Category: Mystery

Mystery Novel-The Hitchcock Hotel

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Haunted

By Kat Martin

Kathleen Kelly was born on 14 July 1947 in the Central Valley of California, USA. She obtained a degree in Anthropology and also studied History at the University of California in Santa Barbara. She was a real estate broker, when she met her future husband, Larry Jay Martin. A short time after the two became acquainted, Larry asked her to read an unpublished manuscript of an historical western he’d written. Kat fell in love with both the book and the author! Then, after doing some editing for him, she thought she’d try her own hand at writing. She moved on to become a full time writer.

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Mystery Novel-The Hitchcock Hotel-Page1

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Friends! Enemies! Tenderhearted strangers!

On Friday morning I finally got my hands on finished copies of both the US and UK editions of THE HITCHCOCK HOTEL. Will I ever act naturally in front of a camera? Probably not. Will opening a box of books with my name on them ever get less thrilling? Also probably not!

I usually have a clear favorite when it comes to my book covers, but I truly love both this time. Check them out in the video below, which is actually a photo with a link to watch beneath it because Substack’s video upload/embed options are garbage.

And now, onto the main event. I’m thrilled to share with you today the prologue and first chapter of The Hitchcock Hotel. This is my small way of saying thank you for your support—and maybe whetting your appetite to read more. 😉 Without further ado…


Excerpt of The Hitchcock Hotel

Prologue

The crow waits until the guilty one disappears; then he flies down the hallway. How he wound up in this part of the hotel, he cannot recall. He has no memory of the tartan wallpaper, the dim flicker of the sconces. He does not know which humans lie behind which doors.

He knows only to obey the scream of his instincts.

Leave.

Now.

Go.

Danger hangs over this place like a blackening cloud. The people­ inside are not to be trusted. The crow rests for a moment on the horse hanging from the sky. He dares not wait long. Soon they will all rise again. Soon there will be much commotion.

He did not catch more than a glimpse, but a glimpse was all he needed. Such an ugly shape the limbs made, the neck contorted. The thing hardly looked human at all.

The crow takes to the air again, finds himself ever more eager to return home to his kin. What will the rest of the murder think? He flies around and around, yet still he cannot locate the path back to the aviary.

It’s no use. He’s trapped like the rest of them.

One

Alfred

Let us begin with an establishing shot. A ­three-​­story Victorian house stands alone on a hill in the White Mountains. The house boasts a wrap-around porch, mansard roof, and bay windows. Despite the building’s age, her shingles gleam, shutters sparkle. In other words, she is beloved.

We swoop in through an open window on the third floor to reveal a handsome hotel room. A woman with a face of cracked earth leans against a ­four-​­poster bed, watching a man in his thirties survey himself in a pedestal floor mirror.

I twist away from the mirror to face my housekeeper.

“How do I look?”

Danny takes her time considering me. “Like Norman Bates,” she jokes.

I scowl. “I meant my outfit.”

“Not many men can pull off a turtleneck, particularly with a suit,” she says. “You look good, Alfred.”

“Too much?” I ask, holding the pocket square to my chest.

She scrunches her nose and nods. I toss the silk square back on my desk, then hand her my stack of note cards. “Quiz me.”

“You’ve been over these a hundred times.”

“Go on.” I turn back to the mirror.

Danny sighs and pulls one from the deck. “What are Samira’s children’s names?”

“Aditi and Shivam.” Got that from Facebook.

“TJ’s official title?”

“Freelance security specialist.” LinkedIn.

“Zoe’s drink of choice?”

“Lagavulin with one ice cube.” This detail took some effort. I started by calling Saint Vincent, pretending to be a devoted fan who wanted to send a celebratory bottle the head chef’s way. Imagine my surprise when I was told Zoe was on indefinite leave from the restaurant she opened. From there I turned to Instagram and tallied all her photos with alcohol in them. In twelve percent she held a glass of red wine, in ­thirty-​­six percent she gripped a pint, and in a solid ­fifty-​­two percent a glass of scotch sat by her place setting. In the scotch photos, a bottle of Lagavulin appeared in the background nine times out of ten. I’ve stocked half a dozen bottles, to be safe.

