🍾Best Reads of 2022 Part 3🍾

This year was a little less trying than 2021 but my reading mojo was still lacking and I only read 111 books.  So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice.  So over the next two weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite.  Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2023 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.

👀I try to keep the purchasing links as current as possible bu they've been known to change for dozens of reasons, in case any of those links no longer work be sure to check out the author's social media links for updated buying info.👀

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

Part 4  /  Part 5

The Mystery of the Spirits by CS Poe

Summary:

Snow & Winter #5

Antique dealer Sebastian Snow and Homicide detective Calvin Winter have been happily married for a year and a half. In that time, there’s been nary a mystery in sight, and for a recovering sleuth like Sebastian, an uneventful life is exactly what he needs.

That is, until Calvin’s lieutenant enters the Emporium and demands insight on a bizarre object known as a spiritoscope, hailing from the early days of the Spiritualism movement. Sebastian’s extensive knowledge of Victorian curiosities leads him to consulting for the NYPD—putting him at odds with his husband. And as the bodies begin to stack up, so do the seemingly dead-end clues, which if Sebastian can’t make sense of, might result in a whole lot more death.

Mystery, murder, and marriage… Sebastian’s back. 

Original Review July Book of the Month 2022:

Snow and Winter are back!  

Sebastian and Calvin never get old, I will never tire of their journey.  CS Poe has done it again with her incredibly well balanced blend of mystery, romance, danger, and humor.  It's that blend that made me stop a few chapters from the end of The Mystery of the Spirits when I realized just how much this couple reminds me of Nick and Nora Charles, Dashiell Hammett's mystery solving duo of The Thin Man.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the author copied the "formula", Snow and Winter are very much their own characters with their own brand of pros and cons, strengths and weaknesses, but that blend I mentioned is what drives the chemistry between them and that chemistry is what reminds me of Nick and Nora.  Nick's a "retired" detective and she's his rich wife who is intrigued by mystery and wants to help.  Okay, so Calvin is definitely not retired and Seb is definitely not rich but very much finds himself sucked into the investigations(sometimes by choice and sometimes by fate).  That pull, that driving force is what makes them so amazing, so likeable, so unique and yet the couple next door all at the same time.  So when I say they are very Nick and Nora, I'm not comparing the fictional couples but complimenting the author for bringing to life an unforgettable couple full of sass and snuggle.

Now, back to The Mystery of the Spirits.  I'm so not giving anything away because everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING plays a factor, has a role in this case.  I will say that I was questioning the who and why until about a page before the reveal.  Even when it came to me I still found myself going "Is it really ???" and keeping the reader guessing that close to the reveal is everything I want in a who done it?.  So kudos to CS Poe for keeping my brain percolating.

I think one of the things that really grabs my attention with the author's Snow and Winter series is the antiques, the element of history added to a very contemporary mystery.  I'm not really up on antiques but I am a history lover and a lover of unknown tidbits that most history teachers/professors gloss over or neglect all together because in my opinion its the minute details that make history interesting.  Some might call them "useless facts" but for me they are very much useful and 200% intriguing.  So yet another kudos to CS Poe for her attention to detail and her love of history, or the very least her respect for all things in the past.

You can never go wrong with Snow and Winter and whether she brings more cases to Seb's Emporium in the future, time will tell but I know I'll be revisiting their journeys, their cases, their love story for years to come.

One last note: if you are wondering about reading order, asking if you can start with Spirits or start a the beginning with Nevermore?  My answer: start with Nevermore.  I'm a series-read-in-order kind of gal so it's obvious to start at the beginning for me.  Will you be lost if you don't start with number 1? No, the author gives us any "needed" past info to keep you in the loop but Calvin and Sebastian meet in Nevermore so it is only natural to start there and experience all the ups and downs, highs and lows, of their journey as it happened.  However you want to tackle it, you won't be sorry because Snow and Winter are a brilliant, winning duo that will make you smile.  What more can a reader ask for?

RATING:

Lock, Stock, and Peril by Charlie Cochrane

Summary:

Lindenshaw Mysteries #6

They may be locked down but this case isn’t.

Lockdown is stressful enough for Chief Inspector Robin Bright. Then a murder makes this strange time even stranger. In one of Kinechester’s most upmarket areas, the body of Ellen, a brilliant but enigmatic recluse, has lain undiscovered for days. Pinning down the time—and date—of death will be difficult, but finding a killer during unprecedented times could prove impossible.

Adam Matthew’s focus on his pupils is shaken when a teaching assistant reveals his godmother has been murdered. Keen to avoid involvement, Adam does his best to maintain a distance from his husband, Robin’s, case, but when it keeps creeping up, Adam lends his incisive mind to the clues again.

Between Robin trying to understand the complex victim and picking his way through a mess of facts, half truths, and downright lies from witnesses desperate to cover up their own rule-breaking, he realises this could be the cold case that stains his career and forever haunts a community. And when it looks like the virus has struck Adam, Robin’s torn between duty and love.

Original Review August Book of the Month 2022:

Once again we find the cop and teacher duo of Robin and Adam in the middle of yet another crime, this time in the middle of pandemic restrictions.  And you know what?  Once again Charlie Cochrane has proven she is a queen of mystery that puts her right up there with Agatha Christie, Caroline Graham, and PD James(to list a few) in my opinion.  

What makes me say that?  Her talent to weave a mystery with drama, humor, romance, and of course an incredible cast of characters that makes it nearly impossible to guess who did it right up to the reveal.  Some may not like having so many possibilities, I'll admit it can be hard to always keep each potential suspect straight but for me that can actually get my adrenaline pumping even more.

As for the particulars of Lock, Stock, and Peril?.  I think most of you know what's coming: I refuse to put out any spoilers and as this newest entry in the author's Lindenshaw Mysteries series is in fact a mystery with a laundry list of whos, whats, and whys every little snippet can possibly spoil the reveal.  So for the 3 W's I won't say anything.  What I will say is that Robin and Adam are more in love and more in sync with each installment and their contribution to the romance tag of the story is a lovely balance of "aren't they just adorably sweet" and "thank goodness their couple time doesn't overshadow the crime solving".

And once again, Adam may not go looking for ways to insert himself into his husband's case but those ways just have a habit of finding him.  I love how the author handles that insertion: helpful but not sneaking around trying to assist in secret and eventually causing more chaos the husband has to get him out of.  And of course, their beloved furbaby, Campbell the Newfoundland offers his ever loving and undying support.

I want to mention one thing about Lock, Stock, and Peril:  Robin and Adam are dealing with the latest case in the midst of Covid.  Personally, I think the author handled it beautifully.  Lockdown barriers that can throw more than one monkey wrench into their case but it just adds another level of realism to the story, as does a personal infection risk for the couple.  I'm pointing this out because I know some who have clearly stated that they just aren't ready to read about Covid in fiction yet, it's too real, it's too current, it's too fresh in their minds.  I understand that and respect that but for me when the author handles is so well as Charlie Cochrane has I not only welcomed it's inclusion but enjoyed it, kind of gave me a new respect for what law enforcement has dealt with the past two years.

I've said this before and I'm sure I'll say it many times in the future so I might as well say it again here too.  As much as I enjoy a good American mystery, there is just something extra special about a British mystery, both in print and on the screen.  One of my absolute favorite mystery series is Midsomer Murders(and the author even mentions the show in passing later in the book-a lovely Easter Egg find for me) and Robin and Adam have reminded me of that show from the very beginning.  As I say that, I don't mean the author has copied the formula or anything but the adrenaline rush I get from reading this series is the same I get from watching Midsomer.  I love the whole concept of seemingly throw away comments or "minor" characters(good or bad) that can actually completely turn the case on it's axel.  

I got a little wordy in this review(it happens when I get talking about my passion for reading) so I'll say it simply:  Lock, Stock, and Peril is a jigsaw for the mind, some parts are easy to put together and others may stump you for a bit and then you finally find that one piece that makes it all fit.  Likeable(and some not so likeable but love to hate) characters, amazing plot, well balanced humor, drama, and romance for an altogether brilliant storytelling experience. 

RATING:

The Button Man by Davidson King

Summary:

A visit from Button Man means only one thing: someone wants you dead.

Duke is born into the world a hired killer. It’s his birthright—all he knows, all he thinks he’ll ever be. Then one fateful night, the unthinkable occurs and in the most tragic of moments, a promise is made. That promise is kept for almost fifteen years, until he comes face-to-face with a target he never expects and a future he never sees coming.

Kelly spends his days in a classroom, while his nights couldn’t be more different. Unbeknownst to those around him, their friendly neighborhood teacher is the handler for a hit man. For over a decade he has watched Button Man’s back from behind a computer screen. He is content living his double life, believing he will never cross paths with the dangerous assassin, but fate has a different plan.

When the past collides with the present, Duke and Kelly must prevent it from destroying the future. It’s not just their lives they need to think about—the entire world of a fourteen-year-old girl is about to spin on its axis. Dodging bullets and uncovering truths bring the two closer than they could have imagined. But lust takes a back seat to survival when enemies threaten to drown them both in blood. Can they navigate these twists and turns when death is lingering at every corner, or will they die trying?

Original Review September Book of the Month 2022:

HOLY MOLEY SWEET PETUTIE!   Davidson King has done it again! AGAIN I SAY!  How is possible that so many dramatic danger-filled romantic suspense stories keep percolating in one author's brain?  Must be all the coffee I know she refuses to start the day without.

