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Frustrated by the rising body count and lack of evidence, veteran homicide detective, Mac Jackson, questions his own ethics when he risks the life of an innocent young woman to trap a cunning and sadistic serial killer.  Known for his uncanny precision with a hunch, he is all too aware that, this time, the stakes are much higher if his gamble fails to pay off.

Jessica Croft, withdrawn, vulnerable, and emotionally scarred, moves from Sacramento to begin a new life in San Francisco with her twin brother, Judd. Ninety miles from the sinister, shameful secrets of her past, and the madness that tore their family apart, she hopes to find tranquility, maybe even love. However, her chance for happiness is short-lived when she suddenly finds herself the target of a relentless madman with a deadly agenda. Loath to continue living a life of fear, Jessica tells no one when she takes a bold risk to draw him out; dangerously unaware of the trap he has already set for her. Now nothing may be able to save her except the accuracy of a hunch.

Excerpt

Chapter One
Sacramento 1982-1983 

“You have committed the most heinous of crimes, and you have shown no remorse. The court imposes the maximum sentence the circumstances will allow…life without parole.” 

A woman’s penetrating scream drew every eye in the courtroom. From his seat in the back, Detective Mac Jackson looked over at the family of the convicted and at the boy glaring back at him with dark, hate-filled eyes. Even when his mother’s cries grew louder, and the uniformed officers dragged away his father–a brutal murderer with a shaved head and a spider tattoo curling all the way around his thick neck–to begin the life sentence Judge Marshall had just handed out, the child’s rigid stare didn’t waiver. Jackson read a warning in those eyes: this isn’t finished. 

Detective Shaun Hodges leaned in closer to his partner. Together, they’d brought Bodie Allure to justice for killing a child younger than Jackson’s own son. “We did it.” The jubilant punch struck him in the side of his leg. 

Jackson glanced at the family of the victim, a few rows in front of him, eyes cast down in despair, exuding anguish so raw, he had to close his eyes for a second. A life for a life, that’s what they’d wanted. Taking the advice of his lawyer, Bodie had pleaded guilty and escaped the death penalty. 

Unlike Hodges, Jackson didn’t feel like celebrating. Murder left him weary. The murder of a child left him drained, used-up, like somebody had sucked all the good air out of the world and extracted the energy from his body. Although he’d spent many years on the force, seen some terrible things, he never got used to the death of a child. Perhaps it was the one remaining sense that reminded him he was still human; that this damn job hadn’t turned him into a machine. 

He nodded. “Yep, we did it.” Finally, he got up to leave, passing the victim’s family; a broken mother and father, clinging to all they had left: their seven-year-old twins. Tears ran down their cheeks, droplets falling from the end of their noses and onto the children’s heads. The twins looked bewildered. 

Jackson doubted they understood the significance of today. As he made his way from the courtroom, he thought about Bodie’s long criminal history. The man had grown from a violent teen into a brute with no conscience. A true psychopath. Thanks to the guile of his lawyer, a technicality had resulted in his previous crime, a rape and robbery, being thrown out. Jackson couldn’t help wondering if the law had failed the Croft’s; if Cameron might still be alive had the judicial system done its job. 

He drove back to the station in a pensive mood. Cameron Croft had been the eldest of the Croft’s three kids. Tall and skinny, he’d made it to eleven. Then he’d crossed paths with Bodie Allure, who’d snatched him from the driveway of his Sacramento home. His neck had been snapped like a twig, only a week after the rape and robbery charge had been dropped. Jackson switched lanes, trying simultaneously to change his train of thought. No such luck. Events soon after the murder filtered back. He remembered the family’s reaction; how they’d crumbled in front of him when he’d given them the news that Cameron had been raped, sodomized, choked, and broken. He thought about his own son, Bryce, unable to imagine anything worse than losing a child. Raymond, Cameron’s father, had told him he wished he were dead. 

An experienced officer in his mid-thirties, Jackson found telling the families a loved one had died the most distressing part of his job. When a youngster had died the stress doubled. In solving the Croft case, he had excelled. Good instincts and an uncanny accuracy with a hunch had enabled him to track down Bodie quickly. From time to time, that sixth sense he seemed to possess even got Hodges spooked, or so he’d said. Jackson reached the station and pulled into his usual spot, chewing on a hunch that Bodie would not fair well in prison for raping and murdering a child. Even hardened criminals detested child molesters and Jackson knew it. He imagined if Bodie didn’t, he was about to find out the hard way.

* * *

“Seems like the Croft’s got their wish.” 

“What d’you mean?” Jackson frowned when the Sacramento Bee landed on his desk six weeks later, almost knocking over his coffee. Ready to berate Hodges for his carelessness, the words caught in his throat when he saw the article Hodges’d circled. He read it quickly. “Well, well, well. Can’t say I’m surprised.” He grinned up at his partner. “He should have pleaded not guilty. He’d have lasted longer on death row.”

“Nah, saved the state a lot of trouble,” said Hodges, perching on the corner of Jackson’s desk. “Saved the taxpayer’s money.” Ironically, Bodie had been sodomized and beaten to death by other inmates housed in the general population at San Quentin State Prison. He’d died the same way he’d killed Cameron, thanks to his lawyer’s advice. “Ironic, huh?” Hodges took back his paper. 

“Certainly is. Good to know there’s still some justice out there.” 

“Think the Croft’s know about it yet?” 

“I don’t know.” Even if they did, Jackson doubted it would bring them any comfort. Nothing would bring back their beloved son.

