Showing posts with label happy pride month 2021. Show all posts
Showing posts with label happy pride month 2021. Show all posts
Sunday, August 29, 2021
Monday, August 2, 2021
🌈💖💙💚💛💜🤍🌈 Pride Month 2021 At A Glance🌈💖💙💚💛💜🤍🌈
💖💙💛💜🤍🌈🤍💜💛💙💖
I know that Pride Month 2021 is June but as my mother has been in the hospital since the last week in May and I sit in a hotel room across the street, my blogging time fell behind. My Happy Pride Month series is important to me so I continued posting Pride throughout July. Since I did post in 2 months I put together this At A Glance post to links to all the Pride Month 2021 posts.💖💙💛💜🤍🌈🤍💜💛💙💖
Sunday, August 1, 2021
July Book of the Month: Silent Sin by EJ Russell
When tailor Marvin Gottschalk abandoned New York City for the brash boomtown of silent-film-era Hollywood, he never imagined he’d end up on screen as Martin Brentwood, one of the fledgling film industry’s most popular actors. Five years later a cynical Martin despairs of finding anything genuine in a town where truth is defined by studio politics and publicity. Then he meets Robbie Goodman.
Robbie fled Idaho after a run-in with the law. A chance encounter leads him to the film studio where he lands a job as a chauffeur. But one look at Martin and he’s convinced he’s likely to run afoul of those same laws—laws that brand his desires indecent, deviant… sinful.
Martin and Robbie embark on a cautious relationship, cocooned in Hollywood’s clandestine gay fraternity, careful to hide from the studio boss, a rival actor, and press on the lookout for a juicy story. But when a prominent director is murdered, Hollywood becomes the focus of a morality-based witch hunt, and the studio is willing to sacrifice even the greatest careers to avoid additional scandal.
Silent Sin is brilliant!
I've been looking for a story set in Old Hollywood for about 3 years and when this popped up in a FB group rec request I one-clicked immediately. 2020 screwed with my reading mojo so unfortunately I just got around to reading it and I loved it! EJ Russell really sets scene of the silent era, incorporating real historical facts and scandals that add just the right level of reality into her fictional story. Don't worry, Silent Sin isn't a tell-all, Hollywood documentary but it definitely shows the author's respect for the past with the balance of reality and fiction.
As for the characters, watching Robbie's journey from "runaway" country bumpkin to studio chauffer to stand-in to ???(well I don't want to give away all the lad's secrets😉) is an uplifting, heartfelt tale of entertainment. Seeing Martin's journey of trying to stay true to who he is and who he lets the studio bosses and fans see makes you smile, laugh, and a few times you just want to shake him. When their paths cross you just know that it's fate but you also know it won't be easy but it will definitely be captivating. You can't help but want to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything will be okay, of course there are a few times I want to smack them too and scream but that's what makes Silent Sin such a delight.
I have featured some of EJ Russell's books on my blog before but Silent Sin is my first read. For me it's the perfect introduction to a new author, Sin ticks so many of my boxes:
historical✅romance✅Old Hollywood✅friendships✅author's respect for the era✅plenty of heart✅
I have to admit one of my favorite moments comes between Robbie and Martin's manager Sid, the actual activity happens off-page but we learn about it and it put the biggest smile on my face and a loud "YES!" in my internal monologue. Just another example of how the author has written more than romance and how sucked into the story I became.
Again, Silent Sin is brilliant!
Chapter One
July 28, 1921
Robbie slid the last crate of fruit out of Mr. Samson’s truck and only wobbled a little as he handed it off to a grocer’s assistant on the dusty Bakersfield road. He took off his battered straw hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the side of his arm, and settled the hat back on his head. Not that it kept out much sun—it was more holes than straw by this time.
Mr. Samson, the orange grower Robbie had been helping for the last two days, strolled out of the little store, tucking a wallet into his back pocket. Robbie snatched his hat off his head again.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not here.” Samson’s gaze slid away from his. “Don’t have the cash to pay you anything now, but I might have something for you back home at the groves.” He nodded at the truck. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Robbie’s empty belly sank toward his toes, but he forced a smile. He’d learned in the last six weeks that the promise of a job rarely translated into money in his pocket, even if he actually did the work. A lift with the promise of work at the end of the ride—anything that got him farther from Idaho, really—was more than he could hope for. “Thank you, sir.” He stumbled toward the truck cab.
“Hold on, you. Not up front.” Samson jerked his thumb toward the truck bed. “Back there. But give us a crank first.”
Robbie nodded and scuffed through the dirt, where a pebble worked its way through the hole in the bottom of his right boot. He waited for Samson to get behind the wheel and then gave the handle a practiced crank. The engine caught, and the truck belched exhaust. Robbie hurried to the rear before Samson could change his mind about the lift too.
As he was about to scramble over the tailgate, he spotted half a dozen discarded half-squashed fruits—a lemon and five oranges—almost beneath the wheels. He scrabbled them out of the dust, rolled them into the truck bed, and heaved himself in after them. The jerk when Samson put the truck in gear nearly sent Robbie over backward, but he grabbed on to one of the rough slats that bracketed the bed to save himself, driving a sliver into his thumb.
