by Teresa Trent
April 7 - May 2, 2025 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:
The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series
After finding herself in the middle of murder investigation in her last two secretarial jobs, Dot finds the only place that will hire her is her local funeral home.
Why not? At least there all the clients are safe from what the town calls her murderous "Curse of Camden". It is 1965 and Dot is planning her wedding with a Twiggy like mini-bridal gown, but secretly she’s not so sure it’s a good idea. If she really is cursed, what might happen to the one she loves? Is she willing to put him in danger? She and Ben put wedding planning on the back burner when one of the town’s teenage girls gets hit by a drunk boater who gets away. The closer they get to the answers, the more Dot feels the curse is coming for Ben.
Book Details:Genre: Cozy Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 2025
Number of Pages: 215
ISBN: 978-1-68512-870-8
Series: The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series, Book 4 | Each is a Stand Alone Novel
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads
GUEST POST:
Setting a Mystery in a Funeral Home
By Teresa Trent, author of I Can’t Get No Satisfaction
My heroine in the Swinging Sixties Mystery Series can’t seem to keep a job. It isn’t because she is a poor employee. She was a star at her secretarial school when she graduated in 1963, but now it is 1965 and she’s in her third job. The problem? People keep getting murdered. Dot Morgan is a murder magnet.
Because of this, the only business that will hire her is the local funeral home. At least the clientele will be safe this time. Creating the setting of a funeral home was a learning experience for me. I had been in funeral homes, but only in the beautifully decorated rooms open to the public. To research this setting, I visited the National Museum of Funeral History in Houston, Texas. Yes, there is such a thing.
Upon entering the museum, we stepped into a hearse room with horse-drawn carriages up to the present day. The hearse from close to the time of my story was especially helpful in my research because it played an important role in the plot.
They had several rooms dedicated to historic funerals, including those of John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. There was a wing dedicated to papal funerals. The museum had everything you needed to know about the history of taking care of the dead, from coffins to urns.
The cremation chamber, complete with a control panel, amazed me, but what floored me the most? There was a gift shop. I chose not to bring home a mug that said, “Any Day Above Ground is a Good One”.
Having been through the planning process of a few funerals, the museum gave me a completely different perspective on the funeral industry. It’s a business often run by families who are full of compassion for the people they work with, but all the same, it’s a business.
When I wrote the characters of Oliver and Henry Fielding, of Fielding Funeral Home, I focused on their father-son relationship. Where instead of Henry taking off with the family car for too long, he takes the hearse. Boys will be boys. Henry is a young man, and like the song says, he can’t get no satisfaction.
After finishing the book, I was happy to leave such a sad world. Dot couldn’t wait to get rid of her black wardrobe, and I felt the same about my setting. What setting did I use to replace it?
Crying in the Chapel is the title of the next book in the series. How about a little white satin?
After leaving Oliver, I decided to speak to the marina owner one more time to try to figure out who took the boat used in Henry’s murder. Grabbing a sandwich at my apartment, I called Ben to see if he would like to go along with me. He was covering court this week for a reporter on vacation, so I was lucky to catch him at his desk.
“Yes, I’d love to go with you, and as luck would have it, the judge rescheduled the court case.”
Even though some people might think a reporter’s life is glamorous and full of intrigue, Ben was covering a case of stolen pigs for The Camden Courier. Shorty Wyckoff, a pig farmer, claimed Bill Wheeler, another pig farmer, snuck up in the cloak of darkness and loaded up an 1100-pound sow into the back of a pickup truck. What made her so valuable was her nickname, Fertile Myrtle. It was reported that she could get pregnant with only one try, and the results were dozens of little piggies. The newspaper had dubbed the case “Makin’ Bacon Caper.” It was a popular series of articles, considering it was one step up from the farm report and featured the sex lives of pigs.
“I’ll pick you up, but I have to warn you, ol’ Bernice isn’t doing too well. I think she’s on her last breath.”
“Ol’ Bernice, a 1955 Oldsmobile, had several dents, bald tires, and a constant wheezing coming out from under the rusty brown hood. “Should we take my car?”
“Nice of you to offer, but I want to take Bernice today. I have plans for her.”
Besides setting her on fire or pushing her off the nearest cliff, I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. I knew Ben had arrived when I heard the familiar wheezing and sputtering of Bernice in my driveway.
Ben and I returned to the marina, but this time the marina owner was nowhere to be found. The marina office and residence stood atop a small hill overlooking the glistening waters of the bay. Selma, the guard dog Shep had praised, did not bark or even growl, but playfully nudged her snout against my hand, her tail wagging vigorously in excitement. We knocked on the glass panes of the marina office, and after not getting an answer, I clasped my hands around my eyes and, leaning on the glass, looked inside. As I drew closer, I could hear the low rumble of jazz, heavy on the bass. It created a melodic backdrop with the gentle lapping of the waves. “I think he must be farther back in the house. I hear a stereo.”
Ben put his ear to the glass and then turned around to face the parking lot. “Hmmm. How many cars do you see parked here?”
I turned back and scanned the parking area. “Three.”
“Right. Ours, his, and whose is that?” He pointed at a wood-paneled station wagon. It was the kind of car a family with children would use.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else around here. Maybe someone has taken their boat out.”
“Maybe, but when we were here last, there were twelve boats in twelve boat slips. Today I only see eleven. Considering Bubba Jenkins’s boat - was just impounded for a murder investigation. I would say all the remaining boats are here.”
