him.

The two stories are deftly interwoven, and although this isn't a suspense story it keeps the reader's interest high by alternating Lilianna's story with her father's. Readers should be aware that child abuse is dealt with frankly, although not pruriently. Overall, "Missing Pieces" is a beautifully written family drama/women's fiction story in the vein of Jodi Picoult's work.

My thanks to the author for providing a review copy of this work. All opinions are my own.

If you'd like to read this book, just click on the cover below:

What Readers Are Saying:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
January 18, 2019
Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase
Susan Clayton- Goldner gives us another riveting mystery in the Radhauser mystery.
She shows us the story of a young woman's struggle with her trans gender identity and the young author that loved her.
I loved the beautiful storyline and the multi faceted characters.
This book is recommended for those who love thrillers.
I eagerly await her next book.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
January 27, 2019
Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase
Again Susan has written an excellent worthwhile book in her Winston Radhauser Mystery series. Difficult to put down when started to read. Have been reading and reviewing her books from the very beginning and she continues to write great books that are thoroughly well written, interesting, and researched. I have enjoyed every one.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

January 16, 2019
Format: Kindle Edition
Detective Winston Radhauser is back on the case. Rishima Reynolds, who was introduced in "River of Shame," comes to him asking for help to find her boyfriend, who has failed to return from a writing retreat. Soon Radhouser is involved in a murder case that seems to have both too many motives, and not enough.

As with the previous books in the Winston Radhauser series, this is part mystery, part family drama, part social commentary. A major part of the plot is the fact that Rishima is transgender, and the interactions between her and the other characters. Some readers are likely to enjoy that aspect of the story, and some won't, so prospective readers should keep that in mind. It certainly adds a unique element to the story, as rather than being a side show to the story, Rishima is made a central character, one of almost angelically fragile beauty and goodness.

Family ties, and the heartbreak that comes with their dissolution, are another major theme in the work, and it is here that the writing particularly shines, combining lyricism and heartfelt sincerity. In fact, perhaps the most unique feature of "Lake of the Dead" and the entire series is its warm wholesomeness, in distinct contrast to much of crime fiction. I wouldn't name it a "cozy" mystery, as it treats dark themes with more gravity than most cozy mysteries, but it has the focus on family and small-town life that sets "cozier" mysteries apart from their gritty or hardboiled cousins. "Lake of the Dead" is enough of a murder mystery that it is likely to appeal to mystery fans, but it should also appeal to readers of family novels and socially-conscious literary fiction as well.

You may get a copy by clicking on the Cover below:

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RIVER OF SILENCE

10/10/2018

2 Comments

I just learned that my novel, A River of Silence, made the cut and has moved from a semi-finalist up to a finalist in the Kindle Best Mystery of 2018. Very exciting news for a writer.

THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY:
When I lived in Tucson, I met a young man who'd spent time in prison for manslaughter in the death of an 18-month-old child. He was deaf and had a difficult time both understanding the charges against him and in defending himself.

Over the years, I thought a lot about his story--and out of those thoughts came the character, Caleb Bryce.

A River of Silence begins with a prologue where the man who killed Detective Radhauser's first wife and their 13-year-old son is up for parole. I decided to go back more than a decade and show the night that changed his life forever.

You may read it below:

Excerpt:

