Thursday, July 9, 2020

PROMO: Life is a Series of Unexpected Interruptions

Non Fiction
Date Published: July 9, 2020
Publisher: Elite Online Publishing
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Read Clark East’s journey, the untold real-life story of how one bad decision destroyed his multimillionaire lifestyle. This is his story of the road back to god, faith, and love. His poor choices ultimately guided him to discover what is truly important in life.
Our mistakes do not define us. Learning from them and changing our decisions and actions are what define us. Choices in his past were all based on fear. Fear led Clark to the emotional and irrational decisions he made every time he had a challenge or a difficulty.
As you read about his journey, his unexpected interruptions, know that no matter your mistakes or what seems to be failures, are just little interruptions that may just lead you to where you need to be. You need not fear them or any other obstacle in your life. You are, however, encouraged to learn and grow.
What has enabled you to be the person you are meant to be — the person God wants you to be?
What unexpected interruption changed your life?


About the Author

Clark East became a millionaire at 25 and went on to become a successful commercial developer specializing in Retail Shopping Centers spanning Texas, Florida and North Carolina. Clark developed over 1,000,000 square feet of retail space including not only Shopping Centers, but Apartments, Office buildings and Hotels, exceeding over $100 Million in development. Just some of his clients have included Starbucks, CVS, LA Fitness, HomeGoods, GolfSmith, Chipotle, McDonald’s, Chili’s, Outback Steakhouse, Carrabba’s and Panera Bread.
Always the entrepreneur, Clark founded/invented “TracFind” - it tracks anything, anytime, anywhere and alerts you instantly worldwide. He was awarded a patent.
He also invented a Faith Coin and gives them out on a regular basis to anyone where he feels a connection and need.
Originally from Louisiana, Clark began his career early, owning a Bar/Restaurant and Limo service at just 19 years old.  Clark’s heart is still on the Gulf Coast of Florida where he grew up. Clark loves boating, the beach and anything around water. He loves spending time with his 4 grand kids and his family. Passionate about family, cooking, creating and giving back. 
Clark currently resides in Sugar Land, Texas.

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Wednesday, July 8, 2020

PROMO: Power of One

Motivation Book/Self Help
Date Published: July 1st 2020
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Author Devpal Gupta believes in living life according to those core values to which we we all have access: respect, positivity, and passion. In his debut inspirational book, Power of One, Devpal extracts lessons from his life's journey which began in Tanzania and London and transplanted him to a successful life as an Arizona-based commercial real estate executive and applies them to real-life principles. With no holds barred, Devpal tells it like it is -- he offers no excuse and takes no excuses when it comes to living a purposeful life. With eight hard-hitting, short-and-sweet chapters like "Get Over It" and "Why is the Brown Guy Better Than Us", Devpal straight shoots advice on how to remain genuine, honest and real.  Devpal also introduces his own theory, the Power of One. He imparts upon readers that in order to be truly prosperous, the only one you can rely on, is yourself.
The Power of One is a fantastically quick read and a dynamic demonstration of what it takes to be resourceful and resilient in a world that rewards people for gratuitous likes rather than the efforts and principles behind hard work.

 About the Author

Devpal Gupta is an Executive Director at one of the top commercial real estate firms in the greater Phoenix area. Specializing exclusively in Tenant Representation, he is responsible for servicing local clients and national accounts. Dev started in the industry in 1997 and has always worked exclusively as a Tenant advocate. Since that time, he has completed over 200 transactions ranging in size and scope from 5,000 square feet to 500,000 square feet and involving services from conventional lease analysis, strategic planning, unique build-to-suit projects, building acquisitions and dispositions. Dev’s specialties include office and industrial leasing, relocations, renewals and acquisitions.
Dev possesses extensive experience with managing and implementing transactions for diverse national portfolios, or large one-off deals.  In addition he has numerous companies with large sale-leaseback transactions. His particular knowledge of real estate financial issues enables him to proactively manage all types of transactions, minimizing risk, increasing flexibility, and reducing overall occupancy costs. Dev won Costar’s Power Broker of the year award in 2011, 2014, 2016 and 2018.
His dedication to his career and his craft carries over into how he lives his life: with passion, honesty and attention to detail. Dev works hard, plays hard and finds time to motivate people to living a meaningful life by reminding them to return to their core values. The Power of One is his first book.
Dev lives in Arizona with his wife and life partner, Suprit and their two lovely children. He has recently persuaded his parents to move from Tanzania and into his home; Dev considers this some of his best work yet.
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Tuesday, July 7, 2020

