⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Sand Dollar Lane by Sheila Roberts @_sheila_roberts #SandDollarLane #womensfiction

 

USA TODAY  bestselling author Sheila Roberts will have readers laughing and swooning in turn as two rival business owners compete for the homes and hearts of Moonlight Harbor…




By Sheila Roberts




Brody Green is finding it hard to recover after being dumped by his fiancée, Jenna Jones, then watching her walk down the aisle with someone else. Jenna is determined to make up for her love defection and find him the perfect woman, but Brody is done with love. First a divorce, then a broken engagement. From now on he’s keeping things light, no commitments. Luckily Brody’s business is booming. Beach Dreams Realty is the best real estate company in town. And the only one. Until…

Lucy Holmes needs a new start. In business, in love, in…everything. If ever there was a cliché, it was her life back in Seattle. She was a real estate broker working with her husband until she caught him trying out the walk-in shower in a luxury condo—with another agent. She’s always been the more successful of the two, and with him gone, she’s determined to build a business even bigger than what she had. Moonlight Harbor is a charming town and it has only one real estate agency. Surely there’s room for a little competition.

Or not. Looks like it’s going to be a hot market in Moonlight Harbor. And maybe these two competitors will make some heat of their own.

Lighthearted and full of colorful, quirky characters and surf-side warmth… Roberts’s picturesque coastal world is sheer delight and will appeal to romance and women’s fiction fans alike.” Library Journal

Book Information

Release Date: April 26, 2022

Publisher:  Harlequin/MIra

Soft Cover: ISBN: 978-0778386353; 368 pages; $9.99; E-Book, $7.99

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3sfzSoa




Lucy Holmes-Anderson was smiling as she made her way to the condo she was showing in downtown Bellevue. She and her husband, Evan, had seen it during a realtors’ open house the day before and been sure that it would sell in a moment. And she was going to be the one to jump on that moment. She had a couple she knew the place would be perfect for and she’d arranged to meet them there on their lunch hour.

She’d tried to let Evan know that she had a fish on the line but her call had gone straight to voice mail. It seemed like that happened a lot lately. Hardly surprising, though. Like her, he was busy showing houses, getting listings, writing up offers, and when he was with someone, he never took calls. He had said something about having a noon appointment so he was probably already with his clients.

Sometimes it seemed he spent more time showing houses to other people than hanging out in his own house with her. For a couple who worked together, it sure seemed that they didn’t see much of each other.

But that was the nature of the real estate business. No set hours, and evenings and weekends were usually busy. For both of them. They were often either in their separate offices in Anderson-Holmes Realty or meeting with people.

Even when they were together, it felt more like they were simply sharing space. He’d spent most of the evening the night before convincing a hesitant couple to lay out a king’s ransom on a dog of a house in a Seattle neighborhood that was supposed to be the next big thing. By the time he’d gotten off the phone, he’d been ready to do nothing more than crash in front of the TV.

There wasn’t even such a thing as a cozy breakfast together. Nothing new there though. Breakfast had always been a crazy rush to get out the door. This particular morning it had involved a phone conversation with their daughter, Hannah, about the “little” accident she’d had with the new car they’d given her the summer before for her high school graduation. At least she’d only crunched into a post in a parking garage and the only thing that got hurt was the car, but it was a costly hurt. Not good for the insurance premiums.

“It’s not that new anymore,” she’d said in between tears and apologies. “I’ve had it almost a year.”

“And we’ve paid the insurance for the first year. Remember, come June it’s going to be time for you to take that over,” Lucy had said. “And accidents only make your insurance go up.” Which it was going to do to theirs.

Lucy hadn’t wanted to be the baddie, but they’d flipped a coin over who was going to have a chat with their baby and she’d lost.

“Remind her that she’s got to get a job as soon as spring quarter is over. It’s time she started taking some financial responsibility,” Evan had insisted.

They were paying for her tuition at the University of Washington, plus housing (which wasn’t cheap when you lived in a sorority). Car insurance was something they’d decided Hannah could cover in the future.

So Lucy had done the reminding thing.

