KRL Update

Up on KRL this week reviews and giveaways of 3 fun cozies-"Booking for Trouble" by Jenn McKinlay, "If Books Could Kill" A Tea and Tomes Mystery by Karen Rose Smith, and "Murder at an Irish Session" An Irish Village Mystery by Carlene O'Connor https://kingsriverlife.com/04/11/three-bookish-matchmaking-cozies-for-spring-reading/

And the latest Mystery Coming Attractions from Victoria Fair https://kingsriverlife.com/04/11/mystery-current-coming-attractions-april-2026/

 

Up during the week, another special midweek guest post, this one by mystery author DS Lang about her historical mysteries involving golf https://kingsriverlife.com/04/08/mystery-mud-memories-and-masters-week/

 

We also have another special midweek guest post, this one an excerpt from "Two Truths and a Lie" by Mark Stevens https://kingsriverlife.com/04/08/excerpt-from-two-truths-and-a-lie-by-mark-stevens/

 

Up on KRL News and Reviews this week we have a review and ebook giveaway of "Diet of Death" by Ang Pompano, along with an interesting interview with Ang https://www.krlnews.com/2026/04/diet-of-death-by-ang-pompano.html

 

And a review of "The Delivery" by Andrew Welsh-Huggins https://www.krlnews.com/2026/04/the-delivery-by-andrew-welsh-huggins.html

 

And a review and ebook giveaway of "The Case of the Devious Daughter" by Cathy Ace https://www.krlnews.com/2026/04/the-case-of-devious-daughter-by-cathy.html

 

And a review and giveaway of "A Honeymoon of Havoc" by Victoria Tait https://www.krlnews.com/2026/04/a-honeymoon-of-havoc-by-victoria-tait.html

 

Happy reading,

Lorie 

Guest Post: Excerpt from Ruth Snyder: The Real-Life Murderess Inspiring The Modern Femme Fatale by Justin L. Murphy

  

Please welcome author Justin L. Murphy to the blog today as he shares an excerpt from his new book, Ruth Snyder: The Real-Life Murderess Inspiring The Modern Femme Fatale.

 

Introduction

 

One Christmas, I received a collection entitled The Four Novels of James M. Cain. It was an out-of-print item released in 1988, purchased on Amazon, and consisted of the author’s classic works. Among them were The Postman Always Rings Twice, Mildred Pierce, Double Indemnity, and Serenade. I’ve also watched the film Body Heat, starring William Hurt and Kathleen Turner, a few times.

 

A few nights after I watched the film again, I also saw the 1946 adaptation of The Postman Always Rings Twice. When I earlier read the novel, I felt Frank Chambers was an asshole for wanting Cora Papadakis to take the rap for the murder of her husband, Nick. I noticed how much the story resembled Body Heat. Both depicted a married woman and her male lover plotting to kill her much older husband.

 

I dug around online to find any connections, and not only were The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity written by Cain, but they were also based on the same real-life murder. In 1927, Ruth Snyder and her lover, Henry Judd Gray, murdered her much older husband, Albert. These two were executed at Sing Sing Prison in Ossining, New York. For almost a century, this event and its participants affected the culture and helped shape true crime and tabloid fodder in the modern era. It also helped form the hardboiled crime genre and defined its visual counterpart, film noir.

 

My aim with this book is to examine the case, its cultural influence, and the real-life family members it affected, despite their choices to remain silent. I hope those who read this come away with a better understanding of why Ruth Snyder and Henry Judd Gray committed this horrible act and what drove them to murder her husband, Albert. Above all, learn and examine the traces they leave behind, even a century later.

 

Regards,

Justin L. Murphy

A Writer Who Remains Curious

 

 

                                                       Chapter 1

 

The Art Editor and Telephone Operator First Meet

 

“Please excuse me.”

 

May Ruth Brown in the first conversation between her and her future husband, Albert Schneider.

 

Albert Edward Schneider was born in Brooklyn, Kings County, New York, on October 11, 1882, and was described as very intelligent with a passion for sports and the outdoors. One of six siblings, he maintained a close relationship with his mother, Mary Elizabeth Mealio Schneider, to the point that he painted and papered her walls. The man often tanned as an adult from hours of boating and fishing, which resulted from his love of the sea and the wind blowing in his curly hair. He was also interested in bowling and served as the art editor of Motor Boating Magazine, owned by William Randolph Hearst.

 

He fell in love with and became engaged to Jessie Guishard, even considering her the finest woman he ever met, but she contracted pneumonia before they could marry. She passed away on November 21, 1912, and Albert never got over her death. While working one day, he was irritated with a telephone operator who wanted to call a manufacturer to ease the situation. He spewed a great deal of harsh language at her expense, but soon regretted his behavior and apologized in person within a few hours. It was love at first sight between him and May Ruth Brown, the blonde-haired and blue-eyed nineteen-year-old everyone called "Brownie.” She was born on 125th Street in Manhattan on March 27, 1895. This woman quit school in the eighth grade, but attended night classes in shorthand, typing, and stenography. Soon, he visited her at work regularly. Albert offered her a reader and copyist job at his magazine; two weeks later, she jumped at the chance. It paid better, and Ruth quit the New York Telephone Company after two years.

