Books R Us wants to welcome Karen Charles to our blog. Karen is the author of Blazing Upheaval and Fateful Connections. She is surfing the blogosphere with Pump Up Your Book. Enter below to win a copy of her book. Thanks for stopping by.
Book Title: Blazing Upheaval
Author: Karen Charles
Publisher: Book Baby
Publication Date: July 25, 2024
Pages: 172 Genre: Thriller
About the Book:
In the heart of the tumultuous Rodney
King riots in Los Angeles, a dedicated teacher finds herself thrust into
a hazardous situation. Struggling to navigate the chaos and reach
safety on the freeway, she faces dangerous obstacles that jeopardize her
life. An unexpected rescue during a brutal attack plunges her, her
family, and two other families into a chilling series of enigmatic
events and escalating violence.
As the city grapples with unrest, they
are entangled in a web of mysteries swiftly building in intensity. In
the turmoil, their bonds of family, loyalty, and love are put to the
ultimate test. The tension mounts relentlessly until an unforeseen
revelation, coinciding with the cataclysmic Northridge earthquake,
irrevocably changes their lives forever.
This gripping true-story thriller
delivers suspenseful twists and heart-pounding moments, weaving a
narrative of family resilience, solidarity, and enduring love in the
face of daunting circumstances. It is a tale that illuminates the
strength found within the human spirit when confronted with
extraordinary challenges.
Karen Charles transforms real-life
narratives into gripping fiction thrillers. Her novels intricately weave
the threads of truth into a tapestry of suspense, intrigue, and
riveting storytelling. An educator by profession, she is renowned for
her thriller “Fateful Connections,” which unfolds against the backdrop
of 9/11. “Blazing Upheaval” promises to deliver another chilling,
heart-pounding experience. Karen and her husband reside on the serene
shores of a beautiful bay in Washington, where she draws inspiration for
her compelling narratives. Explore her insights and musings on the
writer’s life through her blogs on “My Life As A Writer” at www.weaveofsuspense.com.
I want to introduce you to Tiffany, an Elementary School teacher who was traveling home during the Rodney King riots and ended up in an altercation. Three young men attacked her car. She was assisted by one of her student's father and his friends. One of the attackers was severely injured. This incident sets up a series of events that affect Tiffany and her entire family, making the book a compelling read. All the characters were well developed, each with unique and intriguing traits and struggles, making them relatable and adding depth to the story-line. The author had a way of describing the events happening at the time that kept me engaged. The author included an epilogue that listed the events chronologically, including the earthquake that affected everyone in the story. The author's thorough research while writing this book made me feel like I was amidst the chaos.
In a twisted web of lies, she's either the spider or the fly.
When a psychiatric clinic assistant turns up dead, Dr. Leslie Schoen finds herself a suspect in the case—and facing allegations which could destroy her career.
As Detective Davis works the investigation, Leslie launches her own inquiries. She soon uncovers deception and illegal schemes involving stolen prescription opioids at her clinic. It seems everyone around her is hiding something, and as she gets closer to the truth, the threats against her escalate. She struggles with keeping dangerous information from her pregnant wife, Izzy, and knows she needs to confront traumatic demons from her own past. But as she delves deeper into a web of lies, one thing becomes clear: someone will do anything to keep their criminal plans in the shadows.
With her family and even her life on the line, Leslie must outwit those who want her silenced before it’s too late. No one’s motives are what they seem, and the killer may be closer than anyone thinks.
Book Details:
Genre: Psychological Thriller Published by: Rowan Prose Publishing Publication Date: July 15, 2025 Number of Pages: 339 ISBN: 9798227130914 Book Links:Amazon | Kobo | Apple | BookBub | Goodreads | Books2Read
Author Bio:
Mary Desch, writing under the pen name MM Desch, brings a wealth of psychiatric expertise to her gripping psychological thrillers. Drawing from her extensive career as a general and addiction psychiatrist across multiple states, she crafts relatable characters facing intense psychological and physical dangers. Her deep understanding of human motivations, conflicts, and trauma recovery infuses her writing with authenticity and suspense.
A lifelong mystery enthusiast, Mary's passion for the genre evolved from childhood fascination with Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine to a deep appreciation for detective fiction in college. This enduring love for suspenseful storytelling naturally led her to write psychological thrillers.
When not delving into the intricacies of her next novel or novella, Mary enjoys hiking, long walks with her wife and their spirited mini schnauzer, exploring local food scenes, golfing, and following women's professional basketball.