Seriously though, The Button Man is brilliant in so many ways.  

First:  the name.  The Button Man.  Such a common daily item that most of us use at least once a day.  Let's face it as a nickname you'd expect the moniker for someone who dresses dapper with high end suits or perhaps likes lots of bling on his body.  But not King's anti-hero MC.  I won't spoil the reason behind said nickname but I love it.  Common, clever, unique, legacy . . . sometimes the simplicity of titles can make the biggest impact.

Second: the cast of characters.  As for Duke and Kelly, they are a meshing of both sides of the scale. Duke is the hired killer with a legitimate business front and Kelly is the computer geeky teacher with a keeping the hired killer safe sideline.  Polar opposites that occupy the same existence without knowing it.  When their worlds collide, you can literally see them being totally gobsmacked, that's just how vivid Davidson King's creativity shines.  As for the rest of the cast, also equally lovely and 150% needed, not a single character is just thrown in for page or scene filler, they all have a part to play.

Third: the mystery.  I love a good who done it or who's behind it woven web.  I won't go into too many details because I don't want to spoil this masterpiece for others.  I'll just say that I had a few inklings early on that were partially right and there were a couple possibilities that floated in about 2/3 of the way through that ended up being nearly completely wrong.  By the time revelations were shared, my brain was a mish mash of "I thought ??? would factor in" and "HOLY CRAP! ??? never even fluttered in".

Last but not least: the family man.  I've made no secret of the fact that I have found men who care for kids sexy as hell and Duke's little Everleigh, or Ever as she's called, is a delight.  Seeing Duke, and eventually Kelly as a bit of an outsider acquaintance, care for her, protecting her, loving her is just icing on the cake.

Davidson King's talent for storytelling is once again rich and flavorful, a well stirred pot of spicy and sweet with just the right pinch of salt to enhance the taste.  I don't know if the author has plans for this setting beyond The Button Man(either way is okay with me, as a standalone it's great but there is definite potential for more which would be equally as great) but I do have to admit that in a seemingly throwaway line, a one sentence statement in passing, Duke mentioned a name to someone in the same line of business he reached out to on the phone.  I couldn't help but notice the name is a prominent character name in one of the author's other series.  Coincidence? Perhaps. Hints at a future crossover? Perhaps. Please, oh please let it be the latter because seeing Duke and Kelly mixing with that crowd? Talk about mayhem X10.  *😉Hint Hint😉* BTW: I won't say the character name because I don't want to spoil anyone else's Easter Egg find if that really is what this was. 

To sum up quickly yet another bit of a wordy review: The Button Man is a masterful blend of drama, action, friendship, family, mystery, heat, romance, humor, and of course my personal favorite: mayhem, loads and loads of mayhem.  If you've never read Davidson King, this is an excellent pool to wet your feet in.

RATING:

Bucket List by Jordan Castillo Price

Summary:

The ABCs of Spellcraft #12

Dixon might not be the obvious choice for the new Hand of the Penn family, but since an enchanted string marked him as Fonzo’s replacement, everyone’s on board. Especially Yuri.

But with great power comes great responsibility. The new mayor’s brother is in a real pickle—but since he’s been blacklisted by the Spellcraft circuit, no one can Craft for him. When the man begs for help, even Dixon’s hands are tied.

Or are they?

Now that Morticia Shirque is officially part of the family, Dixon could prevail on her wisdom to find a good loophole. Unfortunately, the venerable Scrivener is working on her bucket list and won’t be able to advise him anytime soon.

Uncle Fonzo is no help either, since he’s suddenly dealing with his fair share of unwanted attention. Not from the law, strangely enough, but from every single Scrivener lady in town…and even a few not-so-single hopefuls.

As Dixon and Yuri scramble to solve the problem the “old-fashioned way,” one thing is certain: you never can tell where the power of Spellcraft will lead you.

The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where M/M romance meets paranormal cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.

Original Review October 2022:

I never want this series to end! But all good things find their finish line eventually and one day, probably sooner than we'd like, The ABCs of Spellcraft will have fulfilled it's duty to entertain while conveying the zany hijinks of it's starring couple, Dixon and Yuri.

Just when you think there isn't possibly any more trouble the men(or more specifically, Dixon) can stumble their way into they find another street to travel.  Just as Uncle Fonzo has stepped up into a new role, Dixon also finds his new path as the top dog , Hand of the Penn family.  He's not exactly the most qualified candidate but perhaps that is what makes him perfect for the role as he has definitely seen his fairshare of the good and bad on his magical journey.

When faced with his first big crisis, Dixon goes at it as only he would: backwards or more precisely, finding a way to break a long-standing ban for assistance to the mayor's son.  Dixon has definitely got the gene that says "you tell me I can't so I'm going to prove to you I can do it anyway".  He may not take Yuri on a straight-line journey but they always get to where they're meant to be.

The Bucket List is another great entry in a series that is so full of fun adventures I can't stop smiling just thinking about it.  If you haven't started this series yet and are a fan of heat and humor balancing  with the magical side, I strongly recommend ABCs of Spellcraft from beginning to end.  You won't be sorry.

RATING:

Death at the Deep Dive by Josh Lanyon

Summary:

Secrets and Scrabble #7

We only see the things on the surface…

When Pirate Cove's mystery bookstore owner and sometimes-amateur sleuth Ellery Page discovers a vintage diving collection bag full of antique gold coins tucked away for safe keeping in the stockroom of The Crow’s Nest, it sets off a series of increasingly dangerous events, culminating in meeting Police Chief Jack Carson’s parents. Er… Culminating in murder.

Original Review October 2022:

This series just keeps getting better and better. Cozy mystery or just mystery, however you label it, Death at the Deep Dive(the whole Secrets and Scrabbles series really) is amazingly fun.  Some might think "fun" is an odd word to label any kind of mystery but not me, when done right, mysteries are not only fun but exhilerating and believe me, Deep Dive is done right!

Again, no spoilers of any kind, every little tidbit of info can tell too much and I don't want to ruin anyone's experience.  I will say that Ellery and Jack are closer than ever, cuter than ever, and becoming quite a crime-fighting duo.  Okay, "crime-fighting duo" is a bit of a stretch but this time around Jack isn't against Ellery's investigation, which I really love because it shows not only that Jack is accepting of what is but also that sometimes outside help can offer intriguing insight.  I should add that despite Ellery's penchant for being a trouble magnet, this time around he didn't go looking for anything, it came to him in the form of Vera Shutton-Shandy wanting to hire him to look into what happened to her brother, Vernon all so many years ago.

Through his investigations, Ellery finds a way to connect to his great great aunt who left him everything, which I found interesting and heartwarming.  Add in the silver sleuths wanting to offer help and gossipy nuggets of info and you have an old fashioned mystery that reels you in and keeps you hooked till the very end.  Can't wait to see what Pirate Cove has next up it's sleeves, or buried in it's caves, to rattle Ellery's chains.

RATING:

The Mystery of the Spirits by CS Poe

A police lieutenant walks into Snow’s Antique Emporium—which was not the setup to a bad joke, just how my Wednesday began.

The bell over the front door dinged and a gravelly voice snapped, “Where’s that Sebastian Snow?”

“Boss,” Max called without missing a beat. “You’ve got a customer.”

I stepped out of the office. Max didn’t look up from where he was dusting displays on the showroom floor, merely jutted a thumb in the direction of the door.

“Yeah, thanks, I hear just fine.” I took the steps down from the raised counter, wove around glass cases of gizmos and gadgets, and sidestepped larger, more eclectic odds and ends from a century long since passed. When I got close enough that the man came into focus, I nearly tripped over myself as I put on the brakes. “Oh. Hi.”

Calvin’s supervisor, and now-lieutenant after a promotion earlier that year, Ronald Ferguson, glowered at me from the threshold. He didn’t much like me, even blamed me for the Victorian-themed murder mysteries that’d befallen his Homicide Squad in the past, only because I’d gotten tangled up in one or two or four of them. I’d also married his best detective a year and a half ago, after the Bones case had been put to rest, and that’d really twisted Ferguson’s balls. I mean, it’s not like I’d purposefully gone out of my way to outsmart the entirety of the NYPD and steal Ferguson’s spotlight when Dr. Asquith had finally been apprehended. I’d simply had the bigger incentive for solving the case. Calvin might have been Ferguson’s first-grade, golden-goose detective, but he was my husband.

And love makes a guy do crazy things.

Anyway. Let bygones be bygones or whatever. Our relationship since me and Calvin tied the knot wasn’t exactly cordial, and I didn’t expect that to change. The few times we’d crossed paths, I’d say hello, Ferguson would grunt, and then we’d go our separate ways. So the fact that this man, with his permanent scowl, big arms, bigger chest, and classic Cop ’Stache, had willingly sought me out at… nine o’clock in the morning… was concerning.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, fiddling with the rolled-back cuffs of my shirtsleeves. “Is Calvin—?”

Ferguson tsked under his breath and shoved the cardboard box he’d been holding under one arm against my chest.

I scrambled to catch it and awkwardly pushed my glasses back up my nose.

Max had joined me by that point. He brushed the unsecured flaps of the box with his duster, then said to Ferguson, “Morning.”

“He bites,” I muttered in warning.

Max, who stood taller than me and still had that wiry build of a twentysomething guy who can eat absolutely anything and not gain an ounce, was using my shoulder as an armrest. “Max Ridley,” he said next, motioning to himself with the duster. “In case you wanted to yell at me too.”