He crawled forward, herding his contraband in front of him until he could sit with his back to the cab. As the truck jounced along, raising clouds of dust in its wake, Robbie gathered the precious fruit in his lap and hunched over his knees. Fingers trembling, he tore into the skin of the first orange and dropped the peel through the slats. He shoved the first section into his mouth and moaned as the tart juice hit his parched mouth and throat. Squashed or not, this is pure heaven. How wonderful that people can grow something this marvelous, let alone make a living at it.
His last meal was nothing but a hazy memory, so he ate one fruit after another—even the lemon, so sour it made his eyes water—as the string of discarded peels fell behind, a trail of gold dimmed by dust.
After he polished off the last orange, he licked his fingers. Then he picked at the sliver in this thumb as he tried to dodge puddles of fermenting juice whenever Mr. Samson took a corner too sharply. The exhaustion of weeks of rough travel, most of it on foot, caught up with him, and he fell into a fitful doze.
With a bone-rattling thump, the truck pulled to a stop. Robbie blinked, disoriented, and peered around in the glare of the setting sun. Where are we? His heart sank when he took in the sturdy buildings lining both sides of the road. A good-sized town. He tried to keep to open country whenever he could—less chance of getting work, but easier to find a stream for a drink and a wash or a secluded barn where he could catch enough shut-eye to go on the next day.
Mr. Samson slapped the side of the truck. “End of the line, kid.”
Robbie scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good. His pants were as sticky as the truck bed.
He hopped down onto the road and caught the tailgate when a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down for the count. “Thanks for the lift. I appreciate it.”
Mr. Samson tilted his cowboy hat back and scratched his forehead. “No skin off my nose. You were a good worker. But turns out, now I think about it, I don’t need any help on the farm.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“I understand. Thanks anyway.” He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep on the ride. He had no idea where he was. “Does this road lead to Mexico?”
Mr. Samson hitched his dungarees up under his prosperous paunch. “Whatta you want to go there for? Nothing you can get there that you can’t get here.”
“Where’s here?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hollywood.”
Robbie shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the storefronts across the road. Hollywood Dry Goods. Hollywood Haberdashers. Hollywood Drug Store. “I guess it is.”
With a touch of his hat brim, Mr. Samson climbed into his truck. “Give us another crank, will you?”
Robbie complied and then backed away as the truck rattled off up a side street.
What the heck can I do in a place like this? Robbie doubted his years of scratching out a living on a potato farm would qualify him for work in some other grower’s orange grove. There weren’t any factories that he could see, and Hollywood Haberdashers wouldn’t hire somebody with only one set of clothes—and those almost too worn to be decent.
Mexico still seemed like the best bet, but suddenly he couldn’t muster the energy to take the next step or cadge the next lift or scrounge the next dime.
So he shoved his hands in his empty pockets, forced his back straight, and strode down the sidewalk as though he truly had someplace to go, as though he wasn’t adrift or as castaway as his namesake—Robinson Crusoe Goodman. He shook his head as he followed the route Mr. Samson’s truck had taken, away from the main street and up a slight hill. Ma sure had some odd notions when it came to naming her sons. Eddie had been lucky. At least Pa had put his foot down over Oedipus.
At the back of Mr. Samson’s orange grove, Robbie found a wooden shack worthy of his old man’s farm and secured with nothing but a two-by-four across its door. He slipped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the brightness of the westering sun. The dirt floor was littered with arm-long sections of metal pipe as big around as his head, and a stack of broken crates leaned against the wall like a rummy who’d never heard of the Volstead Act—not the most comfortable flop but better than he had any right to expect.
He curled up on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped across his belly, and begged sleep to take him before he cried.
*******
“I’m not working with Boyd Brody again, Sid. I can’t.” Martin Brentwood met his own gaze in the mirror over the drink cart in his living room. God, he looked like ten miles of bad road. “He tried to drown me.”
Sid Howard, Martin’s manager, emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Come on, Marty. He was just kidding. Giving you the business, same as he does with any actor. You can’t take this personal.”
“I damn well do take it personally. He’d never try that shit with Fairbanks.”
“Shite.”
Martin frowned at Sid. “What?”
“A baronet’s son from Hertfordshire wouldn’t say ‘shit.’”
“But I’m not a baronet’s son from Hertfordshire.” Martin sloshed more gin into his glass. “That would be you. Me? I’m only a tailor’s apprentice from Flushing.”
Sid tossed the towel on top of the piano and pried the glass out of Martin’s grip. “No. That would be me. And don’t forget it, even when we’re alone. Even in your own head. It’s easier to remember the lies if you live ’em full-time.” Sid sniffed the contents of the tumbler and made a face. “And don’t drink this shit. You’ll go blind.”
“I’ll have you know this gin was brewed in Barstow’s finest bathtubs.” Martin shuffled to the davenport and flopped down on the cushions. “But you’re right.” He bared his teeth. “It’s shite.”
“That’s more like it.” Sid settled in the wingback chair across from Martin. “So. I met with Jacob Schlossberg today.”
“Better you than me,” Martin muttered. “I loathe the bastard, and the feeling is decidedly mutual.”
“Maybe. But the reasons for the hate are different. You hate him because he’s—”
“A pontificating blowhard with delusions of grandeur and the morals of a weasel?”
“Because,” Sid raised his voice over Martin’s, “he’s the one who controls your career.”