* * *

“He’s dead. He’ll never hurt anyone else.” Her father’s blunt words echoed in her head, but Jessica Croft didn’t feel safe. What did he know? He didn’t know about the bad man who came to her at night, terrorized her in the dark, an arm like a tree branch around her dead brother’s neck. The vicious, snarling brute that made her wake up in the dead of night in sopping wet sheets. 

She couldn’t tell him. After Cameron died, no one spoke about the murder. No one spoke about anything to do with the murder, or the trial. Instead, the fractured family withdrew into themselves, withdrew from life, the parents dragging their scared, confused children into a bizarre existence that rarely strayed past the walls of their small, two-story home.

* * *

One chilly evening in late November, twelve months after Cameron’s death, Jackson got another call that horrified him. “You’re kidding me?” he said to the dispatcher when she gave him the address. 

“I’m afraid not. The neighbor reported hearing a gunshot. You better get over there.” 

Did Bodie have someone on the outside who’d gone back to the Croft’s to settle a score? Had someone murdered the rest of the family? Hurt the other children? “Jeez, I hope not,” he muttered, gunning the engine of his black and white.

* * *

The twins had been in bed for hours. Sometime earlier, Jessica had woken, hair stuck flat against her sweaty forehead, nightdress stuck fast to her clammy legs. Only babies wet their beds. At eight-years-old, she felt like a baby. The moon’s illumination cut a sliver of light through the blackness of her room, and she used it to chase shadows while her eyes focused. Out of her sodden bed, she pulled the wet nightdress over her head and felt around in her dresser for another. Once she’d put it on, she closed the creaky drawer slowly, and did what she did almost every night. 

With Bear, her beloved, scruffy, brown teddy, under her arm, she made her way out of her own cream-colored room, that never seemed so terrifying in the daylight, and inched along the hall toward her brother’s room, and his dry bed. His bed would be safe. The bad man never ventured into Judd’s room. The evil in her nightmares had no face, yet she knew it well. Always at the core, she saw her dead brother, a massive, tattooed arm tight around his neck, his chest muscles open, mouth drawn back, teeth exposed. He made no noise as the scream originating in his diaphragm lost its tone in his throat, and died on his lips. Trapped forever in the inky darkness of her dead brother’s eyes and the horror that filled her nights, she wondered how, if Bodie was dead, he could still get to her in the night? 

Judd barely moved when she slipped into the bed beside him, so familiar had the ritual become. Gradually, Jessica slipped into a fretful sleep. 

The ominous boom jolted them awake. A deep, loud crack bounced off the walls, creating a rumbling, evil echo. Terrified, Jessica clung to Judd. “What was that?” she whispered. 

Before he could answer, a chilling scream filled the night air, and then a strange sound came, a kind of wailing; the sound of insanity. 

“Come on,” Judd urged, sliding out from under the sheets. 

Against all her eight-year-old instincts, Jessica climbed out of the warm bed behind him, shivering in the cold night air, and clinging to his old, blue-flannel pajamas. At the door, he craned his neck and peered into the hall. When he stepped out, she followed. Together they crept toward the stairs. 

“Who’s down there?” 

“I don’t know,” Judd whispered, “but something’s happening. Something bad.” From the top of the stairs they heard another low wail. “Mom.” As soon as Judd said it, Jessica began to sob. “We’ve got to go down there,” he said. 

“No, I’m too scared.” 

Judd sounded miserable. “Me, too. But we can’t stay here.” Jessica buried her face into Bear’s neck. If Judd went downstairs, she would go, too. She didn’t want to go; she wanted to run far away, wanted to hide. She knew she’d do whatever Judd said, for she trusted no one more than her brother. 

“Come on, Jessie.” He stood up with a bravery she didn’t understand, took hold of her hand, and pulled her slowly down the stairs.   

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Aftermath: Printers Row

The World’s GREATEST Authors!

Sam Morton (BETRAYED) and Anne Carter (CAPE SEDUCTION)

Well, this post has been a very tough call for me. Do I write it and possibly burn a bridge? Do I not write it, and feel like I got dumped on prom night? (Sorry just watched final DVD in S.4 of Gossip Girl.) How does a professional handle a situation like this?

What situation you ask? Well, it’s like this… (Please keep in mind that I do get positive at the end of this post. )

Several years ago, nine to be exact, I made my first trip to Printers Row Book Festival in Chicago. It was small (our showing) and it was very scary. I had never been to such a huge festival. Long story short, we have gone every year since, even the year I had heart surgery, and yes, I was there too. Each year, our showing has increased and  our sales have increased. It is (was) our best book festival of the year.

Kieryn Nicolas (RAIN) and mom, Mara!

So this year, I send in my registration and $2100, yes it is quite pricey to stand on the street in direct competition with many other booksellers and authors. But it has always been worth it. So this year, I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited to be notified of our tent location at the festival. I had been in contact with the organizers for months, reminding them that for the last two years we did not get the FULL tent (8 tables) we requested, and yet we kept coming back.

So at some point in late May (very late, like the last week), I was informed after I asked again) that we had been given a half tent on the side street off the beaten path. To say I was disappointed would be understating dramtically. With 9 years seniority, we should have at least earned a half tent on the main drag, perhaps the same half tent we had last year, but no.

Nick Valentino (THOMAS RILEY)

So, I suck it up and inform my 16 authors from all over the country (CA, IN, SC, NY, OR, MN, TN, PA, MD and of course our four local authors) that we will not each have the half table I promised, they will in fact get a third of a table and be very limited in their room to set up displays. They all took it admirably (for this I thank each and every one of them).

