Please help me welcome today’s guest, Mary Georgina de Grey…
Is this a dangerous move, especially if you have a tried and tested formula?
Did you read Disappeared by M.G. de Grey after my last article for Alicia? If so, I hope that you enjoyed it. It was a big step away from my usual modus operandi, but so far, I’ve had some very positive reviews and comments – and I really enjoyed writing it. If you read it, please do write a review.
Now I’m back to romance with Let the Music Play On, and once again I’ve tried something different. Instead of my usual international settings, I’ve placed the characters, Phaedra and Marcus, in a small town in my local area. Working on the book was in many ways a very similar process to earlier experiences, but also so different. It seemed to require much more research whereas, had you asked me before, I would have said the opposite would be the case.
The town of Totnes is a mystic centre in Devon; people really believe in taking care of the goods the Earth provides, and there are some bona fide worshippers of the Earth Goddess, Gaia – remember NASA chemist James Lovelock’s theories about living beings and non-living beings interacting positively to form a harmonious environment? I discovered there are even witches – the white variety, I understand – who meet up in a hotel down the road from where I live.
Though I certainly haven’t written about mysticism, this background provided context. I have centred on herbalism and how chemist Phaedra, who works in a research laboratory in the capital, moves to South-Devon to heal her wounds and brings her scientific skills to bear on the herbalism she grew up with to set her life on a new course. The approach of her mother, a notable herbalist, had left an indelible mark on her psyche.
Writing this novel, I fell into exactly the traps I warned against in my last article and had to remove an entire chapter (so upsetting to lose 2,000 words, but essential). The whole thing then lacked conflict, and I found myself writing two completely new chapters. I knew something was wrong from the start, but it’s thanks to my Beta readers that I was able to pinpoint the problems and improve things.
To answer the question posed at the beginning, there are advantages and disadvantages to doing this.
I get bored easily and taking a new approach certainly challenged me and forced me to look at things differently.
With the thriller I was constantly asking myself what was appropriate and what should definitely not be included, trying to better understand the genre.
When working on Let the Music Play On, I learned never to ignore the basic rules. You have a good story, but it has to match reader expectations of the genre.
Both these books are No.1 in a Series, so the hard work at the start will not be wasted.
Conclusion: Have a go – it’s only a small risk and there’s a lot to be gained.
Mary Georgina de Grey, October 2026
You can find Let the Music play On only on Amazon at the moment.
When disaster strikes, chemist Phaedra Marchant abandons her sophisticated London life for the little Devon town of Totnes. It’s charming and she hopes it will prove a good place to heal a broken heart.
She’s worked out a plan to build a new career centred on growing herbs, sustainability and natural products. After all, for the daughter of herbalist Gaia, whose obsessions now appear visionary, it’s a logical move. And if she pours all her energies into that, she won’t have time to dwell on the events that tore her life apart.
An accident put paid to violinist Marcus Rowe’s ambitions on the international stage, and now he’s carving out a career repairing stringed instruments and playing keyboard and violin with The Quartet.
His own tragic circumstances make him sensitive to Phaedra’s pain, but is this enough to break through the barriers she has built? Or could her intense focus on the new business condemn them both to a life without love?
Mary Georgina de Grey, writer of contemporary romance and thrillers
Mary Georgina started writing fiction ten years ago and has written several romances and one thriller. The main character is always a strong young woman determined to make her way in the world, and essentially to establish a loving relationship.
As a linguist, Mary Georgina uses the setting of various countries she’s worked in for her novels.
Please help me welcome today’s guest, M.S. Spencer…
The Red Hat Society is, yes, a real organization. Inspired by the gift of a red hat to Sue Ellen Cooper in Fullerton, California in 1997, it grew to 40,000 chapters by 2003. Its founding motto comes from Jenny Joseph’s poem “Warning”: When I am old I shall wear a purple dress and a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me. According to their website: “The Red Hat Society is our own women’s movement, of sorts – placing a strong emphasis on the positive aspects of life. We stress the importance of friendship and sisterhood, and the value of recess (play) into our busy lives.” It is primarily for women over 50.
The Red Hats of Penhallow diverge slightly from the norm. In the words of the heroine Zoe Thibodeau, they are “consummate conspiracy theorists, especially when in their cups. They do good works and get soused on a regular basis. I believe it’s in their bylaws.”
Edna Mae Quimby, the wife of the county sheriff and president of the Penhallow chapter of the Red Hat Society, is a force of nature. Penhallow residents had long ago given up resisting her when she’s on a mission. We see her in action in the excerpt below.
Blurb
At midnight on a deserted island, Gunnar Nordstrom, assistant secretary of the Interior, falls from the sky, to be ripped to shreds by the blades of a wind turbine. Was it murder or a dreadful accident?
Sebastian Guthrie—the lone witness—is rushed into the witness protection program, but is it for his safety or that of someone else?
Nordstrom was about to approve an offshore wind farm in Maine, a project opposed by all but a handful of people. Sebastian finds an ally in Zoe Thibodeau, and together they sort through a Gordion knot of dead ends, red herrings, murders, and suspects. Is it all to do with the wind farm, or is there a much darker secret buried under the trail of corpses?
Excerpt:
Edna Mae
Yapp ostentatiously opened a file on his desk. “Thank you for your input. I’ll note it in the file.” Without looking up, he said, “You can see yourselves out.”
Edna Mae—who had been suspiciously quiet during the conversation—squeaked, “How can you dismiss murder so easily?”
Yapp’s eyes widened. “Murder?”
Bobby said quickly, “Edna Mae, I have to get back to Amity. Come along.” He hustled her out of the office.
They had arrived at the front entrance when they heard yelling from outside. Zoe recognized the harsh tones. “That’s Mr. Copley.”
Bobby said dauntingly, “And he’s butting heads with Larry Boudreau. Great.” He pointed through the glass door.
Copley was yelling, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of my face, Boudreau.”
Larry—his expression fierce—flailed his arms. “You killed my baby brother. And you killed that woman too. What did you do with her, anyway?”
Copley flushed. “I killed no one, you buffoon. You’re strait-jacket material, you are.”
“You’ll do anything to get the contract.” Larry looked suddenly cagey. “Maybe you killed the boss man too.”
Copley shoved him aside. “I don’t need to listen to any of this.” He pushed the door open and rushed past the three friends, standing with their mouths open.
Larry called after him. “What did you do with the lady, Copley? Where’d you take her? Huh? Huh?”
He was still baying at Copley’s retreating back when Zoe approached. She touched Larry’s shoulder. “Larry? What makes you think Mr. Copley murdered those people?”
He pivoted. “Who are you?”
“I’m Zoe Thibodeau. This is Bobby B. Goode and Edna Mae Quimby. We were meeting with Mr. Yapp.”
He gave Edna Mae an unconsciously rude once-over. “I know you. You’re the sheriff’s wife.”
This seemed to disconcert Edna Mae. She blubbered, “Why yes. How did—”
Larry spat. “You’re wasting your time with Yapp. Bureaucrat. He only knows one thing—how to cover his heinie.”
Zoe repeated her question patiently. “Why did you accuse Mr. Copley of murder?”
