Sharp carried a teapot in one hand and two mugs in the other. “You’ve had a tough night, so I’ll ignore your smart-assery.” Lance eased himself into the straight chair. “You know, most men would offer a friend a glass of whiskey after a traumatic event.” Sharp poured green tea into two mugs and set one in front of Lance. “Alcohol is a depressant. That’s the last thing you need right now.” Sigh. “Now that I can see for myself that you’re not dead, tell me what happened.” Sharp took his place behind the desk. Lance filled him in. “Just a typical Friday night.” Sharp laughed so hard, he wheezed. “It’s not funny,” Lance said. “You’re right. It’s not.” But his boss’s voice shook. “That was the worst job ever. I don’t know what bothered me more, the flying bullets or the melodrama.” Lance took a few deep breaths. “Not sure where we stand on the case.” “ Not much you can do when the client loses her frigging mind.” Sharp’s voice sobered. “Seriously, I’m glad she didn’t shoot you.” “I don’t know about this PI thing. I still miss being a cop,” Lance said. “I know that, and…

Secret passages have always captivated me. Growing up, one of my best friends lived in a 125 year old farm house that had three secret passages. One was in an upstairs bedroom that lead into the below kitchen pantry closet, then there was a fake bookcase that was really a door revealing a cozy little TV room, and one passage I was never able to see because I’m pretty sure it lead outside through a creepy storage shed. Needless to say, playing Clue in her house was always thrilling. As a daughter of an engineer, our house felt like it was decorated in blueprints. It took me until tenth grade to realize that knowing how to draft a room and knowing the signs for a shower, window, door, light fixture, sink, plumbing, and bath were not common knowledge. Apparently those kids did not design fake homes on graph paper during lazy Saturday morning family fun (they missed out). One of the great aspects of being an author is designing the setting for your novel. In previous novels, I’ve had fun imagining a bedroom or classroom, but with my newest novel I fell in love with the process of creating my…

I’m not a writer. Well, that’s not exactly true, clearly, because here I’ve just written a book. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I have trouble self-identifying as a writer after so many years in my current career…Classical Music Radio DJ. Huh? I used to say Classical Music Host, but no one got it. Then I said Classical Music DJ, but then someone asked me “So, what kind of parties do you hire a classical music DJ for?” That’s when I started throwing in the word ‘radio’ to distinguish myself from the guys who throw giant sunglasses and inflatable bananas at the crowd of a wedding reception while playing the Electric Slide. So, what is it, exactly, that I do do? I’m on the radio. I play a piece of classical music, I talk about it, I play another one. Lather, rinse, repeat. Though, to be fair, it’s a lot more interesting than that. I go out of my way to talk about the composers and performers in a way that makes them relevant to people who listen today. And, I suppose, this is where my inclination to write comes from. I like to tell stories. Interesting…

After publishing seven novels, you’d think my eighth release day, this time for VIOLET GRENADE, would go differently. I’m a seasoned vet, after all. I keep my expectations manageable, I drink my coffee black and get a damn fine massage and don’t worry about Amazon rankings. And I do not—I repeat—I do not obsess about my reviews. Just kidding. I have done—and will do—all those things. In fact, here are 8 things all authors do on release day (on every release day)— Secretly hope our books will be bestsellers. Even if we are self-publishing our first book, have the world’s worst cover and blurb, and have told exactly no one about our novel, we secretly pray the book will instantly hit the New York Times bestseller list. Because magic exists, right? Refresh Amazon a thousand times. Because rankings totally tell the whole story, right? Wrong. We all know that’s wrong. And yet… Celebrate hitting a subcategory Amazon list. OMG! I’m a bestseller for Fiction > YA > Romance > Family > Horse Heads > Yellow Monkey Feces > Anti-Bestsellers. This means I’m winning! Try to play it cool. Make plans to not worry about your sales, or reviews, by penciling…

NIGHTSHADE FOR WARNING is the second in the Enchanted Garden Mystery series featuring aromatherapist and perfumer Elliana Allbright. After divorcing her philandering husband, she opened her dream business, Scents & Nonsense, in her hometown of Poppyville, California. Her almost supernatural sense of smell combined with her ability to intuitively know what fragrances will help her friends and customers overcome difficulty or simply bring them pleasure has made her business take off like a rocket. The Enchanted Garden behind her shop is chock-full of rambling plants, bird houses and windchimes, winding paths, tumbling terrace beds, and myriad herbs and flowers from which she distills the concentrated scents that are the hallmark of her unique perfumes. For this, she uses the ancient copper alembic her gamma left her along with an illustrated garden journal Ellie has come to realize contains more than a little magic. The garden is open to her customers and friends to sit, sip tea, and nibble on the cookies that her best friend, Astrid Moneypenny, bakes up every morning. Miniature garden tableaus, gnome doors and fairy gardens are tucked into crevices and nooks all over the space. Dash the corgi and Nabokov the Russian Blue shop cat provide…

