Blood Music Book Promotion

Blood Music: A Thriller

by Jessie Prichard Hunter

Blood Music

Genre: Thriller

Publish Date: February 24, 2015

Publisher: Witness Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishing

ISBN: 0062389289

ASIN: B00MMG19ZU

Pages: 320 pages

List Price: 2.99 USD

About the Book

Chilling…A riveting thriller.” NEW YORK MAGAZINE

Blood Music CoverNew York City is caught in the cold grip of a brutal serial killer who savagely rapes and murders his young, blonde victims. While ravaging them, his mind whirls with symphonic images and raging desires–rarely giving thought to his loving wife and child.

Young, blonde Zelly Wyche has a new baby and a happy life with her dependable electrician husband. She, too, is petrified by the madness and the unthinkable tragedy of the murders. While the serial killers’ sole survivor and a victim’s brother mount a desperate vigilante hunt for the “Symphony Slasher,” a chill runs up Zelly’s spine. She is beginning to wonder if the killer could be closer than she thinks. But no. Impossible. She has to be dead wrong….

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DIVIDER

About the Author

Jessie Prichard Hunter is the author of the psychological thriller Blood Music, forthcoming from Witness Impulse. She currently resides in New York’s Hudson Valley with her husband and two children.

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Facebook // Website // Twitter

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Giveaway

Five (5) individual promo codes for a free download of the book for an entire tour. Winner must have access to Bluefire Reader and have an Adobe account to receive free download.

London Calling Book Tour

London Calling

An Inspector Carlyle Mystery

by James Craig

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Genre: Police Procedural/Adult

Publish Date: Sept 9, 2014

Publisher:  HarperCollins 

 

Synopsis:

 photo Eonly9780062365262Cover_zps46c1fa48.jpgEdgar Carlton is rich, handsome, and in line to be the next Prime Minister. But his rise to the top takes a steep turn downwards when somebody begins murdering alumni of the 1984 Merrion Club, an exclusive Cambridge University society to which he belongs. Bullheaded Inspector Carlyle is tasked with handling this delicate case and, to discover the killer, he must question all the members of the 1984 Merrion Club. But finding the truth proves difficult when this group of powerful men is so determined to let events of the past remain in the dark…

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About the Author

JAMES CRAIG has worked in London as a journalist and as a consultant for almost thirty years. He lives in Covent Garden with his wife and daughter.

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Giveaway

5 BlueFire Downloads

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Martyr Book Tour

Martyr

A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Rory Clements

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Genre: Historical Thriller

Publish Date: Sept 9, 2014

Publisher: Witness Impulse

 

Synopsis

 photo 20764820_zpsf0ba25a0.jpgIn this ingenious debut, Rory Clements introduces John Shakespeare, Elizabethan England’s most remarkable investigator, and delivers a tale of murder and conspiracy that succeeds brilliantly as both historical fiction and a crime thriller.

In a burnt-out house, one of Queen Elizabeth’s aristocratic cousins is found murdered, her young flesh marked with profane symbols. At the same time, a plot to assassinate Sir Francis Drake, England’s most famous sea warrior, is discovered–a plot which, if successful, could leave the country utterly defenseless against a Spanish invasion. It’s 1587, the Queen’s reign is in jeopardy, and one man is charged with the desperate task of solving both cases: John Shakespeare. With the Spanish Armada poised to strike, Mary Queen of Scots awaiting execution, and the pikes above London Bridge decorated with the grim evidence of treachery, the country is in peril of being overwhelmed by fear and chaos. Following a trail of illicit passions and family secrets, Shakespeare travels through an underworld of spies, sorcerers, whores, and theater people, among whom is his own younger brother, the struggling playwright, Will. Shadowed by his rival, the Queen’s chief torturer, who employs his own methods of terror, Shakespeare begins to piece together a complex and breathtaking conspiracy whose implications are almost too horrific to contemplate. For a zealous and cunning killer is stalking England’s streets.And as Shakespeare threatens to reveal a madman’s shocking identity, he and the beautiful woman he desires come ever closer to becoming the next martyrs to a passion for murder and conspiracy whose terrifying consequences might still be felt today…

 

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Excerpt

ROSE DOWNIE SAT on the cold cobbles, cradling a swaddled baby that was not hers.