Larry looked at her like she was an idiot. “He’s a capitalist, isn’t he? They’re all murderers.”
Bobby nudged Zoe. “Let’s go.”
They were in the car before Edna Mae spoke. “I will have much to report to the sheriff.”
Zoe gaped at her. “What are you talking about? We got nothing from Yapp, and Larry is obviously non compos mentis. This trip was a compete bust.”
Edna Mae said comfortably, “Nonetheless. Mr. Yapp is hiding something, and Larry knows more than he thinks he knows.”
“Oh really? What, pray tell?” The old lady’s complacency was beginning to fray Zoe’s nerves.
“Didn’t you hear what he asked that developer?”
“He made some screwy accusation about murder.”
“He asked him what he did with the body.”
“So?”
“He didn’t ask that about the others. Larry’s brother was found crushed by a whale, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And the first fellow fell out of a plane.”
“A drone, but yes.”
“According to Tobias, Mr. Higgins found Luanne’s body in the yacht. Larry didn’t mention a boat. He obviously doesn’t know where she was found. So how did he know she was murdered?”
Award-winning, multi-published author M. S. Spencer has lived or traveled in five of the seven continents and holds degrees in Anthropology, Middle East Studies, and Library Science. She has worked as a librarian, anthropologist, research assistant, Congressional aide, speechwriter, and nonprofit director. In September, 2026 she will have published nineteen romantic suspense and mystery novels. She has two children, an exuberant granddaughter, and currently divides her time between the Gulf Coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.
One Uncovered Summer is a gripping, emotional, well-written novel with a cast of realistic and sympathetic characters with so much depth, you will feel like ou know them personally. The setting is autenthic and vivid. J.W. masterfully brings the 1970s era to life. Secrets, tragedy, family, friendship and twists combine to make this an unforgettable read. I highly recommend you check it out. And…bonus…it’s available on Kindle Unlimited!
Winnie came to Texas expecting summer fun. Instead, she uncovered a family curse—and a baby running out of time.
When Winnie Beaumont and her mother move to her family’s hometown of Arcanum, Texas, Winnie expects the summer of 1978 to be filled with nothing but fun and adventures with her best friend and cousin, Mary Lynn. When the two thirteen-year-olds discover a secret family curse that causes each woman’s newborn to be stillborn, however, it becomes a race against the clock as they seek for a way to break its spell before Mary Lynn’s older sister has her first child in August.
Winnie soon finds that one secret leads to another, and before long she is grappling with questions of trust, privacy, and her own personal lineage as she slowly uncovers the truth. From her mentally unstable Aunt Helen, to her mother, to Mary Lynn herself, everyone seems to be hiding something. Winnie finds that answers aren’t always cut-and-dried, and black and white often fades to gray.
Excerpt:
Zebulon awoke to the sound of Annie calling. What she had said was unclear, but the voice was bright and sweet, and his heart leapt as he peered into the darkness.
“What is it,” he croaked, rubbing his eyes.
Come to me
“Where are you?”
I’m just here, in the next room
“I’m coming.”
He swung his legs out of bed and grabbed his cane. He opened the bedroom door with a creak and groped his way to the next room. Squinting as he flipped on the light, he entered.
Cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly in every corner, the furniture standing like ghosts, covered in white sheets. This, he remembered, had been his wife’s bedroom after she had gotten sick. There had been a nurse then, to see to her needs throughout the day, although he had administered the morphine and other medicines himself, little good they had done. He could still smell the odor of her sweat and the bedpan, hear her labored breathing, though the room was used for nothing but storage now.
Come to me the voice said again. It was strong and smiling. I miss you.
“I miss you too,” he answered, sitting heavily upon the draped bed. “But I can’t come. Not yet.”
Why?
“Something I still need to do here. Something to set right.”
It wasn’t your fault. What’s done is done. You can’t change the past.
“It’s not the past I’m thinking of. It’s the future.”
There was silence then, and a great weariness and confusion fell upon him. Was he crazy? Sometimes he wasn’t sure. The past was so long gone, but sometimes it felt as near as a whisper, a cobweb he could step through. The house had been full of children once; their laughter had filled the halls. Sometimes he still heard the echoes.
“I’ll come soon,” he finally whispered. “I’m so tired.”
I know you are, darling
“I don’t sleep well. I have so many dreams. I need your little body next to mine. The bed is too big and cold.”
Come to me. As soon as you can
She was gone. He felt her melt away, sending a wake of longing through his chest.
“Daddy?”
He turned to see Pearl framed in the doorway, forehead creased.
“Dad, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I was just talking to your mother.”
She came and rested a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s get you back in bed. It’s stuffy in here.”
He allowed himself to be led back to his room, where his daughter helped him climb into his bed and tucked the covers under his chin, as his mother had years before. The cobweb melted away again, and he was a child once more.
“Can I go fishing tomorrow, after my chores?” he asked.
“Of course,” Pearl said as she dropped a kiss on his cheek. “Anything you want.”
“Pancakes?”
“Those too.”
Her footsteps faded as she moved away, and he smiled in the darkness. He would use his new rod and reel, a gift from father on his last birthday. He would catch a million catfish. Mother would fry them in batter and bacon grease, and he would eat them with the corn that he had picked the day before. He would stay up til dark and catch fireflies with his little sister.
The air conditioner in the window rattled on and he drifted into sleep carried on its hum, still making plans for a future that was long entombed in the past.
Award-Winning Finalist in the American Fiction Awards for Historical Mystery/Suspense!
The year is 1856. White pine is king of the forest. The last thing Jonathan Wain wants to do is ride miles through Pennsylvania’s wilderness to help his father’s logging partner in the small settlement of Clearfield. His family owns clipper ships in the Chesapeake Bay that carry the coveted logs to the markets each spring, and they can’t afford a loss.
The last thing Wilhelmina Wydcliffe wants is a handsome sea captain from Maryland meddling in her father’s logging operations under attack by unknown enemies. A feisty tomboy and better known as Willie to her crews, she has a dream to be the largest logging operator east of the Mississippi River.
When both Willie’s and Jonathan’s lives are threatened, they are forced to work together to find their enemies before both of their companies are in shambles. But as their attraction to each other escalates, can they set aside their differences, unearth the truth and troublemakers, and discover contentment in each other’s arms?
Welcome to the Sunny Side Up Diner, where the jukeboxes jive and the secrets thrive…
With things at her Sunny Side Up Diner sailing along smoothly for once, Jax Tapman has turned her attention to her personal life. It’s time to meet the boyfriend’s mother in person. And while Jax isn’t totally certain she’s up to the challenge, she agrees to show Eliot’s mom around a local retirement home. It sounds innocent enough, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to sell the woman on the idea of moving to be closer to her son. But instead of making her case, when Jax enters the model apartment, she and her potential in-law find one dead body and a whole lot of secrets!
Suddenly it’s up to Jax to discover who the retirement home killer is—a task that only gets harder when someone from Eliot’s past shows up and might know far more about the crime than she’s letting on.
