A Book Is Like a Deck of Cards by Peg Herring

There’s an old story about a soldier required to explain why he has a deck of cards in church. I recall mention of four gospels and ten commandments; if you want to know the rest, look up Tex Ritter. For me, the four suits in a deck demonstrate what a successful book requires.

A book needs a heart, because fiction without emotion is a bunch of dead words. Readers want characters we feel for, a plot that excites us, and words that strike a harmonious chord. Even good nonfiction writers like Bill Bryson and Malcom Gladwell succeed by creating bridges between readers’ emotions and the information the book presents. It all adds up to heart.

A book also needs a spade. Every written work requires digging: into setting, syntax, and a dozen more areas specific to the story. Many times I thought I knew a subject until I began writing about it: How did medieval people get from one place to another? What exactly is a parallel universe? And how do I spell pharmaceutical? Details make a story come alive if they’re correct. An author’s spade uncovers tidbits that strengthen the story’s heart.

A book needs a club (actually, more than one). First is the “club” around the writer as she writes, people who advise, encourage, beta-read, etc. They might be professionals or talented amateurs, family or paid help, enthusiastic supporters or sharp-eyed critique-partners. Other clubs join the party as the book moves forward: the team that “builds” the book, the fans who promote it, and book clubs that discuss its merits. No writer is an island, unless she hides her work under that big rock on her little atoll.

Finally, a book needs a diamond: value on the market. This is the oddest of a book’s suits, because some really bad books earn lots of “diamonds” while some excellent ones don’t. The why of that is often a mystery.

To understand which books earn diamonds, look first at the other three suits. How lively is the book’s heart? Was the best information spaded up, engaging language unearthed, and excess “dirt” scraped away? Were the clubs consulted thorough and honest? With promotional hype, diamonds can still pour in, but savvy readers eventually tire of authors who stray from dedication to hearts, spades, and clubs.

Like real diamonds, book revenues don’t just appear but are mined using knowledge and effort. How can the existence of a book be made known to the public? How can readers be enticed to try it? How can satisfied readers be encouraged to tell others about it? The mining process is hard, but it’s essential.

Some authors benefit from creating a prominent persona. (Think Marilyn Monroe singing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”…No wait. Don’t do that.) First impressions are lasting, so one should think carefully about the image she wants to create. I once sat on a panel with an author who knitted for the entire hour. I think it calmed her nerves, but audience members I spoke to afterward claimed it made her look unprofessional and disinterested. Other possibilities sometimes suggested as selling techniques, like wearing costumes or having a bullying sales pitch, can backfire, creating the wrong mood and driving customers away.

Book covers are important first impressions, helping or hurting sales. My cover artist and I thought we had a cute cover for KIDNAP.org, but readers found it cartoonish (Spooky House below). Today, authors can change book covers that aren’t working, so I asked her to do a new one (see Woman with Duct Tape). It sells much better. Research reveals that a cover has only a few seconds to catch a reader’s eye. If the message is too bland, too lurid, too whatever, that eye goes on to the next one. While we shouldn’t stint on any aspect of producing a book, the cover is a bad place to pinch pennies.

All of a book’s “suits” require hard work, but finding diamonds is often the task authors are least prepared for. Build a platform. Achieve name recognition. Plan ahead so series books group themselves. Write blog posts. Maintain an interesting website. Run ads on whatever spot on the internet is hot right now. Talk to book groups. Make the acquaintance of librarians. Get as many legitimate reviews as possible. Sign people up for your newsletter and make them glad they joined. Et cetera, et cetera.

If you’re thinking you’ve heard this advice in other places, you’re probably right. Still, with a lot of heart, diligent spadework, clubs for input, and knowledge of where diamonds come from, you’ll begin to see success. Those first diamonds will be little, maybe even chips, but for many authors, that’s enough to make playing the game worthwhile.

BIO: Peg Herring reads, writes, loves mysteries, including the Loser Mysteries and the Simon & Elizabeth Historical Mysteries. She lives in Michigan with her husband, a very old cat, and her alter ego, Maggie Pill, author of the Sleuth Sisters Mysteries. Maggie is much younger and cooler.
Universal link to KIDNAP.org: https://www.books2read.com/u/mZ58rl
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Why I Love Blogs—Reading and Writing for Them by Marilyn Meredith

The first answer to why I love blogs is I love to write—no matter what it is, I enjoy writing. Writing a blog post is a joy. I’m able to come up with a topic, expound on it in 500 words or less and it will appear for others to enjoy.

