Boston might be white with snow, but there’s nothing but a winter’s darkness for Shane Cleary, a former cop, veteran, and reluctant PI. There’s an international war within the mafia over drugs, and he has been asked to find the nephew of the local crime boss. When federal agencies descend on the city and order the police department to stand down on a homicide, the BPD reaches out to Shane for answers.
Shane’s past in Vietnam comes to haunt him when the corpse of a veteran is found on Boston Common, frozen to death in front of the State House. Then, a former army buddy comes to town looking for justice. His presence endangers all that Shane holds dear.
Shane must come to terms with a side of himself he thought he had left behind. The mounting body count and circumstances compel him to play a game of Liar’s Dice. Can he deceive and detect deception around him? Protect those he loves, while he solves the cases?
Praise for Liar’s Dice:
“Gabriel Valjan writes like a poet but his PI Shane Cleary packs a wallop worthy of Mickey Spillane.”
Clea Simon, Boston Globe bestselling author of HOLD ME DOWN
“Gabriel Valjan is the godfather of organized crime fiction and LIAR’S DICE is all the proof you need.”
James L’Etoile, author of the Detective Nathan Parker series
“Gritty, smart, sharply written, Valjan’s Liar’s Dice is a welcome addition to the canon of fine PI fiction.”
Reed Farrel Coleman, NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author of SLEEPLESS CITY
“A fast-paced mystery that kept me flipping the pages, needing to find out what would happen next. Shane Cleary is a complex, brilliantly written protagonist. A terrific read.”
Hannah Mary McKinnon, internationally bestselling author of Never Coming Home
“Warning: Pick up a copy, turn the page, and you’ll be hooked. Liar’s Dice ticks the boxes: an interesting tale that’s economical and tight, descriptions that are full and rich, dialogue that’s real, and characters that spring to life. Gabriel Valjan just has a way of making every word count.”
Dietrich Kalteis, winner of the 2022 Crime Writers of Canada Award of Excellence for best novel
“Gabriel Valjan crafts a vivid portrait of 1970s Boston to life in LIAR’S DICE. Shane Cleary deserves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the city’s other famous PIs—a haunted but compassionate character who cuts through a swath of Mob crime with Valjan’s trademark wit and style.”
James D.F. Hannah, Shamus-winning author of BEHIND THE WALL OF SLEEP and SHE TALKS TO ANGELS
Book Details:
Genre: Crime Fiction; Mystery; Private Investigator; Noir; Historical Fiction Published by: HISTORIA Publication Date: March 2023 Number of Pages: 292 ISBN: 9781685122065 Series:Shane Cleary Mystery, #4 Book Links:Amazon
Read an excerpt:
Chapter 1
Thou Shalt Not Say No
I heard the slap of the Boston Globe on our doorstep.
It was seven-thirty and Bonnie had already kissed me goodbye. It was a kiss. A long, slow kiss to make a man lose his dignity. I begged her to stay home, to play hooky from work and give the boys in the office a reprieve. She told me she couldn’t. I watched her walk out the front door. Her perfume may have hinted of spring but the mercury in the thermometer said winter.
The phone rang and interrupted my trip to the front door for the paper. I answered on the second ring.
“Glad you’re still there,” she said.
“Bonnie?”
“I’m at a payphone on Comm. Ave.”
“Forget something?”
“I noticed a Cadillac parked across the street when I left.”
“It’s a car that stands out, I’ll give you that, but what’s the problem?”
“The man inside the car. He’s getting out.”
“I thought I was the PI and you were the lawyer.”
“I’m serious, Shane.”
“So am I. Okay, I’ll play. Describe him to me?”
“Six-six. Menacing. Dark winter coat. He’s headed to our door. Wait, he’s stopped.”
“He stopped?”
“To light a cigarette, but he’s not having any luck. He keeps trying with his lighter.”
“Tony Two-Times.”
“That’s Tony Two-Times? Not exactly subtle, is he?”
“It goes with the job description.”
“Oh my god, Shane. He’s reached into his jacket.” I’d never heard Bonnie’s voice hit that note, not even during sex, though in my defense, this was panic and not ecstasy. We were nearing our anniversary, and I suppose months of cohabitation or what the Census Bureau calls POSSLQ or Person of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters had eroded her tough exterior.
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s a newspaper. I thought he might’ve had a gun.”
“Go to work, Bonnie.”
I did the rude thing and hung up on her. It’s not that I wanted to do it, but Tony Two-Times, uninvited and unannounced, was not the same thing as the guy at your door with the news you’ve won the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. Tony was a ‘friend’ and the mob always sent your friend to kill you. I moved fast and pulled my .38 out of the holster, hidden under a coat on the rack. I opened the door and kept the revolver behind my back.
The cold air punched my lungs and my eyes watered. I found Tony doubled over, picking up my Boston Globe. When he stood upright, he blocked the wind and the sun. An unlit cigarette stuck to his lower lip. “You gonna invite me in, or what?”
I stepped aside, back against the door. He pressed the paper into my chest. I put a hand over it. He paused before he stepped in. His dark eyes bore into me. “Relax, Cleary, and saddle the Colt you’re hiding behind you.”