Ferguson’s left eye twitched. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat, retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and when I’d taken a breath with the intention of telling him he couldn’t smoke in my shop and I would’ve told him the same thing if he were the President of the United States, Ferguson said, “Cool it, I’m not lighting it.”

“Cool it,” I repeated, deadpan. It was my turn for an eye twitch.

“Who’s your friend, boss?” Max asked in that easygoing-bro way he had of speaking.

“Ronald Ferguson,” I answered. “Calvin’s former sarge and now… is there slang for lieutenant?”

Ferguson snapped the filter off a cigarette, put the stick to his lips, and sucked hard on the cold tobacco. “I don’t know how Winter handles you.”

“With both hands, generally.”

Ferguson bit down on the cigarette. Loose tobacco peppered his tie. “Do you, ever once, have something to say that isn’t sarcastic?”

“Not really,” Max answered for me. “But over time you learn what’s important. It’s like tuning a radio.”

I raised the box in my hands and asked Ferguson through clenched teeth, “Can I help you with something?”

Ferguson took the cigarette from his mouth and pointed at me with it. “Do you know what that is?”

“Corrugated cardboard.”

“His face is getting red,” Max warned me.

“Now listen here, you smartass—” Ferguson began.

I set the box on the nearest display, crossed my arms, and said, “Please try that again.”

Ferguson looked about ready to swallow his tongue. “I read my detectives’ reports.”

“Hm-hm.”

“I know you’re a walking encyclopedia of weird shi—stuff—and that you’ve… inadvertently helped close a few cases in the past.”

“Watch those compliments, Ron. I’m a married man.”

Ferguson drew a deep breath before adding, “It would save me a lot of time and resources if you would look inside the box and tell me what that thing is.”

“I have a consultation fee,” I said.

“And I have your husband’s still-unapproved request for next Monday off.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

Ferguson shoved the mangled cigarette back between his lips and stared at me.

I huffed, turned to the box, and yanked open the flaps. I carefully removed an item that’d been thoughtlessly wrapped in a few feet of Bubble Wrap, and unwound the packaging just enough to reveal, on first glance, what appeared to be a clockface bolted to a slab of solid wood. I reached into my back pocket, tugged my magnifying glass free, and brought it close to read the inscriptions on the face.

Max leaned over my shoulder and said, “It looks like a clock and Ouija board had a baby.”

“That’s exactly what is it,” I murmured.

“What? Really?” Max asked.

“It’s a spiritoscope.”

“The fuck is a spiritoscope?” Ferguson interjected; more tobacco flecks sprinkled across his tie and shirt as he spoke.

“The layman’s answer: it was intended to disprove the validity of the Spiritualism movement in Victorian America,” I said.

“I don’t need the fucking layman’s explanation,” Ferguson snapped.

“Oh?” I looked at Ferguson and offered a saccharine smile. “I guess I’m used to people telling me to shut up and therefore have to consolidate an entire religious movement that lasted nearly a century, heavily influenced by sensationalism and the mass casualties seen during the Civil War and World War I, into a single sentence.”

“I want to hear more about it,” Max said with a sort of over-the-top enthusiasm clearly meant to be a jab at Ferguson.

“Do you?” I asked, just as fake.

“I sure do!”

“Well—” I began, adding a sort of dramatic, storyteller inflection to my voice, “Robert Hare, a once-prominent scientist from Philadelphia, set out to debunk the table-rappers of the 1850s by conducting a series of experiments with devices he called spiritoscopes.” I held up the item in question while adding, “This was one of several unique designs.”

Max crossed one arm over his chest and used the handle of the duster to tap his chin thoughtfully. “I see, I see. And did they disprove the movement?”

“They did not,” I said brightly. “In fact, Hare ended up converting to Spiritualism after becoming convinced of the mediums’ accuracy. He was shunned by the scientific community for the last few years of his life.”

Ferguson growled before spitting out, “How. Does. It. Work?”

“Hey,” Max chastised, motioning between him and me with the duster. “Respect the process.”

I dropped the bullshit pretense and countered with, “How did it manage to fool Hare? The same sleight of hand required to be a successful magician, I suppose. How did it work from a technical standpoint?” I looked around briefly, then told Max, “Hold out your hands.”

He tucked the duster into his back pocket and held them out, palms up.

I set the still-wrapped base in his hands and said, “Max is the table. The spiritoscope rests on its wheeled base, which allows it to move in a horizontal position—back and forth like this. The medium would rest his or her hands on this board, with the index—that’s the clock-like face—pointed away from them so they couldn’t read the results. As they moved the spiritoscope across the table, a system of pulleys—here on the side—caused this arrow on the index to move.” I picked the antique up and turned to face Ferguson. “It was thought that the spirits used the medium’s hands to spell out messages, or answer direct questions. See on the index, there’s the complete alphabet, zero through nine, as well as a few simple phrases: yes, no, think so, mistake, etcetera.”

Something in Ferguson’s expression had changed. I’m usually not very good at reading people—bad eyesight and all. I mean, if I’ve been around them long enough, consistently enough—like Max, my ex, my dad, my husband—then sure. I can definitely pick out nonverbal cues and surmise what they’re thinking. But Ferguson? I had no inkling, other than something about my explanation wasn’t sitting well with him. Like he’d eaten something sour and it was twisting his guts up.

Lock, Stock, and Peril by Charlie Cochrane

Chapter One

“No murders allowed, right?”

Robin Bright glanced up from doom-scrolling the news to view the pleasing sight of his husband, Adam Matthews, who’d broken the silence. Hair tousled from where he’d been snuggled up on the sofa having forty winks—with Campbell their Newfoundland providing a useful blanket for his feet—Adam gave the impression of only being half-awake. Perhaps he’d not known what he was saying, still partly in a dream world.

“Eh? No murders allowed when?” Robin asked.

“Now. Anytime, really. I was saying that if we do get away for a holiday this summer, we don’t want it being spoiled by you getting called in to a murder case three days before we go.” Adam grinned, in a way that could still turn Robin’s knees to water. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

Robin held up his phone. “Exhibit A. I was trying to keep abreast of the news. If it’s possible to keep abreast of it.”

What a year 2020 had been, and the start of 2021 wasn’t shaping up that great, either. Some activities that had been allowable the previous January were now—in his opinion quite rightly—an offence, and the patterns of crimes had changed. One thing hadn’t altered, although it had been emphasized: you were most at risk from those people you knew, friends and family, rather than a homicidal stranger.

“Keeping abreast? We believe him, don’t we, boy?” Adam patted the dog’s head, getting a yawn in response.

“Pfft. Tell you what, I’ll get in contact with all the villains on the patch to ask them to keep their hands to themselves when it’s coming up to the school holidays. Maybe a leaflet drop round all the houses would work for the ones who aren’t on the radar yet.” If only such a thing were possible and, if possible, effective. During every run up to an important family event, like a holiday or their wedding, Robin found himself worrying whether mayhem would break out in Abbotston or any of the local towns. As a result of which, all leave would get cancelled until the culprits were safely locked up.

“We’ll help you distribute them.” Adam patted the dog again. “I keep thinking that it’s been a while since you’ve had a complicated murder case to deal with and that our luck can’t keep going forever.”

“You’re tempting fate.” The last such occasion Robin had dealt with had been off their patch, when he’d been called in by his old boss to cover a team that was short-handed. This part of the world rarely saw killings that weren’t easily solved. All in line with his proven belief that you were most likely to be hurt by your nearest and dearest. “May I remind you what has a habit of happening when one of us says something like that?”

“Don’t remind me. You’re too good an officer, so I keep worrying that you’ll get whisked away to the other end of the country because the local police can’t cope or have all come down with it. Maybe when you’re handing out these flyers, can you print on them that any crimes that happen have to be within a thirty-mile radius?”

“Shall I start a blog and put my diary on it so the crooks know when they have to behave themselves? Maybe you want to put in a time frame where it would be acceptable for them to commit crimes?” Did other coppers have this kind of conversation with their partners or did his and Adam’s quirky sense of humour mean they were unique?

“That’s a great idea. Not sure your chief constable would approve, though. Campbell’s giving me a look of disapproval. Very law-abiding, this dog.” Adam tickled the Newfoundland behind his ear. “Is it wicked to hope that if you do have a major case to deal with soon, then it happens during this lockdown period, where it can’t get in the way of anything else?”

Not wicked so much as pragmatic. However . . . Robin addressed the dog. “Campbell, is your other dad hinting that he’s likely to get fed up of having me under his feet again?”

The question didn’t need a reply: banter like that had eased them through the previous lockdowns and any other occasions where they’d had no other company but their own. Being lovey-dovey all the time, with no jibes or jokes at your partner’s expense wasn’t in their repertoire.

The Newfoundland slipped away from his comfy perch on Adam’s legs, crossed the room, and rubbed his head against Robin’s hand, wagging his tail contentedly.

“He must have heard the magic word lockdown.” Adam shook his head. “Clearly looking forward to weeks of people being confined to barracks again. He loves it.”

Campbell had never been so fit and healthy as over the past year. They’d walked miles with him, singly or together, and when they’d been able to form a bubble with Adam’s mum, she’d volunteered to take him out. Ostensibly, this was so the lads could have a break from doggy parental duties and get on with the odds and ends they needed to do on their new home in Cranshaw, but Adam was in little doubt that it was really about being able to spoil the dog rotten. He also suspected the dog formed a useful excuse for her to stop and chat to people, getting the sort of contact that was proving difficult otherwise. Everybody wanted to ask about such a handsome hound, despite the fact they couldn’t get close enough to be favoured with his slobbery chops in their hands.