“He’s not the only one. Ira owns half the studio.”
“Yeah, but Ira’s the talent-facing brother. Jacob’s got his sausage-like finger on the studio’s financial pulse. And when it comes down to it, at Citadel Motion Pictures, money’ll trump talent every time.”
Martin snorted. “So much for art.”
“Pictures aren’t art, Marty. They’re business. Big business. And if nobody pays to see your picture, it don’t matter if it’s as arty as the Russian crown-fucking jewels.”
“Really, Sid,” Martin murmured. “Your language.”
Sid grinned. “Unlike some, I don’t forget who I’m supposed to be.” Sid folded his hands on his knee, and no matter how much he might be able to ape a working-class stiff from Queens, if anybody in Hollywood paid attention, his hands would give him away. Tailor’s apprentices didn’t have the kind of practiced grace that had been drilled into Sid when he was busy getting kicked out of every prep school in England.
“As I said, I met with Jacob today.”
“And?”
Sid’s heavy brows drew together. “He and Ira are split on whether they want to re-up your contract. Ira’s liked you since he brought you in from Inceville and put you in a suit instead of a cowboy hat. He thinks you’re the best bet the studio has to counter Valentino. But Jacob… well….”
“I know, I know. He hates queers.”
“Nobody knows for sure that you’re queer, Marty.” Sid’s scowl said, “And keep it that way” louder than words could. “Anyway, Jacob may hate queers personally, but he depends on them too, as long as they’re in their place.”
Martin’s snort was a low-class sound, but nobody could hear him except Sid, who already knew the truth. Sid had invented Martin’s backstory. Hell, Sid had lived Martin’s backstory and he’d traded it with Martin’s when it became obvious which one of them could make a go of it in pictures.
“Right. In wardrobe. In the art department. Where the public never sees.”
“It’s not the invisibility that he cares about. He covets their taste. He knows he’s got none. He’s a stevedore’s son from the Bronx. He craves sophistication, so you’ll keep delivering it, because the only thing Jacob really hates is a threat to his profits. You can be as queer as Dick’s bloody hatband and he wouldn’t care as long as your pictures make money. But they won’t make money if your fans turn away. Remember what happened to Jack Kerrigan.”
“Kerrigan’s popularity dropped because he made that asinine comment about being too good to go to war, not because he’s queer.”
“Exactly. But with the Hollywood press in their back pocket, the studio didn’t lift a finger to save him. He’d become a liability with all his talk about no woman measuring up to Mother, and his lover tucked cozily away downstairs, masquerading as his secretary. You don’t want to be in that position.”
Martin pinched his eyes closed. “If it’s not because they suspect I’m in the life, then what is it? The cocaine? Because I told you, I’m never taking that stuff again, no matter how much the studio doctor prescribes.”
“No. It’s because of your last driver. What was his name? Homer?”
“Vernon, actually.”
“Right. Well, they don’t like that you fired him.”
“I fired him because he was a manipulative son of a bitch who saw driving a studio car as a sure way to stardom, provided he could fuck the right people.”
“Swive.”
“What? Are you telling me a baronet’s son wouldn’t say fuck?”
“Baronets’ sons definitely do, especially when imprisoned at boarding school with dozens of other baronets’ sons. But Martin Brentwood, leading man and one of Hollywood’s finest gentlemen, does not.”
Martin leaned his head on the cushions. “Jesus, Sid. Don’t you ever get tired of the act?”
“I’ll keep up with the act as long as it pays the bills. And so will you.” Sid crossed his legs. “I met with Ira too. He needs you back in to do retakes on that pro-Prohibition picture you wrapped last week.”
Martin groaned. “Good lord. Must we pander to the temperance unions and morality clubs even more? Wasn’t it enough that I died horribly in the gutter at the end?” Martin should have gotten a clue about where his career was headed when he was cast as the drunken lout instead of the fellow who heroically takes an axe to the kegs of evil whiskey.
“It has nothing to do with your performance. There were light flares in some of the scenes, and the cutter can’t fix it.”
“Very well. I’ll return tomorrow to die again.”
“Good. They expect you at ten.”
“Ten.” Martin cracked open an eye. “That’s a civilized hour, but how am I supposed to get there? No chauffeur, remember? The studio still won’t let me drive, and you refuse to learn how. I’d take the streetcar, but—”
“No. The last time you tried that, you nearly caused a riot.” Sid stood up and collected his briefcase from the ormolu side table. “I’ll contact the studio. They’ll assign you a driver, although you may have to share.” He lifted one perfectly straight eyebrow. “You’re not Valentino, after all. Yet.”
“Isn’t it grand that I don’t want to be, then?”
Sid sighed. “Marty, you need to think about your image. The studio’ll only protect you as long as you’re an asset, and you’ll only be an asset if—”
“If I make Jacob enough money.”
“If you don’t make their job harder. Having a car at your disposal twenty-four hours a day is more of a temptation than you need right now.”
Martin pushed himself upright with clenched fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lay off the steak and pinochle parties with Bill Taylor and George Hopkins. Stay away from Pershing Square. The only reason Homer—”
“Vernon,” Martin murmured.
“—was a real threat was because he suspected what was really going on there. If one of those jokers decides to spill to the press—”
“They wouldn’t. Nobody who’s in the life would ever give me away. We don’t do that to one other. Not ever.”