“You could’ve called.”
“This conversation is best in person, face to face.”
“If you say so, Tony.”
“I say so. I’ve gotta job for you.”
Tony had tapped one foot against the other to knock off any snow, salt, or sand. He took the cigarette from his lips and pocketed it. He wiped his feet on the small mat, and took off his hat and coat and hung them on the coat rack. I holstered my sidearm and directed him to the kitchen. He walked down the hallway, talking. “You really thought you needed to draw your piece on me?”
“You weren’t what I expected with the morning paper.”
***
Excerpt from Liar’s Dice by Gabriel Valjan. Copyright 2023 by Gabriel Valjan. Reproduced with permission from Gabriel Valjan. All rights reserved.
Review from Coffee & Ink
Shades of Dennis Lehane and Robert Parker– I haven’t read anything so deeply steeped in 70s noir in a very long time. I am extremely happy to have read Liar’s Dice. The author’s excellent prose and dynamite plotting kept me turning the pages. The Boston setting is a little like coming home, from its darkest, grittiest corners to the nearest well-lit Dunkin’. The mobsters, assassins, an espresso-drinking journalist, all come alive on the page sharply drawn with wisdom and wit.
I intended to read the books that came before this one, and I will, and so should you, but this can be read as a stand-alone. If you love noir, Boston, more recent historical and crime novels, do yourself a solid and pick this series up.
Author Bio:
Gabriel Valjan writes historical crime fiction. He is the recipient of the Macavity Award for Best Short Story and he has been listed for the Bridport and Fish Prizes, the Agatha, Anthony, Derringer, and Silver Falchion Awards. He lives in Boston’s South End and answers to a tuxedo cat named Munchkin.
Would the assassins plotting to kill Theodore Roosevelt on his visit to the Panama Canal succeed?
Until this trip, no president while in office had ever traveled abroad. White House secretary Maurice Latta, thrilled to accompany the President, could not anticipate the adventures and dangers ahead. Latta befriends watchful secret service agents, ambitious journalists, and anxious First Lady Edith Roosevelt on their hot and humid trip, where he observes a country teeming with inequalities and abounding in opportunities. Along the way he learns about his own strengths—what he never imagined he could do, and what he discovers he can’t do.
Theodore Roosevelt did visit Panama in 1906, accompanied by White House staffer Maurice Latta. Interweaving the stories of real-life characters with fictional ones, Path of Peril imagines what the newspapers feared to report and what historians never discovered about Roosevelt’s risky trip.
Praise for Path of Peril:
“Nothing better than settling down with a good, crisp, detail-rich assassination thriller. Someone is after Theodore Roosevelt, and author Marlie Wasserman tightens the screws, ratchets the tension, and twists the plot again and again. Read it.”
William Martin, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Lincoln Letter and December ’41
“A feast of characters, scenery and history, Wasserman sets the table for a tremendous read. Path of Peril is a privileged walk with TR, his wife, his staff and dozens of characters struggling to create one of the “greatest engineering feats of the century.”
Chris Keefer, author of No Comfort for the Undertaker, a Carrie Lisbon Mystery
“Path of Peril is enjoyable and engaging and places the reader at the center of a fast, explosive and intriguing plot—making this new book one that should not be missed.”
Mel Ayton, author of Plotting to Kill the President
“Wasserman’s Path of Peril gives readers an exciting leap back in time… Buy this book—you’ll love it!”
Michael Conniff, historian of Panama
Book Details:
Genre: Historical Crime Fiction Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: January 2023 Number of Pages: 320 Series: This is a Stand Alone Novel Book Links:Amazon
Read an excerpt:
Maurice Latta
Sunday, January 19, 1947
For forty-one years I honored my oath to President Theodore Roosevelt and his bodyguard to conceal the events of November 15th and November 17th, 1906. On each of those days I agreed to a conspiracy of silence. Last year, that bodyguard died, and TR is long dead. Before I follow them to the grave, I will disclose the perils we faced during the President’s historic trip to Panama, to clarify the record and to unburden myself.
My tale begins in the White House clerk’s office, where I served as a stenographer during the McKinley administration and where I serve now, with a higher title, fifty years later. At first, I felt no connection with the other fifteen fellows in the clerk’s office. I suppose I looked the part, with my regular features and unremarkable bearing. If my appearance fit in, my background did not. Most men working for the President, even at the turn of the century, were college boys. Some had taken the grand tour of Europe. A few had gone to universities in New England. Three, fancying themselves adventurers, had traveled to the West with President Roosevelt, that is, President Theodore Roosevelt. Two of the older gentlemen had been heroes in battles in the South during the Civil War. Most of the White House office workers had nothing to prove, to the President or to themselves.
