Review of Beyond the Cemetery Gate by Valerie Biel (#contests Win A $10 Gift Card @partnersincr1me)

BEYOND THE CEMETERY GATE

The Secret Keeper's Daughter

by Valerie Biel

March 3 - 28, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

When the police rule her dad’s death an accidental overdose, 16-year-old Chloe refuses to believe it and vows to find his killer. Alone against a potentially corrupt, small-town police force, a persistent social worker seeking proof that she has adult supervision, and precariously low funds, Chloe learns that her dad’s life as a cemetery caretaker masked a web of family secrets that quite possibly led to his death—and are now putting her in mortal danger.

Needing freedom to investigate, Chloe pretends that her only surviving relative, a famous war correspondent, has returned from an overseas assignment to be her guardian. But living alone in the caretaker’s house in the middle of the cemetery, mere feet from the crime scene, puts Chloe’s nerves on edge even before she unearths clues about the shadowy side of her small town. Help comes from unlikely and surprising allies: the colorful owner of the local retro diner, the quiet new classmate with his near-perfect memory, and a spirit who visits in her moments of greatest need.

But as Chloe gets closer to the truth, someone else is getting closer to Chloe, watching her every move. And when her aunt turns up on international news reporting from a war zone, Chloe’s cover is blown. Now the race is on to reveal her dad’s killer—but perhaps—Chloe isn’t as alone as she thought.

Book Details:

Genre: Young Adult Mystery Suspense
Published by: Lost Lake Press
Publication Date: October 31, 2024
Number of Pages: 342
ISBN: 9780998173641 (ISBN10: 0998173649)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

REVIEW:

I have always loved a good mystery or thriller, but "Beyond the Cemetery Gate" is one of the best mystery novels I have ever read. The author did a fantastic job of introducing us to the protagonist, Chloe, a strong-willed young lady who discovers her father dead in the cemetery where he worked, allegedly due to a drug overdose. 

Throughout the book, Chloe embarks on an adventure to uncover the truth about her father's death. A character known as "The Watcher" appears numerous times, keeping an eye on her. As the story unfolds, the backstory of her family's history is revealed, which adds depth to the plot. 

The novel explores themes of grief, corruption, mystery, and secrets, and it kept me hooked from the very first page. While reading the book, I was trying to figure out who the "The Watcher" was, and I never guessed who it was. The book was exciting, well-written, and had memorable characters. Great Job, Ms. Biel! 

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

CHLOE

In the space between sleep and wakefulness, a sound seeped into my consciousness. The sense that something wasn’t quite right pulled me fully awake. I listened beyond my own breathing for it to come again.

A wail pierced the silence. An animal in pain? Only it wasn’t. I knew it was human. I slipped from bed to stare out into the cemetery. The tombstones always made for fascinating or eerie shadows, depending on how you felt about graveyards. I never minded, which was a good thing, considering my house was smack dab in the middle of one.

The sound came again, more of a moan this time, followed by a murmur of voices. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but people were definitely in the cemetery. One of them was scared or maybe hurt. Dad wasn’t going to like this. He locked the gate tight every night. The only way in was to scale the tall, spiked iron fence or pick the lock. Either one was going to piss him off.

In the distance, a pinpoint of light moved away from where I perched. It was too small to be a flashlight . . . maybe a cell phone?

I padded down the hall to Dad’s bedroom, calling for him. His door was ajar, and the hall light was enough to show his empty bed, the covers rumpled and thrown back as though he’d gotten up quickly. He must have heard the same thing.

His boots weren’t in their usual spot by the back door, so I knew for sure he’d gone to investigate. I had to help because Dad and I were a team, small and mighty, he said. We always made it through everything together.

In my hurry I forgot to stop the screen door from slamming behind me when I stepped out onto the porch, cringing when the sound echoed through the night.

I waited a moment and then whispered, “Dad,” as loudly as I dared.

No answer.

I angled toward the part of the cemetery where the small light had been, thinking I’d find him corralling some kids from high school pulling a prank. It happened once in a while but usually in a few weeks—closer to Halloween. I knew more than a handful of idiots my age who would think this was funny.

I hadn’t heard the wailing or voices since I left the house. Maybe whoever it was had left? That hopeful thought disappeared as a weird combination of worry and fear crawled up the base of my spine. Just in case it was something more menacing than kids, I hid my approach behind the cemetery’s largest and oldest tombstones. Maxwell, Bell, Ludington . . . I touched their cold granite and the mossy green lichen growing up their sides as I slid between them. I expected to find Dad by now. Where was he?

A terrible thought pushed me into full fear mode. What if the person making that horrible scream was Dad? It hadn’t sounded like him, but … what if he was out here somewhere and hurt? I had to find him!

My breath quickened and a damp sheen of sweat prickled my skin.

I sped up, more concerned with finding him than being seen. The cemetery was big, but I had to be close to where I’d spotted the light. I calmed myself long enough to pivot in a slow circle, my bare feet sliding on the dewy grass. The main gate was open, obviously where the trespassers came in—and hopefully where they’d gone out.

It was quiet and dark.

The cemetery had no lights of its own, and the glow of streetlights reached only to the second row of graves. Here and there, solar decorations shimmered for dead loved ones as cheerfully as possible but didn’t shine far enough to be helpful. The darkness didn’t hinder me. The cemetery had been my playground since preschool, so even in the dark I was able to avoid every tree root, odd stone, or divot that might trip me up.

I decided to be systematic and jogged a grid pattern, snaking through the rows. I stopped short and gasped at the next turn. A body was slumped against the base of my favorite statue, a white marble angel holding a sword and shield.

“Dad!”

He didn’t move. In two quick strides, I was at his side. “Dad!”

I gave his shoulder a gentle shake, and his head tipped sideways.

“Oh my god! Wake up!”