Norm Cowie (FANG FACE)

So I get to the festival and discover that a certain organization that has been attending for only 3 years has been graced with not one tent space, but 2, yes, TWO tent spaces. I then discover that Accura, yes a car dealership, has been given a tent space and room to showcase 2, yes TWO cars. Slightly off to the side of them is a tent for Value City Furniture. A little ways toward the middle of the main drag (Dearborn Street) I discover a Comfort Zone, which is a glorified bed tent. Yes, 2, TWO beds and a row of recliners. I could barely stand it.

My AUTHORS were squished into a half tent while someone advertised BEDS, FURNITURE, and CARS at a BOOK FESTIVAL. So why am I so mad? Simple, with nine years seniority we should have at the very least received better placement, even if they did not give us the full tent, which last years organizers assured me we would get because we in fact did have seniority. But what happened is at some point, I am guessing local politics came into play and we were cast aside for things that had nothing to do with books. How odd, considering it IS a book festival.

Marlis Day (THE SECRETS OF BAILEY'S CHASE)

I am saddened to say that it isn’t me who suffers for this, it is my authors who had to deal with a lousy location, cramped quarters, and sales that were literally 50% what they were last year. This goes beyond anger, it just feels wrong, and I feel as though I have let my authors down and that on top of everything, my word is not good.

For this I would like to publicly apologize to my authors for not having the power or the means to make this right for them.

However, may I just say that I have the BEST authors ever. It rains every year for Printers Row, and yet they stood out in the chilly rain with smiles on their faces selling books to everyone they could. Those squished up and wet authors sold nearly 700 books. I could not be more proud of them. I am truly blessed to have such committed and enthusiastic authors who simply refuse to be pushed aside.

They do whatever they must to sell their books and brings smiles to as many readers’ faces as they can. For this I offer them my sincere gratitude.

I will be spending some time rethinking whether or not I want to continue to support an event that so blatantly disrespects my authors. I hate being mad at Printers Row as they have helped Echelon Press get to where we are by allowing us to sell books at their event, but I simply can’t ignore this one. My authors truly deserve better than to be cast aside for furniture sales.

I would also like to thank Penny and her gang at Trattoria Caterina on Dearborn in downtown Chicago. For the last several years we have gone there for dinner on Saturday evening after the festival and htey are the most tremendous group I know. If you are ever downtown and find yourself looking for exceptional Italian food, please stop in and eat. tell Penny Karen @ Echelon Press sent you and we love her! That is where the picture up top was taken of all of us.

Any thoughts on which festival we should make our new Spotlight event?

 

Cape Seduction by Anne Carter

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After being the backdrop for 1948’s critically acclaimed tragic romance, Cape Seduction, Northern California’s Dragon Rock Lighthouse sat shuttered and abandoned for decades—and it also happened to be the last place up-and-coming Hollywood starlet Darla Foster was seen alive.

When photojournalist Rebecca Burke locks horns with Los Angeles attorney Matt Farralone while trying to gain access to the derelict off-shore beacon, she encounters the spirit of the sassy, once-promising Oscar-hopeful Foster, and uncovers a 60-year-old secret that sets her world on end.

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Chapter 1
Northern California, Near the Oregon Coast
May 2008

Pea soup.

Rebecca Burke squinted at the road ahead, hoping to make out the taillights of the car in front of her.

Fog is nothing like soup. Not green, not hot, not tasting like some disgusting pureed legume.

The eerie silence unnerved her. She snapped on the radio and twisted the knob in search of something other than talk or rap. Settled on Garth Brooks.

Coast Highway ran only two lanes in either direction, and Rebecca kept to the right, nervously alternating between gas pedal and brake. She wasn’t used to this thick, cottony mist. Dense fog almost never occurred back in Phoenix. She focused her attention on the white abyss before her. Surely it would burn off soon.

Was anyone behind her? Quick glances into the rearview mirror revealed nothing but retreating gray. Perhaps I’ve entered the Twilight Zone, she thought, trying to conjure a chuckle.

As the roadway swept around the base of a steep cliff, Garth’s warble turned to noisy static. Rebecca reached for the tuner, intending to search for a stronger signal. Out of nowhere, a car charged past her on the left, churning up a brief clearing before being swallowed by the whiteness ahead. Startled, Rebecca’s heart quickened, and she took tighter control of the steering wheel. She considered pulling over, but since she couldn’t see the roadway to the side, she hesitated, slowed her speed even more. But what if a faster motorist hit her from behind?

The radio static grew. Rebecca again attempted to tune in something more agreeable, pausing when she discerned traces of a female voice behind the noise. Just a word, here and there. “Time has come…find me…” Rebecca frowned, concentrating as she listened.

Again she checked her mirror. Seeing nothing, she started to pull her eyes back to the road when something appeared. A face, a woman’s face, stared at her from the backseat.

A shockwave bolted through Rebecca’s body at the sight. Grasping the steering wheel, she hit the brake, pulled the Volkswagen off the highway, and came to a skidding stop. She quickly twisted around, stared hard at the empty seat, the floor, the back window, and the fog.

I must be losing it.

Fortunately, there was a wide, flat shoulder where she’d left the highway. She looked to her left where the occasional car rushed by, traveling south. To the right, the fog lay heavy over the Pacific Ocean. Garth had resumed his mournful tale of unrequited love.

Rebecca smacked the off button on the radio, leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes. Clearly, her anxiety had caused a hallucination. There was no one in the car with her. She could barely recall the details of the woman’s face, so brief was the vision. For a moment, she wondered if she’d seen her late mother’s face; she’d dreamed about Mom just the night before. Heart still pounding, she opened her eyes and peeked into the rearview mirror. Nothing obstructed her view of the back window and the menacing fog beyond.