To bubble or not had caused some of their colleagues a lot of angst, but Adam and Robin had escaped lightly on that front. Despite Robin’s mum being widowed, they hadn’t needed to feel guilty about not choosing her, given that she’d already formed a bubble of her own with his aunt Clare. A more formidable duo than those two women was unimaginable; woe betide anyone who didn’t wear a mask or keep their distance when they got on the case. The government had no doubt missed a trick by not employing an army of retired women to make sure that everyone was obeying the rules.

Aunt Clare had a flat over at King’s Ashley, which reminded Robin . . . “Have you had any further thoughts about that headship at King’s Ashley Primary?”

“Yes. And no, I don’t think I’ll go for it.” Adam was still on the young side for taking over a school, and he reckoned the one he’d seen advertised there was going to be a poisoned chalice. It had gone through four headteachers in ten years, a stuck school that needed a big kick up the backside: anybody taking that over would either make their name as the genius who turned it round or be listed as yet another failure.

“I think that’s the right answer.” Robin hadn’t wanted to force the issue, given that he believed Adam would make a bloody great headteacher, even in such a challenging situation, and the school concerned was within easy travelling distance of their new home. But it hadn’t felt right, for whatever reason. Maybe his copper’s brain had filed away something he’d heard or read about the place, perhaps from Aunt Clare herself, which had left a definite don’t touch this with a bargepole impression.

“Oh, really? Is that why you’ve been so noticeably neutral about it?” Adam knew him too well. “Anything you want to share? A murderer on the board?”

“Nothing so concrete. If there had been, I’d have told you. Just a feeling that I’ve come across the place in the past, like the feeling I had about Aunt Clare’s Jeff.”

“That sounds ominous, given what your rozzer’s nose turned up then.”

Jeff had come on the scene the previous summer, his name ringing a worrying bell. It turned out he’d been a suspect in a peculiar burglary case back when Robin was a constable, and the months before Christmas had seen Abbotston’s finest—both Robin and his exceptionally efficient sergeant, Pru Davis—solving the cold case and clearing Jeff of suspicion in the process. Satisfying all round and further evidence that if Robin’s instinct was that something was worth investigating, it should be done.

“You know what’ll happen now, don’t you?” Adam continued. “You’ll get a case come up at King’s Ashley, and it’ll turn out to be centred on the school. Some ex-colleague of mine who’s the prime suspect, and I’ll have to sweet-talk him into giving me the golden nugget of a clue.”

Robin rubbed Campbell’s ears. “Tell your other dad that I don’t deliberately set it up for him to be involved in my cases. They seem to want to draw him in.” Too often to be healthy. “He shouldn’t have so many useful connections.”

“All my useful connections have dwindled to a handful of people with whom I have the occasional Zoom chat. Most of which end up being extremely awkward.” Adam stretched out his arms, yawned, then snuggled down.

“Are you having another nap?”

“No. I’m assuming my thinking position. Those Zoom chats had me wondering whether you can murder somebody over the internet. It’s been tempting at times.”

“Sounds like perfect fodder for one of these noir television series. From Norway or somewhere else on the Baltic.” Interesting concept, though. The internet had proved a breeding ground for old crimes in new variants—a con artist’s paradise—but Robin had yet to see that taken to its ultimate variation. Except in the hideous case of people being egged into taking their own lives. “Perhaps you should use the new lockdown to start writing a murder mystery. You have plenty of ideas.”

“I have my own tame technical advisor too.” Adam shook his head. “Nah. I know too much about what cases are really like to put down a made-up version. Too mundane, no good cop, bad cop anymore, not as much reliance on forensics as the fictional varieties portray. I could write a light-hearted version, though. A super-intelligent Newfoundland who solves mysteries that leave his owners—a sassy detective and a super-sexy teacher—totally baffled. Campbell the Clever Canine. Dougal the Dog Detective.”

“Hamilton the Holmesian Hound. Write it. You’ll make a fortune.”

Adam gave a contemptuous snort. “Oh yes? In what world do the majority of writers make a fortune? I used to know one through Lindenshaw church, and he always told people who wanted to write a book not to plan on giving up the day job.”

“See, you have all the connections. If I end up with a murder case that needs specialist publishing input, I know who to come to.”

Adam had provided specialist educational input in the past, along with tales of what it was like serving on a jury. Linking up with old pals, snitching on choir colleagues—Adam’s input to solving cases had gone above and beyond on occasions, including the time he’d joined an archaeology club simply to get Robin the information he needed. The bloke was a diamond.

Robin’s mobile rang, jolting him out his thoughts, bringing the unpleasant suspicion that they’d tempted fate again and this was indeed the station calling him in for a case that would interrupt the normal running of the Matthews-Bright household.

He suspected wrongly. It was work related but nothing worse than his ex-sergeant, Stuart Anderson, picking his brains about a series of armed robberies he was investigating. Now based at Hartwood, some two hours’ drive north, he still sought help from his old and—he professed—favourite boss.

“How’s he doing on his new patch?” Adam asked, when the call ended.

“He sounds happier than ever. Taken to Hartwood and environs like a duck to water, loving fatherhood, and full of praise for Rukshana Betteridge.” If Anderson had a soft spot for Robin, the man himself had a softer one for his former superior officer, the woman who had helped form the policeman he’d become.

“She’d have been happier if you’d relocated up there, but I guess she’ll find him a chip off the old block. As long as she doesn’t have to live with him—I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.” They’d accommodated Anderson temporarily when he’d had a domestic falling out, and it wasn’t an experience they’d hurry to repeat. “I was sure that phone call was the duty officer wanting you to come in and deal with some incident or other. It usually happens when we’ve been talking about it. Perhaps we should ban the subject.”

“Like we’ve banned Covid clichés? What would there be left to talk about?” A cushion striking Robin’s head showed what Adam thought of that.

*****

By the time January was nearing its end, the dreaded major case still hadn’t reared its ugly head. Irrespective of them tempting fate. Adam had settled into his new work routine and had started to keep an eye on the primary headships that were being advertised. There were still vacancies around, in this county and over the border into Hampshire, so all he’d need was one within a reasonable travelling distance of their home. If the right one came up, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a whirl, despite his not having many years as a deputy under his belt. Good interview practice if he got short-listed, if nothing else, and his experiences when they’d recruited a new headteacher at Lindenshaw would help. Poacher turned gamekeeper and all that. His existing boss, Jim Rashford, would give him a glowing reference, despite the fact he’d told Adam he didn’t want to lose him and would do everything he could to give him further responsibility and wider experience while still retaining his services.

They’d had a conversation that very Thursday morning about whether an acting headship for a term might be a good way to tick all the boxes. And if it was within the Culdover cluster of schools, Rashford would still have Adam’s brains available to pick. The headteacher had promised he’d get on to the county education department to register Adam’s interest, as they were always desperate for good people they could parachute into empty seats. Quite a pleasant prospect to consider as Adam drove home, ready for an evening of cottage pie and football on the telly with the two people he loved most in the world.

Robin’s car wasn’t there when Adam got home, which wasn’t unusual, given that the bloke didn’t necessarily keep regular hours, but seeing his usual parking space empty produced a hollow feeling in Adam’s stomach. Maybe Robin’s copper’s nose had rubbed off on him, and now he was sniffing something wrong. He pulled out his phone, saw that he’d forgotten to put the sound back on, so had missed Robin messaging him half an hour earlier. Adam decided to go into the house before he read the message. He could pretend it was because Campbell would have heard the car and would be straining to make a fuss over him or be made a fuss of; however, the truth was that he was a touch scared that this would be notification of another case. Worse still, a case that would take Robin halfway across the country again.

Adam got out of his coat, put down the stuff he’d brought home, fussed over the dog, and then gave himself a talking to. Fine bloody headteacher he’d make, not being able to read a text in case it carried bad news. He swallowed hard.

I’ll be late home. Have tea without me. We’ve got word of a murder in Kinechester. Not really our patch but guess what—bloody Covid has hit the team there so we’re taking over the case. I’ll tell you about it when I do get home.

Kinechester? That was a relief. The main county town—technically a city because of the cathedral, though neither of them were that large—was within easy travelling distance of their house, so Robin wouldn’t need to stay away. There’d been nothing about the murder on the local radio news, however, and when Adam checked the BBC site on his phone, the story only appeared as a report of a police incident in the Ramparts ward of the city.

Kinechester was an odd place. As the name suggested, it had been founded by the Romans, although the large Iron Age hill fort a couple of miles south of the city indicated the area had been occupied long before the legions came stomping in. The city centre still based itself on the great east-west and north-south roads, although very little of the original walls and gates now remained.

“Your average Roman would have recognised what’s for sale in the local shops,” Adam told Campbell, who seemed incredibly interested in his history lesson. Perhaps he was thinking of food, although olive oil, spelt flour, fish sauce and Italian wine were hardly his cup of tea. “A deli-worshipper’s paradise. You’d have had to develop a taste for falafels if we’d moved there.” The phone ringing interrupted their mutual love fest. “Hi, Mum. How’s life?”

“Busy busy. You wait until you’re retired. Never a moment to call my own, lockdown or not. What’s this I heard on the traffic news about avoiding the Ramparts because of a police incident? Houses prices there are so astronomical you wouldn’t have thought they’d have such things.”

