Goodreads|Amazon
Release date: March 14, 2017

Publisher: ECW Press 

Genre: Mystery/Thriller 

Blurb: 

Retired detective T.J. Peterson is working the table scraps that his former partner, Danny Little, sometimes throws his way. One of them has Peterson hearing from a snitch about a body buried 30 years ago, the same time a drug kingpin went MIA. Peterson is also ducking an ex-con with a grudge, a hitman who likes playing jack-in-the-box with a 12 gauge. Then a former lover re-enters Peterson’s life and begs him to find her daughter, an addict who knows too much about the local drug trade for her own safety. The search for the girl and the truth about the 30-year-old corpse takes Peterson down into the hell of it all, deep into the underworld of crack houses, contract killing, money laundering, and crooked professionals doubling down on their investments of black money.

Welcome to my stop on the The Hell of it All blog tour. I have an excerpt to share with you today and the second part of it will be available on Do Some Damage on March 9th. This book sounds great, definitely on my TBR list! 

Excerpt: 

Chapter One

Peterson swung the black Jetta onto the shoulder of the narrow coastal road, grabbed the cell phone from the shotgun seat, and caught the call on the fourth ring.

“You’re late,” a man’s voice said.

“I’m five minutes away.”

“I don’t like it, man.”

“Just sit tight!”

“Five minutes, and I’m counting.”

The phone went dead, and Peterson gunned it. In the darkness, he missed the snowed-in path to the beach and squealed to a stop. He scowled at his mistake, then popped the transmission into reverse, backed up, and made the turn into the icy snowmobile ruts.

Scrub spruce and alders raked both sides of the Jetta. The occasional frost-heaved boulder ground hard against the undercarriage. Peterson heard a snowmobile roar to life not far away. Then the path took a wide turn and abruptly ended in a small clearing surrounded by snow-matted grass. At the far end, a heavy-set man in a black snowmobile suit and black helmet stood beside his machine.

Peterson knew him as a low-level criminal with big dreams; the kind who talks speed but cruises twenty clicks under the limit. His name was Harvey Roop, but because of the way he hunched over, as though he were carrying a heavy shell on his back, everyone called him Turtle.

Peterson reached for the .38 Ruger in the glove box and climbed from his car. He shoved the gun into the right-hand pocket of his brown field coat. He could taste the salt air in the cold wind off the ocean and looked over to where he heard waves breaking against the rocky shore. In the moonlight, he saw their crests bright with foam and the dark shapes of wild pea and rose bushes poking through the snow.

Then Turtle snapped on a heavy-duty flashlight and blasted the beam into Peterson’s eyes. Peterson hollered for him to aim it somewhere else.

“I don’t like being here with you,” Turtle said, his voice muffled through the helmet. He crossbeamed the path Peterson had driven down.

“You’re the one dressed like Darth Vader,” Peterson said.

Turtle shut the flashlight, then leaned over the snowmobile and killed the motor. He removed the helmet and set it on the seat. He worked a wad of gum in his mouth.

 

Excerpt to be continued on March 9 on Do Some Damage

 

Excerpted from The Hell of It All by Bob Kroll. © 2017 by Bob Kroll. All rights reserved. Published by ECW Press Ltd. http://www.ecwpress.com

 About the Author: 

Bob Kroll has been a professional writer for more than 35 years. His work includes books, stage plays, radio dramas, TV documentaries, and historical docu-dramas for museums. The Hell of It All is the second novel in a projected trilogy featuring T.J. Peterson. Kroll lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Visit Bob Kroll’s website to learn more about him.

 

Delighted to share an extract from Netta Newbound’s new book, The Watcher with you today as part of my stop on the blog tour.

Goodreads|Amazon US|Amazon UK
Blurb: 

Life couldn’t get much better for Hannah. She accepts her dream job in Manchester, and easily makes friends with her new neighbours.

When she becomes romantically involved with her boss, she can’t believe her luck. But things are about to take a grisly turn.

As her colleagues and neighbours are killed off one by one, Hannah’s idyllic life starts to fall apart. But when her mother becomes the next victim, the connection to Hannah is all too real.

Who is watching her every move? 