“Which means whoever is driving that station wagon is inside, listening to jazz with Shep. Let’s try knocking at the backdoor,” I said.
We made our way around, and as we did, the sound of the music grew louder, along with a few other sounds.
Ben smiled and blushed a little as we heard rhythmic moans coming from an open window. “They must be big music lovers.”
I giggled. “Regular jazz nuts.” There was no doubt about what they were doing, and from the sounds of it, things were going quite well.
Ben raised his hand to knock, but then stopped. “Not the best time.”
“Yeah. Maybe we can figure this out on our own. I don’t think I could erase a memory of hot and sweaty Shep, but I am curious about who he has in there with him.”
“Let’s go look at the boats.” We walked around the house to the parking lot. Selma followed along, her tail still wagging. As the jazz and the sound of other things faded in my ears, I asked Ben, “What exactly are we looking for?”
“I’m not sure, just something out of the ordinary. Maybe Henry’s killer left something important on the dock.”
“You mean like his I. D.? That would make things easier. Do you know a lot about boats? We didn’t do much boating at our house, although I have been waterskiing with friends.”
“A little.” He shrugged. “Not much. We need to concentrate, and hearing about you in a bathing suit is not making my thoughts flow.”
I giggled. “Billie Holiday will do that to a person.”
We walked on the wooden pier as the surrounding water was still. There was little call to take a boat out on a weekday. The boats were in a variety of sizes, but most were small speedboats, with a pontoon moored at the end. Inside a few boats, there were remnants of beer bottles and sandwich wrappers.
“Not very tidy, these boat people, and from the looks of the empty beer bottles, there are several drunk drivers out on the lake at the same time. No wonder Betty Weaver got hit,” I said, walking to the end of the pier. The pontoon was covered with a canvas drape. Looking underneath, the insides were as neat as a pin.
“Look at this,” Ben said, crouched down by the tip of a small speedboat. “It looks like they’ve sustained some damage here.”
On the side of the boat, a scrape had cut through the sleek paint, making a line through the boat name, Lucky Me. Not as lucky as the boat owner might have thought.
“So, somebody isn’t very good at putting the boat back into the dock. I hardly think that has anything to do with boat thefts.”
Ben nodded. “You’re probably right, but we know there has been a boat thief out here. What’s to say this person only used one boat?”
“You mean like a serial boat thief?” Could a person get away with stealing different boats periodically from the marina? Was starting one boat as easy as starting another?
“Think about it,” Ben said. “Just how many days a week are Romeo and Juliet in there playing Billie Holiday on the stereo?”
The boat dock was at least fifty yards from the combined house and office. Someone could be out here starting a boat, and if the marina owner was busy, he would hear nothing. “He wouldn’t hear it, and Selma, the guard dog, gets put outside on occasions, so happy for a visitor, she doesn’t even bark.”
Ben snapped his fingers. “Bubba Jenkins is Al’s friend, right? We need to talk to him. He might be sitting on information.”
“You know, Al has mentioned him, but I’m not sure what he does.”
“Then we’ll have to ask him.”
As we turned to head back to Ben’s car, the sound of a screen door opening peeled through the air. Shep, his cheeks rosy and his shirt half on, edged around from the back of the house and immediately spotted Ben’s car. His gaze shifted to the dock.
“Can I help you, folks? How long have you been standing out here?”
I walked forward. “We tried knocking, but there was no answer.”
“Yes, you must have been busy,” Ben said.
Shep lifted his chin slightly. “Working on the books. Guess I got involved. Numbers are not my thing.”
We knew just what his thing was.
Ben walked forward and extended his hand. “Ben Dalton, Camden Courier.”
Shep reached out with a measured amount of enthusiasm. “I remember you. What can I do for you this time?”
“We were wondering if you could provide a list of the boat owners here at the marina. I would also like to get in touch with Bubba Jenkins. Ben said this with such efficiency. Shep let go of his hand and stepped back.
“Why would I do that?”
Ben swept his hand back toward the boats. “In the interest of the investigation. Two deaths on the water don’t exactly put the security of your marina in a good light.”
Shep raised a single finger in the air and shook it at Ben’s face. “Lookie here, son. If I hand over a list like that, it will be to the police, and only the police will get it. Hear me? You and your lady friend need to quit nosin’ around here. If I see you again, I’ll call the cops on you for trespassing. Get me?”
“This is public property. There’s not much you can do.”
“Watch me.”
“You seemed more than willing to let people nose around and steal other people’s boats. I think you’re a little late with your righteous indignation,” I said.
“Yeah, well, a tiger can change its spots. I don’t need a lot of folks here getting into my business.” He glanced up at the house. “Talking to you has been a mistake, and now I’m fixing it. Out with you.”
As we made our way to the car, Ben turned and spoke. “We’re leaving, but remember, if you ever want to talk…”
“Out!”
***
Excerpt from I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2025 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.
Teresa Trent started out teaching English in Colorado, but life and children intervened, and with all that new spare time, she began writing. Besides The Swinging Sixties Series, Teresa has penned the Pecan Bayou, Piney Woods and Henry Park Mystery Series and always has a little idea in the back of her mind for the next one. She is also the author of several short stories and is teaching writing at her local library encouraging new writers. Teresa lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her podcast, Books to the Ceiling, features authors with new mysteries on the market.
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