At 9:00 a.m. the sun hung somewhere overhead, lamely trying to burn through the clouds. The VW died; she twisted the key in the ignition, without result. No starter, only the futile clicking that usually foretold a dead battery. Eyeing the instrument panel in disgust, she thumped the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. The check engine light glared back at her, so there had to be some juice left.

Rebecca tried again to re-start the car to no avail. With a sigh, she reached for her wallet and cell phone, dialed, and peered again into the rearview mirror while waiting for an answer. This time, only her hazel eyes stared back. She shoved her bangs back off her forehead just as the tow service came on the line.

“I’m not exactly sure where I am. Somewhere near Crescent City. I know I passed an RV campground a few miles back. No, I don’t have PGS or GSP or whatever it is.” Like I really want some satellite keeping track of me.

The tow service dispatcher had more patience than she did, but Rebecca found it hard to be friendly, especially after hearing it might be an hour before someone would be by. “Well that’s just grand,” she muttered, slapping the cell phone closed before tossing it into her backpack on the passenger seat.

I can’t just sit here. Reaching behind her to the rear floor, Rebecca grabbed her black camera bag and stepped out of the car, quickly walking around to the passenger side. Cars whizzed past, their drivers oblivious to her plight. She dug her digital SLR camera out of the bag, draped the woven strap around her neck and then popped open the trunk and dropped the empty camera bag in.

Carefully, she perused her surroundings, her photographer’s eye searching for a subject. She hated the waste of time. There had to be something worth shooting. She didn’t mind the grayness–she’d shot some of her best work in black and white–but there still had to be subject matter.

A lone gull sat atop a nearby trash can. Tentatively spreading its wings, the bird begged for attention.

“Forget it, pal. I’ve already got your mom, dad, and cousins on film.”

Rebecca walked unhurriedly through the mist in the direction of the surf, still wishing she’d happen upon an interesting angle or unusual sight. There was nothing, and why should there be? Nothing else had gone right today, from the power outage in her hotel, which caused her to be late and almost cost her the job, to the breakdown of her car and the wait for the driver. Not to mention the ridiculous hallucination that had driven her off the road in the first place. Now here she stood, wasting valuable travel time walking on Nowhere Beach, California, USA.

She finally found a log big enough to sit on. Not comfortable but a tolerable perch while she waited. The fog lifted while the clouds thinned in response to the sun’s persistence. Rebecca glanced back at the highway. Her car had recently been serviced and had received a clean bill of health, damn it! Yet it quit running when she pulled off the road. Died. No illness, no accidental cause of death. She huffed out a sarcastic chuckle. What next? A tsunami?

Shaking her head slowly, Rebecca could see the oncoming waves now. She imagined them to be like a string of small white animals, all rushing toward her before losing their collective nerve and retreating quickly back to the safety of the ocean.

Forced relaxation. She closed her eyes, tried for that calm, centering peace her yoga instructor always raved about. I need a vision. Something soothing. Something–

Rebecca’s eyes fluttered open, and she felt the sting of threatening tears. The vision rising before her mind’s eye did not offer tranquility. The face of the woman in the rearview mirror returned, and while she still couldn’t be sure the image was her mother, fresh grief inexplicably washed over her.

“I don’t need this,” she murmured. “I don’t need this at all.”

Rebecca unlaced and took off her sneakers and socks, neatly stacking them on the log. This water will be freezing. She edged toward the wet sand, camera swaying below her chest. “Freezing,” she repeated aloud as the first small rush of foam-crested seawater lapped at her feet. Still, she stood grounded, mesmerized by the thinning fog. There were rocks, some boulder-sized, in the waters before her, becoming visible as the waves crashed against them. The odd beam of sunlight, here and there, painted the individual rocks with an ethereal glow, intriguing her as the water sprayed up with each pounding wave.

Transfixed upon one huge rock miles out, Rebecca slowly brought her camera to her face, peered through the viewer as she focused on the rock, which, through the telephoto lens, turned out to be a small island with some sort of structure on it. Shrouded by remnants of mist clinging to its sides stood a building, as gray as the fog surrounding it, built on an islet barely large enough to support it.

Snap. Snap. Snap. The shutter worked its magic, stealing moments of time, freezing the waves, the spray, the birds, the rocks and the odd little structure on her micro memory card. The haze rapidly dissolved as Rebecca snapped away, and she moved closer as she filmed. Suddenly, the sun broke cleanly through the sparse clouds, evaporating the remaining fog, giving Rebecca a clear view of the island and its lone structure. She smiled as she lowered the camera, squinted into the sunlight, making sure the image spied through the lens wasn’t some new mirage. No; her eyes, unaided by lens and filters, looked directly upon a lighthouse.

Maybe her luck was changing.

* * *

“Just sign here.”

“Even though you didn’t do anything?”

The tow truck driver shrugged. “Hey. I drove down here from Crescent City. I did something. Not my problem there’s nothing wrong with your car, lady. You should be glad.”

Rebecca frowned and took the pen he offered. “Know where I could get a decent motel room?” she asked, scribbling “I.M. Stupid” illegibly on the form.

“Straight ahead about two miles there’s a Best Western. Clean. Got a coffee shop.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca said, handing the clipboard back.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, noting the time on his watch and jotting it onto the form.

“Nope.” Duh. Could the Arizona license plates have clued him in? Phoenix seemed like a million miles away. Digging into the hip pocket of her jeans, she pulled out some ones and handed them to the driver. “You know anything about that lighthouse out there?”

The driver pocketed the tip and looked up. “No,” he said, staring straight into Rebecca’s eyes. “Nothing.” He turned to go.