Prologue
1988
In only eleven minutes, Detective Winston Radhauser’s world would flip on its axis and a permanent line would be drawn—forever dividing his life into before and after. He drove toward the Pima County Sheriff’s office in Catalina, a small town in the Sonoran Desert just twelve miles north of Tucson. Through the CD speakers, Alabama sangYou’ve Got the Touch. He hummed along.
He was working a domestic violence case with Officer Alison Finney, his partner for nearly seven years. They’d made the arrest—their collar was sleeping off a binge in the back of the squad car. It was just after 10 p.m. As always, Finney wore spider earrings—tonight’s selection was a pair of black widows he hadn’t seen before.
“You know, Finn, you’d have better luck with men if you wore sunflowers in your earlobes.”
She laughed. “Any guy intimated by a couple 14-carat web spinners isn’t man enough for me.”
He never missed an opportunity to tease her. “Good thing you like being single.”
The radio released some static.
Radhauser turned off the CD.
Dispatch announced an automobile accident on Interstate 10 near the Orange Grove Road exit. Radhauser and Finney were too far east to respond.
Her mobile phone rang. She answered, listened for a few seconds. “Copy that. I’ll get him there.” Finney hung up, then placed the phone back into the charger mounted beneath the dashboard.
“Copy what?” he said. “Get who where?”
She eyed him. “Pull over. I need to drive now.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. “What the hell for?”
Finney turned on the flashing lights. “Trust me and do what I ask.”
The unusual snap in her voice raised a bubble of anxiety in his chest. He pulled over and parked the patrol car on the shoulder of Sunrise Road.
She slipped out of the passenger seat and stood by the door waiting for him.
He jogged around the back of the cruiser.
Finney pushed him into the passenger seat. As if he were a child, she ordered him to fasten his seatbelt, then closed the car door and headed around the vehicle to get behind the wheel.
“Are you planning to tell me what’s going on?” he asked once she’d settled into the driver’s seat.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her unblinking eyes never wavered from his. “Your wife and son have been taken by ambulance to Tucson Medical Center.”
The bubble of anxiety inside him burst. “What happened? Are they all right?”
Finney turned on the siren, flipped a U-turn, then raced toward the hospital on the corner of Craycroft and Grant. “I don’t know any details.”
TMC was a designated Trauma 1 Center and most serious accident victims were taken there. That realization both comforted and terrified him. “Didn’t they say the accident happened near the Orange Grove exit?”
“I know what you’re thinking. It must be bad or they’d be taken to the closest hospital and that would be Northwest.” She stared at him with the look of a woman who knew him almost as well as Laura did. “Don’t imagine the worst. They may not have been in a car accident. Didn’t you tell me Lucas had an equestrian meet?”
Laura had driven their son to a competition in south Tucson. Maybe Lucas got thrown. He imagined the horse rearing, his son’s lanky body sliding off the saddle and landing with a thump on the arena floor. Thank God for sawdust. Laura must have ridden in the ambulance with him.
But Orange Grove was the exit Laura would have taken on her drive home. The meet ended at 9:00 p.m. Lucas always stayed to unsaddle the horse, wipe the gelding down, and help Coach Thomas load him into his trailer. About a half hour job. That would put his family near the Orange Grove exit around ten.
The moon slipped behind a cloud and the sudden darkness seemed alive and a little menacing as it pressed against the car windows.
Less than ten minutes later, Finney pulled into the ER entrance and parked in the lot. “I’m coming with you,” she said.
He shot her a you-know-better look, then glanced toward the back seat where their collar was snoring against the door, his mouth open and saliva dribbling down his chin. It was against policy to leave an unguarded suspect in the car.
“I don’t give a damn about policy,” she said.
“What if he wakes up, hitches a ride home and takes out his wife and kids? Put him in the drunk tank. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” He ran across the parking lot. The ER doors opened automatically and he didn’t stop running until he reached the desk. “I’m Winston Radhauser. My wife and son were brought in by ambulance.”
The young nurse’s face paled and her gaze moved from his eyes to somewhere over his head.
With the change in her expression, his hope dropped into his shoes. He looked behind her down a short corridor where a set of swinging doors blocked any further view. “Where are they?”
It was one of those moments he would remember for a lifetime, where everything happened in slow motion.
She told him to wait while she found a doctor to talk to him, and nodded toward one of the vinyl chairs that lined the waiting room walls.
He sat. Tried to give himself an attitude adjustment. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Laura or Lucas could be in surgery and the nurse, obviously just out of nursing school, didn’t know how to tell him.
He stood.
Paced.
Sat again. The hospital might have a policy where only a physician could relate a patient’s condition to his family.
His heart worked overtime, pumping and pounding.
When he looked up, a young woman in a lab coat with a stethoscope around her neck stood in front of him. She had pale skin and was thin as a sapling, her light brown hair tied back with a yellow rubber band. Her eyes echoed the color of a Tucson sky with storm clouds brewing. “Are you Mr. Radhauser?”
He nodded.
“Please come with me.”
He expected to be taken to his wife and son, but instead she led him into a small room about eight feet square. It had a round table with a clear glass vase of red tulips in the center, and two chairs. Though she didn’t look old enough to have graduated from medical school, she introduced herself as Dr. Silvia Waterford, an ER physician.
They sat.
“Tell me what happened to my wife and son.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It was an automobile accident on Interstate 10.”
The thread of hope he held started to unravel. “Are Laura and Lucas all right? I want to see them.”
Her throat rippled as she swallowed. “There is no easy way to say this, Mr. Radhauser. I’m so sorry for your loss. But there was nothing we could do for them.”
All at once the scene bleached out. The tulips faded to gray as if a giant flashbulb had gone off in his face. The doctor was rimmed in white light. He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, praying for a mistake, a miracle, anything except what he just heard. “What do you mean there was nothing you could do? This is a Level 1 Trauma Center, isn’t it? One of the best in the state.”
“Yes. But unfortunately, medical science has its limits and we can’t save everyone. Your wife and son were both dead on arrival.”
His body crumpled in on itself, folding over like paper, all the air forced from his chest. This was his fault. Laura asked him to take the night off and go with them. Radhauser would have avoided the freeway and driven the back way home from the fairgrounds. And everything would have ended differently.
He looked up at Dr. Waterford. What was he demanding of her? Even the best trauma center in the world couldn’t bring back the dead.
There was sadness in her eyes. “I’m sure it’s not any comfort, but we think they died on impact.”
He hung his head. “Comfort,” he said. Even the word seemed horrific and out of place here.Your wife and son were both dead on arrival. Nine words that changed his life in the most drastic way he had ever imagined.
“May I call someone for you? We have clergy on staff if you’d like to talk with someone.”
A long moment passed before he raised his head and took in a series of deep breaths, trying to collect himself enough to speak. “No clergy, unless they can bring my family back. Just tell me where my wife and son are.” His voice sounded different, deeper—not the same man who went to work that evening.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But when deaths occur in the ER, we have to move them down to the morgue.”
Radhauser stood. Beneath his anguish, a festering anger simmered. Laura was a good driver. He was willing to bet she wasn’t at fault. More than anything now, he needed someone aside from himself to blame.
Outside, a siren wailed, then came to an abrupt stop. The sound panicked Radhauser as he headed for the elevator, waited for the door to open, then got inside. He pushed the button to the basement floor. He’d visited this hospital morgue once before to identify a fellow police officer shot in a robbery arrest gone bad. The door opened and he lumbered down the empty hallway.
As he neared the stainless steel door to the morgue, a tall, dark-haired man in a suit exited. At first Radhauser thought he was a hospital administrator. The man cleared his throat, flipped open a leather case and showed his badge. “I’m Sergeant Dunlop with the Tucson Police Department. Are you Mr. Radhauser?”
“Detective Radhauser. Pima County Sheriff’s Department.”
Dunlop had a handshake Radhauser felt in every bone in his right hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Detective.”
“Are you investigating the accident involving my wife and son?” Radhauser looked him over. Dunlop wore a pin-striped brown suit with a yellow shirt and a solid brown tie—the conservative uniform of a newly-promoted sergeant. The air around them smelled like antiseptic and the industrial solvent used to wash floors. “Have you determined who was at fault?”
Dunlop hesitated for an instant. “Yes, I’m the investigating officer. From the eyewitness reports, your wife was not to blame. A Dodge pickup was headed south in the northbound lane of Interstate 10 near the Orange Grove exit. No lights. He hit her head-on.”
Radhauser cringed. The image cut deep. “Was he drunk?”
“I need to wait for the blood alcohol test results to come back.”
The anger building inside Radhauser got closer to the surface every second. Silence hung between them like glass. He shattered it. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You were on the scene. What did you see? What did the breathalyzer read?”
Dunlop’s silence told Radhauser everything he needed to know. “Did the bastard die at least?”
“He was miraculously uninjured. But his twin boys weren’t so lucky.” Dunlop’s voice turned flat. “They didn’t make it.” He winced, and a tide of something bitter and hopeless washed over his face. “The idiot let them ride in the pickup bed. Five fucking years old.”
“What’s the idiot’s name?”
“You don’t need to know that right now.”
Biting his lip, Radhauser fought against the surge of rage threatening to flood over him. “Who are you to tell me what I need to know? It’s not your wife and kid in there. Besides, I can easily access the information.”
Dunlop handed him a card. “I know you can. But you have something more important to do right now. We can talk tomorrow.” He draped his arm over Radhauser’s shoulder the way a brother or a friend might do.
The touch opened a hole in Radhauser’s chest.
“Say goodbye to your wife and son,” Dunlop said, then turned and walked away.
In the morgue, after Radhauser introduced himself, a male attendant pulled back the sheet covering their faces. There was no mistake.
“Do you mind if I sit here for a while?” Radhauser asked.
“No problem,” the attendant said. “Stay as long as you want.” He went back to a small alcove where he entered data into a computer. The morgue smelled like the hallway had, disinfectant and cleaning solution, with an added hint of formaldehyde.
Radhauser sat between the stainless steel gurneys that held Laura and Lucas. Of all the possible scenarios Radhauser imagined, none ended like this.
Across the room, two small body bags lay, side by side, on a wider gurney. The twin sons of the man who killed his family.
The clock on the morgue wall kept ticking and when Radhauser finally looked up at it, four hours had passed. He tried, but couldn’t understand how Laura and Lucas could be in the world one minute and gone the next. How could he give them up? It was as if a big piece of him had been cut out. And he didn’t know how to go on living without his heart.

