#1: Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl, my first read of 2012, is a riveting read and makes me appreciate all that I have. 5 stars. Nuff said.

#2 was Stieg Larsson‘s Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. This was my second attempt to read it, and I almost gave up. The first 100 or so pages are brutal and slow. I’m glad I stuck with it because the mystery is complex and exciting, once it gets going. I wasn’t a big fan of the ending. I’ll leave it at that so I don’t include spoilers. 4 stars because of the complexity and enjoyment of the main mystery.

By the way, I’m not cheating on this reading challenge, you know, and picking short reads to help me hit the 75.

Book #3 is 11/22/63, Stephen King. This book is colossal. I’m on page 363 and loving it so far. I’ll keep you posted.

I’ve got several more books lined up for after 11/22/63 and am always interested in your recommendations (caveat – I read mostly mysteries, suspense, thrillers).

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Stairway to the Bottom

By Michael Haskins

Chapter One

If I hadn’t gone to watch the comedy showcase at the Key West Fringe Theater, I wouldn’t have silenced my cell phone. If I hadn’t silenced my cell, I would have answered Dick Walsh’s first call at 1:10 A.M., and then things might not have gone so badly. If is a damn big word for only having two letters.

I unplugged the cell from its charger in the morning and the lighted screen reminded me it was on silent mode and that I had five messages.

Each of Dick’s messages was more frantic and pleading than the last. He needed help, but didn’t say for what. By the third message, he was cussing but still wanted me to call and that was at 3:15. He didn’t sound drunk, like most three in the morning callers do, he sounded scared.

The fifth and final message came at 5:36. He had calmed down, asked me to come by his house as soon as possible and gave me the address. His composed voice assured me I would understand the problem after I arrived and he would be in touch later.

“Mick, I need you to believe me, it isn’t what it looks like. Please help me,” his message ended with a quiet plea.

I dressed quickly in last night’s clothing and swallowed cold water from a bottle out of the cooler. Before I got into my Jeep and drove to Dick’s house on Von Phister Street, I called his cell but it went to voice mail and I left a message. We were playing phone tag.

Von Phister is a narrow, tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood of old and new houses. Dick’s was an old two-story house with a large gumbo-limbo tree in front and two more in back. He actually had a decent-size backyard, something that is at a premium in Key West.

The house was dark. It was almost six-thirty, about an hour since his last call. The sky was a light gray with a reddish-purple sunrise pushing the dawn westward. Only a large yellow tomcat crossed my path on the empty street.

I parked in front and noticed Dick’s scooter was gone. I went up the steps to the wraparound porch, rang the bell, and then knocked. Nothing. I looked into the living room window. Nothing. I knocked again and when no one answered, I tried the door. It was unlocked so I went in.

The stench that greeted me in the hallway was familiar. The smell of death was strong and that told me somewhere in the house, death was very recent. Death, if left alone long enough cloaks all other odors, especially in the tropics – violent death even more so.

I called Dick’s name but no one answered. I walked into the living room and it looked lived in – a big screen TV, stereo with CDs stacked next to it, a sectional sofa set. A hallway led to a kitchen, small dining room, and bathroom. The stairway on the right went upstairs to the bedrooms.

Dick used the dining room as his office – medium-sized desk that was too big for the room, a computer, a printer, and a two-drawer file. I walked through into the kitchen. There was a table for two off to the side, dirty dishes in the sink and a woman’s body on the floor.

She lay face down and a large part of her head was gone. Pieces of shattered skull, along with parts of her brain and blood, tarnished the otherwise clean kitchen wall.

Blood and human waste soaked the tile floor and stained her clothing.

The stench of death filled the kitchen. I didn’t bother looking for a pulse.

An automatic with a silencer attached lay on the floor, her arm stretched out toward it as if reaching for the gun that had a small stream of brownish blood curled up next to it.

I ran upstairs to check the two bedrooms, calling Dick’s name. Both rooms were neat and the beds made. Nothing broken or seemingly out of place. Dick’s closet looked full with only a couple of empty hangers in the mix. The guestroom closet was empty.

Dick shot this woman, I thought as I looked down at her body. Whose gun was it on the floor? I didn’t touch anything, though I wanted to. My curiosity was getting the best of me.

I’m Liam Murphy, a semi-retired journalist and fulltime sail bum, some say. Key West has been my home for almost eighteen years. Before that, I lived in Southern California and reported on Central American civil wars and when they ended I covered the drug wars for a weekly newsmagazine so a dead body wasn’t something that frightened me it intrigued me.

In Key West, I’ve made friends with all kinds of characters, including the chief of police, Richard Dowley. We have a two-sided relationship. One side is Richard the cop, the other is Richard the friend. He considers me a friend but always thinks of me as a journalist. He says I only have one side. I called him on my cell, sure of catching him at home, and knew I’d be talking to his cop side.

