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.

A Writer's Life....Caroline Clemmons: A Stone Cold Murder by Kris Bock

A Writer's Life....Caroline Clemmons: A Stone Cold Murder by Kris Bock: A Stone Cold Murder by Kris Bock Buy Link The Reluctant Psychic Mystery series by Kris Bock launches April 28 with A Stone-Cold Murder!    ...

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 from A Stone-Cold Murder: The Reluctant Psychic Mystery series by Kris Bock

 

Please welcome talented author Kris Bock back to the blog today. Her new series, The Reluctant Psychic Mystery series, launches on 4/28 with A Stone-Cold Murder. Published by Thule Publishing, the read is available in digital format at Amazon.

 

 

Petra Cloch has the psychic ability of psychometry – she can glimpse the history of an object by touching it. 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 them.

 

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 murderers to go free, she’ll have to find evidence beyond her psychic senses. 

                                                       A Stone-Cold Murder

Everyone says her predecessor died in a car crash, but when Petra picks up a jagged crystal in her new office, flashes of rage, fear and death hit hard. What if Reggie Heap was actually murdered? Under normal circumstances, Petra would never become involved, but if the previous curator died because of something he did on the job, she could be next. Can she trust her chatty colleagues who invite her to lunch and to join a book club? And what about the far too watchful Sheriff who keeps showing up unexpectedly… 

 

                                                             A Stone-Cold Murder excerpt:

 

It’s no fun sorting through the belongings of a dead man. I assume that’s true for most people, except maybe antique dealers or historians. But I think it’s worse for me.

That’s not because I’m a narcissist. (As far as I know. I admit I’ve never been tested.) It’s because of my psychometry. It might sound cool to pick up vibrations left behind on objects, giving me glimpses of the items’ histories.

But I didn’t want to know more about the man who’d had my job before me. Everything so far suggested Reggie Heap was an ordinary man who had more chest pains and heart palpitations than he let on. I might have warned him to get that checked out, if he hadn’t already died of a massive heart attack that killed him even before his car ran off a mountain road.

It was my office now, and I needed to scrub away all traces of the former occupant. Does that sound harsh? Think about it like this: It might sound cool to have telepathy, if you assume you could choose when and where to use it. But imagine if you had to hear every thought of every person nearby.

Yeah, you’d probably just stay home.

I was about as far from a people person as one could be, so I needed a job that paid well enough that I could live alone, just me and my pets (ten at the current count). Ideally, the job wouldn’t bring me into contact with a lot of other people or their stuff. I hoped I had that job now, working in a small museum in a tiny town in a state with something like twenty people per square mile.

…

I looked around the office. Besides the desk and file cabinets, it had wooden shelves along one wall. They held some rather nice geologic samples, though presumably not quite nice enough to make the main collection. I picked up a piece of smoky quartz. A prism, longer than my hand, thrust up like an obelisk from a cluster of smaller crystals at the base. A little label on the bottom confirmed my identification, while a clean spot on the shelf showed how much dust had piled up around the samples.

I might as well clean the shelf and its displays. My boss had given me boxes for packing up Reggie Heap’s stuff. I grabbed an empty one and started loading rocks and minerals into it. I’d definitely keep the frothy, seafoam-green Smithsonite. Maybe not the stringy bit of copper, which was interesting but not all that pretty.

A sample as big as two fists together was made up of cubic crystals in a lovely shade of lilac. Some marks showed where small pieces had broken off, which might be why it was in the office instead of on display. Fluorite, with some impurities to give it the purple shade? Tests could confirm that, but I wouldn’t need them if it was properly labeled.

I picked it up with both hands.

Rage. The desire to hurt.

Fear. An explosion of pain. Panic dissolving into darkness.

I staggered and dropped the mineral. When my vision cleared, I was leaning against the desk with both hands pressing down on it. Fortunately, I’d dropped the crystal cluster on the desk and not my foot. It would have been hard to explain breaking my foot in that manner.

But not as difficult as explaining why I thought these crystals had been used as a weapon.

 

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 from Someone Cruel in Coyote Creek: The Accidental Detective Mystery Series by Kris Bock

Please welcome back author Kris Bock to the blog today with an excerpt from her new mystery, Someone Cruel in Coyote Creek: The Accidental Detective Mystery Series. This is the third book of the series. Published by Tule Publishing, this book is scheduled to be released on Tuesday in eBook format.

 

Turning fifty in her childhood bedroom wasn’t on her bucket list…

Kate Tessler is convinced her sister is trying to kill her. In fact, she might prefer death to Jen’s “50 for 50 Challenge,” where Kate will try fifty new things throughout the year she turns fifty. She’s still adjusting to the limp she got after a bombing as an international war correspondent and her new underemployed life back in her childhood home in Phoenix. The last thing Kate wants is to prepare for paddle boarding, especially when she receives an anonymous message claiming that Mayor Todd Paradise is taking bribes. The author claims to have proof, including photos, and challenges Kate to publish the story.

