Chapter 1

Santa Barbara, California. March 1948

“Fancy a snog?”

Thomas didn’t wait for a reply as he kissed his wife once and then again before holding up their infant, Birdy, to place a soft peck on Beatrix’s cheek. The little one waved with both chubby arms, and her almond-shaped eyes always made Beatrix blink in astonishment, feeling wonder and joy, fear and gratitude, all balled together. It was nothing she’d ever experienced.

“Can’t you just say ‘kiss’ rather than snog, darling? It sounds scandalous,” Beatrix protested.

“My point exactly.” He kissed Beatrix again, then turned to the nearly year-old baby. “Amazing wave there, Birdy, and now, come on. You can do it. You can say ‘Daddy.’” Thomas had been coaching her to wave and say Daddy, consumed with it for weeks.

“You know, Thomas, that Birdy might not actually speak until after her first birthday. And ‘Ma’ is the easiest sound for her. The wave, however, is quite genius,” Beatrix said.

“Isn’t she just? Don’t wait up for us.” He laughed again.

They’d just finished breakfast, so this made Beatrix chuckle, her brown hair with the auburn highlights stuck back in a loose ponytail. She was dressed for the garden in green denim overalls and a blue, lightweight pullover. She was eager to get digging in the dirt. In another month, the flower beds would be exploding with a riot of reds, yellows, and orange nasturtiums, happy-faced Marguerite daisies, and yellow coreopsis with white cosmos accenting the design. Sweet alyssum in puffy clouds would round out the color scheme. She planned to jam the beds and pots with everything the local nursery offered.

As anxious as she was to plant the starters she’d bought at the nursery center the previous day, Beatrix never rushed their goodbyes. Not in the most secret places of her heart or her wildest dreams, in the darkest times of her life as an unwanted orphan, lost in a series of boarding schools as a teenager, and floundering to make a living during the horrors of the war, did she ever think her life would be filled with the love of a devoted husband and the cutest baby on the planet.

Standing on the sidewalk in front of their ever-so-slowly-being-renovated Victorian mansion in the sleepy, little California beach town of Santa Barbara, Beatrix moved closer to Thomas, slipped her arm around his trim middle, and moved in for a hug. In the cheerless days of World War II, all the gratitude she felt in that moment had been impossible even to dream about. She trailed her fingers down her cheek, where soft baby lips had just been, and sighed.

“Think we’ll saunter over to Woolworths Five and Dime for an escapade, and certainly we’ll be back before elevenses, which I prefer to call it over your Americanized ‘snack time.’ That chocolate chip scone in the pantry is to share with our tea, my dearest Bea. Not my best baking, but it had better be there when I return.” He produced a frown, knowing she had a penchant for chocolate—the reason he’d baked them.

“Wave goodbye to Mummy, Birdy pet. We’re off for a jaunt,” he said, and Birdy did exactly as her daddy asked. Then the twosome was off for their quick spin in the neighborhood or even farther to Sterns Wharf or north to the mission. Down the sidewalk they went, and Beatrix waved to their backs. She loved his smile and knew how broad it would be, even as she watched them moving toward the shops.

Thomas had procured, somehow, an honest-to-goodness British pram in the traditional navy blue fabric. She often thought he got more British by the day, although they’d lived in this community since the end of the war. He insisted that sweaters were jumpers and knackered meant that he or the baby was tired.

Just like Thomas, Birdy seemed to mostly have an “on” switch where she was happily and thoroughly engaged with toys, cooing, and making sounds that would eventually become words, and the rare “off” one, where she, as Thomas did, slept like a bag of rocks. While they had fostered and then adopted Birdy as an infant, it was remarkable to friends, family, and strangers how much the baby looked like Thomas and Beatrix. She had striking, intelligent eyes that constantly watched where her parents were, wild hair just like Thomas’s, and smooth, creamy skin like Beatrix’s. Most likely, they’d discussed, they’d never find her birth parents—who had left her, hours after her birth, at Cottage Hospital—or know her heritage.

Thomas had researched the possibility of using blood samples or even the cutting-edge science of gene testing to determine her ethnicity, but without any way to find Birdy’s biological parents, it hardly mattered. They had just the previous evening talked about adopting more children and knew as soon as was appropriate that they’d explain to all the Patterson-Ling kids that they had been chosen, just like Mummy and Daddy had chosen each other.

They’d decided to name the little girl after all of their mothers and call her Jay. She would be Jennie, for Beatrix’s adoptive mother; Adelina, for her biological mother; and Ya, for Thomas’s mother, which in Chinese meant refined, elegant, and graceful. About a month after the baby came into their lives, there was a flock of squawking and comical California scrub jays frolicking the bird bath in the garden, and the little girl’s nickname morphed into Birdy.

Thomas moved with grace and a quiet confidence, which Beatrix knew came from his years of martial arts training. Thomas was lithe and just an inch taller than his wife at five foot eight. He never thought there was anything unmanly about strolling around the city with the little girl and was totally in love with the child, as he’d told Beatrix that morning and every morning since the little one had joined their lives.