Will the police discover the real killer in time? 

Hannah is about to learn that appearances can be deceptive.

Extract: 

The Watcher

By Netta Newbound

.

 

Prologue

Germany – 17 years ago

Donald stepped out of the darkness and tensed as his eyes darted across the crowd of drunken revelers. It took a moment for him to spot his target. When he did, he breathed deeply and struggled to calm his pulse.

Pulling himself together, he forced himself forward, keeping the woman’s bright red jacket in his sights at all times. All his senses were on high alert, yet on the surface he fought to appear nonchalant.

He stood behind her in the queue leading to the nightclub and inhaled her scent. Fruity conditioner was the overriding smell coming from her luscious red curls, but he’d watched her dab Dune, her favourite Christian Dior perfume, behind her ears before she left the bathroom less than an hour ago.

The line shuffled forwards and he bumped into her.

“I beg your pardon.” He smiled, running his fingers through his short, prematurely gray hair.

Clair nodded, but several people spluttered with laughter followed by a tirade of German piss-taking.

Donald gritted his teeth as the fingers on his other hand found, gripped, and slowly lifted the phone from Clair’s jacket pocket.

Once inside the club, he kept his distance, watching as Clair spotted her friend at the bar. They hugged and squealed at each other for several minutes. He could pick out the odd word here and there, but he hadn’t been interested in learning the lingo—he never intended being in the country this long.

They took a seat, and he slid into the vacant booth backing onto theirs, and waited.

Within moments, more squealing followed the start of a popular song, and the girls dashed onto the dance floor.

Donald didn’t waste any time. He opened the small paper square, leaned over the table, and slipped the crushed sleeping tablet into Clair’s glass. Then, once he was sure he hadn’t been spotted, he returned to his seat to begin his wait.

An hour later, Clair made a move towards the exit. Her voice couldn’t be heard above the music, so she hand-signaled that she would call her extremely irritated friend soon.

Donald scooted around her and left the building first. He was already leaning against the outer wall by the time Clair appeared looking flustered as she rummaged in her jacket pocket.

“Are you okay?” he asked, knowing she could speak good English.

“Somebody stole my phone.”

“Bloody scoundrels. Do you want one of these?” He offered her a pack of the cigarettes he knew she’d been struggling to give up all week.

She hesitated before taking one.

He lit a match, and, after lighting his own cigarette, he leaned in to light hers.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry I don’t have a phone to lend you. I left it at home otherwise my sister would be calling me every two minutes.”

“Your sister?” A smirk played at the corners of her mouth.

Donald shrugged. “My wife died recently. I’m staying with my sister, but she keeps thinking I’m going to top myself.”

“Top yourself?”

“You know?” He made a shape of a gun with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “Pow! Top myself.”

“Ah, kill yourself?”

He smiled sadly. “But I won’t.”

“How did your wife die?”

“Cancer.”

Clair nodded. “My mother also.”

“That’s shit. Hey, can I give you a lift home? My heart isn’t in this place, after all.”

“I should call my man. He will come for me.”

Donald shrugged one shoulder and smiled. “You don’t have a phone, remember?”

She grinned and nodded.

“No skin off my nose. I can have you home in ten minutes.”

“You do not know my address.” She leaned against the wall and her beautiful green eyes appeared heavy.

Donald could’ve kicked himself. “Can’t be too far if your man was going to come over.”

“True. Okay.” She nodded. “I will accept. Thank you.”

They walked through the passageway to the backstreet.

He’d parked his scruffy white van less than five minutes’ walk away, but Clair couldn’t make the last few steps without his support.

“That drink has affected my legs,” she chuckled.

He opened the passenger door of the van and carefully placed her inside before running around to the driver’s seat.

He turned the key and drove out of town.

Clair was snoring softly and he smiled, thrilled with himself for pulling it off. He knew his meek and mild appearance fooled everyone. It always had, but playing the cancer card was a stroke of genius.

Her phone rang from his pocket.

Startled, he reached for it, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Clair sat upright and stared at him questioningly.

He glanced at her, and then back at the road ahead, his thoughts in a whirr.

“Let me out!” she said, her voice high-pitched.