“Is it still in use?” Rebecca asked, following the man to his truck.

“No. It’s not occupied anymore. Es vacante. Abandonado.”

“Is there any way to get out there?”

“Not many guys are willing to take a boat out there. Killer rocks.” He hesitated. “There is one guy. He’s in town,” he said, motioning over his shoulder toward Crescent City. “He might. Ask at the bait shop.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca murmured and stood back to watch as the tow truck merged into traffic. She paused, looking from the VW back to the lighthouse, then to the road and the southbound traffic. She had time to kill. Her rescheduled appointment wasn’t until late afternoon, and she now felt compelled to stay on the beach for awhile.

In the trunk dug out her father’s binoculars and her aluminum accessory case. She selected a telephoto lens from the case, swiftly exchanging it onto the camera body, then grabbed the binoculars before heading back to the driftwood log. Bracing her elbows on her knees, she leveled the camera before her eye and snapped a few frames before turning the camera sideways, framing the lighthouse vertically.

Something was different now. The water line rose higher on the rocks, the tide rolling in.

“I wonder how far it is,” she said, tilting her head and trying to figure the distance between the beach and the island.

Perhaps her client would know. He might even be able to see the lighthouse on a clear day, as his home perched on a bluff not too far north of where she sat.

Soon, she rested her camera in her lap and lifted the binoculars to her eyes. The lighthouse looked old, gray and beaten. Tall, a squarish tower rising from the center of an immense oval base. Rebecca’s mind searched for a word. Forlorn. Cold. Forgotten.

The waves crashed, relentless in their attack on the small rock, almost as if the sea was trying to reclaim it, to destroy the man-made structure and return the islet to its natural state. Build–crash–retreat: the water glistened over the rocky island base as it trickled back into the sea. Rebecca wondered what the lighthouse looked like inside. Who had lived there? Was it scary, being surrounded by water, all alone out there? Who owned it now, and why did they allow it to fall into such disrepair?

There were answers, Rebecca was sure. Adjusting the focus, she made one more perusal of the island. Moving slowly in order to take in the smallest detail, Rebecca noticed something she’d not seen before. Something red, a small figure, perhaps, at the top of an external stairway on the base below the lighthouse. She strained to hold the binoculars steady, squinting her eyes.

A woman.

Taken aback, Rebecca started, her focus lost. She struggled to locate the same spot, and when she did, the stairway was empty.

“How strange,” she murmured, re-examining every section of the stairway and its surrounding structures. No signs of life. Could the woman have gone inside?

At noon, she reluctantly packed her equipment, put her shoes and socks back on, and returned to her car, hoping to find the motel with the coffee shop close by. She sighed with relief when the VW started and she eased out onto Coast Highway.

* * *

The laptop grabbed the Wi-Fi signal right away. Rebecca took a large bite out of the apple she’d brought back from the convenience store, then placed her fingers on the keyboard, carefully typing in the name her client gave her: Dragon Rock Lighthouse. She chose the most informative looking link and clicked. Her eyes raced over the words, unable to pause for even a moment. She had to know everything about the lighthouse, and fast.

“Abandoned in 1947…failed attempt by local preservation society to gain ownership in 1988…shown in backdrop for The Keytooth Affair, Sandstone Productions, 1996…” She read aloud to herself, nibbling on the apple as she reviewed site after site. “Ownership is private…identity veiled by corporate documents…no plans to restore the property at this time.”

She found photos, of course, many of them from a time when the lighthouse was young and in good condition. Rebecca leaned close to her screen, poring over each picture. “Just over six miles offshore. Built in 1891…also seen in the film Cape Seduction, MGM, 1948.”

Cape Seduction. Her father was an old movie buff. She picked up her cell.

“Dad? It’s me. Yeah, still in Northern California. My shoot went off great when I finally got there. He has a ’34 Packard, Eleventh Series Eight Convertible. Yeah, pristine. I shot it in a kind of film noir look. Hey, speaking of films, did you ever see a movie called Cape Seduction?”

He paused and with a mumble, her father reached into his memory. “Let me see. Seduction. Hmm.”

Rebecca found herself drumming fingernails on the desk. “It might have had a lighthouse in it…”

“Lighthouse. Oh, yeah! Hell, that must’ve been…1938…”

“Forty-eight.”

“Yep. Errol Flynn was the hero, I believe. Is he even still alive? Oh, what a Casanova, let me tell you. Friends with Doug Fairbanks, Olivier, you know, that whole gang. The woman was a new actress, back then, anyway. Can’t remember her name right off. Young, real pretty, dark hair.”

“Did she make any other films you can remember?”

“Nope. Now that I think on it, I don’t think we ever saw her again. Your mother, God love her, she…she really liked that picture.”

Her father went silent as they both thought about Rebecca’s mother, dead for over fifteen years. Jebediah Burke still grieved. Rebecca flushed at the memory of her surreal experience in the car that morning, and her thoughts about her mother. Shake it off, Bec.

“Thanks, Daddy. I saw this lighthouse today, and for some reason, I just got crazed to know all about it. So. How’s the weather there?”

“You know what they say. In Phoenix we have two temps, hot and hotter. It’s only hot right now.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Hey, I’ll be home in a week. I have about ten more cars to shoot for the magazine. Love you.”

* * *

She tossed in bed, her sleep broken into short, fitful naps. As she twisted restlessly beneath the sheets, visions of a nameless face appeared in settings, familiar and yet out of place. A woman sat behind the wheel of a 1944 Packard. A Brown Bomber, her father said, nodding in approval. The woman smiled from behind dark glasses. Smiled, yet Rebecca shuddered at the appearance of a single tear sliding down the fading cheek of the driver. Wait, she called out, wanting badly to remove the sunglasses from the woman’s face. The car drove away. Her father bowed his head.