 

They dated often, as Albert wanted to get her in bed, but premarital sex was looked down upon in the 1920s. Ruth was the daughter of old-fashioned Scandinavian parents, Harry Sorenson of Norway and Josephine I. Anderson of Sweden, and hoped to remain a virgin until the night she married. He proposed, and Ruth accepted. Her European heritage was ironic, as there were claims she wanted Albert to Americanize his name to “Snyder,” as “Schneider” sounded too German. Her father was a sailor who became a carpenter and changed his name to Brown for similar reasons. Other sources disputed that Albert did this of his own free will, and his application for military service in World War I also listed his last name as Snyder a decade earlier.

 

She longed for the finer things in life, a contrast to her frugal upbringing with her parents and a brother, Andrew, born on October 17, 1889, in Norway. During her childhood, several items she wanted couldn't be afforded. A blonde-haired doll, a Shetland pony, a wristwatch, a white bedroom set, or a party dress. Ruth passed by the storefront window to see the doll each day and was upset when someone else bought it. Her parents also couldn't afford to take in plays at the theater.

 

However, Harry and Josephine Brown spent money on Ruth's medical procedures since she had seizures due to epilepsy. The six-year-old girl underwent intestinal surgery before her appendix was removed a few years later, and the botched operation left her with internal issues. Her family attended the Methodist Episcopal Church, and she was raised to pray each night before bed, but her faith wasn't strong. The girl even questioned the existence of God. She also had no high academic achievements in school or career goals.

 

Ruth desired marriage and got it with Albert. She was a housewife who cleaned, sewed, and cooked. Her wish was that he would provide “the good life,” not the humdrum existence of her immigrant parents. After they married in 1915, she realized she and her husband were two different people. He was introverted, deaf in one ear, and preferred conversations about artwork and books. He wanted to sit back and smoke a pipe while in a smoking jacket and slippers. She desired to socialize, play bridge, flirt, and dance at speakeasies like the flappers who emerged during the Jazz Age. The extrovert also never took to his main passions, sailing and hiking, but instead wanted to see movies.

 

Not only did his in-depth conversations bore her, but Albert compared Ruth to his dead love each time she turned around. He sported a necktie pin with the initials J.G., named his sailboat “the Jessie G.," and had an entire photo album featuring pictures of the beloved he lost on vacations they took. He topped this off by hanging her portrait in the living room. She was angry and took it down. This led to many arguments between the couple as he wanted it back up. At her insistence, his boat was renamed "Ruth.”

 

Ruth soon learned she was pregnant, although Albert didn't want to be a father. He was even more upset that it was a daughter. Lorraine Snyder was born on November 15, 1917. This further drove a wedge between them, as she became a devoted mother while Albert grumbled at the sound of a baby's cry early in the morning. He also detested the smells of diapers and how she ruined her body after childbirth, though some claim she agreed with him on that matter.

 

As things progressed, he spent more time on his boat or tinkering with his Buick while Ruth tended to the child. He allowed her to spend eighty-five dollars of his paycheck, one hundred and fifteen dollars a week, to teach her how to pay their bills and save money, but she blew every penny. By some accounts, he subjected them to emotional and physical abuse if she didn’t keep house the way he wanted.

 

The couple moved to an apartment in Brooklyn and then a larger one in the Bronx after Lorraine was born. Once Albert got a promotion at Motor Boating Magazine, they settled into a muted pink two-and-a-half-story house with green trim in the Queen's Village section of Queens in 1923. A driveway to its right led to a rear garage, not far from a birdfeeder made from a saucepan and a pole. Five-year-old Lorraine often filled the pan and awaited them. Sure enough, Jessie Guishard's portrait was installed in the new living room. While Ruth sewed curtains, slipcovers, and clothes for herself and Lorraine, her mother Josephine soon moved in to care for the grandchild.

 

This at last enabled her free-spirited daughter to party, dance, and drink. She even earned the nickname, “Gay Tommie.” Friends often said, "Ruth’s a lot of fun; let’s have her over, but Albert’s kind of a stick.” She lunched on a smorgasbord buffet with a girlfriend at the Swedish restaurant Henry's in 1925 when the thirty-two-year-old wife and mother met a Corset and brassiere salesman named Henry Judd Gray, who wore glasses and sported a chin cleft. Concerned about her weight since having a child, she asked for his help, and fell in love on their second meeting. A phrase he used to entice buyers in upstate department stores was, “Here’s a new line of bandeaux we’re putting out.”

 

Born in Cortland, New York, on July 8, 1892, the beloved son of Charles Beach and Margaret Ursula Carr Gray, he had an older sister, also named Margaret. Like Albert Snyder, he bonded with his mother and loved sports, like tennis and football. Like Ruth, his family was religious and attended church, but cared little for education. Judd, as he preferred to be called, left high school after two years thanks to a bout with pneumonia, while some claimed he graduated. He worked with his father at a jewelry store, but he soon found employment with the Ben Jolie Corset Company. A great guy who played golf and bridge, and motorboated, also much like Ruth and Albert. He also loved to drive his prized vehicle, served as a Red Cross volunteer during World War I, and belonged to the Orange Lodge of Elks, as well as the Corset Salesmen of the Empire Club.

 

He married his wife, Isabel Kallenbach, a shy woman who stayed at home, after they had dated for several years when he was twenty-two, and she was twenty-one. Many of his co-workers had no idea he was married to her. Ironically enough, they wed in 1915, the same year as Albert and Ruth Snyder. They attended a First Methodist Church, but some contended he was Episcopalian, not too different from his secret lover and her parents. The corset salesman was also involved in their Sunday school, and they resided in East Orange, New Jersey. The two couples even had daughters at almost the same age. Judd and Isabel's child, Jane, was born on August 25, 1916, in Albert's birthplace of Brooklyn, Kings County, New York.