“Now, why do you think I’d know what this is about?” Adam chuckled. “Or that I’d tell you if I did. Anyway, Kinechester has its rough areas. One of my pupils used to live on the council estate there, although his parents had plenty to say about the prices in the cafés. Arm and a leg for a coffee near the Ramparts. Poshest of the postcodes.”

It was an area of Victorian and Edwardian housing taking its name from a much-used, much-loved and much-envied open space that was riddled with humps and bumps. At some point in the past—allegedly during the civil war although nobody was quite sure—earthworks had been set up there and cannon stationed behind them to protect the city.

“It’s as well you didn’t move there, then.”

“Exactly.” Adam and Robin had strolled around the area in the run-up to the Christmas before last, when Robin had recently completed investigating a gruelling assault case and needed some fresh air. Somewhere far away from anywhere he’d visited for work. “Nice place to visit, especially the Christmas market and the restaurants, but beyond our means.” That had put paid to any idea they’d entertained of moving to the area. “Anyway, your maternal telepathy is spot on. Robin’s got the investigation, and that’s all I’m saying.”

“Isn’t that off his patch?”

Adam snorted, always amused when his mum broke into police slang. “It’s the bloody ‘rona.’ Hit the local team so he’s got to cover for them.” A sudden silence down the line. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Sorry, dear. I was thinking about Robin. Kinechester’s a Covid hotspot, you know. Numbers off the scale. I . . . I hope he takes care of himself.”

Ah, so that was what the call was really about. his mum was obsessed with the latest data, able to tell you exactly which local areas had the highest infection rates. Less worried for herself or Aunt Clare than for her son and son-in-law, she said, especially with Culdover usually being another hotspot.

“He’ll be fine. The king of hands, face, and space.”

After the normal goodbyes, Adam ended the call to find Campbell staring up at him. He rubbed the dog’s ear. “Don’t you go worrying yourself, as well. Anyway, your other dad’s going to be late in, mate. Maybe past your bedtime. Maybe past mine.”

However, his partner would be snug at his side in bed in the wee small hours of the morning, alive and well. Which was more than could be said for the poor victim, whoever they were. Naturally, Adam could never help worrying whether Robin would make it through a case intact—hell, the man had been threatened at gunpoint in their old kitchen. But, despite that and other incidents, they’d all three managed to get through unharmed. So far.

His mum’s phone call had left Adam feeling strangely uneasy, though. A gun or a knife were visible dangers; you couldn’t see this bloody bug. We’ll have to dodge that viral bullet too.

The Button Man by Davidson King

PROLOGUE 

Friday, August 8, 2008 

DUKE 

From birth, my life was not what many would refer to as typical: I was born into a family of murderers. My great-grandfather bred an era of killers for hire, and because he never trusted anyone, they had to be blood. He raised my grandfather to be merciless, continuing the cycle with my father. When I was a baby, my father looked at me and already knew what my future held. There was never anything I could do to avoid it; embracing what I was secured my survival. 

I was eighteen when I made my first kill and when I returned home, covered in blood, and feeling like a piece of my soul had died with my victim, my grandfather handed me a little black box. Inside was a pin. It was made of gold, and it was a button. 

He and my father stood side by side that day, their eyes shining with pride, and informed me that I was now a button man. I knew what that meant— in order to be in this family, I had to earn my place. Killing a librarian who sold mafia secrets to the government was my way in. 

Many would think that very day was when my world changed, and nothing was ever the same again. Well, they’d all be wrong. August 8, 2008 was the day the earth shifted and everything I loved in the world, all the hope I had, was washed away.

*****

“It’s late, Pete. Why are we in a diner at two in the morning? I saw you three hours ago.” I sat across from Peter Panzavecchia. He was the man I mostly worked for, took out the trash for, and loved with my whole heart. He was more than my boss; he was my lover, and we lived that life in secret. 

“Yeah, sorry, Duke, um.” He cleared his throat, and my annoyance over being woken up to meet him at a hole-in-the-wall diner after only a couple of hours’ sleep vanished. 

Peter’s clothes were rumpled, and sweat beaded on his upper lip and hairline. I watched as he nervously tapped the fingers of one hand on the cracked Formica table, and judging by the slight vibration, he was bouncing his leg. 

“Hey.” I reached across the table, desperate to grab his hand and calm him, but he jerked away so fast. 

“Duke, no, just.” He took a breath. “I gotta tell you something, you gotta hear me, and what I’m about to say, it’s gotta die with you.” 

I’d thought I knew everything about Peter there was to know. But as the cold chill slithered up my spine and spiderwebbed in my brain, I realized I’d been wrong. 

“I promise, Pete.” 

He nodded curtly. “After we left I got a call, had to go meet at the docks.” He shrugged; it wasn’t a big deal— oftentimes that was where he met other bosses, but he shouldn’t have gone alone. “I went with Tony and Phil. I’m not stupid.” 

“Good.” 

His laugh wasn’t filled with humor. “Yeah, well, Tony and Phil are dead, Duke. When I showed up, no one was there. It took me like a minute to figure out it was a setup.” 

“What the fuck? Who called the meeting?” 

“I thought it was Vince, but—” 

“Thought? I don’t understand, Pete. How did you not know who you were meeting?” 

“I was told Vince wanted to meet. Fuck, Duke, I know what I’m doing—” 

“No, you don’t, ’cause Tony and Phil are fuckin’ dead!”

I lowered my voice when the waitress peered over at me from the counter. Pete sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair. When his hazel eyes met mine, all I could see was fear. 

“Duke, I’m fucked.” 

Three hours ago, Pete had been the furthest thing from in trouble. He’d been cackling as we got into our cars, and seeing as I was with him most of the time, I’d have known if there was an issue. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Someone’s taking territories that aren’t theirs. Tony and Phil died so I could get away. When I was in the car, I called Frankie before you. Four bosses were hit tonight, Duke. I’m the last one.” 

“Vince is dead, too?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then we hide you. No one’s killing you, Pete, I won’t let them.” 

“Duke, listen to me. I gotta tell you something; it’s why I asked you here. It’s the thing you gotta take to the grave with you.” His breath was shaky, and I kept my mouth shut. “I have a daughter.” 

This was a night of surprises. “What?” 

“She’s not even a year old; it was that night at the bachelor party, remember? I told you I fucked that dancer and… and how I thought of you the whole time just to get it up.” 

Pete and I had to put up a straight front— not many in our line of work thought kindly about homosexuality. 

“Duke, I need you to take care of her. I—” 

“You talk like you’re dying, like…” That was when Pete lifted his other hand, the one I realized he’d had hidden. It was covered in blood. 

“Duke, I am dying, and if they find my little girl, they’ll kill her too. I kept her hidden so no one knew. The dancer overdosed two months ago. My daughter, she has a nanny who loves her, but she can’t protect her. Duke…” 

“We gotta get you to a hospital.” 

Pete shook his head, chuckling darkly. “No time.” He coughed, and a small splash of blood painted the table. 

“You’re not dying here!” 

I went around and helped him up, happy when he didn’t argue. I didn’t ask the waitress, just went through the kitchen out the back, where I had my car. Keeping vigilant, I got Pete into the passenger’s seat and raced to the driver’s side. 

“She’s on Beechwood Lane in Fairfield, Connecticut.” I looked over to see Pete take out a thumb drive and plop it into the cup holder. “Everything you need to know about her is on there. Everything else has been destroyed.” 

“You hold on, I’m getting you to my father.” My dad had medical training, and I’d seen him stitch up quite a few people in his day. 

“Duke.” Pete coughed again, and this time blood flowed from his mouth. I knew it was bad— at least my head did; my heart was another story. “Pull over, please.” 

I was only five minutes from the house and knew if I floored it I’d get there. “Duke, stop the car.” 

His gaze met mine, and he gripped my forearm. With a nod, I slowed down and drove to a small clearing on the side of the road. 

“Promise me, Duke, promise you’ll keep her safe. No one can ever know.” 

I quickly got out of the car and ran over to his side, flinging the door open to kneel in front of him. 

“Let me see.” 

Pete shook his head. “Can you not? What I need, please.” 

I couldn’t hold back. At that moment, I didn’t care if people drove by and saw us. I reached in and scooped him into my arms. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, the painful sound filling the night. 

“I promise,” I whispered as I bent my head closer to his face. 

“Love her like your own.” A sob tumbled from his mouth. 

“Please, Peter Pan, 

I can’t do this without you.” I pressed my forehead to his, crying silently. 

“I hate when you call me that.” 

I’d called him that since the first time I met him. We were ten, my dad worked for his dad, and Pete and I were friends, later lovers. 

“Whoever did this—” 

“I’ll find them, Pete, I’ll hunt them down and kill them.”

He shook his head. “You need to run, take my daughter and run far from here.” 

We were silent. I stared into his dimming hazel eyes, knowing this was the last time I’d hold him. 

“I’ll always love you, Peter Pan.” I brushed his sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“I’ll meet you in Neverland.” His breath hitched, and right there on the side of the road, in my embrace, my heart died and my whole world changed.

Bucket List by Jordan Castillo Price

1 

YURI 

“Say, Yuri—which tie do you prefer? The purplish blue one…or the bluish purple?” 

Dixon stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to our bedroom door with both ties in hand. Perhaps they had started out the same color, though one had spent more time in a shop window being bleached by the sun. While I knew much about color (one was deep periwinkle, the other faded plum) I was the last person to help anyone decide on a purple tie. I owned only three ties, myself—drab things I’d chosen to avoid drawing attention. Besides, Dixon would look just as handsome in either. 

