New Release -- The Case of the Vanishing Chef (A P.I. Berger Mystery Book 2) by Harol Marshall #FemaleSleuth #MysteryNovel

When Cinda Mae Bradbury, former stripper turned restaurateur, asks Hollywood P.I. Polly Berger to find her missing chef, Polly ends up tracking down a murderer instead. Is a “killer” mole poblano recipe enough to murder someone for? Cinda Mae believes someone kidnapped her chef, Henry, but L.A. Detective Johnny Birdwhistle thinks Henry could be on the run after murdering his competitor.

Polly’s caught in the middle—trying to stay alive long enough to solve the case one way or the other. Throw a gun-wielding brother-in-law in search of Polly’s twin sister in the mix, and another murder is imminent!

When Polly’s sister is kidnapped, Polly understands that family is more important than she ever realized before—and she’ll do anything to protect Franny. But to save her sister, she’s got to solve THE CASE OF THE VANISHING CHEF!

EXCERPT

     When my part-time secretary Bernardo 'Bunny' Contreras, ambled into my private office in Hollywood and closed the door behind him it meant one thing. It used to mean two things, but based on the current state of our relationship a new client must have walked in our front door—a prosperous client, I hoped, because the balance sheet of my firm, Berger Investigations, Inc., read Red with a capital R.

     My name is Pauline Isabel Berger, which makes me a P.I. by name, as well as by trade, and I’ve been in business going on three years. My offices are located in 'Tinsel Town,' seven blocks from the intersection of Hollywood and Vine, which puts us on the wrong side of the tracks, but the right side of the law.  

     In addition to working for me, Bunny is also my karate instructor and swing dance partner. On weekends he earns his chops as a standup comic, which is why he only works for me part-time. At the age of twenty-six he's twelve years my junior. Well, twelve years I admit to.

     I looked up to see Bunny leaning against the frame of my office door grinning his lop-sided grin. "You'll never guess who's here." My heart sank.

     "Do I wanna know?" I hadn’t meant to sound so grouchy, but Mondays are not my favorite day.

      "Y'all might," he drawled.

     I interpreted his drawl to mean the visitor waiting in the outer office was our previous client, one Cinda Mae Bradbury, former stripper turned restaurateur.

     "Okay, fill me in. Bun. How long's it been anyway?"

     "Coupla weeks. Enough time for her to finish shutting down The CatWalk and open La Gringa's, and I quote, ‘the best Mexican food west of east L.A.' She's been open for two weeks but you've kept me so busy running errands for the shyster frats, I haven't had time to give it a try. Wanna go there for lunch?"

     "Depends on whether I have an appetite after we meet. Show her in." I took a deep breath preparing to face my client whose murdered husband almost led to my own death, though not by her.

      

SCHRÖDINGER’S TRUNK, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

Trunk in the Attic, by Valentina Rota

There is a trunk in the attic with my past in it. Not all my past: I moved around a lot when I was young. Still, therein lies a cornucopia of experiences, now so distantly removed from my current life, they seem like those of another person.

There is the first cat story I wrote, in fourth grade, about my tabby Two and a far-off land where everyone lived in houses with diamond walls.

There is a sketchbook from my days in Chicago, pages of dark scribble and slashing lines depicting inner city buildings in the shadow of 1968.

There is a photo album from when I was a hippie living on the farm. In some of them I am naked, innocently swimming in a country lake. In some, I’m ensconced with other bell-bottomed, bead-bedecked flower children. In one, I’m playing pool.

Other things have accumulated in that magic trunk as well. A flotsom of greeting cards, letters, notes with a loved one’s name penned longhand nest at the dusty bottom. Some of those loved ones— too many—have been lost along the way.

There used to be diaries in the trunk, but several years ago I shredded them, consigning my youthful craziness to the ash pile. At the time I felt release— no longer bound by my indiscretions. As a writer, I suppose I should regret the loss, but I don’t. I did keep the poems and drawings; the rest was so much hooey.

I think about the trunk from time to time. I’d like to post the pool player photo on Facebook; I’d like to read a birthday card from my grandmother; I’d like to check out the cat story, see if it’s as great as I remember. It’s probably not, but as long as it stays buried in the trunk, I can pretend.