She leant her aching back against the wall of the imposing stone house, close to its arched oak door. Under any other circumstance nothing could have brought her near this building where baleful apprehension hung heavy in the air like the stink of tallow, but the man who lived here, Richard Topcliffe, was her last hope. She had been to the court of law but the justice had merely shaken his head dismissively and said that even had he believed her – which, he said, with a scowl, was as unlikely as apple blossom in November – there was nothing he could do for her.

The constable had been no more helpful. ‘Mistress Downie,’ he said, ‘put the baby in a bag like a kitten and throw it in the Thames. What use is it alive? I promise you, in God’s name, that I will not consider the killing a crime, but an act of mercy, and you shall never hear another word of the matter.’

Now, outside Topcliffe’s house in the snow-flecked street, close by St Margaret’s churchyard in Westminster, Rose sat and waited. She had knocked at the door once already, and it had been answered by a sturdy youth with a thin beard who had looked her up and down with distaste and told her to go away. She had refused and he closed the door in her face. The intense cold would have driven anyone else home to sit at the fireside wrapped in blankets, but Rose would not go until she had seen Topcliffe and begged him to help.

 

About the Author

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After a career in national newspapers, Rory Clements now lives in a seventeenth-century farmhouse in Norfolk and writes full time.

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Giveaway

5 BlueFire Download

 

 

 

McBride, Susan: Mad as Helen, River Road Mystery

Mad as Helen (Road River Mystery)

by Susan McBride

 Mad as Helen

Genre: Mystery, Crime, Thriller

Publish Date: July 29, 2014

Publisher: Witness Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins

 Books

Synopsis:

20957452In the second River Road Mystery from USA Today bestselling author Susan McBride, Helen Evans must find a killer before her granddaughter is arrested for murder!

When tiny River Bend, Illinois, is hit by a string of burglaries even Sheriff Frank Biddle can’t solve, the clients of LaVyrle’s Cut ‘n’ Curl can hardly talk of anything but. There are no signs of forced entry and no fingerprints, and valuables are missing from secret hiding places, as if the thief knew what he wanted and just where to look.

Helen Evans wonders what the world has come to if even their once-quiet town isn’t safe anymore. Then Grace Simpson, a big-city psychotherapist who had opened up shop in River Bend, is found dead on her bedroom floor, and Helen’s granddaughter is caught with the murder weapon in hand.

Sure of the girl’s innocence, Helen embarks on a little investigation of her own and turns up plenty of folks who aren’t grieving a bit now that Grace is dead …

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 Books

Why in Helen Did You Write These Books?

by Susan McBride

There’s a story behind my new mystery series and a very good reason why all the titles include the name “Helen,” and it started twenty years ago. That’s when I first got the idea to write a string of cozies featuring a 75-year-old, quick-witted, crossword puzzle-loving sleuth named Helen Evans.

Helen was, in fact, my grandmother. At the time I started writing To Helen Back, the first of the River Road Mysteries, my grandma had been diagnosed with a form of leukemia that would soon take her life. She fought it for all it was worth, enduring various forms of treatment including frequent blood transfusions; but she knew she was just buying time. And she was determined to live out what time she had left doing the things she loved best.

Like the Helen in my books, my grandma was devoted to her bridge clubs and her cat, Amber. She adored her family (well, most of them!), crossword puzzles, crafting quilts, and reading mysteries. Okay, and watching them as well. She was addicted to crime shows on TV. I can’t tell you how many times I visited with her and sat on the sofa, watching endless reruns of Matlock, Barnaby Jones, Columbo, The Rockford Files, or Murder, She Wrote. She was good at figuring out whodunit, too. It was a rare occasion when my grandma didn’t “catch” the killer first.

Top that off with my grandfather once remarking how complete strangers shared their life stories with my grandmother in the grocery store, the doctor’s office, or even a brief elevator ride and I couldn’t help thinking that she would be the perfect Miss Marple.

So twenty years back, I sat down and penned three amateur sleuth tales featuring a grandmother named Helen who lived in a small town in Illinois and whose penchant for puzzles and ear for innuendo helped her solve crimes well before the sheriff.

Unfortunately, those three books weren’t ever published. Thank goodness, I held onto them. As luck would have it, when I made a surprise trip to the USA Today bestsellers list with an earlier mystery in February (Blue Blood, the first of my Debutante Dropout Mysteries which debuted in 2004), my editor asked, “What else have you got?”