Thomas felt burdened with guilt as he headed into downtown Santa Barbara. He knew it was not cricket to conceal the letter he’d placed in his jacket’s pocket when he picked up the morning mail. Yet, as with everything in his well-organized life, he dreamed it would be better to wait until evening to discuss what had been written. Was this an opportunity or madness? He liked to think he made wise decisions, calculated and smart. Yet the contents of the letter could change everything about their future and their family life in the tranquil beach city.

Was it a lie not to tell Beatrix at once? He thought not, except one could say it was a lie of omission. He mentally calculated what the effect caused by the letter would be on his family and sighed deeply. Beatrix had just established her practice as a psychologist focusing on returning veterans who suffered from mental damage as well as physical issues during and after the war. The effects of trauma on soldiers during the Great War was a field she’d studied at length, and now she was compiling data on the current mass of returning veterans, wounded inside and out from the Second World War.

Then there was the house. It still needed a multitude of improvements. Thomas thought, What houses built in the late 1800s didn’t? However, it was livable, warm in the winter, and cool in summertime, thanks to the oversized windows letting in the playful ocean breezes.

Then there were the friends, closer than family, they’d made in the city. Sam and Jo Conrad lived just blocks away. The couples and their kids dined together once and sometimes twice a week. They were already planning summer picnics on Arroyo Burro Beach, also known as Hendry’s Beach by locals, with its wide sandy shore and cliffs perfect for boys like the Conrads’ eldest, Sammy, to scurry up. Thomas imagined Birdy following the Conrad twins and Sammy, running through the waves, unaware of how idyllic their childhoods would be away from the recent nightmares of war, with loving parents and a safe community in which to grow, learn, and follow their dreams.

After the war, when he could safely cross the Atlantic and travel from England to Santa Barbara to see his lover, he vowed never to forget how fortunate he was. This letter? The knowledge of it felt like a fire in his pocket, as its contents would change every aspect of their lives.

Can I do that? Am I dedicated enough? Why am I even considering it? It’s utter madness, he thought.

Earlier that morning, he shook his head in dismay at the sheer contentment on his wife’s face as she stroked Birdy’s pitch-black hair. They’d been through so much together, individually and now as a family, after adopting Birdy. They were on a journey that made them both feel at peace. Once Beatrix read the letter and acknowledged its content, the future would flip, a dangerous somersault to their tranquil life. There would be no going back.

Whatever the result, we’ll never be the same. That frightened Thomas, and he thought, For now, I best wait. A few more hours of bliss before . . . He couldn’t even think the words—didn’t want to face what would be the outcome when he did.

Beatrix continued to watch the pair and imagined Thomas chatting with the baby in Cantonese as they ambled down serene Anapamu Street in the heart of the city and onward to State Street, the main shopping street. Truth be told, she’d had doubts about becoming a mother to the fostered little one and then again when they applied to adopt the infant. At thirty, she didn’t know if she’d have the patience of younger moms, but the moment Birdy arrived in their arms, Beatrix never looked back. Thomas, on the other hand, never doubted the decision. He jumped in, taking over the hourly feedings when Birdy was tiny, changing the nappies, walking the floor, sterilizing glass baby bottles, and suddenly becoming an expert on burping the baby. Because of Beatrix’s incredible memory, she’d cataloged and compiled every event in their lives since the child had come to them. Often, when she was alone or taking a quiet walk on the beach, she’d think of how they’d come together and what their future could possibly hold.

At least once a day, Thomas would remark, “I was born to be a father.” Thomas told this to anyone and everyone who would listen. He’d even taken a year’s leave of absence from the University of California researching clean energy and teaching so he could be there for Beatrix and Birdy. “I do not want to forgo a second of our daughter’s first year.” The year was closing in, which made him blink back tears more often than not when he talked about returning to the university.

Beatrix thought of how, since the day Birdy was placed in his arms, Thomas sang the same Chinese lullabies his grandmother crooned to him. After all this time, Beatrix could finally join him, still fuzzy on the translated words. Thomas assured her one song was Birdy’s favorite and performed it regularly at bedtime. “It’s all about how the moon protects little ones,” he’d told her. Then he winked and looked like a mischievous boy—a look she loved.

Beatrix remembered pointing out that the song sounded like a rude sea shanty that his grandmother also sang. She had learned that possibility from one of Thomas’ sisters when the entire Ling clan had visited for December and January to get away from the chill of London. More so, to admire and love Birdy Patterson-Ling. And they did.

Beatrix knew that Thomas regularly held deep scientific conversations, talking to the infant as if she were a colleague. Other times, Beatrix had seen him get teary-eyed watching their exquisite little girl just sleeping. He’d whisper to Beatrix, “She’s dreaming. Look at her fingers move. Look at that heart-shaped mouth. Bea, whatever do babies dream about?”