Mary's debut thriller, Tangled Darkness, marks the beginning of a promising foray into psychological suspense fiction.
The ink is still wet on the contract, but Wren Fontaine is already running into trouble as she renovates Cadieux House, a modernist masterpiece on Long Island's exclusive Gold Coast. The home's architect was the brilliant and eccentric Marius Cadieux, her father's mentor, and Ezra doesn't want Wren to change as much as a doorknob.
And the home itself comes with a dark past: In 1955, it was the site of the never-solved murder of its owner, Dennis Blaine. Cadieux himself was alleged to be having an affair with Dennis's wife, the stunningly beautiful Rebecca. It seems like yesterday's headlines, but then someone starts killing people with a connection to the house. The home's new owner—bestselling novelist Bronwyn Merrick—may be using the house to launch a fictionalized account of the 1955 crime. But someone may not want to her to. Just how far will Bronwyn's armed bodyguard go to protect her?
As Wren untangles the threads, she finds they all lead back to the house. Rebecca apparently inspired the strange, yet alluring residence, and both the home and its mistress may have caused uncontrolled emotions that led to tragedy. Wren uses all her architectural skills to decipher the hidden message Cadieux cunningly wove into the home's design. She must think back 20 years to when, as a little girl, she met Cadieux. Deeply impressed with Wren, he gave her a clue about the house—and his unusual friendship with Rebecca. With her girlfriend Hadley at her side, Wren eventually solves the mysteries of the home and the people who lived there, develops a grudging respect for modernist architecture—and learns something about the difference between love and obsession.
Wren stood on the shore and stared, trying to sort out her feelings about the ineffable house in front of her. She was only vaguely aware that while she looked at the house, her companion looked at her.
"So, Ms. Architect—what say you?" Bronwyn finally asked. Wren saw her wry smile. She knew she'd have to answer, and Bronwyn would expect it to be clever.
"Architecture should speak of its time and place, but yearn for timelessness," Wren said.
"Is that an original observation?" asked Bronwyn.
Wren laughed. "You flatter me. It's the great modernist architect Frank Gehry. This house is very much of its time and place. Look at the white stucco walls, the glass and steel, the absolute cleanliness of lines. The geometric arrangement of the layers is mathematically perfect."
"Why do I sense a 'but' coming?" asked the woman, arching an eyebrow.
Wren knew there could be no softening the message. "I don't find it welcoming. There is something very self-aware about modernist homes. A look-at-me arrogance about them, as if they are doing you a favor of letting you inside." She paused, wondering if she had gone too far. "But maybe I'm being unfair. I haven't been inside it yet. And there's no doubt that it's stunning." She looked at Bronwyn, waiting for her reaction.
"Are you saying I may have made a mistake buying it?" asked Bronwyn. Wren heard the teasing in her voice.
"No. Nobody ever made a mistake buying a house that spoke to them." Yes, even if they spent $30 million for it. "If you are honest with yourself about what you want, you will be happy here. And if you are honest with me, I guarantee I can give you what you want with the renovation."
"Fair enough," said Bronwyn. "Was that Frank Gehry again?"
"No, that was entirely me."
"Ah. But as Gehry said, it should yearn for timeliness. Has this succeeded in that?"
"We'll need to give it another century."
Bronwyn nodded. "Maybe it's because I'm a writer. I become obsessed in making sure my books, the plots and subplots, are exciting. This house looks exciting. I was happy in my nice, simple co-op, and then my financial advisor told me I could do better. Much better. I fell in love with this right away. The more I walked through it, the more I liked it, the idea that I will be able to stay in it a long time, and keep finding something new about it."
"Then you absolutely did the right thing. Indeed, that is the very purpose of a house like this," said Wren. She mulled over her next statement. "When I was a girl, however, I wanted to live in a Victorian manor house, with a great hall with a huge hearth and handmade wooden furniture. I'd wear long dresses and be attended to by maids in starched uniforms." Did I just sound silly?
"That's very romantic," said Bronwyn, and Wren wondered if that was a criticism, a put-down for a flighty young girl. "But then again, I feel romantic about this, about men in classic tuxedos and women in Chanel dresses, with cigarettes and dry martinis and Dave Brubeck playing in the background. I guess we're both emotional that way, so despite our differences about favorite eras, I'm thinking hiring you is going to turn out to be a good decision as well."
Wren felt relief wash over her. She felt confident building houses but closing a deal—that involved people. She still didn’t trust her abilities when people were involved. Of course, there was still one more feature of the house they needed to discuss: The "tragedy." That's how the papers had described it.