The Sunny Side Up Diner is jumping with gossip, Jax and her best friend Dani are running interference, and Eliot’s mom is calling all the shots. But sorting out chaos and minimizing damage is something Jax has grown accustomed to, if she can only get a clue.
Miami attorney Bet Lenard has had a rough year. She’s battling an unknown illness that drives her to drink to cope with her pain. Her lawyer husband has divorced her and taken the best part of their business, their home and their children. On the night of May 16, 1996, Bet finds herself in the Everglades in the middle of the night, drugged, lost and next to a burned car with a dead body in it.
Hoping she’s hit bottom, Bet must drag herself out of her living hell and discover who tried to kill her. Was it her ex-husband, not satisfied with stealing everything that mattered? An angry client, unhappy with the outcome of their case? Her best friend’s husband, livid that Bet’s restraining order kicked him out of her life forever? Police officers fuming that Bet helped a client convict a dirty cop who was their friend? She has no idea.
As she tries to sort out the motives behind her would-be killer, even more suspects come to light. The only thing keeping Bet sane is her relationship with her therapist, who encourages her to struggle and survive, despite everything that’s gone wrong. How will Bet discover the truth and bring her enemy to justice before they strike again and, this time, succeed?
When 18-year-old Destiny Wyrd stumbles upon her beloved local bookstore owner beaten and unconscious, she realizes her once-peaceful community has become a supernatural battleground. As a Fate-in-Training, Destiny has the extraordinary ability to halt death, but her own unresolved grief over the loss of her parents looms like a dark cloud, weakening her powers. With demons stalking the shadows and soul-sucking Grim Reapers closing in, she must harness her magic and fight back. Thrust into a race against time to save her friends and her town, she teams up with the enigmatic and dangerously charming Clay, a Grim who bears secrets of his own. Can she protect her heart, conquer her fears and embrace her fate, or will darkness claim them all?
Please help me welcome today’s guest, Susie Black…
Please tell us a little about yourself. Where are you from? Where do you live now? Family? Pets?
SUSIE: I am originally from New Jersey, but have spent the lion’s share of my life in Southern California. I’ve been married to the same man for 44 years, and he still makes me laugh every day. We have one adult son who is a linguistic psychologist and lives overseas. No pets now. Losing them was just too painful.
Where did you get the idea for The Forecast is…Murder!
SUSIE: I live in the California desert. One of the local news station investigative reporters I follow had recently relocated to Palm Springs from New Jersey and was quite vocal regarding the challenge of acclimating to our severe weather. Naturally, I pondered, “What if?” And the rest, as they say, is history.
Why did you choose this genre? Is it something you’ve written in before?
SUSIE:I chose to write in the cozy mystery genre because I love solving puzzles. To date, I have published 1 non-cozy prequel to the cozies, 9 cozy mysteries, and cozy number 10 will be released in October of this year for a total of 11 published books.
Was there anything unusual, any anecdote about this book, the characters, title, process, etc, you’d like to share?
SUSIE:Writing a murder mystery that featured weather as a main character with a life of its own was an interesting challenge.
What is the most difficult thing about writing a book?
SUSIE: I am a champ at writing a great beginning and a blockbuster ending, but the “mushy middle” of the plot always gives me heartburn. To avoid getting trapped in the mushy middle,I write the beginning and ending, but allow the characters to direct the middle. However, they know if they screw it up, I take over, and there is a chance one of them will either be written out of the story or killed off. So, they are motivated to do a great job, and they absolutely, positively CANNOT change the ending.
What was the most difficult thing about this one in particular?
SUSIE:Writing how weather, both positively and negatively, impacted the murder investigation.
Are there any tricks, habits, or superstitions you have when creating a story?
SUSIE: Some writers plot their stories while driving, some while in the shower. I plot all mine while walking a 5-mile regimen during the day. I am a night owl, so the writing itself comes after dark. I always have a cup of strong, black coffee on my writing desk next to the computer and only drink out of my lucky mug that my Nana gave me when I first got into the swimwear industry. The mug says: “Things could be worse…we could be trying on swimsuits.” When I am finished with a writing session, at the end of the paragraph or chapter I stopped at, I write myself an instruction for what comes next at that spot in the manuscript.
Do you collect anything?
SUSIE: Yes. Since I was a teenager, I have been an avid stamp collector. I have incorporated this hobby into the protagonist’s persona in The Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series. I learned valuable storytelling techniques that I used in my mysteries from the wonderful stamp dealer from my youth who had a story about every stamp I purchased from him.
What’s the main thing that you could get rid of in your life that would give you more writing time?
SUSIE: My cell phone, the internet, and all social media.
What’s your favorite book of all time and why?
SUSIE: The Diary of Anne Frank. This book spoke to me as no other book ever has. Anne Frank was a teenager living in mortal danger who still had dreams, plans, and desires that any kid her age would. Her positive outlook on life despite her circumstances changed the way I looked at life, my values, and what was important to me. She would have been amazed at the impact she had on so many people like me.
What’s your favorite childhood book?
SUSIE: My favorite childhood books were the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries. I credit these two series with introducing me to puzzle-solving, which eventually led to writing cozy mysteries.
Would you rather have a bad review or no review?
SUSIE: I would rather have a bad review than no review. As a sales exec, I learned that you can’t always please everyone. I also learned to accept rejection and that I would learn more from my failures than I would from my successes. I try to learn something from the criticism and turn a negative review into a positive by improving my writing and not repeating the same mistake in another manuscript.
What is your favorite quote?
SUSIE: I have two: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” “God put our heads on facing forward for a reason.”
What do you want your tombstone to say?
SUSIE: The End.
What is the toughest criticism given to you as an author?
SUSIE: “If you can say it in five words, she says it in twenty.”
What has been the best compliment?
SUSIE: “I stayed up all night reading your book. I simply could not go to sleep and not know what happened next.”
Your favorite…
Movie: Some Like It Hot
Music: Oldies rock ‘n roll: The Beach Boys, The Beatles, and Elvis.
Place you’ve visited: a tie between Cancun, Mexico, and Tahiti.
Place you’d like to visit: Alaska
TV show from childhood: Captain Kangaroo
TV show from Adulthood: a tie between MASH and All in the Family
Food: Pizza
Sports Team: LA Dodgers
Which do you prefer: Board games/card games or television?
Board games.
Nothing turns out the way you think it will
Blurb:
The United Television Network exiles disgraced investigative reporter Sunny Knight to a remote California desert affiliate. Sunny is informed by the station owner that, since nothing happens in the middle of nowhere, the station does not need an investigative reporter, and she is now the weather reporter. After they have a vicious altercation, the station owner’s bridge partner is discovered dead, and Sunny’s boss is arrested for the murder. Despite her differences with her boss, Sunny is convinced that the station owner didn’t do it. The wise-cracking, irreverent amateur sleuth jumps into action to nail the real killer. But with a clown car full of viable suspects to investigate, will Sunny bring the right one to justice or become their next victim?