Could good guy Todd, Kate’s almost boyfriend, really be corrupt, or are political enemies trying to destroy his career? Kate sets out to discover the truth, with help from her multi-generational, unconventional, and often troublesome crew. She thrived reporting from war zones, but can she survive a deadly fundraising party, a close encounter with a taser, a turn at an open mic night, and a hundred-pound dog named Whiskers? 

 

Chapter 1 Excerpt:

 

“You’re trying to kill me,” I said.

 

After a lifetime of desert living, I had not expected a watery death. I’d grown up in Arizona, spent much of my adult life as a war correspondent in the Middle East, and had returned to Arizona a few months earlier after a bomb tore up my leg. Now my sister had determined that I should do a “fifty at fifty” challenge, where I tried fifty new things the year I turned fifty. It was hard to say no to Jen, mainly because she ignored the word and rolled right over you anyway. My birthday was a couple of weeks away, so we’d started early. At least she was paying for this “adventure” (in the financial sense; I might wind up paying in other ways), and she was doing it with me.

 

“Don’t be a baby,” Jen said. “Lots of people do paddleboarding. Children do it.”

 

“Uh, you do realize it’s called stand-up paddleboarding? Have you seen me stand lately?”

 

Jen gave a dramatic sigh. “You’re fine. You’re getting too dependent on the cane anyway.”

 

Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one who had to use it. To be honest, my leg had gotten stronger over the last few months. I still limped and bumped into walls when I first got up after sleeping or sitting for a while, but once I’d taken twenty steps or so, I could usually walk straight. And the paddleboard instructor knew about my . . . situation. I still hesitated to use the word disability. It didn’t seem fair to claim that status when my injury was sudden and hopefully temporary. Plus, I didn’t want to be disabled. Granted, who did? Most people probably faced that future kicking and screaming, or in my case, punching and screaming, since kicking got harder when you had a bad leg.

 

The instructor got each of us set up with a life vest and a safety whistle. The whistle was required by law, in theory to warn boaters, but I figured it would also let me call for help if I got in trouble. An ankle leash would keep the board close, and the board could also be used as a flotation device. The paddle would help us move out into the lake and back again. Then we had hats, sunglasses, and long-sleeved shirts for sun protection. I’d gone into war zones with less equipment.

 

While the guide, Misty, helped the other people in the group, I quickly checked my email on my phone. I was hoping for a response from my boss at the Associated Press on my latest submission. I hadn’t been able to return to the field, and I reluctantly had to admit I might never be fit enough for that kind of reporting. As if the injury weren’t bad enough, my body didn’t bounce back nearly as quickly anymore. I’d started writing longer, more in-depth stories targeted at magazines, but I hoped to give my AP boss an excuse to keep me on a little longer since I needed the health insurance I wouldn’t get as a freelancer.

 

No response from her. I did see an email marked Urgent: Private, which was intriguing enough for a quick look.

 

Mayor Todd Paradise is taking bribes. Do you have the courage to publish the story?

 

I went cold, and not from the cool breeze off the lake. Todd Paradise had been a year behind me in high school. He’d gone from junior class president thirty years ago to mayor of our local town within the greater Phoenix area. I’d been spending time with him since I got home, and he seemed as nice and honest as ever.

 

The note wasn’t signed, and the email address didn’t provide any clues to the identity of the sender. It would be easy to dismiss the accusation, but that wouldn’t do Todd any favors. I could see three possibilities. Todd was taking bribes, in which case the story should be told, regardless of my personal feelings. Todd had done something that led someone to incorrectly believe he was taking bribes, in which case it was better to find out what was going on now, before the accusations became public. Or someone was targeting Todd with lies, in which case he needed to know that.

 

I emailed back: I’ll need proof and I need to know who you are.

 

“Time to put your phones away,” Misty said. Many people had been taking pictures of themselves or each other as they geared up. Now Misty collected the phones to stow them in the van. None of us could guarantee we wouldn’t take a spill into the water, and I could pretty much guarantee I would. The company had waterproof cameras for sale for those who wanted to record their adventures. Jen had one, of course.

 

We practiced getting onto the board and standing up several times on land before wading into the water. “I’m going to get you for this,” I whispered to Jen. “Be honest. Your real business plan is to make money off of humiliating pictures of me, isn’t it? You realize I don’t have any money to pay blackmail.”

 

“That’s fine,” she said. “The real money is in ads on YouTube videos. I’ll need you to go viral though, so make it good.”

 

We spread out in the shallow water, far enough apart that if one of us fell, we wouldn’t crash into the next person. Then Misty led us through the process of getting onto the board in a kneeling position, then crouching, and finally standing.

 

My muscles strained with the effort to balance. Falling into the water wouldn’t actually kill me, but I wanted to prove something, if only to myself. At the very least, I didn’t want to be the first person in the group to fall.

 

“See? I told you it wouldn’t be so bad,” Jen said.

 

I very slowly and carefully turned to look at her.

 

“Hold on. I want a photo to prove this happened.” She shifted her paddle to her left hand and fumbled with the waterproof camera strapped around her wrist.