I told him where I was and what I’d found.

“What are you doing at that nut’s house?” I could hear him banging around in the kitchen.

When I explained about the messages and Dick’s plea, he sighed loudly enough for me to hear on the phone.

“Don’t touch anything and I’ll call it in,” he said. “Best thing is go outside and wait for the first unit, and I’ll make it there too.”

“Okay, Richard, but tell the ambulance it doesn’t have to hurry,” I said and he hung up without replying.

Outside, I sat and waited, thinking of Dick’s last message telling me it wasn’t what it looked like. It looked like murder.

Stairway To The Bottom is available for Kindle and in paperback at Amazon.com

Follow Michael on Facebook and Twitter

There was a nagging feeling of dread rising in my mind. I felt hot then cold all over as if I were taking sick again. I had the feeling that Manuel needed me, something was horribly, terribly wrong. I couldn’t suppress it, for it seared my soul. My dreams nagged my thoughts, causing shivers of dread down my spine.

Without saying a word to anyone, I wended my way as quickly and quietly to the door as I could. It was hardly more than three minutes after Manuel left, and yet he was nowhere in sight. He must have taken his buggy. Having no such vehicle available to me, I ran to the fortress with as much speed as I could muster. I was grateful to Grand-mère for the dress as it provided more mobility than any of my other outfits would have.

The hair rose on my arms as if I were cold, my breath came in shuddering gasps and yet I ran until I thought my lungs would burst. It was then I saw it, a flicker, a flame and suddenly the entire southeast bastion of the fort seemed to be on fire!

Silhouetted against it, I saw a man. My dream came rushing back of an instant and I knew it to be James the spy! I couldn’t contain my anger. It drove me onward, compelling me to be hasty, chiding my slowness. Anger burned within me, hot and fierce as the signal fire before me, filling me with a fury driving away my fear.

I finally reached the gate, passing the ladies and the buggy without fully noticing. I saw no sign of Manuel, James or anyone else. In fact, the postern gate was open and unguarded, just as in my dream! I stifled the shriek I felt rising in my throat. Fear gripped me, cold unreasoning fear. Dread of ghosts of dead soldiers floated through my mind, making me shiver again.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think or make any decision. I stood there stupidly, gaping at the sight in front of me, riveted to the spot. That was my undoing. Stealthily out of the shadows, James was upon me. He grabbed me in his strong arms, holding me to him, using me as a shield, a gun pointed at my head!

An involuntary scream ripped from my throat! James chided me, goaded me on, pulling my hair, waving the gun before me!

“Go ahead and scream, lass. Scream for all you’re worth! It will bring him to me. I’ve waited, plotted, planned for this moment. Before the sun rises, he’ll be dead and you, my lass, you will be mine!”

He planted a rough, brutal kiss on my cheek, nipping my ear, causing me to scream again. I writhed away from him, but he held me fast. He shifted his hold upon me, crushing me against his pelvis. I could feel the lust in him. It disgusted and terrified me. He seemed to feed off my fear, growing more bold.

“That’s it, that’s it! He’ll be here any minute that upstart Spanish bastard!”

He was turning around from side to side, holding me in front of him, pulling my hair to keep me on my feet, for I was near to fainting. A shadow moved stealthily toward us. I hoped James had not seen. Perhaps I only hoped so much that it was Manuel, I imagined it. But no, I heard a pistol being cocked and knew James heard it to. From our left, Manuel emerged quietly from the shadows, pistol in hand.

The light from the signal fire threw wavering shadows and highlights over his face, making him look demonic, his handsome face contorted into an unyielding mask of cold rage and hatred. His hand was steady, pointing the gun at James, who tried in vain to keep me in front of him. Manuel lifted his chin standing still.

“Let her go, James, or I shall drop you where you stand.”

“If you shoot me, she’s dead.” He put the gun up against my head.

“Don’t be so sure of that, Doctor.”

I could hear panic rising in James’ voice. His breath coming in fast gulps, hot on my neck. “Drop your gun. I’ll let her go if you drop your gun!”

“Do you take me for a complete fool? You drop your gun and I’ll give you a head start to the gate to run like the cowardly cur you are. Stand away from her now.”

James’ hand holding the weapon was beginning to falter. I summoned all my resolve and slammed my elbow into his ribs, stamped on his foot and hit him in his private parts as hard as I could with both my fists together.

He gasped for breath, falling to the ground, dropping his gun. Manuel kept him covered while I jumped out of reach. All I could think of was getting away, returning to the safety of my home, of Manuel’s arms. I was in a panic, terrified! Then I saw the man behind Manuel, musket raised like a club, the sailor who had met James.