 

Of course, I have my own blog. Over the years I’ve been a regular on several blogs, but now I’ve cut that down to two others besides my own.

 

Appearing on someone else’s blog is a great way to introduce yourself to another group of people—hopefully, some of them are readers who might be interested enough to check out one of my books.

 

For years now, I’ve been doing blog tours as part of a new book’s promotion. That’s why I’m visiting P.J. Nunn today, to promote my latest Rocky Bluff P.D. mystery, Tangled Webs.

 

When doing a blog tour it’s a challenge to come up with enough interesting topics to engage readers. The main reason I chose this topic for P.J.’s blog, is she’s one of the first to introduce blog tours and is a true supporter of authors.

 

Do I think a blog tour helps with the sales of a book? Anything one does helps. In the past, when I appeared on a tour, sales increased.

 

There are many things one can do to promote a book, but for me, blogging and blog tours are two of my favorite promotion tools.

 

Thank you, PJ, for hosting me today.

 

Marilyn, who writes the RBPD series as F. M. Meredith

 

Blurb: Too many people are telling lies: The husband of the murder victim and his secretary, the victim’s boss and co-workers in the day care center, her stalker, and Detective Milligan’s daughter.

 

Link: https://tinyurl.com/yabj9z9f

 

Bio: F. M. Meredith who is also known as Marilyn once lived in a beach town much like Rocky Bluff. She has many friends and relatives in law enforcement. She’s a member of MWA, 3 chapters of Sisters in Crime and serves on the PSWA Board.

 

Webpage: http://fictionforyou.com

Blog: https://marilynmeredith.blogspot.com

Facebook: Marilyn Meredith

Twitter: @marilynmeredith

 

Tomorrow I’m heading over to https://pat-writersforum.blogspot.com to discuss Never Giving Up in the Tough Times.

Do Authors Write About What They Know? Lea Wait’s 19th Century Childhood

            No matter how old I may feel on some days, I was definitely born in the mid-twentieth century. But readers of my books (both contemporary mysteries and historical novels) often ask why I incorporate historical details in all of my work.

The answer is simple. In many ways, I’m more comfortable with the past than the present.

I’ve never lived in a house or apartment (I’ve lived in Boston, New York City, New York State, New Jersey, and Maine) built after World War I. Uninsulated plaster walls (usually clam shell plaster,) solid wooden doors, and fireplaces in many rooms feel normal to me. The house I live in now, which I’ve used in several of my books and which my family has owned for seventy years, was built in 1774 on a Maine island, and then moved to the mainland in about 1832. (New Englanders were the original re-cyclers. People still move houses rather than tearing them down.)

But, perhaps even more important than lying in bed at night and imagining who else slept in the room, and what they were like, and what their days were filled with, I also grew up in a family that valued the past.

Our bookcases were filled with nineteenth-century novels that I read and loved.

My father was a nationally known numismatist (collector of paper money) and wrote several books on the subject. My sister collected the wood engravings and cartoons of Thomas Nast (now donated to a museum) and was an expert on his life and work.

In the early twentieth century my great-grandfather, who I knew as “the upstairs Papa” when he was in his nineties, had a shop on Beacon Hill in Boston where he sold imported Irish and Scots linens, lace, and crystal. His oldest daughter, my grandmother, was an antique doll and toy dealer. When I was a child she took me with her to visit other dealers, to help set up her antique show booths, and to attend auctions. (I made my first auction purchase when I was ten: I paid $1 for a first edition of the Encyclopedia Americana.) When I was in my twenties I became an antique print dealer, with the help of my mother. Since (like almost all antique dealers) I also had a day job, my mother was able to attend auctions and shows when I couldn’t. We sold antique prints for over thirty years.

(Note: Maggie Summer, the protagonist of my first mystery series, the Shadows Antique Print Mystery series, is also an antique print dealer, and I include information on antique prints throughout the eight books in that series.)

So when I began writing the Mainely Needlepoint series, it seemed logical – if not essential – that I include an antique dealer (Sarah Byrne) in my cast of characters, and that my Mainely Needlepointers not only create custom needlepoint, but identify and restore antique needlepoint. And that I include quotations from samplers and early needlepoint at the beginning of each chapter.

In the latest in my series, THREAD HERRINGS, published last week, Sarah takes my protagonist, Angie Curtis, to her first auction. She explains how auctions work, the differences between dealers bidding and people attending to buy for their collections or homes, and why it’s important to recognize the differences. And, of course, Angie is tempted, and bids on a worn eighteenth century needlepointed coat of arms.