But Wren wasn't going to bring it up first.
Bronwyn hugged her leather jacket. "It's a great view, but it's getting cold. Let's go inside."
Yes. Wren always looked over the outside first, but she was especially excited about seeing the interior. Until Bronwyn had bought it a few weeks ago, no one had been inside the house since the 1950s, except for the caretaker staff.
The house overwhelmed Wren despite herself. Oh yes, she thought, Marius Cadieux knew it would. He would be so amused. So very proud. No—smug. Even if it wasn't to her taste, there was no denying what Cadieux had achieved here: the soaring ceiling, the clever use of windows filling the house with light even on a dreary day, the unexpected curves and angles, the steel staircase, which also served as a sculpture. Wren just stared. There really was nothing to compare it to—a Cadieux house was always unique. She could see him standing over her, "Very nice, isn't it, little one? And of course, your client is overwhelmed by it, as she should be."
"I'm glad I bought a house that even knocks the socks off another architect," said Bronwyn, grinning.
"It certainly does," said Wren. "I've seen pictures, but they're not the same as really being inside it." Wren took in Bronwyn, with her attractive, angular face and the matching pixie haircut. Did the author indeed have a modernist personality, a match for this home, a connection with Cadieux? Indeed, did Bronwyn know how perfect she looked in her new house?
Wren walked among the rooms, taking note of the artful ways Cadieux had divided the house—very few true walls and doors, just a series of levels and passages, rectangular pillars clad in stone. Cadieux loved granite and marble, quartzite and sandstone, and merged them with oak and walnut, teak and lyptus. Wren saw Bronwyn marveling over it, even though she had already visited her new home several times. That was the thing about a Cadieux home, that Bronwyn had already realized: You could live there 40 years and marvel over it every day for the rest of your life.
"I'd like to see upstairs." Wren smiled. "But as you no doubt noticed, 'upstairs' is relative in a Cadieux house, with its intersecting layers. It just flows. That was a hallmark of Cadieux, but none I've seen are quite as…" She let her voice trail off.
"You can't find the word?" said Bronwyn.
"You're the writer—can you? Architectural journalists struggled to describe him. But here we go…'intriguing.' No other Cadieux house is as intriguing as this one. It may take me a while to figure it out."
"You mean, how it's put together?" asked Bronwyn.
"Oh no. That's easy. I meant what is its personality? Marius Cadieux stamped a personality on this house. It has a reason, and I will find out what that is. For now, we look at it: See the extraordinary flow of the house, the ways the rooms are separate and yet merge into each other, the way the light plays along the floors and walls. The materials blend into each other, and Cadieux is taught in every architecture school—as if you could teach this."
"It sounds like you studied him," said Bronwyn. "It sounds like you knew him. Did you?" She fixed her eyes on Wren, who gave that question some thought.
She didn't want to go there, not yet.
***
Excerpt from The Cadieux Murders by R.J. Koreto. Copyright 2024 by R.J. Koreto. Reproduced with permission from R.J. Koreto. All rights reserved.
Over the years, R.J. Koreto has been a magazine writer, website manager, textbook editor, novelist and merchant seaman. He was born and raised in New York City, graduated from Vassar College, and has wanted to be a writer since reading The Naked and the Dead. In addition to his novels, he has published short stories in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, the 2020 Bouchercon Anthology and Paranoia Blues: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Paul Simon. His current series features Wren Fontaine, an architect who finds mysteries in the historic homes she renovates. He and his wife have two grown daughters, and they divide their time between Rockland County, N.Y., and Martha’s Vineyard, Mass.
In the heart of Chicago, where shadows conceal secrets and organized
crime reigns, one retiree embarks on an extraordinary journey.
David Blazen didn’t know what to expect from retirement. Witnessing a
murder that police are calling a suicide definitely was not how he
planned to spend his “golden years.”
With a strong need to know what happened to the victim and why, David
attends the funeral, where he discovers an unusual cast of characters
in attendance: the FBI, the frontrunner candidate for Mayor of Chicago,
disciples of Chicago’s two dirtiest crime lords, and dozens of police
officers.
David begins to investigate why all these people cared about the
victim and why no one was calling it a murder. In his search for truth
and justice, he gets caught in a web of contentious situations, each
filled with a mixture of humor and suspense.
The further his investigation goes, the more he realizes he shouldn’t
be asking who killed the victim or why it was being covered up. As
David ultimately is confronted with becoming a criminal himself, the
real question he has to ask is how much bad can he justify in the name
of good?