As luck would have it, I had the three Helen books gathering dust in my basement (literally). Two of them weren’t even stored digitally. They had to be scanned so my editor could read them. I eagerly revised each to update the storylines and to make the words feel more like the writer I am now. On May 27, my long-delayed dream came true when To Helen Back, the first of these mysteries, was released by Witness Impulse. This fictional tribute to my grandma Helen would finally reach mystery readers everywhere. It was such a wonderful feeling! Then to see To Helen Back on the Nook Top 50 Bestsellers list for a month and the #1 cozy mystery on Kobo was icing on the cake.

I am equally thrilled that the second in the series, Mad as Helen, is now out in digital-first format (paperback to follow in about six weeks!). Yes, these mysteries are entertainment and, I hope, a fun ride for readers. But they’re also a tribute to my grandmother whose spirit definitely lives on in Helen Evans.

She would have so enjoyed reading about her namesake. And I know for damned sure she would have tried like Helen (sorry, I couldn’t resist!) to figure out the answer to the mystery before her alter-ego did.

Books

Susan McBride is the USA TODAY best-selling author of the Debutante Dropout Mysteries. Her new River Road Mystery series debuted with To Helen Back in May. Mad as Helen is the second to feature Helen Evans with Not a Chance in Helen to follow in late September. Her first young adult mystery, Very Bad Things, will be published in hardcover this October. She’s also the author of The Truth about Love & Lightning, Little Black Dress, and The Cougar Club, all Target Recommended Reads. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and daughter. Visit her web site at http://SusanMcBride.com for more about Susan and her books.

Books

REVIEW:

I am finishing Mad as Helen and shall be posting my review later today. The writing of Susan McBride is something that draws you back into the series like you’ve never been away.

 

~ Patricia, Room With Books ~

Books

About The Author:

susanfoto2[1]

Susan McBride is the USA TODAY bestselling author of Blue Blood, the first of the Debutante Dropout Mysteries.
 The award-winning series also includes The Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club, Night of
 the Living Deb, and Too Pretty to Die. She’s also the author of The Truth about Love & Lightning, Little Black Dress, and
 The Cougar Club, all Target Recommended Reads. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and daughter.
Visit Susan’s web site at www.SusanMcBride.com for more info.

Connect With the Author

Website | Facebook Author Site | Facebook Personal Site

Books

GIVEAWAY Details:

  • 5 BlueFire Downloads

 

 

McBride, Susan: To Helen Back, A River Road Mystery

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Author’s Name: Susan McBride

Book Title: To Helen Back

Publication Date May 27, 2014

Genre & Age Group: Adult Mystery & Detective

Organized: Literati Author Services, Inc.

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Synopsis

To Helen Back by Susan McBride photo ToHelenBackCover_zpse77ccde4.jpgWhen Milton Grone turns up dead in tiny River Bend, Illinois, nearly all the would-be suspects have the perfect alibi: attending Thursday night’s town meeting. And as Milton was hardly beloved, plenty of folks had a reason to do him in…

Grone’s next-door neighbor was furious about a fence that encroached on her property among other wicked deeds. A pair of zealous tree-huggers wanted Grone’s hide for selling a parcel of pristine land to a water park. Grone’s current and ex-wife both wanted a cut of the profits, which Grone seemed unwilling to share. Even the town preacher knew Grone’s soul was beyond saving.

Though most of River Bend would rather reward the killer than hang him, Sheriff Biddle’s not about to let this one go . . . and neither is Helen Evans. With a penchant for puzzles and an ear for innuendo, Helen quickly pins down the culprit before Biddle puts the wrong suspect in jail.

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EXCERPT:

Chapter One

Milton Grone woke up that Thursday morning much as he did every other.

As soon as the sun had bumped its way above the horizon, tinting blue the morning sky, he rolled out of bed, careful so as not to disturb his wife, Shotsie, who preferred not to rise at quite so early an hour.

She’d tugged the sheets from him sometime in the night and they twisted around her plump limbs. Corkscrews of blond framed a moon-shaped face and kewpie doll mouth from which rumbled a parade of snores.

Milt smiled smugly as he looked her over. She was his second wife and, at forty-three, younger than him by two decades. His first marriage had crumbled ten years before. He scowled at the thought of Delilah and their ungrateful pair of teenage kids.