Excerpt:
A stately woman in her mid-sixties opened the door and strode purposefully into the office. Around three inches shorter than me, she carried her rail-thin frame regally—shoulders back, head held high, chin jutted out. A ramrod posture that screamed confidence, control, and power. She wore an expensive-looking sand-colored gauze pantsuit embellished with an embroidered trim and beige macrame sandals with two-inch heels. She styled her salt-and-pepper hair in an upsweep. A jeweled gold comb held the hairdo in place. She sported a set of piercing, steely, wide-set gray eyes that could cut you down to size with a glare that was set above a patrician nose. Her only make-up was a stripe of blood-red lipstick slashed across thin, turned-down lips.
“Mister Durbin,” she glared at Jock and barked in a gravelly voice that sounded as if she gargled with razor blades. “Has the new weather girl managed to grace us with her presence yet?” She tapped the face of a diamond-encrusted watch. “Time is money. And I don’t cotton to anyone wasting either of mine. She must be brought up to speed immediately to take over the eleven o’clock spot tonight.” She drew her lips into a tight, thin line. “The giggly bimbo morning program co-anchor you’ve been using to pinch hit simply won’t do for another segment. The birdbrain is unable to read off of a teleprompter properly, let alone tell the difference between a barometer and a thermometer.”
A nasty sense of superiority coursed through my veins. Then a surprising stab of pity pierced my heart for the poor soul stuck in such a dead-end job.
Jock beamed a hundred-thousand-watt smile at the crabby woman and swept an arm towards me. “Mrs. McClintock,” he purred sweetly as a lover, “Allow me to introduce you to Nelly Dean Knight, our new weather reporter.”
Wait. What? Weather reporter? Who? Me?
She turned her head to follow Jock’s hand as his index finger pointed to me. Mrs. McClintock blinked as she noticed me for the first time.
She eyed me up and down as though examining a head of cattle at an auction. She glanced at Jock’s Hawaiian shirt and rolled her eyes. She clucked her tongue. “At least this one came to work dressed properly…”
She jabbed her right hand out like a fencing sword, clamped her slightly gnarled fingers tightly over mine, and gave my hand a solid shake. “Edwina McClintock. Head honcho of this establishment.”
She let go of my hand and swept hers across the room. “To save us both a lot of time and aggravation, here’s how it works around my shop. I run a tight ship. I don’t put up with crap from anyone…so, don’t even try wasting my time. Show up when you’re supposed to. Come to work prepared. Do your job right. Around here, it’s my way or the highway. Follow my rules, and we’ll get along fine. If not, you and the little still left of your broadcasting career will be history faster than you can say Cactus City.” She narrowed her eyes. “We clear?”
Clear? As mud. Who the hell does she think she’s talking to?
Jock’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars as I snatched my resume off his desk and slapped it into her age-spotted hands.
She glanced at the cover page and shrugged. “So?”
I spoke through gritted teeth. “So, if you bothered to read my resume, you’d see I am an award-winning investigative reporter, not a weather girl, as you disrespectfully referred to me. I dunno who’s supposed to take that dead-end job, but it sure as hell isn’t me.”
Mrs. McClintock narrowed her eyes and studied me curiously, as if I were a newly discovered species.
If the old bat thought she’d intimidate me with her stare-down tactic, she had another thing coming. If you grow up in a house of five kids, you’d better stand up for yourself, or the others will walk all over you.
I tapped my toe impatiently.
Seconds before I was out the door and on my way back to New Jersey, she rolled my resume into a cylinder and smacked it across my arm. She grinned impishly. “You have spunk and guts, young lady. Good on you. I like it.”
She jabbed an index finger into her chest. “You remind me of myself back in the day.”
She tipped her head. “So, here’s the thing. I don’t need an investigative reporter. Truthfully, not enough goes on out here in the middle of nowhere to investigate.” The corners of her downturned lips quirked into a faraway smile. “Mr. McClintock won this station in a poker game twenty-five years ago, and he treated it like a hobby. After he passed, I kept the station for sentimental reasons, but once I chose to hold onto it, I ran it as a business, not a toy.”
She pointed to Jock. “I made the deal with the network under the proviso I’d only be sent the cream of the crop who’d screwed up.” She waved my rolled resume like a baton. “The network sends me every candidate’s resume. Contrary to popular opinion, you weren’t forced down my throat. I could have rejected you, but instead I chose to select you. Why? Because you have a brain and a moral compass—a rarity in the broadcast biz.”
She pointed to a window. “Mr. McClintock and I made our money in the date business. If your fortune depends on the weather, you’d better pay close attention to it and learn to anticipate Mother Nature’s wrath and respect it, or you’ll go broke in the blink of an eye.”
She shook the resume at me. “We can do each other some good. You need a way back into the industry, which I can provide, and I need someone who understands the importance of accuracy in reporting.”
I said, “If the weather reporter is such a critical job, shouldn’t it go to a trained meteorologist?”
She dipped her head. “A reasonable assumption…thirty years ago. Now, thanks to modern technology, a reporter pulls all the information right from the US Weather Service website.”
I grinned. “You don’t need to pay a reporter for the job. Nancy, the receptionist, is qualified. How hard is it to say it’s going to be beastly hot today and a little less hot tonight?”
She steepled her fingers as though she were in prayer. “Lives and livelihoods depend on the weather in this little corner of the world. The key to the job is the way you explain the forecast to our viewers and its meaning to their lives.” She pursed her lips. “You can maximize the importance of any position by the way you approach it. Why not use your investigative skills to go into the field and report how our severe and often unpredictable weather impacts the residents and the economy? Don’t discount the job for a single minute. The weather reporter is critically important to the community we serve.”
The madame missed her métier. She should have gone into sales.
I arched a brow. “Okay, just for the sake of argument, say I agree there’s more to the job than meets the eye. Show me the compensation package.”
Jock handed her a manila folder. She opened it and pushed a sheet of paper over to me.
I scanned it and burst out laughing. I stood and held out my hand. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll make a lot more as a mortuary cosmetician.”
Mrs. McClintock wrinkled her nose. “Good grief. Talk about a grim career choice. That one wins the gold medal.”
I grinned. “Grim, yes, but since death is inevitable, you’re never out of work.”
Mrs. McClintock took a pencil from Jock’s desk and put the sheet of paper between us. “Before you go, just to be sure you understand how much you’re walking away from, let’s go over the offer sheet in detail.”
I rolled my eyes. “Go over it all you want, but the numbers don’t lie. You’re offering a salary of $26,000 a year gross before taxes. How you expect me to live on it is a mystery. I earned double the salary in Newark.”
She nodded. “I did my homework. For a single person to live modestly in Newark, the normal minimum annual income is $46,000. In the first place, the cost of living here is a lot lower than in Newark. But putting that aside, if you don’t focus on the salary and consider the benefits we include, then this offer is quite generous.”
Mrs. McClintock tapped the pencil eraser on the offer sheet. “We offer company-paid health and dental insurance and a non-taxable pension plan that we match dollar for dollar. We offer free housing to our broadcast staff. For a single woman, we provide a furnished two-bedroom two-bath Spanish-style hacienda with utilities, including air conditioning, that you live in rent-free. Trust me, the power bill alone would eat up the lion’s share of your take-home salary. This is a turnkey, professionally decorated home. Just show up with your toothbrush. Our staff also enjoys a generous discount at the supermarket and pharmacy I own here in town.”
