Tuesday, April 30, 2019

BOOK: The Auctioneer by J.S. Frankel



Matthew Carter, eighteen and orphaned recently due to the death of his father, continues on the family tradition of auctioneering. It is not his chosen profession, but one that is thrust upon him by circumstance. 

Offered a chance to make some money by a man named Baltarus, Matthew reluctantly agrees, and to his surprise, ends up on an alien star-port where he auctions off rare items from all over the galaxy.

Matthew learns his trade and grows into it, but complications arise when he is forced to sell an alien woman named Anarra. He buys her in order to give her the freedom she desires. They become friends, and soon become lovers. Life is good, but all that changes when he becomes a target of unknown assassins. Additionally, he is forced to sell a planet named Volarus, something that goes against his conscience. 

Matthew finds out there’s more to life than making money, and races against time to find a loophole in order to stop Volarus from being next on the bidding block, as well as finding out the faceless killers who will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. 





Note from Carol:
I picked this book up on a cold, drizzly Ohio evening and was pulled into Matthew's life as a kid pushed into his father's occupation as an auctioneer, who soon had some tough decisions to make. I thoroughly loved it. 

But wait! J.S. Frankel and I are so sure you're also going to love it, we want you to read an excerpt before you buy!

Excerpt: (This is the first meeting between Matthew and Baltarus, the go-between). 

“Good. Then I shall hire you.” 

What? Surprise, surprise, a miracle had occurred. “Uh, for what?” 

“For an auction house I have elsewhere. My business associate has already gone ahead. You will meet him later. His name is Zerch. Allow me to show you my vehicle.” 

His vehicle? And what was up with the strange names? Something weird was happening, but all the same, anything that could get me out of my financial funk was good news. “Um, not to be rude, but if you hire me—” 

“Then you shall have riches beyond your dreams. I have heard about you, Matthew Carter. It was said that your father was a fine auctioneer, and that his untimely passage left you destitute.” 

Wow, this guy actually made the concept of poverty sound like a Hollywood movie. “Well, I could use the money, and—” 

“And you will be able to buy whatever you desire, should you work for me,” he cut in smoothly. “All I ask is that you perform at a high level, and after that, the finances will take care of themselves.” 

He spoke with a sense of great self-assurance, and it made me think he was on the level. Suspicion still reigned, but all it would take to stop him would be a quick phone call to the police. And if something bad went down, while I wasn’t the world’s greatest fighter, I could handle myself in a scrap. He gestured at the door. “My vehicle is here. I shall open the doorway.” 

Open the... 

Perhaps English wasn’t his first language, and he was talking about the parking lot. A lot of cars were parked there, mine included, a beat-up old Ford. It burned gas like no one’s business, but it got me where I needed to go. Baltarus fished around in his pocket for something, and then he took out a small device. 

Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. Okay, it was an electronic lock opener for a car. Got it. This guy was eccentric, but he wasn’t crazy. A nanosecond later, I took back that thought. Baltarus clicked his device, but instead of beeping, a light bluish-gray emanated from it and a hole in space opened. Eight feet high and four feet wide, it obviously led somewhere. “What... what is that?” 

He offered a grin, revealing whiter than white teeth, lots of them, far more than a human would have. “That is our passageway. Shall we go?” 

Oh, hell no! Before I could back off and yell for help, he grabbed my arm with an incredibly powerful grip and pulled me along with him. A moment later, we stepped out onto a metal platform. “What is this place?” I asked. “What’s going on here?” 

“You wanted to be an auctioneer,” Baltarus answered. 

“No, I didn’t, not really.” 

“Well, it is too late for that. We have arrived.” 

Never mind the fact that this alien had kidnapped me. Never mind that I wasn’t interested in auctioneering for the rest of my life. Never mind all that. What mattered was I’d first been on Earth, and now I was... here. 

My heart began to race as I scanned the area. Brightly lit, it was the size of three airplane hangars, if not more, and the ceiling had to be well over five hundred feet up. Multiple screens the size of cars hung in the air, showing an audience made up of the oddest collection of interstellar life I’d ever seen, fifty races in attendance, if not more. 