“How on earth do you come up with your stories?” That’s the question I get asked more often than anything else. Actually, at one point in my career, I wasn’t really sure how I did it, I just sat my butt down in front of the computer and the story seemed to flow…no, that’s actually a big fat lie. The story only flows when the story knows where to go. But as to the mechanics of how I do it for each and every mystery I write, I start with a question: What do I want to say in this book? Now, don’t get me wrong, I know what I write and I know it’s not a philosophical tome or the great American novel, it’s entertainment pure and simple. I write genre fiction and I love what I do…but I’ll admit I’m a tad opinionated and I have a lot to say. When I sat down to write MRS. JEFFRIES RIGHTS A WRONG, I knew I wanted to craft a story that examined hubris and arrogance; you know, that guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth who then brags to anyone who’ll stand still for ten seconds that…

The other day my son was talking about all the things (for good or bad) you can learn to do or make online. “Careful that you don’t end up on some government list,” I joked until he looked meaningfully at me. Oh. Right. I cringe to think what someone would make of my searches through the years, which have included: The life of Blood Countess Elizabeth Bathory, the most prolific female serial killer of all time who purportedly bathed in the blood of virgins. How much virgin’s blood it takes to constitute a bath The Order of the Dragon How to tie fly-fishing lures Whether one can make a living hand-tying fishing lures How to play the ancient Egyptian board game Senet First Century public latrines What the uh, toilet paper options were in 1st Century public latrines Secret tunnels beneath Budapest’s Castle Hill Secret tunnels in Zagreb Secret tunnels in Jerusalem Ancient Glagolitic Paleo-Hebrew alphabet Sabaean alphabet How long it takes to get a caravan of 600 camels from Yemen to Israel Leprosy Heart conditions A bunch of random diseases Pretty much anything that can go wrong in pregnancy How stinky a dead body would be after three days…

Life is the one gift every human being has in common. It is the most sacred gift any of us will ever be given. And the most fragile. I wrote MURDER FOR EMILY’S SAKE because I wanted to entertain and engage readers in a way that celebrates the sanctity of life in all its various stages—the unborn, the newly born, children, teens, and adults of all ages. And I wanted to take readers on a thrill-ride that grabs their hearts and minds and leaves them thinking about whether life should be respected, protected, honored, and cherished. Also, my goal was to show that there are forces that threaten life—things like disease, sickness, evil actions of others, and even our own bad choices. I hope that readers will consider how we can honor life by the way we love and help one another, and the way we take care of those in need. And I hope readers will take time to see their own lives as a valuable gift from God. MURDER FOR EMILY’S SAKE encourages readers to consider what it is they treasure most. During the process of writing this book, I had to take inventory of things in my…

Long before I wrote romance or even read romance, I watched romance. This early introduction was courtesy of my mother. She loved Jane Austen like a mosquito loves blood. Okay, not the best simile, but you get my point. She watched Pride and Prejudice on the regular, the original BBC unabridged version starring Colin Firth. Remember the part when Colin, i.e. Mr. Darcy, plunges into the lake and walks back to Pemberly, wet shirt clinging to his body? Sigh. That was it. I was a goner. Soon enough, I was pilfering my mother’s historical romance novels seeking that same little thrill. Eventually historical romance evolved to science fiction romance, to contemporary romance to paranormal romance. Really whatever I could get my greedy little hands on. My voracious appetite for reading romance lead me to writing it. I don’t believe there can be too much romance in the world. Love is so inspirational. Why not try to create it myself? Being a romance writer is the best job in the world. And I have Jane Austen to thanks for that. GOOD LIES by Charlotte West Wild Minds If Warren Price was gasoline, I’d be a lit match. Addison Wanks, rock ’n’…

Two days later, Claire Miller pulled into the long driveway that led to the Walker family ranch and sighed. She was home, back in Colorado on her old stomping grounds, and it hurt just as much as she thought it would. Seven years evaporated like they’d never existed. Everything at the ranch looked exactly the way it had the day she’d left town, but she knew one major difference waited…Jake’s mom was gone. That loss hit her harder now. For the first time in her life, Mrs. Walker wouldn’t be on the front porch smiling and waving, or bringing her and Jake a pitcher of lemonade in the barn. She wouldn’t be in the kitchen making fried chicken or harassing her four boys about their homework or their girlfriends, and generally in that order. Claire half expected the place to look as sad on the outside as she suddenly felt on the inside, but the world never stopped spinning, no matter who was lost. The large red barn was freshly painted, the outbuildings were overflowing with riding tack, hay, and tractors. The riding and roping arenas were often used and the horses’ hooves made sure nothing could survive inside the…