He hadn’t the slightest idea how the first bride he’d wed all those years before could have turned into such a shrew. She’d called him a tightwad and a cheater, cursing him loudly enough for all two hundred inhabitants of nosy River Bend, Illinois, to hear. He thought he’d gotten rid of her for good, but she wouldn’t let go, coming after him for what she claimed was unpaid child support. Damned woman thought she could scare him with threats of lawyers and lawsuits.

 Milt scratched his jaw, figuring she had another think coming if she thought he’d give in as easy as that.

With a snort, he pushed away from the sagging mattress and shuffled into the bathroom to shave and dress. He emerged five minutes after, clad in overalls and an undershirt faded to drab.

Leaving Shotsie in bed, he slipped through the cock-eyed screen door and stepped out onto the porch.

He could already hear the noises of the town waking up: the bark of dogs from someone’s backyard, the crunch of tires on the graveled road as that long-haired paperboy whipped through his route, and a whistling from next door that sounded far too cheerful for so early in the morning.

Milt nodded to himself and spit into the dirt, knowing instantly from whose lips the perky tune emanated. He moved toward the fence on his tiptoes and there, just beyond, he spotted the guilty bird.

Her back to him, she bent over a tangle of raspberry bushes, her slip peeking out beneath the hem of her duster. A straw hat ringed with yellow ribbon covered her head and tipped this way and that as she sprinkled water from a can upon the bushes. A shovel lay nearby, its spade damp with fresh earth. She’d been out since the crack of dawn, no doubt, planting and whistling like a senile whippoorwill.

“Would you stop that god awful racket?” he growled at her, unable to keep silent a minute longer. He leaned his arms over the split-rail fence he’d built barely a week ago. “People’re sleeping, old woman. It’s just seven o’clock in the morning, in case your watch’s broke.”

The water ceased to pour.

The stooped body in the flower-print housedress righted itself. The head topped with straw turned around. “Are you speaking to me, Milton Grone?” she asked, the faint British clip still evident, even though its bite had worn down. What could be seen of her features hardly beamed at him with friendship; instead, the vaguely spotted skin settled into hard lines. The thin lips pressed together.

If looks could kill, Milton thought with an inward chuckle, the old broad would have done him in right there on the spot. “You got your girdle on too tight today, grandma?” he asked her. “You sure aren’t acting very neighborly.”

“And you are?” Felicity Timmons’s already high-pitched voice soared. She stood with her feet apart, shaking the spouted can at him. “I would scarcely call your actions cordial,” she said, water splashing as she spoke. “You leave your mower running at all hours, and with you not anywhere about! You park that bloody truck of yours on the edge of the lot across the road so that no one can pass without nicking my prized Queen Elizabeth roses! And then there’s the matter of that fence—”

“This fence?” Milton lifted up his arms and glanced down.

“Yes, of course that fence!” Felicity’s face reddened further. Her whole body shook. “You build it on my property!”

“Hell if I did!”

“Six inches, to be exact! I’ve had Art Beaner from the board over here myself to check with his own eyes, and the town plat confirms that you, sir, have unlawfully trespassed on my land! Indeed, I plan to bring up the very topic at tonight’s meeting in town hall—”

“Listen here, you old windbag,” he interrupted, shaking a finger at her. “Either drag me into court or stop flapping your gums at me day in and day out.”

“Well, I never!”

He looked her over from top to toe, his mouth drawing up in the corners. “No, I’ll wager you never have.”

With a final fierce stare directed his way, Felicity did an abrupt about-face. The watering can slapping against her thigh, she hurried away, dashing up the stone steps to her porch.

With a slap, the screen door shut behind her, though Milton caught her peeking out at him from beyond the gray mesh before her head jerked away.

“Same to you, grandma!” he shouted. Then he spit again, this time directly into her red-berried bushes, and unfurled himself from the fence.

Not a soul in this town knew how to mind his own business he decided as he stooped to pick up the paper from his weed-choked front walk. Those busybodies were worse than cockroaches. He tucked the log of newsprint under his arm, headed back to the paint-peeled house and went inside.

His path through the hallway was blocked by a pair of sofa pillows, left over from a fight with Shotsie the previous night. He kicked them aside.