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RIVER OF SHAME

8/4/2018

0 Comments

I'm very happy to announce that River of Shame, the 4th book in the Winston Radhauser mystery series is now available for presale at only .99. The first book in the series, Redemption Lake, is a finalist for the RONE award for best mystery. There are three other finalists. I'll find out on October 6th at an awards' ceremony in Burbank, CA. I'm proud of this series.

Below is an excerpt from the book:

Something evil had taken root in Ashland, Oregon. And with it, an uneasy feeling grabbed hold of Detective Winston Radhauser and wouldn’t let him go. If someone didn’t intervene, that evil would continue to multiply until the unthinkable happened.

He stood inside the twelve-by-twelve foot stall of Mercedes, his wife’s mare, and dug his manure fork into the sawdust. Trying to ignore his uneasiness, he reminded himself he was on vacation. The only job he needed to worry about today was keeping his wife, Gracie, happy. And helping out with four-year-old Lizzie and their newborn son. But that didn’t change one basic fact. Radhauser was restless and eager to return to work.
From the juniper bushes on either side of the double barn doors, a mourning dove released its lonesome call. He grabbed the fork again. One thing he knew for certain, part of keeping Gracie happy involved a clean barn. He scooped up another load. It was a cool morning and the vapor from his breath rose in the air in front of him. He shook his fork, releasing the sawdust, then tossed the manure into his wheel barrow. Before he’d spent any time around horses, Radhauser believed mucking out stalls would be a stinky job, but either he’d gotten used to it or there wasn’t any truth to that belief. The barn smelled, as it always did, like cedar, alfalfa and sweet feed laced with molasses.

When his cell phone rang, he dropped the fork, then pulled off his right glove, yanked the phone from his jacket pocket and answered.

“I need you to get down to the ER and check something out,” barked Captain Felix Murphy, his boss at the Ashland Police Department.

“It’s 8 o’clock in the morning, Murph. And I’m on vacation.” Technically, Radhauser was taking time off to be with Gracie as she recovered from the cesarean delivery of their son, Jonathan Lucas Radhauser, and started treatments for her breast cancer. Because it was diagnosed during the pregnancy, they’d done a radical mastectomy, then taken a chance and waited until after the birth to begin chemo and radiation. “Besides, you know Gracie is scheduled to start her chemotherapy treatments today.”

“Not until 2:30 this afternoon, right? You’ve got plenty of time to handle this.”

There was nothing he’d rather do, but there’d be hell to pay with his wife if he did. “Send Vernon. I’ve got my hands full here taking care of Gracie and the barn.”

“Look, I know I signed off on your three weeks, but Vernon’s out with a strep throat and we’ve got a real mess on our hands.”Captain Murphy had been on edge ever since he found a hate flyer taped to the station window a couple weeks ago. The following day, two cars were reported vandalized—racist and anti-gay slogans had been painted in red on their windshields.

“A Doctor Landenberg called,” Murphy said. “He just admitted a high-school boy, delirious with fever and a white cell count off the charts.”
“Sounds like a serious infection,” Radhauser said. “But what’s it got to do with us?”

“The doctor was suspicious. Said his mom brought him into the ER after she tried to get him into a tub of cool water to bring down the fever. That’s when she saw it. A brand singed into the skin of his abdomen. And the kid won’t tell anyone how or where he got it.”

“A brand? You mean like for cattle?” Radhauser struggled with disbelief, trying to make sense of what he just heard.

“Yeah,” Murphy said. “Branded, like a damn heifer. Doctor Landenberg thinks the kid was assaulted. A hate crime because the boy is gay. But the kid won’t talk.”

“What did the brand say? Was it initials? A logo of some sort? Something we can identify.”

“The doctor was pretty closed-mouth about the specifics, but he sounded upset. Come on, Radhauser. You know as well as I do, this could turn into our worst nightmare. You’re good with kids. I need you on this.”

He took a step back, then leaned against the barn wall and closed his eyes, the cell phone resting in the palm of his hand while Murphy babbled on.

Radhauser thought about the hate-filled messages he’d ripped from tree trunks near Lithia Park playground when he’d taken Lizzie last Saturday.

America Should Be White Again.
God Hates Faggots.
In The USA, Christians Rule.

His skin had gone clammy as the messages sunk in. What the hell was happening? In 1921 the Ku Klux Klan had planted itself in Oregon and its invasive roots spread out across the state. Cross burnings in Ashland and other larger cities were not uncommon. But times were different now. This was the beginning of the twenty-first century, not Selma, Alabama, in 1963.

Ashland was a picturesque town set in the foothills of the Siskiyou and Cascade mountain ranges, just north of the California border—a place known for, and proud of, its diversity and its world-renowned Shakespeare Festival. It was a little bit of England, set down in southern Oregon. A town where Radhauser and his wife, Gracie, planned to raise their growing family. A place four-year-old Lizzie, and two-week old Jonathan, could grow up safe and free of prejudice.