The trunk remains closed. A decade ago, workers redid the attic beams, and in their effort, stacked my trunk underneath a small mountain of other clutter. Every so often, I look at it, gage the amount of work it would take to dig it out, and go away again. It’s on the list, among other jobs to be done... but not in winter because the attic is too cold and not in summer because it’s stifling hot. I can’t do it alone because some of the items are heavy and awkward, yet I don’t want anyone to do it with me. Besides I have no place to put it once I get it out. The dust makes me sneeze. 

Someday I’ll want the trunk badly enough to overcome the obstacles. Until then, I can remember. Schrödinger’s trunk: its nostalgic contents can be whatever I decide.

Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:

Mollie Hunt: Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries and more

Happy reading!

Where Does Inspiration Come From?

I'm old enough to remember television before "reality tv" became a thing. I was underwhelmed when the first reality shows came out. I didn't understand the fascination and swore I would never watch them. As I have done so many times before, I had to eat my words.

There are several reality shows that I enjoy, among them: Chopped, Project Runway, and Ink Master. It took me a while to realize that the shows I like have certain traits in common: competition and creativity. I enjoy watching various creative processes from the beginning to end. Give the contestants, whether they are chefs, fashion designers, or tattoo artists, the same challenge and each one will have a different interpretation and the end results will be completely different. Why? Because each artist is an individual with different experiences and different thought processes. 

Image courtesy of Depositphotos.com

It's the same with writers. Each of us sees the world through different eyes and will be inspired by different things. Romances in particular seem to get a bad rap. Many people think they are all the same. I beg to differ. Each author approaches their stories from their unique perspective.

What inspires me? All sorts of things. My Kudzu Korners series was inspired by a rescue cat named Zombie.

I was also inspired by the story of Melissa Dohme, a domestic abuse survivor who married one of the EMTs who rescued her. The next installment in my Kudzu Korners series, Dances with Werewolves, features a Sydney, a heroine who learns to love after domestic abuse. I didn't specifically have Melissa's story in mind as the when fleshing out Sydney but I know that it was there in the back of my mind as I did.

My most recent inspiration comes from a video I saw on Facebook. You can view it HERE. There will be a scene loosely based on this video in an upcoming inspirational romance titled Choosing Love.

What inspires you?

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New Release - The Stars at Night by Celia Yeary - @prairierosepubs #firestarpress #romancenovel

New Yorker Kate Norwood meets Jesse McCoy on her trip to Texas with her young nephew. She learns her plan to leave Nicky with his grandmother – Jesse’s mother – is hopeless, and faced with the improbable prospect of rearing the boy herself, she turns to Jesse for help. Kate and Jesse bond easily, but problems arise which may drive them apart and leave the child with the wrong person. With hearts full of love and hope, they work together to find the answers they need under THE STARS AT NIGHT.

EXCERPT

With narrowed eyes, Jesse McCoy watched a black SUV fly by him. The guy's going to kill somebody. He snapped the strap of the helmet under his chin and adjusted his mirrored sunglasses. In a single motion, he kicked back the stand with the heel of his boot, hit the starter, and put the motorcycle in gear. The sleek, black machine roared to life as he raced onto the highway, spewing gravel into the air behind him. Unconsciously, he flicked the switch to turn on the sirens and the red and blue flashing lights.

Damn fool must be going ninety.

The live oak and juniper trees blurred as he revved up the big bike to catch the speeder. Once or twice, he lost sight of the SUV as it sailed over a hill and left him in a swale, or it disappeared around a curve. As an officer of the law in the Texas Hill Country, he knew what he was doing, and without a doubt, he would catch the perpetrator.

• ♥ •

"Oh...darn." Kate glanced at her young nephew, wishing she hadn't used the word, even though she didn't classify it as a curse word. But you never knew what a kid would think.

"A cop. Nicky, fix your seat belt, honey. Quickly, now. I know you keep slipping out of it, but please adjust it. Oh, geez, now, I'm going to get two tickets." 

"I don't want to. I don't like it." Slumped in the front seat, Nicky whined and kicked his heels back and forth on the edge of the soft leather.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she told him, "I know, but shush, now, sweetie, and be still. Hurry and buckle up for me." 

