New Work
A novel in progress.
A historical mystery set on the forgotten edge of 1898 Manhattan. It is finished and it will be published — whether through a traditional publisher, a Kickstarter campaign, or directly to readers.
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When a New York social reformer is found murdered in Central Park, the only witness is a society widow in hiding from her own past — and a homicide inspector who knows who she used to be. But not what she's become.
An excerpt
From Fallen Ladies.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, to ignore Mrs. Paxton's misery, Mrs. Van der Graff's simmering anger, and the inspector's growing interest. The hope she had left — that Mrs. Van der Graff would reschedule their interview — depended entirely on fading into the background. She mustn't draw attention to herself by starting and shivering over every memory. She had to prove herself discreet.
She searched for a distraction and found it in a game she'd played with her father — one he'd created as a newly widowed scholar, looking for common ground with his only child. “What do you see, Lelo?” She could almost hear his voice, cajoling, challenging.
It was too dark to glean any telling details amidst the jumble of furniture and curios filling the room, so she turned her attention to the people. She focused on the big, dark-haired man near the door, impressions flooding her mind like the spread of cards from a tarot deck. The cut and condition of his outer coat marked him as someone from an Eastern European country — likely a city — where he'd bought it over a decade ago. The dark stain on his left index finger was typical of those who habitually licked their fingers before turning a page. The stain was deeply ingrained; he read many books. His lodgings had a small, neglected yard he liked to visit, evidenced by the thistles stuck to the hem of his coat but not his pant hems.
She shifted her focus to Bergen.
His slight accent revealed him to be the son of immigrants; the thick blonde curls spoke to Scandinavian roots. The quality of his clothing suggested comfortable, but not luxurious, circumstances. His broad shoulders and supple movement betrayed a certain physicality. A well-to-do farmer's son? But no — there was something in the way he held himself, a deliberate stillness that she couldn't quite penetrate. With Morozov, the story had poured out like water from a pitcher. Bergen gave her the surface and nothing beneath it. It was like looking at a painting with a second image hidden underneath: she could sense it was there but couldn't bring it into focus.
Her gaze dropped to his hands — large, with big knuckles and strong fingers. But uncalloused. Not a farmer's hands. His nails were clean and recently trimmed. There was pride there, but no vanity. Vanity wouldn't have tolerated that cravat —
A cravat, dark with gore...