Showing posts with label small town. Show all posts
Showing posts with label small town. Show all posts

Monday, October 19, 2015

"Stillwater" by Melissa Lenhardt

GUEST POST and GIVEAWAY
Stillwater
(Jack McBride Mysteries Book 1)
by Melissa Lenhardt


Stillwater, the first book in Melissa Lenhardt new Jack McBride Mysteries series, is currently on tour with Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours. The tour stops here today for a guest post by the author, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.


Description
Big secrets run deep.
Former FBI agent Jack McBride took the job as Chief of Police for Stillwater, Texas, to start a new life with his teenage son, Ethan, away from the suspicions that surrounded his wife’s disappearance a year earlier.
With a low crime rate and a five-man police force, he expected it to be a nice, easy gig; hot checks, traffic violations, some drugs, occasional domestic disturbances, and petty theft. Instead, within a week he is investigating a staged murder-suicide, uncovering a decades’ old skeleton buried in the woods, and managing the first crime wave in thirty years.
For help navigating his unfamiliar, small-town surroundings, Jack turns to Ellie Martin, one of the most respected women in town - her scandal-filled past notwithstanding. Despite Jack's murky marriage status and the disapproval of Ethan and the town, they are immediately drawn to each other.
As Jack and Ellie struggle with their budding relationship, they unearth shattering secrets long buried and discover the two cases Jack is working, though fifty years apart, share a surprising connection that will rattle the town to its core.

Excerpt
Chapter One
Thursday
A line of flashing blue and red lights led the way to a pale green single-wide trailer on the north edge of Stillwater, Texas. Firemen, sheriff deputies and EMTs huddled in front of the house, talking, looking around, and laughing. All eyes turned to Jack McBride's car as it pulled into the dirt packed front yard, which doubled as the driveway.
Jack set the alarm on his phone and said, "Stay in the car," to his 13-year old son, Ethan. He opened the door, got out and leaned back in. "I mean it."
"I know, Dad."
Neighbors grouped behind yellow crime scene tape. Some wore pajamas, others wore work clothes, women held babies, children craned their necks to see better, eager for information to share at school. A young officer guarded them.
It was Officer Nathan Starling's file that fell from Jack's lap when he was startled awake by the early morning call. If Jack hadn't read Starling was the youngest and newest member of the force he would have guessed it from his role as crowd control. Starling shifted on his feet and looked over his shoulder at the crowd, as if debating whether he should leave his post to introduce himself or stay put. Jack waved an acknowledgement to him and moved toward the trailer.
Jack nodded at the group of first responders as he walked by and received a couple of muttered hellos in return. Some looked at Ethan and back at Jack. Jack climbed the uneven concrete steps, stopped at the door and put on paper booties and gloves. Behind him, he heard a low conversation start back up, the words "alone," "wife," and "no one knows" carrying across the yard as if announced through a bullhorn. He walked into the trailer. The screen door slapped shut behind him, cutting off the rest of the conversation.
The smell of chili, paprika and cumin hung in the air of the trailer. Flimsy wooden cabinets topped by a chipped orange Formica counter were wedged against the back wall of the main room by a strip of ugly, peeling linoleum. Brown shag carpet, flattened by years of traffic, marked off the living area of the room. Left of the door, under a loud window unit dripping condensation, sat a couch of indeterminate color too large for the room. A black haired man with blood-shot eyes and a green tinge underneath his dark skin sat on the couch, chewing his nails. He looked up at Jack and stopped chewing, the signal for his leg to start bouncing. A bull-necked police officer, his thumbs crooked underneath his gun belt, stood guard over the man.
"Officer Freeman," Jack said.
If Michael Freeman was surprised Jack knew who he was, he didn't show it. His face remained expressionless.
"Chief McBride."
A third officer stood at the mouth of the hallway to the right with a portly elderly man. Relief washed over the officer's face. He moved forward, hand outstretched. "Chief McBride," he said. "Miner Jesson. This here is Doc Poole."
Jack shook their hands. "Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Dr. Poole."
"Helluva case to get on your first day, eh?" the doctor said.
Jack nodded and gave a brief smile. He pulled gloves and more paper booties from his coat pocket and handed them to Jesson and the doctor. Jack walked down the hall and entered the room. Jesson stopped at the door.
"Gilberto and Rosa Ramos," Jesson said. "Found dead this morning by Juan Vasquez." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the man sitting on the couch. "Says he's Rosa's brother. He don't speak much English but from what I gathered, he came to pick Gilberto up for work and heard the baby screaming. When no one answered, he let himself in. Door was open. Found them just like that."
They were both nude. The woman lay facedown, covering half of man's body. The right side of the man's head was blown across the pillow. Blood and brain matter were sprayed across the bed, under the woman and onto the floor. A clump of long dark hair was stuck to the window with blood. Her right arm was extended across the man's chest, a gun held lightly in her grip.
Jack walked around the bed.
Doc Poole stood next to Officer Jesson. "It takes a special kind of anger to kill someone you are in the middle of fucking, doncha think?" Doc Poole said. "Ever see that in the F-B-I?" Derision dripped from every letter.
Jack ignored him. "Where's the baby?"
Jack hoped the revulsion on Jesson's face meant scenes like this were rare in Stillwater. If he wanted to deal with shit like this on a regular basis, he would have taken a better paying job in a larger town.
"Officer Jesson?" Jack said. "Where's the baby?"
"Oh. It's with a neighbor."
"Has anyone called CPS?"
"Why?"
"To take care of the baby."
"The neighbor offered."
"And, what do we know about this neighbor?"
He shrugged. "She didn't speak much English."
"So, she could be in the next county by now?"
"Oh, I doubt that," Jesson said. "She seemed like a nice sort. Very motherly."
Jack cocked his head and puzzled over whether his most senior officer was ignorant, naive or an amazing judge of character.
He turned his attention to Doc Poole. "What's the time of death?"
"Sometime last night."
"Can you be more specific?"
"Didn't see the need. Seems pretty obvious what happened."
"Oh, are you a detective?"
"No. I'm a general practitioner."
"You're the JP, aren't you?"
"No. I used to be." He chuckled. "Too old for this now."
"Yet, here you are."
"JP is on the way, Chief," Jesson said.
Jack kept his focus on Doctor Poole. "So you heard this over the radio and decided to come? Or did someone call you?"
"Well, I —"
"Do you have the instruments necessary to establish a time of death?"
"Not with me, but —"
"Then get off my crime scene."
The little man straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I can see why Jane Maxwell liked you." He started to leave but turned back. "We do things different here in Stillwater."
"Not anymore we don't," Jack said.

