Summer McCloud Mysteries by Nikki Broadwell Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Murder in Plain Sight
Summer
McCloud Book 1
by
Nikki Broadwell
Genre:
Paranormal Mystery
Like
Stephanie Plum?
Just
add ghosts and stir!
Summer
is an amateur sleuth with the hots for a cop on the local police
force. And Jerry is on her trail, but not because he wants her
body.
Summer
is a suspect in a murder investigation.
When
Summer dons a wig and sunglasses and disappears, her best friend,
Agnes, is worried--will Summer end up being another
victim?
Meanwhile
Jerry is seen on the news asking her to turn herself in.
Will
she heed his warning?
Find
out in this fast-paced sexy and humorous thriller by picking up a
copy now.
Note
to readers: If you are a stickler for police procedures or read a lot
of hard-boiled murder mysteries, this might not be the book for you!
I
was sitting on my couch reading when someone rapped on my door. It
was
nine
o’clock at night and I was getting sleepy, the sound startling me
so much
that
I nearly knocked over the antique Tiffany lamp in my haste to answer
it. I
opened
the door and peered into darkness, surprised to see Agnes. She seemed
distraught,
her straight dark hair in tangles as though she’d run in a high
wind.
“I
had to come over to warn you, Summer,” she said breathlessly.
“Since you
don’t
own a TV I figured you wouldn’t have seen the local news.”
I
flung the door wide. “Come in,” I invited, closing it behind her.
Agnes
was very pretty with dark eyes always lined with kohl, her lipstick
varying
from kiss me red to a deep maroon color. Her hairstyle reminded me of
the
roaring twenties with clipped straight bangs that stopped just above
her
eyebrows,
the rest of her straight dark hair ending neatly at her chin. Her
highheeled
boots
made her look impossibly tall as she teetered toward the couch.
“Did
you run in those?” I asked, pointing to the red ankle-high boots.
Agnes
looked distracted as she pulled her heavy sweater over her head and
lowered
herself to the couch. “What? Yes, of course I did. Come sit,
Summer.
You
aren’t going to like this.” She patted the couch next to her.
I
stared at her bare arms, fascinated as always by her beautiful
tattoos.
Saraswati
the Hindu goddess of knowledge, music and creative arts, was
depicted
in sinuous and colorful detail on her right arm. On her left forearm
Guanyin,
the Chinese goddess of compassion, had been rendered in the
traditional
seated position, and above her was a satyr, an oddity that didn’t
really
go
with the rest of them but was actually my favorite with his goat eyes
and
horns. I
sat down next to her wondering what could possibly have happened. I
hadn’t
heard any sirens and my cell phone hadn’t alerted me to any coming
storms. “Did
you have a visitor in your store today, a woman who you’ve never
seen
before?” I
frowned, going back over my day. “There was one woman. She was kind
of
unusual
and the book she wanted wasn’t in the database. Why?”
Agnes
sat forward, turning toward me with an intense gaze. “Dark hair?
Older?“ I
nodded. “Her
name was Serena Weatherby.” “Was,
as in past tense?”
“She’s
dead, Summer.” “Dead?
How?” “That’s
the funny part. No one knows. There wasn’t a mark on her.” “Why
are you telling me this?” “Because
the only clue they could find was the receipt inside the book she bought
from you.” “So?” “I
think they’re going to bring you in for questioning.” “You’ve
got be kidding!” “Jerry
was kind enough to warn me.”
Jerry
Brady was a man we’d both dated in the past who just happened to be
a
homicide
detective on the local police force. I stared at her, trying to take
in the
situation.
“Do they think I had something to do with her death? All I did was
sell
her
a book!” “There’s
more. One of the poison recipes included in that book was authored
by
your mother.” “What?
I’ve never seen that stupid book before. It wasn’t even in the
inventory
on the computer. And why would my mother have a recipe to kill
somebody?” Agnes
picked up my crystal paperweight and turned it over in her hands.
“It’s
a
good thing I went by the station today,” she said, placing the
paperweight
down
on the side table. “Jerry left a wool scarf at my house ages ago
and I
picked
today to take it back. Kind of lucky, don’t you think?”
