Books are food for my soul! Pull up a beach chair and stick your toes in the sand as the Jersey surf rolls in and out, now open your book and let your imagination take you away.

Monday, August 29, 2022

All The Broken Girls by Linda Hurtado Bond (VBT: Book Review / Contest Giveaway)

In association with Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours, Jersey Girl Book Reviews is pleased to host the virtual book tour event for All The Broken Girls by author Linda Hurtado Bond!

Book Review

All The Broken Girls by Linda Hurtado Bond
Publisher: Entangled Publishing
Publication Date: August 23, 2022
Format: Paperback - 368 pages
               Kindle - 2064 KB 
               Nook: 566 KB
ISBN:  978-1649372147
ASIN (Kindle): B09H5JS22K
ASIN (Audiobook): B0B22357SG
BNID: 978-1649372291
Genre: Thriller

Buy The Book:

Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book via NetGalley in exchange for my honest review and participation in a virtual book tour event hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours.

Book Description:

When one falls

Crime reporter Mari Alvarez was never able to solve her mother’s murder ten years ago. But when a woman is gunned down on the doorstep of her West Tampa neighborhood, Mari can’t shake the eerie sense of connection.

The others will break

Now there have been two murders in two days. Each crime scene awash with arcane clues―and without a trace of DNA from the killer. And for each victim, a doll. The first is missing an eye. The second is missing a heart. But are these clues leading to the killer…or messages for Mari?

Unless she plays the game… 

Caught up in a maelstrom of Old-World superstition, secrets, and ties to her own past, Mari has only one option. Put the puzzle together before someone else dies―even if it destroys her career. But there’s no escaping the hungry spider’s web when it’s been made just for you…

Book Excerpt:

I’m running fifteen minutes late after driving my Abuela Bonita to her doctor’s appointment. But that’s not bad, actually, for Cuban time. Of course my statement high heels click on the uncarpeted floor like my abuela’s disapproving tongue and all I can think of is that silly commercial with the tagline “Wanna get away?” Except I can’t escape. It’s my first day back at the TV station after two weeks at home with no work and no pay. I’m still on probation, and I need this job like I need water and air.

Speaking of which, the thought makes me notice how parched my throat is and I’m afraid my voice will crack when I talk. My lungs are so empty I’m not sure I can deliver any story pitches, even if my job depends on it.

Which, it does.

Reporting is in my blood.

But my paycheck—also a necessity.

I rub my right wrist. The red rope bracelet is there. The pea-sized, black gemstone dangles from it. I roll the azabache charm between my fingers, silently going through my routine: twist the stone three times to the right, three to the left. Six times in all. My lucky number. I swear I’ll never go to a crime scene again without the charm. I’ve learned my lesson. Asi es. Truth. That’s how it is.

I pull out the chair across from Mr. Payton and accidentally scrape the floor. It’s loud. Que escandalo!

More stares cut my way. The air conditioning kicks up a notch, but that means nothing to the sweat rolling down my back, sliding into the most inconvenient places. I ignore the wet tickle and stand even taller before taking a seat.

My boss drills me with that intense stare that says everything he’s not allowed to vocalize for fear Human Resources will reprimand him. “Thanks for joining us, Ms. Alvarez.”

“Had to drop off my grandmother at her doctor’s office. She doesn’t drive.” I sit and twist the water bottle on the table until the label faces me. I look at El Jefe and force the corners of my mouth up. Abuela Bonita always told me, no matter what’s going on inside, you can win over the world with a warm smile.

“Let’s continue.” Mr. Payton looks at Paul Johnson, our political reporter.

Paul clears his throat. “As I was saying, the governor is going to hold a press conference on the opioid crisis at a local…”

I cross my ankles to keep my leg from bouncing. It’s clear my boss doesn’t trust me anymore. Not since my serial killer story got the station sued.

I catch the ambitious, crime reporter wannabe eyeing me from the right corner of the room. Bet she’s dying to know what happened to warrant my suspension. She probably already knows. Secrets don’t stay secrets for long in a newsroom.

What the hell had gone wrong?

Abuela Bonita calls it mala suerte. She insisted I wear the azabache bracelet today to ward off the bad
luck following me. I find the charm again and twist.

I will fix this. Don’t know how. But I will repair my damaged reputation.


I flinch in my seat.

“You have anything to add to the meeting?” El Jefe taps his engraved pen on the table in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

“Well, Mr. Payton.” He likes it when we use his last name. “I thought I’d do a feature on a young girl in New Tampa Hospital who needs a kidney transplant.”

“That from the crime beat reporter?” I hear the words he isn’t speaking.

“I know.” I answer in my head. “Eleven Emmys, and I still messed up that last crime story, didn’t I?” Out loud I say, “She’s an artist—truly amazing gift— and she’s willing to auction off her paintings to raise money so people can get tested to see if they’re a match. We could save her life by sharing her story.”

My boss nods but says, “Busch Gardens is showing off a new baby sloth this evening.”

My cheeks burn. I sit back. The heat floods down into my chest. “A baby sloth?” I’m pretty sure this is what a public castration feels like.

“We have enough crime, corruption, death, and destruction today. We need something positive after Weather. Sloth baby it is. Can’t go wrong with baby animals,” he says.

Can’t get the station sued again, you mean.

“You’re on that, Alvarez.”

“Gracias.” I close my eyes and visualize a sloth picking at El Jefe’s bushy, needs-to-be-cut eyebrows
with those two big claw-like toes. In slow motion, of course. “If our viewers see what I’m envisioning, they’re going to love it.” I smile. Warmly.

Whatever. It will keep me employed for at least one more day. My sister Izzy and Abuela are counting on me.

My phone goes off. I look down, fumbling it as I try to flip off the ringer. “Sorry. Sorry.” It’s not someone calling. It’s my home RING security camera alerting me. My pulse takes off like an F-16. Someone is at our front door. My heart stalls. And falls.

“An important source?” El Jefe asks.

A scoff from the right corner of the room. “Baby sloth police calling?” Crime reporter wannabe gets the room laughing.

Wannabe must have missed her café con leche this morning. I join the laughter and wink at her, despite the slow scalding heat I’m feeling. Abuela Bonita also taught me you get more with honey than vinegar. “No. No. Sorry.” Just my sister’s boyfriend of the week, who is not supposed to be at our house. I shake my head.


My spine straightens. “Yes?”

“You can take the new photographer, Chris Jensen.”

That pulls me back to the moment. “But I always work with Orlando.” A big eyeball fills the RING camera at the front door, but it isn’t Izzy’s new boyfriend. His eyes are as blue as the Florida sky. Isabella’s are dark brown, so dark you can’t tell where the pupil ends, and the iris begins. Izzy pulls back and yells at the RING camera, “Stop spying on me! De conseguir una vida!