It was a cornucopia of life. Beings with multiple limbs and eyes, beings of all colors of the rainbow, beings of flesh and wood, some wearing breathing apparatuses and others not—they were all squawking in tongues that I didn’t have a clue about. They were creatures that only science fiction writers could have imagined, and all of them were gesticulating and grunting at a humanoid who held sway at a podium not ten feet away. 

Once they saw me, though, they stared for a grand total of three seconds, and then they turned their attention back to the first guy. The little humanoid stood maybe three feet tall and wore a gray bodysuit that matched the color of his skin. With enormous round eyes that covered half his face, he spoke in a slow, measured manner, and he didn’t seem pleased at being yelled at, as he covered his ears to shut out the constant racket. “What... what’s going on here?” I asked again. 

“Welcome to our auction,” Baltarus said, his grin now wider than ever. 

An auction... for what? “What... what are they bidding on?” 

My guide to the interstellar side of things shrugged. “Everything and anything. This is a galaxy where bidding for goods is a way of life. Rare jewels, pictures, statues. Perhaps an asteroid upon which one may set up their own way station.” 

I stared at him. “You... you’re serious?” 

He shrugged. “Having one’s own sun would be a nice thing, don't you think?"

Monday, April 29, 2019

BOOK: Bentley Square by Carol Ann Kauffman


Strangers meet on the train. She, a beautiful, wealthy businesswoman. He, a down on his luck office manager. 

They have nothing in common. And yet, they are drawn to each other with an undeniable hypnotic magnetism. 

This is the story of Rebecca Robbins, daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country and Mark Ramsay, a man shrouded in dark mystery and hiding in the shadows from death squads amid international intrigue.

Amazon Buy Link:

But wait! Read an excerpt of Bentley Square before you buy:

Chapter One 
Probably a Shoe Salesman

            Becca sat in her usual reserved window seat compartment on the train into the city that morning.  She watched the throngs of people waiting, waiting for public transportation into the big city, waiting for a way out of their hard, dismal lives, waiting for a miracle.  The closer the train got to the city of Skylar, the sadder they looked, the shabbier they dressed, and the more hopeless they appeared.
            She looked for him, still in the hopeful, gainfully-employed, trying to make a living group, in a brown suit, white shirt, dark tie, neat, clean, well-groomed.  Not the most hand-some man she’d ever seen, not even the best looking guy at the train station, but there was something about him she found completely mesmerizing. Something inside her came alive when she saw him.  Her heart leaped.  He made her smile.  She wanted to run to him, hug him, cover him with kisses, and feel his strong, loving arms wrapped around her.   
          Eyes forward, neither a smile nor a frown. Neither the dejected, forlorn type you want to flee from, nor the overly happy, deliriously optimistic sort you want to shake back to reality.  He was aware of his environment.  Ever-watchful.  Cautious. Controlled.   
            He was there waiting for the train almost every morning.  She imagined his life.  He was probably about thirty, a father of one beautiful child, an adorable little girl who had her Daddy’s eyes, with a pretty stay-at-home wife who fussed over him and called him Darling.   He probably worked at one of the many shoe stores downtown, was a very good salesman, and had a good sense of humor.  She bet he had a great smile when he chose to give in and let it out.  He was a kind man with a very gentle soul.  He had tons of friends, but not much family, if any. He carried the heavy weight of responsibility and he didn’t own a weapon, didn’t like guns or violence.  He drank too much and ate too little.  His name was probably…oh, maybe, Richard.
            Oh, there he was! Good morning, Richard, you sweet thing, she said to herself.  Hmm, this morning there was a distinct frown line in the middle of that sweet forehead. She wanted to kiss it away. Richard was worried about something today.  What was it, a sick child?  Yes, that was it.  What a good daddy he was!  Don’t worry, Richard, she’ll be okay.