“Shhh, Clair. Calm down.”

“Let me out. Fucking let me out,” she screamed.

With one fluid movement, Donald smashed his fist into the side of her head. “Less of the language,” he growled as the woman slumped unconscious into her seat.

About the Author: 

Netta Newbound is the author of several best-selling psychological thrillers including An Impossible Dilemma and the Adam Stanley Thriller Series. Originally from Manchester, England, she now lives in New Zealand with her husband Paul and their boxer dog Alfie. She has three grown-up children and three delicious grandchildren. 

As a child, Netta was plagued by a wild imagination, often getting in trouble for making up weird and wonderful stories. Yet she didn’t turn her attention to writing until after her children had grown and left home.

Website

I’m thrilled to be one of the stops on the blog tour for Hells’s Gate. Read on for more information about the book and an extract.

Amazon US|Amazon UK
About the book: 

Hell’s Gate: an explosive, gritty and utterly gripping new crime thriller

A disused railway tunnel where, cruel and sinister deeds are executed.

A policeman on a mission.

A killer who will stop at nothing.

The formidable DCI Cyril Bennett and DS David Owen of Harrogate Police find themselves embroiled in a series of bizarre events. 

A domestic dog attack on a child soon leads to a more complex case – the macabre discovery of a jigsaw of featureless, indiscernible body parts amongst bin bags littering a quiet road on the outskirts of the town.

While under the leadership of a Chinese Mafioso, a team of Eastern Europeans spreads its tentacles into the sordid underworld of people trafficking, dog fighting, prostitution and murder.

Bennett quickly has his hands full investigating a gambling syndicate, the discovery of a mutilated corpse, the death of a prostitute and the case of a badly beaten police officer.

As Bennett and his team are stretched to capacity cracks begin to appear.

Is there a link between these cases and can they catch a twisted killer before he strikes again?

Extract: 

Chapter One

The cold had a cruel habit of creeping slowly into his bones once he was tucked away from the dissipating day’s heat. Even the new cardboard bedding he’d dragged in seemed suddenly damp. He twisted the cork from the bottle of cheap brandy and allowed the amber liquid to tumble to the back of his throat but even that failed to take away the insidious chill. At least he felt safe. This place was fairly secure and unaffected by the vagaries of the weather, although the constant, cutting draught that permeated through the grilled, yet open entrance seemed to constantly gnaw at him. He was, however, tucked well into the manhole that had been expertly crafted into the stone wall’s façade and this was, for him, a psychological cocoon that he failed to find out on The Stray. 

A small candle flickered weakly, illuminating dimly his grim surroundings. Bulging black bin bags of clothes were stuffed casually into the corners of his temporary accommodation. White needle-like stalactites hung from the brick, arched ceiling and the occasional flying bat distracted his eye. It was his fifth night in his new dwelling and he liked its darkness and security. 

It had been a squeeze getting through the entrance bars. He had attempted entry on other occasions but the grids were too secure. However, this time they had seemed looser. Had he been capable, metaphorically, of reading the illegible graffiti on the wall, he might not have entered. He might have turned and found another shelter, but the dry, secure home, despite the constant sound of dripping water, was worth the trouble and the degree of risk. He looked at his shaking hand in the flickering, yellowy light; nails black and grimy. He had not always been this way, once he had had a family, a job, a home and a car but…the drink and the gambling had seen an end to such comforts. He could not now recall which hurdle had tripped him first and really he did not care. He took out his wallet, empty apart from three photographs. He looked at each in the dim flicker of candlelight and the images brought him a degree of warmth that was sadly tainted by the bitterness brought to the lump in his throat by his own selfish immaturity. He pulled the wallet to his chest and whispered the words, “Forgive me!”

It was the unexpected noise near the entrance that made the vagrant’s heart beat more strongly and instinctively he blew out the candle. Hot, molten wax spilled onto his hand. The last thing he wanted was a gang of youths pissing about and tormenting him. He cocked his head and looked towards the echoing, alien sounds. Lights, thin white beams, danced around the arched roof like ancient searchlights, enlarging and deforming shadows and human features. He squashed himself tightly into the corner and prayed they would leave. His anxiety was real and suddenly he felt no cold, just the warmth of the fear he had so often experienced; he knew all about man’s intolerance of man.