“That’s what everyone says until the first time. If anyone suspects the truth—”
“Truth? This is Hollywood, Sid. Truth is what the fan rags print, and the studios have all of them in their back pockets, cheek by jowl with their string of crooked cops.”
“Maybe. But you can’t depend on that lasting forever. Remember Kerrigan.” Sid settled his straw boater on his head. “A studio driver’ll pick you up tomorrow by nine thirty. I’ll take care of it.”
Martin heaved himself to his feet to walk Sid to the door. “Thanks, Sid.”
“And next time? If you’re gonna fire your driver, at least make sure you wait until he takes you home.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sid grabbed Martin’s wrist, his dark eyes serious. “I mean it, Marty. Be careful. This may be your last chance at Citadel, but if you pick the wrong man, you may not have another chance at anything.”
Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Sid walked out before he could gather his thoughts. He stood in the doorway as Sid strode down the sidewalk, the July sun beating down on the dusty boxwood hedges that lined the bungalow court.
Damn it, he’s right.
The places where it was safe to be a man who preferred men were few—New York, San Francisco, Hollywood. And even there, security was an illusion. The only thing that shielded them was the total obliviousness of most of the country. Hell, they didn’t even have a word for it.
In the life. A nice, nondescript phrase that could mean anything. But to the men and women who sought their partners from their own gender, its very blandness was the only thing that stood between them and ruin, scandal, imprisonment… worse. With sodomy laws on the books in every state, the punishment for a conviction could be positively medieval.
Martin shuddered, and as he wandered back to the drink cart, the streetcar bell clanged on Alvarado. I’ve still got some of my costumes from my vaudeville days. I could take the trolley to Pershing Square. Just for a little while. If he dressed in the rough clothes of a dockworker or the cheap suit of a salesman, nobody would know him for Martin Brentwood, movie star.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, excitement warring with shame in his belly. One last time. Without a driver, nobody would know.
So much of being a star was in behaving like one. Presenting yourself like a person who would prompt people in middle America to shell out their dough for the privilege of watching you caper around on a screen for an hour or two. Hell, he’d heard United Artists was going to charge a two-dollar admission for Fairbanks’s next picture.
It was nuts.
It was nuts, but Sid was right. It paid the bills—his and Sid’s. He owed it to them both not to destroy his career, not to destroy his life. Because the sailors in Pershing Square might be thrillingly rough, but you never knew where they’d been. The last thing he needed was a case of the clap. Sid was right about that too.
Martin wandered over to his desk. He had a pile of fan mail that needed answering. He probably should do that—he had few enough fans left. He’d best keep the faithful remnants happy.
With one last sorrowful glance at the gin bottle, he sat down and picked up his fountain pen.
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
Saturday, July 31, 2021
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Secrets & Scrabble by Josh Lanyon Part 1
Summary:
Ellery Page, aspiring screenwriter, Scrabble champion and guy-with-worst-luck-in-the-world-when-it-comes-to-dating, is ready to make a change. So when he learns he's inherited both a failing bookstore and a falling-down mansion in the quaint seaside village of Pirate's Cove on Buck Island, Rhode Island, it's full steam ahead!
Sure enough, the village is charming, its residents amusingly eccentric, and widowed police chief Jack Carson is decidedly yummy (though probably as straight as he is stern). However, the bookstore is failing, the mansion is falling down, and there's that little drawback of finding rival bookseller--and head of the unwelcoming-committee--Trevor Maples dead during the annual Buccaneer Days celebration.
Still, it could be worse. And once Police Chief Carson learns Trevor was killed with the cutlass hanging over the door of Ellery's bookstore, it is.
**This story contains NO on-screen sex or violence.
Summary:
Ellery Page is back--and in hot water again!
Unlike everyone else in Pirate's Cove, Ellery Page, aspiring screenwriter, reigning Scrabble champion, and occasionally clueless owner of the village's only mystery bookstore, is anything but thrilled when famed horror author Brandon Abbott announces he's purchased legendary Skull House and plans to live there permanently.
Ellery and Brandon have history. Their relationship ended badly and the last thing Ellery wants is a chance to patch things up--especially when his relationship with Police Chief Jack Carson is just getting interesting. But then, maybe Brandon isn't all that interested in getting back together either, because he seems a lot more interested in asking questions about the bloodstained past of his new home than discussing a possible future with Ellery. What is Brandon really up to?
Ellery will have to unscramble that particular puzzle post haste. Because after his former flame disappears following their loud and public argument, Ellery seems to be Police Chief Carson's first--and only--suspect.
***This story contains no on-screen sex or violence
An M/M Cozy Mystery.
I want to start by commenting on a couple of points.
1. I love a good cozy mystery, though to be completely honest, I never see them as "cozy" just mystery.2. I love the name Ellery Page. I don't know if it was intentional on the author's part by possibly making it a nod to the Ellery Queen Mysteries, but as a lover & collector of old radio shows and films, I thought of it right away.3. In the same fashion as 2, I loved that the cop's name is Jack Carson. Again I don't know if it was intentional but I immediately pictured the comedic actor Jack Carson of the 40s and 50s. From physicality to downplayed wit, it made perfect casting in my brain.4. The idea that Ellery inherits from his great great great aunt was a nice twist. Personally I was always closer to my great aunts(only one great not 3😉) than my actual aunt, but great-anythings tend to get overlooked or not used in fiction. Extra kudos for that.