Truth be told, Beatrix did the same, humming French songs and reciting poems that her Parisian biological mother had taught her, also wondering what babies dreamed of.

Beatrix often found Thomas sitting near Birdy’s bassinet, holding her plump little foot or stroking it while the baby napped. He balanced a book of advanced physics or some scientific theory Beatrix barely grasped and stayed close to the tot, sheer bliss etched on his face.

Birdy’s arrival was unexpected and awe-inspiring. Thomas and Beatrix were the only couple on the county’s foster parent list who asked for a child of mixed race, so the county of Santa Barbara quickly granted them the opportunity to adopt Birdy. Hence, the plans to visit London and Thomas’s family were postponed, mandating immediately that the entire Ling clan came to Santa Barbara. Thomas and Beatrix put off visiting Paris to reunite with Beatrix’s biological father, General Charles de Gaulle. After discovering Beatrix was de Gaulle’s daughter, his family refused to speak with her, respond to her letters, or any attempts at reconciliation. Growing up, Beatrix had always thought that de Gaulle was an unofficial uncle, a kindly and generous man. Now, they were all, including her father, estranged from Beatrix.

Beatrix felt content, more than she’d ever experienced. That surprised and pleased her. She was just climbing the last of the front steps when the buzzing of the big, black Bakelite telephone in the front room of the Victorian home demanded her full attention. She swung open the screen door and dashed for the phone.

“Hello, Dr. Beatrix Patterson speaking,” she said.

Beatrix felt fear shoot through her, and her forehead wrinkled when she heard the caller sob. “What is it? Who is this?”

It certainly could not be the person she’d expected to call. She glanced at her watch. No, it was too early.

That cry was completely out of character for her first counseling client of the day, as the woman always called to confirm before an appointment. Gloria Rayne had been in the South Pacific as a surgeon throughout the war, bobbing around on a naval hospital ship, often being harassed and bombed by the enemy as she performed surgeries with limited resources. Beatrix met her by chance during a previous investigation of a local religious leader who died under suspicious circumstances and the murder of a federal agent connected with the local Indigenous people, the Chumash Indians. Gloria had enough courage to do her job with the utmost confidence and then the wherewithal to seek counseling when she returned to the home front.

To the city’s population, Santa Barbara’s esteemed coroner, Dr. Rayne, seemed like the poster model for a competent, modern woman. “I can hide my pain well,” she’d told Beatrix at their first counseling session, although the scars from Japanese bullets hitting her neck were visible still. Explaining the injury, she shook her head. “I was stupid, Beatrix. Went on deck. It had been a horrible night, filled with death, and unless I saw the sun that fateful morning, I knew I wouldn’t be fit for the next surgery. I was sun-deprived and naïve. I walked to the edge of the ship and turned to see—truly, I could see the pilot’s eyes on me—I saw the plane swoop down. He aimed at me, a woman.” Her palm covered the scream that was in her throat. “I was the only one injured that day as our boys shot that killer out of the sky. I found myself in surgery, but not as the doctor.”

While her external wartime wounds had left a mark, the psychological ones were deeper. Loud noises, barking dogs, and screaming children all sent her into a well-concealed panic. She’d come to Beatrix knowing that therapy could help with “combat fatigue.” Over the past five months, they had been working to desensitize her crippling fears. Fortunately, Gloria could now enter a shop or restaurant where there was chaos and deafening noises without breaking out in a drenching sweat.

The caller was not the coroner. The sob Beatrix heard sent a chill to the hair on the back of her neck.

“Beatrix, it’s Jo.” Jo’s voice quivered, and that never happened. “I’m sick with fear.”

***

Excerpt from The Conductor by Eva Shaw. Copyright 2025 by Eva Shaw. Reproduced with permission from Eva Shaw. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

I saw my first dead body when I was nine years old.

That sounds scary, but oddly enough, it didn’t feel that way at the time—something about the resilience of childhood, I expect.

We’d gone to Algeria for my father to take celestial measurements in the Sahara, and one day the local expat group asked him to accompany a doctor going to see a woman in a village outside of town—she was an American, they said, and would be reassured by the presence of other Americans.

We went along with him because my mother wanted to, and that was back in the good days, the days before she started having serious conversations with the bust of Shakespeare in the front hall of our mansion in Boston’s Back Bay.

My family members each embrace obsession in their own way. My younger brother Martin went so mad for God he had to become a priest—albeit an Episcopal one, so he can still enjoy some of the finer things in life. My father, following a patriarchal tradition of obsessive eccentricities, devotes his life to stargazing—and traveling to stargaze—while my older brother Phillip turned those same stars into scientific objects and spends his days teaching astrophysics. And my mother… well, the less said about my mother, some days, the better.

I expect we each have something terribly wrong with us.

So my parents and I went along the bumpy track in the Land Rover, with the doctor explaining that she’d been screaming, the American woman, something about great birds blotting out the sun. Ergot poisoning, he added. It happens.