Manuel couldn’t get a shot off in time, but caught the blow of the musket with his pistol stock, forcing the man away from him. They grappled for what seemed hours, but was only a few seconds. Unfortunately, neither of us watched James. He lunged for his pistol, grabbing it before I could warn Manuel. I could do nothing to stop him. I was too far away. I tried to scream, to alert Manuel in some way, but the sound caught in my throat.

Manuel and the sailor turned just as James raised his gun to shoot. James’ shot caught the other man in the back, the bullet slamming through him as if he were jelly. The echo in the stone courtyard was deafening. Then they fell!

“Manuel! Dear God, he’s been shot!” I screamed to no one.

The other fellow was dead, but Manuel was still moving. I ran to be by his side, but James grabbed my hair again and dragged me away! The last I saw, Manuel was lying in a pool of blood, his life draining from him and I could do nothing.

Indian Summer is available for Kindle and Nook and in paperback. Follow Dellani on Facebook and Twitter.

For all you mystery lovers, here is an excerpt from Lia Fairchild’s A Hint of Murder: The Writer, from her anthology. Lia is a native Californian, and the author of In Search of Lucy, a romantic family drama garnering mostly 4 and 5 star reviews. Lia holds a B.A. degree in Journalism and a Multiple Subject Teaching Credential. Look for more on her and her books at http://www.liafairchild.com and http://www.ahintofmurder.blogspot.com or follow her on Twitter at https://www.twitter.com/#!/liafairchild”

The Anthology is available on
Amazon US http://ow.ly/7xiI7
Amazon UK http://ow.ly/7xiKW A Hint of Murder: The Anthology compiles all three A Hint of Murder stories in one book:

A Hint of Murder: The Writer

Alicia Fairfield didn’t plan on being famous. Now a bestselling author with millions of fans, Alicia also has the attention of a killer. Someone has been recreating the murders from her books and the suspects are piling up; her mentally ill son, a disgruntled associate, and possibly even her loyal literary agent. The pressure of public recognition along with the guilt over these senseless killings could be enough to drive Alicia over the edge. Can she hold it together long enough to uncover a killer? (Story length 9,000 words)

A Hint of Murder: The Doctor

Russell Morgan had it all; good looks, the perfect woman and a rewarding career as a well-respected physician. When the doctor’s patients start turning up dead, his world comes crashing down. Second in the “A Hint of Murder” series, this short story brings Detective John Lewis back in action to track down the killer. (Story length: 12,000 words)

A Hint of Murder: The Bouncer

Bobby Crane was tired of being a bouncer and a glorified errand boy. He longed to be a professional singer and was just about to get his big break. Then Allen Schaffer is found murdered and Bobby’s car was spotted at the victim’s home. Third in the A Hint of Murder series, this story has detective John Lewis returning with a new partner to uncover a murderer. (Story length: 10,400 words)

Excerpt from A Hint of Murder: The Writer

Since the first body was discovered, she’d had nothing but heartache, worry and guilt. Alicia Fairfield prayed it was a coincidence; that the murdered young woman had nothing to do with the story she had created. A story that was played out on the big screen just last week. Perhaps making Vegas Vendetta, her tenth bestseller, into a movie had been a mistake. The Las Vegas Showgirl was fatally stabbed the night of the premiere. Alicia and her agent Edward spoke to the police the next day before Alicia returned to her million-dollar home snuggly perched in the rolling hills of Marin County.

Alicia clutched the bottle tightly, closed the medicine cabinet and stared at herself in the mirror. A pair of icy blue eyes gazed back at her as she smoothed down her straight blonde hair. At forty five, she was just beginning to show the signs of aging. For a moment, the stranger in the reflection hypnotized her but she tore herself away from the image and left for the kitchen. She passed through her dining room, decorated to perfection, and her hallway adorned with gorgeous paintings, some of them her own creations. When she reached the sink, she filled a glass with water and took it along with the pill bottle to the other side of the counter. Then she set them down next to her laptop and took a seat at the end barstool.

Alicia glanced down at the morning paper, and reread the headline. “Copy Cat Killer Strikes Again.” The article detailed the killing of the showgirl and linked it to the recent murder of a nurse found dead behind a free clinic in Novato. A source told the paper that a page from A.J. Field’s novel From the Shadows had been left with the nurse’s body. The pen name was Alicia’s attempt to have a private life and keep her family—mainly her mentally ill son—away from public scrutiny.

Alicia set the paper down and turned to her laptop. Mesmerized by the blinking curser, she contemplated what she would write. For the first time, these would be her words. It was possible two lives had been taken because of the words she’d written in her novels. Should these be the last words anyone would ever read from A.J. Field?