The human snuffling and snorting sounded more porcine than human, growing deeper as the youth was manhandled through the grid. Even though the youth was fully aware that his efforts were useless, vapour streamed from both his nostrils, his chest heaved as he squirmed and struggled. Tears had already begun to blur his vision and streams of snot dribbled onto the knotted cloth that filled his mouth, blocking breath and conscious sound alike.

Hands on the youth’s shoulders forced him downward. The discarded garden seat on to which he was dragged was wet and cold against his naked buttocks, the steel frame rusty and rough against his sweating skin. His clothes had been discarded some time ago. Mud oozed between his toes and he could feel the sharp pain where broken glass and pieces of stone had punctured the soft soles of his feet. The people around him proved difficult to see; each wore a powerful head torch that created a contrast between blinding lights, silhouettes and shadows. Occasionally, when one head turned to the other, he identified the familiar faces of those surrounding him, once his friends. Large, electrical ties secured his elbows behind him, pushing out his chest pigeon-like. All seemed to grow quiet apart from the occasional plop of water hitting some distant, dark puddle but it was the next occurrence that the frightened youth could never have anticipated. 

There seemed a moment of absolute silence where satanic forces grew more alive, co-operating fully with the present evil; even the falling droplets co-operated but the quiet was short lived. Hands forced the elastic band of a torch around his head holding it in position just above the eyebrows. The figure directly in front was handed a staple gun and immediately the sharp pain made his body twitch as the thin, metal staple penetrated the skin on his forehead and then splayed against his skull, trapping band to flesh. Blood trickled down his sweat-wet face and blended with the snail-path of snot, then another click of the gun, more pain and then another. Quickly the band was stitched to his head. 

“We’ll need to be able to see your progress, you shit! We’ll need to see where you go and we don’t want you to lose the light. The switch will be broken. There’s only one way to run and that’s what you do well, right little runaway? But you failed at that last time you were caught and brought home. This time you need to win or else…The way you run is that way. Get on top of the wall and you’ll be safe, you’ll be given another chance, just one more chance, but fail, and nobody will hear from you again.” 

The face moved closer and the garlic vapour, like a small cloud, filled his nostrils. It was pungent but somehow ridiculously reassuring that he had eaten the same meal. His mind spun, he recognised his error and his recklessness, definitely foolish and certainly inexcusable. Blood dripped onto his thigh before running down his leg to be diluted in the stinking mud. The penetrating beams of light hurt his eyes. It suddenly seemed that his senses had come alive and had increased ten fold, the pumping adrenalin and crippling fear had made sure of that.

“You get four minutes, four. Run fast and keep running. You really don’t want what is behind you to find and catch you!” 

The speaker spat directly into the captive’s face. 

“That’s for your disrespect. You were treated like a son. It’s now up to you, bastard.”

The torch on his head was illuminated and the switch snapped off before the straps holding his arms were cut.

“Go!” they all screamed, the echo reverberating within the confined, black space.

After a brief pause, his heart racing and his pulse thumping in his ears, he started his slippery run, arms pumping, and eyes wide, into the chasm, into the unknown. Mud oozed between his toes as he moved over the parallel indentations running across the floor, making movement difficult. He just had to get away, he had to escape. He was unaware that an unknown, unsympathetic pair of eyes would briefly watch his progress.  

“Run you little shit, run!” they all called, striking in him more fear and uncertainty of what was to come. Their sounds of laughter boomed as they bounced off the stonework 

“Get them ready!”

Drew Sadler pushed himself as flat against the wall as possible, his breath instinctively held. Sweat now beaded his face as the heavy breathing and whimpering of the desperate youth grew louder as he approached. The cavernous space amplified the sounds that accompanied the naked figure running and stumbling past. Light beams danced on his back but it would be the next moment, the next split second that would bring the sudden and unexpected terror into Drew’s private world.

Check out all the stops on the tour!

I’m delighted to be a stop on the tour for Hidden Island by Angela Corner today! Read on for more information about the book and a fabulous guest post from the author.