Praise for the Book
"Dangerous things lurk beneath the placid surface in Stillwater, Texas. Secrets shunning the light of day, decades-old betrayals, lies that have taken on a life of their own. Moody and atmospheric, utterly compelling, you don’t want to miss Melissa Lenhardt’s marvelous debut novel, Stillwater." ~ Harry Hunsicker, former Executive Vice President of the Mystery Writers of America, author of The Grid
"Crisp and pacy writing pulls you in deep from page one, when Jack McBride strides into a crime scene and a world of trouble. Stillwater is the perfect combination of a tightly plotted tale peopled by rich, complex characters (plus one or two deliciously hateful true baddies). Slashed budgets, racial tensions, messy pasts – this small town is anything but cozy. The mystery itself is a classic puzzle, though: clever and convincing. Roll on Jack #2!" ~ Catriona McPherson, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity–winning author of the Edgar-nominated The Day She Died
"Secrets, lies, and betrayals run through Stillwater like irrigation through dry land. Melissa Lenhardt’s writing drips with detail to create a story that rushes like a wave toward an ever-twisting ending. Don’t let the name fool you; Stillwater’s threats lie right below the surface." ~ Diane Vallere, bestselling author of the Material Witness, Madison Night, and Style & Error Mysteries
" Stillwater runs deep with intrigue, passion, and long-buried secrets. Melissa Lenhardt weaves a rich tale of suspense as hot as the east Texas town in which it’s set." ~ Annette Dashofy, USA Today best-selling author of the Zoe Chambers mysteries
"With a twisting plot, nonstop action and a sexy, complex protagonist you’ll root for from page one, Lenhardt brings the town of Stillwater, Texas (pop. 2,436), and all its long-buried secrets, to life. Fast-paced and tightly-written, Stillwater is a must-read for anyone who loves great crime fiction. Book two can’t come soon enough!" ~ Wendy Tyson, author of Killer Image and Deadly Assets

Guest Post by the Author
Living in a Small Town
I grew up in a small town in East Texas, much like the eponymous town in my debut mystery, Stillwater. My memories of my childhood are good, but career, marriage and family meant living in the Dallas area for the last twenty-five years. But, I understand all too well the appeal of living in a small town.
Everyone Knows Everyone
This one can be filed under "Blessing and a Curse". Growing up, there was a certain feel of safety and security, due in no small part to the fact I knew everyone in town. Or at least it seemed I did. Someone honking at you as you walked down the street was a greeting, not a warning or a catcall. On the other hand, it’s tough to shake family history. I heard more than once, "Oh, well what do you expect, he’s a *insert family name here*?" as a complete explanation for someone’s behavior (usually bad) and it was always met with an understanding nod.
Come Together in Times of Need
There’s nothing to compare to the mobilization of the community when tragedy strikes, be it sickness, death, or natural disaster. You never feel like you’re on your own in a small town.
Feel Like You’re From Somewhere
Small-towners feel a heightened pride in their hometown most city/suburb dwellers just don’t feel. Maybe it’s because small towns are full of families that have lived there for generations. Maybe it’s the fact they feel like small towns get a bad rap in popular culture, a sentiment with which I agree. This deep connection to where you’re from doesn’t end when you move away.
Sense of Community
In small town Texas, school sports are a big deal and support for the team doesn’t end when your children graduate and move on. My parents went to high school football and basketball games long after my their children and grandchildren were gone, and they weren’t alone. Even now, though I haven’t lived in my hometown in twenty-seven years, when I announced I would have a book launch for Stillwater at the local arts center, my Facebook was flooded with old friends saying, "Just tell us when and we’ll be there."
The time is coming, sooner than I want to admit, when our nest will be empty and we will ask ourselves, "What next? Where next?" I’m lobbying hard for living in a small town because I know firsthand the sense of community and welcome we would be met with, whatever part of the country we choose.

About the Author
Melissa Lenhardt writes mystery, historical fiction, and women's fiction. Her short fiction has appeared in Heater Mystery Magazine, The Western Online, and Christmas Nookies, a holiday romance anthology. Her debut novel, Stillwater, was a finalist for the 2014 Whidbey Writers' MFA Alumni Emerging Writers Contest. She is a board member of the DFW Writers' Workshop and vice president of the Sisters in Crime North Dallas Chapter. Melissa lives in Texas, with her husband and two sons.

Giveaway
Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a $10 Amazon gift card or a copy of Stillwater by Melissa Lenhardt (US only).
Links



Friday, September 19, 2014

"All My Sins Remembered" by Adam Stanley

REVIEW
All My Sins Remembered
by Adam Stanley


All My Sins Remembered is the first novel by poet Adam Stanley.


Description
The years is 2009, and Andrew White has just had his last argument with his first love, Leigh Mallory, whom he has not seen in almost ten years. In the sultry heat of a July, Atlanta night, he sweats out his sins and his regrets in a cheap motel, somewhere just off I-75. He has been in love with her for twenty years, and there have been many casualties along the way, including his own body, mind and soul. His only salvation lies in his enduring love of art, and the realization that maybe there is more to life than Leigh Mallory.


Excerpt
It was true, I had been searching for peace, or at least what I thought was peace. Starting that night after Graduation, when I drove away from Aventine for the first time, alone, and headed south to Key Largo in a car that that seemed empty without Leigh, my life has been one endless search. I have never stopped. And whatever it was I was looking for, I was always moving too fast to notice whether or I had found it or not.
I made up excuses to keep moving. For as long as I can remember, I have been looking for an abstraction that I have always called happiness. In summer I long for the snow. In winter I cry for the sun to return; in the autumn I watch the same leaves die that I watched come to life in the spring, and each season they are equally beautiful. For as long as I can remember, I have been looking for happiness, which is really nothing more than an abstraction; a kind of dream to keep you going year after year; an antidote against the sadness of reality; a lie that keeps you alive. I wait and wait, but there are too many tomorrows, and not enough todays.
Every six months I packed my car and made another impulsive move to an adjacent state. Following a lover or a dream, it always seemed just a few more miles down some Southern interstate, where the only difference was the vegetation, and a slight rise in humidity with every inch I drove further south on the map. Too often I found myself alone on some endless road, all the bridges I had spent so much time building, burned and left behind. Like that morning I had when I woke up in Nashville, alone, and hung-over, not sure what I had done wrong but it must have been bad because when I got up and looked in the mirror, both of my eyes were black and my face was caked in blood. Just like all the other times, I got in my car and drove south as fast as I could. This time it was a cousin in Mobile. Later, while I sped down interstate 65, I remembered bits of the night before. I had gotten very drunk and hit on this guy’s wife and he pulled a gun.
That’s all I remembered as I drove on, the lights from Montgomery fading in the rear-view. South Alabama was nothing but darkness and with the windows down I could smell the invisible cotton fields and rolling pastures strong with the acrid scent of manure in the warm, early spring air. As I drove on, radio stations passed away; old Country dissipated into static, then fluctuated for an hour or so between a screaming Pentecostal preacher, and a wavering Bach string quartet, before the Classic Rock station in Mobile took over for good.
This was not the first time I had taken this escape root [sic]. No matter where I was going, the desolation of these flat, lonely highways was unavoidable. Every time I ran from something, I was always driving in Alabama, and just like every other time, I always ran out of road.
It was water that stopped me every time. The ocean was the inevitable end to all my journeys. Whether it be the wild, reptile infested outcroppings of bayou and wetland that lie hidden like an Eden just south of New Orleans, beyond the iron bridge, where the Big River pours out its soul into the Gulf; or Biloxi, sitting entranced by a black jack dealer whose hand’s fluttered gracefully as a bird, watching the water in quick glances through the windows as he shuffled the cards like a magician. Pensacola, the beaches white as frozen tundra, sandbars rising in the green waves like humpback whales.
There were even bolder attempts to lose myself in the illusion of distance. I spent a few months in Europe, living on trains and in hostels. But no matter how far I traveled, the past was always close enough to feel its warmth on my face, its chill in my bones, its beauty and sadness brighter and clearer than it had ever been. Once, while waiting for a ferry to cross the English Chanel, I stood on the edge of a giant white cliff looking into the ancient turbulence filled with rusting Spitfires and cannon-blasted Spanish Galleons; I thought of Leer, and how we take the plunge into maturity and finally senescence, like a proud, blind King who is no better than his fool as he wades into the deep waters of death.
On the flight back to Atlanta, from France, I woke up and the clouds below looked like sand dunes or snow, and buried under them was the Atlantic. Everyone else was sleeping. The sky was very blue. The blue got darker and darker until it looked like night, like a sketch of the stratosphere I had seen in a science book in third grade.
Closest to outer space I will ever get; nearest to heaven I’ll ever be.