 Amazon Associate Purchase Link: https://amzn.to/4kP5DPu

 

Justin L. Murphy ©2026

Justin L. Murphy has self-published numerous works of fiction and non-fiction through Amazon Kindle and Audible. His book Gene L. Coon: The Unsung Hero of Star Trek has been featured at events in Coon’s birthplace of Beatrice, Nebraska. Other books he has written and released include Jack Kirby: The Unsung Hero of Marvel, The Original Night Stalker: Portrait of A Killer, and Joseph James DeAngelo: His Reign of Terror Is Over. He enjoys Photography and sells his work through Adobe Stock and enters his photos in contests through Gurushots. He travels to Florida campgrounds with his mother and brother.

Guest Post: Excerpt from Something Prowling in Paradise Park: A Kate Tessler Amateur Sleuth Mystery by Kris Bock

  

Please welcome back author Kris Bock to the blog today with an excerpt from her new mystery, Something Prowling in Paradise Park: A Kate Tessler Amateur Sleuth Mystery. This is the seventh book in The Accidental Detective Mystery Series. Published by Tule Publishing, this book is scheduled to be released on March 2^nd in eBook format.

 

 

 

In The Accidental Detective humorous mystery series by Kris Bock, a witty journalist solves mysteries in Arizona and tackles the challenges of turning fifty. Something Prowling in Paradise Park: A Kate Tessler Amateur Sleuth Mystery (Book 7) is out March 2!

 

Three cases. One body. Zero chance of staying out of trouble.

 

Kate Tessler may have thought her days of chasing danger were over. But the former war correspondent’s “retirement” in sunny Paradise, Arizona, is anything but quiet. With her eccentric circle of friends and colleagues, Kate has built a new life—full of mysteries, mayhem, and the occasional stakeout—as she works towards earning her PI license.

 

After wrapping her last case, Kate wonders what’s next when three cases—all brought by friends—fall into her lap. Squatters in a snowbird’s house, local pedigree dogs disappearing, and smash and grab burglaries at local pot shops. Kate juggles the cases with help from her usual cast of amateur crime solvers, including the teen sons of Paradise’s mayor. As she digs, Kate suspects at least two cases are connected. 

 

But things turn deadly when a late-night stakeout leads Kate and one teen sidekick, interested in investigative work, straight to a body. Was it a gruesome accident—or something far more sinister?

 

With humor and high stakes, The Accidental Detective mysteries prove that danger and friendship don’t retire quietly.

 

 

Learn more about The Accidental Detective humorous mystery series, or go straight to the order link for Something Prowling in Paradise Park.

 

Excerpt:

 

Sleuth sisters Kate and Jen are investigating squatters who have taken over Bob and Leslie’s house.

   We returned to Bob and Leslie’s neighborhood and followed the winding streets. As we came around a curve, we got a clear view of the Standish house.

   “Uh-oh.” I leaned forward to see better.

   Bob and Leslie stood on the front lawn of their house. Bob and a bearded guy were yelling at each other, faces close and body language one step from violence. Another man stood about ten feet away, watching them, and a woman I didn’t recognize stood in the open doorway of the Standish house.

   Jen pulled the car to the curb. “Do we care if they see us?”

   “Yeah, if we want to surveil them later. You guys stay here.” I got out. I’d long since learned that most people couldn’t tell one short, gray-haired woman from another.

   Bob and the bearded guy were yelling over each other. I did catch the word police from Bob, and “Just try it” from the other guy.

   I went up to Leslie. “What on earth happened?”

   She dropped her hand from her mouth. “We thought we’d go over while they were gone, throw out their stuff, bar the door. But that woman was inside.” She shot a furious look at the woman watching the action, wearing a bathrobe and a smug look. “She’s wearing my bathrobe. I tried to take it off her.”

   I winced. “That was probably not the most useful thing you could do.”

   “I was so mad. Bob tried to drag her out of the house, but she struggled like a cat getting a bath. We’d barely made it to the front door when the men came back. So much for getting in there and defending our territory from them.”

   “Yeah.” I wanted to point out that they’d asked for our help but weren’t taking our advice. The least they could do was give us time to make a plan that used logic and didn’t break any laws—or at least any laws that we were likely to get caught breaking. They didn’t seem to realize that even if the squatters were in the wrong, Bob and Leslie couldn’t legally do violent things to them.

   The most we could do now was diffuse the conflict. And maybe get going on this case quickly before Bob did something regrettable.

   “Okay, we need to get those names and see what we can learn about them. And you two need to go back to Odelia’s or find someplace else to stay. Keep your heads down for a day or two while we work this out.”

   Her expression turned mulish. “We shouldn’t have to.”

   “I know. Try to have a little patience. Do you think you can get Bob back there before someone gets hurt?”

   She gave a long-suffering sigh and went to her husband. She finally got his attention by grabbing his arm.

   I strolled over to the door. The woman was about thirty, with stringy brown hair and a thin face. Probably a thin body as well, but it was hard to tell with the fluffy bathrobe. It had to be over ninety degrees outside, hardly fluffy bathrobe weather, but cold air poured out the open door. Most Arizonans set their thermostats relatively high to control their utility bills, but of course these people weren’t paying those bills.