I needed a better look and found the light on my phone. What I saw scared me even more. Dad’s face was pale, his eyes unfocused. I needed help—fast!

Dialing 911 seemed impossibly slow for three simple numbers.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“It’s – it’s my dad. He won’t wake up.”

“What’s your location?”

“I’m in the city cemetery. My dad is the caretaker here.”

“What’s your name?”

“C-Chloe Cowyn.”

“Okay, Chloe, can you check whether your dad’s breathing?”

I bent low and placed my face close to Dad’s mouth. “I don’t think so. Please hurry!”

This didn’t make sense. Had someone hit him? I didn’t see any blood. I swept my eyes over his legs and arms—stopping abruptly at what I saw.

“Nooooo.”

At first, I thought the wailing had returned, until I realized that I was the one making the sound eerily like what woke me.

“Chloe, are you okay? I have help on the way. Stay on the line with me until they arrive.”

“No. No. No.” My cell phone dropped from my hand as I backed away.

Tears blurred my view until I could no longer see the needle stuck in my dad’s arm.

***

Excerpt from BEYOND THE CEMETERY GATE: The Secret Keeper's Daughter by Valerie Biel. Copyright 2024 by Valerie Biel. Reproduced with permission from Valerie Biel. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Valerie Biel writes books for middle grade to adult audiences--stories inspired by her travels and her insatiable curiosity. Her award-winning, young adult fantasy series, Circle of Nine, was inspired by the myth and magic of Ireland's ancient stone circles. She's also the author of Haven, a contemporary middle grade novel, and Beyond the Cemetery Gate, a YA mystery suspense story. She helps other authors with their book promotion and marketing and frequently teaches writing workshops to students of all ages. When Valerie's away from the computer, you might find her wrangling her overgrown garden, traveling the world, and reading everything she can get her hands on. Once upon a time, she graduated from the University of Wisconsin with degrees in journalism and political science. She lives with her husband on a (tiny) portion of her family's century-old farm in rural Wisconsin, but regularly dreams of finding a cozy cottage on the Irish coast where she can write and write.

Catch Up With Valerie Biel:
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Guest Post by Elizabeth Crowens author of Bye Bye Blackbird (#spotlight, #Guest Post, #Contests win a $10 Bookshop.org Gift Card 3 winners)

 

 

I want to welcome Beth Crowens to Books R Us. Beth is the author of Bye Bye Blackbird (The Babs Norman Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery Book 2.) The author has written a guest post just for my readers. Enter the great contest below and thanks for stopping by.

 

BYE BYE BLACKBIRD

by Elizabeth Crowens

February 17 - March 14, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A BABS NORMAN HOLLYWOOD MYSTERY

 

In the summer of 1941, Hollywood heats up again when Humphrey Bogart arrives right after a female corpse with a dead bird stuffed inside her overcoat topples into the office of B. Norman Investigations. While filming The Maltese Falcon, Bogie found a mysterious ancient Egyptian hawk artifact on his doorstep containing a mummified black bird. Someone with dark intentions threatens the main cast, one by one, leaving dead birds, from crows to falcons, as their calling cards.

While more murders pile up, jeopardizing the film from being finished, Bogie hires private eyes Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, infuriating his volatile third wife, Mayo Methot, or Sluggy, as she’s known in some circles. Unraveling the personal lives of Mary Astor, John Huston, Sydney Greenstreet, Elisha Cook, Jr., Peter Lorre, and Jack L. Warner in their quirky, humorous way, the PIs turn the underbelly of Tinseltown upside down to stop the crazed killer from claiming another victim.

 

GUEST POST: 

 

The Happy Accident

 One thing I can say about writing Bye Bye Blackbird is that it involved a lot of research. How many times did I have to watch The Maltese Falcon? Enough that I stopped counting. Often, I’d have to watch it from a different point of view, keeping my eyes peeled for locations, furniture, the clothes people wore, and the particular facial expressions they’d make. Did I ever get bored? Never.

The books I read were a different story altogether. And yes, there were multiple, expensive trips to Los Angeles since I don’t live there anymore full time. The Airbnbs I stayed at were hit and miss. Never perfect. The last one I stayed at was such a nightmare that I wrote a humorous mystery-horror short story about it. One anthology already rejected it. Perhaps it will find a better home in the future.

However, I read stacks of out-of-print celebrity biographies, and some weren’t all that easy to find. When books weren’t always available, I’d take my chances with clipping files at places like the Downtown branch of the LA Public Library and the Margaret Herrick Library for the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences—the organization that brings you the Oscars.

Once in a while, however, I’d stumble upon what I call the “happy accident.” That’s when you’re researching one thing, but come across a juicy tidbit of information that you know will come in handy at some time and somewhere. So, if you’ve read the first book in my Babs Norman Golden Age of Hollywood series, Hounds of the Hollywood Baskervilles, which just today I found out was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Debut Mystery at the Malice Domestic conference https://www.malicedomestic.net/ (Whoo hoo!). Basically, it’s about two young PIs who join forces with Basil Rathbone (Sherlock Holmes in the 1940s) and the Thin Man duo of William Powell and Myrna Loy (who play Nick and Nora Charles), to stop a

celebrity dognapping ring. So, it focuses on dogs, although my heroes manage to accumulate a whole menagerie of animals they rescue in the process.

In my new sequel to Hounds, Bye Bye Blackbird, the plot centers on threats toward the cast of The Maltese Falcon. We still have a few dogs carried over from the first book, but now the theme is about birds. Our PIs have somehow inherited a foul-mouthed, wisecracking myna bird who sounds like a Warner Brothers cartoon. But getting back to the “happy accident,” I had to read a biography (actually several) on Jack L. Warner, the executive head of production at Warner Brothers. In one of his biographies, he mentioned at one point someone gave him a foul-mouthed, wisecracking myna bird, but he out cursed the bird and drove it berserk.

Of course, I had to use that in my book. Things like that are too good to make up.