Flipping on the kitchen light, he found yesterday’s coffee and put the pot on the burner to warm. Then he sat down at the table and spread the paper flat. A check of the morning’s headlines caused him to abruptly—and loudly—laugh.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” Shotsie asked, tugging the sash closed as she padded into the room in her bathrobe. She ran a hand through her mop of yellow curls and yawned, coming to stand behind him. “I could hear you cacklin’ from across the house.”

“Damned birdwatchers,” he said, and stabbed a finger at the page. “Just look at that, Shots. Look what those crazy animal huggers are doin’ now.”

NATURE CLUB CALLS LOCAL WHO SOLD LAND TO DEVELOPERS A ‘MURDERER,’ screamed the bold-faced headline. Below it, the smaller subhead declared, River Bend’s Milton Grone Target of Naturalists.

“Listen to this,” Milton said, bobbing his head as he went on, “‘The pending sale of bluff-side acreage near River Bend has area conservationists up in arms. Not only will countless trees along the Mississippi River be razed to make way for a water park, but wildlife habitat in this unprotected stretch will be threatened as well.’”

He paused, grumbling, “Get a load of this,” before he skipped down several paragraphs and continued to read aloud. “‘According to Save the Animal members Ida Bell and Dorothy Feeny, “Mr. Grone is no better than a mass murderer. The destruction of woods that provide breeding grounds for eagles and hawks, not to mention more than a dozen other species, is nothing less than genocide. If Milton Grone allows this deal to go through, like the fauna that will die because of his greed, so should he be killed”’ …”

“My, oh my,” Shotsie breathed in his ear.

“Can’t those two silly biddies find something better to do than cause me trouble?”

“Milt?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s fauna?”

“You think I’m a dictionary or something?” He glared at her. “Go look it up!”

 Shotsie pouted but said nothing. Instead, she turned to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. She set the mug on the table before him with such force it slopped over the sides, staining the front page of the paper brown.

He cursed her for being a klutz but she merely flashed him an innocent smile. Milton tried to ignore her.

She pulled a chair up beside him. “They also called you greedy. Now that word I do know.”

“So?” He raised an eyebrow.

“So,” she prodded, “that must mean you’re getting a bundle for that land, huh? You never did tell me how much they settled on giving you anyway.”

“That’s right,” he said, “I didn’t.”

Shotsie sat still a moment, her wide brown eyes fixed on his, though her silence did not last long. “Tell me!” she suddenly shrilled at him, her features stained a blotchy pink. “Tell me, I said!” She slapped a fist on the table, shaking it so that Milton’s cup of coffee tipped and sent a flood of hot liquid into his lap.

With a yelp, Milt jumped out of his seat, pulling the thighs of his overalls outward. “Goddammit, Shots, you clumsy bitch!”

But Shotsie didn’t back down. She stamped a slipper on the linoleum, sticking out her chin. “You never tell me anything, Miltie! Zero! Delilah warned me you were a penny pincher, but I thought it was sour grapes just ’cause of the divorce and all. I mean, at first you were such a sweetheart, dressin’ up to take me to the movies and buying me candy. You charmed the pants off me, and I thought you were so handsome. You promised to love me and take care of me for the rest of my life.”

She cocked her head and let out the saddest of sighs. “What happened to that Miltie, huh? After living with you for five whole years, I realize your ex was right. This place is a dump.” She waved a pudgy hand in his direction. “Everything’s fallin’ apart, and you don’t seem to care. We haven’t gone to a movie in forever, and you don’t even buy me Milk Duds in the checkout line at the supermarket. And now”—she paused to glare at him—“everyone in town knows you’re makin’ a bundle off that land you sold, only you won’t even tell me the numbers. You’re worse than a cheapskate, and I hate you for it!”

Milton ceased dabbing at his wet pants with the kitchen towel and scowled right back at her. “If I’m such a stinker, why don’t you shove off and let me be?”

“Maybe I will,” Shotsie yelled, and with a sweep of pink feet and chenille, she turned on her heel and stomped out.

A door slammed up the hallway, and Milton flinched as the house seemed to shudder beneath him. Moments later, Shotsie’s overloud sobs rattled through the thin walls, and he shook his head at the sound. “Women,” he muttered. “Crazier than loons, all of ’em.”

He’d blamed his mother for nagging his father to the grave, and never forgiven her even when she joined his dad in the Grone family plot. Milt’s bad first marriage had nearly killed him as well, and now it looked like Shotsie had jumped on the bandwagon.