By the time we arrived, the woman had died, and there was fear still etched in her face, fear of those dark wings she’d seen in the sky. Memorable. And so I saw my first body when I was nine.

I wonder, now, if that meant anything, pointed me in a direction I didn’t even know I was taking, that would be revealed only once I went to Nepal.

***

The visitor came soon after I was contemplating the dispiriting contents of my refrigerator.

I periodically go on diets, and the first step in any diet is clearing out anything remotely delicious from your kitchen. And then, of course, that first night finds you staring at a hard-boiled egg, a can of tomato juice, some healthy-looking grain, and an apple that’s seen better days.

I pulled up the online delivery menu from The Q, my favorite local Chinese restaurant. I could go back to the diet tomorrow.

So when the buzzer rang downstairs, I flung the door open with enthusiasm achieved only by a person who’s been dieting for a full eight hours. Instead of the delivery guy with a bag full of goodies, however, I was looking at a slightly older-than-middle-aged woman in an anorak with the hood up.

“Yes?”

She sniffed, wiping an errant snowflake from her cheek. “Are you Abigail Bradford?”

“Yes,” I said automatically. “Can I help you?”

The gray eyes looked me over, shrewd, intelligent, and extremely thorough. I wondered what she made of what she saw, because I can be a little startling at first: a tall youngish woman, chin-length hair currently an experimental vivid blue, brown eyes behind glasses. “You answered my post,” she said calmly.

I stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“My post,” she repeated, exasperation creeping into her voice. “I put a post up on the intranet. At Harvard.”

At that moment the dinner delivery arrived, the driver impatiently shouldering past her. “Here you go.”

I had the tip ready. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing the food and hoping this woman would take the hint and leave.

“Well,” she said, eyeing the bag, “you’ll want to get to your dinner.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

She stepped forward. “So let’s get inside. There’s supposed to be heavy snow after midnight.” She caught my eye. “Well, of course I won’t be staying past midnight,” she said. “But with the timing of things—well, I wanted to do the interview as soon as possible. Of course.”

Interview?

The wind was screaming down Acorn Street—the most-photographed street in Boston is also one of the narrowest, a perfect wind tunnel—and my dinner was getting cold. I gave up and let her in.

Five minutes later we were sitting rather cozily in my living room, her coat and hat hung up in the hall, fire blazing merrily along, boxes of fragrant Chinese food between us. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?” I asked for about the third time. I am nothing if not polite, even to people who are clearly off their rockers.

“No, no, you go ahead, dear,” she said, fluffing the pillow beside her, settling in. Seen in the light, she had no-nonsense, short salt-and-pepper hair, with lots of laugh wrinkles around her gray eyes.

Nothing distracted, however, from the sharpness in those eyes.

“Since your memory is clearly failing you,” she said, “I’ll remind you. I’m Emma Caulfield. I put up an ad for a research assistant to go with me to Nepal.”

I’d just opened the chopsticks packet. “Nepal?”

“Well, yes, of course, Nepal,” she said, frowning. “Really, dear, do you usually repeat what people say to you? Do you want the job, or not?”

I put everything down. There was a glimmer of an idea at the back of my mind. Harvard perforce means Phillip, and this was exactly something Phillip would think was funny. “I have a feeling my brother answered your post on my behalf,” I said carefully.

She was unfazed. “Then he must have known you’d want the job.”

“Going to Nepal.”

She nodded. “Going to Nepal.”

I thought about it. It wasn’t actually totally insane. My brothers and I are that most hated of species, trust-fund babies, and Phillip and I have spent a substantial part of our inheritances collecting academic letters after our names, probably to prove something to someone… well, I’ve never quite worked that part out. I was into the second year of holding my doctorate in history, and hadn’t yet found any work in academia. Boston and Cambridge might together be the hub of higher education, but even lectureships are harder and harder to come by, and guarded jealously.

And—here’s the thing—truth be told, I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I didn’t actually want a career in higher education. I liked the research part: I liked being a detective, figuring out what really happened, the story behind the story preserved for posterity. Learning about people who weren’t just stick-figures, real people who lived and loved and breathed and should be remembered. Bringing them back to life, somehow, if only on paper.

Teaching… yeah, maybe not so much. Faculty interactions, definitely not. And while it’s true I’d never need to work for a living, that didn’t mean I didn’t actually want to. To contribute to the world in some way. I just wasn’t yet seeing how.

All that meant, of course, was there wasn’t anything tying me to Boston at the moment.

“What,” I asked, “are you going to Nepal for?”

“Well, research, of course, dear.” She looked puzzled. “I thought that would be obvious.” I didn’t say anything, and she sighed gustily. “I’m Emma Caulfield,” she said again.

“Yes, I got that part.”

“I’m a writer.”

I continued to stare blankly at her, and she started looking annoyed. “I write historical romances,” she said. “I’m on the New York Times bestseller list.”