My younger sister is telling me to get a life of my own.

Snickers flicker across the room.

Every hair on the back of my neck rises. The audio on my iPhone is still on. Wanna get away?

I glance at my friend Kiara. She smiles and shakes her head. I appreciate her support. Time to turn the sound off my iPhone.

“Everything okay?” El Jefe’s features remain constant. He doesn’t chastise me for my sister’s outburst, even though she interrupted his busy news meeting.

“Yes sir, I’m fine.” Wait till I get home, Isabella Alvarez! “I’m fine.”

He nods, but his eyes narrow.

I sit through one of his nerve-wracking, wish-I-knew-what-he’s thinking pauses.

He says, “You can take Orlando.”

I exhale.

El Jefe is throwing me a peace offering, I think. Or maybe he believes I can’t even handle an animal story with the newbie photog, so giving me Orlando is like tossing out a safety vest.


Two weeks ago, I would have rolled my eyes at the insult of such an easy, nonrelevant assignment. I would have been deeply offended by the shade of making sure I had a veteran babysitter with me.

Tonight, I’m grateful for it.

Even though I know I can’t possibly screw up a baby sloth story, right?


Excerpt from All the Broken Girls by Linda Bond. Copyright 2022 by Linda Bond. Reproduced with permission from Entangled Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved.

My Book Review:

In All The Broken Girls, author Linda Hurtado Bond transports the reader to West Tampa, Florida, for an intriguing thriller that will keep the reader guessing and turning the pages.

The story centers around crime reporter Marisol Alvarez, who is drawn into investigating murders with the same clues at each crime scene in West Tampa. Mari is convinced that the killer is a vigilante serial killer, and that he is sending her messages with a connection to the ten year old unsolved murder of her mother. Mari is determined to solve the murders, including her mother's, and convinces Homicide Detective Antonio Garcia to let her investigate the murders with him, and seek justice even if she loses her job at the tv station. Can Mari and Tony solve the murders before the killer continues his killing spree?

Author Linda Hurtado Bond weaves a slow-building and suspenseful tale written in the first person narrative that follows Mari as she investigates the recent murders that each have a connection, and is determined to find the truth and seek justice. 

The reader is easily drawn into this riveting story with its richly descriptive plot. It is filled with enough drama, secrets, motives, possible suspects, and intriguing twists and turns that definitely keeps the reader guessing until the surprising conclusion.

This was a really intriguing story to read! The author does a wonderful job of intertwining the Cuban community in West Tampa with their Santeria religion, and the mystery behind the murders that plague their community. The story provides enough clues to engage the reader, and I found myself so caught up on following Mari's investigative pursuit of putting the pieces of the puzzle together and solving the murders of her mother and the others, while also trying to figure out who was behind the murders. I was absolutely stunned by the conclusion! 

I would be remiss if I didn't mention how intriguing it was to learn about the Cuban community in West Tampa, their culture, and especially about their Santeria religion. I loved how the author intertwined this fascinating Old-World superstition along with Mari's past, and the uncovering of secrets that unfortunately changed her family relationships. 

All The Broken Girls will definitely take the readers on one heck of a thrilling roller coaster ride.


About The Author

By day, Linda Hurtado Bond is an Emmy and Edward R. Murrow award-winning journalist. By night, she’s an author of James Bond like adventures and heart-stopping thrillers. Linda met her husband Jorge on assignment in Cuba, twenty-some years later they’ve raised a doctor, a nurse, a pilot, a paramedic firefighter, and an aspiring psychologist. A breast cancer survivor, she’s active in the Tampa community raising money and awareness. When not working she finds time for her passions, her husband Jorge, world travel, classic movies, and solving a good mystery.

Contest Giveaway

Win A $25 Amazon Gift Card

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Linda Bond and Entangled Publishing, LLC. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.


Virtual Book Tour

Tour Participants:

08/22 Review @ The World As I See It

08/22 Showcase @ Fredas Voice

08/23 Showcase @ Silvers Reviews

08/24 Interview @ I Read What You Write

08/24 Showcase @ Book Reviews by Linda Moore

08/25 Review @ tea. and. titles bookstagram

08/26 Review @ Lynchburg Reads

08/27 Showcase @ Brooke Blogs

08/28 Showcase @ Geaux Get Lit

08/29 Review @ Jersey Girl Book Reviews

08/31 Review @ Novels Alive

09/01 Review @ Book Reviews From an Avid Reader

09/01 Review @ The Page Ladies

09/02 Review @ Paws. Read. Repeat

09/02 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews

09/03 Showcase @ Nesies Place

09/05 Showcase @ The Mystery of Writing

09/06 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea

09/07 Showcase @ 411 On Books, Authors, And Publishing News

09/08 Review @ Read_betweenthecovers

09/09 Showcase @ The Bookwyrm

09/10 Review @ Guatemala Paula Loves to Read

09/11 Review @ From the TBR Pile

09/12 Review @ nanasbookreviews

09/13 Review @ mokwip8991

09/14 Showcase @ The Authors Harbor

09/15 Review @ Totally Addicted to Reading

09/16 Review @ Urban Book Reviews

09/17 Review @ Melissa As Blog

10/24 Podcast interview @ Blog Talk Radio

10/24 Review @ Just Reviews

Thursday, August 25, 2022

Weekly Book Mail: 8/21-27/2022


This Week's Book Mail

August - The Book Drop 

August - The Ripped Bodice Box

September - Fresh Fiction Box

August - Bubbles & Books Box

August - Harper Collins Publisher (ARC)

Monday, August 22, 2022

Meant To Be by Emily Giffin (Book Review)


Book Review

Meant To Be by Emily Giffin
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Publication Date: May 31, 2022
Format: Hardcover - 368 pages
               Kindle - 1507 KB 
               Audiobook - 11 Hours 31 Minutes
              Nook: 1 MB
ISBN: 978-0425286647
ASIN (Kindle): B09F5WDR6C
ASIN (Audiobook): B09GPYS66D
BNID: 978-0425286654
Genre: Women's Fiction

Buy The Book:

Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from NetGalley in exchange for my honest review. 

Book Description:

A restless golden boy and a girl with a troubled past navigate a love story that may be doomed before it even begins in this irresistible new novel from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Something Borrowed and The Lies That Bind.

The Kingsley family is practically American royalty, beloved for their military heroics, political service, and unmatched elegance. When Joseph S. Kingsley III is born in 1960, he inherits the weight of that legacy. Growing up with all the Kingsley looks and charisma, Joe should have no problem taking up the mantle after his father’s untimely death. But he is also a little bit reckless, and can’t seem to figure out how to channel the expectations of an entire country.

No one ever expected anything of Cate, on the other hand. She, too, grew up in a single-parent household—just her and her mom scraping by in their small apartment. As a teenager, though, Cate is discovered for her looks. Modeling may be her only ticket out of the cycle of disappointment that her mother has always inhabited. Before too long, her face is everywhere, though she is always aware that she’d be a pariah in her social circles if anyone knew her true story.

When Joe and Cate’s paths cross, their connection is instant. What remains to be seen is whether their relationship will survive the glare of the spotlight that follows Joe everywhere. And just as they find themselves in the make-or-break moment, the tragedy that seems to run in Joe’s family right alongside all that privilege will repeat itself.

In a beautifully written novel that recaptures a gilded moment in American history, Emily Giffin tells a story of a love that may or may not have the power to transcend circumstances that seem arrayed against it . . . and the difficulty of finding your way to the place you belong.

Book Excerpt: 



I don’t remember my father. At least that’s what I tell people when they ask if I do. I was barely three years old when he died. I once read that it’s impossible to have memories much before the age language fully develops. Apparently, we need words to translate our experiences, and if memories aren’t encoded linguistically, they become irretrievable. Lost in our minds. So I’ve accepted that my vague recollections of the day he was put to rest at Arlington National Cemetery are fabricated—­an amalgam of photographs, news footage, and accounts from my mother that were somehow planted in my brain.

But there is one memory that can’t be explained away so easily. In it, I am wearing red footie pajamas, padding down the wide-­plank wood floors of our home in Southampton. It is nighttime, and I am following the white glow of Christmas lights, along with the hum of my parents’ voices. I reach the end of the hallway and peer around the corner, hiding so I don’t get in trouble. My mother spots me and orders me back to bed, but my father overrules her, laughing. I am overcome with joy as I run to him, climbing onto his lap and inhaling the cherry-­vanilla scent of his pipe. He wraps his arms around me, and I put my head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating in my ear. My eyelids are heavy, but I fight sleep, focusing on one gold ball on our tree, wanting to stay with him as long as I can.

I guess it’s possible that this memory, too, is illusory, a scene I imagined or dreamed. But it almost doesn’t matter. It feels so real. So I’ve decided that it is, clinging to it as the one thing of my father’s that belongs only to me.

I know what people would say to this. They’d say, No, Joe, you have so much more than that. You have his wristwatch and his rocking chair. You have his eyes and his smile. You have his name.

It always comes back to that name—­Joseph S. Kingsley—­which we also share with his father, my grandfather. The S is for Schuyler, the name of the family who landed in New Amsterdam via the Dutch Republic in the seventeenth century. Somehow, we spun off from those folks—­as did the Oyster Bay Roosevelts—­privilege and wealth begetting more privilege and wealth as a handful of families intermarried, curried favor, and became increasingly prominent in business, the military, politics, and society. My great-­grandfather Samuel S. Kingsley, a financier and philanthropist, had been close friends with Teddy Roosevelt, the two boys growing up a few blocks apart in Manhattan, then attending Harvard together. When Samuel died in a freak hunting accident, Teddy became a mentor to my grandfather, recruiting him for his Great White Fleet and eventually introducing him to my grandmother, Sylvia, a fiery young suffragist from yet another prominent New York family.

Joseph and Sylvia married in 1919, right before my grandfather shipped out for the First World War. While Joseph commanded a Sampson-­class destroyer and earned the Navy Cross, my grandmother continued to battle for women’s right to vote, helping to organize the “Winning Plan,” a blitz campaign that lobbied southern states to ratify the Nineteenth Amendment. Her fight would last longer than the war, but on August 18, 1920, the suffragists finally got the thirty-­sixth state they needed when a young man in the Tennessee statehouse changed his vote at the eleventh hour, crediting an impassioned note he’d received from his mother.

My grandmother would tell this story often, citing it as an auspicious sign for her own son—­my father—­born that very same summer day. Two more boys and three girls would follow, making six kids in total, and although each had unique gifts and abilities, my grandmother turned out to be right. My father was special, her eldest son emerging as the standout of the Kingsley clan.

My father excelled in everything as a boy, then graduated at the top of his class at Harvard before matriculating at Yale Law. When World War II broke out during his second year at Yale, he entered the NROTC, then joined my grandfather in the Pacific. Whole books have been written about their time in combat, but the most significant moment came in late 1944, when the two Joseph Kingsleys found themselves side by side in the Battle for Leyte Gulf, the rear admiral and lieutenant junior grade narrowly surviving a series of kamikaze attacks, along with a typhoon, before securing the beachhead for the Sixth U.S. Army. Upon their return home, a photo was snapped of my grandmother embracing her husband and son on the tarmac. The image would appear on the cover of Life magazine, along with a one-­word headline heroes.

After the war, my grandfather served in Truman’s State Department, while my father pursued his love of naval aviation. He completed advanced flight training, then went on to test pilot school, kicking ass and taking names. Nobody worked harder, earned higher marks, or had more raw ambition than my father, but he also knew how to have a good time and could drink anyone under the table. He was a man of contradictions or, as one biographer described: “Rugged yet debonair, brash yet introverted, Joe, Jr., was a disciplined dreamer and a risk-­taking perfectionist.”

It’s a description I’ve often returned to in my mind, though I find myself wondering whether it was true, or if people just see what they want to see.

One thing I know for sure, though, is that my father had no enemies. It’s a claim heard in eulogies or biographies, especially about men who die young, but in my father’s case, it was the truth. Everyone loved him. Of course, that included women, and to his mother’s frustration, he loved an awful lot of them as a young man—­and had trouble choosing just one.

That all changed in April 1952, when my father attended a state dinner at the White House and met my mother, Dorothy “Dottie” Sedgwick. The daughter of a diplomat, Dottie was a gorgeous, young socialite, fresh out of Sarah Lawrence, who had just been named to Look magazine’s best-dressed list. What intrigued my father the most, though, wasn’t her beauty or style but her poise and worldliness. She seemed so much older than her nineteen years, and after overhearing snippets of a conversation she was having with Queen Juliana of the Netherlands, he was smitten.

Later that evening, he asked her to dance, and the two hit it off, talking and laughing as he twirled her all over the White House ballroom. The following morning, The Washington Post ran their photo in the lifestyle section, along with a description of my father’s finely tailored ivory dinner jacket and my mother’s powder-­blue chiffon gown. The society pages followed every move of their ensuing courtship, and by the time they were engaged a year later, Joe and Dottie were household names. America’s sweethearts.

A lavish wedding was planned in the Hamptons, but the Korean War put things on hold, as my father returned to combat. From the cockpit of his F-86 Sabre, Captain Kingsley would down six enemy aircraft, becoming one of only two navy aviators to achieve ace status, before returning home to marry Dottie in the summer of 1954. Their wedding was the social event of the year, solidifying my mother as a fashion icon. Women everywhere, including Audrey Hepburn, emulated her tea-length wedding dress, paired with elbow-­length gloves.

Shortly thereafter, my father announced his bid for New York’s junior Senate seat. He ran as a Democrat but garnered vast bipartisan support and won the election handily, becoming a rising political star. My grandmother was thrilled and my mother relieved, believing that politics would keep her husband out of harm’s way. For several golden years, they were happy, splitting their time between Georgetown, New York City, and Southampton.

But in the fall of 1957, just as my parents were planning to start a family, Sputnik 1 ushered in the Space Race, and my father grew restless, dreaming of flight. My mother begged him to stay the safer course, but my father had an iron will, and eventually he left the Senate for NASA, the agency he had helped create. Anyone alive at that time knows that astronauts were larger-­than-­life figures, revered as America’s greatest heroes in a global conflict between democracy and communism. The ultimate goal, as President Kennedy proclaimed before a joint session of Congress, was “landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the Earth.” It seemed an impossible dream to most, but not to my father and his cohorts in the early days at Cape Canaveral.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Book Trailer:

My Book Review:

In Meant To Be, author Emily Giffin transports the reader to New York City, that follows the love story of Cate Cooper and Joseph Kingsley III. 

Cate Cooper had a difficult childhood in Montclair, NJ. Her mom Jan married a narcissistic cop named Chip, who belittled them and was very abusive. Cate was discovered at the age of sixteen by a modeling agent in Atlantic City, and to escape the abuse at home, she began a successful modeling career in New York City, that eventually led to her becoming a sought after salesperson for a designer with prominent clients after she retired from modeling. 

Joe Kingsley comes from a long line of privilege and wealth, his family has been prominent in business, the military, politics, and New York society. Joe is expected to carry on the family legacy, especially following in his father's footsteps. 

When Cate and Joe meet on the beach in the Hamptons, what ensues is a love story that brings two people from very different backgrounds together. As their love story unfolds, Cate and Joe deal with complications from their backgrounds, individual life issues, long-held secrets, and discover the true meaning of love, friendship, and family.

In Meant To Be, author Emily Giffin easily captivates her readers' attention with this beautifully written tale that is loosely based on John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessett-Kennedy's love story. This seamless and flowing storyline provides the reader with a wonderful description of NYC and the Hamptons, and characters who draw you into their lives with a strong emotional pull, along with their complexities, flaws and secrets.

Meant To Be is a wonderful story told in the first person alternating narrative that engages the reader to follow along as Cate and Joe's love story unfolds with plenty of drama, long-held secrets, trials and tribulations, life challenges, and family issues. The alternating storylines will keep the readers on their toes, but it all culminates in a heartwarming ending that will leave them with a smile on their face. I would be remiss if I didn't mention how much I loved following the same Camelot theme that the world knew during the Kennedy era. I loved reading about Joe and Cate's backstory and how even though their relationships with their families were definitely complicated, they were able to prove that they were Meant To Be

The reader will be kept engaged as this wonderful story unfolds. With a cast of interesting characters, and a richly vivid description of New York and the Hamptons, Meant To Be is a compelling story about love, friendship, family, and second chances in life. 


About The Author

Emily Giffin is a graduate of Wake Forest University and the University of Virginia School of Law. The #1 New York Times bestselling author of eleven novels, Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Baby Proof, Love the One You're With, Heart of the Matter, Where We Belong, The One & Only, First Comes Love, All We Ever Wanted, The Lies That Bind, and Meant To Be that was published on May 31, 2022. She currently lives in Atlanta with her husband, three children, and two dogs.

Saturday, August 20, 2022

Weekly Book Mail: 8/14-20/2022


This Week's Book Mail

July - Bubbles & Books Box

Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours 

August - Harlequin Essential Romance and Suspense Collection

August - The Book Drop

August - Once Upon A Book Club - YA Book Box

September - Romance Reveal Book Box

Dead In The Alley by Sharon Michalove (VBT: Book Review)

In association with Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours, Jersey Girl Book Reviews is pleased to host the virtual book tour event for Dead In The Alley by author Sharon Michalove!

Book Review

Dead In The Alley by Sharon Michalove
Publisher: Coffee & Eclair Books
Publication Date: PB - July 19, 2022 / Kindle - August 10, 2022
Format: Paperback - 360 pages
               Kindle - 2274 KB
ISBN: 978-1736918753
Genre: Mystery / Romantic Suspense

Buy The Book: 
Amazon  (Free On Kindle Unlimited)

Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the author / publisher in exchange for my honest review and participation in a virtual book tour event hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours.

Book Description:

When Bay Bishop’s husband was found in the alley behind their Northern Michigan restaurant, she lost not only the partner in her dreams of establishing the best fine-dining establishment in the area but the man she thought was the love of her life.

Now she’s a suspect.

The detective who shows up on her doorstep turns out to be the high-school boyfriend who broke her heart. Faced with uncomfortable truths and new beginnings, Bay must chart a course to prove her innocence and create a new future.

Book Excerpt:

Derrick Anderson walked out the back door of the restaurant kitchen, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. His wife, Bay, didn’t like him smoking but he definitely needed one, or three, to be the genial host this evening.

He didn’t mind that his day started at 3:00 a.m. The quiet in the restaurant soothed him and he forgot everything while he baked all the bread and prepared the desserts for the evening, maybe even try out a new idea or two. Then he’d take a nap before helping Bay set up the tables for the dinner service.

Today had been fraught. When he got back late in the day, he’d had it out with Vince about the missing cases of wine and, despite the man’s protestations of innocence, gave him his notice. Then he had a call from Wally Volker, their financial backer. Derrick needed to break Wally’s stranglehold on his balls before he left for a new life in the Maldives. A friend there had offered him the chance to manage the four themed restaurants at a new luxury resort. Besides the career boost, diving and surfing made the whole package irresistible. Why had he thought that Michigan would be a good place to escape his New York problems?

Just now, he’d had an argument with the sous chef, Ellen Paschen, and needed to cool off. He dropped the cigarette butt and ground it viciously with his toe when he heard the roar of a motorcycle revving up…

Chapter 1

New Eleanor, Michigan

The back door had slammed on the suffocating kitchen atmosphere. Derrick going out to the alley for a smoke, even though he knew I wanted him to stop. Ellen, our sous chef, glowered over a lemon sauce. Vince, our sommelier, leaned sulkily against the backdoor. Leaving them to brood on their own, I did a last-minute check of the fifteen tables for the first dinner service. We were booked for both seatings.

As the only fine-dining establishment in Sherburne, we realized early on that having set dining times worked better than a constant stream of customers. People from all over the area, both locals and tourists, had embraced the concept and our restaurant over the last two years. Our dream of creating a destination restaurant in my Northern Michigan hometown had become a reality.

We renovated a disused 1889 brewery located on the edge of town, close to the highway, creating the perfect space for our upscale restaurant. The venture cost more money than we planned, so we found a guy in Detroit who specialized in funding start-ups.

Rubbing my back as I straightened up for the last time, I looked with pride at the dining room. We had wanted an upscale but rustic feel. Snowy white tablecloths were covered with Inox hammered stainless-steel silverware; the handles designed to look like twigs. Handmade pottery that looked like the lakeshore in blues, greens, purple, and sand, came from Claybanks Pottery, down the road in New Era. Deep forest green napkins were folded into double stars, part of our signature look. In a few short years, Derrick and I had managed to make a success of our move from the frenzy of the New York City restaurant scene to my hometown of Sherburne, Michigan.

Above the dark paneled wainscoting, we had exposed brick darkened from years of brewing. Rough hardwood flooring stained black, and a pressed-tin ceiling enhanced the antique look. We festooned one exposed brick wall with enormous prints. Derrick matched his brilliance as a pastry chef with a natural gift for photography. His award-winning pictures illustrated our cookbook, Sherburne Bistro: American Classics.

Breathing deeply, I drank in the scent of grouse that permeated the space. Today marked the opening of grouse season in Michigan and our special prix fixe menu featured a British-themed dinner for tonight. Derrick’s friend, Jason, and my brother, Toby, went out hunting a couple of days ago, giving me time to hang them before plucking and cleaning them. I had brined them using a mixture of hard apple cider, fresh orange juice and peel, herbs, and spices for four hours. Then I put a sprinkling of bay leaves into the pan, giggling a little while I brushed olive oil over their fragrant flesh. My parents loved trees in the laurel family and named the three of us girls Laurel, Bay, and Olivia—guess they couldn’t stomach Olive. They told us that they expected all their children to be crowned with success, but maybe my capricious fairy godmother thought with a name like Bay, fate meant me to be a chef.

Looking at the array of oysters heaped up, ready to be opened, I reached for one and rubbed my thumb over the shell, admiring the geologic pattern. Then I picked up the curved oyster knife sitting nearby. Prying it open, I examined the flesh clinging to the pearlescent interior, then lowered my nose to inhale the scent of the ocean, briny and enticing. I loosened the flesh and slid the mollusk into my mouth, savoring the salty, mineral flavor. I had to walk away, before I ate them all.

We’d had a special menu printed up for the dinner, which I laid carefully on top of each plate, planning to offer it once a week through the end of the year.

Sherburne Bistro
The Glorious Grouse Dinner
Basket of Breads

Oysters with champagne mignonette

Rhode Island Moonstone ◾ Maine Glidden Point, Belon, Pemaquid ◾ Chesapeake Bay Olde Salt ◾ Washington State Shigoku, Kumamoto ◾ California Pacific Gold


Frisée with foie gras, pear, and cherries dressed with oil and sherry vinegar

Main Course

Whole roasted grouse napped with a wild cranberry game sauce
Pilaf of rice and mixed mushrooms garnished with chopped hazelnuts
Sweet and sour red cabbage

Dessert Selection

Nigella Lawson’s Chocolate Guinness Cake. Cambridge Burnt Creme.
Sticky toffee pudding. Cranachan. Treacle tart

Cheese Plate

White Stilton with mango and ginger
Colton Bassett Stilton
Montgomery’s Farmhouse Cheddar
Parmigiano Reggiano DOP
Water biscuits made in-house

Hearing Ellen’s bad-tempered instructions to the commis, I went back into the open kitchen with its Wolf range and two freestanding ovens—a deck oven for breads and a convection oven for pastry. When I heard the sound of a motorcycle revving up outside over Ellen’s harangue, I saw the door to the alley propped open. Vince must have gone out to join Derrick in a last cigarette. The skid, the scream, and the sound of breaking glass got my attention. Vince barreled through the door and grabbed me by the shoulders. “You don’t want to go out there, Bay.”

I tried to push around him. “Why not?”

“Oh my God. Derrick,” he choked out, eyes rolling. “It’s…it’s a hit and run. Call 911.”

“An ambulance?”

He shook his head. “Too late for that. Just have the police come.”

Vince dropped heavily to a chair and clutched the sides of his head with shaking hands. When he finally looked up at me, his eyes were swollen, and rivulets ran down his cheeks. He kept clearing his throat, but no words came out.

I stumbled across the room to the phone at the reservation stand and dialed 911 and gave them the small amount of information I had. They told me to stay on the phone until someone arrived. Only a few minutes elapsed before I heard the sirens. I informed the dispatcher, hung up, then went back to Vince. He watched as a team of police officers exited the two squad cars. An ambulance pulled up behind them.

Putting a hand on his shoulder, I tried to shake him to attention.

When he turned to look at me, tears dripped from his red-rimmed, swollen eyes. “Hit by a motorcycle. When I got out there, the rider peeled out. Left him there, surrounded by trash, broken and bleeding. I rushed over but he… he… died. Never said a word.”

Tremors hit me. I sank to my knees as the sound of screaming enveloped me. “Dead, dead, no, no, no.” I wanted the voice to shut up, leave me to mourn. My voice. And I couldn’t stop the screaming or the tears as I curled on the floor in a ball of despair.

I don’t know how long I lay there, helpless to do anything more than cry. By the time the police swarmed in, Vince had helped me to my feet and got me into a chair. With the backdoor open, late afternoon sun lit the scene, but my vantage point didn’t allow me to see Derrick.

I looked down and my watch glinted back at me. We were supposed to open in a little over an hour. Vince hovered in the corner. I called out. “Vince, could you put a sign on the door and start calling people with reservations? Tell them we’re closed.”

He nodded and walked toward the reservation stand.

“Mrs. Anderson?” A policewoman stood in the doorway.

“Bishop,” I croaked.

She checked me out, her lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “O-kay, Ms. Bishop.” Her arms were folded across her chest. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Fresh tears welled but I wiped them away as I sniffled a few times. “Thanks.” I could barely push the word out.

“Did you see anything?”

My head bobbed a negative.

“I wouldn’t let her see, Macie,” Vince yelled from the dining room, sounding both protective and belligerent.

My head snapped up and I stared at her. Macie Collier had gone to school with my younger sister, Livvy. Even though I had been back for more than two years, I didn’t realize that Macie had joined the police force here. And how the hell did Vince know her?

“I thought you moved to Detroit.”

She flinched at my tone. “Didn’t like the big city life. I came back about a year ago. Guess you didn’t notice.” Hands on hips, she said, “You came back too.”

“Livvy didn’t say anything.”

She shrugged. “We don’t hang out much these days. Our lives kind of moved on different tracks after she went to Pratt.” She cleared her throat.

“Are you going to question me now?”

“Just waiting for Detective Fairchild. He’ll be in charge of the case.”

I stood and rolled my shoulders. “Do I need to ID the body?”

“Not necessary. The scene is pretty gruesome. Just as well that Vince kept you from looking.”

Gruesome. What did that mean? I slumped back into the chair, my lungs working hard to get in any air.

“I’m sure the detective will explain everything,” she said.

Macie leaned against the open kitchen door watching us, occasionally turning her head to look out as the police team scoured the alley for evidence. Then a man in a plaid sports jacket loomed up behind her. “Excuse me, Officer Collier.” She stepped aside. “Ms. Bishop? I’m Detective Fairchild.”

I looked past Macie as she moved to let Fairchild pass through. A few inches taller than my five five, shaven head, dark eyes, and stubble dotting his jaw. He closed the door, scratched his cheek, and leaned against the big worktable.

“Not a typical hit and run. Your husband looked like he might have been targeted. Whoever hit him deliberately ran over the body a couple of times.”

I could picture Derrick, lying in the alley, his body mangled, blood everywhere. My gag reflex kicked in, along with my overactive imagination, and I barely made it to the large commercial sink, pushing the dishwasher as I doubled over. When I wobbled to my feet, Ellen handed me a glass of water. Swishing warm water around cleared out the sour taste in my mouth.

I put down the glass and stared at the floor, my mind a whirl of conflicting ideas. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want him dead. True, he could be prickly, but that didn’t get you killed. People came to the restaurant for his desserts. None of that added up to being murdered by motorcycle.

“Could it have been mistaken identity?”

Macie snorted. “He’s dressed in his chef clothes, minus the tall hat.”

“Toque,” I said absently. Fairchild glared and her mouth snapped shut.

I stared at the grouse [k1] [SM2] and began putting plastic wrap over the pans. Seeing my sous chef, slack-eyed, leaning against a counter, I called out, “Ellen. Start putting these back in the cooler.” She jerked to attention, then robotically came over and picked up the pan, immediately dropping it on the floor.

“S-S-Sorry.” Her face drooped, a study in misery.

I motioned to the commis. “Just get it cleaned up.” Then I went back to covering the birds. Ellen picked up another pan and shoved it in the refrigerator.

Fairchild cleared his throat as he gazed around the kitchen at the small audience.

“Do you have an office?”

As we walked out of the kitchen and down a short corridor, he said, “Are you contacting your customers?”

I looked over at the edge of the desk, then nodded.

“Don’t give out any information. Just say unforeseen circumstances.”

“I’ll go tell Vince. He’s making the calls.”

When I got back, Fairchild sat behind the desk, fingers tented under his chin.

I bristled at the way he had co-opted my space. Then reality socked me in the eye. I collapsed into the chair.

“Did your husband have any enemies you know of?”

My lips pursed while I thought over his question. Derrick fit in surprisingly well for a big-city boy, learning to fish and hunt. He hung out with my brother and his friends. Joined Rotary and went to the lunches.

“Not here. We moved from New York to open the restaurant, but I don’t think he had any enemies who would have followed him.”

“Why did you choose Sherburne?” He leaned the chair back, his tone conversational.

“I’m from here. We wanted to open our own place, and Northern Michigan is much less expensive than New York. Less competition for fine dining too. We could see a better future.”

Fairchild’s phone beeped and he gave me a look that said get out. “Excuse me, but I need to take this.”

I walked out the door, leaving it slightly ajar, and leaned against the wall. He mumbled something, but I couldn’t catch the words.

Then he called out. “Ms. Bishop, you can come back in.”

He started to speak as I crossed the threshold. “The ambulance is going to take him now.”

Then the office door slammed against the wall as my dad walked in and glared at Fairchild. “Bay. You okay?”


“Why are you here, Mr. Bishop?” Fairchild asked with icy politeness.

“Vince called me. I’m going to take you home, Bay. You can find her at the Bishop Inn, Detective Fairchild.”

I almost laughed at that description. Bishop Inn hadn’t been my home for almost two decades. Even though I’d agreed to move back to Sherburne, our uneasy truce kept me on edge. My parents fell in love with Derrick; I felt like the outsider. My dad arriving on the scene threw me.

Fairchild’s lips twisted at my dad’s pronouncement, but he managed to say, “Fine. We’re still working the scene and the medical examiner has to look at the body. I’ll be at the Inn sometime in the next few hours. In the meantime, may I use your office, Ms. Bishop? I’ll let you know if we need to remove anything.”

My eyes searched the office, but I didn’t see anything incriminating. “What would you need to remove?”

“We’ll need to go through your business records and check the computer. I’ll need the password. I can have an officer work here, but we’d rather take everything back to the station.”

“Get it later, Fairchild. Can’t you see she’s in no state to talk to you?” Fairchild brushed past my dad. I tried to stand up again, but my legs wouldn’t hold me and I dropped back to the chair. Dad leaned down and kissed my cheek, then pulled out a handkerchief to mop my face. Deciding that today, my family could be my refuge, I stood and let him put his arm around me. “Let’s go, kiddo. Let your staff close the place up.”

I scanned the dining room. The kitchen had emptied out and everyone stood around, looking at me. Ellen, our sous chef, made shooing motions. “Go home with your dad, Bay. We’ve got this.”

I threw her a grateful look as my dad led me out.

A siren stuttered, then blared. The ambulance. I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat as I thought of Derrick, encased in a body bag, being loaded into the meat wagon. We’d been together for ten years, married for six. We were a team. I couldn’t imagine how I would be able to go on without him.


Mourning had to take a back seat to business. When Derrick’s mother and father went back to New York, I breathed a sigh of relief at being able to go home. Three days had seemed more like three weeks. I let them stay at our place, and I stayed at the Inn, which made everyone but me more comfortable.

Helen and Frank seemed more interested in what would happen to the restaurant than the fact their son had died. Smiles morphed into frowns when they realized that they would not get a fat payoff. In fact, they had expected to inherit everything. Despite all evidence to the contrary, they hadn’t really believed Derrick and I were married, even though we’d invited them to join us at City Hall.

The empty feeling in the cute cottage Derrick and I had bought made me think of selling, but I needed to face the challenge of living by myself head-on. Family to roommates to Derrick, I had never lived alone. I looked around at the cream-colored walls, overstuffed couch, bookcases stuffed with cookbooks, and a big-screen TV in the corner. Maybe I’d get a cat.

An early morning meeting drove me out of the house to the restaurant. I picked my way down streets made unrecognizable in the morning fog. I pulled into the parking lot with relief and parked, not worrying about lines and spaces. I could move the car after the haze burned off. After a few days of being closed, the building smelled of dust and the faint reminder of hops and barley.

Empty filing cabinets and no computer greeted me when I opened the office door. I would have to call Detective Fairchild and find out about getting everything back. In the meantime, we’d have to use the backup laptop from home.

Food hadn’t been appealing lately but today hunger gnawed at me now. With no food in the cottage, I crossed my finger that I could forage something in the restaurant freezer. I thawed some of the sourdough bread Derrick made for the restaurant and grilled toast.

Nibbling on a slice slathered with rich butter and homemade cherry jam brought comfort as I remembered the two of us in the kitchen for hours before the staff arrived. Derrick kneading the bread in the big mixer while I planned menus. A faint hint of the yeasty smell of rising dough and the scent of freshly baked boules, as they came crackling from the specially built bread oven, had me hiccupping with emotion.

The memories warmed me, even as the sense of loss rolled over me like the tide washing up the beach. I wanted to cry out to Derrick. Who could hate you that much? How do I go on without you? I looked down at the plate of half-eaten toast and no longer saw any comfort.

My stomach turned and I quickly slid the remnants into a small plastic bag I retrieved from one of the cabinets. The jam jar shone like a jewel in the sun and the fat slab of butter mocked me as I thrust them into the small fridge. I tied the bag handles into a knot and slipped out the back door. The dumpster sat near our back door into the alley, the aroma of stale fat and decaying vegetables assaulting me when I tossed away my traitorous memories and my anger with the crusts.

As I turned back to the door, a rusty stain on the door sill caught my eye. Derrick’s blood. Scuttling back into the kitchen, I threw up the little I had eaten, then went back into the office for the cardigan I kept in the armoire that covered the wall behind the desk. Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing for Derrick to hold me close. A sob tore through my chest. Derrick wasn’t here, and nothing would ever be right again.

A knock at the door alerted me to the arrival of our financier, Wally Volker. A Detroit venture capitalist, he specialized in financing restaurants. When we first decided to move to Sherburne and open our own place, Derrick approached several firms. Wally showed an interest in the concept, the location, and after sampling our food, he told us he could definitely help.

I spent a few moments staring at him through the glass paneled wood doors, then turned the lock and let him slip in before relocating it and pulling down the blinds. Even at 10:00 a.m. he has dark circles under his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.


Wally yawned. “Sorry. I picked up coffee before I left, and a donut, so I wouldn’t have to stop along the way. There’s a place down the road from me. Guess one cup didn’t really get my engine going.” He held out an empty cup, shaking it. I could hear the rattle of paper inside. I pointed to a wastepaper basket and he tossed it in like a basketball.

“Do you want more coffee? I can make some French press.”

“Nah. Let’s get this over with. Then we can go somewhere for lunch.” He put down a briefcase that seemed to bulge. Papers, maybe?

I looked at him, nonplussed. He had extended his condolences at the visitation that Derrick’s parents had insisted on and again at the funeral. Did he intend to condole me every time he saw me until the end of time? I sighed.

Now unencumbered, he clasped my hands in his and kissed me. His silvery white beard scraped against my cheek, and I drew back.

Voice surprisingly high, eyes like dark wells under the black brows that contrasted sharply with his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, and a long, narrow, vulpine face reminded me of the big, bad wolf. Was I Little Red Riding Hood or would he huff and puff and blow my house down? For the last couple of days, dreams of fairy tales gone bad disturbed my sleep. The scowl on his face signaled more bad news. He opened the case and dumped a load of paper on the desk. “I picked up the paperwork from the police on my way over.”


“Why did I pick it up or what brought me to the police station?”


“The police called to let me know they found my stolen motorcycle.”

“Oh,” I said dully, not really interested.

“When I mentioned meeting with you, Detective Fairchild gave me the documents to bring over and said they’d return the computer later this morning.”

Rubbing my hands together on this chilly late September morning, I gestured toward the piles of paper on the table. “Have you looked through these?”

He shrugged. “I thought we could go over it together.”

I stalked back to the table and picked up a stack of documents, leafing through them, my jaw going slack as I took in the contents. “Unpaid vendor bills.” Checking another stack, I groaned. “A late notice on our insurance.”

My eye fell on several documents lying on the blotter. I blanched. My voice a cobra’s hiss, I said, “A missive from the bank, impressing on me the necessity discharging the outstanding payments on the house mortgage.

I picked up two others and waved them in his face. “Notices for nonpayment on the mortgage on the restaurant building.” I paused, gasping for air, picturing a Dickensesque scene with huge, uniformed men with mutton-chop whiskers carrying out all the furnishings.

Wally had been looking at yet another pile. He looked more basset hound than wolf, as his jowls slackened and drooped. “Your bank accounts are almost at zero. A few dollars in checking. Saving account empty. Investments cashed in.” My anger boiled up at his look of pity.

I threw the papers back onto the table, then slammed my fist into the hard wood before turning back to him, tears coursing down my cheeks.

“What’s going on here? Did Derrick know? Why didn’t you do something?” He came toward me, and I backed away, pushing a chair aside in my haste to move out of his reach.

“I’m sorry, Bay. All the paperwork Derrick sent me looked fine. My percentage payments arrived on time. But he must have known. Maybe there is another set of books? A lock box in the safe? Do you have a safety deposit box?”

“I didn’t find anything like that.”

Wally grabbed another fistful of documents, rapidly scanning them and sorting them into piles. “Late payments for supplies. But enough to keep the suppliers from cutting you off completely. Looks like he used cash advances to meet payroll. There were no indications of where the money went. The receipts looked healthy enough, assuming they were legit.” He tapped long, narrow fingers against the unpaid bill pile, rubbing his chin with his other hand. “Any signs of new accounts, Bay?”

New accounts? I twisted my rings around my finger over and over.

“Not that I know of.” My legs started to buckle, and Wally jumped up and shoved a chair against the backs of my knees before I could topple.

We stared at each other across the table. The silence stretched out and I thought our conversation might be over. My face dropped into my hands, and I fought not to cry, my swollen eyes almost closed.

The clatter of chair legs alerted me he had gotten up. His footsteps made a sharp, rapping sound against the wooden planks. His voice distant. “If he siphoned off money, he wouldn’t use a local bank. We’ll have to look through all the paperwork and the computer files. Maybe there will be a trail.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

“Well, my dear, if we can’t find the money, I’m afraid you will have to close the restaurant and sell the assets.”

“Wha-wha-what about insurance?” I wiped my eyes with one of the pristine napkins still adorning the tables. Through swollen lids I peered at him. I could almost see the wheels turning.

Wally flicked one of the paper piles. “Since you owned the business jointly, insurance won’t cover this. As an owner, technically he had a right to the money. Besides, you don’t have any insurance.”


“You said he hadn’t paid the premiums.”

My heart sank as I reached for a jokey response. “Guess burning down the building won’t get me anywhere.”

Black humor that went nowhere. “You’ll have to sell the house too.”

His words pummeled me like a sudden fall of golf-ball-sized hail. My teeth chattered. I couldn’t help the hopeless moan his words wrenched out of me as a vision of crawling home to Bishop Inn rose in my mind’s eye. Thomas Wolfe wrote that you can’t go home again. Wrong, Tom. Sometimes you have no choice.

Pressure built in my chest, and I felt heat rising from my toes up through my trunk. Fire burned in my face and ears. Wally’s phone rang. I strained but couldn’t hear the whispered conversation. “Who?” I mouthed.

He turned off the phone. “The police. They’ll be by in a few minutes with your computer. In the meantime, call the bank and make an appointment for this afternoon to talk about your next steps. I’m afraid this mess won’t be resolved for a while.”

Sell my house. Lose the restaurant. Deal with betrayal. I wanted to mourn Derrick in peace but now I couldn’t mourn him at all. All remembrances of love, of happy times—gone. Bitterness at his betrayal filled my mouth with acid. I ran into the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and washed out my mouth over and over.

When I walked back out, Wally looked over and waved a sheaf of papers at me. “Go make copies of these. I’ll bring you the rest. After we consult with the bankers, I’ll take them back to Detroit and see if I can find anyway to fix at least some of this.”

I grabbed the papers and started backing toward the corridor that led to the restrooms and the office. He called after me. “After lunch, you can also forward me anything involving the business that’s on the computer.”

An hour later, two uniformed officers arrived and handed me the restaurant computer. One of the officers talked to Wally about the theft of his motorcycle.

“I reported the theft in Detroit,” I heard him say.

“We found an abandoned Yamaha that matches the description of yours.”

“You’re joking.”

“The lab guys are checking it out. But we’re pretty sure it’s yours.”

“Why would someone steal a motorcycle in Detroit and dump it here?”

“You’d have to speak with Detective Fairchild about that.”

I had tried to believe in Derrick’s death as accidental. Wally’s motorcycle as the murder weapon? Once I thought it, the word became a chant in my head. Murder, murder, murder.

My guts clenched in agony. I ran to the women’s bathroom and vomited bile over and over, eventually collapsing on the cold tile floor. Wally found me there and helped me out into the dining room.

Then I took a deep breath and called my parents to ask if I could come home.


Excerpt from Dead in the Alley by Sharon Michalove. Copyright 2022 by Sharon Michalove. Reproduced with permission from Sharon Michalove. All rights reserved.

My Book Review:

In Dead In The Alley, author Sharon Michalove transports the reader to Sherburne, Michigan for an intriguing Mystery / Romantic Suspense story that will keep the reader guessing and turning the pages.

Bay Bishop and her husband Derrick Anderson returned to her hometown of Sherburne, Michigan from NYC two years ago and opened up an upscale restaurant, Sherburne Bistro. But tragedy strikes when Derrick is murdered in the alley by a motorcyclist. The police consider it a killing-for-hire, and when drugs are found along with money issues, Bay finds herself one of the persons of interest in her husband's murder, and her whole world is turned completely upside down.

Detective Greg Musgrave works for the Adams County Narcotics Team, and is brought into the murder case when the drugs were found at the restaurant. But there is a problem, a conflict of interest, because Bay Bishop and he were high school sweethearts, and he ghosted her eighteen years ago for a professional bike racing career in Europe, which ended abruptly when he had an accident. Now Greg finds himself investigating the woman he had loved and left behind. 

Bay is determined to clear her name and restart her life. Greg believes that Bay couldn't haven't murdered her husband, and he joins forces with Detective Lane Fairchild to investigate both the murder and drug trafficking ring. They are determined to put the puzzle pieces together and prove Bay's innocence before the killer places a target on her. And if that's not enough, Bay has always felt like an outsider within her family, and a discovery leads her to confront her parents about the truth of her birth. 

Author Sharon Michalove weaves a slow-building and suspenseful tale written in the first person narrative that follows Bay, Greg, and Lane as they search for the truth behind the murder of Derrick, and embark on a dangerous cat-n-mouse game with someone who will do anything including targeting Bay in order to keep the truth hidden.  

The reader will be easily drawn into this action-packed and well written story with its richly descriptive plot that will keep them guessing as secrets, possible motives, deceptions, and clues are uncovered during the search for the killer. Just when you think you know who is behind the murders, the author teases the reader with unexpected twists and turns that keeps them sitting on the edge of their seat until the surprise ending. 
I would be remiss if I didn't mention how much I loved the intertwining of an intriguing mystery full of suspense, and the angsty underlying attraction between Bay and Greg. You can't help but hope that they can regain trust in each other, and get a second chance at rebuilding the love that was thrown away in the past.

Dead In The Alley has enough drama, tension, action, dark secrets, a touch of romance, and unexpected twists and turns that will take the reader on one heck of a thrilling roller coaster ride.


About The Author

Sharon Michalove grew up in suburban Chicago. She received four degrees from the University of Illinois because she didn’t have the gumption to go anywhere else, and spent most of her career at the university, eventually earning a PhD, working in departmental administration, publishing and libraries. Her specialties are 15th-16th century European history, polar exploration, and food history. She may be one of the few people in America to never live outside her home state.

In graduate school, she met and married the love of her life. They shared a love of music, theater, travel and cats. He died in 2013.

Sharon also loves hockey, reading, cooking, writing, and various less elevated activities like eating cookies and sampling gins and single malts. After spending most of her life in a medium-sized university town she moved back to Chicago in 2017 so she could go to more Blackhawks games and spend quality time at Eataly. In 2021 she accomplished a lifetime goal by publishing her first novel. Unfortunately her other lifetime goal, to be English, is likely to remain unfulfilled.

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