Back to Murder at Pirate's Cove.
I won't say much about the mystery itself but I'll admit the "who done it?" crossed my mind early-ish in the investigation. Having said that, Josh Lanyon is brilliant when it comes to twists and turns that keep me on my toes so I was never 100% sure until the reveal.
The connection between the characters, and I don't just mean Ellery and Jack, is wonderful. Small town gossips, small town reporting, small town politics, and small town cops is all spot on. I can't speak for living in a touristy town but I can attest to small town atmosphere and everything Lanyon brings to the story definitely hits the nail on the head.
I guess I can't say too much more without leaking some spoilers and even though this is more than a year old release, I'm sure there are plenty who like me just got around to reading it. Normally I gobble everything by Josh Lanyon instantly but 2020 really screwed with my reading mojo so I just got around to Secrets & Scrabbles. I love the combination of mystery, wit, friendships, mayhem, possible romance and it's that blending that makes Murder at Pirate's Cove such a delightfully fun read.
Secret at Skull House #2
Cozy mystery or just mystery, whatever your terminology of choice is, Secrets of Skull House carry on the brilliance of who done it? that Josh Lanyon created with her newest series Secrets and Scrabbles.
When the romance of the book is secondary or maybe even smaller element than that and yet still pulls the reader in, you know the story is intriguing and fun. It's hard to imagine murder and mayhem being fun but when done right it is most definitely a fun read and that's what Skull House is.
Ellery and Jack have this amazing connection that may or may not lead to more but now that Ellery finds himself the main suspect in yet another murder, what kind of future can possible lay ahead for the pair?
I won't say more as I don't want to spoil the mystery but I will say it's a great read that leaves you with nothing but entertainment and keeps you guessing right to the reveal.
Murder at Pirate's Cove #1
Prologue
The damp night air was bracingly cold and, as always, suffused with the distinct ocean smell. Supposedly that seaside scent came from bacteria digesting dead phytoplankton. Ellery had picked that tidbit up that afternoon from a Tripp Ellis thriller.
The streets were quiet and strangely deserted as he walked back from the pub to the bookstore. His car—well, Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s car, if someone wanted to get technical—was still in the parking lot. Captain’s Seat, Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s decrepit mansion, was about a fifteen-minute drive from the village. Walking distance for someone who hadn’t been on his feet all day and didn’t mind a stroll down a pitch-black country road. None of which described Ellery.
His thoughts were preoccupied as he turned the corner onto the narrow brick street that held the little bookshop that had brought him to Pirate’s Cove in the first place.
The tall Victorian buildings cast deep shadows. Most of the storefronts were dark or illuminated only by the faint glow of emergency lights, so he was startled to see the bright yellow oblongs stretching from the tall windows of the Crow’s Nest across the gray pavement.
That’s weird.
He was positive he had locked the place up after shutting all the lights off. A larger than usual electricity bill was the last thing he wanted.
He sped up, his footsteps echoing down the silent street as he hurried toward the Crow’s Nest. He grabbed the doorknob, guiltily recalling that the first words Chief Carson had ever spoken to him concerned replacing the sticky old lock with a new deadbolt. His dismay ratcheted up another notch as the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
Oh no.
No way had he forgotten to lock up. He had lived in New York most of his life, for heaven’s sake. Locking doors was second nature to him. Sure, Pirate’s Cove was a small town, but all you had to do was flip through a couple of titles in the cozy-mystery section to know that evil lurked in the cutest, quaintest corners of the universe.
“Hello?” he called.
His uneasy gaze fell on the thing lying just a few feet inside the shop. A purple-plumed green tricorn hat. He looked past the hat, and his breath caught. His heart shuddered to a stop.
“No,” he whispered. “No way…”
At first glance there appeared to be a drunken pirate passed out on the floor of the Crow’s Nest. His disbelieving eyes took in the glossy boots, black velvet breeches, long, plum-colored coat and gold-trimmed vest, the scarlet lace jabot…
Scarlet.
Because the lacy folds were soaked in blood. The same blood slowly spreading around the motionless—terrifyingly motionless—form sprawled on newly sanded hardwood floors.
He put a hand out to steady himself—except there was nothing to grab—so he stumbled forward, landing on his knees beside the body. He instinctively reached to check for… But there was no need. The eerie stillness of the man’s chest, the glassy stare, the gray and bloodless face… Trevor Maples was dead. Tiny, twin, horror-stricken reflections of himself in those sightless blue eyes.
He drew back, climbed clumsily to his feet, and staggered out the open door to the uncannily silent street.
“Help!” he cried. “Help! Murder!”
One by one, the street’s lamps turned on as residents in the apartments above the shops surrounding the Crow’s Nest woke to the cries of death and disaster. The windows of normally sleepy little Pirate’s Cove lit up like the stars winking overhead.
Secret at Skull House #2
Chapter One
Murder is fun.
At least, a lot of otherwise nice, normal people seemed to think so. Having recently gone through the ghastly experience of finding a body in his bookshop—oh, and of being suspected of murder—Ellery Page was less thrilled by the notion of violent death. He couldn’t deny it was good for business, though.