And there it was. I hadn’t heard of her for good reason: I subscribe to the academic historian’s dim view of historical fiction in general, and historical romances in particular. It’s an automatic judgment we make: slipshod research, damsels in distress, Regency dresses. I met her eyes. “Bodice-rippers,” I suggested, nodding.

To my surprise, she laughed. “Well, good for you, Abigail Bradford,” she said. “I was starting to think you didn’t have any gumption at all.”

There it was again, that sharp mind behind those eyes. “You fraud,” I said slowly. “You knew I’d react like that.”

Emma nodded. She looked thoroughly satisfied. “I am researching my next novel,” she said crisply. “I am going to Kathmandu, and then on to some trekking. I’m planning on getting up to Everest Base Camp, and I certainly don’t want to do that alone.” Her expression dared me to say anything. “I’m good at asking questions, and taking in the scenery, and all that. But I’m not always able to organize what I’m doing, and this time around I need some specialist help. I want you to help research what it was like for people on the mountain, people in the country, people in the world, in the early nineteen-twenties.”

She paused, and a trace of something vulnerable slipped into her voice. “I also need someone to—well, to go with me. I used to like traveling on my own, have done it for years, but not so much anymore. There’s too much to keep track of, and I need to be thinking and writing. So I need someone to go with me.”

“As a researcher,” I said.

She didn’t meet my eyes. “I’ve never done this before,” she confessed. “I’ve always done everything on my own. But this time feels different—and I’m not about to get a reputation for slipshod work, so I need some help. Some research, some organizing, some travel… and someone to tell me when I’m going off in the wrong direction. That’s why I need a historian—you.”

Not just any historian: me. I’d remember that, later. “You’re looking for facts?” I asked sweetly. “That must be a first for a romance novelist.”

“Historical romance novelist,” she corrected. Her eyes were steely. “So are you in, or what?”

I had a feeling I was going to regret this. “I’m in,” I said. “And now, can we eat?”

***

I Googled her, of course. The moment she was out the door.

Emma Caulfield, it transpired, was indeed a Big Name in the genre. She’d been writing novels for the past thirty-odd years. She’d been part of the big Regency romance movement, had switched things around for a while with an American Colonial period, even set a small series in prehistoric Britain.

And she was right: her novels were consistently on the bestseller list. She must be making a fortune.

“The romance bestseller list,” I reminded my friend Justine when I told her about the late-night visit. We were still deep in February, and we’d come off the ice-skating at Boston Common to the warmth of my fireplace, a pot of tea, and a bag of popcorn.

“You know,” Justine said, stretching out a leg toward the heat, “you could manage to be just a little more judgmental if you tried.”

“Do you think?” I smiled and refilled her tea. I was only half-serious.

“What I think,” she said carefully, “is that you might be surprised. Romance novels have come a long way since the oh, John, oh, Mary days.”

“And you would know this, how?”

She laughed. “Come on, Abbie. Sex and the City changed everything. There are feminist romances now. And your Emma Caulfield—she has a good reputation. I think she might surprise you, I really do. God, I think my toes are finally thawing.” She slanted a look at me. “So you’re going with her? To Kathmandu?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

“You know, you don’t have to, just because Phillip had one of his harebrained ideas.”

“Trouble is,” I said slowly, “he’s usually right, and it actually sounds like it could be fun. And… interesting. The work, the travel, the research—there’s a goal, you know? Something that might mean something.”

She nodded, her eyes on the flames. Justine knows about my past. Phillip and Martin and I are the thirteenth generation of an old, old Massachusetts family: check it out, the first governor of what would eventually become the Commonwealth was named Bradford, he was on the Mayflower that first miserable winter in Provincetown and Plymouth. Later, during the Gilded Age, the Bradfords became rich beyond understanding, though they had one saving grace—philanthropy. Hospitals, learning institutions, the arts … my ancestors helped build the knowledge-based economy that still characterizes Boston.

I have an ambivalent relationship with my family wealth—well, to be fair, with much of my family itself, too—and am always looking for ways to put it to good use; I’m not interested in a trust fund that does nothing but increase itself. I give away a lot of money, in a whole lot of ways, and that’s good, that’s important… but I’d like to be doing something important, too. I just hadn’t yet figured out what.

“So what’s the plan?” Justine asked. “What exactly is she researching?”

I shut my eyes; I can nearly always visualize conversations when I do. “She’s doing something about an Everest expedition back in the 1920s,” I said. “There was an Englishman called George Mallory who went up and didn’t come down, and there’s controversy about whether he reached the summit or not, which is an important question among mountaineers.” I paused. “And apparently he was incredible eye-candy, as was his wife, so maybe it’s a love story between them.” I found I was smiling. Okay, so maybe there was something more to romance novels than I’d assumed. “She wants me to go to Kathmandu ahead of her, and she’ll join me after she’s done some sort of conference in New York.”

“Well, it sounds exotic anyway,” said Justine. “Why not? It might be just what you need while you decide what you’re going to do with your life.”