   “Hi, I’m Kate. You must be new in the neighborhood. I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

   She gave a cautious nod. “Rita.”

   “Do you know what all this is about?” I gestured toward the fighting men.

   “Oh, they’re crazy, the old guy and his wife. We have a rental agreement for this house, but they decided they wanted to come back to Arizona for the summer, and now they’re trying to kick us out.”

   “Really?” I opened my eyes wide. “Wow, that is unbelievable. But if you have a legal agreement, they can’t boot you out early, right?”

   “They can try. That’s why we have to make sure one of us is here all the time. They’ve been threatening to change the locks.” She stared into my eyes, a good sign she was lying, or possibly high. “That’s what the fight is about. They waited until Jason and Zeb left, and they came over to, like, throw all our stuff out or something, but I was still here.”

   “So the three of you live here?” I gestured toward the two younger men.

   “My boyfriend”—she nodded toward the younger guy with the beard—“and his friend.”

   Leslie was tugging Bob’s arm without much success.

   “Do you think you could get your boyfriend to back off before that other man has a heart attack or something? He looks like he’s about to keel over.” Actually, while Bob’s face was red, he looked healthy enough. But younger people were often ready to believe anyone with white hair was a step from death.

   She hesitated a moment, giving me a suspicious look, and called out, “Jason. Hey, Jason.”

   He either couldn’t hear her over Bob’s bellowing or was too caught up in his own comments. Rita stepped away from the open door but kept a wary eye on me.

   Then Bob threw a punch. It was slow and clumsy. Jason dodged easily, but Rita rushed over there as Leslie started screaming.

   I took that opportunity to slip through the open door. I didn’t want to get in the middle of a physical fight over who could access the house, and a physical fight wouldn’t end things anyway if the squatters stuck to their story and had a forged rental agreement. But since they’d provided a nice distraction, I wouldn’t pass up the chance for a quick look around. Maybe I’d find some useful evidence.

 

 

Amazon Associate Purchase Link: https://amzn.to/3M89nil

 

 

 

Kris Bock©2026

 

 

Kris Bock writes novels of mystery, suspense, and romance, many with outdoor adventures and Southwestern landscapes. Her Furrever Friends Sweet Romance series features the employees and customers at a cat café. Her romantic suspense novels featuring treasure hunting, archaeology, and intrigue in the Southwest are perfect for fans of Mary Stewart or Barbara Michaels. Learn more. As Chris Eboch, she writes for young people, including ghostwriting for popular children’s mystery series.  The Eyes of Pharaoh, a middle grade mystery set in ancient Egypt, brings the past to life as three friends investigate a plot against Pharaoh.

Guest Post: Excerpt from Death at Rock Bottom: The Reluctant Psychic Mystery series by Kris Bock

 

Please welcome back talented author Kris Bock to the blog today. Back in April, her new series, The Reluctant Psychic Mystery series, launched on 4/28 with A Stone-Cold Murder. She provided an excerpt of the first chapter of that book here. Today she brings us a first chapter excerpt from the upcoming second book in the series, Death at Rock Bottom. Published by Thule Publishing, the read is available in digital format at Amazon and will release Wednesday.

 

In Reluctantly Psychic Mystery series, a quirky loner who can read the history of any object with her touch gets drawn into mysteries at the museum of oddities where she works.

 

Petra Cloch has the psychic ability of psychometry – she can glimpse the history of an object by touching it. Powerful emotions leave behind the strongest vibrations. If Petra touches a watch or ring someone has worn for years, she can sense the wearer’s personality and what they care about most. If she touches an object used as a murder weapon, she might sense the emotions of the killer and the killed – but that doesn’t mean she can identify the killer.

 

To save her sanity, Petra avoids close relationships except with her many pets. She studied geology, because rocks rarely speak to her. Her new job is supposed to focus on the rocks and minerals wing of a peculiar private museum in a small southwestern town. But she can’t avoid the echoes of violence all around her. If she doesn’t want killers to go free, she’ll have to prove there is something wrong by finding evidence beyond the psychic senses she hides.

 

Death at Rock Bottom

After solving the mystery of her predecessor’s death, geologist Petra Cloch wants to focus on her job as the rocks and minerals curator at a quirky, small town New Mexico museum. But her friend and colleague Liberty is suspicious of the supposedly accidental death of Frank Underwood, a retired petroleum engineer and rockhound who died while hiking. Frank acted odd in his last weeks, talking about something incredible he found in the desert and whispering about aliens. Was he showing the first signs of dementia, or were more sinister forces at work?

 

Petra wants to help Liberty uncover the truth, and before long their book club has somehow become a crime-fighting club. Petra uses her gift and her brains to fight through the confusing and contradictory clues along with her newfound family, but has someone gotten a taste for murder?

 

Death at Rock Bottom excerpt from Chapter 1

 

Every rock has a story, but most people don’t know how to read them.

I hear their stories even when I don’t want to.

Liberty, my friend and colleague at the Banditt Museum, unlocked a display case where a hundred or so arrow and spear tips were displayed. “I’ve tried to identify these based on styles, but a lot of them were collected decades ago by people who didn’t keep a record of where the items were found.”

A bigger museum would probably reject any donations without provenance, but the founder and owner of ours, Peyton Banditt, was like one of those Storage Wars dealers who’d buy the contents of a whole storage unit sight unseen hoping one box might hold something valuable. Only instead of then trying to sell the good stuff and dump the rest, Peyton crammed it all into the museum.