As one reviewer said, “This book has the many twists and turns that a
great mystery will throw at the reader. It is a fun read, witty, and
suspenseful with many surprises turning up throughout the story. If you
think you have this story figured out, you don’t!”
Guest Post:
Have you ever asked a police officer how to commit a murder?
I have.
I was writing a key scene for Boomsters: An Unexpected Adventure, and without giving too much away, I'll just tell you that a character is murdered. I talked to a friend about the scene and explained how the character dies, and my friend looked at me, confused.
"David, that doesn't make sense," my friend said. "There's no way the character would die the way you explained it."
I thought my friend was just giving me a hard time, but as I started to tell more people about the scene, I realized I might have a problem. Some people agreed with how I set the scene, but just as many people agreed with my friend.
How was I going to solve this predicament? I didn't really want to ask Google if this scenario would kill someone.
One day I was doing some writing at a public cafe, and I noticed a police officer walk in. If anyone could help answer my question, I figured an officer of the law could. But what if he got the wrong idea? I wrote this book to help keep my creative mind fresh, not end up in the backseat of a squad car. I thought about it for a minute or so and decided to go for it.
I walked up to the officer and began by thanking him for his hard work. Then I got right to it.
"Officer," I said, "I have a rather unusual question for you."
"OK?" he said questioningly.
"You see, sir, I'm writing a mystery, and in it, there's a murder. I fortunately have never committed a crime or considered murdering anyone, but I have an active imagination. Anyway, I wrote out the whole scene and thought it worked out, but then I showed it to a buddy and he said it didn't make sense."
By this point the officer seemed captivated by my saga.
"I see," he responded. "Well, tell me what happens."
I went ahead and painted the whole scene for him. I explained how I thought the murder would happen and then shared how my friend thought it would go down. The officer listened intently. When I finished, he remained quiet. I prayed he wasn't considering whether my tale was a confession. Fortunately, he was apparently just deep in thought about the dilemma.
After a few seconds, he told me he agreed with my buddy.
I thanked him for his time and opinion, and I reiterated that this was only for a book and that I'd never consider following through and making this work of fiction a reality. He appreciated that and shook my hand.
"So, who's the killer," the officer asked as we began to go our separate ways.
"You'll have to read the book to find out," I said with a smile.
I packed up my things and headed home. On the way, I called my friend and said a cop agreed with him and that I'd fix the details the next morning.
When I woke up, before getting to the revisions, I scoured the local news, hoping no one committed a crime like the one I created. Once I confirmed I was in the clear, I went back to the scene and rewrote it to match the logistics the officer shared. Satisfied, I sat back and thought about the officer's last words.
"Who's the killer?"
I'd lost count of how many times I'd been asked that question from people who knew about the story. I'd usually give a light-hearted remark like what I shared with the officer, but from the moment I realized this was going to be a book, I knew I wanted it to be more than a whodunnit.
I wanted readers to get more than just that type of mystery.
I wanted readers to meet a cast of characters straight out of a Coen Brothers movie, each with their own distinctive backstory, and figure out how they fit together.
I wanted readers to be entertained with humor while being confronted with ethical and moral dilemmas.
I wanted readers to have to answer the question of how much bad could be justified in the name of good.
Thank you to the hundreds of readers who've told me I accomplished that goal.
Thank you for reading this far and considering reading Boomsters.
And thank you to the officer who helped me out. I never caught your name, but if you're reading this, reach out to me at contact@boomsters.com. I'd love to send you a signed copy of the book.
Read an excerpt:
Chapter 1
BOOMSTERS
“We are gathered here today before God and in the company of loved ones to celebrate life,” Rabbi Rabinowitz said. “The life of—” He paused. “The life of—” Another pause. Finally, he pulled a notecard from his pocket. “We are here to celebrate the life of Melvin Weinberg.”
I adjusted my tie as I leaned toward Mary. “More like celebrating his death,” I said. She rolled her eyes as she listened to the rabbi.
“Melvin, or Mel, as most of you probably knew him, was a husband and a father, a man whose life was cut short at the age of fifty-six. The world will not be the same without him.”
“Yeah, it will be safer now,” I whispered to Mary, who responded with an elbow to my left kidney. “What? Clearly this rabbi never met Mel.”
Candidly, I had never met Mel either, but I was confident I knew more about him than any of the two hundred or so people at the funeral. My guess was most were here not because Mel would be missed but because so many people wanted to confirm he was dead.