“You’re ready, honey.” Danny crosses the room and palms my cheek. “If you knew any more, they’d think you’re a stalker.”

I look once more in the mirror and finger the soft cuff cloaking my neck. They will comment on my turtleneck—I know they ­will—​­but what choice do I have? I haven’t bared my neck in years, and I’m not about to start today of all days.

Never mind. No one has even arrived yet, and already I’m falling into old routines, getting defensive. I have much more important things to do today than hide in my room.

“Staff meeting,” I say. “Shall we?”

I hold the door for Danny. I was skeptical when she interviewed for the job—​­she’s the fittest senior I’ve met, but she has to be pushing ­eighty. Happily, she’s proven my doubts unfounded. She’s my hardest-​­working employee and rarely complains, unlike the younger ones. She’s also become my trusted lieutenant.

Danny pauses at the threshold and meets my gaze. “I won’t let them hurt you,” she vows.

The old widow is overprotective of me, which I grumble about but adore. In this case, she need not fret. They’ll be dolls in my dollhouse. I am the child at play.

We walk down the ­third-​­floor hallway in quiet companionship. I note with pride the vacuum lines on the plush navy carpet. Sometimes I still can’t believe I own a hotel. Technically it’s an inn, but “hotelier” sounds grander than “innkeeper.”

The house has three floors, excluding the attic. On the first floor are the lobby, restaurant, bar, home theater, parlor, and ­aviary—​­probably the sole hotel that has one in the country, a real feather in our cap. The second and third floors host six guest rooms each. This weekend’s guests will take the rooms on the third floor. Only the best for my former best friends.

In the lobby I wait with my hands clasped behind my back for the rest of the staff. I try to see the space as a guest would, searching for dust bunnies in corners, shoe prints on tiles. I’ve styled the hotel like a Scottish hunting lodge—​­low lighting, dark rugs, upholstered furniture, heavy drapes. Moody portraits of women hang on the walls because Hitch surrounded his heroines with them on set. The reception desk to the left of the staircase took me weeks to find: an antique piece with a matching chair that would fit perfectly inside a medieval castle.

And what of the staircase? Devotees will know that harrowing things happen on Hitch’s staircases. Ours is T shaped with two landings, one halfway up the central section and another at the top. Mahogany steps jut out from both sides of the landings. These steps lead to the guest rooms.

Suspended from the ceiling above the staircase is our pièce de résistance: one of the original carousel horses from Strangers on a Train. It wasn’t cheap, but can you put a price on owning a piece of one of the most iconic scenes in cinema? The horse’s mouth is agape, eyes distressed. I swear, on occasion I’ve seen it sway ever so slightly, giving a ghoulish feeling to an otherwise refined space, which was the effect our set designer was going for.

(It’s me. I’m the set designer.)

I greet each staff member as they arrive, wait patiently until all have gathered. “Okay, folks,” I say. “We’re giving up a ­high-​­season weekend of leaf peepers for this free stay. Let’s make it worth the lost revenue.”

For the next few days I’m hosting my five closest friends from college. We met at Reville, took a film studies class together, then went on to found the campus film club. I haven’t seen them in well over a decade, so this is an informal reunion.

I carry on. “I know how hard you’ve all worked lately. As a ­thank-you, I have a surprise.” I pause. “You can take Saturday and Sunday off.”

The twentysomething bartender gasps. A brief commotion ensues. The staff is surprised and confused after the fuss I’ve made this week. I laugh off their concern, say my friends and I would like some privacy.

“Let’s get these folks settled in. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Danny, of course, will stay. I can’t do this without her.

I remind the concierge that we’ll have no late reservations or ­walk-​­ins. The staff disperses as I move to the round table in the middle of the lobby. I tip my nose into the autumnal floral arrangement, then fan out the half dozen copies of Travel + Leisure. I glance at one of the headlines: “14 Most Unique Stays in New England.” With any luck, my hotel will make that list next year.

I glance at the wall mirror and tug on my turtleneck. My temples glisten. I wipe my forehead.