            “Rebecca, did you get a chance to look at my proposal for the Miller Building?” said Douglas Ellers, catching her attention, but disturbing her daydream.  She looked back.  Richard was gone.  Damn. Back to reality.
            “Yes, Doug, nice work. I’d like to run it passed my father, if you don’t mind, and see what he thinks.”
            “Thank you, Rebecca,” he smiled and nodded.   Getting his proposal looked at by Carlton Robbins was a big step.  The fact that his daughter Rebecca brought it to his attention would give it even more credence.
            The train pulled in to Skylar Central Station.  Rebecca gathered her things.  Douglas waited for her and the two walked to Bentley Square, the tallest building in the city, Carlton Robbins’ building.

            “Good morning, Miss Robbins!  Your father is looking for you,” her secretary Grace DeCapito said as she handed her a copy of today’s agenda.  “Preferably before the personnel meeting.”
            “Thank you, Gracie. How’s he looking this morning?”
            “Good. Strong. Axe-happy,” said a worried Grace.  Rebecca laughed.
            “I’ll calm him down before the meeting.  Don’t worry, Gracie.  Heads won’t roll today, I promise,” she assured.  Grace nodded.

            “Becca!”  He father lit up when she walked in the room. “I’ve missed you!  Did you have a good weekend in the country with Marisa and her family?”  They hugged. She kissed his forehead with a loud “Mwah!”
            “Ah, it was just wonderful!  It’s so calm and pleasant, green and outdoorsy,” she giggled.  “Her family is fine.  We did quite a bit of hiking and horseback riding, because Marisa’s still reeling from the bad breakup with Todd.”
            “Todd.  Todd.  Is he the architect or the concert pianist?”
            “Neither, Dad.  Todd is the astrophysicist.  Being out in nature helps her get her emotions in perspective.   She’ll be okay.  She asked about you.  Come with me next time.  It’s positively rejuvenating.  Really. You need a break from all this paperwork and desk stuff, Dad.”
            “No, thank you. Getting lost in the woods, getting eaten up by mosquitoes, or falling off a horse doesn’t sound like my idea of a great way to relax.  Watching the financial channel with a glass of red wine works for me.  And besides, Marisa’s mother is always trying to fix me up with some lonely old lady from her Bridge Club.”
            “Dad!  Those women are wonderful, have you ever met them? They’re hilarious and mentally razor-sharp!  They’re amazing!  You could use an evening of female companionship with a woman in your age bracket.”
            “Okay, maybe to the weekend in the country, but absolutely no to the old lady date.  I’ll come with you if you’ll agree to let Marisa to fix you up with one of her friends.  She dates highly qualified men.”
            “Highly qualified for what?  Marisa is seduced by what these guys do for a living, not who they are on the inside. She wants to be Mrs. Concert Pianist, or Mrs. Astronaut.  They’re arrogant.  They’re way too full of themselves.  I want… nice.”
            “Re-examine that, Becca.  Most women think a nice man is dull and boring, and they much prefer a dark, brooding, mysterious, exciting bad boy.”
            “No, not me,” she giggled.  “I want a nice one.”  
            “I’m sure some of Marisa’s horrible vain boyfriends have nice friends.  Not all astrophysicists are vain, arrogant, unfaithful bastards. 
            "Ah, this meeting, Becca, are you ready to make some staff cuts?”  
            “No, Dad!  Let’s try some other measures first.  I have a few notes.  Just listen to what I have to say at the meeting before you start axing people.”
            “Honey, I’m thinking about laying them off,” he laughed.  “I’m not going to murder them.  Sometimes, good business demands lay offs.  If we combine offices, it will be more efficient.  Just think of it!  We’ll get to be together all day long!  I have terrific views of the city, the best in the building, the best access to the inside elevator, and my secretary is wonderful, extremely efficient, and highly qualified.”
            “And so is my secretary! I won’t lose Gracie without a fight, Dad.”
            “But Adele has plenty of time to do whatever you need done.  And she’s quiet!”
            “As I see it, Dad, the problem isn’t choosing to merge our two offices together and eliminating Gracie, among others.  It’s finding more projects for Adele to do.  I like Adele, and I know she’s been with you since the dawn of time itself. But, Gracie, I swear, she can read my mind!”
            “In the business world, that’s not always a good thing, Honey.  And Becca, Grace’s too chatty, and a little bit too familiar with you.”
            “That’s because she’s been reading my mind!  I’m not losing her, Dad.  You may lay her off as my secretary, I’ll only hire her back in some other capacity, like my research assistant, or my computer technician.”  She smiled at him and nodded. 
            “Coffee?” She handed him a cup of coffee with milk, two sugars, not too hot, and in his favorite mug, just the way he liked it.
            “Mmm.  Perfect,” he nodded.
            “Douglas Ellers had a few thoughts on what we could do with the Miller Building.  I think you should look it over.  Medical offices, physical therapy center with a heated pool. A small restaurant, a candy shop, a medical supply store, and a small independent drug store.”
            “Woo-hoo!  A senior citizen’s paradise.  Ellers, Ellers, do I know him?”
            “Yes, Dad.  He’s been here for almost six months.  He came from Dayton.  His father is a friend of Dan Colby’s, that’s why you hired him.”
            “Yes, I remember him now. Quiet kid, smiley, nods a lot. Short guy, dark curly hair, thick glasses.  
            “Given any more thought about the Comstock Apartment Building?  Becca, that old monstrosity needs to come down.”
            “I think about the Comstock quite a bit.  And it’s not a monstrosity.  It’s very beautiful.  It’s an architectural masterpiece.  It’s steeped in city history.  I love that old place.  Just last Saturday I stopped in on my way home from work.  I went in and walked around the lobby looking at the moldings, the fretwork, the ornate keyholes on the mailboxes, oh, it’s just beautiful, Dad. It has such a warm feeling inside. It made my heart race. It needs a little work, yes, but it’s still a gem of a building. 
            “And what’s going to happen to the people living there?  They’re hard working people, Dad.  And they’re making next to nothing, they can barely make ends meet.  Where will they go?”
            “Becca, don’t start this bleeding heart liberal crap with me.  ‘El Monstro’ is coming down.  They’ll find some other hole in the wall to live in. How is that good-looking CPA Darren Taylor from dinner last week?”
            “Boring. Plastic.  Uses more hairspray than I do.  Robotic.  Fake smile. Don’t like him.  Don’t like him at all.”
            “Good family, though. The Taylors are good people, Becca.”
            “Dad, stop.  Let’s go to the staff meeting.  I prefer to fight one battle at a time and the boring, plastic Darren Taylor isn’t even in the top ten this morning.”