I followed a different path to Washington. After an unmemorable youth on a Pennsylvania farm, I moved to Oklahoma, where I took my first job as a junior clerk. I filled in paperwork for the more memorable 1893 land rush. Over time my responsibilities and the commands of the head clerk grew distasteful. A friend back in Pennsylvania recommended me for a position as a clerk for a state senator in Harrisburg. I worked for that state senator for one year and two months. Forgive the precision—I like to be accurate with details. Then the legislator was elected to Congress and took me to Washington. Three years later, almost to the day, word spread across town that President William McKinley’s office needed a stenographer. By that time I had married Clara Hays Bullen and had two sons. I aimed to improve my lowly position and my meager salary.
I moved down Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol to the White House. My official duties, those that were known, started on August 8, 1898. Three years and one month after I started, all hell broke loose in the office. Of course I wouldn’t have used such language then. Leon Czolgosz, an anarchist, assassinated President McKinley. Like other Americans, I felt sorrowful. I had seen McKinley pass down the hall daily, but I had never been introduced to him and he never spoke to me.
My clerk’s job continued. Theodore Roosevelt became President. Little changed in the routines of our office, except now the President knew me by my first and last name. Maurice Latta. To be precise, Maurice Cooper Latta.
When the President’s Secretary, William Loeb, promoted me from Stenographic Clerk to Assistant Secretary on June 4, 1906, I hoped I might have the opportunity to travel, at least up and down the East Coast. Two months later, I heard rumors that TR wanted to assess progress on his canal. Oh, let me interrupt myself for a moment. While conducting my official capacities, I called the President President Roosevelt. Informally I called him TR. By the way, he was the first president to be known by his initials. And some called him Teddy, though I never did so. I am told his relatives called him Teedie. You will hear all these names in my tale.
This trip would be the first time a president, while in office, had ever left the United States. Many Americans thought a president should not travel to foreign soil. That seems odd to us now, after Versailles and Yalta. But in 1906 most Americans didn’t give much thought to the rest of the world, not until TR changed that.
I assumed Secretary Loeb, always interested in the press, would accompany the President to the canal. Mr. Loeb would want to shape the stories in the dailies and weeklies. Reporters called him Stonewall Loeb because of the way he controlled their access to the President. To my shock, Mr. Loeb asked me to go in his place.
Today, even after working in the executive offices of nine administrations, now for President Truman (no, I never call him Give ‘Em Hell Harry), and managing a staff of 204 clerks, my title, a rather misleading title, is only Executive Clerk. I am proud, though, that the New York Times has acknowledged my worth. Four years ago, in a Christmas day article my family framed, the reporter wrote, “The actual ‘assistant president’. . . is an official who has been in the White House since 1898 and knows more about its procedure than anyone else. He is Maurice C. Latta, now seventy-four and known as ‘Judge’ Latta to the White House staff.” In truth I know more about what is happening, and what did happen, than most of the presidents I served. That statement is for this memoir only.
I won’t dwell on my years in the White House after Panama, but rather on four days in 1906, in and around the Canal Zone. For the public, I want to add to the historical record, which is silent on certain momentous events. For me and my family, I want to remember the turning point, when I came to realize both my limitations and my strengths. I am writing the tale of what I know, what I saw myself. If you wish, you can fill in gaps with stories you gather from the others present that November, the stories I couldn’t see.
William Loeb
Monday, October 15, 1906
“I’m tired, Maurice. I followed that wild man to Yellowstone and Yosemite three years ago. Still haven’t recovered. None of us could keep up with him.” Mr. Loeb, Secretary to the President, was talking to me about Theodore Roosevelt’s two-month long trip to the West. “Now he’s sailing to Panama. He’ll itch for another frenzied schedule. I can’t do it this time. Here’s the question. Are ready for that kind of a trip? Interested in going in my place? I’m forty, you’re thirty-six. Those four extra years make a difference, right?
William Loeb sat three feet away from my face, at his desk in the White House. When he questioned me he leaned forward, putting his square jaw one foot from my weaker jaw. What answer did he expect? Modesty? Confidence?
“You surprise me, sir. I have never traveled beyond Oklahoma. I have never sailed, and I’ve never been responsible for a presidential trip. But I have watched you. I assisted you from afar when you traveled with the President. I will be honest, it would be a big step for me. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
Mr. Loeb sat back, slouched. I had disappointed him already.
“Sir, if you will walk me through the responsibilities, I would be honored to accompany the President.”
I will never know if Mr. Loeb truly believed I could handle the job, or if he had no one else in reserve. He shook my hand, sealing the arrangement. A day later he called me back to his office for instructions.
“Above all, Maurice, keep to the schedule. I’ll help you prepare it. We start with essential meetings. Officials of Panama and representatives from other countries. Then we fill in as needed.” Mr. Loeb was in his element, flaunting his expertise. “Second, control the access of journalists. Give priority to Frederick Palmer, he’s a favorite of Teddy’s. And I’ve been asked to add in a local journalist named Herbert de Lisser. Limit access to those two. Manage the press like I do. Third, names. Keep on you, in your pocket, the identities of the people Teddy is to meet. Whisper him reminders. He’s smart, but that makes him seem even smarter. Fourth, keep notes. You’ll need them later for Teddy’s reports. Last, prioritize telegrams. The pundits are worried that the President, abroad for the first time, won’t be in charge of the business of the country. I’ve reminded them that telegrams will reach his ship and will reach Panama. Sort through dispatches when they arrive and make sure he deals with them.”