Rebecca awoke fatigued, but determined to get moving on her plan. At 8:00 a.m. she phoned Pat, her boss, hoping he’d had his first cup of coffee. Even two.

“Okay, I have this excellent idea for a photo story. You ready? Lighthouses.”

“Lighthouses? And why would our readers care about lighthouses? Isn’t that a bit too cozy-romantic-sappy for our jet-setting subscribers?”

“How about mystery, intrigue, weird history?”

“What sort of weird history?”

“Well, I don’t know yet. But I will. There must be thousands of lighthouses around the U.S., and they all have stories, right? There’s even one right here, not more than ten miles from where I’m staying.” She decided not to share her sighting of the woman in red.

“Where you were staying. You have to be in Sacramento by 5:00 p.m., right?”

Rebecca groaned inwardly. What a stick-in-the-mud. She tried again.

“Our readers are wealthy travelers with a variety of interests. Lighthouses have an aura…they’re different, out of the ordinary, unique places of history where people risked their lives every day to protect our coasts.” Paraphrasing the website still on her screen, Rebecca rolled her eyes at the trite words.

“Let me think about it. You just get those cars digitized for September.”

“But I’m here now. Why would you want to go to the expense of sending me back?” A risky question. She hoped Pat wouldn’t use it against her.

“Rebecca. What are you asking for? More time? Money?”

“Can we set the car shoots back a few days…give me time to see if I can get on the island and film the inside of this lighthouse before I have to move on? It’ll be worth it, Pat. I guarantee it. And I never guarantee anything.”

She pictured her boss chewing on his fake cigar.

“Okay. Look. I’ll bump Sacramento and San Jose to the end, so that’ll give you three days before you have to hit that kid in Monterey with the 1930 Pierce-Arrow ragtop. Got it?”

Rebecca smiled, danced her fingers lightly across the top of her laptop. “You won’t be sorry,” she said honestly. “You’re gonna like this.”

“I hope so.”

* * *

“If there are no tours, how do I get out there?” Rebecca asked. The clerk behind the counter of the Del Norte Visitor’s Bureau smiled.

“You can get there by helicopter but not without the owner’s permission.”

“And the owner would be…”

“It’s called the St. Paul Foundation. But honestly, no one around here really knows who they are.”

“They must have an address somewhere. What if…what if something happened out there, an emergency or something?”

“Their address is in care of an attorney in Beverly Hills. That’s about all I can tell you.” The woman, a nice looking senior, wore pearls the same color as her up-do hair.

Rebecca lifted her chin, took in a deep breath, considered the clerk. “I, uh, understand they filmed Cape Seduction out there.”

“Oh, yes. Our local claim to fame in the ’40s. Jordan Kent became all the rage, and that Darla Foster…”

“The leading actress?”

“Yes. When she went missing, it brought all sorts of notoriety to our little town. It was the only movie she ever made, you now.”

“She went missing? Like, disappeared?”

“Mm-hmm. About a month after the picture came out. It debuted at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, you know. In Hollywood. Oh! What a fabulous night.”

“You were there?”

“Well, no, only in spirit. They did a radio broadcast, and my girlfriends and I, we sat up all night chatting about it.”

“What about Douglas Fairbanks. He played the hero, right?”

“No, no, definitely Jordan Kent. Douglas Fairbanks wasn’t in the film.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know if your video store has a copy, would you?”

The older woman’s eyes fairly twinkled, Rebecca thought, as she gazed back at Rebecca with a knowing smile.

“Yes, it does. It just came out on DVD, too. Part of MGM’s anniversary celebration. You going to rent it?”

“I think I will. Say,” Rebecca ventured on, sensing the clerk’s enjoyment of their conversation. “Is Jordan Kent still around?”

“They say he’s reclusive. He’s in his late 80s, you know.”

Rebecca nodded, filing the information away for later. She got directions to the video store and bid the clerk goodbye.

She smiled as she left the video store with a copy of It Happened One Night in her hand, along with a rain check for the already-checked-out Cape Seduction. Tonight it would be room service and a good, old-fashioned romance. She giggled aloud at her own foolish thoughts and at the realization that Cape Seduction was drawing her in.

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Chicago Mystery Author to Grace Readers at 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest

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Laurel, Maryland–Clues indicate that a dangerously charming author will be stealing the hearts of readers at Chicago’s 2010 Printers Row Lit Festival. Each year a large crowd gathers at the Echelon Press tent to get the next book in Luisa Buehler’s Grace Marsden Mystery series. Fans can rejoice in knowing that Ms. Buehler will return to sign copies of the sixth installment, THE INN KEEPER, at the festival. Fans and readers can meet Luisa Buehler and find out what she has in store for book seven at Booth “FF” at the festival in Chicago, IL June 12-13, 2010. Ms. Buehler will autograph books from her award-winning series on Saturday June 12 from 9 am – 5 pm. You can find more information on Printers Row online or contact the Chicago Tribune.

Luisa Buehler has taken her main character, Grace Marsden on a series of misadventures that can only be described as harrowing. Readers have described the Italian Grace as both heartwarming and unique. Often referred to as “Monk in a skirt,” Grace Marsden has uncovered a series of cold case mysteries, including THE ROSARY BRIDE,  THE LION TAMER, THE STATION MASTER, THE SCOUT MASTER, THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER, and most recently her adventures found her entangled in murder and mayhem surrounding THE INN KEEPER. Most of Ms. Buehler’s mysteries are Chicago based, making them a favorite with windy city readers.