            The staff meeting went as she had hoped and her father agreed to her proposal.  She was busy the rest of the day, hammering out some of the details to make it work.  Her father popped his head in at five o’clock.
            “Becca, don’t take the train home tonight.  Knock off early and ride home with me.  Celebrate your victory.  You work too hard.  Gunther is waiting outside.  We could stop for ice cream on the way home and ruin our dinner.  What do you say?  Come on!”
            “Mmm...”
            “Chocolate cashew?” He knew it was one of her favorites.
            “Oh, my!”  She thought about it.
            “Or caramel mocha swirl?”
            She smiled at him.
            “Or… both?”
            “Sounds extremely tempting.  But I have some more details to work out on this job-saving plan, Dad.  And I don’t mind the train.  Actually, I LIKE the train.  It gives me a chance to decompress.  And my car is at Lockwood Station.”
            “I can always send the boys to pick up your car.  But it’s your call.  See you tonight.”
            “Dad?”
            “Yes, Becca?”
            “No more surprise dinner guest fix-me ups!  It really kills my appetite.”
            “No promises, kiddo. Your body clock is ticking.  And so is mine.  See you later,” he winked.  She groaned.
            “Do I have to stop at Taco Bell on the way home to get a stress-free dinner?” she yelled as he walked down the hallway.  He waved.