This had not been welcome news, and while Hannah could often wheedle one or the other parent into caving when she wanted something (or to get out of something), the parents had stayed united on the issue of a summer job.

“You’re not doing summer quarter,” Lucy had said. (More reminding.) “You’ll have time for a job. I’m sure you can find something fun. Maybe helping Daddy and me in the office.”

“Inputting boring stuff into the computer,” Hannah had said in disgust.

“And posting listings online. Looking at all those cool pictures of houses.”

“Stuck inside like a mushroom.”

Lucy hadn’t bothered to remind her daughter that mushrooms grew outside in the woods.

“You guys are so unfair,” Hannah had concluded.

Of course, that accusation had been enough to make Lucy want to cave. She had always struggled with dishing out discipline, even when their daughter was little, although she’d certainly tried her best. And really, Hannah wasn’t a bad kid. Just a little spoiled, maybe.

“We need to do this, don’t we?” she’d said as Evan grabbed the keys to his Maserati and started for the door.

“We do. Everybody has to face reality sooner or later, Luc.”

And reality included hard work. Lucy knew that firsthand. She’d come from a hardworking middle-class family and put herself through college. So had Evan.

They’d both worked their way through school at the same pizza parlor and slowly fallen in love in between orders. With his degree in business and hers in interior design, they’d partnered up in both business and life. They’d put in long hours to establish their real estate agency, and when the market in the Seattle area turned hot, they’d been more than ready to take advantage of it.

They were now the epitome of success, with three brokers in their office—two hunky millennials who could charm anyone into listing their house with Anderson-Holmes and a beautiful, bright young thing named Pandora who reminded Lucy a lot of herself twenty-two years earlier when she and Evan first opened their doors.

As far as Lucy could see, the girl’s only flaw was that she lacked confidence. It seemed she couldn’t submit a single offer without consulting Evan. Only the other day she’d called with a silly question about a house inspection that left Lucy shaking her head.

“She just needs some hand-holding,” Evan had said.

“I could use some hand-holding,” Lucy had replied in a playful tone of voice.

There’d been a time when he would have taken the hint, taken her to bed and gotten a hold of more than her hand. This time, he’d merely chuckled and returned to surfing the internet on his laptop.

She hadn’t pushed. They were both going pretty hard and it seemed he was tired a lot.

Still, this wasn’t what she’d envisioned their love life looking like now that they were empty nesters. She’d joked to her older sister, Darla, that with Hannah out of the house, she and Evan would probably have sex in every room. That was what you did when you had the place to yourselves, right? She and Evan were only forty-four. He was still in his prime and she was at her sexual peak.

So far, she’d been lucky if she got him stirred up in the bedroom let alone anywhere else. Where was all that empty-nester-second-honeymoon fun they were supposed to be having? Somewhere in the future—at the rate they were working, the distant future.

But all work and no play… If she closed this deal, she was going to make sure they went on a nice long vacation. They needed to put the romance back in their relationship. She’d been eyeing resorts in both Hawaii and Fiji. She’d also been looking into cruises. One of those European river cruises would be so nice.

Yes, a river cruise. Evan had his boat and his fancy midlife sports car. She should get a cruise.

Her smile grew bigger. The Jorgensons were going to love this slick two-bedroom condo in downtown Bellevue. In addition to a bonus room, it had all the bells and whistles—a generous kitchen with quartz countertops and an eating bar; spacious living and dining rooms; windows with electric blackout blinds; unobstructed views of downtown Bellevue, Seattle, Lake Washington and the Olympic Mountains. The facility offered a spa, fitness center and theater room. What was not to like? For some, the price. But the Jorgensons could afford this.

Actually, so could Lucy and Evan. It might be nice to downsize from their four-bedroom three-thousand-square-foot house. It wasn’t like they’d filled the place up with kids. Or ever would.

Okay, maybe not this condo. Their house was on Lake Washington and it was important to Evan to be on the water. She liked the water, too. There was something so calming about it. So someplace smaller. Cozier.

That appealed to her. Yes, it was worth considering.

Meanwhile, here were the Jorgensons. In their late thirties, dressed in trendy clothes, driving a Tesla compact, this couple was more than ready to go from being renters to becoming homeowners. Lucy had convinced them that a condo was a good way to start. Plenty of freedom and no maintenance worries.