A native of the Chicago area and owner of The Hire Solution, a staffing services corporation, Luisa Buehler attended Rosary College during the seventies and ended up with a B.A. in English. Even then the stories of spirits, sightings, and the supernatural intrigued her. Since then she has spent as much time as she could “giving back.” With more than twenty years as a Docent at the Brookfield Zoo and many years as a Boy Scouts of America Leader, she is finally taking the time to do what she loves. Luisa lives in Lisle, Illinois with her husband, Gerry, and keeps her son Christopher’s room ready for his trips home from college. Luisa enjoys relaxing with her husband and their family cat, Martin Marmalade. In her free time, Luisa loves to garden and wishes she could play golf better.

“Luisa Buehler has been one of Echelon’s brightest stars. Her fans are loyal to a fault and they multiply like rabbits. It’s really no wonder though, that fans adore Luisa and her Grace Marsden characters. They are all overflowing with charm and excitement,” says Echelon’s President and CEO, Karen Syed.

Other Echelon authors readers will enjoy chatting and getting autographs from include Beth Solheim (AT WITT’S END),), L.J. Sellers (SECRETS TO DIE FOR), Joel Fox (LINCOLN’S HAND), Margot Justes (A HOTEL IN PARIS), Marc Vun Kannon (A WARRIOR MADE), Anne Carter (CAPE SEDUCTION), and Chicago favorite Nero Wolfe author Robert Goldsborough (A PRESIDENT IN PERIL).

For more info on Echelon Press, Quake, or any of its authors contact Karen Syed at echelonpress@gmail.com or 301-490-2507. On site Interviews can be arranged for the Printers Row Lit Fest.

Mysterious Sitings at 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest

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June 7, 2010–Laurel, Maryland–Printers Row brings out all kinds of authors for their Lit Fest and this year, they are fortunate enough to have rising Minnesota star Beth Solheim (AT WITT’S END) attending the festival with her publisher. Echelon Press is pleased to introduce the windy city to this debut author whose Sadie Witt Mystery series is gathering praise across the country. Readers can meet Beth Solheim and find out what the buzz is all about at Booth “FF” at the festival in Chicago, IL June 12-13, 2010. Ms. Solheim will be signing copies of her debut hit throughout the festival. You can find more information on Printers Row online or contact the Chicago Tribune.

Like the main character in her Sadie Witt mystery series, Beth Solheim was born with a healthy dose of imagination and a hankering to solve a puzzle. She learned her reverence for reading from her mother, who was never without a book in her hand. By day, Beth works in Human Resources. By night she morphs into a writer who frequents lake resorts and mortuaries and hosts a ghost or two in her humorous paranormal mysteries.

Raised and still living in Northern Minnesota, she resides in lake country with her husband and a menagerie of wildlife critters. She and her husband are blessed with two grown children and two grandsons.

“Beth Solheim’s characters are destined to join the highly acclaimed ranks of others like Stephanie Plum, Sookie Stackhouse, and Aunt Dimity. Solheim has a flair for the realistically outrageous. Sadie Witt will entertain for years to come,” says President and CEO of Echelon Press.

Things are really bustling at the Witt’s End resort in Northern Minnesota. Clients are vying for one of the few remaining rentals, except Cabin 14—thing is—no one gets out of Cabin 14 alive.

Sadie isn’t your typical sixty-four year old senior citizen. She has things she wants to do and shouldn’t be expected to solve a murder while trying to prevent an unscrupulous sheriff’s deputy from shutting down the lakeside resort she owns with her straight arrow sister. But that’s exactly what Sadie Witt must do. When five guests with hidden agendas arrive at Cabin 14, they’re stunned to learn that the flamboyant Sadie is their conduit to the hereafter.

Other Echelon authors readers will enjoy chatting and getting autographs from include L.J. Sellers (SECRETS TO DIE FOR), Joel Fox (LINCOLN’S HAND), Margot Justes (A HOTEL IN PARIS), Marc Vun Kannon (A WARRIOR MADE), Anne Carter (CAPE SEDUCTION), and Chicago favorites Luisa Buehler (THE INN KEEPER) and Nero Wolfe author Robert Goldsborough (A PRESIDENT IN PERIL).

For more info on Echelon Press, Quake, or any of its authors contact Karen Syed at echelonpress@gmail.com or 301-490-2507. On site Interviews can be arranged for the Printers Row Lit Fest.

A Beacon of Light to Shine at 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest

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June 6, 2010–Laurel, Maryland–When it comes to engaging readers, Romantic Mystery author and California resident Anne Carter is a master. Ms. Carter will join several of her Echelon Press colleagues for two extraordinary days of books in Chicago at the 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest. Anne Carter will sign copies of her Lighthouse novels, POINT SURRENDER and a limited number of Advance Copies of her next release, CAPE SEDUCTION. Readers can meet Anne Carter at Booth “FF” at the festival in Chicago, IL. You can find more information on Printers Row online or contact the Chicago Tribune.

Anne Carter says, “I’ve been a storyteller since 7th grade, when I began dreaming up romance stories to tell my younger sister at bedtime.” Raised in Southern California where she, her husband and three children make their home, Anne runs a small bookkeeping business when she is not fleshing out the next scene to her current book.

Recently, writing under her “other” name–Pam Ripling–Anne ventured into teen fiction with the release of LOCKER SHOCK! published by Quake. “Having raised two teenage boys, writing middle grade fiction seemed like a natural. After significant nagging on the part of fans, a follow up to LOCKER SHOCK is in the works. OLD ENOUGH will focus on Ben’s friends Zack and Alyssa, and will deal with new problems at Midland School.