When you’re in your seventies like I am, you become familiar with funerals and the certain routine that comes with them, but it was easy to see nothing was routine about this one. Sure, the rabbi forgot the dead man’s name, but now he was extolling Mel’s virtues. Mel had no virtues. He was a murderer, a rapist, and a gambler. You can’t live life as a jerk and die a mensch. Clearly the rabbi was officiating as a favor to someone.
But that wasn’t all that was off. Those in attendance were also peculiar. First, a half-dozen FBI agents patrolled the room. Sarah Cutler—the woman expected to be Chicago’s next mayor—was sitting in the front row for all to see. Scattered throughout were members and employees from the West Coast Club, a fitness center I’ve worked out at for more than twenty years and a place I know Mel was no member of.
Then there was the crowd in the back row. On one side sat associates of Tony Santori, the head of the notorious Italian crime family. Santori expanded his family’s corrupt and dishonorable reign from New Jersey to the Midwest six years ago, and although he wasn’t in attendance, his presence was certainly felt. On the other side were members of the Deli Boys, a pack of Jews who’d owned Chicago’s streets for decades, at least until Santori arrived. Solomon Feldman was their leader, though he, too, was not present. A line of uniformed Chicago police officers blanketed the room’s back wall, there primarily to keep the peace between the two families.
Keep the peace? At a funeral? Like I said, the whole scene was bizarre. Then again, I guess it was fitting for the unique set of circumstances surrounding Mel Weinberg’s death. Why they were there was a legitimate question, as was this: As a retired businessman who spent fifty years selling trinkets like light-up Christmas necklaces and pens that sang “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” what the hell was I doing there?
To answer that question, I needed to take a step back.
—–
David Blazen is my name, born soon after World War II ended at eight pounds and who cares how many ounces. Growing up, I loved to watch Saturday morning television, where Superman stood for justice and Captain America defended our country from evil. All the shows I gravitated toward appealed to me because they focused on doing the right thing, no matter if the hero was a rifleman or a collie. I liked when bad people were caught and justice prevailed. When I couldn’t find the right story on our black-and-white TV, I’d find it in my piles of GI Joe comic books. Before I fantasized about girls, I dreamed about being GI Joe.
The best education I got came from my World War II-veteran dad, a navy man who was the smartest person I knew, even though he never made it past fifth grade. From him I learned how to be human. His motto was simple: “It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”
I went to Wright Junior College in Chicago, but saying I went there is a loose term. I only showed up when I wanted, which wasn’t often. I wanted to learn to be a salesman, so when I wasn’t in class, I was practicing my craft. At that time, I sold personalized pens. I decided I learned all the school could teach me three months into my freshman year when I sold Wright Junior College ten thousand pens emblazoned with the school’s name on them.
After my brief stint in college, I started my own business. I sold creative impulse merchandise of all kinds—things people decide they can’t live without, like an extendable back scratcher or holiday-themed ice trays. Those who knew me then would call me creative and fast-paced, and I would agree. I had a zest for being zestful. My creativity was not stymied by what others did or what books said, only by the limits of my imagination. Every day, I challenged my brain to think outside the norm.
I got married to an incredible woman, and we raised four incredible children. I lost her to cancer far too young, before she could see any of our ten adorable grandchildren.
I retired after five decades at the helm of my company and issued my declaration of independence—I call it that because I truly felt independent for the first time in my life. No parents or teachers telling me what to do. No customers to worry about. No colleagues to manage. When I got that gold watch at my farewell party, it wasn’t just a sign of gratitude; it meant I was on my own.
The irony was I didn’t have anything to do; who cared what time it was?
When people asked about my retirement plans, I joked I’d figure something out, but really I didn’t have a clue. One advantage was I wouldn’t be completely alone. My girlfriend, Mary, retired from her forty-year business career the day after I left mine, and we entered this new world enthusiastic to travel, relax, and enjoy our lives with one another, like those hokey life insurance commercials with aging couples hugging on a boat, grateful to have time together.
It took us four days to realize we didn’t like boats and there was only so much hugging to do.
We went from leadership positions where others counted on us for direction to spending virtually every waking minute together. It used to take only one of us to squeeze the tomatoes at the produce counter, but now it’s a two-person event complete with discussion and, in most cases, a concession on my part. I was no dummy, though; bigger decisions would be needed at the avocados. What used to be short trips now became extended outings. Lunch was another discussion, followed by a compromise. Everything we did was a discussion, then a compromise.
The one thing we agreed on was we needed a new plan.