“I know you’re going to go crazy when you see this condo,” she told them as she let them into the lobby.

“I looked at the pictures online,” said Emma Jorgenson. “It looks gorgeous.” She smiled at her husband, Aaron, who smiled back at her.

“We’re excited to see it,” he said.

“I’m excited to show it to you. If you like it, we’ll want to move quickly. This one won’t last.”

They rode the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor. “The view is amazing. You won’t believe your eyes,” Lucy said.

She let them into the unit. It was gorgeous. Hardwood floors, windows showcasing a million-dollar view (no, make that two million).

But what did she hear? Was that voices?

“Is someone else looking at this place?” asked Aaron.

“No one should be.”

Lucy followed the sound down the hallway and into the master bedroom, her clients trailing her.

“This bedroom is fabulous,” Emma breathed. Then her eyes fell on the trail of his and hers clothes leading into the bathroom. “Umm.”

“Sounds like someone’s in the shower,” said Aaron.

“That’s not possible. The owners are in Cabo.” But Lucy had seen the clothes also, and someone was definitely in the bathroom. She could hear water running, and a high-pitched giggle. What on earth was going on?

“Maybe you should wait here,” she said to her clients, and moved toward the bathroom.

“Ooh,” said a familiar female voice as Lucy stepped through the door and onto the azure porcelain floor.

Oh, no. She had to be hallucinating. Behind frosted sea green glass, etched with marsh grass, under the luxury rainfall showerhead, two bodies were silhouetted.

“Baby,” said another voice.

It was a voice Lucy knew well, a voice that had called her baby, too. Dread urged her not to look around that glass wall but anger won out and she did.

There stood Evan with Pandora, the bright young thing. Both naked and sudsy. And Evan wasn’t holding her hand. This didn’t happen in real life. This happened in books or movies.

Lucy blinked, hoping the image before her would disappear. It didn’t. Evan and Pandora Welk were still right where she’d seen them.

“Evan?” Lucy squeaked. He was too busy to hear her. She raised her voice. “Evan!”

Pandora was the first to turn. Those faux-innocent hazel eyes of hers got so big they looked like golf balls. She let out a screech and the soap in her hands shot across the shower.

Evan turned, too, and looked over his shoulder. If eyeballs could bounce, his would have bounced right out of his head and onto the shower floor.

“Luc!” he cried, and stepped in front of Pandora in an effort to shield her.

Caption the moment Whats Wrong With This Picture?

Plenty. Evan was old enough to be this girl’s father. There she was, all slender and perky, and there he was, a forty-four-year-old fool with love handles. It was so inappropriate and unprofessional and…wrong! And furthermore, if he was going to go wild and crazy like this, he should have been doing it with Lucy.

The Jorgensons joined the party, apparently too curious to stay behind. “Eeep,” said Emma Jorgenson.

“Whoa,” said Aaron Jorgenson, half laughing.

“Ack!” said Evan, still trying to shield the home-wrecker from the audience that was gathering to gawk at them.

Red-faced, Pandora hurried out of the shower, grabbed a towel and her clothes, and beat it as if the hounds of hell were after her.

Lucy hoped they were and she hoped they took a great big bite out of that perky, bouncy bottom.



"Humorous...happily ever after...beach read..."









USA Today and Publisher's Weekly bestselling author Sheila Roberts has seen her books translated into several different languages, included in Reader's Digest compilations, and made into movies for both the Hallmark and Lifetime channels. She's happily married and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

Her latest book is the women’s fiction/romance Sand Dollar Lane (Harlequin/Mira, April ’22)

Visit her website at http://www.sheilasplace.comConnect with her at TwitterFacebook and Instagram.