I
didn’t pay attention to what she said, my mind on my interactions
with
Serena
Weatherby. “She mentioned that I looked like my mother.”
The
dark window reflected my image back to me as I attempted to collect
my
thoughts.
I saw two lines appear between my brows. I turned away. My heart
was
beating a little too fast and I felt as though I might be holding my
breath. “Is
it
possible I could be arrested? I don’t have enough money for a
lawyer.” My
mind
hurtled ahead like a runaway train. A vision of me in handcuffs being
dragged
off to jail went through my mind. This was no ordinary imagining, it
was
a real vision of my future and I needed to pay attention to it. If I
didn’t it, I
was
sure it would come to pass. “I
don’t know what they’re planning. Jerry said something about a
‘person of interest’.
I guess that’s what they call a suspect these days. He knew I’d
tell you —maybe
he wants you to lay low?” This
was the message I needed. I had to get out of here before they picked me
up. I was meant to solve this. “Agnes, you’re on vacation for a
few days, aren’t
you? Could you watch the store?”
Agnes
looked startled. “Take over Tarot and Tea? I don’t know…”
“You
don’t have to sell, just be there to ring people up. Oh, and
someone
needs
to feed the animals. And Cutty needs to be walked. You could take him
to
your
house or maybe you could stay here?” I watched her for a reaction
to all
these
demands, surprised when she smiled. “And
what, my little amateur detective, are you going to be doing?” “If
I tell you I might have to kill you,” I said, sotto voice, trying
to make light of
what I was feeling. “Shall
I say anything to Jerry?”
“I
don’t want to get him involved—I’m sure it would compromise his
position
if he tried to help me. I have his number if I need it.”
“You’d
better get to it. I have a feeling they might come tonight and if not
tonight
then early tomorrow. Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. Where will
you go?”
“I
know a place where I’ll be safe.” I hugged her and promised to be
careful.
After
Agnes left, I packed a bag. Before I left I hugged Cutty. Mischief
eyed
me
from on top of the hutch in the corner of the living room as I headed
toward
the
back door. “Don’t worry, kitty. I’ll be back soon,” I told
her. As I hurried
down
the dark street I heard sirens approaching. My fast walk turned into
a run.
Saffron and Seaweed
Summer
McCloud book 2
Summer
and Jerry’s romantic weekend takes a dark turn when they discover
the body of a young woman in the surf.
When
the local police deny the crime and the newspaper prints nothing,
Jerry and Summer realize they are on their own. But they have no idea
how deep they will have to dig to find out the truth. The murder is
only a thread in a web of lies that extends to the furthest reaches
of political office.
Are
Summer’s visions to be the only clues? Jerry doesn’t think so,
his focus on good old-fashioned detective work, but when he doubts
her psychic abilities the trust between them begins to crumble.
As
the days pass, Jerry and Summer come to understand that not only
their relationship, but their very lives are in jeopardy.
It
was two in the afternoon before we rolled into the wealthy beach
resort of
Watch
Hill. Once we drove through the town of Westerly, six or so miles
away,
we
took the scenic route along the water, driving by elegant mansions
that could
house
dozens, each one unique in its design of stone or wood and looking
like
various
styles of castles. They all sat on the ocean side of the road and
were
surrounded
with lawns the size of golf courses, some lined with trees and some
sporting
swimming pools filled with azure water sparkling in the sunlight.
As
we edged closer to town the road curved away from the ocean,
meandering
through narrow streets filled with holiday goers. The buzz of
mopeds,
purr of sporty convertibles and whizz of bicyclists melded together
into
a
clamor that said ‘weekend away’, the crowded streets slowing us
to a crawl.
Here
the houses were somewhat closer together but still enormous and
unusual,
with
cupolas and glassed-in porches. Some of them had been around before
cars,
the
carriage houses now remodeled into small cottages for houseguests. We
drove
by the magnificent Ocean House Hotel where room prices began at three
hundred
dollars and went up from there. It had first opened its doors in
1868.
The
newly rebuilt monolith sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean,
the
view
spectacular. Beyond the hotel the road narrowed and curved downhill
to the
right,
heading by the Flying Horse Carousel, originally erected in the late
eighteen
hundreds, and then dropping us into the Bay Street village by the
Watch
Hill
Yacht Club. Jerry
pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine. “What do you think?