I feared Mr. Loeb would notice my twitching right leg. Instead, he looked down and hesitated. For more than a second.
“I need to be frank with you about another matter. There could be danger. Jimmy Sloan, the Secret Service agent who heads Teddy’s protection detail, he tells me he hears rumors of anarchist plots against the President. He has people checking ships arriving in Panama, looking for suspicious travelers. May not matter. Hunting for an assassin is like finding a needle in a haystack. And there’s more. Mrs. R. is frantic. Jimmy—fine to call him Jimmy—won’t talk to her. Teddy tells him not to. She tries to get information from me and I won’t talk to her either. She’ll see you as easy prey and try you too. A word to the wise—be wary of that elegant lady. She’s lived through three assassinations and she’s no fool.”
I could think of nothing to say. I was so anxious about my coming secretarial duties that I had forgotten about the President’s safety.
“Enough of the serious stuff,” Mr. Loeb said. Get yourself new clothing for the trip. Two suits and evening wear. Can’t have you looking like a farmer.” He must have seen me widen my eyes in a question.
“No extra allowance for that. Hope your Assistant Secretary’s salary will stretch.
Edith Roosevelt
November 1906
Edith Kermit Carow Roosevelt married late, at age twenty-five, pleased to be Theodore’s second wife. His first, empty-headed Alice Lee, had been prettier, but only her memory was competition. Society column reporters called Edith an elegant, good-looking woman. Even the carpers acknowledged that her sharp nose and chin didn’t mar the impression. Those reporters never called her intelligent, but she knew she was that, and Theodore knew too. At age forty-five, after five children and two miscarriages, the last just three years earlier, she remained slender and attractive.
In the White House Edith stayed busy, watching over sons Ted, Kermit, Archibald, and Quentin, her daughter Ethel, and her rambunctious stepdaughter Alice. Thank goodness Alice had just married, even if it was to Nicholas Longworth III, a bald politician, much older than Alice, with a reputation as a playboy. The wedding nine months earlier had been the social event of the season in Washington. With that extravaganza over, Edith’s burdens did not disappear, but she could begin to reorder them. The stepdaughter now moved from second place to third. Worries about Quentin, her youngest, and his mischievous antics rose to second.
Fear for Theodore remained first in Edith’s list of worries. The year before, she convinced her husband to buy a rustic house, known as Pine Knot, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. A private retreat. Almost private. Always watchful, she arranged for two Secret Service agents to protect the house every evening, without the President’s knowledge.
Sounds. They drove her crazy. The pulsating wind and the rattle of cedar shingles at Pine Knot. The scraping sounds of old window frames and squeaky plumbing at the White House. With each sound Edith heard an alarm. She had trusted Theodore’s first bodyguard, “Big Bill” Craig. In a carriage accident four years earlier Bill died and Theodore was injured. Now Jimmy Sloan oversaw protection. Jimmy was a good agent. Could even a good agent handle the task ahead? The trip to Panama would attract an international cast of cranks. Edith hoped they were cranks, not trained assassins. After each attempt on Theodore’s life, a reporter invariably mentioned the statistics. Three of the last ten presidents had been assassinated, three in about forty years, all in her lifetime. She imagined these numbers branded on her forehead.
Edith needed to identify a member of the trip’s entourage who might keep her informed about threats. Jimmy Sloan and his agents had pledged secrecy. Or they dismissed a woman’s worries. Thought her hysterical. They would be no help. And Theodore refused to acknowledge her fears, refused to listen. Thought she didn’t notice he carried a pistol in his pocket when he mingled with crowds. She would think creatively. She would curry favor with someone else on the trip, someone with knowledge. Maybe that Assistant Secretary who was taking the place of Secretary Loeb. Maurice Latta. He might know and he might share. She would keep an eye out for him aboard ship.
***
Excerpt from Path of Peril by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Copyright 2023 by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Reproduced with permission from Marlie Parker Wasserman. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Marlie Parker Wasserman continues to write historical crime fiction. Her first book, The Murderess Must Die, was published in 2021. After spending many years in New Jersey, she now lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and the Historical Novel Society.
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaway entries!
Join In:
This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Marlie Parker Wasserman. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
It is 1761. Prussia is at war with Russia and Austria. As the Russian army occupies East Prussia, King Frederick the Great and his men fight hard to win back their homeland.
In Ludwigshain, a Junker estate in East Prussia, Countess Marion von Adler celebrates an exceptional harvest. But this is soon requisitioned by Russian troops. When Marion tries to stop them, a Russian Captain strikes her. His Lieutenant, Ian Fermor, defends Marion’s honour, but is stabbed for his insubordination. Abandoned by the Russians, Fermor becomes a divisive figure on the estate.
Close to death, Fermor dreams of the Adler, a numinous eagle entity, whose territory extends across the lands of Northern Europe and which is mysteriously connected to the Enlightenment. What happens next will change the course of human history…
Praise for The Coronation:
“The novel explores the themes of belonging, outsiders, religion and war… all filtered through the lens of the other-worldly.”