Some of My Favorite Lines
There are so many great lines in this book, including those in the images featured in this blog post. You can also check out the author's Facebook page and Tumblr blog for more images and quotes.
"The past is a dangerous place. Lately, I have been going there way too often - but there is nowhere else to go."
" ... she was his reason for living, and had been since he was fifteen."
"Like sound, not all silence is the same."
"Dying can be a very slow process."
"Even if someone would have told me that all those smiles would turn into wrinkles, I would have smiled anyway. A smile is worth it. You are going to grow old anyway, why not do it while smiling."
"She had loved heroin more than her own child."
"It is sad how someone can mean so much to you, and be such an important part of your life, and then, because of time, or other uncontrollable circumstances, you never see them again."
"Not all flowers are snipped as cleanly and perfectly by the careful hands of a florist as the fairytale ends of long-stem roses. The rarest, and most hauntingly beautiful wildflowers are ripped from the earth in a frenzied moment of passion, pulled up by their roots, with no thought of consequences or the possible aftermath."

My Review


By Lynda Dickson
The title, a quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet, is extremely apt and sets the mood for this poignant story. Andrew is a man haunted by many things, but mainly by his obsession for Leigh Mallory, his first love. Abandoned by his drug-addict mother at the age of four, his life has been marked by one disappointment after another. Now approaching forty, he sits drinking in a seedy motel and recalls his loves, his losses, his regrets, and the sins of his youth. He also contemplates suicide.
I have been following the author on Tumblr for a few years and was excited when I found out his book had finally been published. Unfortunately, I was in for a big disappointment. There is no doubt that the author knows how to write. The language is rich and beautiful and compels one to keep reading, even though the plot is barely existent and the book consists mainly of the stream-of-consciousness musings of a middle-aged drunkard. But that's not my complaint. Those of you who follow my reviews will know that nothing annoys me more than poor editing. Unfortunately, this is one of the worst-edited books I have come across. I would go so far as to suggest that no one other than the author read the manuscript before it was published; it doesn't even appear as if the author himself re-read it. It puts me in mind of Chuck Wendig's quote referenced in one of my recent blog posts: "Just yarf it up". The author did just that, but then he didn't clean up after himself.
Formatting and proofreading problems include: no paragraph indentations, overuse of commas, lack of apostrophes, incorrect punctuation in speech, incorrect word usage, spelling mistakes, lack of capitalization, inconsistencies with names (Corey/Cory, Rachael/Rachel), repetition. Other problems: the narrative jumps around with not enough indication of time and place, making it extremely difficult to follow; there are too many characters, making it hard to keep track of who is actually important to the story; I couldn't follow the action in the New Orleans incident, a pivotal event in Andrew's life; there isn't enough character development to explain Andrew's obsession with Leigh Mallory. It's a great shame there are so many problems with this book because the writing is beautiful, the narrative is compelling, and the story is heart-felt. My note to the author: get your book edited and republished.
Warnings: coarse language, drug use, alcohol abuse.


About the Author
Adam Stanley has been publishing poems and short stories for the last twenty years. Some of his credits include, "The Old Red Kimono", "The Prairie Schooner", and "Chum". He is an amateur musician and music lover, and his works are often imbued with a musicality that he still retains from his days as a rock musician and a student of Classical piano. He lives in rural Georgia. All My Sins Remembered is his first novel.


Links