A pain shot through his chest just then, so that for a full minute after he struggled hard to catch his breath.

He rubbed at his breastbone. “Gives me heartburn, she does,” he wheezed as the pain slowly subsided and he could breathe easily again. Just a little gas, he told himself, refusing to believe that a tiny ache between his ribs might mean something more.

Old Doc Melville kept telling him his ticker wasn’t what it used to be. The doc had been after him to take those silly nitro pills ever since the pesky bout with his heart that put him in the hospital a while back. But he hadn’t bought into it. He’d told the doc he felt better than he had in years, that his so-called “heart attack” back when was all his ex-wife’s fault and had been quickly remedied by their divorce.

Milt thumped his chest one last time with the heel of his hand, letting out a far from delicate belch.

Gas. That’s all it was. That and Shotsie.

He glanced at the hallway through which she’d disappeared and scowled again for good measure.

It wasn’t until nearly seven o’clock that night that Shotsie emerged from her self-imposed exile. Clad in blue jeans and sweatshirt advertising a St. Louis beer, she was halfway out the screen door when Milton called to her.

“Where’re you off to at this hour?” he shouted from the kitchen. He sat at the table, an oily rag in hand as he cleaned his shotgun. “Don’t stay out too long, ’cause I’m hungry as a bear and I don’t see dinner on the table.”

“Get your own dinner,” she shouted back. “I’m goin’ to the town meeting.”

“The town meeting,” Milton repeated, and stopped what he was doing. “What in hell are you doin’ that for?”

“So someone will tell me what you’re making for killing all those birds and trees up the river!”

He opened his mouth to yell and forbid her to go. But a tickle of laughter got at him instead, and he howled and hooted at the thought of how the townsfolk would react to seeing her there.

Bang went the door. Her hurried footsteps clomped down the rickety stoop. Through the open window he picked up the string of curses she let loose.

His laughter eased to a chuckle, and he wiped the tears from his eyes. Glancing up, he saw darkness snuffing out the last of twilight.

He waited and listened, thinking she’d return and fix him supper. But when several minutes passed and she didn’t reappear, Milton gave in to his grumbling stomach and got up to fix himself a sandwich. He ate it there at the table; his gun, cleaned and loaded, a mere handsbreadth away.

He’d barely taken a bite of the cold meat loaf when he heard a noise beyond the window, like a critter prowling in the trash. “Damned old woman’s cat,” he muttered, and picked up his shotgun. Felicity Timmons caused him hell enough without his having to put up with that furry beast of hers making a mess of his garbage.

“Here kitty-kitty,” he said in a gruff whisper as he came off the stoop and snuck around the house. “C’mon, you darned flea bag, I’ve got something for you.”

He cocked the gun with a click.

He heard the noise again and hesitated. Sure didn’t sound like a cat; it seemed bigger than that. Were those footsteps coming up behind him?

He spun around in time to see the shadow that lunged at him, but only that. His gun fell from his hands to the ground, going off as it hit the dirt.

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REVIEW:

The cast of characters in this fascinating whodunit is remarkable! I was enthralled from the very first page of To Helen Back by Susan McBride. It was hard to put down until I found out who the culprit turned out to be.

Ms. McBride is an artiste as well as a best selling author. I highly recommend To Helen Back and  I’m hooked on the  River Road Mysteries. The next release, Mad as Helen, can’t come soon enough for me!

3D 5 Gold Stars

 ~ Patricia, Room With Books ~ © July 10, 2014

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About The Author:

Susan McBride photo susanfoto21_zps7a628b4b.jpg

Susan McBride is the USA TODAY bestselling author of Blue Blood, the first of the Debutante Dropout Mysteries. T he award-winning series also includes T he Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, T he Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club, Night of the Living Deb, and Too Pretty to Die. She’s also the author of T he Truth about Love & Lightning, Little Black Dress, and The Cougar Club, all Target Recommended Reads. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and daughter.

Visit Susan’s web site at www.SusanMcBride.com for more info.

Connect With the Author

Website | Facebook Author Site | Facebook Personal Site

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Giveaway

  • 5 individual promo codes for a free download of the book for an entire tour. Winner must have access to Bluefire Reader and have an Adobe account to receive free download.