A. Deane, Page Farer Book Blog
“This wonderful historical fictional tale will hold your attention as the author weaves a storyline that has different creative plots, along with a spiritual message.”
Gwendalyn’s Books
“Some authors deposit their characters in the midst of history, showing how their lives parallel historic events. Then there are authors like Justin Newland who bend history to their will and use fantastic elements to show us what could have been.”
Jathan and Heather
“This was a wonderfully told story that I thoroughly enjoyed.”
Genre: Secret History Thriller Published by: Matador Publication Date: November, 2019 Number of Pages: 216 ISBN: 9781838591885 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Apple Books | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
Closing scene of Chapter 11,
The Columbine Inn
It’s from the point of view of Marion Grafin (or Countess) von Adler. Her harvest sequestered by the Russian Army, Marion must raise funds to buy food to survive the harsh East Prussian winter. She goes to the Columbine Inn in the capital city, Konigsberg, to deal with a Russian trader, Herr Kharkov.
At the cattle market, the air was shot with the fresh smell of cattle and the mildly cacophonous sound of collective lowing. Scores of livestock were tightly corralled in fenced areas. Asking after Herr Kharkov, she was told to try the nearby Columbine Inn.
Outside the inn, a gleeman was playing a virtuoso performance on the violin. The tune was one of simple elegance. At the crescendo, she swelled with emotion but kept her tears in check. When the player finished, she nodded to Christoph to reward him with a pfennig or two.
“Thank ye, ma’am,” the gleeman said, his right eye twitching involuntarily.
“Is that your composition?”
“Wish it was, ma’am,” he replied. “No, I was standin’ outside a grand buildin’ in far-off Vi-enna and this music started up inside. Them notes must have squeezed through the cracks in the walls. I’s played it like I heard it, honest. By some boy musician, me thinks.”
“What was his name?”
“Dunno. But I’s like his music.”
“What, pray, do we call you?”
“Gleeman Kunz at your service, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Herr Kunz,” she said and entered the inn.
The inn stank of vodka, mead, sweat and other unmentionable body fluids. Russian soldiers sang nostalgic songs of home. In a room to one side, a party was in full throe where a man dressed in a tartan kilt was finishing a tune on the bagpipes. What a haunting sound they made. These Scots were an enterprising lot. From Ian Fermor, she knew that many ran schooners between Port Glasgow and the Baltic.
The racket in the main part of the inn reached a crescendo where a Cossack was dancing full pelt on a table. He was energetically encouraged by a coterie of drunken, shouting soldiers until he fell off, scattering limbs and beakers, which in turn sparked the mob into a fist fight.
The owner of the Columbine Inn, a Frenchman named Andre, was having none of that!
“Fermez la bouche, ou allez-vous-en!” he yelled at them. If they didn’t understand French, they quickly understood his meaning from the acerbic tone.
Christoph called out, “Over here, Your Excellency.”
Herr Kharkov and his secretary were tucked away in an anteroom behind a desk, on which was sat row upon row of silver thaler, arranged in neat, even piles. Kharkov boasted a droopy left eye beneath which was a deep diagonal scar.
Before she could introduce herself, Kharkov rocked back in his chair and with a knowing, malevolent smile said, “You must be Marion Gräfin von Adler.”
“Why yes. How did you know?” she asked.
“You – like me – have a scar on the left cheek. Everyone in Königsberg knows how you got it.”
Caught unawares by the remark, she soon regained her composure. “I’ve come for my thaler, all one hundred and fifty of them.”
“No, I agreed a hundred with the crouchback,” Kharkov said, pointing at Christoph.
“Yes, Herr Kharkov. You heard me. That’s a fair price for my cattle. Now hand over my thaler.”
Kharkov turned to his secretary and whispered in his ear. The secretary burst out laughing and pointed at her.
“How dare you mock me!” she said. In one movement, she swept her forearm across the money table, spilling silver thaler into the air and tumbling onto the ground.
“You’re mad!” the secretary snarled at her as he grovelled on the floor to collect the coins. Behind her, a truce seemed to have broken out amidst the fighters and she felt the eyes of the whole inn burrowing into her back.
The secretary handed a bag of coins to Christoph.
Kharkov explained, “That’s the one hundred t’s. That’s what was agreed.”
“No, that’s the down payment,” she countered. “I want fifty more. And I won’t move until I get them!”
“That’s all you’re getting!” Kharkov said with a smirk.
“Give me my fifty thaler! You thieving rascal!”
Kharkov reached down to the side of the table for something – a weapon? She smelled trouble. At that moment, a tall man with a thin neck pushed passed her and pressed his foot down on Kharkov’s hand.
“Dieter!” she cried. What a time for her brother to enter the fray!
“What’s going on here?” Dieter asked as he retrieved a pistol from under Kharkov’s hand and added, “Now, let’s not do anything stupid here.”
Marion hastily explained to Dieter what had happened.
“Do as the lady asks,” he insisted in that calm, authoritative way of his. “Give us our fifty thaler and we’ll go.”