The white page grew blurry as tears welled in her eyes. She rested her hands on the keyboard, sighed and began to type the incoherent thoughts that scattered in her mind:

To my dearest David, a beloved son that never found happiness, I am truly sorry. And, my agent Edward, thank you for years of support and friendship. I would never have made it this far without you. To all my faithful fans out there, I’m so grateful I enriched and heightened your love of reading. As I truly believe that our decisions—

A loud pounding at the door startled Alicia and made her jump. She sat frozen wondering what to do. The pounding came again accompanied by a loud grumbling voice. “Alicia! Alicia, open the door! It’s me Edward!”

Fearing the dreadful tone in his voice, Alicia grabbed the pills and stashed the bottle in her purse. She raced to the door and opened it.

“My God, Alicia!” her agent said out of breath and leaning on the door jam. At sixty, he wasn’t in the best of shape. “Why haven’t you answered my calls?” He didn’t wait for an answer and stepped into the foyer. “Are you all right?” He glanced around the area, cast a concerned look upon her, and waited for answers.

“Edward, I’m fine. I just needed some time to think.” Her voice was calm; believable. Alicia grabbed him by the arm and led him to the kitchen. “Let’s get you something to drink, have you rest a bit.” Even though she saw him as a big brother—he was more than ten years her senior—she often felt the need to take care of him.

Alicia went to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher. “Tea?” she asked as Edward took a seat at the bar.

He nodded with a smile and watched as she poured the tea. Then suddenly, Alicia gasped as she realized she hadn’t closed the keyboard before running to the door. Her hand shook uncontrollably and her calm cover had been blown. Tea splashed over the glass onto the counter causing Edward to go to her.

“Let me help,” Edward said. He removed the pitcher from her hand with care and set it on the counter. Instinctively he took her in his arms and held her close. “You’ve heard the news I take it,” he said in a gentle tone. “It’s okay, Alicia. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m here.”

She barely made a sound, yet Edward’s shirt dampened beneath her cheek. Surprisingly she had never let him see her like that and wasn’t sure how he would react. His gentle voice and strong arms were comforting and different from his routine business demeanor.

Edward walked Alicia into the next room, rubbing her back. “Here…let’s sit and talk.” He had grown expert in dealing with Alicia during difficult writing times. Whenever she had a notion to quit it all and concentrate on her painting, or was conflicted over a storyline or character, he always skillfully talked her down. But this was different. How could he tell her everything would be all right when there were two innocent girls that had been murdered? Killed in almost the exact circumstances of her last two novels.

“Did the police contact you?” he asked.

“Yes, they were here a couple hours ago,” she answered without looking up. She rested her head on his shoulder and explained her visit with the police.

When the two investigators arrived earlier that day, Alicia tried to be as helpful as possible. She offered them both a drink and asked if they’d like to sit. Detective John Lewis declined for both and seemed anxious to get down to business. His partner didn’t provide his name and spoke as little as possible.

“I’m sure you’ve read the paper by now, Ms. Fairfield.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” Alicia said nodding.

Detective Lewis pulled a small pad of paper from his back pocket. He was a tall, solidly built man. His voice was deep and scratchy but was camouflaged by a friendly smile. “We just have a few questions to ask.”

“I understand Detective. I’ll do whatever I can to help. Obviously I’m very concerned,” Alicia said.

“You and your agent were in Las Vegas for the premiere of Vegas Vendetta, correct?”

“Yes, we already spoke to the police there.”

“Yes…and both of you reported that you were in your hotel rooms at the time of the murder.”

“That’s correct,” Alicia answered. She couldn’t help worry where he was going with the questioning.

“And last night, could you tell us where you were?”

“I was here, painting.”

“Oh.” The detective looked up. “I thought you were a writer,” he questioned with a smile.

“I paint for my own pleasure. Writing is my profession.”

“Was anyone here with you?”

“No. I live alone,” Alicia stated defensively. “Detective, I’m assuming you are trying to see if I have an alibi, which I don’t. But let me tell you something, I do feel responsible. Those were my words on the pages left by the killer. Don’t you understand how horrible that makes me feel?” Alicia’s face grew flush and her eyes glazed over as she wrapped her arms around herself.

At that point the silent detective came to Alicia’s side and put a hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am, try not to blame yourself. These crazies are going to kill if they want to kill. We’re just trying to get all the information here.”

Alicia stepped away to gain her composure. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Detectives? I’ve got a conference call in a few moments.”

***

She only stepped outside for a minute…

But a minute was all it took to turn Jean Kingsley’s world upside down–a minute she’d regret for the rest of her life. 

If you enjoyed Andrew E. Kaufman’s first thriller, While The Savage Sleeps, you will not be disappointed with his new book, psychological thriller, The Lion The Lamb The Hunted. 