“I’m going to wait for Zoe,” I call over my shoulder. The concierge waves in response.

Outside, I breathe easier. Though it’s supposed to rain the rest of the weekend, today the sun is shining. New England is at her best in the fall. The mountains surrounding our region are aflame with ­color—​­trees painted crimson and gold. From our hilly perch we have a clear view of the valley that houses my small college town. There I spent some of my happiest days—​and also the worst of my life.

October is a month crafted for Hitchcock. This is the lone time of year when villains don’t have to hide in the shadows, when frights are welcomed, even begged for. The cooling weather sends people indoors, to their sofas, to their television ­sets—​­to cherished films. Autumn is the perfect season to commemorate the Master of Suspense. Here we are, celebrating our second fall in business. One year ago today was the hotel’s opening. At times I worried we wouldn’t make it to year two.

The parking lot has twenty spots over two rows. I squint and notice a small wad of gum stuck to the blacktop. From my pocket I pull a Swiss Army knife and scrape at the gum until it comes free. I toss it into the stone receptacle near the front door, then survey the lot again. Better.

I run through my greeting with Zoe. Do I give her a hug? Shake her hand? Wave? Hitchcock used to introduce himself as “Hitch without the cock,” but only geniuses get to be that crude. I check my watch: ten minutes after two. Zoe has never been known for her punctuality.

Just then a Wrangler speeds up my quiet lane. My breath quickens, heart pounds.

What I’ve done, what I’m doing, is a risk.

The tires screech as the SUV rips around the corner. I swallow, mouth bone-dry. I catch a glimpse of Zoe as she does a sloppy parking job in the second to farthest spot from the building. Still that same blond pixie haircut and enough eyeliner to pass for a raccoon. She climbs out of her Jeep, dressed in all black and combat boots.

People don’t ­change—​­not much, anyway. The thought calms me. I know these people. I can predict what they’ll do.

I breathe onto my palm and sniff. It doesn’t smell, but I put two Altoids in my mouth anyway. I watch Zoe hoist a duffel bag out of the back seat of her vehicle, then head toward me. She waves. From this far away I can’t tell whether she’s smiling. I wave back.

Mystery Novel-The Devil May Care-Page2

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“Ms. Brodin…”

“I need a favor. My grandfather says that’s what you do. Ever since you quit the St. Paul Police Department to collect the reward on that embezzler you tracked down, you do favors for friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

“I know, but—”

“And your grandfather—the last time I saw him he was trying to frame me for murder.”

“He could have tried harder, McKenzie. He didn’t because he respects you. Still, you did cause him a great deal of embarrassment giving out the names of the politicians and businessmen involved in that online prostitution ring.”

“He wasn’t on the list, and he didn’t like the men who were any more than I did.”

“Grandpa’s strength comes from the perception that whatever it is, he can fix it, break it, build it, or make it go away. People came to him for help, and he was unable to provide it because of you, and those men remember; they remember that he was unable to help. It diminished him. Anyway, that’s why I’m here. I need someone who can stand up to my family.”

“You mean your grandfather,” I said.

“If necessary.”

“That’s not something I’d like to make a habit of.”

Riley nodded as if I had spoken a truth universally accepted and began glancing around the club again. I liked her face despite the freckles—or maybe because of them. Her eyes glistened with intelligence, and her mouth seemed capable of warm and generous smiles. Yet there was something sad about it, too, as if it were well acquainted with sorrow. I had the uncomfortable feeling she wanted to share the sorrow with me and didn’t know quite how to go about it.

“I met him, you know,” Riley said. “Mr. Teachwell. The embezzler you caught. He came to the Pointe when I was a little girl. Some party or something. That’s what we call the house on Lake Minnetonka. The Pointe.”

“Riley,” Nina said. She spoke in a voice I’ve heard her use only when speaking to her daughter. “Do you want a drink? Something to eat? We have a fine bar menu.”

“No, I…”

“You can talk to us when you’re ready.”