***
Excerpt from BOOMSTERS by David Marks. Copyright 2024 by David Marks. Reproduced with permission from David Marks. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
David Marks
David Marks launched DM Merchandising, a wholesale marketplace for
business owners, in 1988. He spent 30 years relying on his creativity in
the hopes of developing the world’s greatest impulse products. He
retired in 2018, thrilled for a new chapter in life, only to discover
his creativity had hit a brick wall. One day he was an innovative
workaholic with a team of more than 200 employees, the next day he found
himself with no forum to exercise his mind.
Desperate to do something creative, he imagined a fictitious
character facing the same traumatic reality of retirement. Inspired by
watching crime stoppers on TV, David began pondering the question of how
much bad could be justified in the name of good. With no clerical staff
and limited typing skills, he put his thumb to work and began tapping
out a story on his iPhone. A book was never the goal. The exercise was
simply meant to help keep his mind sharp. But in the process, Boomsters was born.
This is a giveaway
hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for David Marks. See the
widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
Police therapist Dot Meyerhoff helps a young woman find her birth parents and unburies dark family secrets in this psychological thriller.
Police psychologist Dot Meyerhoff’s caseload is usually filled with cops—which is why she’s hesitant to help an adopted teenager locate her birth parents. But the teen’s godmother is Dot’s dear friend Fran and a police widow to boot. How could Dot possibly say no?
Once Dot starts digging into the case, though, she’s drawn into a murky world of illegal adoptions and the choices a young pregnant woman might make as a last resort. Soon there’s only one thing Dot knows for sure: the painful truth of what happened all those years ago might heal one family—but it’s certain to destroy another.
I
write the Dot Meyerhoff mystery series. Dot (after my mother),
Meyerhoff (after my maternal grandmother), is a police psychologist. So
am I. You could call my books semi-autobiographical, although Dot is
younger and thinner than I am. And when it comes to helping her cop
clients, she takes way more risks.
Readers often ask me, “Did you really do what Dot did? My answer is always “Of course, not. I would have lost my license.”
Dot
solves most crimes using her brain and her training as a psychologist.
But when more is called for she’ll do whatever it takes. Just so you
know, I would never have impersonated a public official, broken into my
ex’s office, hit someone over the head with a wine bottle, or tried to
run anyone down with my car.
I
write in first person. Dot’s voice is mine. So are some of the
challenges she faces in every book. I’ve tangled with a lot of badge
heavy cops like Eddie Rimbauer. I’ve helped rookies like Ben Gomez
(Burying Ben) and Randy Spelling (The Right Wrong Thing) get their
bearings in a job that is filled with challenge and tragedy. I’ve helped
veteran officers manage the wear and tear of the job on family life
(The Fifth Reflection). And I’ve struggled to maintain the belief that
what I do as a psychologist helps people change for the better (The
Answer to His Prayers).
Like
most writers, I mine my personal life and family for material. With his
permission, I plagiarized much of my husband Steve’s life for Dot’s
love interest, Frank. I turn the tables on incompetent psychologists,
bumbling police
chiefs,
social unrest, as well as my own tendencies to overwork and never give
up on anyone, no matter how bad they are. My struggles to build trust
with cop clients and get administrators to appreciate my services, show
up in every book.
Call
Me Carmela, my most recent book (available now for pre-order) took me
in a new direction. Ripped from the headlines in a British newspaper, it
has all the same quirky secondary characters shaking their heads as Dot
helps the adopted teenage god daughter of KPD’s only police widow find
her birth parents. It was refreshing to look beyond my own experience
and take a deep dive into the complicated and emotion-filled world of
adoptions.
Thanks for reading. I hope you find my books to be informative and enjoyable. Happy reading.
Read an excerpt:
Author Bio:
Ellen Kirschman, Ph.D. is a police psychologist. and clinician at the First Responders Support Network. She is a member of the International Association of Chiefs of Police, The American Psychological Association, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Public Safety Writers Association. She is the recipient of the California Psychological Association’s award for distinguished contribution to psychology as well as the American Psychological Association’s award for outstanding contribution to the practice of police and public safety psychology. Ellen brings her expertise and decades-long experience to both fiction and non-fiction. She is the author of three non-fiction books and a five-book mystery series featuring police psychologist Dot Meyerhoff.
I would like to welcome Alex Kenna, Alex is the author of The Kate Myles Detective Series. She is touring the blogosphere with Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours with Book #2 "Burn This Night." Thanks for stopping by.
Told in alternating timelines, this gripping mystery about a PI and her quest for answers is full of twists and turns, perfect for fans of Allison Brennan and Gytha Lodge.