Sponsored By:

⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Grandma's and Grandpa's Tales by Cheryl Carpinello @ccarpinello #childrensbooks


A retired teacher, Cheryl Carpinello has crafted Grandma/Grandpa’s entertaining stories with repetitive phrases, colorful pictures, and reading/language strategies to engage kids in active reading…


By Cheryl Carpinello



Grandma and Grandpa’s Tales books 1-3 encourage early readers with fun stories incorporating difference aspects of nature. Book 1, Wild Creatures In My Neighborhood and What if I Went to the Circus, explores the wildlife around neighborhoods and introduces decision-making. Book 2Singers of Songs and The Not Too Stubborn Humpback, explores a common, but not so common insect, and lets readers see that being stubborn isn’t always good. Book 3Vampires in the Backyard and A Fish Tale, introduces readers to an extended metaphor and lets them decide if the fish story is real.

Book Information

Release Date: Grandma’s Tales #1 (2016), Grandma’s Tales #2 (2018), Grandma’s Tales #3 (2021), Grandpa’s Tales #1 (2016), Grandpa’s Tales #2 (2018), Grandpa’s Tales #3 (2021)

Publisher:  Silver Quill Publishing

Soft Cover: Grandma’s Tales #1 – 39 pages; $9.99

Grandma’s Tales #2 – 66 pages; $13.99

Grandma’s Tales #3 – 64 pages; $14.99

Grandpa’s Tales #1 – 39 pages; $9.99

Grandpa’s Tales #2 – 66 pages; $13.99

Grandpa’s Tales #3 – 64 pages; $14.99

Amazon Ma 1:  https://amzn.to/3374bEX

Amazon Pa 1:  https://amzn.to/3uHMKpA

Amazon Ma 2:  https://amzn.to/3Jan0X5

Amazon Pa 2: https://amzn.to/34HGt2g

Amazon Ma 3: https://amzn.to/3wELnJj

Amazon Pa 3: https://amzn.to/3GyXTLJ



"Easy to read...entertaining...delightful!"









Cheryl Carpinello taught high school English for 25 years. During that time, she worked with numerous students who didn’t like to read for a variety of reasons. However, she discovered that even the most reluctant readers became engaged in the classroom and in reading when she introduced units on King Arthur and the works of ancient world writers. Upon retiring, she set out to write fast-paced, action-filled stories in these setting to encourage young readers to read more. Her success with readers aged 8-16 led her to reach out to the youngest of readers and those readers just starting out. Revising stories she had written for her own children, she created Grandma/Grandpa’s Tales for ages 4-7.  Her four grandchildren’s conversations created the stories in Book 3 of this series.

Visit her on Twitter and Facebook.









Sponsored By:

⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Ticket to Ride by Winona Kent @winonakent #Mystery #AmateurSleuth #TicketToRide

 

On the road with Figgis Green, professional musician / amateur sleuth Jason Davey must track down the source of a series of escalating mishaps before he--and the band--are permanently canceled…


By Winona Kent




In Lost Time, the third book in Winona’s Jason Davey Mystery series, professional musician / amateur sleuth Jason Davey was rehearsing for Figgis Green’s 50th Anniversary Tour of England. Now they’re on the road in Ms. Kent’s fourth book in the series, Ticket To Ride.

But when a fortune-teller in Sheffield warns them of impending danger, the band is suddenly plagued by a series of seemingly-unrelated mishaps.

After Jason is attacked and nearly killed in Cambridge, and a fire alarm results in a very personal theft from Mandy’s hotel room, it becomes clear they’re being targeted by someone with a serious grudge.

And when Figgis Green plays a gig at a private estate in Tunbridge Wells, that person finally makes their deadly intentions known.

Jason must rely on his instincts, his Instagram “guardian angel,” and a wartime ghost who might possibly share his DNA, in order to survive.

Book Information

Release Date: March 26, 2022

Publisher:  Blue Devil Books

Soft Cover: 978-1777329433; 230 pages; $15.70; E-Book, $3.93

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3i0xRqY



CHAPTER FIVE

  

I

 had a sort-of day-of-routine that I followed on show days. I showered and shaved at the hotel, then I walked ‘round to the sound check at the theatre (or took a taxi, if we were staying more than twenty minutes away). Dinner followed the sound check, and then there was a period of waiting around to perform—which, for me, usually involved a ciggie or two out back with Tejo, a packet of M&M’s for that all-important additional sugar boost, a mug of coffee, some conversations on Instagram, and a personal tour of the venue.