 

Bye Bye Blackbird Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Golden Age of Hollywood Private Investigator novel with satire
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 28, 2025
Number of Pages: 340
Series: Babs Norman Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery, Book 2 | Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Look at the Birdie!

Hollywood 1941

On Friday, July 4th, only the most essential, dedicated, or insane Los Angelenos punched the clock. Established businesses that usually stayed open closed early that afternoon. For the fledgling ones, like the young private detectives at B. Norman Investigations, there would be no weenie roasts, barbeques, or national holiday celebrations. Death would soon follow. Every electric fan they owned hummed its own tune. Between the fan blades whirring and the cats purring, panting dogs, who could qualify as hotdogs, an injured pelican with its wing in a sling, and their janitor’s wisecracking myna bird, the whole kit and caboodle at Hollywood Boulevard and N. Sycamore resembled a cross between the Humane Society and the Griffith Park Zoo.

Guy Brandt, more detective-partner than secretary, manned the desk upfront. On top of it: a shoebox of magazine clippings, scissors, and a stack of The Times and Herald-Examiner. He undid one more button on his clammy, sweat-stained shirt, flung his tie onto their hat rack, and took a swig of his warm Nehi orange soda, already flat. He hoped to find new clients from newspaper leads but wasn’t getting anywhere. Babs Norman, who always had every pin curl in place, patted off her sticky forehead with a handkerchief. Way beyond a simple touch-up with powder and fresh lipstick, only a masterful makeup wizard, like Perc Westmore, could bring new life to this wilted flower.

“Wouldn’t it be fine and dandy if we could afford to run an ad at least once a week saying that we’re private detectives, specializing in discreet celebrity cases?” she asked.

An adventurous kitten, who strayed from the pack, latched on to Guy’s sock and started to climb his leg. “Maybe we should ask if we can put a note in the downstairs lobby that we’re also a pet adoption service.” He unhooked its claws, returning him to his mama.

“You think that would pay off our debts?”

“Do you always have to sound like a broken record?” An Irish Wolfhound, in need of a bath, sauntered in from the doorway between the two offices. He went up to Guy and plopped his oversized, hairy head into his lap. “Dog days not agreeing with you, Sir Henry?” After rubbing the furry beast’s head, he went to their icebox and plopped chunks of ice in the various water bowls scattered around both rooms. Several prostrated cats laid on their backs, trying to find coolness on the linoleum floor.

From under his pile of clippings, he fished out a copy of Black Mask. Babs, with a wooden clothespin clamping her nostrils shut and carrying an odiferous box of shredded newspapers, walked into his office and stopped short when she caught him reading the pulp. “You think we’re going to find our next client from detective fiction? We need another high-profile case like when we rescued Asta, so MGM could go into production on their next Thin Man film. They paid us an unheard-of amount of money…until you lost it all.”

“Stop being such a sourpuss.” He refused to give her eye contact.

“Do you think I’m enjoying spending time in our stifling office? I’d rather be at the beach with the man of my dreams.” Her inflection had a hint of sarcasm.

“Who’s the lucky fella?”

She went over to their monstrous dog and kissed him on the nose. “Looks like it’s you, Sir Henry of the Baskervilles. Instead of my frog prince, you’re my dog prince. Ah, you’re such a good boy.” She stared at the bulldog in the corner. “But we really need to paper-train Bruno.”

Their adopted bulldog whined. “You hurt his feelings,” Guy said. “Give him a good scratch behind his ears and apologize.”

She scowled. “I’ll give him two more weeks, and it’ll be your job to train him. Otherwise, he can go back to Wiggins, and I don’t care if one of his kids breaks out in hives.” She headed out the door to dump the litter.

* * *

“Our phone rang twice while you were out,” Guy said. “But Wiggins’ stupid bird answered before I could.”

“Hello, sucker!” the myna bird cackled. “Down for the count…1…2…3. Knocked him in the kisser, didn’t ya?”

“By the time I picked up the receiver, whoever it was hung up,” he explained.

“It’s hard to believe a bird can be so smart,” Babs muttered.

“Smart-mouthed is more like it,” he said. “Sounds like Jimmy Cagney, who he’s named after. Maybe we should let him earn his keep. The bird can impersonate him at parties.”

Babs stared at the troublemaker. “The person on the other end probably thought it was a prank.” She looked around the room. “Keep it up and…I got a lot of hungry cats and canines who wouldn’t mind a bowlful of myna bird stew.”

Wiggins, the building janitor, propped their front door open, causing their ginger tomcat to disappear into the hallway faster than gunfire. “My wife said the same. What are the two of ya doing here on Independence Day? With the tenants gone, I heard yer bickering all the way in the basement. Sounded like a married couple in divorce court. How did ya get in?”

“We had an extra set of keys,” Guy said.

Wiggins planted his hands on his hips. “More like makin’ a copy of my set while my back was turned. There’s no foolin’ me. Come on now. Who’ll be the first to confess?”

Both detectives buried their noses in their newspapers.

“All right, if none of ya willin’ to come clean, why aren’t you out having fun?”

“Paying our overdue office rent is my idea of fun,” Babs replied.

Wiggins looked confused. Guy explained, “We’re hurting. Nothing but small potatoes since retrieving our dognapped canine stars.”

“We might be forced to move out, if we don’t land a decent case,” said Babs. “I’m not looking forward to setting up shop at my house.”

Wiggins inhaled but choked. “You make sure you keep this place spic-and-span. If your neighbors start belly achin’…”

From inside his desk, Guy took out a sardine from its wax paper wrapping and tossed it to their pelican.

“Sniff…sniff… If you don’t get rid of this stench,” Wiggins continued, “my boss’ll make sure he throws you out on your arse.”

She plucked a bottle of cheap toilet water from her purse and spritzed the room. “Better now?”