This is an excellent and terrifying road trip, full of surprises, twists, secrets and suspicions, not to mention a completely unexpected ending. It’s already gaining 5 star reviews on Amazon. I loved it. Try it for yourself. Here’s an excerpt:

Glenview Psychiatric Hospital looked like it could drive a person insane if they weren’t already. Chain link and razor wire surrounded the perimeter, and beyond that, ivy snaked its way up dirty red brick walls. I let my gaze follow it to a bar-covered window where an elderly woman looked down on me, her face as white as the long, stringy hair that framed it. She nodded with a vacant, fish-eyed expression, then flashed a menacing, toothless grin that sent chills up my spine. I turned my attention away quickly, headed for the front door.

Glenview had once been a private facility, but the state had taken it over several years before. From the looks of things, they hadn’t done much to improve it. I moved down a dimly-lit, claustrophobic hallway so narrow that I doubted two people could walk it side by side. The asylum-green walls were cracked and chipped, the floors covered in nondescript, skid-infested tile. The overall theme: dismal and cold.

I came to the gatekeeper for this palace of darkness: a receptionist behind a Plexiglas partition blurred with fingerprints, grime, and other slimy things I was afraid to think about. Her expression told me she was sick of her job. Couldn’t say I blamed her. Then I heard static and a speaker going live.

“Can I help you,” she said. It sounded more like a statement than a question.

I leaned in toward a metal-covered hole in the glass. “Patrick Bannister, for Doctor Faraday.”

No verbal response, just a loud buzzer and a simultaneous click as the lock disengaged; I pulled the door open and found her waiting on the other side behind a service counter.

After signing in with my I.D., I handed over my cell phone. Then a security guard arrived to escort me through a sally port that looked more like a cave. Smelled like one, too. Next stop, a service elevator: high stink-factor there as well, like a nasty old gym locker.

Stepping off onto the fifth floor, I fell into sensory overload. The stench was so wicked and fierce that it burned through my sinuses—excrement, sweat, and cleaning agents all blended into one nasty funk that kicked my gag reflex into action. Then came the sounds: a woman’s hysterical laughter echoing down the hall, clearly not inspired by anything funny, along with lots of cursing and other peculiar, vaguely human cries I could hardly identify. As we moved past the metal-grated security doors, patients peered at me with flat, vacant expressions, creepy smiles, and wild eyes that made my skin crawl.

Finally, we came to a port in the storm: a nursing station. The guard nodded to the woman behind the counter. She nodded back, and he left me there.

In her early fifties, she was a striking brunette, one of those women whose beauty seems to improve with age: high cheekbones, dark-lashed, pale blue eyes, and a pair of legs that could give a twenty-year-old a run for her money. The nametag said she was Aurora Penfield, Nursing Supervisor. I eyed a photo on the desk; it was her, much younger with a small boy on her lap, both smiling big for the camera. Then I looked up and saw her staring, waiting for me to speak.

I cleared my throat. “Patrick Bannister, for Doctor Faraday.”

In a dutiful, mechanical manner, she reached for the telephone and punched a few buttons, giving me the once-over while waiting for an answer.

I smiled.

She didn’t.

Then I felt a tug on my leg. Startled, I looked down into a pair of dark, cavernous eyes staring up at me: a woman squatting on the floor, probably in her sixties but with a distinctly childlike quality. Tangled, grizzled hair surrounded a hopeless, miserable face. She barked at me, then snarled, baring her teeth.

“Gretchen!” Penfield said, leaning over the counter, her tone cross and unwavering. “Move away immediately!”

The woman looked at Penfield, looked at me, then frowned. I glanced down and spotted a yellowish puddle forming between her feet, but before I could react, two orderlies stepped quickly toward us; they each grabbed an arm and pulled her up, then guided her away.

Nurse Ratched went back to her work as if nothing had happened and said, “Doctor’s on his way. Please take a seat.”

I did.

A few moments later, a side door opened and Doctor Faraday appeared. He was somewhere in his sixties, tall and slender with a thick head of silvery hair and wire-rimmed glasses that missed the fashion curve by a good twenty years. His face registered zero on the expression scale, as blank as the wall behind him. As we shook hands, I noticed his were rough-skinned and ice-cold.

He led me down a corridor and past a door with a glass observation window. Inside, a patient sat in the corner, hands under his gown, giving himself pleasure. He made direct eye contact with me and started jerking himself with more enthusiasm and fervor. Then he stopped, and a shit-eating grin slowly spread across his face. I looked away, feeling my nausea return for a second round.

When we reached Faraday’s office, he took a seat behind his desk, and I sat across from him.

“Jean Kingsley,” he said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Haven’t heard that name in years.”

“I’m doing a story about her son’s kidnapping and murder.”

He put his glasses back on, looked down at some paperwork. “I’ve reviewed her records. What exactly would you like to know?”

“We can start with the basics, her condition, how many times she was admitted, and for how long.”

He puffed his cheeks full of air, then let it out slowly.  “Mrs. Kingsley was a very sick woman. She suffered a series of breakdowns—three, to be exact—rather significant ones. She was admitted here after each of them. The duration increased with each visit, as did the severity of her condition.”

“How long was her last stay?”

“About a month.”

“Any indication why she killed herself? I mean, other than the obvious. Anything unusual happen that day?”

“Not at all. Mrs. Kingsley was dealing with enormous guilt over her son’s murder. She blamed herself. As time went on, her memories and perceptions about the kidnapping seemed to become more distorted, as did her impression of reality as a whole.”

“Distorted in what way?”

“Her recollection about what actually happened, the circumstances leading to it—none of it made any sense, and most of it seemed to lack truth. After a while, it started sounding like she was talking about someone else’s life rather than her own. She was different person.”

“What kinds of things did she say?”

He gazed down at his notes, threw his hands up, shaking his head. “I honestly wouldn’t know where to begin. Purely illogical thinking.”

I leaned forward to glance at the notes. “Can I have a look?”

He dropped his arms down to shield them and stared at me as if I’d asked the unthinkable. “Absolutely not.”

“But Mrs. Kingsley’s no longer alive, and her husband gave me permission.”

“That’s not the point, Mr. Bannister. It’s at my discretion whether or not to release them, and I choose not to.”

I shot him a long, curious gaze. He broke eye contact by picking up the phone, hastily punching a few buttons, and then said, “Ms. Penfield, please come to my office immediately.”

“Doctor Faraday, you should understand my intentions here. I’m not trying to—”

“I understand your intentions just fine. You have a job to do. So do I.”

Penfield walked in, spared me a quick glance, then gave the doctor her attention. He said, “Please put these records back where they belong.”

She nodded, moved toward his desk.

I tried again. “Doctor, I don’t want to put Mrs. Kingsley or this hospital in a bad light. I just want to tell her story so people can understand the hell she went through. Not seeing those records would be missing the biggest part.”

Penfield suddenly looked at me with an expression that was hard to read. I couldn’t tell whether it was animosity or…well, I just couldn’t tell.

The doctor said, “The answer is still no, Mr. Bannister. The records are confidential. End of discussion.”

Penfield grabbed the last of the papers, closed the folder. “Will there be anything else, doctor?”

Faraday shook his head, and she threw me another quick glance before going on her way.

He said, “Now, where were we?”

I nodded toward the door. “We were discussing those records you just had whisked out of here.”

“Look,” he said, exhaling his frustration and shaking his head. “I’m sorry if it came out wrong. It’s not that I’m afraid you’ll put us in a bad light or anything like that.”

“Then what is it? Because quite honestly, I’m a little confused about what just happened here.”

His stare lingered a moment. “Let me put it to you this way. Some things are better left alone. Trust me, this is one of them.”

“I’m not following you.”

“What I’m saying is that the picture you’d see of Mrs. Kingsley would not be a flattering one. And it wouldn’t serve any purpose other than to make her look badly.”

“Doctor, with all due respect, good or bad, it’s reality, and it’s my job to write about it, not hide it.”

With eyes locked on mine, lips pursed, he shook his head.

I tried another option. “Then if you won’t let me see the records, can you at least tell me more about what happened while she was here?”

He paused for a long moment, seemed to be evaluating my words, and then with reluctance in his voice said, “With each visit, she became more disturbed, more agitated…and more lost in her own mind. We couldn’t help her. No one could. Things were becoming extremely tense. And unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant, how?

“We were concerned about the safety of others.”

“Why?”

He hesitated again. “There were threats.”

“What kind?”

“Death threats. To the staff and other patients—actually, to anyone who came within shouting distance of Mrs. Kingsley. Quite honestly, she frightened people. We’d made the decision to move her to the maximum-security unit, and her husband was in the process of committing her. Permanently.”

“Do you know what brought this on?”

He pressed his hands together, looked down at them for a moment, then back up at me. “When I said Mrs. Kingsley was a different person, I meant it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She was experiencing what we call a major depression with psychotic features.”

“Which means…”

“She was severely delusional, seeing and hearing things that didn’t exist, and…” He let out a labored sigh. “…and she began assuming an identity other than her own.”

“What identity?”

“She called herself Bill Williams.”

“She thought she was a man?”

He nodded.

Glancing down at my notes, I raked my fingers through my hair, then looked back up at him. “Was she in this state all the time?”

“No. She’d slip in and out.”

“When did it start?”

“Toward the end of her last stay.”

“So, close to the time she died,” I confirmed.

“Yes.”

“And who was this Bill Williams?”

“Nobody, I’m sure. But in her mind, she was him. Her vocal tone became deeper, her mannerisms, even her facial expressions…all convincingly masculine. It was a startling transformation.”

“Did she give any details about him? Who he was?”

“Just that he was a murderer.”

“She took on the role of a killer…”

“Yes, and according to her, one of the most dangerous killers of our time, maybe ever.”

“What did he do?”

“Question should be, what didn’t he do? She reported that he began murdering when he was nine years old. Lured his best friend into a shed behind his house, then beat him to death with a claw hammer, to the point where the child’s face was unrecognizable.”

I cringed at the thought, said nothing.

“She talked about it frequently—as Bill Williams, that is. She…I mean, he…took great delight in the feeling in his hands when the hammer made powerful impact with flesh and bone…the release, the euphoric pleasure. And it doesn’t end there. He just kept going. Several years later after his mother remarried, he climbed into their bed while she and the stepfather were asleep and began spooning the husband. Then he shoved the man’s face into his pillow…and a kitchen knife up his rectum. The mother woke in the middle of the night drenched in blood. Bill had wrapped the man’s arms around her, then went off to his room and peacefully back to sleep.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “All this created from her mind?”

“I’m afraid so. A very disturbed one, I remind you, one that had lost contact with any form of reality.”

“Did this Bill—or Mrs. Kingsley— talk about anything else?”

“Plenty. In her final days, she spent a good part of her time bragging about the other murders he’d committed.”

“What did she say?”

“Horrible things. Gruesome things. Some of the most disturbing I’ve ever heard—and trust me, I’ve experienced a lot here.”

“Details?”

“I’ve actually tried to forget them… but with a few, I’ve had a hard time doing that.”

“You can’t tell me?”

“I’d rather not.”

I drew in some air, blew it out quickly. “Can you at least tell me why she’d dream up someone so horrible, let alone want to assume his identity? Who was this guy?”

Doctor Faraday gazed out the window and shook his head very slowly. A tree branch shifted in the wind and threw an odd shadow across his face.

I waited for his response.

A while ago on Twitter, I met really cool ‘bookie’, Jaidis Shaw, Book Tour Coordinator for Nurture Your Books™. As passionate about writing as she is about reading, Jaidis is one of the authors in the anthology, Twisted Fairy Tales, Volume II (not your average fairy tale, she warns. These are for grown ups). I had the pleasure of interviewing her to find out more about what she does for other authors, and to learn about her own work and how she fits it all in.

Here’s what she has to say:

Jen: Tell us about your genre, your books, and your current projects.

Jaidis: The first story I had accepted for publication, The Tower, is a twisted fairytale with darker elements. The anthology in which it appears is entitled Twisted Fairy Tales Volume II from Wicked East Press. 

I am always challenging myself by writing in various genres. I have another short story, Blind Justice, which is being published in the upcoming Wicked Bag of Suspense Tales anthology from Wicked East Press.

I am currently working on the first two books in a fantasy series. Each book in the series will be standalone but all take place in the small town of Juniper Grove. More details I hope to share with you soon.

Jen: Do ideas wake you up in the middle of the night and do you act on it, or roll over, go back to sleep and subsequently forget that brilliant idea?

Jaidis: Ideas constantly wake me up in the middle of the night, usually when I am so exhausted that I am bordering insanity and want nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep. Somehow I manage to pull myself out of bed, stumble through the darkness to my office, and write down incoherent notes before going back to bed hoping that I’ll be able to make sense of the scribbles in the morning.

Jen: Are you a long-hand or a keyboard writer?

Jaidis: I started out as a long-hand writer but have evolved into using the computer. I found that no matter where I put my stories, somehow my daughter would find them and decorate them with her scribbles so I started using the computer to write my stories out of necessity.

Jen: How do you handle writers block or does it not exist for you?

Jaidis: I often have writers block but not in the sense that I’m stuck in a corner with my writing. I often doubt myself and that is the hardest for me to overcome; to take the leap and move on with my story while pushing my worries to the side.

Jen: What kind of books do you like to read?

Jaidis: I love reading books of all genres: heart-warming romances, suspenseful mysteries, horror that makes me sleep with one eye open, magical and enticing realms, the bizarre and unknown.

Jen: Have you embraced the eBook concept or do you still prefer paperbacks?

Jaidis: In my opinion, embracing the eBook concept is essential in this day in age. Not only are eBooks cheaper (most of the time) but they tend to be more convenient while on the go. I do enjoy having traditional print copies though as I am always trying to expand my signed book collection.

Jen: You are the Book Tour Coordinator for Nuture Your BOOKS™. How do you manage the balance of a full time job and your own writing schedule?

Jaidis: I love working with authors and helping to promote their work and consider myself lucky for being able to find a job that I love that allows me to stay at home with my daughter as well. Finding a balance is hard sometimes and has forced me to work on my multitasking skills. It all seems to work out well.

Jen: Are you a panster – do you write on the fly – or an outliner?

Jaidis: I am an outliner all the way. Each project I work on gets a special binder that holds all of my notes. I outline the basic storyline and how I want the story to go, character sketches, any scenes that I want to include, quirky remarks and comments, and any research that I do for the story. Once everything is laid out, then I take to my computer to make it all fit together.