 

My board bobbed gently in the waves at the edge of the lake. My bad leg ached as I tried to keep my knees bent and my back straight, as instructed. I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace.

 

As Jen got the camera up to her eye level, she wobbled. Her paddle smacked against the side of the board. Her arms flailed, the camera flying to the end of its wrist strap.

 

Jen plunged into the cold lake water.

 

She came up spluttering and tossing her head. I laughed so hard I had to kneel on my board and grab the sides. The water rocked the board and splashed my hands and knees, but at least I didn’t fall off.

 

When I could breathe again, I said, “Don’t forget to get a photo of yourself. I want to prove this happened.”

 

Jen grinned, pointed the camera toward herself, and took a picture as she leaned on the board with one arm.

 

Maybe this fifty at fifty thing wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

 

Kris Bock ©2022 

 

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 Something Deadly on Desert Drive: The Accidental Detective Mystery Series by Kris Bock

Please welcome author Kris Bock to the blog today with an excerpt from her new mystery, Something Deadly on Desert Drive: The Accidental Detective Mystery Series. This is the second book of the series. Back in April, author Kris Bock shared at excerpt from the first book, Something Shady Sunshine Haven: The Accidental Detective Mystery Series here. Published by Tule Publishing, this book is scheduled to be released on Tuesday in eBook format.

 

After an injury disrupts her journalism career, Kate Tessler has to start over at 50, figuring out how to get work, make friends, and live in the heart of her loving but interfering family. Now she and her quirky gang of sidekicks have new problems to solve.

Kate's father and his coffee group are worried. Their friend Larry married a younger woman who now claims he has dementia and won't let anyone see him. They think his wife and her lazy adult children are keeping him isolated so they can steal his money. They're determined to save Larry, and they need Kate’s help to prove what’s happening.

Before they can dig out the truth, a murder raises the stakes, and Kate's father is among the suspects. To save him and Larry, she must reveal the real murderer – but her investigation could put all their lives at risk.

 

Excerpt from Something Deadly on Desert Drive

 

“Looks like we’re the last ones to arrive.” Dad raised his hand to acknowledge his friend’s wave.

I followed Dad to the diner table where his friends sat. They greeted me warmly. This was only the second time I’d joined Dad’s twice-weekly coffee group in the month I’d been home. They were nice guys, but since I was living with my father again, I wanted to ensure he had a social life apart from me. This time, however, they had specifically requested my presence.

Which meant they wanted something.

I couldn’t wait to find out what.

I’d gotten through my first week back home, after decades of traveling the world as a war correspondent, by solving a mystery at my mother’s Alzheimer’s care unit and putting away a killer. The next month had been filled with writing articles about those events. I was ready for a new mental challenge.

I already had enough of a physical one with PT and getting used to walking with a cane.

“Thanks for coming, Kate. We need your expert advice.” Joe Washington and his wife had helped with the nursing home investigation. Joe wore his white hair trimmed close to his head, forming a handsome contrast to his dark skin.

“Glad to help,” I said. “What’s up?”

The four men looked at each other. Dad nodded to one of them. “You start, Clarence. You were the first to notice something wrong.”

“We’re worried about our friend, Larry,” Clarence said. “His wife died last year, and he remarried in the spring. We have concerns about his new wife. She is very young, maybe your age.”

While I chuckled at the thought of being “very young” at 49, I had no desire to get involved in someone’s marriage, especially if his friends’ disapproval was only due to the age difference or loyalty to the old wife.

“At first, Larry seemed happy after he married Pamela,” Clarence said. “They went on a month-long honeymoon that must have cost a fortune. After they returned, I reminded Larry to revise his will if he wanted to make sure his children got some of his money. He agreed he would. That was the last time he seemed happy.”

The other men nodded.

“He hasn’t joined our coffee group in over two months,” Dad said. “Pamela says he’s getting dementia. She won’t let him leave the house.”

I could understand being protective of an ill spouse. As a younger wife, she might be embarrassed by her elderly husband’s infirmity. But when someone was old and sick, keeping him away from his friends wasn’t helpful. Was she overprotective and perhaps making bad decisions, or was something more serious happening?

“I’m glad to help if I can,” I said, “but I’m not sure how. You need to know if Larry is really suffering from memory problems, and if so, if he’s getting the right treatments.”

Joe leaned forward. “When you were investigating Sunshine Haven, you pretended to be writing a story so you could talk to the family members.”

 

 

Kris Bock ©2022 

Kris Bock writes novels of mystery, suspense, and romance, many with Southwestern landscapes. Sign up for her newsletter and get a free Accidental Detective short story plus a free sweet romance set in the world of the Furrever Friends cat café. Kris also writes with her brother, Douglas J Eboch, who wrote the movie Sweet Home Alabama. Sign up for their romantic comedy newsletter and get the short story Felony Melanie Destroys the Moonshiner’s Cabin. Find the Felony Melanie books on Amazon US or All E-book retailers