Wiggins pointed toward the exit. “Goin’ after that mouser. Left the back door open to the alley downstairs. He’s liable to slip out and get lost forever.”

Babs handed her partner a feather duster. “Do something.” Then she returned to her lair with a stack of discarded tabloids to make fresh litter and to do her own skewed interpretation of housekeeping.

Guy reset their wall clock, which was a few hours behind the last time they had a power outage, and gave the reception area the minimal once-over by removing accumulated grime from the top of file cabinets. He was just about to straighten the frame displaying his private investigator’s license, when out of the side of his eye, he noticed a shadow. A large, irregular object leaned against the pebbled glass window of their front door. At first he paid it no mind and continued his cleanup crusade.

When minutes passed and it hadn’t budged, he called out just above a whisper, “Do you mind coming over? Make it quick, but be quiet.”

A startled canary flew out their open transom as Babs breezed toward the front. Guy pointed to the silhouetted figure. “I tidied up, like you asked, but don’t recall hearing anyone approach. This thing…it appeared out of nowhere and hasn’t moved since.”

Babs called out to see if it was Wiggins, but whomever it was didn’t respond. She inquired again. “The door is open. Come on in. We’re too hot and tired for practical jokes.”

With a nod, she gave Guy the go-ahead to open the door, but when he did, a young woman they’d never seen before, wearing a hat and an oversized coat despite the heatwave, fell face-forward onto the floor.

“The casting office is on the fourth floor,” Babs said, until she realized the lady hadn’t moved or said a word. Horrified, she squealed and froze in place.

Guy, also shaking, reached for the phone and called Wiggins’ downstairs office. His voice broke up. “Come up—pronto!”

As soon as he put down the receiver, she demanded he call the cops. Without thinking, she leapt up on a wooden chair as if she’d seen a mouse. Her legs wobbled, and she continued to holler.

Wiggins returned, heaving as if he had skipped waiting for the elevator and sprinted up the stairs. He had the missing tomcat draped over his shoulders. “Heard screams echoing down the hallway. You better keep better tabs on your tabbies. What the blarney did ya think was so important—Holy moly! Mary, Mother of God!”

Guy poked the stranger with his feather duster. Not having any luck, Wiggins, who was bigger than the two detectives combined, got a firm toehold with his work boots and rolled her onto her back. All three stared at the stiff.

“Oh, she’s dead alright,” Wiggins assured them. “Ever seen her before?”

Both PIs shook their heads. Guy tiptoed around the corpse and closed the front door. Wiggins fended off their curious menagerie.

“Something dark and…fea-ther-y is protruding from her coat. Like she was trying to conceal whatever she was carrying.” Babs wrinkled her nose. “Smells like she or someone else doused her with…men’s cologne. Not flowery enough to be one a lady would wear. Wiggins, how do you think she got in?”

“Through the back-alley door, I suppose, ’cause I locked the front. Could’ve snuck in and been here a while. Maybe passed out in a stairwell while my back was turned and crawled up to your floor before she expired.”

Guy paced the room and checked the clock. “The cops seem to be taking their time.” He pulled a flask from his file cabinet and took a swig. He offered some to Babs, but she declined.

Wiggins wrested the flask out of Guy’s hand and finished it to the last drop. “Sure as hell, this would have to happen on a holiday when the police are short-staffed.” He took a swatter from off the wall and clobbered a pesky fly that landed on the stranger’s ear. Babs trembled.

“She can feel it no more than if you were all doped up at the dentist,” Wiggins said.

Babs commented that the police could examine the body. She wasn’t touching it.

Guy suggested to Wiggins to wait for the cops downstairs. “They’ll need you to unlock the building.”

Keeping his distance, Guy asked, “Babs, how do you think she died?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She made it clear she wasn’t even interested in slipping on gloves to search for an ID.

He suggested that this could be the lead they’ve been looking for. She didn’t see it that way. “This is no way to spend a holiday. Let the police and the medical examiner do their jobs. They’ve expressed they don’t want us meddling in their homicide cases, anyway. I just want her out of here.”

Soon, they heard footsteps and the sound of crunching paper. She took for granted the cops had arrived. “Come in. It’s unlocked.”

She and her partner didn’t make a move until the front door creaked open.

Instead of the police, Humphrey Bogart stood there holding a parcel haphazardly wrapped in brown paper and twine. “I called twice. Assumed you had an answering service to leave a message. Dialed the right number, but someone with a peculiar voice like a Warner Brothers cartoon picked up. When I tried to explain my predicament, he mocked me and cracked a few jokes. Figured I better stop over.”

“How did you get into our building?” Guy asked.

“Your janitor recognized me. When I asked to see you, he figured I was harmless. He said he was waiting for—” Babs interrupted his train of thought. Still standing on the chair, she covered her eyes with one hand and pointed to the floor without making a sound. Bogie backed up. The blood drained from his face. “Whoa! Guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he was expecting the cops.”

A black cat jumped on top of the victim and started making biscuits. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Guy bent down to throw him off.

“Wh-a-a-t happened?” Bogie’s words came out choppy.

Babs regained her voice, which, at first, came out in squeaks. “Not sure. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for a private investigator. You came highly recommended as some of the best private dicks in town.”

Babs flushed. She preferred a more ladylike elucidation. With no further introductions needed, she ushered Bogart into her office, and Guy followed, grabbing a notepad off his desk. Even though she hated staring at the corpse, she kept her door open to keep an eye out for the police. She kept reminding herself to take deep breaths and not to panic.

“Do you mind clearing your desk?” Bogie held out his parcel. “I’d like to show you what I found on my doorstep this morning.”

With one fell swoop of her arm, the papers went into a spare box, which Babs said she’d sort through later. Bogart put his parcel down on her desk and fanned out his jacket.

“I guess we can skip formalities when the weather beats us into submission. Mind if I take this off?” His shirt was soaked. “This has been one of those days where I’ve felt like an omelet slapped on the Devil’s griddle.”