“No,” Kharkov said, shaking his bruised hand and dowsing the pain with a slug of vodka. “That’s all you’re getting. You leave or I’ll make you.”
Drunk soldiers shouted at them, “Go now!” A glass shattered on the ground behind her. Someone stamped on the floor. Another picked up on the tempo of his beat, stamping in time. Soon, all the soldiers joined in… thump, thump, thump.
The noise was deafening, the danger, palpable. The walls seemed to be vibrating.
“Go home, Lutherans!” another soldier yelled, waving a dagger at them.
Dieter’s face paled. “Sis’, it’s not safe. There are too many of them!”
She turned to go and paused. An image flashed into her head – of the statue with an eagle with its claws buried in the head of the Virgin Mary. The divine image of the Adler filled her with courage.
She turned back to Kharkov, who taunted her, “Want a scar on your other cheek, Fräulein?”
Behind her, she heard metal rasp against metal – a soldier drew his sabre. They were outnumbered. The smell of vodka was intoxicating, the smell of fear more so.
“Come on, please.” Dieter pulled her sleeve.
She felt the Adler’s numinous power pulse through her veins.
She planted her palms flat on the table, leaned over and with her face right next to Kharkov’s, said, “No! Damn you! I will have my extra fifty thaler!”
Kharkov stood up abruptly, the chair behind him crashing to the floor. “Take them!”
She braced herself. She had done what she could.
Suddenly, a loud retort shook the room. Her ears were ringing. Her eyes stung and began to water.
Dieter had fired the pistol. Into the ground.
The silence that followed was shot with tension.
As the gun smoke cleared, he wielded the pistol in the air and yelled, “Stop this! Now!”
Kharkov’s left cheek was burning bright and his left eye was twitching uncontrollably. Still he didn’t budge, not one iota.
“Will you deny the lady a meagre fifty thaler?” Dieter tried again. “Or are you just crooked?”
That seemed to alter the mood in the room, because someone in the crowd hissed, “Come on, Vlad. Be fair to the lady. Give her the t’s!”
There followed a brief, but pregnant silence. Then with an air of resignation, Kharkov said, “I’ll tell you what, you greedy money-grabbers.”
What on earth was he going to propose? She waited; proud, firm and her heart thumping like a bass drum.
“See the fine relief work on the barrel of my pistol,” Kharkov said. “It’s the best, it’s Russian and it’s made at the famous Tula Arms Factory. It’s worth much more than a meagre fifty thaler. So, you keep my flintlock holster pistol,” he added with haughty disdain.
The crowd broke out in raucous cheers. Agitated and defiant, she could barely stand, let alone talk. But she refused to bow to anyone.
“Satisfied?” Dieter asked her.
She managed a weary nod.
“Hah! Now run away, little Prussian people!” Kharkov added.
She ignored the man and instead glanced up at her brother in awe and appreciation.
“Shall we leave?” Dieter asked, holding out his arm for her, which she gratefully accepted.
As they stepped into the freezing Königsberg air, Dieter helped her into his carriage and said, “By heavens! I’d forgotten what an extraordinary lady my sister is!”
***
Excerpt from The Coronation by Justin Newland. Copyright 2019 by Justin Newland. Reproduced with permission from Justin Newland. All rights reserved.
GUEST POST
“The chorister orchestrated the singing. It was so beautiful it sent shivers up her spine.
Lord God, thy praise we sing,
Lord God, our thanks we bring.
Father in eternity:
All the world worships thee.
The singing of the Te Deum had a healing effect on those present. All those years of war, dissolved in a paean of peace. All those war-dead, remembered. All those victories, celebrated. The defeats, forgotten. Now the glory, for God.
Let shine on us, O God, thy face:
Our only hope is in thy grace.
Our trust, O Lord, is all in thee:
O let us ne’er confounded be.
When the last note dissipated into the cathedral heights, a pall of silence descended on the congregation. It was as if everyone held their breath, waiting, wanting, and expecting a divine presence to reveal itself. It marked the end of a long, bitter road. Now the light of peace beaconed ahead and the brotherhood of man could once again take pride of place amidst the ruins of nearly seven years of war.
For the first time in a long while, Marion experienced that elusive feeling of quiet settlement, when the vicissitudes of life dropped away. It left her with a sense of belonging, when the spirit filled her life and her life filled the spirit. It was accompanied by a profound sense of homecoming.”
This is a great introduction to the forthcoming coronation of King Charles III, due to take place at Westminster Abbey in London, England on Saturday 6th May, 2023, because it will also feature a singing of the hymn Te Deum.
The order of service of the coronation ceremony has hardly changed since its inception in the days of King William the Conqueror. It’s written in the medieval illuminated Latin manuscript, the Liber Regalis, and can be viewed in the Galleries at the Abbey. Charles III is again following the tradition of using Westminster Abbey as the site of the coronation.
A coronation is a powerful and evocative religious ceremony which culminates with the placing of a crown on the head of the sovereign. The root of the word coronation is corona. A corona is defined as the rarefied gaseous envelope that surrounds the sun. An incredible sight, it’s visible during a total solar eclipse.