That was, of course, the question. “I’m intrigued,” I admitted. “Phillip was right. It sounds exotic, it sounds interesting, and it’s the other side of the world.”

“Top of the world,” said Justine. “Everest’s the highest mountain on Earth.”

“I’m not actually climbing Everest,” I reminded her.

“No,” she conceded. “You’d need to be a little more of an Outdoors Girl for that. Still, it might lead to other things.”

“Like what?” I asked suspiciously.

Justine grinned. “Romance?” she suggested.

I threw the popcorn at her.

***

Excerpt from The Everest Enigma by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2025 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

From Chapter 1

It is a day of firsts. My first day on the job and my first dead body. Chief Baxter wants me to see it. His whole face is concentrated with the effort to make his point, as though he were explaining blood spatter analysis or the biomechanics of tasers. He is wearing gold cufflinks shaped like barbells. Short and barrel chested, he looks like a well-dressed fireplug. I can imagine him as a street cop, pugnacious and badge heavy.

“Don’t sit around your office and wait for cops to come to you. That’s why I’m giving you a car and a scanner. Get out in the field.”

He speaks in short staccato bursts as though he is transmitting over the radio, dropping any unessential words. A slight spray of saliva leaves shiny droplets on his desktop. He walks around the desk and stands close to me. I smell his pine-scented aftershave and mouthwash.

“This is why I have credibility. I make it my business to suit up and get out on the street once a month. I stay in shape. And I always carry.” He opens his jacket and shows me his shoulder holster. He is wearing “a custom fitted dress shirt that shows off the inverted triangle made by his broad shoulders and narrow waist. “Street cops are the lifeblood of this organization. The street is where I started. I’ve never forgotten that and I don’t want anyone else to.”

He leans against the edge of his desk, his arms folded over his chest. “I have a rookie on scene at a suicide. Ben Gomez. He’s been having trouble. Talk to his field training officer. See what you can do to help him. I’ve met the kid. Not my best hire, but I think he’s salvageable.” He lifts his index finger. “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Dot. I’ve had a lot of trouble in my organization since I took over as chief. Some days I feel like Typhoid Mary. I’ve got four officers on stress leave and three on admin leave under investigation. No telling when any of them will come back to work. I have a small organization—seventy-five officers. I can’t afford to lose this rookie, too. It’s bad for morale plus my overtime budget is off the charts.”

He extends his hand to me. “It’s one thing to study us and write books about us. It’s another thing to hit the streets with us. You come highly recommended by Mark Edison. That says a lot. Most men don’t have much good to say about their former wives.”

He laughs a little too loudly. I wonder if he has an ex and, if he does, what she was like.

“So, welcome aboard. I know this is a tall order, but Dr. Edison said you’re the one for the job. Don’t disappoint me or him. Now, get in your car and get out in the field.” He opens the door to his office and shows me out.

As the new department psychologist, I am in no position to protest or to tell him that I’m scared to death because I’ve never seen a dead body before. Not even my father’s. What if I embarrass myself, faint or, God forbid, get sick to my stomach? I wonder how he expects me to suit up. Maybe I should put wheels on my “couch and tow it behind my car?

The radio traffic on my scanner crackles briskly, drowning out my thumping heart. Listening to it is a guilty pleasure, like eavesdropping. This is the best of two possible worlds, close to the action but at a safe remove– the unobserved observer listening to the breathlessness of the chase, the escalating octaves that betray fear, the barked commands, the unnatural calm of the dispatcher, and the final “Code 4” signaling that the short reign of terror has given way to hours of report writing and investigation.

I drive under a cool green canopy of old oaks. Light filters through the leaves dappling the street. Fifty years ago this old northern California neighborhood was considered the ultimate in affordable, architect-designed family houses. Now the current selling prices are beyond my reach and the reach of any Kenilworth cop, firefighter or schoolteacher. Neighbors are congregating in small worried clusters on the sidewalk in front of a uniquely shabby one story home. They watch as I park my car. I take ten slow deep breaths and step to the sidewalk. Spindly trees flank the walk that leads to the front door. The grass on either side of the cracked concrete path is brown and freckled with splotches of hard, dry dirt. The front door is open. I grit my teeth and walk in.

***

Excerpt from Burying Ben by Ellen Kirschman. Copyright 2013 & 2024 by Ellen Kirschman. Reproduced with permission from Ellen Kirschman. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Secrets Are Hell

While Tim cocooned his body in the blue leather chair behind his desk, his fingers flew over the keyboard. The words flowed from his fingertips onto the computer screen. After he completed the final chapter of his novel, Secrets Are Hell, he leaned back in the seat that was positioned to optimize the view of the Caribbean. As he rubbed his newly acquired goatee, he watched the turquoise waves lap against the pearly sand.

When Tim and his former partner, Brad, sold their company, Multipoint Protection Services, Tim moved to Grand Cayman to pursue his dream of becoming an author. He grinned. His vision was about to come true.