Babs identified his mysterious object as a museum replica of an ancient Egyptian canopic jar of Horus, the Hawk, the offspring of Isis and Osiris.

“This is much smaller and lighter than the falcon prop in our movie. Ours is about forty-seven pounds of lead. If you dropped it, you could break someone’s toe.” Bogie lifted its lid and revealed a mummified object. Taking special care, he unwrapped its gauze, stained but far from looking ancient, to reveal a sizable dead crow.

“I have no idea what this is supposed to symbolize, but now it looks like I’ve got competition from what’s in your front room as to which gives me the worst case of the heebie-jeebies,” Bogie remarked.

Guy pulled the privacy shades down on the pebbled glass windows on the walls and door separating the front office from her inner sanctum. “One would presume to find a dead falcon, not a raven, considering you’re in the middle of production for The Maltese Falcon.”

* * *

Excerpt from Bye Bye Blackbird by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright 2025 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Crowens is bi-coastal between Los Angeles and New York. For over thirty years, she has worn many hats in the entertainment industry, contributed stories to Black Belt, Black Gate, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazines, Hell’s Heart, and the Bram Stoker-nominated A New York State of Fright, and has a popular Caption Contest on Facebook.

Awards include: Leo B. Burstein Scholarship from the MWA-NY Chapter, New York Foundation of the Arts grant to publish the anthology New York: Give Me Your Best or Your Worst (no longer in print), Eric Hoffer Award, Glimmer Train Awards Honorable Mention, Killer Nashville Claymore Award Finalist, two Grand prize, six First prize, and multiple Finalist Chanticleer Awards. Crowens writes multi-genre alternate history and historical Hollywood mysteries.

Catch Up With Elizabeth Crowens:
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Facebook - @thereel.elizabeth.crowens

 

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Guest Post by Liz Milliron Author of Shattered Sight A Mystery (#contests- enter to win a gift card)

 

 

I want to welcome Liz Milliron to Books R Us. Liz is the author of Shattered Sight (A Jackson Davis Mystery). Liz has written a guest post just for my readers. Enter below to win a gift card Thanks for stopping by.

SHATTERED SIGHT

by Liz Milliron

March 10 - April 4, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Jackson Davis Mysteries

 

Niagara Falls Police Detective Jackson Davis is living a lie.

He has the perfect life: married, two children, a home, a promising career.

Underneath, however, he battles self-doubt and guilt over the incident that cost his partner her sight and her career in an explosion during the pursuit of a suspect. He denies having PTSD or any trauma related to the event, but those around him know better.

When Jackson returns to active duty and is tapped to lead the investigation into the death of a prominent local business woman, all of this comes to the forefront. He must learn to work with a new partner and deal with his personal demons if he is to catch the killer — or he risks losing it all.

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural
Published by: Harbor Lane Books
Publication Date: March 2025
Number of Pages: 402
ISBN: 978-1-963705-05-8
Series: The Jackson Davis Mysteries, book #1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

GUEST POST: 

Deciding to write another series (Or “How I might have lost my mind”)

“You’re writing how many books?”

This was a common response when I told people I’d be launching a new series in 2025. See, I already write two of them: The Laurel Highlands Mysteries and the Shamus award-nominated Homefront Mysteries. That means I write two books a year.

Plus, I work 40 hours a week. And I have a family. And a social life.

Why would I start another series? Did this mean I’d have to figure out how to write three books a year?

To answer the second question first, no. I haven’t completely lost my marbles. I have friends who dissuade me from those moments when it looks like I’m going to take a flying leap into insanity. It’s still just two books a year.

Why a third series? That one’s a little harder to explain.

As a writer, I’m always looking for opportunities to push myself. To grow and overcome challenges. I’d reached a point with both series where I wanted to explore different characters. People who were a little more… broken, you might say. See the protagonists in the Laurel Highlands Mysteries and the Homefront Mysteries have issues to deal with, but I wouldn’t describe them as seriously flawed. Sure, they have aggravating characteristics, but that’s not quite the same thing.

But Jackson Davis has lived through trauma. His former partner lost her sight when she saved his life in an explosion – after he got carried away with the pursuit of a suspect. He carries all the baggage that goes with something of that nature: guilt, a bit of shame, a sense of responsibility, and a little post-traumatic stress. The first three he can kinda-sorta admit, even if he won’t acknowledge how they impact his daily life. The third, well, he cannot and will not acknowledge. Because in his mind, that means saying he’s “broken.” What if they take his job away? Being a cop and protecting others is his purpose in life. If he can’t do that, what will he do?

Yet it’s his very inability to admit he needs help that puts everything he values in jeopardy. His family life, his job, his friendships. Everything.

His former partner, Max Simon, is dealing with her own issues. She lost her sight and her job. She needs to adapt, but she’s a detective at heart. How can she move on when she – and Jackson – can’t seem to let go?

Then there’s Amy, Jackson’s wife who loves him dearly, but can’t seem to get through to him. And Rodney, the new partner, who is not only adjusting to a new role in police work, but a partner who confuses him; a guy who is friendly and competent one minute and a basket-case the next.

It’s a great boiling pot of angst and the possibilities for disaster are everywhere.

I love it.

Very early in my writing career, a friend and mentor told me one truism of fiction: Happy people are boring. We may want our characters to be happy in the end but think about it. If nothing ever challenged them, if they never had to fight for what they want, would the story be as interesting? Probably not.

The Jackson Davis Mysteries give me an opportunity to explore characters who are good people at heart, but who have serious shortcomings, both when it comes to themselves and to others. When you put a challenge in front of them, how will they react? What will they learn about themselves? And, maybe most importantly, what will I – the author – learn about myself?

Because there is a kernel of me in every character I write. Fiction is a (relatively) safe place to find out how I’d react to the situations I put my characters into and an opportunity to find out what I really believe.

So, three series it is.

But I still might be a little insane.

 

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

I stood in front of my open closet and shuffled through my tie selection. “Amy, have you seen my red tie?” I called to my wife.

No answer.

“Amy!”

She came into the bedroom, dark brown hair in a messy knot, stray strands stuck to her face. She held our six-month-old son, Christopher, over her shoulder as she rubbed his back. “What are you yelling for?” She glanced at the jacket on the bed. “I thought you only wore that suit to court.”

“I need to look sharp today, which means I need my lucky red tie.” I went over the ones on the rack for the third time. “The one with the dark gray pinstripes. It should be here.”

“For crying out loud. Let me.” She held Christopher out, forcing me to take him.

Before I could turn him around, he burped, a wad of spit landing on my chest. “Grab me a clean shirt, too.” I didn’t have time for this. “I need to make a positive impression today.”

“Jackson, you’re coming off desk duty. Not starting a new job.”

“All the more reason to look good. I need to remind the guys I’m an investigator, not a glorified secretary.”

Whatever Amy said was lost in the rattle of hangers. “Here.” She held out the tie. “It was with your other court suit, still in the bag.” She tossed it, along with a clean shirt, on the bed.

I handed back our son. “You’re an angel.” I leaned over and kissed her. Even wearing an old T-shirt and jeans, she put any supermodel to shame. At least in my mind. If I hadn’t been determined to be early, I would have demonstrated my gratitude with a little more emphasis.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t you forget it.” She disengaged Christopher’s hand from her hair.

I slipped into the shirt, buttoned it, and swiftly knotted the tie. Then I shrugged into my jacket. I held out my arms. “Well, how do I look?”

She smoothed my lapel. “Like one of Niagara Falls Police Department’s finest homicide detectives, which you are.” Her voice was light, but I caught the worried glint in her beautiful deep blue eyes.

“It’s going to be okay, Amy. I’m ready to get back to work.”

“I know.” She kissed me. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

I arrived at HQ and waved to the desk sergeant.

“Detective Davis, you going to testify today?” he asked.

“Nope. I’m back in the rotation, Herb.”

He smiled. “It’s about time.”

I took the elevator up to the floor where the Criminal Investigation Division was located and went to my desk. As always, I avoided looking at the empty one facing mine. I briefly wondered how long that would last.

Hopefully for a while.

From across the room, a voice said, “Davis. You’re here.”

I looked up to see Captain Yannick striding toward me. Trailing him was an unfamiliar Black man. He was in his mid-thirties, close-cut hair, nice suit. Really nice suit. He held the largest-sized cup of coffee Starbucks sold in one hand and a cardboard box under the opposite arm.

I focused on the captain. “Morning, sir. You get the paperwork?”

“I did.” The captain shook my hand. “I’m glad to have one of my ace investigators back in the rotation. I want you to meet Rodney Kirke. He’s a new detective for homicide. This is his first day.”

I nodded. “Welcome to the looney bin. I’d shake your hand, but looks like they’re full.”

He put the box and Starbucks on Max’s empty desk. “Captain Yannick told me all about you.”

“Only the good stuff, I hope.” I refrained from saying anything about his stuff on that desk. “Who’d you get partnered up with?”

Yannick pointed. “You. Meet your new partner.”

What the actual? I forced myself to remain calm. “Oh. You didn’t mention anything on Friday before we left.”

“And I apologize. I meant to and the day got away from me.”

I glanced at Rodney. “Captain, can I talk to you?”

“What about?”

“Nothing major. A few details and then I can get to work.” Like how he’d forgotten to say he’d assigned me a new partner.

“Unpack your things.” Yannick pointed to the new guy. He nodded toward me. “My office.”

Once inside, I closed the door. “Sir, what the hell? A new partner on day one?”

“I understand you feel blindsided. I should have called over the weekend. Mea culpa.” His expression told me he’d expected this response. “You had to know this was coming, though.”

I did. But the speed unsettled me. “I guess I expected more notice. Not to walk in on Monday and be introduced to the new guy without even a hint of noticed. And I didn’t realize Max was so easily replaced. I thought you’d take more time.”

Yannick’s gaze and voice held sympathy, but firmness at the same time. “Her position has been open for six months. Kirke’s recently passed the detective exam. You’ll work well together. You can show him the ropes.” He leaned back. “I spoke to Kirke’s commander from patrol, who said he’s top-notch. I think you’ll get on well together.”

Seeing the empty desk every day had been hard. Having a stranger occupy Max’s chair was worse.

Yannick seemed to read my mind. “Look, I can’t replace Max. Oh, sure. I can hire a new body. It won’t be the same. I know. But give him a chance. You learned a lot from Max and she’d expect you to step up and pass it on. Next call is yours.”

What a cheat. Problem was, he was right. She would expect it. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

***

I returned to the desks and assessed the man who Yannick thought could fill Max’s shoes. He’d unpacked the box and was arranging everything to his satisfaction. Strike one, he drank Starbucks. I couldn’t stand the import from Seattle, much preferring Tim Horton’s, the Western New York alternative. Max had not much cared about where the coffee came from, as long as it was hot and black.

Strike two. He’d put a fancy brass nameplate in front of him, with a leather blotter, and matching pen and pencil cup next to it. I hoped the attention to office supplies didn’t mean anything except excitement for the new shield. Max had never bothered to have more than a jumbo calendar and her ever-present book of Sudoku puzzles on her desk. “Looks like you’re all settled in.”

His hand jerked and the cup of pens toppled over. “Just about.” He straightened everything and looked around. Very few of the battered desks held anything as fancy as his desk set. “Guess I overdid it a little with the office supplies, huh?”

“How long have you had your shield?”

“Two weeks.”

That explained a lot. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s natural to be a little nervous, especially starting a new job like this.” I sat down. “Where’d you come from?”