And just as nervous. 

I didn’t blame him. Tonight, the Hand of every Scrivener family in the Pinyin Bay circuit might think they were attending just another dull meeting—but instead, they would witness Morticia Shirque appointing the successor she’d chosen as Head: Fonzo Penn. But while Fonzo might be the primary focus of attention, the Penn family would also “Change Hands” as he transferred his old position to Dixon. 

I despise the limelight, and personally, I would have shrugged off the responsibility to someone else by now. But Dixon was not only born and raised in this Spellcraft tradition…he was chosen. He felt it was his duty to accept the position of the Hand. 

Even if it was the prospect of it left him agonizing over two nearly identical purple ties.

“The plum complements the brown in your eyes,” I said firmly. I have found this tone is a great comfort to him when his thoughts are racing and his stomach is filled with butterflies. But I did need to add, “The one on the right,” to avoid any confusion. “Your right.” 

Once Dixon’s hair was re-primped, his eyebrows smoothed down and his purple tie tied, there was nothing more to do but make our way to the ceremony…though he was so beside himself with nerves, he missed directing me to the proper turn-offs on three separate occasions. And given the size of Pinyin Bay, there were only so many turn-offs to miss. 

Eventually, I pulled down the service road we had doubled back to. There was nothing there but an elaborate drainage ditch on one side and a furniture store called Have A Seat on the other. I did a three-point turn at the entrance to the cracked asphalt parking lot to retrace my steps yet again, when Dixon said, “Where ya going, Yuri? We’re here.” 

I hit the brakes, turned to Dixon, and narrowed my eyes. 

“Look,” he said brightly. “The welcome wagon.” 

At the edge of the drive, the Pinyin Bay Perch emerged from behind a ragged bush, holding a sign shaped like an arrow. I knew the mascot from Precious Greetings—or, more accurately, the costume—but I had no quarrel with it. The furry, striped pelt looked as if it had been laundered recently, though it was growing a bit threadbare in patches, and the tips of the red fins were beginning to fray. 

“Okay, there’s not actually a wagon involved in a welcome wagon,” Dixon allowed. “Just one of those quaint American expressions you love so much.” 

“I do?” 

“Wouldn’t it be fun if he were on a wagon? Or maybe pulling a wagon behind him. Ooh, I know, he could be doing a handstand in the wagon while someone else pulled him—especially if that someone was a miniature horse. Either way, it would be a real sight to see. The Pinyin Bay Perch is such an important part of the city’s history, it’s practically an institution.” 

If any city would place undue value on a tattered costume, it would be Pinyin Bay. “But why the furniture store?” 

“It’s bad luck to induct the Head on a property with ties to any one Scrivener family, so as not to show any favoritism—and this place is totally Handless.” 

I squinted harder. 

“Besides, there’ll be plenty of places to sit.” 

We coasted past the Pinyin Bay Perch, who waved listlessly. Dixon waved back. As we rolled into the parking lot, I spotted Fonzo’s Buick and pulled up beside it. I said, “I suppose I should be grateful we weren’t on the bandstand in the park, where pieces of airplane rain from the sky.” 

“That only happened twice. And it only killed someone once—so, statistically speaking, it’ll probably be free from airplane parts for at least a few more months.” 

The automatic doors whisked open to a drab, low hangar of a building, filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of chairs. Collections of chairs were gathered into conversational groupings like flocks of seagulls squabbling on the beach. They had been matched not by style or function, but rather, color. In the hands of the right designer, it might have come off as edgy, even artistic. But here, in this plain bunker of a showroom, it simply looked strange. 

As soon as we cleared the threshold, a pale Handless man in a rumpled suit rushed over and said, “Welcome to Have A Seat, where we make tushies happy!” 

Dixon said, “Is that your official slogan, or…?”

“We are just looking,” I snapped—a necessary response in America, I have discovered, where salespeople will descend on you like a swarm of persistent sandflies if you do not refuse to be cowed into buying something you can’t afford. 

But instead of backing off, the salesman simply deflated. “I don’t get it,” he complained. “This is the most foot traffic we’ve had in...well, forever. But not a single sale.” 

Probably because Scriveners are so notoriously cheap. They would rather truss together a chair with splints and packing tape than spend their money on a new piece of furniture. 

“Don’t worry,” Dixon said. “Your slogan might need work, but word of mouth is invaluable. Just let your shoppers browse to their hearts’ content, and no doubt they’ll tell all their friends about what a relaxing shopping experience they had in your store.” 

For a shop full of chairs, it was anything but relaxing. But at least Dixon’s reassurance encouraged the anxious salesman to retreat. 

Not only were chairs huddled in crowded, color-coded groups, but they were crammed on shelves ten feet tall, forming a maze. Chairs on their sides. Chairs upside down. Chairs disassembled, reassembled, and nested together like great stacks of paper cups in a break room. We wended our way up and down the aisles until we caught the sound of some familiar voices. 

Lucky for us, when Sabina complains, she does so loudly. 

“How long is this dumb thing gonna take? We can’t stay out all night, ya know. We’ve gotta put the baby to bed.” 

We turned the corner on a precarious stack of barstools and found Fonzo checking his watch. “It’s barely six.” He gestured at Vano, who was jiggling Tuesday in a sling that I suspect was meant for groceries, given the onions and potatoes printed on the fabric…but it seemed to fit the baby well enough. “And your kid could sleep through a tornado. Unlike you, at that age. Your mother and I used to drive you up and down the block for hours on end just to get you to stop crying.” 

“That explains the console scar on my forehead. Would it have killed you to use a car seat?” 

“Adversity breeds character. Anyhow, you don’t see a new Head every day. It’s history in action. Morticia Shirque has been in charge of this circuit since my father was a twinkle in your great-granddad’s eye.” 

“Dad—ew!” 

At Sabina’s side, the baby began to fuss. Tuesday was not generally a demanding child, but given the chemical smell of fake leather coming off the store’s goods, I couldn’t blame her for being uncomfortable. Vano brightened when he spotted Dixon and me. 

“Just in time,” he murmured. “Tuesday is always thrilled to see her favorite uncles.” 

While I am not so sure an infant of her age even registers the fact that Dixon and I are anything more than a couple of fake leather chairs, I felt a bit of pride welling up inside over this statement nonetheless. 

Vano unlooped the sling from his neck and headed toward Dixon with the baby, but Dixon waved him in my direction. “I’d love to hold her—but I can’t afford to have another spit-up incident just now, not when I’m about to go in front of all these people.” 

“Gotcha.” Vano veered my way with the potato-and-onion printed bundle. It had looked manageable enough hanging around his neck, but as he passed the baby to me, I suddenly felt ill-prepared to accept such a delicate burden. Every time I held the baby, thoughts of inadequacy raced through my mind. What if I dropped her? What if I held her too tight? Maybe Sabina’s encounter with the Buick’s console had bred character, but I had no desire to be the one who squashed the next generation.

But as Tuesday regarded me with her huge brown eyes, blew a spit bubble, and began to coo, a sense of elation mingled with my fear. Though practically frozen stiff, I managed to hug her to my chest with just the right amount of force. 

The baby wriggled and flashed her tiny gums in a broad smile. According to the internet, infants cannot truly smile until they are at least six weeks old, and Tuesday had not even been with us for quite a month. But we’d all known there was something special about this baby…. 

Or, in this case, especially stinky. 

“Whoops, I could’ve sworn she was done pooping.” Vano held out his hands to take the baby back. 

“And there’s not even a changing station in the restroom,” Sabina complained. I was not about to be bested by a dirty diaper. “I will handle this. We have a spare diaper in the truck.” 

Frankly, the desire to prove my mettle was not my only motivation. As I wove through the aisles, I gently cupped Tuesday to my chest and whispered, “I envy your ability to carry on as if this were just another trip to the chair store. Tonight, your Uncle Dixon will receive a great honor. (Okay, your grandfather, too.) Seeing the Hands of all the families in one place, I am confident the volshebstvo has chosen well. Among all those tired old Scriveners, Dixon is sure to shine.” 

Holding the baby never failed to make me self-conscious, but changing the baby was another matter. I have always found solace in making myself useful. In the open door of the truck with a blanket spread over the bench seat, I swapped out the diaper with quiet efficiency, holding my breath to escape the worst of the stink. 

Once I fastened the new diaper in place, I finally found the words to express what was worrying me. “Hopefully Dixon does not shine too much. He has seen the world, but these other Scriveners have been in Pinyin Bay their whole lives. Their only ambitions are for a good hand of poker and enough paying customers to keep the lights on. What if they find Dixon too exuberant? Too colorful? Too…Dixon?” 

Tuesday gave this worry a moment of consideration, then replied with a thoughtful bubble of spit. 

Since that was probably all the input she would have on the matter, I decided we should head back in. The salesman tried to accost me when I re-entered, but a firm look from me froze him in his tracks. I threaded up and down the aisles, annoyed with the fact that the stacks upon stacks of chairs all looked the same. Somewhere in the distance, Sabina found something else to complain about, and I was able to follow her voice and make my way toward the gathering…. 

Only to turn a corner and find myself in a dead end of floor-to-ceiling chair piles. And while I might be able to create an exit with a well-placed shove, I refused to be the cause of a scar on the baby’s head that would rival the console-shaped mark on Sabina’s temple. 