       Rebecca walked to the station and got into her 
reserved compartment on the train.  She breathed a sigh.  What a good day!  Fourteen office jobs saved, including her priceless Gracie’s.  Of course, they’d be sharing pencils and staplers and writing notes on their palms from now until next Christmas.  But they could do it.  They WOULD do it.  She was deep in thought.  She didn’t notice someone watching her.
He watched for her every evening.  It was the highlight of his day, his reward for surviving another day with Mr. Fusco, the minion of Satan.  She was a breath of fresh air, a ray of sunshine in his dark world.  His woman.  Blonde, lovely, but it wasn’t her classic good looks that made him take notice. He’d seen other beautiful women, and not one of them ever affected him like she did.  It was something else, something he couldn’t describe.  It drew him to her.  His pulse quickened.  He couldn’t take his eyes off her.  He knew her. He knew if she just looked up at him, she would recognize him, too.  He had the over-powering urge to rush to her every time he saw her, calling out her name. Just to hold her in his arms, hug her, squeeze her.  That’s all he wanted.  Just once. 
            And just once is all he would get before she’d file a restraining order against him, he thought, she would think he were a crazy man, and he’d never get anywhere near her ever again.  So he kept his distance.  One just doesn’t go around hugging people one meets at the train station, unless, of course, one is trying to lift their wallets and can run really fast.        
            There she is, he said to himself.  She looked especially tired tonight.  But still, pleasant, sweet.  He remembered the first time he saw her, he felt such a jolt of sheer pleasure, sheer joy.

             You’re here!  I’ve found you, Love.  I finally found you!  

            And from that first happy, joyful moment when he saw her nearly five years ago, he thought about her quite a bit, wondered about her life.  What was her name?  Bridget? No, no.  Allison?  No, no, no. Nicole?  Yes, Nicole, she looked like a Nicole, the beautiful, blonde Nicole. Where did she live?  Well, definitely the suburbs.  The train went as far as Lockwood, and she was on the train before the Comstock stop, so Lockwood, probably.  Was she married?  Oh, he hoped not.  Engaged? If so, that man had to be a damn fool not to be right here with her, at least once or twice a week.   He knew he would’ve been by her side every chance he had, not leaving her alone where strange men at the train station could be plotting to steal her away from him.  
            What did she do in the city all day?  At first he thought she was just out shopping, or meeting friends.  But then he realized she was on the eight fifteen train out of the city almost every weekday evening.  She worked in the city.  She had a kindness about her.  She probably worked with children.  The hours were all wrong to be a teacher, plus there wasn’t a school downtown. There were three hospitals downtown, so maybe a pediatrician or a nurse.  But she worked such long hours regularly.  Then he thought social worker, maybe, saving little ones from abuse and finding them good homes.  Yes, that’s probably it.  He saw her in the window as the train pulled up.  Everyone started boarding the train.

           Hello, Sweetheart!  I’m here.  I’m right here.

            She looked up and looked around, almost like she heard him.  But he didn’t even say it out loud!  He only thought it.  How could she have heard him?  He couldn’t stop himself, so he said softly,

            I’m here, Honey.  I’m here for you.  Find me, Sweetheart.

            “Mark, Mark! Hey!  Are you listening to me?”  His friend Tim tapped him on the shoulder.  He turned.  
            “Huh?”  He looked back.  She was gone.  She wasn’t in her seat anymore.  Her seat was empty.  Where did she go?  Her coat was still there, her briefcase, too.  He boarded the coach section of the train, still looking back, craning his neck, trying to figure out where she went.  Tim sat down next to him.
            “A bunch of us are getting together at O’Grady’s tonight.  Join us.  You need some fun.  You work too hard.  Mark? Mark!  So what is so mesmerizing in that reserved compartment section back there?”
            “Oh, nothing in my league, Timothy.  Just a fleeting moment of pure, sweet… um, what were you saying?”
            “Meet us at O’Grady’s Pub around nine?”
            “Sure.”  