Blog Tour: In My Attic

Magical Misfits Mystery, Book 1
(Cozy) Mystery
Date Published: 1 July 2020
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust, Denver, Colorado

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Myrtle’s aunt is dead—murdered—and she has inherited the Witch’s Retreat, a Bed and Breakfast in the idyllic village of Avebury. Filled with outrageous characters, the old house hides a mystery under its eaves. Everybody is a suspect: Alan, the blue-eyed police constable; Chris, the proverbial dark and handsome stranger; Myrtle’s curvy cousin Daisy; and even Tiddles, the flatulent cat. As Myrtle takes on the mantle of amateur sleuth, she bumbles along in search of answers, digging deeper and deeper among the tangled roots of her family’s history. The secrets she uncovers are more shocking than death: a hidden magical relic, a coven of amateur witches eager to gather her into the fold, and modern witch hunters on the prowl.


Chapter 1

My aunt lay dead and I was lost in her life. It came complete with auntie’s beloved bed and breakfast fully booked and brimming with guests. Too bad, since I slung a mean tea bag but was a hopeless cook. Instead, I was a murderess. Well, okay, call it guilty of failing to render assistance, but it felt worse.
Yesterday, Aunt Eve had rung me, panic vibrating in her voice.
“Myrtle, I need your help. This is getting out of hand.”
“What is? Listen, I’m so sorry, but there’s a faculty meeting in two minutes and—”
“I can’t do this on my own.”
“Not for this. I need you. I won’t let him win.” The last bit came out as a wail and triggered my monumental mistake. Aunt Eve was the most rational person on Earth, though she had her wild moments. I decided this was one of them, made soothing noises and promised to ring back.
I never made that call.
Now, on a deceptively pleasant Tuesday afternoon, I found myself standing in the kitchen of my aunt’s bed and breakfast, caught in a haze of loss and anguish, assaulted by the lingering aromas of fry-ups gone by. To make matters worse, the Witch’s Retreat was also overrun by the police in their size elevens.
Bang on cue, a copper tramped in from the corridor and pushed his way through the saloon-style swing doors, his helmet under his arm.
He beamed at me. “Hi there, any chance of a cuppa?”
Such a simple request. Aunt Eve would have had the kettle boiling in no time. Why was I still standing there, the strap of my purse cutting into my shoulder, the industrial-sized fridge humming away
in indifference?
“Give me a moment.” I dumped my suitcase onto terracotta tiles as immaculate as the cupboards with their glossy eggshell finish.
Illuminated by ceiling spots so bright they out-dazzled the watery April sunlight, the doors of the cabinets reflected my haggard face, colorless and distorted as if I were a specter haunting auntie’s world.
Everything looked like it did in November when I visited this place for the last, and first, time. My scruples had nothing to do with the old house. The renovations did the Georgian elephant proud. The village it stood in was a different matter.
Don’t be such a Moaning Myrtle,  my inner voice scolded.
True, this mawkishness was not my style. I heaved a shuddering breath and searched my surroundings. In a corner, close to the steel double sink, I spotted a toaster and the kettle. Tea bags were nowhere in sight, but then the blasted tears were once more blurring my vision. I searched my pockets for a tissue, wiped my eyes and blew my nose. All the time, my uniformed companion was tactful enough not to comment.
Trying to calm my breathing, I focused on the flowerpots lining the windowsill from the back entrance to the sink, their occupants the only sign something was amiss and must have been for a while. Aunt Eve took good care of her green boarders. These plants, primulas from what I could make out, were as shriveled and dried as last autumn’s leaves.
Fabric rubbing on fabric reminded me of the young police officer still waiting, his helmet now parked on the quartz countertop. His eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m sorry. You’re Mrs.
Coldron’s older daughter, correct? Or would that be niece?”
The bloke was as well informed as he was nosy. “Take your pick,” I said.
“Ah. Put my foot right in it, then. Thought you might be another helper. My apologies. The ladies who do the cooking are ever so good with the drinks and sandwiches.”
Had this place turned into a police canteen?
“You seem to be familiar with the arrangements, officer.”
Policeman Plod snapped his heels together in a mock salute and bowed. “Constable Alan Hunter, at your service. Actually, I’m one of
the houseguests. Just transferred to Swindon. I’m still looking for a flat, so I booked a room here for the time being. It’s a great place.”
His gaze slipped aside. “Well, it was.”