Take
a walk on the beach and go for a swim?” I
brightened immediately, pulling off the hot jacket and helmet. “I
have my bathing
suit on under my clothes.”
He
raised one eyebrow, a unique ability that I found very sexy, and then
his
gaze
went from my T-shirt to the cut-off shorts I was wearing. “I
hoped…” he
began. I
knew that look and what lay behind it. “That we’d go
skinny-dipping? Do
you
think there’s a secluded beach in this town? Look around, Jerry,
and tell me
what
you see.” Jerry
scanned the crowded parking lot, the cars rolling slowly by the
shopping
strip and restaurants, the people in bathing suits going in and out
of the
stores
and the yacht club and heading toward the cabanas. He made a face.
“Maybe
there are less people out by the point.” Napatree
Point was a spit of land that stuck out beyond the harbor, separating it
from Fishers Island Sound on the other side. Most beach-goers hung
closer to the
village where the water was calmer.
“What
do we do about our stuff?” I asked, gazing down at the expensive
customized
leather bags he’d purchased. “They
lock, Summer. It would be pretty hard for someone to get them off.” He
looked around at the assortment of Mercedes, BMW’s, and Porsches in
the lot.
“And besides, who here would care to steal our
stuff?”
I
pulled off my T-shirt to reveal my brand new black bikini top bought
especially
for this trip, watching Jerry take off his leathers. He stood around
six
feet
tall with a solid body and broad shoulders. His brown hair was
windblown,
his
face dark from the sun. Even after a year I still got a little thrill
when I
looked
at him. When
his gaze met mine his mouth quirked. “And what are you thinking
about?”
he asked, stuffing his leathers into one of the bags. “Nothing,”
I answered, looking away. Maybe it was the heat or maybe it was because
we were away from Ames and all our responsibilities, but right now I wanted
to run my hands all over his naked body and have him run his over
mine. I
thought about the privacy of water. “Let’s go,” I said, pulling
him across the parking
lot toward the dunes in the distance.
The
sand was hot and I ran toward the surf, slowing to a walk once I
reached
the
shallow water and sea-drenched packed sand. Seagulls wheeled in the
sky
above
us, the calls strident as they begged for food. I saw one steal some
bit of
sandwich
or cracker, rising into the air as a child of about five chased after
it. A
lot
of people were out today, the high-pitched cries of children, barking
dogs and
the
thunder of waves crashing suddenly on the beach mingling into a
summer
medley
in my mind. I jogged up the beach away from the crowd, heading toward
the
barrier beach and the point. “Wait
for me!” Jerry called, hurrying to catch up. He grabbed my hand. A
few people were meandering around the fort in the distance taking
pictures.
Fort Mansfield, or what was left of it, had been a coastal artillery
installation
built around the turn of the nineteenth century. It stood at a curve
in
the
narrow peninsula and beyond it was Sandy Point, a thirty-five acre
island
that
had been turned into a nature reserve. Until the 1938 hurricane these
two
landmasses
had been connected, but now the ocean raced between them, a
hazardous
place for boats. Once we reached the ruins we continued on, searching
for
a more private place to swim. The
wind came up suddenly, whipping our hair and sending stinging sand against
our skin. I bent my head and watched the sailboats coming in, sailors hurriedly
bringing down the sails as they navigated from ocean to bay looking
for
their moorings. The staccato blast of the horn took my
attention—skippers
calling
the harbormaster to bring them to shore. The
peninsula ended and I raced down to the beach away from Jerry, plunging
into the cold water. He was right behind me and I heard his shocked
cry as
he dove in. We swam out beyond where the waves were breaking and then floated
lazily on our backs for a while until Jerry grabbed me and pulled me
under
the water. I
opened my eyes as he pressed against me, our lips meeting in a kiss.
Everything
was green and translucent, sunlight slanting through the water and
casting
rippling shadows across our skin. We bounced together as waves moved
past,
our bodies undulating loosely like flotsam. I could hear the deep
muffled
rumble
of the waves, see the tendrils of my honey-colored hair waving like
seaweed,
feel Jerry’s body bumping against mine. His leg hooked around one
of
mine
as his hands moved under my bathing suit top. I felt it slip off and
drift
away.