Sunday, April 28, 2019

SCHEDULE: April 29 - May 3, 2019


Mon., April 29 - BOOK: Bentley Square 
by Carol Ann Kauffman
Tues., April 30 - BOOK: The Auctioneer
by J.S. Frankel
Wed., May 1 - INTERVIEW: High Fantasy Author
Joanna White
Thurs. May 2 - BOOK: Lack of Candor
by Gerald Darnell
Fri., May 3 -  BOOK: Blue Lake
by Carol Ann Kauffman

Friday, April 26, 2019

BOOK: The Cat Collier Mystery Short Story Series by Carol Ann Kauffman

A Cat Collier Mystery (6 Book Series)

The Cat Collier series began with a short story called January 
Black Ice. It's written in the style of a 1940's first person 
detective story. It's been called Mike Hammer meets Nancy 
Drew. 

There are many NE Ohio references and local color. The small
town where Mary Catherine Collier lives is called Heaton Valley, 
a reference to Heaton's Furnace, the former name of Niles, 
Ohio, named for industrialist James Heaton.























Also mentioned is the Youngstown-Warren Regional Airport in 
Vienna, Ohio, the beautiful library and post office in downtown
Niles, as well as   

This is a serial book series. To understand what's going on and
the relationship between these strangers who've band together
to form a family of their own, you need to start at the beginning.
Here are the first few pages of January Black Ice:




“Name, please,” asked the unknown polite 
man in the wrinkled suit at the front desk 
of the Palazzo Castellano in the heart of 
beautiful downtown Heaton Valley, Ohio. 
I looked for a nametag. These guys are always 
more agreeable when you call them by name. 
No nametag.
   “Mary Catherine Collier.”
   “Oh, the obituary writer for the Herald?”
   “Yes.”
   “I thought you’d be…older.” He squinted at me 
as if I were out of focus.
   “I’m here to see Mr. Bittmor,” I answered as 
quietly as I could, 
not for his sake but for mine. My head was killing me.
“Do you have an appointment?” He scanned an appointment 
calendar in front of him. “Collier…Collier.” 
“Would I be here so damn early in the morning on this cold, gray, 
snow-clogged, icy, miserable day if I didn’t?” I was seriously 
considering leaping over the counter and choking him. Not a
 death-grip. I’m not a violent person. Just a little squeeze.
“Shall I take that as a yes?”
“Yes,” I smiled instead of choking him, a much better option I thought, mainly because I still might need 
his help in the event the cantankerous, old Mr. Detrick Bittmor was less than cooperative.
“Ahh, yes, here you are. ‘Cat’. Mr. Bittmor will see you in the lounge, madam.” He pointed toward the 
bar. What decent, self-respecting bar is open at seventy-thirty in the morning? And who the hell is madam?
“Madam?” I squealed. “Just what do you think I’m delivery this morning, buddy?” I tried to pull in my 
bristles, but it wasn’t working. I needed sleep. I needed warmth.
“I have no idea, madam. I’ll bring you some coffee as soon as I ring Mr. Bittmor’s suite.”
“What happened to Fred? I liked Fred.”
“Fred retired. “ 
“Thank you, ur…”
“Rodney,” he answered with a nod and the teeniest smile, making old wrinkly Rodney appear slightly less 
creepy, for the moment.
“Thank you, Rodney.” I happily strolled into the lounge, found a table where there was enough light for 
me to see what I was doing, pulled out my notebook and pen, and patiently waited…for the coffee, not 
so much for Bittmor.