The bloke was easy on the eyes in his natty uniform, and his voice sounded genuinely contrite and well educated, so I forgave him.
When he spoke again, he addressed his helmet rather than me.
“I’m sorry about…what happened. You must be in shock.”
Polite despite the thing with the helmet, “shock” was not the word I would have used. One moment all I had to worry about was a mountain of essays for English Lit and A-grade German that needed correcting, wondering what the girls might be commenting on. It didn’t sound at all like the set novels. Moments later, the headmistress had called me in, the lines in her sourpuss’s face distorted by what I only afterward identified as concern. She had passed me the phone and my world went black.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Coldron met with a fatal accident,” the female voice on the other end of the line said. “In fact, we are treating this as a suspicious death. Can you come?”
I packed my case in a daze and spent a tortured hour in the teachers’ wing, the headmistress having stopped me from belting up the motorway to Avebury. Instead, a colleague was to drive me in my car and return by train. The headmistress had been surprisingly compassionate; she granted me a week’s leave and had given me tea and a pat on the back before I set out. I understood this to mean the job that meant so much to me—despite the crappy essays—might still be waiting once I escaped from this nightmare.
Auntie was my anchor, the one person who had always been there for me. She took me in when my parents died in an awful accident.
Now I was grieving for her.
My vision wobbled, and I sagged onto the rubber gymnastic ball auntie used instead of a kitchen chair. She insisted it did wonders for her spine and, whenever excited, bounced up and down on it like a toddler. Tears burned the back of my throat.
No more bouncing.
“You all right?” The copper’s voice dragged me back to the present.
“Need some tea?” That was the UK for you. If in distress, stay calm and switch the kettle on. To tell the truth, I was thirsty. And hungry.
My body craved sustenance, no matter what was going on and whether or not I liked it.
“No, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll unpack in Number Seven and then…”
No idea what to do then. My aunt was gone. Neither tea nor tears could bring her back.
“Room Number Seven?” my police officer asked. “I thought it stood empty?”
“It’s a spare, for emergencies,” I said. “It suits me.”
That had been an odd thing to say, so I changed the subject. “Any suggestions where my cousin might be?”
The constable shook his head. “The other Ms. Coldron suffered a breakdown when she heard the news, and the doctor gave her a sedative. She’s not in the house for sure.”
Yup, that sounded like something Daisy would do. If she was not at my aunt’s place, she had most likely returned to her room in the pub where she tended the bar. Running a B&B was beyond her, coping with emergencies was beyond her—in a way, life was beyond her.
As usual, it was all up to me. Not that she would appreciate my efforts.
The ball hurt the small of my back, and I dragged myself up. “Can I talk to your superior? I still don’t understand what happened. Is he around somewhere?”
Constable Hunter pushed the blond fringe from his face and twinkled his baby blues at a point somewhere over my right shoulder, which was an improvement over the helmet.
“She,” he said. “The Sarge is upstairs with the SOCO. They should be done soon. I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.” He bounced a smile in my general direction and trooped off, the doors swinging shut behind him.
Upstairs with the what? SOCO sounded ominous. And where upstairs? At least he didn’t mention pathologists. That was the last thing I needed now. What I needed was a porter, but even if the Witch’s Retreat was reasonably upmarket, it was no five-star hotel.
With every step I took up treads carpeted in midnight blue, my battered suitcase got heavier. The big three-oh was recent, so I shouldn’t wheeze like this. Not that I did, usually. Back at the school,
I bounced up and down stairs along with the girls. Here, I felt like I was climbing Mount Everest without a Sherpa.
The first landing gave me an excuse to let go of my luggage and catch my breath. The silent corridor, with the pine doors mirroring each other on both sides, seemed to have slipped out of the time stream and I with it. No creaks, no groans, none of the noises old buildings tended to make. Even the guests remained mum. The result was an oddly appropriate otherworldly stillness. Aunt Eve’s brilliant mind had created this place. Here, her memory would live on. I could almost see her smiling, her tall figure striding along the passage.
The phone at reception downstairs rang once, twice, then stopped.
The spell was broken, and I loosened my death grip on the blond wood of the handrail.