We rose to the surface laughing and gasping.
“My
top!” I yelled, trying to locate it. Jerry grinned as I dove to
find it. I let
the
waves take me closer into shore hoping it was being washed along with
me,
but
when I reached the beach I didn’t see it. I searched in the
shallows, trying not
to
expose myself, but when I looked around there were no people close
by.
I
giggled when I felt Jerry’s leg press against mine, turning to grab
him, but
when
my fingers closed around something squishy I let out a shriek that
could
have
been heard back in Ames. It was not Jerry’s leg. It was the arm of
a person
who
was very dead. Jerry
swam toward me. “What’s the matter?” His gaze went from my
horrified
expression to the body at my feet. The woman looked almost alive as
she
moved gently in and out, slack limbs undulating as the tide rose and
fell. But
the
grayish cast to the skin, the bluish lips and the tangled hair filled
with
seaweed
told a very different story.
Black and White and Red All Over
Summer
McCloud Book 3
A
terrible school shooting has the entire sleepy town of Ames in an
uproar. Who would do such a thing, and why can’t the witnesses
remember any details about the shooter?
When
Summer has a visit from a ghost she’s left wondering...could
someone long dead actually heft an assault rifle?
Along
with the furor over the murders, Summer is falling for Jerry again,
despite his obvious deranged state of mind. Add to that the upcoming
wedding between Sam and Agnes, and include a smattering of ghosts and
possible psychopaths to the guest list, and you have a recipe for
disaster.
This
wedding had been the main focus of both our lives for months now and
I
was ready for it to be over. The ballroom in the old age home had
finally been
remodeled
and that’s where the ceremony and the reception would take place.
The
turn-of-the-century Victorian building had been a project of Agnes’s
since
the
fall and now it was nearly completed. I was pleased that all the
ghosts
wandering
around town could finally settle into their new/old digs. Douglas, a
ghost
and also Agnes’s father, had remarked to me earlier today how glad
he
was.
“The place is just the way it was nearly one hundred years ago,”
he’d told
me
when he came into Tarot and Tea. He would know, I’d thought to
myself,
trying
to suppress a giggle. In
truth, I had no idea how old the man was, only that I liked him very
much and
that he had an elegant and old-fashioned way about him. He and
Agnes’s mother,
a woman who’d been murdered here in Ames two years ago, had
reconnected
just before her death. Agnes still spoke about Serena Weatherby in
hushed
tones, gasping over the enormous inheritance Serena had left her. I
figured
she and Sam would buy some mansion to live in once they were married.
I
only hoped they would stay in Ames and not move to some swank section
of
New
York too far away for me to visit. But then again I had a hard time
imagining
Sam quitting the police force. Being a detective was his life.
Douglas
and Serena, Agnes’s parents, had loved each other and apparently
conceived
a child after Douglas left the land of the living. Even with my own
burgeoning
psychic abilities I found this revelation disturbing. I wondered why
Serena
had never appeared to any of us after her demise. I had yet to ask
Douglas
if he ever saw her. A
hundred guests were coming to the wedding, Sam’s friends and family who
made up a cast of thousands, as well as Agnes’s college friends
she’d lost
touch
with who were now married with children. She told me she was hoping
to
reconnect
now that she was about to join them in the respectable institution of
matrimony. Agnes
had always been a free spirit and that’s why we’d become such
good
friends.
This new side of her, that seemed to think that getting married
placed her
in
an entirely different social stratum, bothered me greatly. She was my
best
friend
and I relied on her to continue in that regard. We still went to our
monthly
coven
meetings on the full moon, and I hoped we would continue to do so
after
her
marriage. We
had consumed half the bottle by the time Sam arrived, his expression
grim. “What’s
wrong?” Agnes asked, jumping up from the couch.