Detrick Bittmor was the city’s oldest living lawyer-turn-recluse. He’d made his fortune defending the 
good, the bad, and the downright guilty. It didn’t matter to Bittmor. The only thing that mattered was if 
you could afford him. 
Bittmor lived in the penthouse suite, which occupied the top floor of the Palazzo Castellano Hotel. It overlooked the heart of the once bustling and beautiful city of Heaton Valley, Ohio. Founded in 1806, the city center was set in the middle of Central Park, complete with monuments, statues, and meticulously maintained lush greenness and graceful, curved brick walkways that spread all the way to the Mahoning River. There were two major areas flanking the park, the downtown circular retail section, affectionately called ‘the doughnut’ by the residents, and the Heaton Valley Athletic Club, which housed the convention center, a gym, a restaurant, a smaller, less expensive hotel, a few boutiques, and some little craft shops. 
Detrick Bittmor’s suite was his reward for negotiating a settlement in a case involving the federal government versus hotel owner, the now-deceased Elwin Foster, also known as Boss Foster, and his ring of underage Russian girls who were brought to town on the pretense of participating in a work-study program in hotel management, which turned out to be room and board and sex acts. Rumor had it Bittmor bought the hotel when Foster died, but the owner is listed as a holding company in Canada.
Rodney carried in a tray with white mugs and a pot of coffee. He carefully placed a mug in front of me and poured. It was hot and dark and steamy. I wrapped my cold, stiff fingers around the mug and sipped. Heaven…
I was pulled out of my religious experience by the clomp of Mr. Bittmor and his cane moving slowly but steadily across the wooden floor toward me.
“Cat! Thank you for coming so early in the morning. I wanted some privacy while we discuss my proposal.”
“Ahh, that’s sweet, Mr. Bittmor, but I can’t marry you. We’re both Pisces. That would be four fishes swimming around in opposite directions. We’d never get anything done.”
“No,” he chuckled, clutching his chest, “that’s not what I meant. I have a… matter I wish to discuss with you, something I think you are uniquely qualified to handle. It’s a very personal matter to me and I ask your utmost discretion. And I pay very well.”
“I don’t do anything illegal.”
“I know that. What I’m asking you to do is not outside the legal parameters of the law.”
“Your outside and my outside are two different playgrounds.”
“There a new resident in Heaton Valley, a young man about your age. I need some information on him.”
“That’s it? Sure, I can do that. All I need is his full name and date of birth and I can pull him up on the computer.”
“I do not have that information.”
“You don’t have his birthdate?”
“No.”
“That’s okay, most of the online databases will work with an estimate. You say he’s about my age? So we’ll go with between twenty-two and twenty-eight, does that sound about right?”
“He’s twenty-four.”
“Okay, twenty-four year old male,” I jotted notes in my notebook. “Name?”
“I believe he is using the alias, Carter Brooks.”
“An alias is probably a dead-end.”
 “He’s been here about a month. He’s working at the drugstore on the corner. He spent Christmas Day on that park bench, looking up at my windows. 
“Maybe he’s homeless. Did you send Rodney out to invite him in for Christmas?”
“No.”
“Did you at least send him food? It was Christmas, Detrick! You don’t let a guy sit alone and hungry on a park bench in the cold on Christmas Day!”
“I never gave it a thought.  He eats his lunch on that park bench across the street and stares up at my apartment every day.”
“Mr. Bittmor, maybe this poor guy is just looking at the sky. The sky is a gorgeous, vibrant blue in January.  The clouds are beautiful. Wait until February when the sky is as cold and gray as the streets, the buildings, and our dispositions. See if he’s still staring up toward the sky then! Why do you think he’s looking at your penthouse apartment?”
“I’m suddenly very tired, Miss Collier. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” He held his head and the color seemed to drain right out of him.  “I think I need a nap.”
He attempted to get up. I reached out and touched his arm. “Detrick, I want to help you. But I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me. You know whatever you tell me will be completely confidential.”
“Oh, I know. That’s why I called you. You are trustworthy, and that’s not an adjective I’ve tossed around lightly in my lifetime. Trust and loyalty, Cat, are hard to come by these days. I know whatever I tell you is completely confidential. I can invoke the client and his obituary-writer privilege, you know. Not a word until I die! This is just a delicate subject with me.”
I stared at the old man. He seemed much older than his seventy-two years this morning. But I got up at seven o’clock in the morning and slid my way through the ice and snow to get here, I had a headache, and I needed to buy new snow tires, so I wasn’t letting him off the hook.
“Who do youthinkthis man is, Detrick?”
“I believe he’s my son.”


   


Wednesday, April 24, 2019

INTERVIEW: Mystery Suspense Author Gerald W. Darnell


Gerald W. Darnell
Sanford, Florida 
USA



Good morning, Gerald, and welcome to Vision and Verse, the place for art and books and the people who love them. What have you written? 
17 novels in my Carson Reno Mystery Series, 2 novels in a series I call Jack Sloan, 1 non-fiction book about myself (Don’t Wake Me Until It’s Time to Go), numerous short stories and several articles for outdoor magazines.