I looked at one of the larger spearheads, made of dark reddish-brown stone. The blade had rippled sides leading to a pointed tip. My bachelor’s in geology did not mean I could identify every rock and mineral by sight, but that was chert, common in the Southwest and often used in projectile points. I laid my fingers over the spearhead and settled into the image. I was up on a mesa, looking out over the landscape as I knapped the stone, flaking pieces off the edges to get it sharp and shaped properly for smooth flight.

I opened my eyes and cleared my throat. “Authentic.”

“Are you all right?” Liberty asked.

“It was a lovely scene. Peaceful.” The man working the spear tip knew who he was, how he fit in with his tribe, what the world meant. Must be nice.

On the other hand, I had running water and was much less likely to be killed by a wild animal or dysentery.

Liberty flipped the spearhead over, checked the catalog number, and made some notes as I thought about what I’d learned. My interest was less in the items in front of us and more in how I could read their stories safely. When I hold an object that spent time in human hands, I pick up emotional echoes of the past, residue left behind by the people who used or wore or loved the item.

That sounds cooler than it is. I spent my childhood pushed around by people who wanted to use my talent for their benefit, and most of my adulthood hiding the skill. But then I got a job at an odd little museum in a small New Mexico town, picked up a cluster of fluorite crystals while cleaning my new office, and discovered a murder weapon. Trying to figure out what to do about that led me to a conclusion: I might not always like my gift, but it’s better to know how to use it.

Now Liberty was helping me experiment. She was the only one at the museum who knew I could pick up echoes of the past through psychometry. I wasn’t in a hurry to tell anyone else.

Liberty straightened, turning her head slightly. “Someone’s coming.” The museum was a maze of rooms and hallways connecting in odd ways, so we couldn’t see past the dogleg turn in this hallway, but we could hear the tap tap of heels coming toward us.

I stepped back from the display case, instinctively distancing myself from objects I’d been reading. Liberty closed and locked the case.

A woman I didn’t know swung around the corner and jerked to a stop. She scowled at Liberty. “There you are.”

“Hello, Vanessa,” Liberty said. “You were looking for me?”

“Obviously.” She crossed her arms and tapped her toe on the floor. She was thirty-five or forty, with carefully styled auburn hair. She wore a black suit that managed to look businesslike and sexy at the same time, with its short skirt and the white blouse with the top three buttons undone. She looked like someone I’d expect to see on TV rather than in a small town in New Mexico, where most people wore shorts and T-shirts at this time of year.

Liberty glanced at me. “This is Petra, our newest curator. Petra, this is Vanessa Underwood.”

Vanessa flicked a glance my way and dismissed me as irrelevant. “I want to see the rock Frank gave you.”

I looked at Liberty to see if that made any sense to her.

She appeared equally baffled. “What rock?”

Vanessa’s chin jutted forward. “Frank said he brought the rock to the museum.”

Liberty shook her head. “If he donated a rock, I assume that would have gone to the rocks and minerals wing. That’s Petra’s area now, but she’s only been here two months.”

Vanessa kept staring at Liberty. “This would’ve been in the last few weeks. And he’d bring it to you.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.” Liberty added dryly, “But I am sorry for your loss.”

Vanessa blinked a couple of times. “Yes. Thank you. It’s hard. Obviously.”

“Frank was a good man,” Liberty said.

Vanessa looked sideways and down. “He was—in his way. But he was acting awfully odd lately. You know how he was.”

Liberty made a noncommittal humming sound.

Vanessa looked straight at me for the first time. “My husband decided to believe in aliens.”

“Oh?” I didn’t know what else to say.

“He was really strange lately,” Vanessa went on. “He claimed he had to escape aliens during one of his rambles in the desert. The next day he barely remembered anything about it. But he kept going out looking, and—Liberty can tell you that part.” She gave Liberty another dirty look. “And he said he brought the rock here—the one the aliens wanted or something. I need to know …”

Liberty gave a little shrug. “I swear I don’t know anything about that rock. But you probably shouldn’t claim Frank was crazy for believing in aliens if you’re going to demand the thing that proved he was right.”

“He wasn’t—I think he was getting dementia or something. But I still want to see that rock. It was … important to him, so I want to make sure … It should be displayed in his memory.” She looked from Liberty to me. I had the feeling she was checking whether we bought her story. When we didn’t respond, she glared. “You better not try to keep it for yourself, or I’ll—I’ll sue.” Her voice rose on those last words. She swung away and strode off, the tap tap of her heels fading after she was out of sight.

Finally I said, “That was strange.”

Liberty let out a little huff of laughter. “Which part?”

“All of it, and I have a pretty high bar for strange. Who’s Frank?”

“He was a petroleum engineer before he retired. Then he got interested in alien life, but not like how Vanessa made it sound. He was involved with SETI—the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. It was started by NASA, and lots of scientists volunteer with it. They’re looking for evidence of intelligent life on other planets, but that means things like listening for signals in space. Frank didn’t believe in alien abductions, as far as I know.”

“So this rock …” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Liberty spread her hands. “I have no idea. I certainly can’t imagine it had anything to do with an alleged alien abduction.”

“And Vanessa was Frank’s …”

“Wife. His second wife. They married about five years ago.”

I frowned over that. “I guess grief affects people in strange ways.”

“Yeah. If it is grief.”