Kate brought the huge vehicle to a stop onto the wide shoulder. How fast had she been going, anyway? Since she didn't own a car and had to rent one, she wasn't as familiar with driving as most people were. The cruise control always acted wonky, and she could never get it right. Before she knew it, her speed zoomed way over the posted limit.

Now, so near her destination, a police officer stopped her. Why hadn't she flown down here to Texas, anyway? The idea of an adventure was turning out to be a bad idea after all, just like her mother said.

She and five-year-old Nicky had been on the road four days. Her nerves were shot, not only from driving on interstates, but also from spending three nights in motel rooms with a child who only wanted pizza and hamburgers, and stayed glued to the television.

The uncertainty of what she was doing, bringing him to Texas to leave him, kept her awake at night, knowing in her heart it was not right. Guilt ate at her every minute. But what else could she do?

     

Across a Sea of Stars by Michael Gonzales

Across a Sea of Stars by Michael E. Gonzales – February, 2018 #blogabookscene #Spaceopera #PrairieRosePub @PrairieRosePub #FireStarPress

I sat editing another story the other day when I stopped to consider just how many times I have read, reread, and read this story again and again (was that redundant? It was meant to be.) Then it dawned on me, I will never know what it is to read any of my stories for the first time. And no, I don’t count all the work that went into creating the story as the first time.

I have literally spent a week writing a single paragraph, to get it just the way I want it. A paragraph that a reader will gloss over in a second or two.

I’ll never know the reaction of hitting that first plot twist, never know the feeling of tension that I worked so hard to build.

And the climax, as well as the ending. What did if feel like for them?

Book sales and reviews are a measure of how well I’ve written, but I will never know the feeling of that first-time reader.

Makes me a little sad. What better way to judge your own work than to read it for the first time?

Across a Sea of Stars

From an inexplicable anomaly on the surface of the Moon, an astronaut, Captain Cris Salazar, is mysteriously conveyed to a distant planetary system halfway across the galaxy. At the insistence of a strange old man, he departs on a trek across the planet thinking he is seeking someone with the ability to send him home, but he is being manipulated, and soon his strange situation becomes immensely complicated.

His epic quest sees him ally with an alien woman, a near giant, and a robotic intelligence.

With these three he must face a vast army with no fear of pain or death, an enemy with supernatural powers, a madman with a vast armada, and a dark secret. How can Cris possibly hope to return home…Across a Sea of Stars?

EXCERPT:

Tattie simultaneously hit the launch button and the violent detonation threw Cris against the padded wall just under the hatch. The escape pod hurtled away from the ship. Instantly, Tattie saw that they were about to collide with the rear of the spinning ship. "Brace yourself!" she called back to Cris, and then fired her engine at full throttle. In her monitor, she saw the stern coming closer. The great ship appeared to be ablaze as the friction with the atmosphere increased. The G-forces on their bodies climbed to incredible proportions as Tattie pushed the little pod to get out of the way. It looked as if she were not going to make it. They had cleared the hull, but one of the extended engine housings was now headed right for them, a collision was inevitable. There were only seconds remaining. Tattie shouted over her shoulder, "I love you, Cris!"

The moment Tattie looked back at her monitor, the heat from the reentry melted through the engine's support, and the entire housing broke loose and was pulled down into the planet's atmosphere. The escape pod then bolted free and into open space.

"Cris—Cris, we are free!" Tattie screamed.

"We made it? We're still alive?"

Now Tattie's voice was much more serious, "Cris, come here and look at this."

Across a Sea of Stars is available on Amazon.

 

Images by Mike Gonzales.

Order Across a Sea of Stars here:

https://www.amazon.com/Across-Sea-Stars-Unborn-Galaxy/dp/1984038060/ref=as_sl_pc_as_ss_li_til?tag=httpliviajwac-20&linkCode=w00&linkId=b14117cef21e9d34ec121910787c5d19&creativeASIN=1984038060

https://www.amazon.com/Dark-Moon-Rising-Unborn-Galaxy-ebook/dp/B01CBNSAEG/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8

https://www.amazon.com/Battle-Broken-Moon-Unborn-Galaxy/dp/1540645681/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

Web site:  http://www.mikegonzalesauthor.com/home.html

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