But behind the scenes there were factions who believed being white, Christian, and heterosexual were all that mattered. Radhauser had wadded up the flyers he’d found in the park and hurled them into the trash barrel but hadn’t been able to erase them from his mind.
He put the cell phone back to his ear and told Murphy about the flyers.
Hard to believe this was the same Ashland that only a year and a half ago held candlelight vigils for the gay college boy, Matthew Shepherd, who’d been beaten and tied to a fence in Wyoming. Every night for a week, concerned residents had flocked to the park, stood quietly, sang and prayed, candles lit, while Shepherd fought for his life and lost.
Murphy didn’t give up.

“And this kid might not be the only one. Doctor Landenberg said a girl came in about a week ago with something similar. He wasn’t on duty but saw the chart.”

Radhauser’s eyes shot open. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“I wish I knew,” Murphy replied. “I don’t. But we need to find out. And fast. His name is Logan Caldwell. How soon can you get over to the hospital?”

Radhauser felt it surge up again—his need for justice. “Okay, I’ll do the initial interview, but I can’t take on a new case right now. Gracie would kill me. Give me an hour. I’ll call her mother and see if she can come early to help with the baby.” He wanted to be with his wife, knew she needed his help, but he also wanted to be on the job—to put a stop to what was happening in his town before it escalated into something worse.

Who was he kidding? It had already escalated. Flyers hung in other places, too, stapled to telephone poles along Main Street. And flyers were one thing—annoying, but not violent. Now, at least one kid, maybe another, was branded and too terrified, or ashamed, to talk about it.

TO ORDER A COPY AT THE SPECIAL PRESALE PRICE OF ONLY .99, JUST CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW. IT WILL BE DELIVERED TO YOUR DEVICE ON SEPTEMBER 12.

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Gumshoe Girl

6/15/2018

2 Comments

It is my great pleasure to introduce my fellow Tirgearryan writer, Andi Ramos, with her debut novel, Gumshoe Girl. It's a delightful read. Give it a try, you won't be disappointed.

Sheagan O’Hare got more than she bargained for when her newly inherited detective agency lands its first case; a missing person, embezzlement, and murder. Sheagan’s out to prove she can hang with the pros, despite the constant reminder of her amateur status from an annoyingly attractive FBI agent, Colin 'Mac' MacEvine, who’s forced himself into her life.

How does she feel when an old high school friend hopes to ignite a new romance?

Will she be able to discover if detective work and love can mingle before someone gets hurt?

Andi Ramos grew up in central Massachusetts where she still lives today with her family, goat, and Boston Terriers. Her love for reading grew into a passion for writing. She dabbled with pen and paper for a long time and eventually stopped pushing her amusements aside and started developing those stories into novels. One of her favorite things to do is to hop into her motorhome with her family and write while traveling down the road as they journey to various destinations.

Book Excerpt:

Sheagan blinked back the sting in her eyes as sweat drizzled from her forehead. Her shoulders and forearms cried out as determination inched her body forward through the tin walls that framed her slender figure. The narrow shaft rendered her legs useless as they dragged behind her like dead weight. She made a vow to start working out as she approached her destination, the metal grate that looked down into the sweetheart suite of the Eliot Hotel.
She shimmied her binoculars out of her bag and clutched them in her sweaty palms as she readied herself to delve into the world of private investigating. The friction of her movements caused her mahogany mane to cling to all the surfaces of her temporary confinement. Perched behind the filigree frame, peering like a caged animal, she was a mere 20 feet from her target. Her target? The Rat Bastard, who up until this very moment she’d called boyfriend.

She wasn’t there to kill him, even though the thought had crossed her mind; no, she was there to catch him in the act. She suspected he had been cheating on her for some time, so proof would end her suspicion or the relationship. Spying on her significant other through an air-vent of a swanky hotel room was hardly a promising start to her so-called glamorous career as a private detective. But it snapped her back into the reality that her new chosen profession would often be messy and difficult.

She peered through the grate and envied the spacious room below, but her viewing angle was no good for the task at hand. She could feel the heat in her cheeks rise along with her anger as she scanned the room and soaked in the extravagance–the hardwood tables, the Italian marble fireplace, the opulent sheen of the fabric on the overstuffed furniture that glimmered in the soft candlelight. The Rat Bastard was not known to overindulge on frivolous expenses, unless it was on her dime. Thoughts of killing him resurfaced.

What is wrong with me? Why did I wait so long?

She immediately regretted the fleeting question. She knew why. The answer brought back the pain and significance of her father’s sudden death. He had been the only family she had left, and he was gone. All that was left behind was his detective agency. She had thought about giving it up, but she couldn’t; it was her only connection to him, to her family.

She closed her eyes briefly, realizing that now she was facing more loss–even if he was a lying, cheating Rat Bastard.

No! It’s better this way, stay focused.

She choked in a breath and turned her attention back to the room. His secret love nest was finished with soothing tones on the walls and thick, plush carpeting.

What is that on the end table?

Her gaze was drawn to the bottle label as it bobbed upside down in the melting ice. She sharpened the focus of her binoculars, and her eyes widened in recognition.

Her cheeks flushed. Cristal, she scoffed. Who is this Bimbo, anyway?

As if she had room to criticize this girl’s intelligence, when Sheagan was the one sweating her makeup off in a four-by-four-foot air-duct.

Yeah, who’s the stupid one?

She heard passionate sounds coming from the right of the room and recognized his tone. Leaning sideways, Sheagan pressed her face to the grate, but her limited view revealed only a portion of the bed and unable to make out major details, like faces.

Crap, I can’t see anything. Damn! She needed to get a better look

As she shifted her weight, the metal walls started to reverberate and Sheagan stifled a gasp, willing the rumbling to cease. Her breathing became labored as the musty air stole the aroma of the sweet perfume wafting up waft from the suite below. She stilled her movements and did the only thing she could think of… nothing. Nothing but stare at the heap of blankets and wait.

Come on, bimbo, come up for air. I know he doesn’t last that long.

Her discomfort increased as the noise from their passion became more intense.

Ugh, that’s it, I’ve had it!

She mashed her cheek and upper body against the grate.

I just need a peek to confirm.

She pressed harder, ogling the bed. Finally, she caught a tiny glimpse.

Just a little further.

She pushed and heard a chirring sound, then a scraping. She froze in place, but the grate gave way with a creaking groan and crashed to the ground. Time stood still as Sheagan realized there was nothing between her and the floor except air.

[email protected]
www.andiramos.com/blog
http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Ramos_Andi/gumshoe-girl.htm
https://www.amazon.com/Gumshoe-Girl-Andi-Ramos-ebook/dp/B07CMZVJ9Z

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TIRGEARR'S BEST SELLING AUTHOR

4/6/2018

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Two pretty great things happened for me yesterday. I learned I was Tirgearr's Best Selling Author and received a medallion designed for me to use for bragging purposes. And I got my first five-star review for the new release, Tormented. I'd call that a banner day.

*****
Bluejayye rated a book it was amazing
Tormented by Susan Clayton-Goldner
I sound like a broken record when I say Susan has done it again - but - Susan HAS done it again! In her new book ‘Tormented’ she has managed to yet again pen another ‘can’t put the darn thing down’ murder/detective/mystery/thriller masterpiece. This book of hers (as were her others) is totally responsible for my absence from work and loss of sleep recently (I forgive you Susan). Once more the characters she has created for us in this book are fantastic. She colors the canvas of their lives with the genius of a true literary artist. The book revolves around several coexisting story plots with enough twists along the way to make you dizzy and a final major twist to throw your back out. Not to give too much away… 9 Yr. old Connie Wittier arrives home from school one day to find her mother, Rita, dead (appears to be suicide but later clues reveal may she have met a more sinister end). The investigating detective Paul Harley Stanwick is determined to uncover the true cause of death (tending to believe little Connie who knows mommy ‘would’t kill herself’). As the plot thickens we are drawn into the intricate web of possible suspects, each of whom struggles with their own personal issues/haunted pasts throughout the book. Is it the parish priest, Father Anthony, who was obsessed with his parishioner, Rita, and professed his love to her on the day she was found dead? Was it Rita’s unfaithful high-powered lawyer husband, Konrad ? Was it Daphne Simone, her competition for a job as a lounge singer?…Was her own brother, Gordon, the cause due to his dark secret she uncovered ? Or…..was it none of the above ?..I know the answer and you can find out too. Just buy this book, set aside some quiet time and immerse yourself into the world Susan has created for us. I’ve said it before and will say it again … If you read this book (or any of Susan’s books) and you will not be disappointed – ever - I guarantee.

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Guest Post By Christy Nicholas

3/21/2018

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It is my great pleasure to welcome Christy Nicholas to my blog. Christy is a fellow Tirgearr author who is releasing Book #5 in her Druid's Brooch Series. Misfortune of Song is a historical fantasy set in 12th century Ireland.

- Even a soldier cannot fight love ~

In 12th century Ireland, all Maelan wants is to do his duty to his Chief and maintain his family’s good name. However, his granddaughter Orlagh, is hell bent on wreaking havoc, with no care for the consequences

When Orlagh falls in love with an itinerant bard, Maelan must rule with an iron fist to keep her from running away. However, her rebellion against his strictures results in disaster and he almost loses her in the same way he lost his beloved wife.

Maelan must make some difficult decisions and bargains with the Fae to save his granddaughter’s life and future. Can he save her happiness as well?

Come explore the world of pre-Norman Ireland in this historical fantasy adventure. A combination of adventure, romance, fantasy and historical fiction, Misfortune of Song is book five in The Druid’s Brooch Series. While each book works fine as a stand-alone novel, the series will have, ultimately, three trilogies for a total of nine books.

Links:

Publisher link: http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Nicholas_Christy/index.htm
Website: http://www.greendragonartist.com
Blog: http://www.greendragonartist.net
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/greendragonauthor
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/greendragon9

#histfic #fantasy #ireland #irish #druid #newrelease #fairy #historicalfantasy #historicalfiction #teamtirgearr

Author Bio:

Christy Nicholas, also known as Green Dragon, is an author, artist and accountant. After she failed to become an airline pilot, she quit her ceaseless pursuit of careers that begin with 'A', and decided to concentrate on her writing. Since she has Project Completion Disorder, she is one of the few authors with NO unfinished novels.

Christy has her hands in many crafts, including digital art, beaded jewelry, writing, and photography. In real life, she's a CPA, but having grown up with art all around her (her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother are/were all artists), it sort of infected her, as it were.

She wants to expose the incredible beauty in this world, hidden beneath the everyday grime of familiarity and habit, and share it with others. She uses characters out of time and places infused with magic and myth.

READ AN EXCERPT HERE:

Orlagh held up the blue léine.
Eolande shook her head. “No, too much like the one last night.”
“But it’s a completely different color!”
The slim girl took the léine from Orlagh’s grasp. “This one is cut the same way. You want something to show off your figure. You want him to realize you’re a woman, yes? A belt helps, but you need something else. Hmm. What about this one?” Eolande held up an older yellow outfit, one Orlagh had outgrown the winter before.
She held the smaller outfit up to Orlagh, nodding. “Yes, this is perfect.”
“This one’s too small! I’ll be popping out all over!”
“Exactly. Now here, before we go out, you should wear the brat over your shoulders. That will hide the… popping… until he sees you.”
Orlagh glanced at Eolande as the latter fussed over her outfit. Her friend stopped and stared back. “What?”
Orlagh gave her friend a grin and a quick hug. “Nothing. I’m thrilled you’re willing to help.”
“I could do no less, my friend. Now, let’s get you beautiful for your love, aye? How about some tiny flowers in your hair? Something regal to match the gold.”
Bedecked like a sacrificial cow, Orlagh felt ridiculous as they walked out of the royal hillfort. A few admiring glances from young men gave her confidence, though, and she nodded to each with increasing boldness. The last one, Caiside, leaned on his spear and gave a low whistle.
“And where are you two lovely girls off to on this day?”
Orlagh almost answered, but Eolande said, “And what business is it of yours?”
After staring askance at Eolande, Caiside shrugged. “Just trying to be friendly. No need to be testy.” He turned away, looking out toward his patrol area, ignoring them.
When they descended the path, Orlagh asked, “Eolande, why be so rude?”
Her friend glanced at her sideways. “Do you really want your grandfather to know what you’re up to tonight?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” Of course, any soldier would report such an excursion to her grandfather. He positively wouldn’t approve of her having a liaison with the bard. He would be so angry if he found out. He would yell and throw things, maybe even get a rare beating.

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In Loving Memory of Aunt Ag

1/23/2018

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Agnes Hamm Wieland
March 3, 1920 – January 21, 2018

Because I call my blog, Writing The Life, and death is a part of life that we all will face eventually, I want to write about my Aunt Ag--the last member of my father's birth family. She passed away on Sunday. For more than forty years, I've been the person in our family who writes and delivers the eulogies. It's not an easy task. But it is one I do joyously because of the way it takes me back into memory and allows me to relive a time with them.

Agnes was one of six children born to Walter Jackson and Gladys Meek Hamm. For the first eight years of her life, she lived in Farmington, Maryland, near Rising Sun. And then, in 1928, the unthinkable happened and her beautiful, young mother died. Her father couldn’t take care of the six children and so the family was broken up and the children sent to live with relatives.

One sister was adopted in Baltimore. Her two brothers lived with their grandfather Hamm in Rising Sun. They saw very little of each other until a grenade blew up in my father's hand during WWII and they all gathered around what they thought was his death bed. To everyone's surprise my father lived. And that was good for me because I wouldn't be here if he hadn't. From that point forward his siblings were closer than any family I've ever known. Perhaps it was their early separation that bound them--but whatever the cause--the bonds were unbreakable. And I considered myself very lucky to grow up surrounded by their love.

Aunt Ag, along with her older sister, Edna, and her younger sister, Lil, came to Sugar Grove, Virginia to live with their grandfather, Steven Meek. He soon saw how intelligent his granddaughter, Agnes, was and he sent her to college--something few women did at that time. After graduation, she became a school teacher--teaching 3rd and 4th grade in a one-room school house in Sugar Grove.

In the early forties, she met Claude Finney and fell in love. Eventually, they moved to St. Albans, West Virginia where Ag became the CEO of the West Virginia Water Company. It was a time before affirmative action, a time when women were not considered equal to men in the workforce, and there were very few female CEO’s in America. Agnes was a trail blazer and a wonderful role model for her nieces.

Throughout her life, she acted as a mother to both her brother, my father, and her younger sister, Lil. After my mother died, she took care of my severely handicapped father. And she cared for her Lil until she passed away, one year ago today. Returning to Sugar Grove last year was a difficult journey for Agnes to make at 96 years old, but she’d made a promise to Lil that she’d bring her back home to be buried next to her beloved husband. It was a promise our Aunt Ag was determined to keep. And, she did.

When I think of Aunt Ag, I always think of her as a lady. Her sisters Lil and Peggy were the outrageous ones. Ag would watch their antics and smile, indulgently, while always remaining poised and impeccably dressed. Even as a 97-year-old woman, she dressed up to go out to dinner or lunch, always accessorizing with matching jewelry, shoes and purses. She loved prime rib and margaritas, strawberries, cookies and hotdogs. Ag had a way of lifting people up and never had a bad word to say about anyone.

She never lost her sense of wonder or her desire to learn new things. My cousin and her husband took Agnes, at age 97, to Best Buy for her first computer. Showing her how to use it was like watching a child learn to read. They taught her how to shop on line and she watched in amazement.

We all loved to sit in the recliner next to her and laugh at her stories, many of them about the antics of her sister, Lil. The ornery one.
And she was grateful to all of us who loved her. In truth, Ag was adored by all of her nieces. She never had any children, but she couldn’t have loved us more if she’d given birth to us.

After her sister Lil died, we all made it a point to call Aunt Ag more frequently. I called every Sunday. And she’d answer the phone: “Oregon. I only know one person in Oregon and that’s You.” When I hung up, I’d say, “I love you, Aunt Ag.” And she always responded with, “I love you, too, honey.” Sundays won’t be the same without hearing those words.

I believe our bodies are a garage in which our spirits park for a moment in eternity. During her moment, Agnes was many things: A teacher, a wife, a CEO, a dear friend, a cancer survivor, a beloved aunt, a doting sister, and so much more. She was sweet, smart, funny and always optimistic.

As children, most of us look for approval from the adults in our lives, but we didn’t have to do that with Aunt Ag. We always had it. And having that helped make us confident and secure in who we are.

We all wanted her to live to be 100 and planned to throw a big party for her, but I think, without her sister to care for, she was ready to go. And she wanted to die, the way she’d lived, on her own terms. She made us promise that we’d never put her in an assisted care facility. That she wanted to stay in her own home. My cousin, who honored that promise, had arranged for round-the-clock care just days before A. Ag died.

A gentle, but mighty heart has stopped beating and a soft voice has gone silent. The oldest, wisest and brightest star in our sky - the one that has led us to this point - has gone out. But even amidst the pain of losing this elegant and thoughtful woman, we know that it is now up to us to take her with us into the future.

So, we recommit ourselves to the next generation, her grand and great grand nieces and nephews who bear not only her genes but also her hopes and dreams. They will carry with them her legacy and most of all, her love. And if they are courageous enough, they will now walk a path that was started and forged by her.

Thank you, Aunt Ag, for everything you were and everything you meant to each one of us. You will be long remembered and forever loved.

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A RIVER OF SILENCE

12/12/2017

2 Comments

There is nothing more exciting for an author (well maybe adding a new baby to the family) than when a new book is released. And I'm very proud to announce that A River of Silence, the 3rd book in the award-winning Detective Winston Radhauser series, is now available for preorder. It will officially release on January 24th.

The cover design, by Elle Rossi, who has designed all four of my covers, is extraordinary and may be my personal favorite.

Here is an except from the book:

Prologue 1988
In only eleven minutes, Detective Winston Radhauser’s world would flip on its axis and a permanent line would be drawn—forever dividing his life into before and after. He drove toward the Pima County Sheriff’s office in Catalina, a small town in the Sonoran Desert just twelve miles north of Tucson. Through the speakers, Alabama sang You’ve Got the Touch. He hummed along.