She pushed the offer sheet closer to me. “Remember, Ms. Knight, it’s not how much you earn, it’s how much you keep.” She grinned. “And let’s face it, I don’t care how much money they pay you; this is a helluva lot better gig compared to preparing corpses for funerals.”
Named Best US Author of the Year by N. N. Lights Book Heaven, multi-award-winning cozy mystery author Susie Black was born in the Big Apple but now calls sunny Southern California home. She has published ten books in five years, and book eleven is slated for release in October 2026. She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an accent that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is trying to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her core food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector and devoted sailor. Susie lives with a highly intelligent man and is the mother of one incredibly brainy but smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited genetic defect.
Please help me welcome today’s guests, Amber Daulton and Ángel Rascón…
People talk about wicked men like we crawl out of the dark already ruined. Like the choices come easy. Like the line between right and wrong snaps clean. I used to believe that, too, until the day Marisol knelt beside me on the sidewalk and kept me alive with her bare hands.
I’d been shot. Heat tore through my chest and shoulder. Blood soaked my shirt and pooled under me. A drive‑by isn’t personal until you’re the one bleeding out on the street, trying to stay conscious long enough to figure out who pulled the trigger. I should’ve died there. Fate disagreed.
When I woke up the next day in the hospital, Marisol was there. She’d stayed overnight in her blood-smeared clothes just to make sure I pulled through the surgery. We were strangers, but her kindness hooked its claws into me.
That’s when I developed my new favorite passion—stalking.
I filed a background check on her, and once released from the hospital, I drove by her house. More than once. All right, a dozen times. Then I waited in her yard, behind the bushes, along the fence line, watching her move through her life like she wasn’t the reason I was still breathing.
Six weeks of recovery gave me too much time to think. Her voice replayed in my head. The memory of her touch. The sassy sweetness in her smile. The huskiness in her laugh. I built an innocent version of her in my mind and wanted the real woman in my life. I fell in love with the idea of her.
Before long, I knew her routine—when she slept, what she ate, where she went, who she associated with—and I learned one very important thing. She was as lonely as me.
Thankfully, she’s a physical therapist and agreed to take me on as a patient. She hadn’t seen me since the hospital, but when I walked into her treatment room for my first session, it had only been a few hours since I last watched her from the shadows.
She was mine to protect. She just didn’t know it yet.
Wicked men with a passion like mine justify everything. I’m no different.
When my crewmate, Bruno, broke into her home, I couldn’t keep to the shadows anymore. I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. I went straight through that door and dragged the man off her. Turns out, her brother stole from the cartel. To get the money back, my crew figured the best way to find him was to target her. Now, my loyalties are tested. But one thing will never change.
Marisol is mine. You touch her, you pay the price.
If that makes me wicked, then fine. I’m as wicked as they come. And I don’t regret a damn thing.
He was never supposed to touch her. Now he’ll kill to protect her.
Blurb:
A drive-by shooting lands him in the hospital. And in the arms of temptation.
Cartel enforcer Ángel Rascón knows he should stay away from the woman who saved his life. Marisol is a sensual blend of fire and innocence, irresistible to his inner beast. She’s also the little sister of a man now on the run from the cartel—Ángel’s friend and former partner. Getting involved with her could destroy everything he’s worked for, but when she’s threatened, it’s game on.
Physical therapist Marisol Cruz knows Ángel is dangerous, yet he’s always there. Watching. Waiting. Wanting. After her brother’s enemies track her down, Ángel appoints himself her protector with every intoxicating kiss.
Ángel will have to risk his position—and his life—to keep her safe. But Marisol faces the most devastating choice of all. Loving her stubborn enforcer may mean losing her brother forever.
Excerpt:
Ángel latched the squeaky iron gate behind him and crept across Marisol’s darkened front yard. The soothing droll of crickets masked the sound of his footsteps while the overgrown trees, shrubs, and cacti at the far property line shielded him from any nosy neighbors. Not that she had any in this quiet, working-class neighborhood on the city’s outskirts. As he braced himself against the side of her house, the rough stucco scraped his jacket and the back of his head as it always did. Yellow light poured from the living room window in horizontal beams as though to expose him.
Fuck that. He wasn’t an amateur.
Faint music seeped from inside the house.
He smirked, willing to bet his bank account that Marisol was streaming reruns of her favorite telenovela. Desperate for a glimpse of her, he pressed closer toward the glass pane and peered through the slatted blinds.
Inside, Marisol was bundled under a thick red-and-green checkered quilt on the sofa and cheered like a love-struck teenager over something that happened on the TV.
Damn right. He knew his woman well. From the high-stakes story lines to the nineteenth-century period costumes, Las Sombras del Imperio had found its way into countless living rooms across the country. Including his own.
After the program ended, Marisol turned off the television, slipped on her fuzzy house shoes, and grabbed her dinner plate and glass.
He darted around the house and ducked under a mesquite branch in the side yard. The crisp breeze rustled through the leafy branches, swept back his hair, and chilled his skin. Gritting his teeth, he huddled deeper into his denim jacket. His thick, cable-knit shirt caught against the hard ridge over his collarbone, irritating the taut skin. A deep, metallic chill radiated from the inside out, numbing the fracture site with a dull ache. He yanked the collar away from his neck and cursed.
Light now streamed out from the kitchen window.
As the rambunctious mutt next door yapped at something stirring in the bushes, Marisol peered out the glass into the darkness. Fine lines crimped her face.
Ángel slunk deeper into the shadowy foliage. Once she focused on washing the dishes, he swiped a branch out of his way and rolled his tight, sore shoulders. A low grunt tore from his mouth.
Distant laughter rang out, disrupting the tranquility of the night.
He pulled his phone from his jeans back pocket and checked his notifications. Nothing from Raul. Or Muniz. What the hell was going on with them? He slid the cell back in.
A crash echoed from the other side of the house.
Ángel jerked upright.
Marisol flung her dish towel aside and raced out of the kitchen.
“Mierda,” Ángel dashed back around the house and snatched his gun from his hip holster. His pulse thundered in his ears. Icy dread slashed through his stomach.
The front door hung open.
“Get out!” Marisol shouted from inside. Something shattered. “Get out of my house!”
Amber Daulton writes raw, edgy romantic suspense and dark cartel romance featuring high stakes, deep passion, and defiant hearts. She’s the author of the Lozano Cartel, Arresting Onyx, Embracing You, and Ramseys in Time series, as well as a rich catalog of standalone novellas. Her books are available worldwide in digital, print, and select audio formats.
From her home base in North Carolina, she builds dangerous criminal underworlds and maps out fierce, second-chance love stories alongside her supportive husband and her demanding feline writing assistant, Zita.
Please help me welcome today’s guest, M.G. de Grey…
Research for your novel or memoir
Someone said the past is another country. That just means your own memory will be unreliable, particularly if you are going back to childhood, and if you’re going back further, you will have to have to rely on other methods.
Where can you get your material?
Your own experiences. We tend to remember emotions vividly. Transfer these to your characters.