Something about the idea of murder in a mystery bookstore really captured people’s imagination. True, a third of the tourists wandering into the Crow’s Nest this beautiful sunny June morning were there specifically to see Where It Happened. But because they felt a little guilty for their ghoulishness, they almost always bought a couple of books before they left. So while business wasn’t booming, it had certainly picked up.
Which was a good thing because Ellery’s screenwriting career was going nowhere fast. He glanced down again at the latest rejection letter from his agent.
The worst part was, while the rejection stung—rejection always stings, even when you’re getting rejected by people you would reject—he just couldn’t get too worked up about it. Not on such a beautiful day.
And it was a beautiful day. Like a painting by one of those 19th century artists who went in for seaside postcards of gentlemen in straw hats and striped one-piece bathing suits and ladies with—well, frankly, Ellery was more interested in the gentlemen.
Anyway, really nice weather. The sky was a soft and languid blue, swirled with clouds as filmy as smoke. The sand sparkled, the water sparkled, the sunlight sparkled. Brightly colored boats bobbed in the harbor, flags snapping in the sea breeze.
The only thing that could have made it better was if it had been Saturday rather than Monday. The weekends meant more visitors to Buck Island, and more visitors meant more business, and Ellery was going to need more business—a lot more business—to keep the Crow’s Nest sailing along. Seeing that Ronny had no interest in pitching Night Chess to anyone.
The scenes are void of meaningful or compelling conflict.
What did that even mean? Well, okay, Ellery knew what it meant, but he didn’t like conflict. Not in his movies and not in real life.
Conflict arrives, is instantly resolved, and the narrative course continues unaffected.
Ellery muttered, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The bells on the front door jingled merrily as Mrs. Nelson swept in. Ellery’s heart sank.
Hermione Nelson was a heavyset woman in her late sixties with startlingly blue eyes, hair as red as a rusty battleship, and a small, pinched-looking mouth that gave the impression that the effort of keeping her thoughts to herself was starting to give her heartburn. Except, she never kept her thoughts to herself, so…
Mrs. Nelson was under the impression she was Ellery’s best customer, and she would’ve been if she didn’t return three quarters of everything she bought.
“Ellery, this book was a complete waste of my time. I can’t believe you recommended it.” Mrs. Nelson reached the wooden counter, fished around in her patchwork bag, and thrust a battered copy of The Better Sister by Alafair Burke at him.
“I’m sorry. It made pretty much everyone’s Best Of lists for 2019.” Ellery took the hardcover, wincing inwardly at the sight of folded page corners.
“I don’t want to read about nasty people.”
“Well, we’re a mystery bookstore,” Ellery pointed out. “Safe to say, at least one character in every book is going to be kind of nasty.”
Mrs. Nelson was not amused. “I like my murders to happen to nice people. What about that new one from Joanne Fluke? I think I might like that.”
“I’m not sure we have any copies le—”
Mrs. Nelson beamed. “I’ll just go and check. We can do an even exchange. That will keep things simple for you.”
Uh, no, actually that would complicate everything, but Mrs. Nelson was already bustling away, making a beeline for the Cozy Mystery section.
Ellery swallowed his exasperation. He was still trying to build his customer base—and being suspected of murder had not helped matters along—so he felt he had to be extra accommodating to the customers he did have, even if some of them were using him more as a library than a bookstore.
He gazed out the large bay windows at the people strolling past, ice-cream cones in one hand, shopping bags in the other. A former fishing village—actually, a former pirate sanctuary, if you wanted to go way back—Pirate’s Cove was working hard to transform itself into a premium tourist destination. Things were pretty quiet in the fall, winter, and spring, but once summer arrived, the little windswept island offered biking, hiking, sailing, fishing, and lots of sunny beaches to explore.
The island also boasted two historic lighthouses: North Point and Half Moon Bay, as well as the partially buried ruins of a pirate fortress. Nearly half the island had been set aside for conservation, with the northwestern tip serving as a resting stop for birds migrating along the Atlantic flyway.
The potential for business was definitely there. The business itself…not so much. Not yet.
But the citizens of Pirate’s Cove were working to change that, and no one was working harder than Ellery.
The Crow’s Nest had been underwater when he’d inherited it from Great-great-great-aunt Eudora, and it was still leaking like a sieve, but the sight of all those ice-cream cones and shopping bags gave him hope.
Even better than ice cream and shopping bags was the sight of Police Chief Jack Carson heading toward the front door of the Crow’s Nest. Jack’s gaze met Ellery’s through the glass, and Ellery’s heart skipped a beat. He smiled. Jack smiled back.
Over the past weeks, he and Ellery had become friendly—which was not exactly the same thing as being friends, but they were moving in that direction. Ellery was happy. He liked Jack. He was also attracted to Jack—and he wasn’t alone in that; most of the fairer sex of Pirate’s Cove was attracted to the handsome, widowed chief of police. Jack was in his late thirties, a lean six-foot-nothing with sun-streaked brown hair and piercing green-blue eyes. He had a terrific smile, which he kept mostly in reserve. It was because Ellery was attracted to Jack that he was grateful their friendship was developing slowly, maybe even cautiously.