The imagery of a corona is suggestive of a halo, a bright circle of fire that both graces and illuminates. A halo is a ring or disc of light that often appears in religious art surrounding or above a person’s head. It’s a hugely significant mark of achievement in a saviour or a monarch that indicates the person is capable of performing extraordinary acts of compassion, healing and leadership.
What was the origin of the halo? Did someone just decide one day to paint a halo around these people? Or did someone actually see this ring of fire above or around a person’s head?
And what’s the connection between a coronation and the sun? Well, we know the sun’s rays turn up here as a seven-fold influence – i.e. the spectrum of light from red to violet. So, it’s not surprising to find that there are seven distinct parts to the Coronation Ceremony;
The Recognition
The Oath
Presentation of the Holy Bible
The Anointing
The Investiture
The Crowning and Homage
The Recess
The coronation itself takes place during the communion part of the mass. It suggests that the ceremony is a communion between the monarch and God and Godly powers.
During the first part of the ceremony – the Recognition – the sovereign stands behind the Coronation Chair and is presented to the people. He or she bows to all four sides of the Abbey – or the four directions.
The monarch then takes seven steps (seven again) up to the Coronation Chair which faces the high altar.
After the Oath and the Presentation of the Bible, the monarch is anointed with holy oil. This part of the ceremony is done in secret. A canopy is held over the sovereign because this, not the crowning, is the most sacred part of the service. The Archbishop of Canterbury makes a cross with holy oil on the royal forehead, hands and breast. The tradition derives from the Old Testament where the anointing of Solomon by Zadok the Priest and Nathan the Prophet is described. It’s no surprise that Handel’s Zadok the Priest is sung during the anointing of the monarch.
The anointing is performed with olive and sesame oil with aromatic additions like jasmine and ambergris. The use of oil is fascinating. Oil can be used to lubricate and insulate, but one wonders whether in this case it’s used to symbolically seal a high spiritual power into the monarch.
The remaining parts of the ceremony – the Investiture and the Crowning and Homage – conclude the process. The Investiture of the monarch with the symbols of state is there to symbolise what’s just happened, as is the Crowning. The Homage and the Recess are there to endorse and enhance. This uses the power of witness by those in attendance to strengthen what’s gone before.
All in all, this is a magnificent ceremony, replete with hidden symbolic meaning, much of which is probably lost on us all today. We can still enjoy the sheer spectacle of the regalia, the ceremony, the pageant, and the singing of that evocative hymn, the Te Deum.
Author Bio:
Justin Newland is an author of historical fantasy and secret history thrillers – that’s history with a supernatural twist. His stories feature known events and real people from history which are re-told and examined through the lens of the supernatural. He gives author talks and is a regular contributor to BBC Radio Bristol’s Thought for the Day. He lives with his partner in plain sight of the Mendip Hills in Somerset, England.
Sylvia Wilson, a bar owner in St. Louis, Missouri, arrives at work to discover the body of an ex-police officer in her locked bar. The police focus on her as their primary suspect, so she decides to launch her own investigation into the dead man and his accomplices. But when the killer sends her clear messages that she and her loved ones are on his radar, she knows it’s just a matter of time before someone ends up dead.
Review by Coffee&Ink
This is one of my favorite books of the year so far. You know in past reviews when I said: unputdownable? This is the real deal. Between the sharp as a knife prose, the main character Sylvia, and the driving plot–I was reaching for the book in the middle of the night to find out what happened next. Dynamite!
Sylvia owns a popular bar called Smugglers. She is a small business owner savant, “not like other millennials,” which had me laughing. There’s a wry, sardonic thread throughout. When she goes to work one day, she finds a dead body in her bar, which makes her the first and best suspect. Everything is on the line for her, and though they (the police, the FBI) tell her to stay out of it, she does not sit down.
You can feel her persistence and drive throughout the story, to the very last page. Sylvia is likely going to be one of my favorite characters. I’d love for her to have a sequel, but jeez, she’s been through enough! Seriously, a sequel would be great!
Highly recommended for kick-ass heroine and twisty plot.
Author Bio:
Wendy Koenig is a published author living in New Brunswick, Canada. Her first piece to be printed was a short children’s fiction, Jet’s Stormy Adventure, serialized in The Illinois Horse Network. She attended University of Iowa, honing her craft in their famed summer workshops and writing programs. Since that time, she has published and co-authored numerous books and has won several international awards.
Police Chief Autumn Long is fighting to keep her job in the quiet Alaska town of Shadow Gap when an unexpected string of criminal activity leaves her with a wounded officer, unexplained murders, and even an attack on her own father. Despite her mistrust of outsiders, she turns to Grier Brenner, a newcomer who seems to have the skills and training Autumn needs to face this threat to her community.
Grier is in Alaska for the same reason so many others are–to disappear–when Chief Long enlists his help. He emerges from the shadows and proves his mettle, but his presence in her life could be a deadly trap for them both. If his secret is exposed, all will be lost. And he’s not sure even Autumn could save him.
As the stakes rise and the dangers increase, Autumn and Grier must rely on each other to extinguish the deadly threats.
“An exhilarating, page-turning race to the finish!”