Books, diaries, letters, recorded verbal accounts, old school reports, etc.to provide information about attitudes, culture and living conditions
The internet, particularly for facts, eg. What was the climate like at that time? What events happened? What jobs existed?
Museums and art galleries
People with specific expertise – policeman, midwife, etc. Don’t waste their time. Always go armed with a list of questions and try to get them to talk in a relaxed manner
Photographs, especially to get a sense of place. Keep them on your computer desktop to refer to.
In person
Colombia , in which my thriller Disappeared is set, is a country of huge contrasts: weather, terrain, society, rich and poor, exploiters and exploited, unbelievable beauty.
When I went to work in Colombia, I saw the street kids of Bogotá, hanging around the food stalls, hanging on the backs of lorries, a preferred method of travelling through the city, often falling to their death. They stole to eat, took drugs, dealt drugs. They were killed by citizens annoyed at their presence around the shops and businesses and were trafficked by gangs to be sold for sex or slave labour. These were not only teenagers, but also tiny creatures two or three years old. It was heartbreaking.
But for me, visits to the capital were infrequent, and most of my time was spent on the coast 400 miles to the north. I wouldn’t have known how to start doing something about the situation. What I did do, was keep notes of what I saw.
The research process
This is different for everyone, but you go into research with no concrete agenda and may emerge with a clear idea of how your story unfolds. Research can provide the glue for the various scenes and events or show a new way forward.
There are three prongs to your research:
1)General research, perhaps based on a keyword search e.g. WW2
2)Focussed research, e.g. The boats that came to rescue the soldiers at Dunkirk, and specifically the role of women in that event
Read any books available
Read news articles
See films set in the era
Explore archives
3)Double check the details to develop authentic scenes. Factual Accuracy is essential and will give your reader confidence in the story you tell.
Use Google Maps to ‘walk’ or ‘drive’ down streets (if dealing with something close to the present) or historical maps and photos to capture what things looked like in the past
Clothes
Technology
Language, music, books, etc
Real events
Set Google Alerts to receive newly arrived material on the internet
Save a record of your sources as you go.
A good idea is to ask ‘Would they really do that? Would they have been able to do that?’ If you can’t answer, then the answer is to do more research.
Research can be great fun – or a pitfall which can clog up your narrative. Avoid doing this.
It’s hard to accept but two days of research can result in no more than a single line of text or it may simply influence the atmosphere of what you are writing.
In a novel, try to keep the facts of your research out of the first couple of chapters, and sometimes out of the book altogether.
Instead, gradually show the research as the information becomes necessary.
Example: Imagine you are writing about a young woman who worked as a domestic servant in the early 1900s. You’ve had to do a lot of research into the life of a domestic servant at the time. Here’s how you might possibly include that research and create an authentic background to your story.
Steam rose in the air of the basement and water sloshed into the rinse tub. Ellen pushed the shirt between the rollers and began to turn the wheel of the mangle. Her fingers were reddened and swollen, and she snatched back her hand when the bunched fabric made machine jump.
‘Get on with it, then!’
Mrs Drew, that old witch, didn’t allow any slacking, but one day, she’d escape from all this. She was only just sixteen, but she’d be gone from Boddington Hall by her next birthday. And it wouldn’t be to marry a dullard like Tom Cope.
What do we learn here?
Aspects of life at the time
A few things about Ellen’s background, character and situation
An indication of where the story is moving
I suggested research could also offer a new way forward; how might the story have changed if she, or one of the other maids, had actually caught her hand in the rollers?
Mary Georgina de Grey, August 2026
You can find Disappeared on Amazon and Good Reads.
If you would like to donate or get involved, here is the link to the genuine charity (unlike the one in the story):
Please supportFriends of Alalay (Santa Cruz)a charity that finds, feeds, houses, educates and loves street kids inSanta Cruz, Bolivia
Every penny raised goes directly to help the kids – there are no admin costs. Support our work here.Registered number 1123425website www.alalay.co.uk
It does excellent work. My most recent involvement was attending a concert in Bristol earlier this year. Two brilliant and well-known musicians gave their work free of charge to raise money for the charity.
Please help me welcome today’s guest, Katherine Pritchett…
Please tell us a little about yourself, where are you from? Where do you live now? Family? Pets?
I was born in Southeast Kansas (home of Gordon Parks), grew up on a farm till I was 11. Now I live in South Central Kansas. My kids are all adults with interesting careers. Two of my seven grandchildren are adults as well, also with interesting careers. We are owned by two finicky cats that we rescued from our porch. In the past, we’ve had dogs, horses, cats, rabbits, hamsters, mice and fish.
Where did you get the idea for A Little Shame? What is the most difficult thing about writing a book?
The book was inspired by the day-to-day struggles of people around me. I have written other murder mysteries; it’s where I feel most comfortable and allows me to introduce issues while readers are interested. The most difficult part about writing a book is doing the synopsis, back cover blurb and tagline. You’ve spent months writing 40-100K words, now you have to reduce it to one page or a paragraph or just one line.
Do you have another occupation, other than writer? If so, what is it and do you like it?
I was State Trail Coordinator for our natural resource agency, managing grants, reviewing projects statewide and traveling to meetings around the country. I have seen really cool places, including uncovering an original marker for the Mason-Dixon Line at a trail project we were working on in Delaware. We also saw the marker in the Arkansas River bed near Syracuse, KS, that delineates the original southern border of the United States. While I don’t miss the red tape, I do miss the wonderful people I made friendships with over 30-plus years.
If you could be a character in any of your books, who would you be?
Richard Matthews, because he’s a wealthy, best-selling author. I could do without some of his adventures, though, such as being kidnapped, targeted by the Russian mob, and being wounded in a terrorist attack.
What is the toughest criticism given to you as an author? What has been the best compliment?
I was once told that my early writing was episodic without a real plot. But at the end of a full page of criticism, the teacher wrote, “But, lady, you’re a natural writer. Keep at it and you’ll get there.” That line was taped first to my typewriter and then a succession of computers.
Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
All my characters have aspects of real people, but are entirely imaginary. Richard Matthews, for instance, struggles with numbers like I do. Scott Aylward is ADHD, like me. Like me, Terra Matthews doesn’t accept help easily.
What book have you read that you wish you had written?
DUNE
What’s the main thing that you could get rid of in your life that would give you more writing time?
Housework. I’ve tried for years to wriggle my nose like Samantha in Bewitched to get it done as fast as I can think about it, but it hasn’t worked. Yet. My partner is a dear and doesn’t mind cooking, vacuuming, doing laundry and dishes, and he mows and takes care of all the heavy lifting. I feel guilty, so I do some of it. My dream was to have a ranch with double the stable for horses, so I could lease half to a trainer who would care for my horses, and a housekeeper who liked to cook and bake. Both of us raised fillies named Flicka when we were kids.
What’s your favorite book of all time and why? What’s your favorite childhood book?
I guess my favorite book of all time would be the Lord of the Rings trilogy. When I feel discouraged, it gives me hope. As a kid, I read anything with a horse or dog in it, so probably Misty of Chincoteague. I have now seen the ponies on both the Maryland and Virginia sides of Assateague.