I heard Morticia’s strident voice cutting through the dull murmur of the gathered Hands. “All right, everyone, let’s take our places and get started. I don’t want to be here all night. Things to do—and I’m not getting any younger.” It came from perhaps two aisles away, and yet I could not tell which way would lead me to the gathering, and which would loop back to the customer service desk. 

Had I passed that particular stack of barstools on my way in, or was this another, nearly identical stack? I tried to get my bearings, and of course neither Sabina nor Morticia was speaking now—and all I could hear was the muted drone of many hushed voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

If I did topple that wall of chairs, I could always claim it was an accident. But since Dixon might very well be quietly fretting on the other side, I could not risk it. I found myself in another dead end—or was it the same one from before?—and whirled around to find a solitary figure blocking my way out. 

It was a middle-aged Scrivener woman. Tall. Gaunt. And dressed as if she’d blundered into the custom upholstery display and snagged a bunch of fabric on her way past. Her black hair was long and elaborately curled, threaded through all around her head with flowers. Plastic flowers, at that, judging by the colors. Vibrant primaries. Neon pink. Sparkling purple. A veritable rainbow of plastic blossoms which was so heavy, it practically clattered when she gave me a nod. 

“So…that’s the new great-great grandchild? Lady Luck truly smiled on Morticia to provide the family with a girl.” 

While most cultures prefer male children, Scriveners are eager for girls. Not only will they someday provide more offspring to add to the family, but a lucky one might win the heart of a Seer. 

Yet another way in which Dixon managed to break the mold. 

The woman took a step closer, peering at Tuesday through mascara-clotted lashes. The layers of her strange outfit swished as she walked, and the plastic flowers bobbed in her hair. But as ridiculous as she might have appeared, her eyes were shrewd. 

“Potatoes,” she said. 

Shrewd…or crazy. 

And then I realized she was talking about the shopping bag in which Tuesday was wrapped.

“Potatoes are very auspicious. They’re a symbol of prosperity. Cut up a potato and plant the eyes, and you’ll find yourself overrun with potatoes when the season is through. Onions, though, are another story. What other vegetable will cause even a grown man to cry?” 

“Superstition,” I said bluntly—even as I was itching to make the sign of the koza and ward her away. “The baby fits inside. That is all that matters.” 

“Interesting. I would think if anyone would understand the importance of symbols, it would be a Seer.” 

“You know who I am,” I said. 

“Indeed, I knew it the moment I heard your accent, since a new Seer is always big news for a circuit. I am Fortunate.” To make my acquaintance, I thought she meant—Americans are always claiming such ridiculous things. But then she said, “Fortunate Jones, Hand of the Pinyin Bay Jones family, no relation to the Strangeberg Joneses. A good many Scrivener forebears claimed the name Jones on Ellis Island—probably to escape some debts. Pity. No doubt surnames from the Old Country would have so much more panache.” 

I wondered which country she was referring to, since Scrivener populations have cropped up all over the world, from Austria to Zimbabwe. 

I did not ask. And the woman kept talking. “You’d be better off swaddling the child in a MallMart bag.” She rifled through her outfit and pulled a streamer of blue fabric from among the swatches, waggling it under my nose. “Blue is a lucky color, inviting wealth as broad as the sky and as deep as the ocean. Those bags might be a bit itchy, mind you, but you can’t beat the price, since they give them out free on the first Friday of every month. But you know all about color. Don’t you, Seer?”

Enough to know periwinkle was no different from a dusty plum as far as most people were concerned. 

Fortunate looked me over, assessing me from the top of my shorn head to the tips of my worn shoes. “I know you’re rather attached to the Penn boy, but the Jones Family would be willing to offer you a very lucrative contract.” 

“Are you mad?” I blurted out. 

“Just pragmatic. Everyone knows the Penns don’t exactly rake in the big bucks—hardly enough to support you, Rufus Clahd, and that exuberant Boardwalk fellow. And while Dixon’s little Uncrafting hobby might be...interesting…it leaves him with no use for a Seer.” 

“The Penns are not just my employers. They are my family.” 

Her gaze grew even more cunning. “Are they? The girl secured Vano—quite a catch—by having his first child. But unless Seers possess certain talents I don’t know about….” 

“We should rejoin the group,” I told Fortunate firmly, since the conversation was veering into territory I had no desire to explore.

Death at the Deep Dive by Josh Lanyon

Chapter One 

Eight gold coins gleamed and glinted in the lamplight.

Make that eight gold coins and one silver.

Ellery Page, owner and proprietor of the quaint mystery bookshop known as the Crow’s Nest, let out a long breath and picked up the silver coin, fingertips tracing the unfamiliar size and design. It looked old. Very old. On one side a woman held two wreaths aloft. He could just make out the (Latin?) words SÆCVLA VINCIT and below: VIRTVTI ET HONORI. The other side was etched (engraved?) with the profile of a young man and the words PHILIPPUS D.G. HISPAN INFANS

So… Spanish?

Was the image supposed to be King Philip?

He had no idea. He wasn’t even sure if the coins were real.

Granted, they looked real. The details of the gold pieces—the believably worn engravings, the rough, slightly misshapen edges, even the heft of the coins—doubloons?—felt real.

Seemed legit.

Appearances could be deceptive. But if this was indeed Vernon Shandy’s diving collection bag—and whose else could it be?—was it likely the coins would be fake?

Granted, when it came to the Shandy clan, some kind of elaborate scam was always a possibility, but given Vernon’s untimely and mysterious disappearance in the 1960s…

Eyes still on the small pile of coins, Ellery reached for his cell phone and pressed the contact number for Pirate Cove’s chief of police Jack Carson.

Jack’s phone rang once and then Jack, who also happened to be Ellery’s boyfriend, said, “Hey, I’m not quite done here. Did you want to go ahead and grab a table?”

“Uh… Do you think you could maybe stop by here for a couple minutes?”

Jack’s tone changed. “You okay? What’s up?”

“I’m okay, but…I’d rather not say any more until you get here.”

“Are you being held hostage?”

Jack was kidding, of course, though given Buck Island’s—and Ellery’s—history, maybe anything seemed possible to him.

“No. I’m alone. I…found something.”

Jack said crisply, “On my way,” and disconnected.

Poor Jack. He probably thinks I found another body.

Ellery started to put his phone down, but stopped. If these coins were the real thing, how valuable were they?

A quick search of Wikipedia elicited the following information:

The doubloon (from Spanish doblón, or “double”, i.e. double escudo) was a two-escudo gold coin worth approximately $4 (four Spanish dollars) or 32 reales, and weighing 6.766 grams (0.218 troy ounce) of 22-karat gold (or 0.917 fine; hence 6.2 g fine gold).

Translation please?

More searching unearthed a 1989 Los Angeles Times article and the news that early pieces of eight were handmade and known as cobs. Higher quality versions were machine-made. And Spanish milled dollars were worth about $50 to $350.

So, if a gold doubloon was worth $350. in 1989, presumably it was worth more now?

As a last resort, Ellery tried eBay. As he scanned the listings for gold coins dated circa 1700s (just on the off-chance that these really had come from the legendary wreck of the pirate galleon known as the Blood Red Rose) he sucked in his breath and let it out in a sound typically only heard from maiden aunts when their prize Pekingese tried to, er, get jiggy with a stray.

US $32,500.00

US $39,500.00

US $46,500.00

US $75,000.00

US $124,500.00

“Yikes.”

Watson, Ellery’s the black spaniel-mix puppy stopped gnawing his chew toy to gaze in startled inquiry.

Granted, the coins listed for sale were in mint condition with certificates to prove their provenance, but this answered one question: yes, the items in the collection bag were valuable. In fact, that small mound of metal on his desk probably qualified as treasure.

Pirate’s treasure.

Eight gold coins worth—just taking the low-end figure—two hundred and sixty thousand dollars? People committed murder for less.

Ellery glanced instinctively up at the ceiling entrance to the bookshop attic. Little more than a month ago, someone—and he had a pretty good idea who—had broken into the Crow’s Nest searching for, most probably, this very collection bag.

Alarm coiled down his spine. Never mind the attic. Had he locked the front door? Ellery couldn’t remember.

He rose, left his office, striding past the sales desk, the large oil paintings of pirate galleons battling stormy seas and changing tides, hopping over Watson, who thought this was a terrific new game, down the aisles of towering bookshelves. He reached the front entrance, . He moved to slide the lock. At the same moment the brass bell chimed as someone started to open the door.

Ellery exclaimed in alarm, and slammed shut the door.

On the other side of the divided glass panes, an exasperated Jack called, “You called me, remember?”

Ellery yanked the door open. “Sorry.”

“What’s going on?” Jack ignored Watson who, wishing to claim his share of the welcome, was jumping up and down. “Why are you so spooked?”

“I— It might be easier if I show you.”

Jack’s dark eyebrows shot up. He said cautiously, “Are you going to show me something living or something…no longer living.”

Ellery laughed shakily. “I’m going to show you an inanimate object.”

“Thank God for that. One more body and people will start to talk.”

Ellery, headed back toward his office, threw over his shoulder, “I’m pretty sure they’re already talking.”

Jack, stopping to pat Watson, replied, “I’m pretty sure you’re right.” He straightened, followed Ellery into his office, stopping short in the doorway.  He took a moment to study the litter of water-stained diving bag and coins. “I thought the collection bag was stolen when the bookshop was broken into.”

“I did too. But I decided to finally reorganize the storage closet, and when I started pulling stuff out, I found the bag in the very back.”

