Title BITTER NIGHT
Author JO A HIESTAND
Genre MYSTERY
Book Blurb
When former police detective Michael McLaren is given an old photograph and newspaper article, an inquiry begins that seems straight forward enough: an accident in a millpond. But when it’s apparent that other odd deaths are linked to this, all via the victims receiving a cypher puzzle, the secret meanings become more important. More important still when a fifth death occurs practically on McLaren’s doorstep.
Now it’s five deaths and five puzzles, and McLaren’s determined to solve the mysteries. The only problem is that the trail he’s following entraps not only himself but also his friend, Jamie—traps that might be impossible to escape.
Excerpt
“Where’d you find this again?” Michael McLaren scanned the newspaper clipping once more before turning this attention to the envelope and the photo it held. All three items were of a pale tan tint, the paper onion-skin thin, creased and fragile, signs that denoted the conditions of their storage rather than their age. He glanced at his wife, ready for a revelation. “Did I hear you correctly? You found them inside a wall?”
“Yes.” Melanie¾McLaren’s wife of less than a month¾looked at him, her blue eyes portraying her bewilderment even now, several hours on from discovering them. She waved vaguely, as though giving directions. “You know that short wall that sort of makes an entryway by partitioning the front room from the front door?” She surged on without giving McLaren a chance to reply. “Not those short walls in the dining room and upstairs off the master bedroom that we’re considering removing. This is the wall in the main room. The one that we began taking down yesterday. I took the remaining bit down this morning and there it was. Just sitting there, like it was waiting for me.” She shook her head slightly, evidently still surprised by the discovery. The glow of her cheeks nearly matched the pink of her pullover. “I know it’s an old house, so I was prepared for coming upon just about anything and figuring we’d have surprises as we converted it into my art gallery, but I never considered I’d find any personal items.”
“Just disconnected electrical wires and old bits of bell pulls and dead mice and such. Right.”
“A wall seems like a strange place to store something obviously cherished.”
“I agree. Can’t take them out periodically and reread to bring back the memory or fuzzy feelings.” He ran his thumb across a corner of the photo. It, as well as the newspaper article and envelope, was bent, attesting to the envelope and its contents being carelessly jammed into some confining space. In addition, they held the unmistakable musty odor that came from long banishment to the depths of a closed box or unopened drawer. McLaren abandoned his perusal of the items as Melanie held out the bowls of soup to him. He placed them and the warm bread on the kitchen table while she brought over the teapot. He seated her, looking content. “I could get used to this.”
“Used to what? What we’re having for lunch?”
“That, sure, but I was referring to dining with you every day.”
“You better. We’ve been doing it since we were at your grandfather’s house last month for Christmas. Since the twentieth, to be precise.”
“Really? I guess time flies when you’re having fun.”
She studied him as he reclaimed his chair. He was thirty-eight years old—two years younger than she—and six foot three inches tall. His muscular shoulders attested to his heaving heavy rocks about, a necessity in his official career of a mender of dry stone walls. But his ability for and subsequent frequency of solving cold cases was fast overtaking the stone walls work. And, confidentially, she was glad. He was good at it. She wouldn’t have met him, let alone married him, if he didn’t investigate those old murders. Ignoring the recollection, she smiled. “Good answer, having fun.” She poured out their tea, and there was the unmistakable look of adventure in her eyes. “But about those things I found, Mike... What do you think of them? Aren’t they strange? Or am I a hopeless romantic?”
“I don’t see what being a romantic, hopeless or hopeful, has to do with the newspaper article and photo.”
“It’s the mystery of it all, isn’t it? Why are they hidden? Who hid them? How long have they been in the wall? And why in a wall and not in a...” She bit her bottom lip as a lock of her dark blonde hair fell over her shoulder. “Why not hide them in a tin box under the bed or in the hollow of a tree? A wall is so...”
“Cumbersome for gazing.”
“You’re not aware of this case, the one written up in the article?” She sounded incredulous, as if he should know about every newsworthy death in the past century.
“No. And I think I was lucky not to be, if the news snippet is any indication of its ugliness. It doesn’t even sound vaguely familiar. I suspect it could have happened while I was in Staffordshire, either in police school or as a serving officer in the constabulary. I was there for eighteen years. And my parents never mentioned it, either to me or in general conversation. They might not have known about this incident, and even if they did, they probably assumed I had all the police stuff I could handle in Staffordshire.” He rolled down the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles, and buttoned the cuffs. “And I think if I’d been here in Derbyshire¾especially living back here in Somerley¾I would remember the death written about in this newspaper article. It’s odd enough to have lodged in my mind, but it doesn’t even sound familiar. This soup smells fantastic.”
“Thank you. Don’t change the subject. Honestly, you of all people should be curious about the death, Mike. This fits right in with you having been a detective inspector.”
“But I’m not anymore. And I’m trying to stay out of mysteries, either ones you find or ones that are foisted on me. I’m focusing on you and my dry stone wall repair jobs and helping you with your old house renovation. That’s enough for any man. Tea?”
She nodded and held out her cup for him to fill. “But all the same, it’s intriguing, that photo and that newspaper article. I had to read it three times to be sure I understood it correctly. I mean, how many times do you hear of a body found in a pond and death by watermill?”
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)
Trade Paper:
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3Z5iXG8
Ebook:
Amazon: https://bit.ly/4eBjTXG
Giveaway -
Snuggle up with these warming items on a bitter, wintry night and delve into the newest McLaren mystery, Bitter Night!
1. Thick sock slippers
2. Hot chocolate bombs – 1 bomb each of chocolate with marshmallows, peppermint, double chocolate, and salted caramel
3. Mug
4. Battery flickering “flame” candles – 2, battery with timer. Batteries and candle holders not included.
5. Thor’s Hammer necklace pendant
6. Winter scent handmade soap
7. Large scarf/muffler
8. Snack pack of Pepperidge Farm Milano raspberry/chocolate cookies
9. Bitter Night book
Second prize - Enter to win an autographed print book of Bitter Night by Jo A. Hiestand
Third prize - Enter to win an autographed print book of Bitter Night by Jo A. Hiestand
Runs December 2, 2024 - January 19, 2025
Winner will be drawn on January 20, 2025
Author Biography
Jo A. Hiestand grew up on regular doses of music, books, and Girl Scout camping. She gravitated toward writing in her post-high school years and finally did something sensible about it, graduating from Webster University with a BA degree in English and departmental honors. She writes a British mystery series (the McLaren Mysteries) as well as a Missouri-based cozy mystery series that is grounded in places associated with her camping haunts. The camping is a thing of the past, but the music stayed with her in the form of playing guitar and harpsichord, and singing in a folk group. Jo carves jack o’ lanterns badly and sings loudly. She loves barbecue sauce and ice cream (separately, not together), kilts (especially if men wear them), clouds and stormy skies, and the music of G.F. Handel. You can usually find her pulling mystery plots out of scenery—whether from photographs or the real thing.
Social Media Links
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