What do you want readers to come away with after they read A Little Shame?
I want them to have empathy for the working poor, who are one unplanned bill from disaster, for those without access to preventive health care, and for the courage of those who try to help.
Would you rather have a bad review or no review?
No review.
What genre have you never written that you’d like to write?
Science fiction
Is there one subject you would never write about? What is it?
Horror. I scared myself when I tried.
What do you want your tombstone to say?
What it will NOT say is “Died of overwork” or “Died from missing meals.”
What do your friends and family think of your writing?
My kids, older grandkids, and my niece tell me they are proud of my writing. Not all of them have read my books. My youngest son (who thinks he’s the best comedian of all of them) says he’s waiting for them to come out on Netflix.
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
I want them to be more empathetic to those around them. We don’t know the struggles of the checkout clerk or the person in the car next to us.
How did your interest in writing originate?
I thought about writing books (someone has to) when I was about 4 or 5, but I didn’t start until middle school. I’ve never been able to quit since.
Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?
Right now, I’m enamored of Craig Johnson, whose Longmire series is a bestseller. I’ve met him twice, and told him the last meeting that I am studying him as a how to.
Knowing too much could cost him everything
Excerpt:
He turned to face the same direction the car faced. “Now, to get back to town, go straight until you hit the paved road we took last night, and take a right. Follow it to the stop sign, take another right, and you can’t miss the city.” He walked toward his truck. “I’ll follow you to make sure you get to town, in case you get stuck in the sand.”
She opened her door. “You don’t have to follow me.”
He shrugged as he opened his door. “I have to get back to town, too. If you get in deep sand, don’t stop, but put it in low and keep moving no matter how much it wallows.”
He started the truck, grateful for the air conditioning, as she passed him and drove slowly along the sand. She almost got stuck once, but followed his advice and made it through. At the paved road, she hesitated, then turned left.
“What the—” He followed. “Is she dyslexic?” He honked. She looked in her mirror but kept going. At the mile section, she turned left again, on another sand road that was better maintained. A half mile in, she pulled to the side and stopped.
He threw it in park and leaped out of the truck just as she emerged from her car, with binoculars in hand. “What the hell are you doing?”
“This is where I was going last night.” She set her lips in a thin line. “I might not get the chance to get out here again for a while.”
“Where is here?” He looked to the north, where a crane lifted roofing onto a large pole barn frame. A new driveway led to a large graveled parking area. Poles for lighting had been set, and what looked like the foundation for a medium sized house rose from the sand.
“Nick Macchio’s new property.” She scanned with the binoculars for a few minutes. “Looks like they have lights up already.” She tossed the binocs on the seat and brought out a nice camera with a telephoto lens.
“Why did you need to find it?” He watched the people at work on the barn. One appeared to notice them and pointed their way.
“Research.” She snapped several photos. Four of the people on the ground abandoned their work, heading for a couple of pickups. “And now it’s time to leave.”
For over thirty years, I worked for a cabinet-level natural resource agency. Through this position, I had the opportunity to travel, immerse myself in outdoor recreational pursuits from sailing to archery, meet interesting and influential people and stretch myself professionally. I did a lot of writing for the job, as well as being involved with legislation. I’ve worked as a file clerk, teacher’s aide, administrative assistant and run my own home day care. I’ve also had an early morning newspaper route and served as a leader for Girl, Boy and Cub Scouts, and facilitated a DivorceCare program for several years. Over the years, I’ve associated with cops, paramedics, firefighters, soldiers, truck drivers, biologists, preachers and other interesting people. What gets them from where they started to where they are today never fails to fascinate me.
Amid the chaos of a London Season, can a fiery Irish pianist and her overbearing guardian come to an understanding long enough to fall in love?
For two years, piano virtuoso Fiona Rafferty has waited for her father to return home from a sea voyage. But now Irish law declares him deceased and says she’s an orphan at eighteen. The last thing she needs is an overbearing and arrogant English guardian, but she’s packed off to London until she comes of age.
Richard Merrick, Earl of Seldon, doesn’t need an outspoken ward who takes the ton by storm, plays Beethoven instead of minuets, and disregards him at every turn. Even more maddening is his growing attraction to the willful Miss Rafferty.
When a shocking indiscretion amid Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s prizewinning camellias forces them into the betrothal of the Season, neither can admit they’re falling in love. And when they finally do, Fiona’s past threatens to derail any hope of a wedding.
When Betsy Ashmore, adopted sister to a family of four brothers, discovers U.S. Marshal Luke Ashmore is lying wounded in a renegade Indian camp, she can’t refuse to help a brother in peril—especially one she has loved all her life. With the help of a wily Ute Indian, the spunky shopkeeper saddles up to rescue him.
Marshal Luke Ashmore never expected to be bushwhacked while escorting the young boy of a murdered army scout northward to Fort Collins in the Colorado Territory. Outlaws want the boy and believe he knows the location of a hidden treasure.
As Betsy and Two Bears struggle to get the marshal and the child to safety, can they outwit the ruthless outlaws following them? And what will they do with two more orphaned boys they stumble upon along the trail?
Fall in love with the plucky shopkeeper and her three scheming youngsters—all determined to help the U.S. Marshal lasso her heart so they can become a family.
Desperate to escape a lecherous uncle, Melissa Sullivan stows away in a wagon departing Nebraska City for the Colorado territory. She has resolved never to be subservient to any man as her aunt was, and especially not to the high-handed Union Army Lieutenant Nathaniel Bellamy, who seems to think he can make decisions for her because he happened to find her hiding in his wagon. Upon arriving at their destination, Lieutenant Bellamy reports to his post while Melissa is given an opportunity to fulfill her goal of being self-sufficient by a kind, considerate, and handsome mine owner but wonders if her choice is worth the price. How can two strong-willed people set aside their pride to give love a chance?
Cleo Cooper left ocean-dipping weekends as a psychology professor in Hawaii to sample life in the high desert of Santa Fe for her sabbatical. With her romantic relationship on the rocks in Hawaii, Cleo falls for Luc, a charming international expert in her field and is tempted to make the change permanent. She enjoys the people, the work, and the sparkling conversations, even if they come with a bite.
But, when a wealthy backer of her project is killed, the snarky scientists, artists, and a Saudi ex-pat, who Cleo thought were her new friends, are now at the top of the suspect list. And with a killer on the loose, Cleo finds her life, and her love, in danger.
Please help me welcome today’s guest, Karen Hulene Bartell…
Today is RELEASE DAY for Blue Dog, and I’m so excited! Blue Dog is a romantic thriller set in the world’s largest bayou, the Atchafalaya Basin, with a steamy Louisiana romance, and a cryptid called a rougarou. Please note, the love interest is not the cryptid. Instead, it’s rugged park ranger, Clay Landry, who introduces Deirdre (Dare) Doyle to a world of ghost forests, fais-do-dos, and the rougarou…
What, you ask, is a rougarou? Often told as morality tales to keep children in line, the legend of the rougarou is alive and well in the Atchafalaya Basin. It’s a Creolization of African, Cajun, Caribbean, Chitimacha, Choctaw, French Canadian, and Houma heritages and traditions. Not an assimilation into any dominant group, rather, the Southern Louisiana legend is a fusion of ethnic ingredients, a social gumbo that creates a unique cryptid.