About the book: 

Sex. Drugs. Murder.

Hidden behind the crystal seas and beautiful beaches of a Greek Island dark and dangerous secrets lurk. Beckett has had his fill of adrenaline fuelled criminal investigation and with a broken body and damaged career goes to the Greek Island of Farou to head up the Criminal Investigation Bureau. Serious crime is rare, the weather is great and the beer is cold but his ‘retirement’ is cut short when a pagan cult resurrects and bodies start showing up.

With doubts about his mental and physical ability to do the job, a British police detective is sent to help with the investigation. DI Lee Harper is everything Beckett is not – young, ambitious and by the book.

As well as tackling the new case Beckett must overcome the demons from his past.

Family loyalty, power and money are at the source of the investigation where appearance is everything and nothing is what is seems.

Can Beckett and Harper work together to find justice for the victims?
Will the idyllic island ever be the same again?

Sometimes paradise can be hell.

Goodreads|Amazon US|Amazon UK

Guest Post: 

Scriptwriting v novel writing

The Hidden Island is my first venture into novel writing – apart from a Hollyoaks spin off novel I did a few years ago – but I spent nearly ten years writing scripts for soap operas, Hollyoaks mainly and a handful for Eastenders.

So how different is it writing for television and writing a novel?

Scriptwriting for a long running series obviously gives you less creative freedom and input than writing a novel. You are writing about pre-existing characters, their back stories already invented, and sending them down story avenues that you and perhaps twenty other writers have discussed, argued about and eventually agreed over (or not as the case maybe). You can be asked to write about characters you don’t enjoy writing for and to make characters do things you don’t think they would do. But also when you’ve worked on a TV show for a few years there will be characters you have created yourself and storylines that you gave birth to that you and the other writers have developed and breathed life into over many months. There is a huge sense of satisfaction at seeing your ideas explode onto the TV screen as well as frustration if the team decides the story should go in a different direction to the one you intended. There are also practical restrictions when writing for most TV series. You might want to send ten characters on holiday to Barbados for an adventure but finances will only allow you three characters (many actors are only paid per the number of episodes they appear in) on a day trip to Rhyl and they might not be the three characters you want to write about because of actor’s holidays. You also have to contend with censorship – particularly on a pre-watershed show – many words and acts are out of bounds, and the interpretation of the director and the actors. Every TV show is the result of a massive team of people, not always with the same vision as the writer.  

Writing a novel could not be more different. You have total freedom. There are no budget restrictions. Your characters can live and travel anywhere. You can have a cast of thousands – not necessarily a good idea unless you are incredibly good at planning and organising and want to write a 500 pager. You are playing god with a world entirely of your own creation. But this freedom is incredibly scary. Every story needs its own rules and boundaries to make sense. Writing on a TV show means you have other writers to consult, other episodes to fit in around, script editors giving their input every couple of weeks, producers giving notes and asking for changes, and immovable deadlines that you have to hit. Writing for a TV show is a team sport. Writing a novel is like a solo voyage around the world. Exciting, scary, full of potential disasters but incredibly rewarding when you get to the end. Writing on a TV show there isn’t ever an end, though your part in it might finish, there is always someone else to carry it on. It can never be solely yours whereas a novel is the writer’s child. For good and for bad.

Check out the other stops on the tour!

I’m so excited to be a stop on the blog tour for A Composition in Murder today. Read on for more information on the book and hilarious Q & A with the author.

A Composition in Murder Book Tour
A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 6
By author Larissa Reinhart
Tour Dates: November 15th – 21st, 2016

Blurb:

With a new art teaching gig at Halo House—Halo, Georgia’s posh independent living home—and Halo society scrutinizing her family and her love life, Cherry Tucker needs to stay out of trouble. However, her sleuthing skills are sought by Halo House’s most famous resident: Belvia Brakeman, the ninety-year-old, blind CEO and founder of Meemaw’s Tea. Belvia confides in Cherry that the family tea empire is in jeopardy. The CEO suspects her daughter, the COO, has been murdered and she might be next. Her offer is hard to refuse, but will have Cherry treading on Forks County Sheriff toes, namely her personal Deputy Heartache, Luke Harper.