I tried not to vary the routine too much. I wasn’t superstitious. Oh all right, maybe I was.

I’d taken it easy during the sound check. Playing the guitar wasn’t a problem. But singing was absolute torture, so I’d decided to preserve my voice and I’d got Bob to stand in for me while Tejo tested my mic levels.

An empty theatre before a show always gives me a sense of something privileged and exclusive. I used to feel the same way when I was at sea and wandering around the Sapphire at two in the morning, when all the passengers were asleep and the decks were deserted.

The Pantheon was gorgeous inside and its predominant colour—like the colour in a lot of those old nineteenth century theatres—was red. Rich red upholstery on the seats, flocked red wallpaper, a decorative scarlet curtain with gold tassels and fringes.

I hiked up the stairs to the gods and stood on my own at the very top, gazing down the steep pitch to the stage, where all our instruments had been set up by Kato, our equipment manager. Kato was an interesting addition to the crew—a female in a role that had always been traditionally male. She had short blonde hair and large teeth and she was gregariously friendly when she wasn’t insulting me.

Old English music halls were designed by architects who weren’t all that worried about health and safety. Their main concern was the audience’s sight line, and because of that, the railings at the bottom front of the balcony were usually less than three feet high.

I was standing in Row A, acutely aware that all that was between me and a drop of about thirty feet into the stalls was that slim brass rail that didn’t even reach my waist. Suddenly, I had the creepiest feeling that I was being watched.

And along with that came a sudden and dramatic paralytic fear. I’m not afraid of heights, but Mitch is. And I remember him explaining to me that his wasn’t so much the fear of being so high up, as it was the fear of not being able to control himself if he was suddenly seized by an irrational desire to jump.

It was exactly that fear I was experiencing. I was terrified to move. Someone was behind me. I could feel their eyes burning into my back. And what overtook my imagination was my only means of escape—leaping over that railing.

It was, of course, utterly ridiculous. I shoved my phone into my jeans pocket and grabbed hold of the brass rail with both hands and gripped it, tight, focusing my attention on my Strat, propped up on its stand on the stage below.

I listened to my pounding heart and my breathing and the silence all around me. Whoever was behind me wasn’t making a sound. And then…it was over. They left. I didn’t hear them, didn’t see them…but I sensed it. They’d gone.

I let go of the railing and backed up the stairs, gripping the arms of the seats. At the top, when I felt safe, I turned around. And I saw them: two grotesques, fixed to the back wall, laughing at me.

At first glance you’d have thought they were cherubs, fashioned out of white marble, the sort of thing you’d find decorating a chapel. But no, these were not in the least cherubic. In fact they reminded me of those drama masks, Comedy and Tragedy. Which was probably what they were intended to portray.

But both of them had completely twisted faces and they frightened the life out of me.

Perhaps it was just my state of mind.

Perhaps it was just the Benylin.

But I had the creepiest feeling they weren’t the only ones who’d been in the balcony with me just then.

 

#

 

Our caterers were another luxury provided by my mother, who had less-than-enthusiastic recollections of tours, back in the day, fuelled by a never-ending menu of cold chicken sandwiches.

Roadworks wasn’t a big outfit, but the two ladies who ran it—Mary and Janice—were event veterans. And they’d stepped in at the last minute when our original firm, Up the Hill, had to pull out of the tour due to a family emergency.

Mary and Janice drove their own truck and fitted everything into flight cases, which they rolled on and off at each of our venues. They came complete with their own portable chairs and tables and tablecloths, disposable stuff—napkins, tin foil, plastic wrap, paper towels—and compostables—our meals were all served on fabulous bamboo plates with matching knives, forks and spoons which were completely recyclable.

They were dab hands at doing the local scout for fresh food and then getting everything set up and cooked in time to feed our little entourage—and whoever else we might have had dropping in as special guests.

They served dinner backstage after our sound check on show nights, using whatever empty space could accommodate us. They provided handwritten menus and cuisine lovingly prepared with fresh ingredients from local markets.

That night, we had a crab starter, goat cheese ravioli and a raw spinach salad with honey Dijon dressing. And to finish, raspberry and almond tarts and a little bowls of custard topped with Devon cream and blueberries.