He was working a domestic violence case with Officer Alison Finney, his partner for nearly seven years. They’d made the arrest—their collar was sleeping off a binge in the back of the squad car. It was just after 10 p.m. As always, Finney wore spider earrings—tonight’s selection was a pair of black widows he hadn’t seen before.

“You know, Finn, you’d have better luck with men if you wore sunflowers in your earlobes.”
She laughed. “Any guy intimated by a couple of 14-carat web spinners isn’t man enough for me.”

He never missed an opportunity to tease her. “Good thing you like being single.” The radio released some static. Radhauser turned off the music.  Dispatch announced an automobile accident on Interstate 10 near the Orange Grove Road exit. Radhauser and Finney were too far east to respond. 

Her car phone rang. She answered, listened for a few seconds. “Copy that. I’ll get him there.” Finney hung up, then placed the phone back into the charger mounted beneath the dashboard.

“Copy what?” he said. “Get who where?” 

She eyed him. “Pull over. I need to drive now.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“What the hell for?” Finney turned on the flashing lights.

“Trust me and do what I ask.” 

The unusual snap in her voice raised a bubble of anxiety in his chest. He pulled over and parked the patrol car on the shoulder of Sunrise Road. 

She slipped out of the passenger seat and stood by the door waiting for him.

He jogged around the back of the cruiser. Finney pushed him into the passenger seat.

As if he was a child, she ordered him to fasten his seatbelt, then closed the car door and headed around the vehicle to get behind the wheel.
“Are you planning to tell me what’s going on?” he asked once she’d settled into the driver’s seat.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her unblinking eyes never wavered from his. “Your wife and son have been taken by ambulance to Tucson Medical Center.”

The bubble of anxiety inside him burst. “What happened? Are they all right?”

Finney turned on the siren, flipped a U-turn, then raced toward the hospital on the corner of Craycroft and Grant. “I don’t know any details.”

TMC was a designated Trauma 1 Center and the most serious accident victims were taken there. That realization both comforted and terrified him. “Didn’t they say the accident happened near the Orange Grove exit?”

“I know what you’re thinking. It must be bad or they’d be taken to the closest hospital and that would be Northwest.” She stared at him with the look of a woman who knew him almost as well as Laura did. “Don’t imagine the worst. They may not have been in a car accident. Didn’t you tell me Lucas had an equestrian meet?”

Laura had driven their son to a competition in South Tucson. Maybe Lucas got thrown. He imagined the horse rearing, his son’s lanky body sliding off the saddle and landing with a thump on the arena floor. Thank God for sawdust. Laura must have ridden in the ambulance with him.

But Orange Grove was the exit Laura would have taken on her drive home. The meet ended at 9:00 p.m., Lucas always stayed to unsaddle the horse, wipe the gelding down, and help Coach Thomas load him into his trailer. About a half hour job. That would put his family near the Orange Grove exit around ten.

The moon slipped behind a cloud and the sudden darkness seemed alive and a little menacing as it pressed against the car windows.

Less than ten minutes later, Finney pulled into the ER entrance and parked in the lot. “I’m coming with you,” she said.

He shot her a you-know-better look, then glanced toward the back seat where their collar was snoring against the door, his mouth open and saliva dribbling down his chin. It was against policy to leave an unguarded suspect in the car.

“I don’t give a damn about policy,” she said.

“What if he wakes up, hitches a ride home and takes out his wife and kids? Put him in the drunk tank. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” He ran across the parking lot.

The ER doors opened automatically and he didn’t stop running until he reached the desk. “I’m Winston Radhauser. My wife and son were brought in by ambulance.”

The young nurse’s face paled and her gaze moved from his eyes to somewhere over his head.

With the change in her expression, his hope dropped into his shoes. He looked behind her down a short corridor where a set of swinging doors blocked any further view. “Where are they?”

It was one of those moments he would remember for a lifetime, where everything happened in slow motion.

She told him to wait while she found a doctor to talk to him, and nodded toward one of the vinyl chairs that lined the waiting room walls.

He sat. Tried to give himself an attitude adjustment. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Laura or Lucas could be in surgery and the nurse, obviously just out of nursing school, didn’t know how to tell him.
He stood. Paced. Sat again. The hospital might have a policy where only a physician could relate a patient’s condition to his family. His heart worked overtime, pumping and pounding. 

When he looked up, a young woman in a lab coat with a stethoscope around her neck stood in front of him. She had pale skin and was thin as a sapling, her light brown hair tied back with a yellow rubber band. Her eyes echoed the color of a Tucson sky with storm clouds brewing.

“Are you Mr. Radhauser?”

He nodded. 

“Please come with me.” He expected to be taken to his wife and son, but instead she led him into a small room about eight feet square. It had a round table with a clear glass vase of red tulips in the center, and two chairs. Though she didn’t look old enough to have graduated from medical school, she introduced herself as Dr. Silvia Waterford, an ER physician. They sat. 

“Tell me what happened to my wife and son.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It was an automobile accident on Interstate 10.” 

The thread of hope he held started to unravel. “Are Laura and Lucas all right? Iwant to see them.” 

Her throat rippled as she swallowed. “There is no easy way to say this, Mr. Radhauser. I’m so sorry for your loss. But there was nothing we could do for them.”

All at once the scene bleached out. The tulips faded to gray as if a giant flashbulb had gone off in his face. The doctor was rimmed in white light. He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, praying for a mistake, a miracle, anything except what he just heard. “What do you mean there was nothing you could do? This is a Level 1 Trauma Center, isn’t it? One of the best in the state.”

“Yes. But unfortunately, medical science has its limits and we can’t save everyone. Your wife and son were both dead on arrival.”

His body crumpled in on itself, folding over like paper, all the air forced from his chest. This was his fault. Laura asked him to take the night off and go with them. Radhauser would have avoided the freeway and driven the back way home from the fairgrounds. And everything would have ended differently.

He looked up at Dr. Waterford. What was he demanding of her? Even the best trauma center in the world couldn’t bring back the dead.
There was sadness in her eyes.

“I’m sure it’s not any comfort, but we think they died on impact.”

He hung his head. “Comfort,” he said. Even the word seemed horrific and out of place here. Your wife and son were both dead on arrival. Nine words that changed his life in the most drastic way he had ever imagined.

“May I call someone for you? We have clergy on staff if you’d like to talk with someone.”