Most origin stories center around the idea that rougarou (pronounced roo-garoo) is simply the Cajun bastardization of the French werewolf, the loup-garou (pronounced loo-garoo), but that doesn’t hold water any more than some levees do. Though coyotes and dogs abound in the region, wolves haven’t inhabited it for decades, if not centuries. Some stories suggest the creature can shapeshift into any form it chooses, but most contend it’s human with canine characteristics, such as a hairy face or body, and was either born with the affliction or cursed by a Vodou bokor.
Origin: Cajun and Creole traditions blend French werewolf legends with Chitimacha, Choctaw, and Houma Native American myths.
Nature: It’s a shapeshifter similar to a werewolf with a human body and a wolf or dog head, often possessing glowing red eyes.
Cause of Transformation: Cursed by the devil, a Vodou priest, or a witch, it’s often (but not always) being punished because of misconduct.
Symbolism: Representing moral corruption, sin, and the dangers of bad behavior, it’s tied to Cajun cautionary tales.
Appearance: It’s a shapeshifter with both humanoid and wolf- or dog-like features.
Blue Dog is a jambalaya of romance, natural disasters, and supernatural occurrences that are difficult to explain away.
What, you ask, was the hardest part of writing Blue Dog? It was making the legendary sound possible.
Locals whisper of the bayou’s thin places, where boundaries blur, and the rift distorts between fact and folklore.
Blurb:
Finalizing her dissertation while emerging from a destructive relationship, Deirdre ‘Dare’ Doyle finds a lifeline in Clay Landry, a rugged park ranger who introduces her to the mythical–yet menacing–lore of Louisiana’s bayous. As their hormone-fueled relationship intensifies, so does the threat from her past.
Kirk, her toxic ex, sabotages her academic future, forcing a choice between her love and her dreams. But when Hurricane Kirk brings both a violent storm and a dangerous confrontation, an enigmatic creature intervenes, blurring the boundary between folklore and fact.
Excerpt:
“Can’t see a thing…” I squinted through the downpour. Wipers going full speed, I swiped at the windshield’s condensation.
When the cold front met the Gulf’s humid air, the skies erupted. What had been a sunny afternoon when I left Lafayette was now a white-knuckle nightmare. I turned on the lights and defroster, but neither helped visibility, and I slowed to twenty-five miles an hour.
“Great…” Muttering, I focused on the road’s center line and cleared a peephole through the fogged windshield. Slowing to twenty miles an hour, I fumed at the pace. I’d gotten a late start thanks to an ad hoc meeting with the department chair. Now this…hope Kim doesn’t worry…she has enough on her mind.
My favorite aunt had torn a tendon playing tennis. Though fiercely independent—solo ager, she called herself—she needed help after her rotator cuff operation. The good news? With my summer break just starting, I could lend a hand while finishing my dissertation.
Finishing? I sniffed. Not only haven’t I started it, but I don’t have a topic.
Thanks to Kirk…the jerk. If only he hadn’t—“Gah! Why did he have to come to mind?” Struggling to see, I smeared the dripping condensation, wishing I could wipe him from my thoughts as easily. If I could just—
A jolt through the steering wheel raced up my arms, knocking my teeth together. “What was that?” I swerved off the road and checked my rearview mirror. Did I hit a log? An animal? A pothole? Looking through the dense rain was like looking into sleet—a total whiteout.
A loud, low-pitched rumble shook the air, startling me.
My focus switched to my face while the background blurred. Panicked hazel eyes stared back above high cheekbones, framed by a shock of blonde, chin-length hair.
The air vibrated with another louder, powerful thrum. Even through the closed windows, the sound juddered off my ribcage.
“Rolling thunder?” I cracked the window to listen.
A third bellow resonated through the rain.
“Is that a bull snorting?” I shifted into reverse and inched backward, checking to make sure I hadn’t injured an animal. But after finding nothing, I rolled to a stop.
A deafening bolt of lightning struck nearby, blinding me as it split a live oak tree and curled the hairs on my left arm.
Then a dark figure dashed across my bumper, bellowing as it fled into the downpour.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as my pulse beat in time with the windshield wipers. I floored the gas, fishtailing as I sped past the vertically split tree toward Creve Coeur, Louisiana.
****
Minutes later, as I pulled into my aunt’s drive, the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. My heart still thumped like a flat tire at high speed, but I pasted a smile on my face. No need to add to her stress.
Kim was chatting with a tall, attractive man on the front porch. Beside him stood a massive dog with a huge head and broad chest.
“Hey, there.” I waved as I stepped from the car. The next thing I knew, two enormous, muddy paws pushed me off balance, and I tumbled backward into the driver’s seat.
“Blue, no! No!” The dark-haired man leashed the enormous dog, then turned toward me. “I am so sorry. He’s a rescue that obviously needs socializing. I’ll pay for the cleaning or a new outfit. I do apologize!”
All I could do was laugh. After the tension of driving two hours in the beating rain, then the scare with the…whatever it was, the release was cathartic.
“Are you all right?” His charcoal-blue eyes appraised me.
Hypnotized by his penetrating gaze, I took a deep breath as my laughter trickled to a chuckle. “I’m fine, and these jeans will be good as new once I throw them in the wash.” I shrugged. “No damage done.”
“Appreciate it. This incorrigible runaway is Blue, short for Blue Dog. I’m reclaiming him after his self-guided tour of the neighborhood.”
“What breed is he?” I ruffled the fur on the dog’s massive head, each shaggy ear as big as my hand.
“Not sure, but I’m guessing a combination of Blue Heeler, Catahoula Leopard, Pit Bull, and heaven knows what else.” He switched the leash to his left hand and held out his right. “Incidentally, I’m Clay Landry.”
As we shook, I grinned at his obvious affection for the overgrown escape artist. Then my heartbeat quickening, time paused as his gaze locked onto mine. Can he feel my pulse through my fingers?
“And this speechless young lady is my favorite niece, Deirdre Doyle—”
“Call me Dare—”
“If you dare.” Kim cackled. “Family joke.”
“Kim’s talked of you so often, I feel I almost know you.” He gave a parting smile before removing his hand from mine to pet Blue. “What does Deirdre mean?”
Our connection broken, an odd emptiness rattled inside my chest. Strange… “She was a tragic Celtic heroine, the ‘Juliet’ of Tír na nÓg, who struggled between fate and free will.”
“Speaking of fate,” Kim half turned toward me with a private wink. “Clay was a student of mine a few years back.”
The author of 30 published books besides Blue Dog, Karen Hulene Bartell was born to rolling-stone parents who moved annually. Her earliest playmates were fictional friends in books. Paperbacks became her portable pals. Ghost stories kept her up at night–reading feverishly. Novels offered an imaginative escape, and she began her first novel at nine, learning the joys of creating her own HEAs. Professor emeritus of the University of Texas at Austin, she lives in the Texas Piney Woods with her husband and *mews*–three rescued cats and a rescued CATahoula Leopard dog.