He
rubbed a hand across his clean-shaven face. “There’s been an
incident,”
he
began, slanting a glance toward me. “There was a shooting a couple
of hours
ago
at Riverview Elementary.” My
mouth dropped open in horror. These school shootings had been happening
all over the country but I never thought they would occur in our
sleepy
village of Ames, Connecticut. I clutched my glass and tried not to
see the
ravaged
faces of the poor children. “Five
kids and three teachers were shot today,” he continued, slumping
onto the
couch. “It was a bloodbath.” Agnes’s
pale face turned whiter than usual, tears welling in her eyes. She
sat next
to Sam and turned toward me. “Summer, have you seen…?” I
knew what she was referring to and shook my head. Ghosts often talked
to me
but I had had no visits, at least not yet. “What happened?” I
asked Sam, girding
myself for what he would say. “Some
maniac came into the school with an assault rifle and just shot up
the building.
We have no motive, no name, and no understanding of where the shooter
came from and or why he or she did what they did.”
“Which
teachers?” Agnes asked in a small voice. We both knew several
teachers
at the elementary school. “Linda
Moser and Gabby Cozens were killed—Maggie Johnson was shot but survived.” Agnes
let out a wail. “I know them!”
“I
do too,” I said, moving next to her. She turned to face me and then
we
hugged,
both of us in tears. “None
of the witnesses can remember what the shooter looked like or even if it
was a he or a she. I find that odd, especially since two other
teachers and Maggie
witnessed the entire thing, not to mention the other twenty children
who were
in the classroom. The only thing they said was they thought the
person had
brown
hair.” “Well,
that narrows it down,” I said. Sam
shot me a look. “It’s a start and we have a sketch artist working
with the witnesses.” “Linda
and Gabby were coming to the wedding,” Agnes said, pulling away to
look at Sam again. “Did they die quickly? Don’t tell me,” she
said a second later,
holding up her hand. “Do you think we should postpone the wedding?” “The
wedding is over a month away, Agnes. I’m sure this will be wrapped
up
by
then. And even if it isn’t I don’t think we should.” Sam took
hold of her hand,
twining
his fingers through hers. “I’ve got to get back to the police
station. Jerry
and
I are leading the investigation.” So
he and Jerry were partners again. Last I’d heard Jerry wasn’t
even back to full
duty. But then again it had been months since his mental collapse
after the last
case we’d worked on together. I wondered if the chief had insisted
he see a therapist. “And
Summer, you may be called in.” “Called
in—why?”
“Your
psychic skills. The chief mentioned you during our planning meeting.”
I
shook my head. “Unless one of the ghosts contacts me I can do
nothing. It
isn’t
like I go into a trance and know what happened.” “Sorry
to hear that,” he said, regarding me with a somber expression. He kissed
Agnes before he stood and headed for the door. “But please let me
know if
you dream anything or one of them visits you. We could really use
some help on
this one.” He opened the door and closed it behind him. I heard the
squad car start
up and then the squeal of one of the belts as he put it in gear and
headed away. I
felt ill as I pictured Linda and Gabby lying on the classroom floor
in a pool of
blood. They were both my age, late twenties. It suddenly occurred to
me that I
was
turning thirty this year, a milestone I wasn’t looking forward to.
But then I
thought
of them again, their lives cut short, and I mentally reprimanded
myself.
And
Gabby had a little girl, Mary. Was her child one of the five victims?
And
what
about Maggie—did her boy survive? I raced to the door and flung it
open,
but
Sam was long gone.
Finlay's Folly
Summer
McCloud Book 4
Summer
is in Scotland doing an errand for a ghost. But when she comes face
to face with her distant past her world turns upside down.
Finlay
Ross McCloud, a ghost in the Ames graveyard, has sent her on this
fool's errand, his facts confused. And when Summer discovers the
truth she's already in over her head.
Will
she succumb to the charms of the handsome highlander she can picture
running across the moors in a kilt, or will she pull herself away
before it's too late?
Find
out in this fast-paced romantic tale of love and loss.
My
throat burned, my lungs on fire as I hurtled down the dirt road away
from the
whine
of the engine behind me. They were gaining. Of
course they’re gaining,
you
ninny—they’re in a car and you’re on foot!
And not just any old car but a
black
town car with bulletproof glass and windows tinted so dark you
couldn’t
see
inside. How could they allow…but that question left my mind when a
narrow
path appeared on my right, leading through a field planted in some
low
growing
vegetable that did well in arid climates—maybe Mexican spinach?