The fact was, he did not have good luck with relationships. Not romantic relationships. So, thinking of Jack as strictly friends took the pressure off.
At least that’s what Ellery told himself.
The bell offered a silvery welcome as Jack stepped inside the Crow’s Nest.
“Why, howdy, Sheriff,” Ellery drawled in his best minor-character-in-a-made-for-TV-Western accent.
“Why, howdy, Mr. Page,” Jack drawled back, and maybe it was being from California, but he did that Home on the Range accent better than Ellery, who even had three minor second-cowpoke-from-the-left credits on his acting résumé.
Good intentions notwithstanding, something about Jack’s deep, pleasant voice always gave Ellery a little tingle at the base of his spine. It was distracting, to say the least.
“T’warn’t fixin’ to see you quite so soon.”
Jack grimaced and dropped the drawl. “I know. I have to take a rain check on lunch. Emergency town-council meeting.”
“Oh.” Ellery didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. He and Jack had lunch together about once a week. Jack had also twice come out to Captain’s Seat, the falling-down 18th Century mansion Ellery had inherited, to help with renovations. “That’s too bad. What’s the emergency?”
“The lack of any game plan to handle the media once they arrive for the trial.”
“Ugh. Right.”
Ellery’s recent experience with the editor of the Scuttlebutt Weekly had left him with a sour taste in his mouth for members of the media.
“Yeah, anyway, I was wondering—” Jack broke off as Watson, the black spaniel-mix puppy Ellery had adopted, wandered out of his crate behind the counter to say hello. Jack squatted down. “Hey, you little rascal.”
Watson threw himself on his back, wriggling in delight—which was the typical reaction of most Pirate’s Cove citizens when Jack Carson appeared.
Sure enough…
“Oh! Chief Carson. I thought I recognized your voice.” Mrs. Nelson came around the corner of tall bookshelves.
Jack rose. “Mrs. Nelson. How are you?”
Mrs. Nelson proceeded to tell him in detail.
Mrs. Smith—small and slender, with thinning sandy hair—appeared at the counter, a stack of used paperbacks from the bargain bin in hand, and beamed at Ellery. “Ring these up, dear.” She turned immediately to Jack. “Chief Carson, how is the Maples case coming along?” Mrs. Smith was a devoted viewer of the Investigation Discovery channel and believed herself to be an expert in criminal investigations.
“We’re gathering evidence and building our case, Mrs. Smith,” Jack said politely.
“The circumstantial evidence alone ought to be enough to secure a conviction.”
“I prefer direct evidence.” Jack glanced at Ellery, and Ellery grimaced. There had been plenty of circumstantial evidence against him in the Maples case, but luckily Jack had dug deeper.
Mrs. Nelson, who had not finished detailing the delights of her gallbladder surgery, cut in. “Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t trust a doctor younger than my grandchildren.”
“Isn’t your youngest grandchild around eight years old?” Jack inquired.
Mrs. Nelson ignored that.
“I always suspected there was something up with that man,” said Mrs. Ferris, materializing out of the brand-new True Crime section, to join in the conversation. “His taste in sports coats was a clear indicator of a deranged psyche.”
“Juries like circumstantial evidence,” Mrs. Smith insisted.
Watson, wearying of so many conversations that had nothing to do with how adorable he was, waddled toward the front door. Ellery dashed around the counter to scoop him up as two young women opened the door, saw the crowd at the counter, and ducked back out.
He sighed, glanced back at the huddle in front of the cash register, and caught Jack’s gaze. Jack looked resigned, as well as…something else. Ellery didn’t know him well enough to interpret his every expression, but he had the impression Jack had been about to ask him something.
Well, whatever it was, it would have to wait. Jack’s fan club was not going anywhere soon.
Ellery returned Watson to his crate, gave him a chew toy, and began to ring up Mrs. Smith’s books. He listened with half an ear to the conversation around him. He was surprised Jack had not already extricated himself and escaped, something he was very good at in such situations.
He looked up, feeling Jack’s gaze, and they smiled at each other again. It warmed Ellery. He really did like Jack. He liked his easy, straightforward manner. Nothing ever seemed to fluster Jack. He liked the way he was with Watson. He liked how Jack looked—broad shoulders and narrow hips, muscular arms and long legs—in his trim navy-blue uniform. He liked the way Jack’s smile formed little crinkles around the corners of his eyes.
Jack started to speak, but Mr. Starling appeared at the counter with Lee Child’s latest. “Ellery, my boy, could you tell me the price of this book?”
Ellery was about to rattle off the price, which happened to be clearly labeled on a sticker on the back of the book, when Mr. Starling turned to Jack.
“Chief Carson, I didn’t see you there!”
Ellery resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Morning, Mr. Starling.” Jack glanced instinctively at the door, and Ellery bit back a grin. Everyone had their breaking point, and Mr. Starling was usually it.
“Nice day today, eh, Chief?”
“Yep.”
Ellery handed the receipt with the stack of paperbacks to Mrs. Smith, who dumped everything in her canvas shopping bag. She turned to Mr. Starling. “How’s your wife, Stanley?”
Mr. Starling waved dismissively. “Doing fine, I suppose. Spends her days staring at the boob tube.”
Mrs. Nelson began, “I don’t believe televisions still have tubes—”
Mr. Starling ignored her. “Chief, I’ve meaning to talk to you about those young hooligans hanging out on the beach every evening. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were doing drugs and whatnot.”