After the identity thefts from his former company, Tim lasered in on the connection between the stolen information used to purchase prescription drugs and the subsequent laundering of the black market proceeds. The thriller was a product of his experiences, research, and imagination.

He recalled the conversation with his informant at the bar. Once the man he only knew as Jax consumed three shots of tequila, he’d spilled secrets about the money laundering business on the island. The man dripped sweat as he spoke, and he warned Tim to be careful with the revelations. Although Tim had fictionalized the facts gathered during his research, he prayed that he’d sufficiently disguised the characters involved in the illicit events.

Satisfied that the first draft was complete, he saved the document onto the flash drive and locked the device in the desk drawer. He stood and stretched his arms overhead before hiding the key underneath a leather-bound edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, one of many in his collection of books in the wall-to-wall bookcase behind him.

Tim raised his eyes toward the planked pine ceiling and contemplated his next steps. When he returned from Brad’s upcoming wedding, he would consult with developmental editors. In the meantime, he’d let the story marinate. His phone pinged, and he turned back to the desk to find a text from his girlfriend, Becky.

Why haven’t you called or messaged me?

His six-month-old puppy, Snooper, barked. He stepped away from his cellphone to let the dog inside. A salty breeze drifted through the opening. As he inhaled the scent, he wondered why he’d ever gotten involved with the former beauty pageant queen. He met her a few months ago when he’d volunteered at the rescue organization where he had adopted Snooper. While he massaged the black and white cocker spaniel mix’s ears, he reflected on that day they’d both tended to the homeless pets.

As Tim handed Becky a bag of cat food, a jolt of adrenaline pulsed through his body. Becky measured the servings and filled the bowls they’d deliver to the felines. While she poured, he admired her flowing raven hair that framed a heart-shaped face. Her almond shaped hazel-colored eyes shimmered with intrigue. After he heard Becky’s deep-throated laugh, he invited her to join him for a cup of coffee after their shift.

A month into the relationship, she began texting him incessantly. If he didn’t reply within an hour, she’d get agitated. He regretted inviting her as his plus one to Brad and Liz’s wedding in Charleston, South Carolina. A sigh escaped his lips. He longed for a soulmate like his friend had discovered in Liz.

Tim was delighted that the couple had chosen Grand Cayman as their honeymoon destination. He smiled in anticipation of the treasure hunt he’d planned as their wedding gift. Snooper wiggled away and bounded toward Tim’s cat, Irish. The feline hissed and halted the puppy in his tracks. Tim chuckled, picked up his phone, and fingered a response.

Been working on the book. Meet up for drinks at five at The Deck? We can talk about travel plans.

Without waiting for a reply, he placed the device down and strode toward the kitchen to feed his pets.

Who knew that today would be the last time he would touch the manuscript?

***

Excerpt from Cayman Conundrum by Stacy Wilder. Copyright 2024 by Stacy Wilder. Reproduced with permission from Stacy Wilder. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

They called him Cheezy Rider—and with good cause.

I stood at the wide front window of the Charmed Inn with a cup of coffee in hand. I watched my great uncle toddling around the corner onto Chestnut Street, pedaling steadily on his old Beach Comber. The picture he made was something to behold. His bright orange vest perfectly matched the small caution flag waving from a tall pole attached to the back of the bike. His silver bullet helmet matched his thinning silver hair peeking out from underneath. But nothing matched his teal and red-flowered Hawaiian shirt.

His legs, covered in khakis, pumped away as he came up the block waving to anyone who happened to be on the short street in our small town on the shore of the Susquehanna River. The bicycle had a big wire basket on the front that he filled with a box of donuts from Delilah’s Donuts every day, a place that had been in the same family for seventy-five years, like so many other businesses here. Those donuts were heading right for my work and then right to my hips. But I had never said no to pastry, and I wasn’t going to start today. In fact, I needed the pick-me-up. Things were busy at the inn, with everyone checking in for the writers’ extended working weekend, and sugar was always welcome. The staff wouldn’t say no, either.

“I’m going to take a break,” I said to my Aunt Hellen as I passed her in the hallway leading to the dining room. She was technically my great aunt, and she could keep things moving for a few minutes while I stepped out into the beautiful April afternoon sunshine. What I really wanted to say was that I was trying not to break, but that wouldn’t be good for business. It had been one heck of a morning already, and I needed a moment to collect myself in the downtime before the festivities really began. Donuts were a great distraction, even if my erstwhile uncle did bring them every day.

“All righty, Ms. Mighty!” Aunt Hellen yelled back. This highly respected tasseomancer and seance-leader had a set of lungs that should never be allowed near a microphone. “I just finished having tea with Owen, so I’m free if you want to go on your walk, too. His phone rang in the middle of our tea, and it must have been important because he hightailed it out the door after making an excuse.” She situated herself behind the desk and placed her hands on the computer screen like it might fly away if she didn’t keep it locked down. “Hey, one thing before you go.”