“You don’t like Vanessa.” It didn’t take psychic powers to realize that.

“No. I’ve always thought she married Frank for his money.”

“How did he die?” I asked.

“About a week ago, Vanessa reported him missing. Search parties went out and eventually found him in the desert. He’d been dead for almost a day. The theory is that he got dehydrated and lost. Extreme dehydration can interfere with one’s ability to think clearly. It can happen even to young, healthy people. Frank was in his late sixties.”

“That’s tragic, regardless of how it happened.”

“It’s possible he had dementia, but I never saw any sign of it. It would’ve had to get bad fast to make him behave that oddly now.” She spoke slowly, as if figuring out her thoughts as she said them. “When I heard he’d died, I was shocked, and sad, because he was in great shape—he hiked all the time—and he should’ve had years left. It never occurred to me to wonder …”

“About aliens?” I asked cautiously.

She laughed. “No. I’m quite certain life exists elsewhere in the universe. There are two trillion galaxies, each with billions of stars. It’s egotistical to think we’re the only place with life. That doesn’t mean I think little green men kidnap people and probe them.

I nodded, relieved. I had to believe in paranormal powers, since I had one, but I placed alien abductions alongside folktales about werewolves and unicorns, in the category of highly unlikely.

“No,” Liberty said, “I’m wondering about foul play of the human variety.”

 

Learn more The Reluctant Psychic Mystery series or order copies. Available in ebook and print at all major retailers.

 

 

Amazon Associate Purchase Link: https://amzn.to/44U5PFy

 

Kris Bock©2025

Kris Bock writes adult mystery, suspense, and romance novels, many with outdoor adventures and Southwestern landscapes as well as other books. Learn more at www.krisbock.com.

 

Guest Post: Excerpt: Sex and Death on the Beach: A Florida Beach Mystery by Elaine Viets

  

Please welcome author Elaine Viets back to the blog today as she shares the first chapter excerpt from her new book, Sex and Death on the Beach: A Florida Beach Mystery. This first book in the series, published by Severn House, is scheduled to be released on June 3^rd. It is available from Amazon and other vendors.

 

“Sex and Death on the Beach: A Florida Beach Mystery

 

Chapter 1

 

          My name is Norah McCarthy, and I own the most exclusive apartment building in Peerless Point, Florida. The Florodora is more than a hundred years old, the first apartment building in this south Florida beach town between Fort Lauderdale and Miami.

          You don’t need money or social status to rent an apartment at the Florodora. You must be a member of a more exclusive group. You have to be a genuine Florida Man or Woman. You’ve seen the headlines: “Florida Man Busted with Meth, Guns and Baby Gator in Truck.” Or: “Florida Woman Bathes in Mountain Dew in Attempt to Erase DNA after Committing Murder.”

Yes, those are real headlines.

Florida Men and Women stories often involve alcohol and alligators, although the Florida Man who tossed a live alligator the size of a Labrador through the drive-up window of a burger joint was probably sober.

Seems this Florida Man found a gator by the road and dumped it in the back of his pickup (pickups are Florida Man’s favorite vehicle). Then he got out of the truck and chucked the gator through the burger joint drive-up window. After he paid for his soft drink.

Unbelievable?

That’s the standard reaction to Florida Man. Are there any limits on his (or her) so-called pranks?

Nope. And many of them aren’t funny. Including the Miami Cannibal, a naked marauder who attacked an innocent man, chewed off the poor guy’s face and left him blind. The cops shot that Florida Man dead.

A slang dictionary says Florida Man “commits bizarre or idiotic crimes, popularly associated with – and often reported in – Florida.”

Florida Man, known as the “world’s worst superhero,” became nationally famous in 2013 when he was given his own Twitter account. He’s inspired a play, two TV series, songs, and more.

          Like many Floridians, my feelings about Florida Man and Woman are somewhere between appalled and perversely proud. I’m descended from an early Florida Woman, my grandmother, Eleanor Harriman.

          Grandma always had a soft spot for scapegraces, since she was one herself. She was a Florodora Girl, a superstar chorus girl a century ago. Grandma was in the 1920 Broadway production of Florodora, before she eloped with handsome Johnny Harriman, a millionaire, back when a million was real money. She was married at sixteen and madly in love.

          When I was old enough, Grandma told me about poor Johnny’s accidental death, which involved a champagne bottle and a chandelier.

          “I loved that man,” Grandma said. “I’m glad he died happy.”

          Johnny’s death made Grandma a rich widow at seventeen. She moved to Peerless Point and built this apartment building right on the ocean in 1923, on a narrow barrier island.

          The building was as quirky as Grandma, with grand rooms, odd hideaways and at least one secret staircase. To her bedroom.

          Grandma never married again, but she never lacked for male companionship. In 1941, Grandma left the apartment with a caretaker and went north to New York for six months. She returned in mid-December with a newborn baby girl, Dot, my mother. Grandma said she’d adopted an unmarried cousin’s baby.

Was Dot Grandma’s real daughter? No one knows for sure.

I moved in with Grandma when I was four, after my parents were killed by a drunken driver in 1988. The residents became my family, an eccentric collection of honorary uncles and aunts. When Grandma died at age ninety-eight some twenty years ago, she left me the Florodora.