“I was a fan of Anne Carter’s before she became an Echelon author. She has such a beautiful style of writing that it is impossible not to feel every bit of emotion she pours into a story. As far as storytellers go, you’ll be hard-pressed to find better than her,” says President and CEO of Echelon Press.

CAPE SEDUCTION is her best book yet.

After being the backdrop for 1948’s critically acclaimed tragic romance, Cape Seduction, Northern California’s Dragon Rock Lighthouse sat shuttered and abandoned for decades—and it also happened to be the last place up-and-coming Hollywood starlet Darla Foster was seen alive.

Other Echelon authors readers will enjoy chatting and getting autographs from include L.J. Sellers (SECRETS TO DIE FOR), Joel Fox (LINCOLN’S HAND), Margot Justes (A HOTEL IN PARIS), Marc Vun Kannon (A WARRIOR MADE), Beth Solheim (AT WITT’S END), and Chicago favorites Luisa Buehler (THE INN KEEPER) and Nero Wolfe author Robert Goldsborough (A PRESIDENT IN PERIL).

For more info on Echelon Press, Quake, or any of its authors contact Karen Syed at echelonpress@gmail.com or 301-490-2507. On site Interviews can be arranged for the Printers Row Lit Fest.

Readers will get their Thrills at the 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest

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June 5, 2010–Laurel, Maryland–Oregon Mystery/Thriller author L.J. Sellers will attend the 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest with copies of her Detective Jackson Mystery series. She will be signing copies of THE SEX CLUB, SECRETS TO DIE FOR, and as a treat to fans, Sellers will have 100 advance copies of her third in the series, THRILLED TO DEATH (official release is 9/2010), for sale. L.J. Sellers will join 15 fellow Echelon Press authors on the streets of Chicago for the 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest, one of the nation’s premier book festivals. Ms. Sellers is no stranger to crowds, as she attracts one everywhere she goes. Readers can meet Sellers and her fellow Echelon authors at Booth “FF” at the festival in Chicago, IL. You can find more information on Printers Row online or contact the Chicago Tribune.

Other Echelon authors readers will enjoy chatting and getting autographs from include Anne Carter (CAPE SEDUCTION), Joel Fox (LINCOLN’S HAND), Margot Justes (A HOTEL IN PARIS), Marc Vun Kannon (A WARRIOR MADE), Beth Solheim (AT WITT’S END), and Chicago favorites Luisa Buehler (THE INN KEEPER) and Nero Wolfe author Robert Goldsborough (A PRESIDENT IN PERIL).

L.J. Sellers is an award-winning journalist, editor, and the author of the Detective Jackson mystery/suspense series. Her first two books, The Sex Club and Secrets to Die For, have garnered high praise, and the third book, Thrilled to Death, will be released in August, 2010. The forth Jackson story, Passions of the Dead, will be released in 2011, along with another thriller, The Baby Thief. Ms. Sellers is a fitness and health enthusiast who can often be seen peddling around town. She especially enjoys traveling around the country and meeting readers and fans.

“L.J. Sellers should be considered a bit of a pioneer in the book industry. Many authors rely on shock value for their hooks, but she takes tremendously controversial topics and weaves them into dramatic and emotional stories, without glamorizing or condoning the issues. She is an excellent storyteller,” says President and CEO of Echelon Press.

For more info on Echelon Press, Quake, or any of its authors contact Karen Syed at echelonpress@gmail.com or 301-490-2507. On site Interviews can be arranged for the Printers Row Lit Fest.

Fantastic Adventures for all at the 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest

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June 5, 2010–Laurel, Maryland–It’s official, Long Island, New York Fantasy author Marc Vun Kannon will join 15 fellow Echelon Press authors on the streets of Chicago for the 2010 Printers Row Lit Fest, one of the nation’s premier book festivals. As one of Echelon’s premier authors, Vun Kannon will meet fans, talk about eBooks, and sign copies of his Flame in the Bowl Fantasy series. He will sign copies of UNBINDING THE STONE and A WARRIOR MADE at Booth “FF” at the festival in Chicago, IL. You can find more information on Printers Row online or contact the Chicago Tribune.

Along with meeting Marc Vun Kannon, readers will enjoy chatting and getting autographs from Anne Carter (CAPE SEDUCTION), Joel Fox (LINCOLN’S HAND), Margot Justes (A HOTEL IN PARIS), L. J. Sellers (SECRETS TO DIE FOR), Beth Solheim (AT WITT’S END), and Chicago favorites Luisa Buehler (THE INN KEEPER) and Nero Wolfe author Robert Goldsborough (A PRESIDENT IN PERIL).

Mr. Vun Kannon was born in Bethpage, Long Island. After surviving his teen age years, he entered Hofstra University. Five years later, he exited with a BA in philosophy and a wife. He still has both, but the wife is more useful.

After dabbling in fulfilling pursuits such as stock boy and gas station attendant, he found his spiritual home as a Tier One software support engineer for Bottomline Technologies. Still married to that wife, too.

For diversion, along the way, he almost accumulated a PhD in philosophy and is currently working on his second BA in Computer Science. He feels that his real job is being a father to his three children, husband to his wife, and author to his books.

President and CEO of Echelon Press states calls “Marc Vun Kannon a breath of fresh air in the book world. Unwilling to be constrained by the rules of the industry, Marc writes to his own beat and this makes for wonderfully engaging stories.”

For more info on Echelon Press, Quake, or any of its authors contact Karen Syed at echelonpress@gmail.com or 301-490-2507. On site Interviews can be arranged for the Printers Row Lit Fest.