Carrie Stuart Parks, bestselling author of Relative Silence
“Gripping and hard-hitting.”
James R. Hannibal, award-winning author of Elysium Tide
“Elizabeth Goddard has created a novel that immerses the reader in small-town Alaska. From the first page, it’s a race to stay alive and solve a number of ever-spiraling mysteries. I highly recommend this novel.”
“A simmering romantic suspense with an explosive ending. Once more Goddard proves she is a master storyteller and deserving of her place as one of the best Christian romantic suspense authors of our time.”
Genre: Romantic Suspense Published by: Revell Publication Date: February 2023 Number of Pages: 336 ISBN: 9780800742041 (ISBN10: 0800742044) Series: Missing in Alaska, 1 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Baker Book House
Review by Coffee&Ink
I love stories with remote, hard-to-get-to settings, and the author does a wonderful job of evoking small town Alaska. Shadow Gap’s interim Chief of Police, stepping in for her father, attends a number of seemingly unrelated events in her jurisdiction. The story’s told in alternating viewpoints between Autumn and Grier, a stranger in town who keeps himself to himself until a woman needs rescuing from the cold sea.
This is a very good rural police procedural with a thread of romance underneath the main plot. Page turning, edge-of-your-seat action that doesn’t stop until the very last page. Interesting full bodied characters and setting. Highly recommended for mystery and suspense lovers.
I’m really looking forward to the next in this series!
Author Bio:
Elizabeth Goddard is the USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of more than 50 novels, including Cold Light of Day and the Rocky Mountain Courage and Uncommon Justice series. Her books have sold nearly 1.5 million copies. She is a Carol Award and Reader’s Choice Award winner and a Daphne du Maurier Award finalist. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with her family, traveling to find inspiration for her next book, and serving with her husband in ministry. For more information about her books, visit her website at www.ElizabethGoddard.com.
Veteran trekker Hardy Durkin takes his first bike tour group to Béziers, in the South of France, for what is expected to be relaxing, uneventful bicycling in the Hérault region. This notion is kicked to the curb when a double cold-case with present-day repercussions is discovered on one of the group’s outings. Hardy becomes embroiled in another homicide when he is present at a murder that takes place during an innocent flamenco performance that is anything but.
The bottom line: murder and intrigue follow Hardy Durkin like a shadow, even in the sunny, laid-back South of France, but this time his wheel of fortune veers uncomfortably off the rails in Homicide Hérault.
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery Published by: Blue Shutter Publishing Publication Date: December 2022 Number of Pages: 199 ISBN13: 978-1-941611-20-3 Series: Hardy Durkin Travel Mystery Series Book 6 | Each is a Stand Alone Mystery Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Smashwords
Read an excerpt:
There was a brief lull in the questions, then Delia asked what everyone else was thinking. “Who are you, Hardy Durkin? You’ve got this Clotiers guy on speed dial. You’re not in the least bit flustered about finding two dead soldiers on a god-forsaken riverbank in the South of France, you seem to be evading the police about it… Just who the hell are you?”
A shocked silence was interrupted by Clive. “I can answer that,” he said. He turned to Hardy almost apologetically. “My cousin was on your trek in the Black Forest.” To his fellow cyclists he explained, “Hardy is exactly who he seems to be. He has a trek business for points in Europe.” He paused, then added, “He also has an unusual skill set from his military training and for reasons unknown to anyone has a knack for wading into mysteries, stumbling upon dead bodies, and bringing criminals to justice.”
***
Excerpt from Homicide Hérault by Bluette Matthey. Copyright 2022 by Lucinda Guthrie. Reproduced with permission from Bluette Matthey. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Bluette Matthey is a 3rd generation Swiss American and an avid lover of European cultures. She has decades of travel and writing experience. She is a keen reader of mysteries, especially those that immerse the reader in the history, inhabitants, culture, and cuisine of new places. Her passion for travel, except airports (where she keeps a mystery to pass the time), is shared by her husband, who owned a tour outfitter business in Europe. Bluette particularly loves to explore regions that are not on the “15 days in Europe” itineraries. She also enjoys little-known discoveries, such as the London Walks, in well-known areas. She firmly believes that walking and hiking bring her closer to the real life of any locale. Bluette maintains a list of hikes and pilgrimages throughout Europe for future exploration.
Bluette is the author of the Hardy Durkin Travel Mystery series, author and developer of the South-of-France travel app, Potty Poche, and her latest mystery, Two Murders Too Many. She lives in Béziers in the South of France, with her husband and trio of loving cats.
March 1 question – Have you ever read a line in a novel or a clever plot twist that caused you to have author envy?
I always have author envy, which is one of the motivations for writing.
Sometimes it’s envy, sometimes sheer admiration. Mostly a confusing brew of both, I think, and add these ingredients to the concoction of Creativity. I find inspiration in reading great writers.
I was inspired to write as a kid while reading “A Wrinkle In Time.” I remember it as clear as day. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, I saw what I wanted to be. I wanted more than anything to be the mind behind the story, the storyteller.
Coffee And Ink 
You must be logged in to post a comment.