“How is that possible?”

Ellery shook his head. “But this explains why Tackle Shandy—or whoever it was— thought it was worth the risk.”

“I’d say so.” Jack sounded grim. “If these coins are genuine, they must be worth a fortune.”

“I did a little comparison shopping on eBay while I was waiting for you to arrive, and this haul could be worth anything from a quarter of a million to more than a million. Depending on where and when the coins were minted.”

Jack’s blue-green gaze held Ellery’s. “A million dollars?”

Ellery nodded.

“That’s a lot of clams.”

“If they’re genuine.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, first things first. This haul is going straight into the evidence locker down at the station. Tomorrow I’ll phone the Rhode Island Marine Archaeology Project in Newport.”

“I’m just going to grab some quick pics.” Ellery held his phone up.

Jack nodded absently. He was studying the ceiling entrance to the attic. He did not look happy.

Ellery moved around the desk, snapping photos of each coin, front and back. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Once the coins were in the hands of RIMAP, they were no longer his problem. He might never even see them again, outside of a museum—ideally, a Buck Island museum.

He paused to examine one coin, then held it out to Jack. “Can you tell what that says? The tiny writing to the left of HISP? Is that a date?”

Jack held the coin beneath the lamp, squinting at the worn engraving. “Maybe 1611?”

“Could that be right?”

“1611? Yes. If these are the real thing, well, the 1650s to 1730s were the golden age of piracy.”

“You know what this means?” Ellery glanced at Jack, who looked resigned.

“What do you think it means?”

“Everyone seems to think that diving suit we found in Buccaneer’s Bay originally belonged to Vernon Shandy.”

“And the collection bag was part of the suit.”

“Right. And Tackle himself said Vernon was obsessed with finding the Blood Red Rose. That he spent all his spare time hunting for her.”

Jack smiled. “You think these coins are from the Blood Red Rose. You think Vernon found Captain Blood’s ship.”

“Yes. I do.”

“But don’t you think, if Vernon found the Blood Red Rose, he’d have told someone?”

Ellery considered. “Yeah. He would. He’d have to. He couldn’t retrieve her treasure on his own. He’d probably share that information with certain family members. I don’t know that he’d share it with everyone and no way with anyone outside the Shandy family circle.”

Jack grunted. The Shandys were one of Buck islands oldest and most notorious families. They kept themselves to their selves and their relationship with law enforcement was wary at best.

Wary on both sides, truth be told.

Jack said, “If the coins are real—and they look real, I agree, but neither of us are experts—then you could be right.”

“And if we’re right about that,” Ellery said, “then you know what else I think?”

Jack studied him for a thoughtful moment. He sighed. “You think Vernon Shandy was murdered.”

“I sure do,” Ellery replied.

 

“What’ll you have to drink, gents?” Though the pub was nearly empty, Tom Tulley appeared to be in a jovial mood when Ellery and Jack sat down at their usual table at the Salty Dog.

By October, the tourists were mostly gone and the island was returned to its (in the view of the citizens of Pirate’s Cove) rightful owners. The days were cool and crisp, luminous with autumn’s gorgeous, golden light. The ocean was still warm enough for swimming and it was easy to get a good table in any restaurant or bar without a wait. The chilly nights were fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Twilight strolls along the beach were lit by meteor showers and the white, silky filaments of milkweed pods.

“What was that blue cocktail you made for me last Friday?” Ellery shrugged out of his jacket with Jack’s help. Jack had the unobtrusive, courtly gesture thing down to a science. He moved away to hang their jackets on the hooks near the door.

“Blueberry iceberg,” Tom answered. “Libby came up with that recipe. Blueberry vodka, blue curacao, lime juice, and a splash of sparkling water.”

“That was great. I’ll have that again.”

Tom nodded, asked Jack, “How about you, Chief? The usual?”

Jack’s usual was whatever was on tap. He nodded. “How’s Libby doing?”

Tom’s daughter Libby was away at college on the mainland.

“Thriving,” Tom said gloomily. Libby was the light of his life and he missed her dearly.

Ellery, studying the new addition of a blackboard menu, inquired, “What’s the End of Summer Special?”

“Secret family recipe.”

Jack and Ellery exchanged looks. Jack said, “What do you want to bet Fritos are involved?”

Tom looked outraged. “Hey, how dare you reveal my secrets!” He grinned broadly and departed with their drink order.

“He’s in a good mood,” Ellery remarked.

“It’s October. Everyone cheers up once the tourists leave.”

Which seemed counterintuitive for a community that pretty much subsisted on the tourist trade, but even with only one summer under his belt, Ellery got it. Buck Island during tourist season was a different planet from Buck Island the rest of the year.

He and Jack chatted about the ongoing renovations at Captain’s Seat. The previous month, Ellery had finally received a nice chunk of change from Brandon Abbott’s estate, allowing him to move ahead with crucial if unglamorous things like electrical repairs and replacing the roof.

Tom returned with their drinks. They both ordered the fish and chips, to Tom’s disappointment, and then, as he once more departed, clinked their glasses.

“Cheers,” Jack said.

“Yo ho ho,” Ellery replied. He sipped his cobalt cocktail. “Mm.” The tart sweetness of the cocktail and the crackling warmth of the nearby fireplace were the perfect pairing for a chilly autumn night.  He sighed. “I have to say I’m very relieved you-know-what is you-know-where. The thought that it was just lying there in that cupboard all this time makes me feel a little queasy.”

“Any chance that it wasn’t in the cupboard the whole time? I thought Felix said he left it out on a storage shelf.”

“He must have been mistaken. It was his last day at work and his last day on the island, so no wonder he was distracted. When I asked him, he barely remembered Cap giving him the bag at all.”

Jack made a noncommittal noise and sipped his beer.

“Whoever broke in would have to have been in a hurry.”

Jack conceded, “The assumption would be you had looked in the bag and so it was unlikely to have been left in the shop at all.”

“Exactly!”

Jack studied Ellery for a moment. His smile twisted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First off, there’s no proof the collection bag you found belonged to Vernon Shandy. The assumption is the deep dive suit was his, but there are plenty of other divers on this island. No one knows for a fact who hid that suit in the warehouse with the Historical Society’s collection. Or for what reason.”

“To hide those coins,” Ellery said.

Jack shook his head. “That’s an assumption.”

“It’s a working theory. And it’s the most logical.”

“Maybe. But let’s say you’re right. Let’s go with your theory that the suit belonged to the Shandys and that the suit was stashed away to hide the coins.”

“Doubloons.”

Jack laughed. “You really do love the idea of pirate’s treasure, don’t you? If your eyes were any shinier, they’d be glowing.”

Ellery laughed and sat back in his chair. He shrugged. “Okay, yes. I do love the idea of pirate’s treasure.”

“Especially pirate’s treasure with a mystery attached.”

Ellery couldn’t help pointing out, “Wouldn’t all pirate’s treasure have a mystery attached?”

“Hm. Good point. But here’s what I was getting at. Even if we go with your theory about who owned the collection bag and why it was concealed, it still doesn’t prove those coins came from the Blood Red Rose.”

“Ah. Okay. You’re right.”

“There are a lot of wrecks in the waters around this island.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll give you that one.”

Jack laughed. “Thank you. And finally, even if your theories are correct about who owned the diving suit and collection bag, where the coins came from, and why they were hidden in the Historical Society’s collection, there’s still no proof that Vernon Shandy was murdered.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ellery objected. “Something happened to him.”

“Something, yes. He left the island, that’s for sure. But the surrounding circumstances are unknown.” As Ellery opened his mouth to debate this, Jack continued, “And there are plenty of reasons the Shandys might want to conceal those circumstances.”

Tom returned to the table bearing platters of golden deep fried fish, crispy french fries, and tangy coleslaw. He set the sizzling plates before them. “Another round?”

Jack asked Ellery, “Are you driving back to Captain’s Seat or staying over?”

There had been a time, not so long ago, when Jack would not have so casually or so openly asked that question.

Ellery smiled. “If Watson and I haven’t worn out our welcome?”

Jack gave him the slightest of winks and said to Tom, “Another round, thanks.” He added to Ellery, “We can always walk home.”

Tom gave Ellery a droll look. “Coming right up!”

Tom departed, Ellery and Jack reached for the salt and pepper shakers, exchanged the vinegar bottle, repositioned the little jars of tartar sauce.

Jack broke off a piece of fried cod and said, as though there had been no interruption, “I’m not trying to bust your balloon. Obviously, there’s an element of mystery surrounding these events. It just doesn’t automatically, inevitably indicate murder.”

“Well, no, of course not.” Ellery chewed thoughtfully on a french fry.

Jack observed him for a moment. “Which isn’t going to stop you from poking your nose into other people’s business and asking a lot of awkward questions, is it?”

Ellery’s brows shot up in surprise. “Me? Come on, Jack, whatever happened to Vernon Shandy is none of my business. Anyway, whatever happened, it was over half a century ago. Nobody’s going to remember anything this long after the fact. Assuming anyone involved is still around. Which is unlikely. Right?”

Jack sighed, shook his head. “That’s what I thought.”

CS Poe

C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.

She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.

C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.

Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.

Charlie Cochrane

As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.

Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.

Davidson King

Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.

If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.

Jordan Castillo Price

Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.

Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.

With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.

Josh Lanyon

Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."

Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).

The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.

Josh is married and they live in Southern California.

CS Poe

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Death at the Deep Dive by Josh Lanyon

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