“I need McKenzie…”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I need you to find my boyfriend.” Riley was staring into Nina’s silver-blue eyes when she spoke. She spun on her stool to face me. “I need you to find Juan Carlos.”

I don’t know what Nina was expecting, but she said “your boyfriend” the way some people say “bubonic plague” and stepped back from the bar.

“How long has he been missing?” I asked.

“Three days,” Riley said.

“That doesn’t seem like a very long time.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Nina and I have often gone more than three days without seeing or speaking to each other.”

“Yes, but we always knew where the other person was,” Nina said.

She had me there.

“You don’t understand,” Riley repeated. “He’s not at his house. He doesn’t answer his cell. I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to find him,” I said.

Her brow knotted, and her lips formed a thin line that plunged downward at the ends. For a moment she looked ugly.

“I’m not a starry-eyed teenager, McKenzie. I know what it’s like to be dumped by a guy who doesn’t even have the courtesy to call. This is different. Something is terribly wrong.”

“Have you contacted the police?”

“You know who I am. You know I can’t call the police without provoking a scandal.”

“The cops out where you live aim to please. They’re trained to keep secrets of the rich and famous.”

“No,” she said.

“Why would there be a scandal?”

“Not scandal, exactly.”

“What, then?”

“You make every question sound like an accusation.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Listen to yourself.”

I was starting to lose patience. I glanced up at Nina to see if she had an opinion. She shrugged her indifference.

“Ms. Brodin,” I said. “You’re a member of one of the wealthiest families in Minnesota, if not the nation. You have plenty of resources to draw on, and not just the police. Yet you come to a complete stranger for help. Stop hemming and hawing. Tell me what and tell me why or go away.”

She stood, although I don’t think she meant to. It was as if the tension in her body caused it to levitate off the stool.

“People don’t talk to me that way,” Riley said.

“Let me guess—you don’t like it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you get a lot of that—people telling you what to do?”

“Yes. At least I did before my trust fund kicked in. Now my family only makes strong suggestions.”

“Strong suggestions involving your boyfriend?”

Mystery Novel-The Devil May Care-Page1

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Usually when people introduce themselves they offer you their hand. She didn’t. I tried to place her in my memory. She was not a classic beauty. So many attractive women tend to look like so many other attractive women, each of them borrowing heavily from the same magazines, TV shows, movies, and whatever else drives what we consider fashion these days. Yet Riley’s face, liberally sprinkled with freckles, was as unique as her name, and startling ivory-colored hair cut close to her scalp emphasized the individuality of her looks. I suspected that half the people she met thought she was pretty; the other half not so much. I was in the first camp. On the other hand, she was maybe twenty years younger than me, so I immediately deposited her into the look-but-don’t-touch category despite the way her skirt slid up to there. If a man knows what’s good for him, he’ll limit his lust to women who are roughly the same age as he is.

“How do you know me?” I asked.

“My grandfather. He speaks of you often, although I’m not sure he likes you very much.”

“Okay…”

“McKenzie, how brave are you?”

“How brave do I need to be?”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“What exactly do you want, Ms. Brodin?”

Nina saw the exchange from where she was standing at the far end of the bar. She had never seen an attractive woman try to pick me up, either. I’ve known her long enough that I could read the expression on her face as she approached. “Now what?” it said.

“Hi,” she spoke aloud when she reached the end of the bar where we were sitting. I took a deep breath. Her perfume tinged the air with the faint scent of vanilla, and I was reminded of the eclairs you can get at Wuollet Bakery down on Grand Avenue in St. Paul. I love eclairs.

Riley smiled brightly. “You‘re the lovely Ms. Truhler, aren’t you?” she said.

Nina’s eyes flitted to my face and then back to the girl’s. I was curious as to what her response would be, but Riley cut her off before she could speak.

“I apologize,” she said. “That was rude of me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Nina told her.

“That’s how my grandfather refers to you. The lovely Ms. Truhler. He likes to hang labels on people, using adjectives to describe them. I’m his clever granddaughter. My father is that deadbeat son-in-law. My mother is—well, that doesn’t matter.”

“Who is your grandfather?” I asked.

“Walter Muehlenhaus.”