When
a gunshot rang out my mind went as blank as the cloudless sky. I ran
for
my
life. How
I had come to be out in the middle of Mexico running from banditos
trying
to
kill me was a question I couldn’t even ponder at the moment. My
legs were
tiring,
my heart rate way above anything resembling normal, and when I
glanced
over
my shoulder I saw two bulky men heading my way on foot, guns drawn.
Jerry,
you bastard!
The words that rang through my mind were not the
best
way to think of the man I’d just married—and where was he now
that my
life
was about to be ended by two thugs in riot gear?
This
entire scenario was Jerry’s fault, and if I lived long enough to
see him
again
I would murder him with my bare hands. Why in god’s name had I said
yes?
A bullet winged my ear—blood trickled down my cheek and along my
neck
as
I felt the ground give way. A moment later I was falling into
darkness, my
fingers
clutching at air. I hit the water and sank.
The
Night of the Jaguar
Summer
McCloud Book 5
A
honeymoon without a husband is not so fun.
Akumal
is beautiful, but without Jerry, Summer's hopes of sunbathing,
margaritas, and rolling around in bed together, are ruined.
But
it's the dead body in the cenote that clinches it. Jerry is working
on a case that he never mentioned, and Summer is left out-- that is
until she decides to do a little sleuthing herself.
Even
with the help from ghosts and a jaguar Summer is out of her depth.
And when her life is put in in danger it is up to Jerry to save her.
Will he make it in time?
Find
out by reading this fast-paced supernatural thriller.
I graduated with a BA in art and English from Sonoma State University in California. I've been an avid reader since I first learned how and a writer from my early teenage years on. I've had several art related businesses, including greeting cards and more recently a silk painting business. When I began to write in earnest I put aside the art, concentrating only on the writing.
I've
traveled a lot over the years, finding inspiration wherever I go.
Scotland holds a special place in my heart, hence the setting for
"The Moonstone". I had to make a 4th trip there to do
research as I was putting the book together!
Something unique or quirky about
me:
I have astral traveled—only once,
but it was enough! (terrifying)
Something
really interesting that’s happened to me:
I lived in Berlin as a child,
during the time the wall between east and west Berlin was going up
(my father was army) I ran away and couldn’t seem to get very far
because the bridge I went over had a chain link fence in the middle
of it! I peddled home after that and no one had even missed me!
*sigh* such was my childhood.
Pet peeves:
Facebook groups who won’t answer
my questions. Dog owners who yell, kick or harass their dogs.
Hunters who kill for the fun of it.
Ten favorite authors or books?
Alice in Wonderland and Through the
Looking Glass, Tolkien, Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins, Steinbeck—Peace
Like a River, all of Iris Murdock, The Night Circus (fabulous)
Daughter of the Forest series by Juliet Marillier, MJ Rose,
Murakami: The Wind-up Bird Chronicle and Kafka on the Shore. C.S.
Lewis. Joanne Harris Blackberry Wine.
What inspired
me to write these books?
I was working on a serious story
about my father and mother and his life in prison camp—it was
emotionally exhausting and I began a little fantasy story to relieve
my stress using a couple of writing prompt words—three books later
I came up for air!
What can we expect from you in the
future?
I am keeping up with several
series—the 5th in my Summer McCloud ghost
mystery series is in progress, I’m considering a 3rd
coyote book, (shape shifters) and my time-traveling witch series is
just taking off—2 is nearly completed and it leads into a third.
Do you have any side stories about
the characters?
I have interviews with the
characters from Moonstone. Will be sharing on my blog,
www.nikkibroadwellauthor.com--click
on blog at top of page.
What kind of world ruler would you
be?
Diplomacy first, good education
with low costs, and healthcare for everyone. Jails would still exist
but there would be less people in them because of services provided
for rehabilitation and education—EPA and environment would be top
priorities. Those in the highest income bracket would pay higher
taxes to pay for these services for less wealthy individuals.
Describe your writing style.
I write from the seat of my
pants—no outlines. This has worked for me through 17 books, the
one I’m working on now the first exception. I usually begin with
a sentence that comes to me—like: ‘beware of darkness’. Kind
of like a writing prompt. The characters usually take over sometime
around page thirty.
What do you do to unwind and relax?
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