“Downtown. Spent a lot of time chasing pickpockets away from tourists.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket and took his seat. “It’s not very often you meet a white guy named Jackson. No offense.”

It was what people said when they knew they’d been offensive. I could tell his clothes were new. The jacket and slacks were tailored and the tie shone like silk. “My mother was a horror fan and The Lottery was her all-time favorite short story. She loved it so much, she swore to name her first child after the author. I’m lucky I wasn’t a girl or I’d be called Shirley.”

He laughed, but stopped short. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

I held up my hand. “True story. My father tried to get the nickname Jack to stick, but it never did. I’ve gotten used to it.”

He shifted in his seat. “I, uh, heard about what happened to your old partner. Hope I can measure up. She sounds like she was quite the investigator.”

The words were a knife in my chest. “She was.” I had no intention of discussing Max with the new guy. “Why’d you become a detective?”

“It was time for a challenge. I also thought it would help in other areas.”

I waited, but he didn’t continue. “Such as?”

“What’s the scoop? Did Yannick give you an assignment when you talked to him or something?”

He has things he doesn’t want to discuss. We’re equal there. “Not yet.”

Yannick emerged from his office. “Davis, Kirke. Attempted bank robbery downtown. Get down there and take witness statements.”

I stood. “On it, sir.”

***

Excerpt from SHATTERED SIGHT by Liz Milliron. Copyright 2025 by Liz Milliron. Reproduced with permission from Liz Milliron. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Liz Milliron is the Shamus-nominated author of the Homefront Mysteries, set in Buffalo, NY during the early years of WWII, the Laurel Highlands Mysteries set in the scenic Laurel Highlands of southwest Pennsylvania, and the Jackson Davis Mysteries set in Niagara Falls, NY. Her short fiction has been published in multiple anthologies including Murder Most International, Blood on the Bayou, and Murder Most Historical. Liz is a past president of the Pittsburgh Chapter of Sisters in Crime and the current Secretary, as well as the Education Liaison for the National Board of Sisters in Crime. She is also a member of International Thriller Writers, Pennwriters and the Historical Novel Society. Liz lives in the Laurel Highlands with her husband and a very spoiled retired-racer greyhound.

Catch Up With Liz Milliron:
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Review of Bone Pendant Girls by Terry S. Friedman (#contests, Win some Jewlery and swag)

BONE PENDANT GIRLS

by Terry S. Friedman

February 10 - March 7, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE ANDI WYNDHAM SERIES

Beware the Fisherman.

Andi Wyndham has communicated with spirits since she was a kid. When a bone pendant carved into the likeness of a girl's face calls to her at a gem show in Pennsylvania, she can't resist buying it and a sister piece. When she discovers the girls are missing runaways and the pendants are made of human bone, Andi is drawn into a mystery that will force her to confront her gifts, her guilt, and the ghosts haunting her.

Pendant Girls Mariah and Bennie urge Andi to find a man they call "Fisherman," a master of disguise. Teaming up with a handsome private eye and a South Carolina sheriff, Andi must find the girls' bodies and put their souls to rest, before the Fisherman casts his deadly net to trap Andi.

Book Details:

Genre: Paranormal Thriller, Suspense, Mystery, Southern
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: February 25, 2025
Number of Pages: 496
ISBN: 9780744307931 (ISBN10: 0744307937)
Series: Andi Wyndham, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | CamCat Books | Goodreads | Audible

Read an excerpt:

Ginkgo leaves drifted down like butterfly wings outside the gem show. They made a yellow carpet on the walkway to the boarding school's gymnasium. Within the swirling leaves, Andi heard a voice. Hollow metallic vowels rustled like leaves in gutters. Consonants scratched and thumped like animals trapped in heating ducts. When the frantic skittering of syllables merged into words, a ghostly plea slipped into her consciousness. Trapped . . . help.

"You'll find your way to the Other Side," Andi whispered.

Some days, the spirits refused to leave her in peace. Turning off spirits' voices was like trying to keep a snake in a bird cage. The Shadows had been with her since she was four. Her mother had sent those spirits to watch over her. But the voice she heard today was not the Shadows. They rarely spoke.

Please . . . help.

Andi opened the door. "I'm not the one to help you," she told the young voice. "I attract bad men."

The ticket ladies took her money and stamped her hand. She scanned from one end of the gymnasium to the other. So many vendors. Where to start. Left past the fossils to a station called P&S Lapidary. They always had unique pieces.

Please . . . ma'am. The whisper had a faint Southern lilt.

"Aw come on. Hijack someone else's head. Go see my ex-husband. Convince him to give me all his money." Andi looked left and right to make sure no one had heard. No need to worry. Odds were good that at least one other person in the crowd talked to herself.

Andi made her way through thirty stations. Through bargain-bound women rummaging in bins of clearance beads, through vendors taking orders to set stones, through miles of bead strands, she searched for the perfect happy, shiny piece. Twice around the gym, and that whispering voice drilled its way into her conscience again.

Please . . . buy . . . me.

Cripes! The urgency of that sweet young voice. She heaved a sigh. "Hope you're not expensive. Where are you?" Her feet ached and the place was stifling hot. "Where?"

Over here!

She couldn't see a damn thing through the shoppers lined up two people deep at the stations. Up on her toes, down, from foot to foot, sideways. A tiring, annoying dance. Andi shivered despite the stuffy gymnasium.

Here!

Easing her way through the shoppers, she peered into a glass display case. Malachite beads, a red coral branch necklace, two strands of ringed freshwater pearls, and one pendant with a cameo-style face etched in bone.

The vendor with a bolo tie looked like her ninth grade geography teacher. "Let me open that for you. The face pendants are going fast. Only two left." He lifted the hinged glass cover.

Me! A loud whisper from the carved pendant with a girl's face.