“You all right?” Rolly asked, as I helped myself to the ravioli.

“I’ve been better,” I replied.

My experience in the theatre had rattled me. I suppose it showed.

“Cheer up,” Rolly said, adding an extra serving of ravioli to his plate. “We’ve got a sellout crowd tonight.”

“We’ve got a sellout crowd every night,” I said, opting for two bowls of spinach salad to make sure I was staving off tour scurvy.

It wasn’t until I was deciding between the raspberry and almond tart and the custard with Devon cream and blueberries, that my mother decided to tell me about the anonymous message someone had left on her phone that afternoon.

“On your mobile?” I said.

“On the phone in my hotel room,” she replied. “While I was out shopping.”

“What did they say?”

“They informed me that we were lucky not to have been killed by the gargoyle. Had a little rant about the state of the country. And told me to watch out.”

“Sorry?” I said. “You’ve received a threat?”

“I suppose you might call it that,” my mother replied, helping herself to the custard and blueberries. “It might just have been a nutter, blowing off steam. I haven’t deleted it. Come back to my room after the show and have a listen.”

 

#

 

I don’t really get nervous before a performance. I used to, but I’ve done it so often now, especially at the Blue Devil, that it’s second nature to me. What I do get is a little adrenaline kick just before I go on. And I don’t mind admitting that I love the attention, the applause, the feeling of connecting with an audience that I know has come specifically to see us. I love their affection. I love the feeling I get knowing that they want to hear us—me—play. I suppose they feed my sense of accomplishment and my ego. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I crave their validation. But I grew up in the spotlight. And because I had well-known musical parents, I was always going to be put under the microscope and comparisons were always going to be made.

I gave up trying to compete with their legacy a long time ago.

The Figs weren’t—and never have been—a high-tech act. No lasers or Live and Let Die pyros, no huge screen up the rear with rolling cameras on tracks in the pit, no complex SFX and multi-level stages.

No multiple trucks filled with rigs and hundreds of rolling flight cases, either. We had a single van for all our equipment and it was driven by Kato, who also took care of moving our gear on and offstage and setting it all up.

Our stage was decorated simply, with a series of long curtains suspended from rods, and for lighting we used the permanent spots supplied by the venue, plus a couple of extras that we’d brought along to enhance the mood during some of our songs. We had wedgies in front of us and amps in the back and Tejo with his trusty mixing board to make us sound excellent.

I’d like to say that night’s show went well and without incident. But that wouldn’t be true.

Our gigs usually ran to about two and a half hours. Eight tunes in the first set list, a thirty minute interval, then another nine tunes and the two encores. Figgis Green’s songs have never been long, drawn-out affairs. Quick and to the point for maximum radio play, relaxed a little for live shows. And we were sticking to the familiar versions of nearly everything.

We’d come back from our break and had played through the first three songs, “Viaggio Italiano” (which was a jaunty tale based on a nightmare vacation my dad’s sister had taken with her husband in the 1970s, with rollicking riffs from the first movement of Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony thrown in for good measure); “Jay-Jay,” which was a lazy, slow shuffle jazz piece that my dad had composed about me (and which was, secretly, my favourite tune in the show); and “Four Strong Winds,” the Ian and Sylvia classic where I sang the lead vocal and mum joined me on the chorus.

Mum has always loved the loneliness and futility in the lyrics describing the end of a love affair—and though she’s never been to Alberta, she believes wholeheartedly in Ian Tyson’s claim that the weather’s good there in the fall. (I have been to Northern Alberta and I can tell you, reliably and without any word of a lie, that it’s very fucking cold in the middle of February, never mind the fall.)

We’d finished “Four Strong Winds” and I was beginning to swelter under the lights. I think I may have had Helix Aspersa Muller dripping off my face and onto my guitar. I really hoped Janice and Mary weren’t planning on serving escargot anytime soon. I hated to think I might be chowing down on one of my humanely-farmed certified organic facial product’s cousins.

We started “The Fog’s Lament,” which my parents had always claimed was an old English folk song, but in fact they’d made the whole thing up, cleverly creating lyrics that sounded like something a fair damsel stuck in a medieval turret would have dreamed about as she waited to be rescued by a lusty knight.