I held steady, waiting for the inevitable question. My life seemed to be filled with questions.

“What kind of afternoon do you think we’re going to have? Should I restock the printer?”

Showing my teeth in what should have been a smile, I flipped open the book I held in my other hand, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all. Why, oh why, did I have to have this particular book with me? And why was my aunt always trying to force me to use my “gift”? I had no real power to do anything, just predict the future or get guidance from the text. Sometimes it was right, sometimes not. Either way, it was not high-powered magic in the least.

While poking my finger at the text, I said, “No need to stock the printer, but be prepared to deal with many irritations.” There’s nothing like trying to give a vague answer to a mundane question when the page you opened to was a spicy-hot scene between the hero and heroine in a recently released romance novel.

“I could have told you that. You have to try harder if you want to own your power, Roxanne Gleason. This is not a game.” Peering at me over her bifocals, she twitched the classic “Mom finger” in my general direction and then tsked.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but only because I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. It would probably get me a lecture, and I didn’t have time for that today. Plus, those donuts were calling my name.

“Yes, Aunt Hellen. Sorry, Aunt Hellen.”

“Cheeky,” she said under her breath, but I still heard it and smiled.

“Is Owen’s nephew here yet?”

“No, Owen said he had to back out at the last minute, so we have a free room if we need it.”

I sighed because as much as I liked Andrew, that was one less eccentric I’d have to deal with. Owen was a character all on his own, but he knew when to rein it in, Andrew not so much. Plus, his room would still get paid for even if he wasn’t going to use it.

“Okay, thanks for letting me know. Keep an eye out for Paddy McGruver,” I said. “He hasn’t checked in yet, and sometimes he likes to come in the back door to avoid what he assumes are the paparazzi.”

“Oh my, Paddy’s coming in today? Will he be here all four days?” Aunt Hellen smoothed down the front of her shirt over what she jokingly called her shelf since it pretty much caught any crumbs she dropped while eating. She then pulled her peach cardigan closed over her stomach.

“Yes, and yes. Try to keep your hands to yourself this time. You read tea leaves, not rumps. No one is falling for that I’m-a-rumpologist-bit, no matter how hard you try to sell it.”

With that, I walked out the door and left her to primp and prime herself for one of the more problematic creatives who was going to be here for four whole days. Well, not quite four, since it was more like seventy-two total hours from check-in to check-out. But who was counting?

With ten of the writers showcasing their intelligence and posturing over who had the best book and which classes were not to be missed, it would be enough time for me to need a vacation afterward.

The hotel hosted this event every year, but this was my first as the owner of this fine establishment. I had been told to give myself the seven days following the event to only host boring people, so I could rest, relax, and restore my faith in down-to-earth people. I had taken the advice since it had come from the previous owner, my grandfather. We would have guests checking in on Sunday after everyone left, but there wouldn’t be a pen and paper or laptop in sight as far as the guest list went. I had made sure of it.

Uncle Vince was racking his bike at the side of the building and removing his helmet when I stepped out onto the wide veranda that encircled the inn. I looked forward to his visits and had for all the years he’d been in my life. I wasn’t sure exactly how far away on my dad’s family tree he was, just that he was there and always had been.

He was like a beacon in the middle of the day, everyone stopping as they strolled along the sidewalks to say hi and ask about his health. It kept him busy until I could reach him, which worked in my favor. As long as he didn’t give away any of my donuts.

“I see you got two boxes this time,” I said as I approached the old man in his loud get-up.

“Roxy, my love, my dove, how are we on this fine afternoon?” His smile was far cheekier than anything I had ever sported, and I immediately wondered what he was up to. It was almost never good. Or rather, it usually was good for someone but almost never good for me.

“What are you hiding?”

He slapped his hand to his chest and feigned hurt. “I would never -”

“You do. Always,” I shot back, but a smile was trying to come out on my lips that I did not want to give in to. If I indulged him, he always had to see exactly how far he could take it.

“I’m offended.”

“Only because I’m catching you before you can even begin. Hand over the donuts, and I might be able to see my way to just watching for any missteps instead of thwarting you before you even get started.”

At first, he looked defeated, but I knew for a fact that was a lie. He’d just figure out a different way to get around me. It was a game he liked to play, and since he was an uncle and someone who had watched over me since I was a toddler, I knew, and so did he, that I had a weak spot for him and his antics. As long as they didn’t hurt anyone.

Sure enough, that smile popped back out on his face. As I knew it would.

“I saw you in my scrying bowl this morning.”

Ack, that was the last thing I wanted him to say. I would have preferred almost anything else, even the practical jokes he sometimes liked to indulge in. He wasn’t very good at them, but I laughed, even if it was just a big fake spider on my porch. His visions were some of my biggest fears, though. Or it might be better to say his visions had brought about many of my stumbles in life.

***

Excerpt from By Hook or By Book by Misty Simon. Copyright 2025 by Misty Simon. Reproduced with permission from Misty Simon. All rights reserved.