Your Carson Reno series looks fantastic! I can't wait to read it. What is your favorite genre to write? 
Mystery/Suspense (of course)

Favorite food. 
Steak – preferably cooked on a charcoal grill.



Tea or coffee? 
Depends upon the time of day. Hot tea or coffee in the morning, iced tea in the afternoon (unsweetened).


Pizza or ice cream?  
Pizza – rarely eat sweets

Wine or beer?  
Beer, but Bourbon is my preference. I have been known to be allergic to wine…meaning that a little for me goes a long way.  J  I have been known to enjoy an adult beverage along with my keyboard. I often say, “a little libation never spoiled a good story.”

Where would you like to visit?  
Aruba

Oh, go. Now. Don't wait. I LOVE Aruba. Stay on Palm Beach. Go in September if possible. High season starts October 1. You might run into some painting or new awnings going up, and they might try out some new shows on you or a new recipe in the restaurant, but you'll get a great deal. It truly is One Happy Island. You will love it. 
Favorite musical artist.  Do you listen to music when you write?
I don’t really have a favorite.  My preference is country music or oldies (50’s 60’s).  When the mood strikes I enjoy jazz.  No, I don’t listen to music when I write.

What makes you laugh? 
Stupid signs or slogans – I’ve collected many of them over the years.  Some are published in my autobiography.

Favorite work of art or sculpture.  
Vietnam Wall


How old were you when you started writing?  High School – somewhere around 16.  But I really got serious about it after retirement in 2004. Most of the earlier stuff was for school papers, magazines etc.

Do you plan out your book with outlines and notecards? Or just write?  
do make notecards (sometimes waking up in the middle of the night and jotting down a thought).  However most of my work comes from listening to my characters and having them tell what to write.

Describe your perfect evening.  
My computer, a good cigar and a glass of bourbon – with those I can ignore everything else.

Where do you get your inspiration?  
Good question and I have NO idea where my ideas come from…they just come. My friends are always asking me “Where do you come up with all this stuff?” My answer is the same – “I have no idea.” Maybe I read too many books while traveling for work and the thoughts are stuck up there until I put them on paper.



What do you do when you get a writer's block?  
Go get on my boat, have a few cold beers and catch a few fish. It always works…at least it has up until now.

Who is your favorite author? 
Agatha Christie

Best book you ever read.  
‘Tortilla Flat’ by John Steinbeck

Yes, that was a really good book. Last book you read.  
‘The Partner’ by John Grisham

What would you do for a living if you weren’t a writer?  
Writing for me is a hobby.  I retired from the computer industry after 35 years and millions of miles on airplanes and in rental cars. My collection of books contains hundreds of boarding passes used as bookmarks. I occasionally will look at one of the faded documents and try to remember when, where and how.



Who is the one person who has influenced your personal life the most and why?  
A fellow named Ed Sharp.  He was a mentor early in life and taught me more than enough to be successful.  I think about him often.  However, I would not be telling the truth unless I included my father.  I once told him, “the older I get the smarter you get.” He never forgot that statement. I miss him every day.



If you could sit down and have a conversation with ONE person, living or dead, real or fictional, who would it be and why? 
I’ve had a lot of great conversations over the years with some famous and inspirational people. But if I had to pick one I would say John F. Kennedy. I’ve read numerous books about him and have wondered if all (or any) of the things they said were true.

What advice would you give someone who aspired to be a writer? That’s easy – “Don’t write to get rich…write to enrich others.”

Do you have some links for us to follow you? 
     And      http://www.carsonrenomysteryseries.com

New book ‘Lack of Candor’ is already on pre-release with formal release on May 1. I have included a cover and a promo photo with the jpegs. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NQRPXMW

Promise you'll come back in May and tell us a little bit about Lack of Candor? 
Well, okay. Thank you for the opportunity to interview and I hope your readers enjoy my comments.
I'm sure they will, Gerald. Thanks for taking time out of your busy writing schedule to interview with Vision and Verse. C