Struggling private investigator Kate Myles is shattered to learn her late father isn’t her biological dad. She’s still reeling when she discovers that an unknown distant relative is the prime suspect in a decades-old murder investigation. Trying to convince her to take on the case for free, an old colleague recommends her as an investigator for a recent arson murder in the same small town.
After giving up on a failed acting career, Abby Coburn is starting over as a promising social work student. With her life on the right track, she’s determined to help her brother, Jacob, whose meth addiction triggered a psychotic break and descent into crime. But when Abby dies in a fire that kills two other people and destroys part of the town, the police immediately suspect Jacob.
As the Coburn family grapples with the tragedy, Kate begins unraveling the cold case but finds herself caught in the middle of an emotional minefield. Pretty soon, she discovers that this town is full of dark secrets, and as she comes closer and closer to figuring out the truth, Kate must solve both murders before she becomes the next victim.
Read an excerpt:
PROLOGUE
Eight Months Ago—Grace
My eyes shot open when I heard the yelping. Barney was going to wake the baby. I dove toward the old dog, grabbed his snout, and held it closed with both hands. “Shh,” I pleaded.
I lowered one hand and rubbed Barney’s back, trying to calm him. He let out a whine, and like clockwork, Liam started to cry. I closed my eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and braced myself for another late-night nursing session. My body felt heavy with milk and stress and exhaustion.
Carefully, I scooped up the howling baby, carried him over to the rocking chair, and lifted my T shirt to feed him. Liam quieted down and nestled against me. I sniffed his hair and stroked his cheek as we rocked back and forth. Part of me wanted to stay like this all night. But a bigger part of me longed to be under the covers, passed out in a warm oblivion.
I heard the shower turn on down the hall. Ted must be back from serving his warrant. A few months ago, he’d gotten smart with a lieutenant, who then started feeding him late-night assignments. These frequent absences were brutal now that I was back from maternity leave and needed sleep to function at work.
Barney whined again and clawed at the bedroom door. Clutching Liam, I rose to let the dog out of the room.
I looked down at the baby, who was asleep and making little catlike snores. With slow, deliberate steps, I made my way toward the crib and lowered him until his back rested against the fabric. But the change in angle caused his eyes to open and his lungs to inflate. Then came the cry—and Barney ran back to the bedroom, joining Liam in a horrible wailing duet. I reached out toward the dog and felt wet fur. Damn it—Barney must have peed in the house. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. What I wouldn’t give for one night’s sleep.
The door opened and Ted walked in with a towel around his waist. “I need help,” I snapped.
“What?” asked Ted, surprised by my tone.
My eyes were closed, and I was crying. But Ted couldn’t see that in the dark. He just sensed the anger in my voice. I knew it wasn’t his fault that the baby wouldn’t sleep, that the dog couldn’t hold it, and that his boss was a jerk. But I’d reached my limit, and Ted was the only living being in earshot who understood human language.
“Barney peed in the house. Take Liam so I can let the dog out before he does it again. Just try to get him back to sleep.” I placed the screaming, wriggling infant in Ted’s arms before either of them could protest.
Flipping on the hall light, I made my way to the kitchen. Barney scampered ahead of me, spinning in circles. I threw on Ted’s faded hoodie. It reeked of old sweat, but I was too tired to care. I hooked Barney’s leash to his collar, and bracing myself for the cold, I unlocked the back door and stepped outside.
The Santa Anas blew hard, and I shivered as cold air soaked through the hoodie’s weave. I could hear the Jeffrey pines rustle in the wind. Thrusting my hands into the central pocket, I rubbed them together for warmth.
A smoky odor hung in the air—maybe the residue of a neighbor’s barbecue dinner. But the wind should have blown away the scent by now.
Barney tugged at his leash. I let him drag me toward the street. Now that we were outside, he wouldn’t be satisfied without a walk, and it might clear my head as well.
The sky was lighter than I’d expected. Idlewood doesn’t have streetlights. It’s a conscious decision to preserve the log-cabins-in-the-woods feel of the place. Darkness adds to the storybook charm, and it can be hard to find your way on moonless nights. But the sky had an orange-gray glow that reminded me of LA smog. Maybe it was later than I thought, almost morning.
Barney tugged on his leash, half-dragging me up the road toward the intersection. He seemed agitated, and I wondered what had gotten into him. As we passed the Hernandez’s place, our footsteps activated the motion sensor, and the automatic light above their garage snapped on with an electric hum.