I stopped breathing. Nina did, too, but not before gasping a mouthful of air to tide her over while we digested the news. Walter Muehlenhaus—I knew him as Mr. Muehlenhaus—was rich, powerful, and connected in the way you’d expect the old robber barons like J. P. Morgan and James J. Hill to be connected. Those conspiracy movies Hollywood makes where the hero follows the clues all the way to the top? That’s where Muehlenhaus sat. He’s the reason the state legislature voted to build a billion-dollar football stadium for the Minnesota Vikings on the exact location of the old stadium even though it would have been cheaper and far more convenient to move it to any of the other sites that were proposed.

After regaining my composure, I said, “Mr. Muehlenhaus sent you?”

“Oh, no,” Riley said. “He’d be furious if he knew I was here.”

“Why are you here, then?” Nina asked.

“I’m embarrassed that I’ve never been to Rickie’s before.” Riley turned on her stool to examine the neighborhood bar-slash-restaurant-slash-jazz-club that Nina had named after her daughter, Erica. Most of the tables, booths, comfy chairs, and sofas arranged downstairs were filled, as was usually the case on a Tuesday evening, and half of the tables in the upstairs dining room/performance area were occupied as well, even though the music wouldn’t begin for another two hours yet. “I don’t get across the river very often,” she added.

That didn’t surprise me. Folks in St. Paul and the eastern suburbs, if you gave them a good enough reason they might be induced to cross the Mississippi into Minneapolis. However, the people who live there rarely, if ever, travel to this side of the river. Most natives will tell you that whoever invented the label “Twin Cities” was being ironic. We aren’t twins. We aren’t brothers. Hell, most of the time we aren’t even friends. Which made the question that more imperative.

“What do you want, Ms. Brodin?” I asked again.

“My BFFs call me Riles.”

Mystery Novel-The Devil May Care

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The Devil May Care

By David Housewright

Riley Brodin is the granddaughter of Walter Muehlenhaus – a man as rich, powerful, and connected as anyone since the days of J. P. Morgan. Despite her family’s connections, it’s McKenzie she reaches out to when her relatively new boyfriend goes missing. Despite his reservations about getting involved with the Muehlenhaus family – again – McKenzie agrees to look for one Juan Carlos Navarre. 

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Mystery Novel-Where They Last Saw Her-Page1

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Quill has lived on the Red Pine reservation in Minnesota her whole life. She knows what happens to women who look like her. Just a girl when Jimmy Sky jumped off the railway bridge and she ran for help, Quill realizes now that she’s never stopped running. As she trains for the Boston Marathon early one morning in the woods, she hears a scream. When she returns to search the area, all she finds are tire tracks and a single beaded earring.

Things are different now for Quill than when she was a lonely girl. Her friends Punk and Gaylyn are two women who don’t know what it means to quit; her loving husband, Crow, and their two beautiful children challenge her to be better every day. So when she hears a second woman has been stolen, she is determined to do something about it—starting with investigating the group of men working the pipeline construction just north of their homes.

As Quill closes in on the truth about the missing women, someone else disappears. In her quest to find justice for all of the women of the reservation, she is confronted with the hard truths of their home and the people who purport to serve them. When will she stop losing neighbors, friends, family? As Quill puts everything on the line to make a difference, the novel asks searing questions about bystander culture, the reverberations of even one act of crime, and the long-lasting trauma of being considered invisible.

Mystery Novel-Where They Last Saw Her

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Where They Last Saw Her

By Marcie R. Rendon

From the award-winning author of the Cash Blackbear series, a harrowing novel of a Native American woman who learns of the disappearance of one of her own and decides enough is enough

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Mystery Novel

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These novels are driven by suspense and plot twists, often involving crime, detective work, or espionage. They aim to keep readers guessing and engaged, with a focus on solving a central puzzle or threat.

Snake Oil
What Time the Sexton’s Spade Doth Rust
The Serial Killer Guide to San Francisco
The Lies We Conjure

The Midnight Club

Under Her Spell

Murder at King’s Crossing

Murder, Mayhem and Ghost Stories