When she takes removes her purchase from its frame she finds a mysterious paper hidden behind the stitching. And, of course, she has to investigate it. And, of course, her investigation leads to a murder …

Was I born in the nineteenth century? No. But I think I’d feel comfortable there.

 

 

BIO:  USA Today best-selling author Lea Wait lives on the coast of Maine where she writes three mystery series (the Shadows Antique Mystery series, the Mainely Needlepoint series, and, under the name Cornelia Kidd, the Maine Murder series.) She has also written seven historical novels set in 18th and 19th century Maine for ages 8 and up, the most recent of which is Contrary Winds, a YA mystery, and a book of essays, Living and Writing on the Coast of Maine. She invites you to check her website, http://www.leawait.com, which includes free links to prequels of many of her books, and to friend her on Facebook.         

New novel & no ideas? So wrong! By Lala Corriere

Writer’s block is when even your characters won’t talk to you.

Writers know when they’re nearing the end of their manuscript. This stage is engulfed with rampant emotions. We’re proud of ourselves for achieving such a huge endeavor and yet we’re sad to say goodbye to some if not all of our characters we’ve so thoroughly crafted.

And then it might hit us. We want to write the next bestseller. And, horror of horror, we haven’t developed an inkling of an idea.

Fear not! As they say, rip something from the headlines!

My novel, TRACKS, includes a focus on the ongoing opiates crises. Difficult research that proved devastating and scary.

Recently, I went to the headlines and ideas flooded, literally with the terrifying approach of Hurricane Florence and its aftermath. If you write suspense you might consider a pre-meditated murder. The evidence is washed away and a body might just disappear, as well. If you write romance, do you see young strangers holed up in a safe place for days, surviving, and falling in love? Looting could be pre-meditated with homes earmarked with the goods, or the single property your antagonist needs to trespass to steal just one thing.

The gas explosions north of Boston might not be accidental but rather targeted in your great novel. A grudge against a new developer?

I’m not into writing about politics or religion, but you? I’m guessing there’s plenty of fodder out there to weave a tail around, like the Nevada professor whose attempted suicide to protest Trump failed and he now faces felony charges to include discharging a gun within a prohibited building and carrying a concealed weapon?  The dude left a $100 bill taped to the mirror tagged for the janitor. For the adventurous, you’ll find a story set in Russia or North Korea, as ripped from the headlines and made your own.

More obscure news stories? Today I found several:

  • The discovery and opening of a four-thousand-year old Egyptian tomb. This could make for a fun and wickedly delicious plot.
  • A sex doll brothel opening. A legal means to release violent urges, claims the company.
  • The man charged with sexual child abuse when faking he had Down Syndrome.

Nothing strike your fancy? Keep looking and cooking up your creative spins on current news, or old news with new life.

I’m writing my seventh novel, Lethal Trust. It’s based on a true event that’s happening now, sans the murders. Because of the relationship to a true story with the lives of very public individuals, I have to use extreme care in changing everything including cities and names. I don’t need their lawyers knocking at my door. Still, when I first learned about the basic facts I knew murder had to be involved, my way.

 

 

Then and Now: A Series Evolves By Frankie Y. Bailey

            I had no master plan for my Lizzie Stuart series. I wasn’t even sure I could finish the first book. I had an idea – a mystery inspired by an incident I had discovered while doing research for my dissertation. I decided to create a fictional sleuth – Professor Lizabeth Stuart, crime historian – who would investigate a fictionalized version of that incident. In this mystery novel, Lizzie would go to “Gallagher, Virginia” to investigate a lynching that her grandmother, Hester Rose, witnessed as a child.

Writing that book was a slow process. I had written two romantic suspense novels that were tucked away in a bottom drawer. I needed to learn how to write a mystery. Along the way, I joined a writing group that provided me with support and encouragement. But five years later I was still revising and revising and spinning my wheels.

When a friend from graduate school invited me to join her and her six-year old son for a week’s vacation in Cornwall, England, I said “yes.”  To justify my vacation, I decided to take Lizzie with me, to try writing a book set in Cornwall. A modern version of the kind of book Agatha Christie might have written about murder in an English artist colony/seaside resort.