          I miss her. Every day. I’m reminded of her constantly. Her life-size portrait dominates the apartment building’s office on the first floor. Florodora Girls had to be either brunettes or redheads, weigh no more than 130 pounds and stand five-feet-four inches tall. Grandma insisted that was “tall for the time.” I inherited her thick dark hair and hope mine will turn the same shade of white as Grandma’s hair when I get older. I’m five-feet-ten. I got my height from my father.

          The Florodora is a prime example of high-style Spanish Colonial, a white stucco structure with a red barrel-tile roof. The windows in front have elaborate plaster Churrigueresque, which make the windows look like they’re framed in cake frosting.

If you drive past the Florodora on South Ocean Drive, you’ll see the old white apartment building looks much the same as it did during the roaring Twenties. It’s shaded by palm trees and surrounded by a coral rock wall with purple bougainvillea spilling over the top. The Florodora is set back from the sidewalk by a courtyard cooled with a jungle of tropical plants.

The courtyard’s centerpiece is a swimming pool with a flirty Twenties’ bathing beauty in mosaic on the bottom. Most days you’ll find the apartment’s carefully curated collection of misfits sunning themselves by the pool.

Not today. The plumbers, Liam and Lester Sykes, were digging up the courtyard. Once again, the antique plumbing was a problem.

The Florodora needs constant maintenance. That may be why it’s almost the only old Florida building left on Ocean Drive. On either side of the building, and marching relentlessly down to Miami, are high-rise condos. Most look like shoeboxes standing on end.

Developers offered Grandma fabulous sums for the Florodora and its five-acre lot, but she stubbornly refused to sell.

Grandma made me promise not to sell the building or the property. I gladly keep that promise. I love the Florodora almost as much as I loved Grandma. Besides, there’s no reason to sell it. I have plenty of money. I’m forty-one and love beach life.

What you can’t see from the road is the beachfront. The Florodora sits on the edge of the Beachwalk, a wide strip of boardwalk teeming with tourists and vendors selling everything from ice cream and rum-filled pineapples to T-shirts and beach umbrellas. The sea air smells of salt and suntan lotion and the breeze is soft on the hottest days.

I longed to be out there now, but I couldn’t lounge on the beach. After I got the bad news from the plumber, I went back inside to finish my work. I needed to find a new resident for the empty apartment.

I kept my grandmother’s tradition of renting to Florida Men and Women, using my gut feeling. After years of living with Grandma’s choices, I thought I could recognize the more benign versions of the breed.

There was no way I could advertise for the resident I wanted. I needed a referral from someone I trusted. Ben the beach cop had found two possible renters. The third one just showed up.

The four-story Florodora has eight apartments. Each floor has only two suites, and they’re two thousand square feet. That’s huge by beach standards. People will kill for a big, affordable apartment with ocean views.

The special Floridians at the Florodora Apartments have never been in the news – not yet, anyway. Not even Billie, who held up a convenience store with a banana and stole three overdone dogs from its hot dog roller grill.

The empty apartment is on the first floor. Next to it lives Mickey, our artistic saboteur. Kind, gentle Mickey lives alone and works as a freelance artist, but she’s been known to vandalize for a good cause.

My favorite prank was what Mickey did in the local gas station bathroom. In the restroom was a wall-mounted infant diaper changing station that pulled down into a changing bed. Mickey put a sign on the plastic baby bed that said, “Place sacrifice here.”

Right above Mickey, on the second floor, lives Lennox, a Shakespearean actor and my grandmother’s last tenant. Somewhere in his seventies, I’m not sure if Lennox is a real Florida Man. Maybe forty-five years ago, when Grandma rented to a flamboyantly gay actor, that was a qualification.

Next to Lennox on the second floor is a real Florida Woman, Willow. Five years ago, Willow was a successful Manhattan model known as Gorgeous Gwen. Max Devine, a big deal designer, caught her eating a cheeseburger and fries in a diner.

“Stop that, darling.” He tried to take the cheeseburger out of her hand. “Fast food will make you fat.”

“Not as fat as your head,” she said, and broke the plate over his head.

Fortunately, Gwen (now Willow) had saved enough money to retire to Florida, where she cultivates pot and studies Eastern philosophy.

Willow loves bright flowers and good weed. I can smell what Willow is doing. She’s smoking her latest cannabis crop on her back balcony, where she gardens. Willow has long blonde hair and wears loose, floaty clothes.

Billie the banana bandit lives on the third floor. Since he couldn’t hang by the pool today, he retreated to his living room to watch old movies. Rocky, by the sound of it. Billie writes retrospectives about movies. His first book was a New York Times bestseller.

I live on the top floor, in Grandma’s old apartment. Dean the diver lives next door to me. That’s convenient, since Dean and I are sometime lovers. I’m sure the whole building knows that. Dean is forty-two, with blond hair and hazel eyes. Smart and funny. A certified hunk. Grandma would have said he was the bee’s knees.

I went with a different gut feeling when I saw Dean. I felt the Florodora could use some eye candy. I admired Billie the banana bandit’s fine mind, but Billie could turn a person into a pillar of salt when he talked about his latest movie obsession.

I’m the only one who knows Dean is an ex-cop who went in to Witness Protection after he testified against fifteen mobsters who ran online prostitution rings, selling underage girls. The mob put out a contract on Dean while he spent two stressful years testifying against the cyber-pimps. Dean’s testimony put fourteen mobsters in prison. Another hanged himself.

A visit to a plastic surgeon changed Dean’s looks. Now he lives at the beach, drinking, fishing and diving. It’s lobster season, and today he’s diving for spiny lobsters.