I noticed something floating in the air. Tiny particles, like gray snow or dryer lint. The flecks danced in the air, and Barney snapped at one as it fluttered toward his jaws. The smell of smoke was growing stronger.
Oh my god.
Clutching Barney’s leash, I ran the rest of the way to the cross street, which cut straight to the mountain. High in the pines, I saw an orange glow—luminous against the dark sky. My vision tunneled, and all I could see was the fire on the hillside. The light was near Abby’s cabin. But I couldn’t tell how near.
I grabbed my phone and scanned my recent calls, but it had been weeks since I’d spoken to my sister, and her name didn’t pop up. I pulled up my contact list and clicked on her name. After four rings, a cheerful recording prompted me to leave a message. Maybe she’s already fled. No, Abby would’ve called if she were awake. She might hate me, but she’d warn me about a wildfire.
I called back, praying that her cell wasn’t on silent. Come on Abby, answer the phone. When I heard the prerecorded message again, I started to panic. I left a voicemail: “Abby, it’s Grace. There’s a fire by your cabin—you need to leave now!”
The orange glow was getting bigger as the Santa Anas blew the flames toward Idlewood. It was how I’d always imagined an erupting volcano would look, with lava flowing down its sides. I called Abby a third time, cursing under my breath. Across the street, a door opened, and an old man stepped outside, holding a little white dog. “There’s a fire!” he shouted.
I looked at him and then back at the mountain, ringing phone pressed against my ear. Dammit, Abby, pick up! “My son works at the fire station,” said the man. “They’re about to put out an alert. We have to evacuate. The whole town could burn.”
“My sister’s cabin is on the hillside, and she’s not answering,” I shouted. “Can you call your son and tell him someone’s up there?”
I heard a chime and looked down at my phone. It was a text from the fire department, ordering us to leave Idlewood. But my feet stayed planted. My sister was on that mountain, with nothing but a narrow dirt road leading down to safety. If the fire overtook the path, she’d be trapped.
“Jeffrey, it’s Pop,” I heard the old man say. “There’s a lady here whose sister has a cabin near the fire.”
Hearing those words unleashed a fresh wave of panic. Abby’s cheerful answering machine message sounded for a fifth time in my ear. “Abby, get out of there!” I screamed into the phone.
“We have to go,” said the neighbor. “This thing could spread faster than they can contain it.”
My phone chimed and I looked down at the screen, hoping to see Abby’s name, but it was a voicemail from Ted. Before I could call him back, a text flashed across my screen: FIRE—COME HOME NOW
I looked back and forth from my screen to the mountain. My sister was up there. But my husband and son were at the house. I couldn’t wait any longer. I tugged at Barney’s leash and ran home.
***
Excerpt from Burn This Night by Alex Kenna. Copyright 2024 by Alex Kenna. Reproduced with permission from Alex Kenna. All rights reserved.
My Thoughts:
"Burn
This Night" is a fast-paced and engaging detective novel. The main
character, Kate, struggles with a complicated past that includes a
failed marriage, opioid addiction, and alcohol abuse. Kate became a
Private Detective, set out to solve a cold case, and discovered
information about her past and family. I especially liked how the author
wrote the story with alternating narrators and timelines from the past.
Kenna used this technique to introduce us to Abby and Jacob and their
personalities and motivations. Some twists and turns kept me engaged,
and every time I thought I knew who the killer was, I was wrong.
Kate's
problems were introduced in the author's debut novel, "What Meets the
Eye," but I read this novel as a stand-alone. I had no trouble following
the progression of this story and the characters. I look forward to
reading the author's next novel.
Author Bio:
Alex Kenna is a mystery writer, prosecutor, and amateur painter. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, son, and giant schnauzer. Alex's first novel, WHAT MEETS THE EYE, was a 2023 Shamus Award Finalist for best first P.I. novel. Her second novel, BURN THIS NIGHT, is coming November 12, 2024.
Karen Charles transforms real-life
narratives into gripping fiction thrillers. Her novels intricately weave
the threads of truth into a tapestry of suspense, intrigue, and
riveting storytelling. An educator by profession, she is renowned for
her thriller “Fateful Connections,” which unfolds against the backdrop
of 9/11. “Blazing Upheaval” promises to deliver another chilling,
heart-pounding experience. Karen and her husband reside on the serene
shores of a beautiful bay in Washington, where she draws inspiration for
her compelling narratives. Explore her insights and musings on the
writer’s life through her blogs on “My Life As A Writer” at www.weaveofsuspense.com. 