“Sure,” Jack said, edging toward the door. “Why don’t you come down to the station later and have a chat with Officer Martin.”
“I’m not sure young Martin is old enough to know what’s what.”
Mrs. Smith was also angling toward the door with Jack and Mr. Starling. “Lovely visiting with you all, but I must pick up some scallops from Finn’s.”
Ellery opened his mouth, but Mrs. Nelson was there before him.
“You’ve forgotten to pay, Jane.”
Mrs. Smith looked startled and then laughed gaily. “Oh dear. I’m always doing that!”
Yes, she was, but Ellery chuckled too. Politely.
Jack said mildly, “Uh-oh, Mrs. Smith. Should I save space for your mug shot on the station bulletin board?”
Mrs. Smith turned red. Her laugh sounded a little hysterical that time. The others joined in. She hurriedly dug her pocketbook out and handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change, dear.”
In fact, she was twenty-three cents short, but Ellery knew to choose his battles. “Thanks, Mrs. Smith.”
The shop door flew open, the bell clanging wildly, and Nora Sweeny rushed in, narrowly missing colliding with Jack and his entourage.
“Ellery, dearie! So sorry I’m late, but you won’t believe what’s happened!”
Nora was Ellery’s shop assistant. She was about seventy, small but mighty. In spirit, at least. Her hair was gray, her eyes were gray, but her personality was bright and cheerful as the gold and blue city flag she had helped design. Once upon a time, Nora had been president of the Pirate’s Cove Historical Society, and it was her life’s ambition to bring that now defunct organization back to life.
“What’s happened?” Ellery and everyone else in the Crow’s Nest chorused.
Nora skidded to a stop, looking nonplussed. “I didn’t realize—well, the news is bound to be all over the village by now. I still can’t believe it. It’s a…a calamity.”
“What’s a calamity?” Jack, being in the calamity business, was frowning.
“Skull House has been sold!”
“Isn’t that good news?” Ellery was confused. “I thought the historical society was planning to buy it for their new home base.” It was pretty much all Nora had been talking about for the last two weeks, ever since the news broke that Skull House was going on the market.
“But that’s just it. It’s not us. The Historical Society hasn’t purchased the house. We were outbid. We didn’t even know we were bidding. Someone—an outsider—swooped in at the last moment and stole the house out from under us!” Nora reached the counter, resting her elbows on it and dropping her head in her hands.
Ellery bent over her. “Are you all right?”
Nora, still clutching her head, shook no.
Everyone else—with the exception of Jack—was talking at once: who, what, where, when, why…
The why was the real question, in Ellery’s opinion. Why anyone, let alone the Pirate’s Cove Historical Society, would want to buy Skull House, was a mystery to him. For one thing, it was out on Pequot Bluffs, miles from the village. For another, the house was a wreck. Not as much of a wreck as Captain’s Seat, maybe—or maybe it was, because no one had lived there for the last fifty years. That amount of dust was probably lethal.
“I’m sorry. But, you know, maybe it’s for the best,” Ellery said. “Skull House would probably cost a fortune to get in shape, and it isn’t exactly conveniently located. There are other houses.”
“No, there really aren’t,” Mrs. Nelson informed him. “When was the last time you saw property for sale on the island?”
Well…never. Granted, he had only lived on Buck Island for four months.
“And no new construction,” Mr. Starling said. “Per the Buck Island Conservancy.”
“The Maples’ properties are going to come on the market eventually.”
“Eventually,” agreed Mrs. Nelson. “Which could be years from now. You know how courts are.”
Nora moaned. “I know! I know all that.”
The bells on the door chimed softly as Jack eased it open. He raised a hand in farewell to Ellery, who nodded back regretfully. He couldn’t blame Jack for making his escape. He just wished Jack had taken the others with him.
“To think an outsider could just come in and buy one of our historical landmarks.” That was Mrs. Ferris.
“It’s not actually a landmark, is it?” Ellery asked. “Not technically. Not legally.”
No one bothered to reply.
Mrs. Smith asked, “Who is this mysterious outsider? Who has bought Skull House?”
Nora raised her head. Her eyes were dry, so that was good. In fact, she looked more mad than sad.
“He’s a writer. Very popular, if you like that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” Ellery asked. If this mysterious someone was a mystery writer, this might not be a total disaster. It was very hard to get authors to appear for book signings when they had to travel by ferry to a small island in the middle of nowhere. Okay, Rhode Island. Still.
“Sex?” Mr. Starling asked hopefully.
Nora said in tones of loathing, “I’m speaking of Brandon Abbott.”
Ellery stared at her. “Brandon?” he repeated. “Brandon Abbott?” He heard and understood the words, but somehow they seemed to have short-circuited his brain.
“Brandon Abbott. Yes.” Nora’s gaze grew curious at his obvious shock.
“I know him!” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. “He’s like Stephen King. He writes all that spooky stuff.”
“Horror,” Ellery said, which pretty much summed up his feelings regarding Brandon Abbott.
“Do you know Brandon Abbott?” Mrs. Nelson asked, surprised.
“I used to. He’s my ex.”
“I thought—” objected Nora.
“My other ex,” Ellery said.
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.
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