Amid her town troubles, can Cherry put her reputation, romance, and life on the line for the final request of a sweet tea tycoon? While she juggles senior citizen shenanigans, small town politics, and corporate family scandals, Cherry finds the sweet tea business cutthroat in more ways than one.

Buy the Book:

Amazon
Barnes & Noble

About the Author:

Larissa Reinhart

Bio:

A 2015 Georgia Author of the Year Best Mystery finalist, Larissa writes the Cherry Tucker Mystery series. The first in the series, PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY (2012), is a 2012 Daphne du Maurier finalist, 2012 The Emily finalist, and 2011 Dixie Kane Memorial winner. The sixth mystery, A COMPOSITION IN MURDER, is expected to release November 15, 2016. Her family and Cairn Terrier, Biscuit, now live in Nagoya, Japan, but still calls Georgia home. Visit her website, LarissaReinhart.com, find her chatting on Facebook, Instagram, and Goodreads, or join her Facebook street team, The Mystery Minions.

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads | Amazon

Q & A

Q&A: Larissa Reinhart

 

1. What’s a typical writing day for you look like? Describe your perfect writing environment.

 

My typical day never fits my perfect writing environment because I rarely have a typical day. I’m a mom. I live in Japan. My husband lives away from us during the week. So those three things mean I fit my writing day in the best I can. If I had a perfect writing environment, truthfully, I’d probably not get any writing done. The days I have that are uninterrupted by mom/wife/life-in-Japan duties tend to get frittered away because I think, “Hey, I have time to rinse-and-repeat in the shower,” or “Hey, it’s been a few months since I’ve changed the sheets, I’ve got time for that” and then somehow it’s four o’clock and the children are appearing again.

 

Here’s my real day when I don’t have to be at school or running errands or entertaining children:

 

I plan to begin writing at 7:30 am, ten minutes after the children leave for school, enough time to get dressed and grab a coffee. But first I make a “to-do” list.

At nine o’clock, I look at the clock, say, “Oh crap” and turn off my email and Facebook. I write until about eleven while drinking cold coffee, then think, “Where’s the dog?”

The dog and I walk. I say to him, “Dangit, I forgot about lunch.”

I make lunch, head back to my bedroom where I have a desk, but where I really sit in my faux Eames chair with the comfy footstool. I open my computer and fiddle around with emails and social media again. I look at my “to-do” list. I start one of my “to-dos” but I really want to get back to my manuscript. I go back to my manuscript.

My timer goes off. It’s four o’clock and the children are home. I read out loud, help with homework, take them to lessons, then open my computer. Stare at my undone “to-do.”

The children tell me how mothers are supposed to fix dinner. I fix dinner.

We eat and watch My Little Pony or Disney or play Uno Spin and I force them to bed around nine-ish o’clock.

I open my computer and look at my “to-do” but then switch over to Facebook. I post a funny picture and realize it’s eleven o’clock. Go to bed, read until twelve-thirty, and then suddenly it’s today again.

And I make another “to-do” list and spend another day feeling like I’ve got nothing done.

 

That’s my reality.

 

2. How did you get started writing? Was it something that you’ve always loved?

 

I started with lists of words when I was four. I think the lists became stories around first grade. Stories with pictures. I won my first national writing award in elementary school and then it went downhill until about forty. I blame puberty and boys.

 

3. Who are your favorite writers/inspirations?

 

I have daily inspiration from my writing friends. I have more than I can list, so I’ll name the three I converse with most regularly now, Terri L. Austin, Gretchen Archer, and Ritter Ames. Amazing writers and lovely human beings. They give me emotional writing support and good advice.

 

Back home in Peachtree City, author Debby Giusti was the mentor who encouraged me to get published. I received a lot of encouragement from other Georgia writers, especially through RWA’s Georgia Romance Writers. And with other friends at Henery Press and the larger mystery writing community, like Sisters in Crime. Plus there are bloggers and reviewers like Dru Ann Love of dru’s book musing and Lynn Farris at Hot Mysteries. There are too many people to name, but I enjoy their company, especially on Facebook.