Something, probably a window, banged shut in the bedroom closest to the stairs, telling me the guests were awake after all.
Perhaps the police had forced them to stay, and those innocent-looking doors hid a killer.
Despite the plushy comfort offered by my favorite moss-green fleece jacket, a breeze sneaked along my spine. I was overwhelmed by an urge to scamper back down and keep running. Instead, I forced my unwilling legs to hoist myself and my luggage to the top floor.
Whoever had so diligently vacuumed below had capitulated here.
Footprints marred the dark blue of the carpet leading up the steps and into the upper corridor.
The cold spread from my spine to my arms and drew goosebumps.
I must be close to the crime scene. No sooner had the thought chilled my brain than I heard voices on the draft coming from the door at the end of the corridor. It led to a little landing with Aunt Eve’s room on the left and Daisy’s on the right. Both door and landing were half-hidden by a curtain featuring tiny mauve roses. Where the furnishings chosen by my parents had been all about angles and squares, Aunt Eve’s taste in interior decoration had leaned toward the floral, although she restrained herself to her private sphere. Her Wiccan spleen she had vented openly when she chose this village, of all places, for her business, naming the bed and breakfast “Witch’s Retreat” and hanging kitschy ceramic tiles displaying the room
number and a witch motif on the doors to the rooms.
When I reached for the brass knob of Number Seven, featuring a teal-colored seven and a broomstick, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A blue and white plastic band, unnecessarily labeled “POLICE,” barred access to the private part of the corridor.
Had my aunt been killed in her bed?
The carpet was even dirtier up here, showing the evidence of many a booted foot trudging to and from the makeshift but ominous barricade. For a moment, I considered searching for another place to stay. Unfortunately, apart from the Witch’s Retreat, Avebury offered little choice of accommodation. Next on the list was the Crystal Dawn, a quixotic New Age B&B down the road, a flat over the Magic Mushroom CafĂ©, available only during the summer months, and the few rooms at the Whacky Bramble, the pub where my cousin worked.
If I had any home in this village, this would be it, crime scene or not.
At least my aunt’s remains had been removed. The disembodied voice on this morning’s phone call had told me that much.
When I entered Number Seven, the room welcomed me with the sweet perfume lilies release into the summer skies. Aunt Eve must have refreshed the potpourri before she died. Sobs tickled the back of my throat, but I slammed the door before they escaped. I dumped my luggage to fumble for a box of tissues on the nightstand of the nearest twin bed.
Several sniffles later, I opened the suitcase. My packing had been hurried, and it showed. I could only hope the motley collection of charity rejects would yield some useful items of clothing. First things first: I needed a shower before confronting Constable Hunter’s sergeant.
The moment I entered the bathroom, a knock sounded on the door to Number Seven. I cracked it open and beheld the same lantern-jawed face and roving gaze I had encountered earlier.
“Sergeant Widdlethorpe can talk to you now if you like. She’s got to leave soon to attend the—eh, never mind. She’ll be back tomorrow.
You can meet her then if you prefer.” He looked at my ear expectantly. We were making progress.
I opened the door farther. “For how much longer will I have the pleasure of a police presence?”
“You mean the on-site investigation? They’re almost done, don’t you worry.”
The urge to talk to Constable Hunter’s superior became overwhelming, so I stepped into the corridor. “If your sergeant is ready, I wouldn’t mind having a word with her now.”
Hunter nodded and led the way. Ever the helpful neighborhood bobby, he lifted the plastic strip for me to bend under and pushed the curtain aside so I could enter the landing. Fluorescent lamps threw their glare into what used to be such a cozy place, illuminating a figure in a white hooded suit next to an aluminum stepladder lying on its side. A young woman in street clothes leaned against the wall opposite the entrance, her neck craning toward a trapdoor in the ceiling. The tips of her shoes rested inches away from the chalked outline of a person with one arm reaching out, knees pulled up.
My stomach lurched.
Dried red rose petals lay strewn about the grisly smear, flattened and crumpled in places. They clustered in the part marking the splayed fingers.
Bile rose in my throat. Those dark splotches half-hidden by the wilted and crushed petals could only be blood.
My aunt had not died in her bed.
She had plummeted from the attic.
Killed by a bouquet of roses?

About the Author

LINA HANSEN has been a freelance travel journalist, teacher, bellydancer, postal clerk and science communication specialist stranded in the space sector. Numbed by factoid technical texts, she set out to write the stories she loves to read— cozy and romantic mysteries with a dollop of humour and a magical twist. After living and working in the UK, Lina, her husband, and their feline companion now share a home in the foothills of Castle Frankenstein. Lina is a double Watty Award Winner, Featured Author, and a Wattpad Star.

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Monday, July 6, 2020

PROMO: This is your SHIFTING season

Christian, Spiritual Growth, Religious, Inspirational
Date Published: May 2, 2020
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Have you ever found yourself in a tough life situation and couldn't find a way to get out of it?
Have you ever wondered what your true capabilities are and how to reveal your full potential?
Or maybe, you are seeking a tool that would boost up your motivation and teach you valuable life lessons?

I think this book will definitely make a shift in your life, so keep reading…

"THIS IS YOUR SHIFTING SEASON" – a book that is going to change your perception about your true inner power,  teach you valuable life lessons and show what is possible with dedication and the right strategies.

We all had good and bad times in our life, we all made mistakes, and we all have regrets. And it doesn't matter what those times, mistakes or regrets are. If you are still living on this planet, you have the right to get better and move forward, just like I did…
Being lost for about 22 years, I finally found my life path, discovered strategies, and rules that led me out of the very bottom of my life. Years spent in and out jails, drug and alcohol addictions are now my past. I even managed to get them out of my brain. After so many years of darkness, I decided to dedicate my life to help others to find their own life path.
Here is just a short brief of what you are going to learn:
How to find your purpose in life?
RULES OF MANUAL TRANSMISSION – learn how to accelerate your life
Find your real destination. What is truly important?
The best way to start your SHIFTING SEASON
What is your real potential – a self-identification guide
Much much more…
And it doesn't matter whether you believe in God or not, you are 20 years old or 60 years old, male or female, the strategies and rule inside this book will help you as much as it helped others.
Now it is your turn to make a decision, to take the first step, and turn on your unlimited life engine.
About the Author

Michael Mickey Williams Jr. an Atlantic City New Jersey native was once homeless, eating food out of trash cans, suicidal, addicted to heroin, and crack cocaine. He spent 22 years of his life in-and-out of jails and rehabilitation centers since he was a teenager. Nowadays, however, he's married, a substance abuse counselor, a minister, and a ten-time published author with titles like "Pushed out the Crack House into God's house, My Purpose is Greater than my struggles, and I'm a Giant Killer to name a few, he's also one of the Co-founders of The Minor Adjustments Program which is dedicated to preventing and reducing crimes, their primary purpose is to teach men and women how to make the "Minor Adjustments" that are necessary for their lives, Their motto is "Anywhere but backward" Mr. Williams is a dedicated advocate for those who are struggling with addictions or criminal lifestyles, mainly because he struggled with those same barriers.
Beyond the Minor Adjustments Program, It is said that he was named "Preacher Boy" by his beautiful wife Lernell Apple Williams, his style of preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ makes it easy for him to communicate to both the common people and the religious, his stated that he tries to use everyday language already familiar to his culture, with a purpose to always try to touch individual personal needs at the same time communicate spiritual truth.
As a father of seven, with four grandkids he credits his parents as the source of his perseverance and sense of self-reliance. After 22 years of being in bondage to addiction, Mr. Williams continues to be one of today's most inspirational, encouraging, and influential men today.

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Friday, July 3, 2020

Release Day: The Aria of Galvanize

Post-Apocalyptic / Sci-Fi / Dystopian
Date Published: July 3, 2020
Publisher: Skyland Press
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Incarnate Number Seven, a cybernetically enhanced young woman with no memories and only a basic operating system, awakens to a devastated world painted in blood, desperation, and genocide. Guided only by a moody artificial intelligence program and scattered digital memories into the past, Seven must traverse the perilous Gateway region, fighting past its savage inhabitants and monsters to learn who she was and what happened to her world. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll even save what’s left of humanity in the process… 

About the Author
Wilder Page loves science fiction, cyberpunk, dystopian, and post-apocalyptic worlds. Especially those with stories where the personal stakes are high, and the costs of failure are very real. But he also believes in the triumph of the human spirit, and whether the future will be grim or bright, well… that’s a choice each of us has to make for ourselves. When Wilder’s not writing or daydreaming he spends the rest of his time running, traveling with his wife and best friend, or playing video games with his two amazing little kiddos!

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Wednesday, July 1, 2020

Blog Tour: Once in a Blood Moon

Southern Historical
Date Published: June 11, 2020
Publisher: Acorn Publishing

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Heaven Hill Plantation, upriver from Georgetown, South Carolina, 1807: Sixteen-year-old Alexandra Degambia is the daughter of a wealthy African American planter and a social-climbing mother who can pass for white. Balancing on the tightrope between girlhood and the complicated adult world of Low-Country society is a treacherous undertaking.

Early Reviews

Alexandra is a tenacious heroine who’s easy to root for, and the author elegantly articulates her precarious position between white and black society. Overall, this novel explores issues of equality and personal freedom in thought-provoking ways.

Sharp writing, an original plot, and a strong female protagonist make for an engrossing read.
-Kirkus Review

This tale of desperation, injustice and courage is a much needed addition to our grasp of our nation's history. A 5-star reading experience. Highly recommend!"
Laura Taylor – 6-Time Romantic Times Award Winner


Alexandra longs to impress Monsieur. She imagines dancing with him before bedazzled spectators. She panics. He’s an accomplished dancer. What if the orchestra does play a waltz? She’ll make a fool of herself.
“I guess I could go down and dance for a little while,” Alexandra says, rising from the porch swing.
Before the young women reach the bottom of the stairs, they see a stranger wearing the sheriff’s badge galloping toward them from the back road. Three of his deputies ride hard on his heels.
Callie leans close to Alexandra. “Let’s duck behind the snowball bush before they see us,” she says. She sets the quilt on the porch swing and hides the Dancing Masters behind the geranium planter.
But the men are coming too fast. The girls are only half way down the stairs when the men rein their lathered horses to a stop.
The new sheriff, who wears a top hat too small for his head, points at Alexandra.
“Girl! Git me some water.”
Alexandra edges toward Callie and reaches to take her hand. Callie moves away. Cold sweat drenches Alexandra.
“You deaf? Git me some water. Now!” The stocky man’s eyes graze over Alexandra’s body. He clucks his tongue and turns to Callie, “You’re too old to be dressing your slaves in your own clothes like they was dolls. I recommend you burn that fine dress to avoid being tainted by the sins of Hamm.”
“These are my clothes!” says Alexandra.
The sheriff and his deputies laugh.
“Tell him, Callie! These clothes are mine.”
“You let your girl speak to you in that tone?” The sheriff asks.
“I’m not her girl!”
Alexandra plants her feet. Callie backs toward the door.
“Callie! Tell him.”
Callie edges into the house and eases the door shut. Alexandra faces the sheriff. “My daddy will want a word with you,” Alexandra says, her fire rising.
When she sees a vein on the sheriff’s neck pump the venom that makes men crazy, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She sighs with relief when Tante Isabelle glides out the back door like a cool breeze. Mother follows, arms akimbo, lips pressed tight.
“Where’s Sheriff Adams?” asks Tante Isabelle in her blue-velvet voice.
“Heart attack. He’ll recover more than likely, but he won’t be back to work for a long time, if ever. Traveling judge deputized me. I’m following up on a slave who escaped from the George­town jail. You seen a big, black buck with a crooked nose and a little finger missing on his left hand?”
“I haven’t made the acquaintance of such a man,” says Tante Isabelle. “How are Mary and Margaret getting along?”
“Who?” asks the sheriff.
“Sheriff Adam’s wife and daughter.”
“Don’t know ’em.”
“Y’all are new to the Georgetown area, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Surely, you’ve heard of Heaven Hill, the oldest plantation on the Santee,” continues Tante Isabelle.
“Yes, Ma’am,” says the sheriff.
Alexandra can tell he’s lying from the way he shifts in his saddle and looks to his men to provide him with the correct answer.
“Well then, I am pleased to present the mistress of that famous plantation, Miss Josephine Degambia.” Mother curls her lips into her Mona Lisa smile and nods.
The sheriff tips his hat.
“And her daughter, my niece, Alexandra Degambia,” Tante Isabelle continues.
The sheriff’s eyes bulge as Alexandra forces herself to curtsey.
“Carolina Gold, the most sought-after rice in the world, is shipped all over the world from Heaven Hill, but I’m sure you knew that, Sheriff. Where’d y’all say you’re from?” Tante Isabelle doesn’t wait for his answer. “Now, if all y’all are still thirsty, you and your men are welcome to use the well in back of the blacksmith’s shop. The water’s fresh and sweet, sure to cool you down on a hot day like this. When you’re done, be so kind as to show yourselves to the main road.”
The sheriff turns his horse and kicks it to a canter. When he and his deputies are specks on the horizon, Callie slips onto the porch from the back door followed by her mother. “Shall we stroll in the maze garden?” Callie asks Alexandra.

About the Author

Dorothea Hubble Bonneau is an award-winning novelist, produced playwright and optioned screenwriter. Inspired by a quest for justice, her work is informed by her love of family, nature, and the literary arts.

Dorothea is a member of Author’s Guild, Women in Film, Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Aspen Summer Words Alumni, and Historical Writers of America.

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Twitter: @DorotheaBonneau

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