And, as I waited for a break in my fingering so I could wipe the sweat out of my eyes, there was a commotion down in the front row.

Our audiences were fond of getting up to dance during our more energetic songs, and “The Fog’s Lament” was very definitely one of those.

You can’t really make out a lot from the stage when the spots are on—they essentially blind you. You can see the general shapes of people but you can’t really single out their faces. But we all saw someone keeling over and not moving.

We stopped the show and waited while the person was brought ‘round and then helped up and taken out to the foyer by a couple of guys from Security. It looked like a woman, and, while she was able to walk, she was very unsteady on her feet.

After the show, in the foyer, we signed things and chatted and glad-handed and posed for pictures, but nobody had any news about the woman, whether she’d been able to leave on her own or had been taken to the hospital.

Afterwards, still buzzing and not nearly tired enough to sleep, we all walked back to the hotel and gathered in my mother’s room to listen to her message.

“Well, hello, Mandy.”

The voice was female.

“About that gargoyle. Weren’t you the lucky ones, eh? You could have been killed. Or Jason.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Accident waiting to happen, if you ask me. Shoddy workmanship. Bloody foreigners coming over here, taking all our jobs, lowering the standards.”

There was a pause.

“Or maybe it was deliberate. There’s a thought, eh? The perfect murder. You never know, do you? You’d best watch out.”

Click.

I studied the phone. It had a little screen in it and lots of buttons you could press to see a record of who rang you and who left messages. The sort of phone that often confounded my mother, who grew up and lived a good portion of her life in an era when you just lifted the receiver when you heard the double-ring and you said hello and that was that.

I pressed the buttons and read the information. Mum had only received the one call. In fact, that was the only call she’d got all day—because anyone who knew my mother personally knew the best way to reach her was on her mobile.

The little screen on the phone didn’t reveal the number of the caller and it didn’t provide a name.

In the old days, hotels had switchboards and operators. These days it’s all conference bridging and VOIP, virtual receptionists and in-room checkout.

“Don’t you think we should report this to the police?” Beth asked, doubtfully.

“Not worth their time,” mum replied. “I’m not even sure it’s a crime. A crank call, yes. But it’s not really a threat, is it?”

“It’s an implied threat,” I said.

“It’s not,” mum said. “I think we can safely delete the message and say goodnight.”

I stopped her from erasing it until I’d played it again and recorded it on my phone.

Just in case.

 



"Quirky...Intriguing...Mysterious..."










Winona Kent
is an award-winning author who was born in London, England and grew up in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, where she completed her BA in English at the University of Regina. After moving to Vancouver, she graduated from UBC with an MFA in Creative Writing. More recently, she received her diploma in Writing for Screen and TV from Vancouver Film School.

Winona's writing breakthrough came many years ago when she won First Prize in the Flare Magazine Fiction Contest with her short story about an all-night radio newsman, Tower of Power.

Her spy novel Skywatcher was a finalist in the Seal Books First Novel Competition and was published in 1989. This was followed by a sequel, The Cilla Rose Affair, and her first mystery, Cold Play, set aboard a cruise ship in Alaska.

After three time-travel romances (Persistence of Memory, In Loving Memory and Marianne's Memory), Winona returned to mysteries with Disturbing the Peace, a novella, in 2017 and the novel Notes on a Missing G-String in 2019, both featuring the character she first introduced in Cold Play, professional jazz musician / amateur sleuth Jason Davey.

The third book in Winona's Jason Davey Mystery series, Lost Time, was published in 2020.

Ticket to Ride is the fourth book in Winona’s Jason Davey Mysteries.

Winona has been a temporary secretary, a travel agent, a screenwriter and the Managing Editor of a literary magazine. She’s currently the BC/YK/NWT rep for the Crime Writers of Canada and is also an active member of Sisters n Crime – Canada West. She recently retired from her full-time admin job at UBC’s School of Population and Public Health, and is now happily embracing life as a full-time author.

You can visit her website at http://www.winonakent.com and connect with her on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads.

 

 











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