Andi looked intently at it. Like most cameos, the face was a side profile. Tendrils of the girl's curly hair escaped an upswept hairdo, framing her face. At first, she appeared to be asleep. Then the girl's face turned and studied her too, eyes blinking as if she'd just awakened. Andi shivered. In the spirit world she'd inherited from her mother, voices whispered. Images in jewelry didn't move.

What now? She spoke silently. Subconscious to subconscious.

Hurry, ma'am! Buy . . .

A woman who reeked of Chanel No. 5 snatched the face pendant from the case.

"Excuse me," Andi said. "I came here to buy that piece. It called to me." There now, she'd admitted she was crazy. She gave a lopsided grin and a shrug. "Please could I have it?"

"Sorry, hon. I got here first." A condescending glance at Andi, and the lady wrapped her bratwurst fingers around the pendant.

"Not to worry, ladies," the seller told them. "I have another like this." He pushed the tablecloth aside, reached under the table, and pulled out a second pendant. "It's stunning with Namibian Pietersite accents. I could let you have it for the same price."

No . . . me. An adamant voice.

"I don't want the other pendant," Andi said. "I came here for the one in her hand." At the next booth, a woman holding a jade jar stopped talking and stared at her. Andi blushed, knowing she sounded like a petulant child.

Suddenly, Chanel Lady gasped. "Ouch! Awful thing cut me. It has sharp edges." A thin line of blood welled on her finger, and she dropped the pendant as if it had bitten her.

Andi caught it before it hit the floor. The silver bezel felt ice-cold. A young girl's eyes gazed up at her and blinked. Thanks, ma'am.

She stared at the pendant. Her mother had warned about spirits attaching to people. If spirits attached, she'd said, terrible things could happen.

Chanel Lady cradled the darker pendant. Not a word was uttered from it. Maybe the tea-stained piece believed in being seen and not heard. Its bone face was younger. Pietersite in the top bezel had chatoyancy, a luminous quality. Thin wavy splotches of browns, blacks, reds, and yellows swirled through the dark stone like tiny ice crystals in frozen latte.

"Yes. I like this one better. Excellent quality Pietersite," Chanel Lady said.

"If you don't mind, I'll take her payment first." The seller probably wanted to send the woman to another station before she started a fight with his customers.

"No problem. Is this ivory?" Andi asked. Whether vendors called it mammoth bone or not, elephants didn't deserve to be slaughtered for jewelry.

"Absolutely not. Wouldn't sell it if it was. Cow bone," he assured her.

A triumphant smirk aimed at Andi, and Chanel Lady made her way through the crowd. Subduing an impulse to give her the middle finger, Andi turned back to the pendant. She studied the heart-shaped face, turned it over and winced at the tiny price sticker. Was she insane? Andi couldn't afford that; she'd lost her teaching job.

"I'll need your address and email." The seller handed her a clipboard.

She'd fought over it and won, no changing her mind now. While he charged her credit card, Andi filled out the information for his mailing list. Then she weaved through the shoppers to find a quiet corner by the concessions stand.

What the hell. The pendant was a dose of credit card therapy. Unzipping the plastic sleeve, she lifted the piece by the bail. Two bezels set in silver. One disk held labradorite, a luminous blue stone with black veins, and in the second bezel, a face carved in bone. She shifted it in her palm, studying the details. Had light played with the image, making it look like the girl moved? It would warm at the touch of her skin.

Once more around the gym, and she left the show, slogging through the field toward her car, wondering how a whispering girl had convinced her to buy a pricey pendant. Yet, she had a sense that something other than her credit card bill had changed.

***

Excerpt from Bone Pendant Girls by Terry S. Friedman. Copyright 2024 by Terry S. Friedman. Reproduced with permission from Terry S. Friedman. All rights reserved.

 

 REVIEW:

 
When I received the book in the mail, I was impressed by its quality and the unique, enticing cover. If I had seen this novel in a bookstore, I would have picked up a copy immediately. However, let's move on to the review.

Many novels take me several pages to get into the story, but this one was different. After reading just a few pages, I knew I would enjoy it.

The protagonist, Ali, has a unique gift: she can communicate with the spirit world. The story takes off when she discovers two pendants at a gem show and speaks to spirits for the first time. The narrative unfolds across two timelines, and the author skillfully blends them. The Pendant Girls are runaways who were abducted and killed by a man known as the "Fisherman." The Ghost Girls, Eli, Andi's private investigator, and the Shadow People set out to find the "Fisherman" and solve the mystery.

Suspense, paranormal elements, and romance combine to create a compelling mystery with excellent writing, great characters, and a great story line. The book was easy to read and finished quickly. I look forward to reading the author's next book when it is  published.

 

Author Bio:

Terry Friedman is a writer and a rockhound. Her novel, BONE PENDANT GIRLS, a paranormal thriller, was published by CamCat January 30, 2024.

Terry began her writing career freelancing for a small newspaper outside Philadelphia. While raising her daughters Jessica and Chelie in West Chester, PA, she taught English for decades and traveled abroad with students. Terry earned an M.F.A. from Wilkes University and also graduated from the FBI Citizens Academy. Thirteen of her fiction and non-fiction pieces have been published, and she co-edited Delaware Valley Mystery Writers' short stories anthology. DEATH KNELL V.

She is an award-winning author. In 2022 the Southeastern Writers Association awarded her first place in their writing contest for her humor piece, second place for BONE PENDANT GIRLS in a fiction category, and an honorable mention for THE BANSHEE'S WAIL, an unpublished Irish novel. She is a Killer Nashville Claymore Finalist in the Supernatural category.

A Pennwriters Board member and a member of Sisters in Crime, she currently writes thrillers from coastal South Carolina. Terry has traveled the world from Fiji to Delphi and brings to her writing a solid respect for things that go bump in the night.

Catch Up With Terry S. Friedman:
www.TerryFriedmanAuthor.com
Amazon Author Profile
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