This vacation book was intended to be no more than a writing exercise. It became much more. In London and in Cornwall, Lizzie, my Southern-born, African American sleuth came to life. Suddenly, I could hear her voice in my head. I understood how she saw the world.          Death’s Favorite Child, the book that began as a writing exercise, became the first book in the series. It was the book I sold to a small independent publisher. The book I had been working on for five years became A Dead Man’s Honor, the drastically revised second book in the series. Those revisions were necessary because in Cornwall I had learned much more about Lizzie – and Lizzie had met a Philadelphia homicide detective named John Quinn. Quinn had always been around, but for five years he had been the police chief in Gallagher, Virginia. He was to have appeared only in that book. But in Cornwall, he turned up as a much different character, walked into the series and decided to stay.

Now eighteen years after that first book was published, the series is being reissued by a new publisher. Although I was certainly not clever enough to have planned for this possibility, I am benefitting from the fact that I have been writing in “series time.”  In the context of the events in Lizzie’s life, only four years have passed. In the series, the current year is 2004. But Lizzie is much stronger and much more confident than when she set out on that vacation in Cornwall. That’s just as well because in the sixth book, now in progress, meeting her fiance’s family will not go as planned.

First chapters – Death’s Favorite Child by Frankie Y. Bailey

Do you have your copy yet?

 

 

Chapter One

 

Wednesday, June 17, Drucilla, Kentucky

 

Rituals for the Dead and Dying.  I’d scrawled those words across the yellow page of a legal pad one robins-chirping, tulips-blooming afternoon in May.  That day, moving my hand across the page had been the only thing that had kept me from toppling over.  The paperback thriller I had brought along in my tote bag had stayed there, too intricate for my brain even if my eyes hadn’t been filled with grit.

Rituals.  During slavery, blacks on plantations often wrapped their dead in “winding sheets” and buried them at night.  Laboring from sunup to sundown, the slaves spent their daylight hours performing their masters’ tasks. Night was the only portion of the day that they could call their own.  So that was when they buried their dead. Singing, carrying torches to light the way, they delivered the body to its grave.

Such processions puzzled, even frightened, the whites who observed them.  Prone to their own superstitions, whites in the antebellum South understood better the “death watch” for the departing loved one and the “laying out” of the corpse.

They, white people, died of diseases and in childbirth. Black slaves died of the same causes and of hard work and abuse. Death was a constant presence in the lives of both groups. Death required rituals.

It still does. My grandmother, a descendant of field slaves, did her dying in a hospital room under medical supervision. But each day I drove back and forth to Lexington to keep my vigil at her bedside.

On the night that she died, I had lost my battle with exhaustion and fallen asleep in an armchair. Her voice jolted me awake. She had pushed herself upright in the bed. “Becca? Don’t you play your games with me. I see you there.”

I twisted around in my chair. For a moment, in that dimly lit room, I expected to see something there in the shadows.

“Becca, you stop your laughing!”

I had never heard Becca laugh. Neither one of us had laid eyes on Becca, my mother, in the thirty-eight years since my birth. But to the best of my knowledge she was still alive. Not a ghost to haunt her mother’s passing.

I staggered to my feet. “Grandma? Shh, it’s all right. Let me help you lie back down.”

She turned her head and looked up at me. “Becca? What you come back here for?’

“Grandma, it’s me. It’s Lizzie. Here, let me–”

She grabbed my hand in an urgent grip. “It would kill you daddy if he knew. We can’t never let him find out. We can’t let nobody find out.”

“What. . .find out what?”

She groaned, rocking herself. “How could you do it, Becca? That man–” Her voice sunk to a whisper. “Oh, lord, baby. Becca, get on your knees and pray . . . pray for you and that child growing inside you.”

“Grandma, what–?”

She slumped against my arm.  I held her for several heartbeats, then eased her back down onto the pillow.

She was dead.  I knew that even before I pressed the button for assistance, even before a nurse rushed into the room to check her vital signs.  Hester Rose Stuart was dead.

As for Becca–Rebecca, headstrong by all accounts, had been a few weeks short of eighteen when I was born.  Five days after my birth, still without revealing the identity of my father, she had boarded a Greyhound bus and left town. Or so my grandmother had always told me.

In the days since my grandmother’s death, I had been adjusting to living alone in the house that was now mine. Adjusting to silences filled with voices from my childhood. At around three that afternoon, I came to rest there in the kitchen doorway.

Silver-edged thunderheads loomed.  I considered getting in my car and driving down to the Sheraton Hotel.  I thought of sitting there in the lobby cafe sipping mint tea while the pianist played and the fountain tinkled, drowning out the storm raging outside.  I thought of leaving home before the storm broke, but I kept on standing there in the doorway with that photograph in my hand.