 

My favorite writers who are not my friends include Jennifer Crusie, Meg Cabot, Ira Levin, Elmore Leonard, Nick Hornby, Joshilyn Jackson, Keigo Higashino, Sharyn McCrumb, Agatha Christie, and Mary Stewart. There’s more but, again, too many to mention. But those are the writers who I’ll read anything they’ve published.

 

4. Anything you can tell us about upcoming projects?

Very thrilled to have Cherry Tucker’s sixth mystery out now, A Composition in Murder. And I have a new series, Maizie Albright Star Detective with the first book, 15 Minutes, launching on January 24th. I’m writing the second book in that series now, 16 Millimeters.

 

Maizie Albright’s an ex-teen and reality star who returns to her hometown in Georgia to escape life in Hollywood (also by judge’s orders) to become a detective. She’s trying to emulate her favorite childhood role, Julia Pinkerton, Teen Detective, but also learning how to become her own person after spending a life under the thumb of managers, directors, and producers, particularly her stage-monster mother-manager. It’s been a lot of fun and my experience doing House Hunters International has been great research for the series.

 

 

5. Normally how do you develop plots/characters? Brief us on your process.

 

Generally, characters come before plot and the story comes from a “what if” that has everything to do with the protagonist. The plot tends to work itself out while I write because the characters are reacting to the plot as it happens. I spend more time on character motivation, both the protagonist(s)’ and antagonist(s)’, than I do anything else. And I usually have to write two to three chapters to get to know the characters before I have an idea where the story is going to lead. Sometimes I don’t keep those chapters and usually, they have to be rewritten, but that’s how my brain works. I’m a “hands-on learner.”

 

6. Favorite character from one of your own novels?

 

Remi, short for Remington Marie Spayberry and named for her Daddy’s favorite hunting rifle. She’s the six-year-old stepsister to Maizie Albright in 15 Minutes. One of my favorite books is The Member of the Wedding by Carson McCullers. Frankie, the heroine in that book, inspired both Cherry Tucker and Remi.

 

7. Preferred method for readers to contact you?

 

Whatever’s easiest for them. They can email me (Larissa at larissareinhart.com), chat with me on Facebook or Instagram, or send me a message on Goodreads. Sometimes Facebook messenger hides my messages, so if you don’t hear back, that’s why. If readers want to keep up with my book news, I’d advise them to join my newsletter at http://smarturl.it/larissanewsletter because I also do giveaways that are only for newsletter subscribers. And if they really want to get to know me, I have a street team which is really just an excuse to chat on a private Facebook page, the Mystery Minions: https://www.facebook.com/groups/mysteryminions/.

 

8. On average, how long does it take you to write a book?

 

If I’m not in the middle of an international move, generally about three months.

 

10. Which one of your characters do you relate to the most?

 

They’re all very different from me, so that’s difficult. Maybe the bartender, Red, from the Cherry Tucker Mystery series. We both like to give out bad advice.

 

11. If writing wasn’t your career what would you be doing?

 

I’d still be a mother. My children don’t pay well, but the hours are good.

 

12. What’s the best compliment that you’ve received about your work?

 

When a reader wrote to say that my books cheered her through a particularly trying time. She’d been sitting in the hospital with her dying father and the books helped her escape from that for a little while. I’ve got similar letters and they inspire and humble me. It’s what motivates me to keep writing. I like to entertain and provide a little escapism for my reading friends.

Check out all the Tour Stops:

November 15th

Steamy Book Momma – Book Promo Post
Imaginary Book Club – Book Review
Hello…Chick Lit – Book Excerpt Post

November 16th

EmmaTheLittleBookworm – Author Guest Post
Writing Pearls – Book Review
Judging More Than Just The Cover – Author Q&A

November 17th

Novelgossip – Author Q&A
The Belgian Reviewer – Author Guest Post

November 18th

Jena Books – Book Review/Excerpt

November 19th

Corinne’s Garden – Book Excerpt/Promo Post

November 20th

Live Laugh and Love Books – Book Review

November 21st

Book Lover in Florida – Book Excerpt Post
Turning Another Page – Book Review/Excerpt

Tour Arranged by: