Jake has decided
to walk me back to St. John’s… I think we’re both a bit trollied. For some ungodly reason he wants to see the hovel I call
home.
The turret which
Blackmore assigned me to isn’t even a proper room. Originally, it was meant as
a sort of military fortification, perhaps giving the old building a defensive
posture should the Vikings ever decide to invade England again. There’s just
enough room for a single mattress and a small desk. My clothes are all folded
in neat stacks because there isn’t space for a wardrobe. The violin case and a
loose pile of sheet music sit atop the only chair.
Jacob takes a
look around. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, “you barely have enough room in here to cuff the carrot.” He smirks.
“Is that your
definition of not mocking?”
“Sorry. No we are
here for the good of science, Ashlock.” He’s brought along a candle which he
quickly lights and holds aloft.
“Tommy Walker,”
he shouts, “if you can hear me… blow this out.”
Of course nothing
happens.
“Interesting,”
Jake notes.
“Apparently I am
phantom-free. That certainly takes a load off,” I say.
“What is a ghost
anyway?” Jake asks, blowing out the flame himself.
“Historically
they are troubled souls.”
“Exactly,” he
agrees, putting a drunken arm around my shoulder. “Restless spirits. Imagine
this scenario: A White Oak lad goes missing, meeting some gruesome fate, and
now he’s forced to wander about Brigsley for all eternity… he seems to be
confined there.”
“Perhaps he just
prefers it. Maybe it was his home,” I venture.
Jake trips on a
stack of my uniforms and then leans against my desk, he’s far too big a bloke
to be in this confined space. His feet are enormous. He opens the violin case
and inspects my instrument. “That’s a decent hypothesis,” he says. “Of course,
if we refer to our Poe, perhaps Little Tommy is buried under the
floorboards…or even in the walls.”
“Don’t be
morbid,” I say. “In literature spirits almost always have a purpose. They are
out for vengeance, trying to right some wrong inflicted upon them in life. It’s
personal. There’s always a bit of unfinished business, which is why they don’t
willingly cross over.”
Jake smiles,
threading his fingers through his thick blond hair. “You’re glorious, Ashlock,
you little ripper,” he says. “You
know what we’re going to do?”
“I’m afraid to
ask,” I mutter.
“We’re going to
solve Tommy Walker’s murder.”
Chapter 14: JACOB
Yes,
I’m smitten. He’s charming, clever and just a bit sad. I find him
irresistible. He’s also gorgeous.
“I have a plan,”
I say.
Tim’s refolding a
stack of sweaters that I bumped over. He looks up. “Let’s hear it then.”
“First, pack up
all your gear. You’re moving in with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Not afraid of
ghosts, are you, Ashlock?” I tease. “Listen, it makes perfect sense. The
cottage is a piece of this puzzle, and I need you around to bounce ideas off.
You have far too little space in here, and I have far too much over there.
Brigsley has three bedrooms, for Christ’s sake!”
“Perfect,” he
says, “one for you, one for me and one for Tommy Walker.”
“Hilarious.
What’s stopping you?”
“First, Blackmore
will never sign off on it. He enjoys my misery here far too much.”
I scoff. “Leave
him to me. What else?”
I know where he’s
about to go.
“Second, I’m not
going to sleep with you. I like you Weston, but I’m not gay.”
I laugh at him. “Mon Chéri,” I say, “hardly anyone is Gay-gay
anymore. It’s all about being bi-curious or simply not being placed in a
box. Don’t let others define you because to allow definition is to limit! You
may not be full homo, but you’re definitely on the spectrum, less so than I am,
sadly, but your sexuality is fluid.”
“Maybe so,” he
admits, “but if I move into Brigsley you’ll be keeping your fluids to yourself.”
“It’s a deal,” I
say. “Pack your duffel while I go downstairs and give Blackmore an Oscar-worthy
performance.”
“You’re not going
to pay a call on the Housemaster when you’re steaming drunk, are you?”
“He’ll be none
the wiser. I can hold my liquor, mate.”
Blurb:
A murder mystery…a ghost story…and a gay romance. Jake Weston, a seventeen-year-old cross between Holden Caufield and Sherlock Holmes, is an openly gay American at a private British boarding school. He’s being haunted by the ghost of a former student, and he’s fallen in love with his beautiful roommate. He’s trying to solve the mysterious disappearance of Tommy Walker, a White Oak student who vanished in 1976 but piecing together a puzzle from the past will lead to real danger in the present. He’ll inherit a fortune if he can solve a murder and make it out of White Oak Academy alive. This genre-bending fusion of supernatural suspense, thriller and young adult LGBTQ romance has mind-blowing plot twists that will keep you guessing until the very last page. Finally, a gay whodunit! Murder at White Oak tackles some of the very real issues of bullying and beatings within the walls of prestigious boarding schools for boys and the difficulties of being gay in that restrictive, closed environment. This is the first in a series of gay mysteries.
I currently live in beautiful Santa Cruz, California, devising wicked plot twists and murdering unsuspecting figments of my imagination. I spent twenty years writing for film and television in Hollywood…primarily for Disney, but often as a laptop for hire. As I’ve often said, I’ve had my fingers in more pilots than an Air Force proctologist. I’m using my influential friends to sell this book (and hopefully the series) to Netflix or someone else with equally deep pockets. I do aim to portray gay characters and relationships in a positive way. To be honest, I’m tired of only reading queer coming out or coming of age yarns.
The
interrogation of Chauncey was finished, and he stood behind the bar as Corey
approached. He hurried over, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Chauncey Avant, the
manager of the Green Lantern. Didn’t I see you here last night?”
Corey
introduced himself, and Chauncey’s eyes grew wide in surprise when he heard the
Psionic Officer title.
“Do
you recognize the victim?”
Chauncey
shook his head. “I didn’t see his face.” He shuddered at the recollection. “As
soon as I saw…him, I ran out of the room and dialed 911.”
“Remember
the skinny twink wearing only red gym shorts and the Celtic knotwork tattoo
around his right bicep?”
Chauncey
searched his memory. “You mean Aiden?”
“Maybe.
He didn’t introduce himself to me. Are there many other guys who come in here
dressed like that, with that tattoo?” Corey gave him a minute.
“It’s
gotta be him, then.” The manager choked a little as he lowered his head.
“I
take it he was a regular?”
“Almost
every weekend.” Chauncey pulled himself together. He wasn’t trembling anymore.
“Did
you know him well?”
“Not
outside of the Green Lantern. I only knew him as Aiden. I’m sure there are
plenty of guys that know him better.”
Of that, I have no doubt, Corey mused. “I noticed
that he was very…popular.” He emphasized the last word with raised eyebrows.
“If
you mean ‘slut,’ yes. He was always bragging about how many men he slept with,”
Chauncey said, sneering. “I don’t think he ever brought money with him. He
always wore those skimpy shorts that obviously didn’t have a place for his
wallet. He could get anyone to pay for his drinks. All he’d do is rub that flat
stomach and his crotch up against them, and he got what he wanted.”
“Did
he ever return the favors? Like he intimated to me?” Corey wasn’t ready to
admit he almost fell for Aiden’s game.
Chauncey
brushed some imaginary crumbs off the bar. “Yes, and no. Aiden liked to tease
the older guys, the uglier ones, the ones he thought didn’t have a chance in
hell of getting picked up. He’d make them think they could take him home, but
usually, he went after the young, good-looking guys. The muscular, beefy men.
Those were the ones he left with.”
Corey
realized that Chauncey was simply being blunt and forthright, rather than
insulting his customers. “I’m sure some of the men he rejected got mad at him.”
“Yeah,
a lot of them got pissed off at him, but I don’t think that anyone got angry
enough to do something like this, do you?”
“It
doesn’t sound likely, but we have to consider every possibility. Do you have a
coat check or some place that he may have left his clothes? I don’t think he
came dressed like that, but I don’t remember seeing him come in.”
“We do
upstairs, but we’ve already checked, and no one left any clothes behind.”
Chauncey leaned up against the bar.
Corey
walked to the staircase and called up to Detective Nash. “Have you found the
shorts he wore last night? Red with white trim?”
“We’re
still searching the building and the surrounding area. If they turn up, we’ll
let you know,” came the answer.
Corey
finished with Chauncey and walked upstairs to the bar. The flash of the
forensic photographer’s camera cast odd shadows on the wall behind the gruesome
scene, washing out what little color was in the room. He waited at the top of
the stairs, watching patiently until the forensic team had finished taking
pictures.
“Can I
have a moment?” he asked the man with the camera. Or at least he thought it was
a man. Both members of the team wore bio-suits, which masked faces, body shapes
and features.
“We
haven’t swept for fibers yet,” the man protested. His voice was muffled.
Corey
repeated his observation that there were many, many people in the bar last
night. The forensic technician removed the headpiece of the bio-suit. “I’d
still like to prevent any more contamination.”
“Do
you have an extra one of those?”
Several
minutes later, Corey, donned in a bio-suit without the headpiece, approached
the body, being careful not to step in the blood.
The
forensic team left the room but remained in the doorway. Corey closed his eyes
and let his mind roam free. He could see images easier that way.
A
vision of a hand flashed across his thoughts, the fingers contorting and
curling in pain as a nail was pounded through the wrist. He heard screams of
agony and angry shouting. He saw a foot strapped to the cross with a rope to
keep it anchored to the step while another nail was driven through it. More
screaming, crying, and pleading. It was drowned out with angry yelling, but
Corey heard more than one voice shouting.
How
many were there? What had he done to be tortured like that?
The
people shouting in fury sounded like they were reciting or orating. It sounded
stilted to him, instead of normal voice intonations. He saw the young man’s
face frozen in terror. Then he saw the flash of a knife.
Gasping
in horror, Corey snapped out of his visions and recalled his power. As he
reconnected with his surroundings, he realized that he had backed away from the
cross and was pressed against the wall. He stood there panting and covered in
sweat, his pulse racing, trying to calm down from the terrible visions he had
seen.
Detective
Nash leaned against the threshold. “See anything interesting?” he called out
with the slight edge of disdain in his tone.
“Not
much more than what you’ve already discovered here,” Corey said, his breathing
starting to return to normal. “I think his murderers were passing some sort of
religious judgment on him.”
“Murderers?
We’re looking for more than one?”
Corey
nodded.
“And
what kind of judgment? Kind of like a divine retribution? A warning to gays?”
Corey
shook his head as he walked closer to Nash. “No, just him. This was personal,
like a jury sentencing him to death. And it may not have been because he was
gay, either.”
Nash
sighed in annoyance. “This whole setup of nailing him to a cross reeks of
religious zealots. We’ve seen it before. Can you tell me something I don’t
know?”
The
detective’s callousness rankled him. In a lightning flash move, Corey ripped
off his glove and grabbed him by the wrist. Before the detective could react,
he forced the horrible images he had seen into Nash’s mind, letting him see the
gruesome scene and hear the death cries of the victim.
Corey
pulled his hand back. “I figured you didn’t know that.”
Detective
Nash remained rooted to his spot. The blood drained from his face, frozen in an
expression of terror. Corey pushed past him and out of the room.
Learn about author, Alex Morgan:
Alex Morgan
Alan Scott (aka Alex Morgan) was born and raised in western Oklahoma. He majored in chemistry in college and moved to Dallas to get his master’s degree. Later he received a PhD in analytical chemistry. He now lives in the Baltimore area.
He has been an avid reader, particularly mysteries, after being introduced to the Hardy Boys in grade school. After reading his first Agatha Christie novel, Murder on the Orient Express, in junior high, mysteries have been one of his biggest enjoyments. He has always enjoyed reading comic books and loves the super-hero genre just as much.
Combining these two concepts, he has written four mystery novels introducing gay, paranormal sleuth Corey Shaw. Under the pen name Alan Scott, he has written a novel continuing the paranormal detective series with “Inside Passage to Murder” and the forthcoming “A Faire Day for Murder.” He is also the author of several gay erotica short stories.
The self-reflective autobiography below was written in 2008 by author, Victor J. Banis when interviewed by Friend, Author, LQBTQ Reviewer & Prolific Blogger, Elisa Rolle for her online journal: Reviews and Ramblings. Reprinted here with permission. *Thank you, Elisa!*
Upon learning of the death of her friend, Elisa Rolle posted to her blog the following: (Victor) was a good friend and he deserves to be remembered. I met Victor J. Banis online back in 2006, when Gay Romance was blooming, but Victor was already a legend, the first author to be put under trial for publishing a Lesbian romance 42 years before in 1964. Publisher’s Weekly credited him with “the master’s touch in storytelling,” and the Nashville Banner echoed that with, “a master storyteller.” Eminent scholar and critic D. Wayne Gunn called him “a national treasure.” Thomas L. Long, editor-in-chief of the Harrington Gay Men’s Literary Quarterly, said he was the “godfather of modern popular gay fiction,” and William Hewitt, professor of gay studies at Westchester University, referred to him as “one of the Grand Old Men of Gay Fiction.” Cultural historian Michael Bronski calls him “one of (his) heroes” and credits him as one of a quartet of writers “who pioneered what we now call gay and lesbian literature.”
Victor Jerome Banis, 81, of Martinsburg, West Virginia, died
Feb. 22, 2019.
Author Victor Banis
“Victor J. Banis is a writer.”
Yes, I do see it is a bit terse, but it seems to me to cover the salient points well enough. And yes, I do realize I could add adjectives—say, Victor J. Banis is a wonderful writer.
I am an introvert, however. It is an ordeal, to say the least, to read my own material aloud to other people, as some writers enjoy doing, let alone toot my own horn. Anyway, I have long believed it is better to be more than you seem. It is so much nicer, as an example, to mention to others your “little shack in the woods,” and let them discover for themselves that it is really a country estate, than to tell them about your “country estate” and have them discover that it is really a shack in the woods. So, no, I’d rather not tell you how wonderful I am as a writer, lest you decide afterward that I am only “a shack in the woods” and not the estate you envisioned.
I suppose I could let others tell you. I have certainly received plenty of praise over the years. Publisher’s Weekly credited me with “the master’s touch in storytelling,” and the Nashville Banner echoed that with, “a master storyteller.” Eminent scholar and critic D. Wayne Gunn called me “a national treasure.” Thomas L. Long, editor-in-chief of the Harrington Gay Men’s Literary Quarterly, said I was the “godfather of modern popular gay fiction,” and William Hewitt, professor of gay studies at Westchester University, referred to me as “one of the Grand Old Men of Gay Fiction.” Cultural historian Michael Bronski calls me “one of (his) heroes” and credits me as one of a quartet of writers “who pioneered what we now call gay and lesbian literature.”
Hmm. Very nice, of course, and pleasant to bask in, but it seems to me a dreadful burden to bear, since I must measure every word I subsequently write against such fulsome praise. I am reminded of a friend who once looked at a particular photograph of me and said that I looked so good in it that I should never be seen in person again. I have an uneasy feeling when I read those reviews that perhaps I should quit where I am—if only I weren’t having so much fun.
And, since those little blurbs mentioned above, some of them, at least, touch upon the subject, I suppose I ought to talk about my gay writing history.
I have no embarrassment in doing so, and my only reluctance is my reluctance to label myself a “gay writer,” since in fact gay writing has been only a part of my literary output, and not the larger part. I think that I did sit down in the earliest days of my career to write gay novels (I think, because it was so very long ago), but I have long since ceased to think in terms of genre or subject matter or even style. I don’t think today I can even correctly say I write “stories.” I write people. They come to me and talk to me—often I literally hear them whispering in my ear—and they are who they are, and I don’t get to dictate whether they are gay or straight or Martian, anymore than I would with the person next to me on an airplane. They tell me their stories, these visitors, and I think it would be presumptuous of me to try to tell them what their stories should be, or how they should be written, let alone that they must fit into some preconceived “genre.” So, just a writer, then, and not a “this writer” or “that writer.”
On the other hand, if I have had an appreciable impact upon the world of books and writing, it is certainly in the genre of gay publishing, where I have become something of a cult figure over the years and a hero to some writers and critics.
That was not something I planned. I’m afraid my writing career has been rather a haphazard thing, to tell the truth. I suppose as much as anything, I was the right person in the right place at the right time. To be honest, I suspect much of history happens that way.
Victor J. Banis – Giovanni’s Room
In 1963, Fresno, California publishers Sanford Aday and Wallace de Ortega Maxey were sentenced to twenty-five years in federal prison for distributing obscene material, some of the material in question being gay-themed paperback novels.
In 1964, I was indicted on federal charges of conspiracy to distribute obscene material, this for my first novel, The Affairs of Gloria (Brandon House, 1964), which had no sexually explicit words or phrases, but did contain one “damn,” and, more to the point, a couple of very tepid lesbian scenes.
Clearly, in the early sixties, the U. S. Government thought that writing about or publishing books depicting homosexual behavior, male or female, was in and of itself obscene, and they meant to stamp it out.
That is not to say that there had not been books before which addressed the subject of homosexuality. The publishing world of the time did not have a specific code, like the Hayes code in Hollywood, but there was a sort of tacit understanding that homosexual characters must be portrayed as naughty, naughty people, doing wicked, wicked things, for which they must be punished by the final chapter, either by death or by a miraculous conversion to heterosexuality. A publisher portrayed homosexuals in a positive light, or gave them happy endings, at his own peril, as Misters Aday and Maxey—and I—learned to our grief. I had ten years in federal prison hanging over my head; not the cheeriest of prospects for a young, pretty (if I do say so myself) and certainly effeminate gay man.
I was acquitted (on a technicality) of the charges brought against me, but I continued for several years to be the target of governmental harassment. My mail, e.g., was routinely opened and left at my doorstep atop the envelopes, so I would be sure to know that it had been read. Yes, Virginia, it was and is illegal.
Surely, in bringing charges against me for what they certainly knew was my first novel, the governmental censors must have intended in part to discourage me from writing any more. The irony of all this is that Gloria had been written on a whim, as a lark, really—the old “Gosh, I could do this” business. Probably, I would never have gone on to write any more books in this vein. It was my ambition to be a “serious” writer (I don’t think I know now what that is) when I grew up (I don’t know now what that is, either.)
I was outraged, however, by what had been done and was still being done to me, and to the constitutional guarantee of free speech, and being bullheaded by nature, I thought—perhaps a bit foolishly, in retrospect—that I would “show them.” Far from being dissuaded from writing more sexy paperbacks, I felt obligated to give it a few more whirls.
The problem was, I had many friends who were lesbians but I personally was not, so the books I could write in that vein were unhappily akin to the faux-lesbian books popular then and mostly written by heterosexual males for the pleasure of other heterosexual males.
What I wanted to write were gay novels; and after the Aday and Maxey convictions, there was little enthusiasm on the part of publishers for material of that sort; and the potential popular gay market had not yet been tapped. “Who would buy them?” publishers asked repeatedly.
Authors Victor J. Banis & Lori L. Lake
Undeterred, I wrote my gay novel, The Why Not, and after a time it fortunately landed on the desk of Earl Kemp at Greenleaf Classics. Greenleaf had not done any gay material up till then, and Earl himself was resolutely heterosexual and, as he himself has admitted, really quite ignorant of the gay world and especially of gay fiction. He was, however, an iconoclast, and firmly committed to battering down the barriers to sexual expression in print, and he was happy to take on the anti-homosexual forces as well. Greenleaf published The Why Not, it sold well, and got good reviews, and Earl indicated that he was amenable to seeing something more.
By this time, however, I had become a gay activist, and I began to look askance at that “sad-young-men” school of gay writing, in which, I regretted to admit, I now included The Why Not. When I read it again, I was dismayed to realize that there was hardly a happy character or incident in the book. Mostly it was gloom and doom.
Now, it is true, gay life in those early years could be painful, burdensome, and dangerous; but in dwelling exclusively on those aspects of our society, I thought those books, mine included, were essentially dishonest. I decided that I wanted to write a book about a happy homosexual who remained happy, and alive, and gay, in the final chapter.
The result was The Man from C. A. M. P., a spy spoof featuring agent Jackie Holmes, who worked for a super-secret organization, C. A. M. P., dedicated to the protection and advancement of homosexuals everywhere.
I think Earl Kemp must have blinked and gasped when I sent him the manuscript. I am convinced that there was not another editor in the U. S. of A. at that time who would even have considered publishing that novel; but gamely publish it Earl did, and the rest is truly a part of gay history. Delighted gays took to this new kind of offering like ducks to the village pond. The book sold phenomenally well, so much so that an entire series of books followed, eight more Jackie Holmes adventures, and several spin offs.
More importantly, having seen that the market was far greater than anyone heretofore had imagined and that gays were enthusiastically receptive to books that portrayed them in a positive light, Earl and Greenleaf published over the next several years a variety of gay material in just about every genre imaginable: mysteries and histories and comedies and sci-fi and adventure and cowboys and sailors, the whole gamut of gay experience—no, make that human experience. Many of those books were written by me or by writers that I tutored, and for whom I became a de facto agent. It was joked in the industry that the gay publishing revolution had mostly happened around my kitchen table, and there was more than a little truth in the statement. At one time, some seventy-five to eighty percent of the gay novels being published were written by me or by my protégés.
In short order, other publishers became aware that Greenleaf was making lots of money catering to this “new” market, and they soon enough jumped on the bandwagon, and a revolution in gay publishing was truly and irrevocably launched. In the ten years leading up to 1966, when The Why Not appeared, there were only a few dozen genuinely gay novels published. In the decade that followed, there were thousands, some say as many as ten thousand. A revolution indeed. And many historians believe that it was this explosion of gay publishing that first led to a sense of community among gays, and so was a major contribution to the larger social revolution that followed.
L-R: Authors Zam Maxfield, Ethan Day, William Neale, Victor J. Banis Philadelphia, PA 2008 photo courtesy Rick R. Reed
So, yes, I can look back with I think justifiable pride in having played a part, if a minor one, in opening doors to gay writers in particular and breaking down barriers in expression for writers in general. The freedom mainstream writers enjoy today springs directly from that publishing revolution of ours. It would be dishonest of me to pretend that I do not take some gratification from that fact. On the other hand, the C.A.M.P. books and the scores of gay books that came after them were, on balance, only a small part of my total output. At the time I wrote them, I was just starting out on what has proven to be a far longer and more felicitous career than I would have imagined then.
I have written in all somewhere close to one hundred and fifty books (I stopped counting long ago), and many short pieces as well, under a variety of pen names. From 1970 until just the last couple of years, none of them were gay oriented, though I now find myself turning back to those roots and enjoying rediscovering them.
So, how does one neatly summarize that sort of checkered career? Really, I think I had it right to begin with, and I’m going to stick with that:
In memoriam Victor J. Banis (1937–2019): A prolific author of pulps, porn, queer fiction and nonfiction under his own name and numerous pseudonyms including Don Holliday, Victor Jay, J. X. Williams and Jay Vickery.
Banis died February 22 in Martinsburg, West Virginia, where he had lived since 2004. He was 81 years old.
A longtime resident of Los Angeles (1960–1985) and then San Francisco (1985–2004), Banis published his first short story in 1963 in the Swiss homophile journal Der Kreis. He went on to write heterosexual, bisexual and gay erotic fiction for Brandon House, Greenleaf Press and Sherburne Press.
From 1966 to 1968, Banis produced eight pulp fiction titles in his “Man From C.A.M.P.” series — a fabulously queer takeoff of the “Man From UNCLE” television series. The protagonist of the novels is a brazenly gay undercover agent named Jackie Holmes.
Banis also wrote pop sexology titles, including the one seen here, which is part of my personal library: “Men & Their Boys” (Los Angeles: Medco Books, 1966). The author inscribed this copy when I met him at an event at A Different Light Bookstore in San Francisco in the early 1990s.
The book consists largely of somewhat racy case histories featuring quotes from interviews. This genre became highly popular with erotica publishers in the late 1960s, and I have always wondered if the cases were merely (im)pure fiction — so I once sent Victor a Facebook message to pose the question.
He very generously replied with the lowdown on the book, the publisher and the case histories, which, he said, were based on stories of people he knew or knew about — and on his own experiences: “I did try to keep everything authentic.”
Farewell to one of our pioneering creators of American queer popular culture. To learn more about his work, read his saucy memoir, “Spine Intact, Some Creases” (Wildside Press, 2008), readily available online in a print-on-demand edition for around $20.h
MARTINSBURG, WEST VIRGINIA — Victor J. Banis, 81, of Martinsburg, West Virginia, died Feb. 22, 2019.Born May 25, 1937 in Alexandria, Pennsylvania to William and Anna (Wing) Banis, he was preceded in death by brothers William M., Albert, Robert (Dick), and Sam and sisters Eva Huddleston, May Crouse and Ruth Nance.He is survived by his brother Pat of Cincinnati, and sisters Fanny Kisling of Eaton, and Anne Blackmore of Wadsworth, and numerous nieces and nephews.Victor grew up in the Eaton area and was a 1955 graduate of Eaton High School. Having lived in several areas of the country, he eventually settled in California where he pursued his writing career. He was the published author of more than 250 books in several genres, The Man From C.A.M.P. being his most well known. A man of great wit and intelligence, he will always be remembered as a wonderful storyteller.A memorial celebration is being planned for the spring. Memorial gifts may be made to the Hospice facility of choice.
Joanna was about to dispose of the printouts still scattered
over her desk when her phone rang. She half feared it could be Grace again,
half hoped Theo would get back to her with news, but of course it was too early
for that. The connection was too vague for him to get a warrant, so he’d have
to tread carefully.
Much to his credit, he hadn’t
commented on the fact that she couldn’t give him a last name. There was no name
on the door, and in her emails and text, it only said GracieL. Theo would have to do the rest, but she figured it
wouldn’t be too hard.
“You apartment isn’t that big,”
Kira said. “Why aren’t you picking up the phone?”
Because I’m afraid it could be a serial murderer on the other end…
“Sorry,” Joanna mumbled. “What
can I do for you?”
“Call every once in a while?
You’re doing it again.”
Kira had been the closest she’d
had to a friend in prison, and surprisingly, she’d kept in touch, even after
being released eight months earlier. Life could take surprising turns, and not
all of them were bad, at least for people other than Joanna. Kira had found a
kind man, the father of two boys, and married him less than two months ago. She
often tried to convince Joanna to come to dinner, but Joanna wasn’t comfortable
around all that newfound happiness. Mostly, she thought her presence made
others unfomfortable. Not Kira—she knew her friend understood completely what
her reality looked like. The husband and kids, Joanna wasn’t so sure. She felt
like every time she was over, he was beyond wary.
“I’m not doing anything. In fact,
you’ll be glad to know that I reconnected with an old colleague.”
“Vanessa doesn’t count. You two
have a sick relationship.”
“Thank you so much, and no, I
wasn’t talking about Vanessa. I saw Theo, my old partner. He’s talking to me
again, which is a major improvement. Another officer let me talk to a witness
once I laid on the charm.”
“I don’t understand. What are you
doing with a witness? You unload trucks and lift palettes for a living—which,
I’d like to say, is not such a bad thing. I thought that part of your life was
over, and you were okay with it.”
“It’s a long story.”
“You could come over and tell it
to me.”
“I don’t think Coby would
approve.”
“Coby likes you,” Kira protested.
“Besides, he’s not here tonight, and neither are the boys. I’ve got Merlot and
chocolate chip ice cream. As much of it as you like.”
“You’re trying to bribe me?”
Joanna didn’t need much more. She was already in her coat.
“Works every time, doesn’t it? I
miss you.”
“Miss you too. I’ll be over there
in ten.”
Instead of staring at the walls,
waiting for Theo’s call and hoping her gut had betrayed her, she would see
Kira, and toast to the future.
Yeah, right.
Sticking to her promise, Kira
greeted Joanna with a hug and then served her ice cream and wine. It had become
something like a ritual for them after Joanna’s release, even after it became
clear that Kira and Coby were serious, and moved in together.
“This is so good. Thank you. I
needed that.”
“I’m glad I could help. You said
you had a story to tell.”
Joanna figured that halfway
through her glass, she couldn’t back out now.
“All right. You heard about the
woman who ran away from a man who abducted her, and was found by a truck
driver?”
“Yeah, I heard about it. What’s
that got to do with you?”
“I saw her in the hospital
today.”
“You did what?” Kira exclaimed.
“Are you crazy?”
“The case is similar to one I
once worked. I had to speak up.”
“Going to the hospital is not the
same. Honey, do you realize that any defense lawyer will just love to jump on
the fact you were anywhere near her? You’re famous. You killed a murderer. As
unfair as that might be, I don’t think your colleagues want to be seen with
you, and sadly, they have a point. Someone will make the connection.”
“Theo said something like that,”
Joanna admitted. “Damn, I had hoped for some support from you.”
“This is the way I offer
support,” Kira indicated the delicacies on the table with a sweeping gesture,
“and by telling you the truth. You can’t be involved. I don’t want you to put
yourself in danger.”
Joanna finished her glass and
reached for the bottle.
“It might already be too late for
that.”
Before she could elaborate, the
vibration of her cell phone indicated the arrival of a text message.
“Excuse me.”
Once upon a time, she had known
what to do, without hesitating, without doubt. After the brief conversation
with Theo, Joanna felt confused. Relieved, too. Grace had apparently fully
cooperated, told the cops she’d broken up with the boyfriend and apologized
again for the text messages. More important, she had an alibi for the night
Christina Danvers had hooked up with the couple.
Christina had confirmed that
she’d never seen Grace before.
Something had been off about her.
Joanna didn’t think her instincts would betray her so badly. She shook herself.
She should be grateful that she had avoided adding another nightmare to the
ones that never went away.
“Are you okay?” Kira asked when
she returned to the living room.
“Yeah. It’s actually good news.
Forget what I said earlier—it’s not all that dramatic. All of you were right. I
should stay far away from that case.”
Kira poured them both another
glass.
“Hey, better late than never.
Let’s drink to that. You should fall in love too.”
“Uh, no. It’s doesn’t work that
way for everyone.”
“Because you have commitment issues.
You panic when someone calls you back.”
“That’s not true.” Was it? Was
there a possibility that there was something wrong with Joanna instead of
Grace? Oh, the possibilities were endless. “Look at my life. Who would want to
get caught up in that mess?”
Kira laid an arm around her
shoulders. “Last time I checked, you cleaned up that mess pretty nicely. Back
on the inside, you could’ve gotten caught up in all kinds of bad stuff, but you
stayed out of it. You have a job that pays for a roof over your head and more
booze and cigarettes than you should have.”
“I sense some criticism coming
on.”
“Just give it a chance sometime,
won’t you?”
Joanna took another spoonful of
ice cream.
“I like fewer complications in my
life. Simple pleasures, you know?”
“I really don’t know. You hook up
with some bizarre people. That’s the only part you haven’t quite figured out
yet.”
You don’t know the half of it, Joanna wanted to say. Then again,
she hadn’t been so great at relationships before she and Decker crossed paths.
For some things, she had no one to blame but herself.
Barbara Winkes writes suspense and romance with lesbian characters at the center. She has always loved stories in which women persevere and lift each other up. Expect high drama and happy endings. Discover a variety of genres, serial and standalone. Women loving women always take the lead.
Corey found the local
police chief and a forensic team from Hyannis on the sandy shore below the
wooden deck of the Boatslip, one of the most popular spots in Provincetown. The
size of the hotel meant that many guys were in one place and near the crime
scene. Not good. The Boat Slip’s afternoon tea dance brought even more people
crowding onto the outside deck, which also served as a dance floor. Even now,
several men peered over the railing at the activity on the beach below. Soon, more would follow.
Police Chief Richard
Stewart greeted him as he checked in with the officer guarding the scene.
“Damn! You didn’t waste
any time getting here, Shaw,” Chief Stewart said, looking at his watch. “Where
were you when I called? Orleans?”
“Close enough,” Corey
winked at his friend.
“Are you ever going to
tell me how you move around the state so fast?”
“Perhaps.”
Chief Stewart shook his
head and led Corey to the corpse.
“John Doe. Strangled,” he
said. The grim look on his hard-lined face told Corey that something had
rattled the chief’s staunch reserve. “And he was tortured before being killed.”
Having had frequent
contact with the chief in the past, Corey had never seen him so shaken by a
crime.
As they knelt next to the
victim, the chief pulled back a tarp covering the naked body of a young man
lying face down in the sand.
He pointed out disturbing
aspects of the murder. “Rope burns on the ankles, wrists, knees, and across the
chest and upper arms where he was tied up. The deep cuts indicate that the
bonds were tight.”
He motioned toward the buttocks. The man had a narrow waist and a well-rounded ass, which had been slashed many times. Long gashes crossed the tanned cheeks, drawing blood that had long since dried.
“Looks like he was caned
or severely whipped while he was tied up,” the chief continued. Similar slashes
covered his back and legs, but not as severe as those on the ass.
“This has been done to
him before, hasn’t it?” Corey asked.
“What do you mean?”
Stewart gave him a quizzical look. He glanced at one of the forensics agents
who knelt down on the opposite side of the body. “Corey, this is Carolyn Seger
from the Massachusetts State Bureau of Investigation.”
Corey shook hands with
her.
“You’ve got a good
eye,” she said, directing their attention to several old wounds concealed
and healing among the fresh ones.
Judging by the look on
the chief’s face, Corey surmised that he hadn’t experienced anything like this
in Provincetown before.
Carolyn picked up the
story where Stewart left off. “From the angle of the rope wound around the
neck, it appears that the victim was hung until dead. There are very few signs
of a struggle, which is strange.”
Hmmm…maybe
not so strange, Corey thought.
She pointed to the
bruising on the neck. “The visible side of the face appears purple, a gruesome
contrast to the white skin of his shaved head.” She frowned while mumbling the
latter under her breath. “Look at these.” The agent indicated to marks crisscrossing
his back. “It appears he was wearing a leather…” She hesitated, as if searching
for the right word.
“Harness,” Corey
finished. “I have one that’s almost the same as the one he wore. Do you think
it played a role in his death?”
Seger shook her head.
“Preliminary indications all point to strangulation by hanging.” She looked at
him. When his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, she asked, “What is it?”
He pointed to faint, red
markings on the back of the victim’s neck that resembled the ones on his back.
“It looks like he wore a leather collar, as well.” He shifted his position to
lean forward.
“We noticed that, too,
but I don’t think it contributed to his death, either.”
“Can we turn him over?”
The agent nodded and donned plastic gloves. With the help of another forensic
team member, they rolled the corpse on its back. The hideousness of the crime
became more apparent. The entire face, covered in purple blemishes, was
contorted into a grimace as he had struggled to breathe in his last few seconds
of life. His tongue protruded grotesquely from the mouth. Corey’s gaze shifted
lower. All the pubic hair was shaved away.
“Look at this.” Seger’s
eyes widened at the new discovery. “There’s scabbing just above the penis, and
it seems as though it goes all the way around the scrotum. Something’s
irritated his skin because it’s broken out and re-healed, like the marks on his
posterior.”
“He wore a cock ring,”
Corey said and added, “I have that same trouble if I wear mine too long.” Eager
to contribute to the investigation, he’d let out more personal information than
the chief or agents wanted to hear. To divert attention from his momentary lack
of discretion, he took another tack. “Are you sure this was murder?”
“What else could it be?”
The chief’s jaw clenched.
“I’m thinking it could be
an extreme BDSM session that went a bit too far.”
Chief Stewart and Carolyn
stared, jaws dropping.
“In all my years in
Provincetown, I’ve never heard of something like this, and I’ve heard and seen
some pretty weird shit.” The chief shook his head.
“Many guys have execution
fantasies, where the only way they can get off is to experience a near-death
situation. In such a case like this, execution by hanging,” Corey explained. “The
victim is hung to the point when he comes and then is released by the
‘executioner.’” He used his fingers to form quotation marks in the air. “This
might have been one time when the executioner didn’t move fast enough.” He
paused for a few seconds. “Or wouldn’t.”
“You mean this guy let
someone hang him to death?”
“No,” Corey replied.
“More than likely, he just wanted to experience a high similar to the choking
game that’s somehow gotten to be popular. But here, instead of doing it
himself, he got a bigger rush by having someone do it for him. The idea is to
release the rope or garrote before death. It’s an incredibly dangerous game.”
“So this could just be a
tragic accident?” Seger asked.
Corey held out his hands
in supplication. “Perhaps. Otherwise, we may have to look for a guy who has to
kill to get off. But there’s something odd here.”
“What?” The chief sounded
as though he didn’t think it could get any stranger.
“Whether or not his death
was accidental, where are his harness, collar and cock ring? If his executioner
didn’t kill him on purpose, why remove his accouterments? Or if it was
intentional, a murderer would’ve dumped the body and not worried about removing
everything, unless he left his DNA on everything.”
“Maybe the leather
belonged to the executioner and he took it back?” Chief Stewart said. “You
know, like a master/slave thing?”
Corey considered that
explanation for a minute. “Perhaps, but not likely, I would think. Cock rings
are more personal items, and since they’re relatively cheap, guys buy them for
themselves or someone they’re romantically involved with.”
“Could this be a lovers’
spat?” Carolyn asked.
“I hadn’t thought about
that, but you may be right. And the murderer removed everything to keep as
mementos, or because they had a sentimental value?”
“Some serial killers do
that, too,” Chief Stewart muttered. Corey and Carolyn looked at him. “They will
take something from each of their victims as a trophy.”
“Or the harness could
hold some concrete evidence to the identity of the murderer,” Corey mused.
“Something other than his body fluids.”
More about author, Alex Morgan:
Alan Scott
(aka Alex Morgan) was born and raised in western Oklahoma. He majored in
chemistry in college and moved to Dallas
to get his master’s degree. Later he received a PhD in analytical chemistry. He
now lives in the Baltimore area.
He has been
an avid reader, particularly mysteries, after being introduced to the Hardy
Boys in grade school. After reading his first Agatha Christie novel, Murder on the Orient Express, in junior
high, mysteries have been one of his biggest enjoyments. He has always enjoyed
reading comic books and loves the super-hero genre just as much.
Combining
these two concepts, he has written four mystery novels introducing gay,
paranormal sleuth Corey Shaw. Under the pen name Alan Scott, he has written a
novel continuing the paranormal detective series with “Inside Passage to
Murder” and the forthcoming “A Faire Day for Murder.” He is also the author of several gay erotica
short stories.
As
a teenager suffering from insomnia, I spent many late nights on my passion
(It’s not what you think)—reading cozy mystery novels. I loved the quirky
characters, plot twists and turns, clues, red herrings, captivating
investigations, romance, humor, and of course the surprise yet justified
endings. Even at that young age, I suspected Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
were more than companions. They seemed to understand each other as only a
couple could, and their devotion to one another was heartwarming. Hercule
Poirot and Arthur Hastings seemed to share the same level of commitment. C.
Auguste Dupin and his nameless companion, Lord Peter Wimsey and his valet Meryn
Bunter, and Inspector Morse and Detective Sergeant Robbie Lewis exhibited
similar close connections. It didn’t take me long to question why there were no
openly gay characters in my favorite mystery series. So, I created my own.
Since I am a college theatre professor, I decided to explore that wacky and
wonderful world. (Try saying that three times fast with a tongue ring.)
For
those of you who haven’t yet been baptized in Nicky and Noah land, the Nicky
and Noah mysteries is a gay cozy mystery comedy series, meaning the setting is
warm and cozy, the clues and murders (and laughs) come fast and furious, and
there are enough plot twists and turns and a surprise ending to keep the pages
turning faster than a priest going to altar boy orientation (as Nicky would
say). At the center is the touching relationship between Associate Professor of
Directing Nicky Abbondanza and Assistant Professor of Acting Noah Oliver. We
watch them go from courting to marrying to adopting a child, all the while head
over heels in love with each other (as we fall in love with them). Reviewers
called the series hysterically funny farce, Murder
She Wrote meets Hart to Hart
meets The Hardy Boys, and captivating
whodunits. One reviewer wrote they are the funniest books she’s ever read!
(Love her!)
In
Drama Queen (Divine Magazine’s
Readers’ Choice Award for Favorite LGBT Mystery, Humorous, and Contemporary
Novel of the Year) Nicky directs the school play at Treemeadow College—which is
named after its gay founders, Tree and Meadow. Theatre professors drops like
stage curtains, and Nicky and Noah have to use their theatre skills, including
impersonating other people, to figure out whodunit. In Drama Muscle (Rainbow Award Honorable Mention) Nicky and Noah don
their gay Holmes and Watson personas again to find out why bodybuilding
students and professors in Nicky’s bodybuilding competition at Treemeadow are
dropping faster than barbells. In Drama
Cruise it is summer on a ten-day cruise from San Francisco to Alaska and
back. Nicky and Noah must figure out why college theatre professors are
dropping like life rafts as Nicky directs a murder mystery dinner theatre show
onboard ship starring Noah and other college theatre professors from across the
US. Complicating matters are their both sets of wacky parents who want to
embark on all the activities on and off the boat with the handsome couple. In Drama Luau, Nicky is directing the luau
show at the Maui Mist Resort and he and Noah need to figure out why muscular
Hawaiian hula dancers are dropping like grass skirts. Their department
head/best friend and his husband, Martin and Ruben, are along for the bumpy
tropical ride. In Drama Detective,
Nicky is directing and ultimately co-starring with his husband Noah as Holmes
and Watson in a new musical Sherlock Holmes play at Treemeadow College prior to
Broadway. Martin and Ruben, their sassy office assistant Shayla, Nicky’s
brother Tony, and Nicky and Noah’s son Taavi are also in the cast. Of course
dead bodies begin falling over like hammy actors at a curtain call. Once again
Nicky and Noah use their drama skills to figure out who is lowering the street
lamps on the actors before the handsome couple get half-baked on Baker Street.
In Drama Fraternity, Nicky is
directing Tight End Scream Queen, a
slasher movie filmed at Treemeadow College’s football fraternity house,
co-starring Noah, Taavi, and Martin. Rounding out the cast are members of
Treemeadow’s Christian football players’ fraternity along with two hunky screen
stars. When the jammer, wide receiver, and more begin fading out with their
scenes, Nicky and Noah once again need to use their drama skills to figure out
who is sending young hunky actors to the cutting room floor before Nicky and
Noah hit the final reel.
My spouse and I had vacationed in Alaska and
Hawaii. Hence the settings of books three and four. Since we recently stayed in
a real Scottish Castle, I knew book seven would take place there. So, in Drama Castle, Nicky is directing a
historical film co-starring Noah and Taavi at Conall Castle in Scotland: When the Wind Blows Up Your Kilt It’s Time
for A Scotch. Rounding out the cast are members of the mysterious Conall
family who own the castle. When hunky men in kilts topple off the drawbridge
and into the moat, it’s up to Nicky and Noah to use their acting skills to
figure out whodunit before Nicky and Noah land in the dungeon. Nicky and Noah
are joined by their best friends and fan favorites Martin and Ruben, and by Noah’s
eccentric parents. Book seven adds a number of captivating new characters like Brody
Naughton, the hunky head of Housekeeping with a red beard and roving eye for
the oldest Conall brother, Barclay, and for Donal Blair a waiter in the
castle’s Great Hall dining room. Each of the three hunky Conall brothers
(Barclay, Magnus, and Fergus) have a surprising secret, and Noah makes a
shocking revelation.
I am joyous and honored to join the other
wonderful writers who post in this group as we share our gay mystery stories. So
take your seat. The curtain is going up on steep cliffs, ancient turrets,
stormy seas, misty moors, malfunctioning kilts, and murder!
Theatre professor Nicky Abbondanza is directing a historical film at a castle in Scotland, co-starring his spouse, theatre professor Noah Oliver, and their son Taavi. When historical accuracy disappears along with hunky men in kilts, Nicky and Noah will once again need to use their drama skills to figure out who is pitching residents of Conall Castle off the drawbridge and into the moat, before Nicky and Noah land in the dungeon. You will be applauding and shouting Bravo for Joe Cosentino’s fast-paced, side-splittingly funny, edge-of-your-seat entertaining seventh novel in this delightful series. Take your seats. The curtain is going up on steep cliffs, ancient turrets, stormy seas, misty moors, malfunctioning kilts, and murder!
Exclusive Excerpt:
Wearing a canary
polo shirt that highlighted his olive-colored skin and black hair, Taavi looked
adorable with his legs dangling off the high bed. “Grandma and I explored the
castle.” His dimples appeared. “I found a secret passageway.”
“A sleuth, like
your dads,” Dad said.
“And like your
grandfather,” Mom added.
Taavi wiped his palms on his sky-blue shorts.
“I can’t wait to shoot my scenes.”
Noah smiled. “Will
you steal them from me?”
“That’s the plan.”
Taavi offered his father a hang loose sign and a huge grin.
Mom said, “Judy
was very impressed with our little Taavi’s acting in that slasher film you all
did last year.”
“As she should
be,” Dad said as if he were Taavi’s agent.
“Judy said that
little Dung’s chocolate coloring would show up well on film.”
“Too bad Tommy and
Timmy aren’t in the movie business like our Nicky and Noah,” Dad said.
Mom and Dad
laughed together triumphantly.
I noticed a gold
necklace around Dad’s neck as it danced over his flabby chest. “I’ve never seen
that before, Dad.”