A long moment passed before he raised his head and took in a series of deep breaths, trying to collect himself enough to speak. “No clergy, unless they can bring my family back. Just tell me where my wife and son are.” His voice sounded different, deeper—not the same man who went to work that evening.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But when deaths occur in the ER, we have to move them down to the morgue.”

Radhauser stood. Beneath his anguish, a festering anger simmered. Laura was a good driver. He was willing to bet she wasn’t at fault. More than anything now, he needed someone aside from himself to blame.
Outside, a siren wailed, then came to an abrupt stop. The sound panicked Radhauser as he headed for the elevator, waited for the door to open, then got inside. He pushed the button to the basement floor. He’d visited this hospital morgue once before to identify a fellow police officer shot in a robbery arrest gone bad. The door opened and he lumbered down the empty hallway.

As he neared the stainless steel door to the morgue, a tall, dark-haired man in a suit exited. At first Radhauser thought he was a hospital administrator.

The man cleared his throat, flipped open a leather case and showed his badge. “I’m Sergeant Dunlop with the Tucson Police Department. Are you Mr. Radhauser?”

“Detective Radhauser. Pima County Sheriff’s Department.”

Dunlop had a handshake Radhauser felt in every bone in his right hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Detective.”

“Are you investigating the accident involving my wife and son?” Radhauser looked him over. Dunlop wore a pin-striped brown suit with a yellow shirt and a solid brown tie—the conservative uniform of a newly-promoted sergeant. The air around them smelled like antiseptic and the industrial solvent used to wash floors. “Have you determined who was at fault?”

Dunlop hesitated for an instant. “Yes, I’m the investigating officer. From the eyewitness reports, your wife was not to blame. A Dodge pickup was headed south in the northbound lane of Interstate 10 near the Orange Grove exit. No lights. He hit her head-on.”

Radhauser cringed. The image cut deep. “Was he drunk?” 

“I need to wait for the blood alcohol test results to come back.” 

The anger building inside Radhauser got closer to the surface every second. Silence hung between them like glass. He shattered it. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You were on the scene. What did you see? What did the breathalyzer read?”

Dunlop’s silence told Radhauser everything he needed to know. “Did the bastard die at least?”

“He was miraculously uninjured. But his twin boys weren’t so lucky.” Dunlop’s voice turned flat. “They didn’t make it.” He winced, and a tide of something bitter and hopeless washed over his face. “The idiot let them ride in the pickup bed. Five fucking years old.”

“What’s the idiot’s name?” 

“You don’t need to know that right now.”

 Biting his lip, Radhauser fought against the surge of rage threatening to flood over him. “Who are you to tell me what I need to know? It’s not your wife and kid in there. Besides, I can easily access the information.”

Dunlop handed him a card. “I know you can. But you have something more important to do right now. We can talk tomorrow.” He draped his arm over Radhauser’s shoulder the way a brother or a friend might do.
The touch opened a hole in Radhauser’s chest. “Say goodbye to your wife and son,” Dunlop said, then turned and walked away.

In the morgue, after Radhauser introduced himself, a male attendant pulled back the sheet covering their faces. There was no mistake. “Do you mind if I sit here for a while?” Radhauser asked.

 “No problem,” the attendant said. “Stay as long as you want.” He went back to a small alcove where he entered data into a computer. The morgue smelled like the hallway had, disinfectant and cleaning solution, with an added hint of formaldehyde.

Radhauser sat between the stainless steel gurneys that held Laura and Lucas. Of all the possible scenarios Radhauser imagined, none ended like this.

Across the room, two small body bags lay, side by side, on a wider gurney. The twin sons of the man who killed his family.

The clock on the morgue wall kept ticking and when Radhauser finally looked up at it, four hours had passed. He tried, but couldn’t understand how Laura and Lucas could be in the world one minute and gone the next. How could he give them up? It was as if a big piece of him had been cut out.

And he didn’t know how to go on living without his heart.

www.amazon.com/River-Silence-Winston-Radhauser-Mystery-ebook/dp/B0785XVLDB

2 Comments

IT'S BEEN A BANNER YEAR

11/1/2017

8 Comments

I write this blog today with a grateful heart. It's been a banner year for my first novel, A Bend In The Willow. And I pinch myself every day to make sure I'm not dreaming. Many of you know that I've been seriously writing fiction for decades. I had more than my share of rejections. But I kept sending out my manuscripts. And then, out of the blue, a publisher said, "YES. We love your novel and we'd like to offer you a contract."

Tirgearr Publishing, a small press in Ireland, released A Bend In The Willow in January 2017. Since that time, it has received 100 reviews on Amazon, averaging 4.7 stars and won a first place award in the Literary Novel category for its amazing cover, designed by one of Tirgearr's cover artists, Elle Rossi. Just to blow her horn for a moment, Elle's cover design for my second novel, Redemption Lake, took a second prize in the Mystery genre.

Just recently, I learned A Bend In The Willow won a silver medal in the Readers' Favorite Awards for 2017. Pinch. Pinch.

Writing is often a lonely task, requiring isolation from family and friends and long hours at the computer. There were many years when I wondered if it was worth it. I considered giving it up. Becoming a full-time quilter or stained glass widow maker. But there was no way I could stop writing. I tried once and became physically ill. I was born to do this.

And I'm grateful to so many people who helped this dream come true for me. To my writing instructors and my mentor, James N. Frey. To Kemberlee and Peter Shortland, publishers at Tirgearr, for taking a chance on me, to Lucy Felthouse, my editor, who keeps me honest and catches my stupid mistakes. And to my family for understanding what this writing dream has meant to me.

I no longer ask myself if the hard work and long hours are worth it. I am secure in the knowledge that I'm doing what I was born to do. But a little validation from readers, reviewers and judges is a great boost and keeps me going.

My advice to writers: don't give up on your dream. Tenacity is the best gift a writer can receive. Believe in yourself. And keep writing. The more we write, the better our writing becomes, along with our chances for success.

I send out so much gratitude to my publisher, my readers--especially the ones who took the time to post a review or write me a note. You are the reason I keep writing.

My latest Detective Radhauser novel, A River of Shame, will be released early in 2018. A Bend In The Willow, Redemption Lake and When Time Is A River are available on Amazon. Just click the covers below.