I like our current residents, though not in the same way as Dean. I was relieved when the live-in staff agreed to stay on after Grandma died. Calypso, the housekeeper, is Bahamian, what the islanders call a “big-panty woman.” She is proud of her callipygous posterior. Calypso keeps the Florodora shining and cleans the residents’ rooms, as she sings spirituals in a pure, clear contralto, a preview of the heavenly choir.

          Rafael, a dark, stocky man who knows inventive ways to repair ancient machinery, handles maintenance and takes care of the grounds. He keeps the building one step ahead of the city inspectors, who are determined to shut us down. I figure the inspectors are in the pay of the developers, and will get a hefty bonus if they successfully condemn the Florodora.

Rafael has a bachelor apartment above the garage. Calypso lives rent-free in my parents’ old apartment. Calypso is quirky, but too hard-working to be a Florida Woman. The same goes for Rafael. He’s definitely not Florida Man material.

So that’s the Florodora line-up: a Shakespearean actor my grandmother found, and my four picks: Billie the banana bandit; Mickey the artistic saboteur; Willow, the pot-smoking ex-model; and Dean the diver.

I did well picking those four, so you’d think I’d know exactly who’d fit in, but I couldn’t find the right person. I sat behind the reception desk, reading through my application files.

One applicant was an accountant. I asked him what was the craziest thing he’d ever done. He confessed to skinny dipping “but it was dark and I was alone. No one saw me.”

He definitely wasn’t a Florida Man. Especially since he wanted “peace and quiet.”

I could hear Calypso vacuuming the upstairs hall and singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” while the Sykes brothers tore up the courtyard with a mini-excavator. Rafael was trimming the bougainvillea with something that sounded like a dental drill. Drunken college students were playing beach volleyball to cheers and loud Eighties music.

No way that accountant would be happy at the Florodora. Sorry, sir, I thought. No peace and quiet here. Application denied. For your own good.

A woman wanted an apartment for herself and her sixteen “very clean cats.” The craziest thing this woman ever did was make a kitty litter cake for a party. The cake looked like a dirty litter box, using melted Tootsie Rolls. It was served in a real litter box.

Yuck. No thank you.

I still had the three applications from Sammie Lant. Ugh. That woman ignited such a red rage in me, I forgot manners and customer service. About six months ago, she applied for the empty apartment. I told her no. She was the worst kind of Florida Woman.

Sammie was locally famous – make that notorious – for having sex on the beach with a college quarterback during spring break. The beach cop threw a blanket over the copulating couple and hauled them off to jail for indecent exposure. The judge fined them both, but Sammie’s partner lost his college scholarship for lascivious behavior.

Sammie thought it was funny that she’d destroyed a young man’s promising career.

          She was back the next week, offering me double the rent. I still said no. The third time Sammie caught me when I was outside, watering the courtyard plants. Calypso was sweeping. Sammie was dressed formally for Florida, in a red blouse, black pleather skirt, and red heels with rhinestone butterflies. Her blonde hair hung loose and her bulging breasts were nearly falling out of her top. A rhinestone butterfly rested in her décolleté.

This Sammie attempted a hoity-toity accent. “The Lants are an old Lancaster family,” she said. “That’s Lancaster in England. Your building has nothing but nobodies.” She looked pointedly at Calypso and said, “And mutts.”

          That’s when I lost my temper. “Old families are like potatoes,” I said. “The best part is underground. And that’s where I’d like to put you. If you ever come back and insult me or my residents again, you’ll regret it. I will never, ever rent that apartment to you. I will rent it over my dead body. Or better yet, yours.”

          We must have been arguing pretty loud, because someone called 911. Jordan DeMille, a Peerless Point cop, showed up. I wasn’t sure how much he’d heard.

          Sammie cried crocodile tears and said, “Did you hear that, Officer? She threatened my life.”

          “Yeah, yeah, Sammie,” Jordan DeMille said. Like most of the local force, he was sick of Sammie’s shenanigans. DeMille marched Sammie out of there, to the cheers of the Florodora residents.

“If that woman moved in here, I would have given notice,” Calypso said. All the other residents had quietly told me the same thing. Sammie was universally hated at the Florodora.

          I checked the stack again, but there were no more applicants. I listened to the clock tick and the familiar blend of Florodora noise, when suddenly I heard loud screams. So loud, Calypso switched off her vacuum and pounded outside. I followed her. We were hit by a horrible sight.

          A muddy Liam the plumber was pointing into the hole excavated for the pipes and shouting, “Dead. Real dead.” Lester was throwing up in a potted palm.

          I looked over the side of the excavation. Even though the body was reduced to a pile of cartilage, bones and scraps of skin that looked like dirty clothing, I knew who it was.

          Sammie Lant. She’d been strangled with a gold bikini top.

I felt like I’d been socked in the stomach. Was one of the Florodora’s residents a killer?

 

                                      ***

 

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Elaine Viets ©2025

 

Elaine Viets has written 34 mysteries in four series, including the Josie Marcus, Dead-End Job, and Angela Richman, Death Investigator mysteries. With Sex and  Death on the Beach, Elaine Viets returns to her adopted home, South Florida. Her first Florida Beach mystery will be published June 3^rd. Elaine’s award-winning short stories are collected in Deal with the Devil and 13 Short Stories. She’s won the Agatha, Anthony and Lefty Awards and was honored with Malice’s Lifetime Achievement Award.