He stuck out his
already protruding stomach. “What, my sexy physique?” Dad winked at Noah. “I
may be giving you a run for your money tonight, Noah.”
Noah’s scarlet
cheeks turned crimson.
I walked over to
Dad. “I mean your necklace.”
“He’s worn that
thing around his neck since I met him,” Mom said.
Taking it in my
hand, I admired the fine craftsmanship of the gold two-leaf clover.
“It’s really a
four-leaf clover,” Dad explained, “but the other two leaves broke off.”
“Where did you get
it?”
“In a little shop
on a glen in a valley in the highlands of Scotland. A year before I met Mom, I
visited the land of my ancestors to find my roots.”
“While I was covering up mine with peroxide,”
Mom said with a smile.
“But my ancestors
didn’t come from a place like this.” Dad explained, “They were sheepherders.”
The dairy farmer added, “Milking is in my blood.”
“So is high
cholesterol from all the cheese he eats,” Mom said as if speaking about a death
row criminal.
Dad patted his
stomach. “I like food.”
“Me too, Grandpa.”
Taavi patted his stomach too.
“Did you all eat
dinner?” Noah asked with concern showing on his handsome face.
Mom nodded. “A
sweet young waiter named Donal served us in the dining room.” She giggled like
a young girl. “He paid extra attention to me.”
“Were you
jealous?” I asked Dad.
He waved me away
like a color guard on speed. “Donal was a nice-looking guy. But he reminded me
of you and Noah, if you know what I mean.”
My father-in-law developed gaydar?
Taavi’s dark eyes
glistened in delight. “We ate cock-a-doodle-doo soup, blood pudding, green
fish, and bread for short people.”
As if a United
Nations translator, Mom said, “Taavi means cock-a-leekie soup—”
Okay, it’s not
what you’re thinking. It’s a soup with chicken, bacon, leeks, and spices.
Mom continued,
“—black pudding—”
Get ready to be
grossed out. It’s pork fat, pork blood, oatmeal, and oat and barley groats.
“—scallops with
cabbage and green apple sauce, and shortbread.”
“I texted all my
friends from school. I can’t believe we’re living in a real castle!”
Giveaway: Post a comment below
about why you love men in kilts. The one that raises our kilt the most will win
an Audible code for the Drama Queen
audiobook, the first Nicky and Noah mystery, by Joe Cosentino, performed by
Michael Gilboe.
Praise for the Nicky and Noah mysteries:
“Joe Cosentino has a
unique and fabulous gift. His writing is flawless, and his use of farce, along
with his convoluted plot-lines, will have you guessing until the very last
page, which makes his books a joy to read. His books are worth their weight in
gold, and if you haven’t discovered them yet you are in for a rare treat.”
Divine Magazine
“a combination of Laurel
and Hardy mixed with Hitchcock and Murder She Wrote…
Loaded with puns and
one-liners…Right to the end, you are kept guessing, and the conclusion still
has a surprise in store for you.” “the best modern Sherlock and Watson in books
today…I highly recommend this book and the entire series, it’s a pure pleasure,
full of fun and love, written with talent and brio…fabulous…brilliant” Optimumm
Book Reviews
“adventure, mystery, and
romance with every page….Funny, clever, and sweet….I can’t find anything not to
love about this series….This read had me laughing and falling in love….Nicky
and Noah are my favorite gay couple.” Urban Book Reviews
“For fans of Joe
Cosentino’s hilarious mysteries, this is another vintage story with more cheeky
asides and sub plots right left and centre….The story is fast paced, funny and
sassy. The writing is very witty with lots of tongue-in-cheek humour….Highly
recommended.” Boy Meets Boy Reviews
“This delightfully sudsy,
colorful cast of characters would rival that of any daytime soap opera, and the
character exchanges are rife with sass, wit and cagey sarcasm….As the pages
turn quickly, the author keeps us hanging until the startling end.” Edge Media
Network
“A laugh and a murder,
done in the style we have all come to love….This had me from the first
paragraph….Another wonderful story with characters you know and love!” Crystals
Many Reviewers
“These
two are so entertaining….Their tactics in finding clues and the crazy funny
interactions between characters keeps the pages turning. For most of the book
if I wasn’t laughing I was grinning.” Jo and Isa Love Books
“Superb
fun from start to finish, for me this series gets stronger with every book and
that’s saying something because the benchmark was set so very high with book 1.” Three Books Over the Rainbow
“The Nicky and Noah
Mysteries series are perfect for fans of the Cozy Mystery sub-genre. They mix
tongue-in-cheek humor, over-the-top characters, a wee bit of political
commentary, and suspense into a sweet little mystery solved by Nicky and Noah,
theatre professors for whom all the world’s a stage.” Prism Book Alliance
“This
is one hilarious series with a heart and it just keeps getting better. I highly
recommend them all, and please read them in the order they were written for
full blown laugh out loud reading pleasure!” Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
Bestselling author Joe
Cosentino was voted Favorite LGBT Mystery, Humorous, and Contemporary Author of
the Year by the readers of Divine Magazine for Drama Queen. He also
wrote the other novels in the Nicky and Noah mystery series: Drama Muscle,Drama Cruise, Drama Luau, Drama Detective, Drama Fraternity,
Drama Castle; the Dreamspinner Press novellas: In My Heart/An
Infatuation &A Shooting Star, A Home for the Holidays, The
Perfect Gift,The First Noel,The Naked Prince and Other Tales
from Fairyland with Holiday
Tales from Fairyland, the Cozzi Cove series: Cozzi Cove: Bouncing
Back,Cozzi Cove: Moving Forward, Cozzi Cove: Stepping Out, Cozzi
Cove: New Beginnings, Cozzi Cove: Happy Endings (NineStar Press);andthe Jana Lane mysteries: Paper Doll, Porcelain Doll, Satin
Doll, China Doll, Rag Doll (The Wild Rose Press). He has
appeared in principal acting roles in film, television, and theatre, opposite
stars such as Bruce Willis, Rosie O’Donnell, Nathan Lane, Holland Taylor, and
Jason Robards. Joe is currently Chair of the Department/Professor at a college
in upstate New York, and he is happily married. Joe was voted 2nd
Place Favorite LGBT Author of the Year in Divine Magazine’s Readers’ Choice
Awards, and his books have received numerous Favorite Book of the Month Awards
and Rainbow Award Honorable Mentions.
GIVEAWAY: Post a comment below about why you love men in kilts. The one that raises our kilt the most will win an Audible code for the Drama Queen audiobook, the first Nicky and Noah mystery, by Joe Cosentino, performed by Michael Gilboe.
**Winner must have an active Audible.com account to receive**