Jen: What is your preferred time to write?

Jaidis: My preferred time to write, and really the only time available, is late at night and into the wee hours of the morning. I get much more writing done when the house is quiet, all the chores are finished and I can just sit down and let the story carry me away. This does leave little time for sleep however.

Jen: What has been the biggest challenge for you in your career as a writer?

Jaidis: I would have to say that the biggest challenge in my career as a writer so far is having the confidence to share my writing with others. I have always had self-doubt when it comes to my writing and I would never let anyone read it. Then I got to a point where I realized that if I really wanted to become published, I would have to stop standing in my own way and share my stories. I still suffer some self-doubt but I think I’m moving in the right direction.

Definitely. Thank you, Jaidis. Pleasure having you on my blog and finding out more about your won work and what you do for the rest of us authors.

If you’d like to find out more about Jaidis, check out her own blog at Juniper Grove, or her Facebook page and Twitter.

I kept hearing a voice (yes, this happens a lot) nudging me to try my luck. “Go on, take a chance. You’ll never get anywhere by betting small.” I ignored it for a while, until it started to yell, “I’M BORED. BET BIG. TAKE THE RISK.”

Next hand, I plunked down $500, got a 7 and a 4 (fab hand), doubled down with another $500 and scored a 21. I did this a few times and pretty soon I was up $3,000. Other players stared with envy at my growing stack of chips, and continued to bet small. They got nowhere, while I continued to bet big and kept winning. The bigger the gamble the greater the risk. The bigger the risk the greater the payoff. So, I went for broke, put it all on the next bet and lost it all.

Had this been at a real casino table instead of a mock table at a Christmas party, I would have quit with my $3k win. I’m not flush enough to blow a paycheck in one hour on a game. I had a great time when I was winning and what I took away was this: the more you put in, the more you get out…of almost any situation in life. Take a risk. Gamble. Try your luck. You never know when or what you might win. Believe in yourself. Nothing is impossible. Don’t ignore the voices telling you to push yourself harder.

And, if you’re at a real casino table, know when to stop

NO ALIBI:

Isabelle Kingsley didn’t think her husband would ever cheat. Her husband didn’t think she would ever find out.  Now he is missing, and his girlfriend is dead.  Suspected of killing her, Isabelle turns to her best friend, only to discover another betrayal.  Is there no one she can trust?

Homicide cop, John Doucette, is on the case.  Something about Isabelle unnerves him.  Could she be innocent?  If she is, how did the murder weapon come to be in her possession? Someone from her past connects them; someone that Doucette does not want to face.

Doucette must set aside his personal feelings and fears to work through the tangled web of deceit before the case goes cold and a killer goes free.

MADNESS AND MURDER:

Frustrated by the rising body count and lack of evidence, veteran homicide detective, Mac Jackson, questions his own ethics when he risks the life of an innocent young woman to trap a cunning and sadistic serial killer.  Known for his uncanny precision with a hunch, he is all too aware that, this time, the stakes are much higher if his gamble fails to pay off.

Merry Christmas everyone

Hit Or Missus by Gayle Carline. Genre: Mystery/Cozy

Product description: Private Investigator Peri Minneopa is hired to investigate a wealthy, possibly cheating wife, but the wife’s girlfriends have other ideas. After all, a friend will help you move – a good friend will help you move a body.

This is the second book in the Peri Minneopa mystery series. Peri is not your typical wise-cracking PI, which adds a refreshing touch to the story. The author brings all her characters to life and creates wonderful relationships between them. Villains mingle dangerously close to her heroine, increasing the tension. This novel had a clever plot and subplots.

Caraliza by Joel Kirkpatrick Genre: Paranormal Mystery 

The living breathe life into the dead. The dead have a message, a story they need told to the living. A menacing ghost terrorizes a family. In this book, the love is so tangible you’ll sigh with envy. The author’s words and style are beautiful and transport the reader right into each era. This is the kind of book that stays with you long after you finish reading it.

No Justice by Darcia Helle, Genre: Thriller 

Michael Sykora is a software designer. He’s also a killer for hire, a part-time hit man who steps in where the justice system fails and takes scum off the streets. This is a fast thriller and has an unusual twist. This vigilante killer has a conscience. Does his career make him bad or is he doing society a favor? You decide. How far would you go to do the right thing?

I recently bought a pricier hardback ($25), which I hated. The blurb was great and I loved the bit the author read at a signing, but the book stunk. A waste of $25, but it seems unethical to me to return something I bought, tried, and didn’t like, so I’ll donate it instead. Kindle sampling allows us to read chapters for free, usually enough to know if we’ll like the book. With prices as low as free, 99c, or $1.99, aren’t returns somewhat unethical?