It had been taken out by the old oak tree.  My grandfather, Walter Lee, grinning that grin that people still mentioned when they spoke of him, faced the camera.  He was ebony-skinned and lanky.  Hester Rose, petite and pecan-colored, peeped around his shoulder.  That afternoon, touched by some fleeting joy, she had dared risk one of her rare full-mouthed smiles.  A hand had snapped the photograph and then it had been forgotten.

I had found the camera when I was searching the attic. After two hours of dust and spider

webs, after finding nothing more significant about my mother than the paperback novels–Moby Dick, Jane Eyre, and The Scarlet Letter—that she must have been assigned in a high school English class, I had been about to give up. Then I’d opened a dented steamer truck. The camera was buried beneath a pile of moldy sheets. When I realized it contained film, I ran downstairs to change.  Half an hour later, I was walking into a camera store in Lexington. There among the prints of house, flower beds, and vegetable garden had been that single photograph of my grandparents, the proud homeowners.

Both dead now. He of a heart attack, years ago when I was at graduate school. She at a little after midnight on June 1, the combined effects of hip surgery, diabetes, and a virulent strain of pneumonia—and perhaps whatever it was that had kept her mouth tight and her eyes wary.

Lightning zigzagged across the sky.  I stepped back into the kitchen and let the screen door bang shut.

When I was a child, I had been sure God was Zeus, with lightning bolts that he flung down at people who had been bad.  I shared this with my grandfather during one of our tramps through the woods, and he laughed until tears streaked his cheeks.

Seeing my chagrin, he hugged me to his side. “Lizzie, if that was the way of it, child, you wouldn’t be able to walk after a storm for all the dead folks you’d be stumbling over.” That might be true, but all these years later I could still have gone for a very long time between colliding weather fronts.

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked and boomed, shaking the house. I clutched my grandparents’ photograph and scrunched myself tighter into a corner of the flowered sofa. The shutter on one of the upstairs windows was loose and banging. Rain slashed against the picture window in the living room. I huddled there on the sofa, mumbling an apology for being ungrateful for what I had. An apology for being angry because I was without kin.

God did not strike one dead for having wicked thoughts.  If that were the case, I’d already be dead.

I was astraphobic, brontophobic.  Scared of storms.  One of those silly childhood fears I intended to outgrow someday soon. The upstairs shutter banged like a gavel in the hand of an irate judge.

“All right, you’re being ridiculous. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight. First thing tomorrow, find a repairman to fix the shutter. Ninety-seven, ninety-six. I am calm and relaxed. I am–”

White light exploded in the room. I screamed. I thought I was dead. But it was the tree. The old oak tree in the backyard had been struck by lightning. Blasted to its roots. Hester Rose, my grandmother, would have said it was an omen. A “sign.” But a sign is only useful if you know how to read it. At any rate, it was a moment of transition. Not dying was amazingly therapeutic.

***

Criminologist Frankie Bailey has five books and two published short stories in a mystery series featuring crime historian Lizzie Stuart. The Red Queen Dies, the first book in a near-future police procedural series featuring Detective Hannah McCabe, came out in September 2013.  The second book in the series, What the Fly Saw came out in March 2015. Frankie is a former executive vice president of Mystery Writers of America and a past president of Sisters in Crime.

Website URL: http://www.frankieybailey.com

Twitter:  @FrankieYBailey

 

Amazon: Death’s Favorite Child

https://www.amazon.com/Deaths-Favorite-Lizzie-Stuart-Mystery-ebook/dp/B078FQT4XD/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1536271507&sr=8-1&keywords=death%27s+favorite+child

 

Amazon: What the Fly Saw

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00MLNBJC2?keywords=what%20the%20fly%20saw&qid=1450548269&ref_=sr_1_1&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

Grocery stores? Really? by Radine Trees Nehring

Almost ten years ago the general manager of the grocery store where the Nehrings shopped regularly asked me if I’d like to do a book signing in his store. (This store is part of an independent chain in my area, with over 90 locations.) An author friend of mine once talked about doing grocery store events in Houston, so the idea was already slumbering in the back of my head. After short consideration, I decided to give bookselling among the groceries a try.

Here’s how it worked for me. I made an appointment with the head of the chain’s department over non-food items. At our meeting he looked at my books and asked a number of questions, finally deciding I had a good product to sell. I signed a non-food vendor contract with the chain. Shoppers who wanted a signed book could put it in their cart and it would go through check-out like the potatoes and canned peas. At the end of a signing day I would give the store an invoice for books sold, and they’d be in charge of sending my invoice to the home office. Not long after, a check for books sold, minus a small percentage for the chain, would be mailed to me.

I was given a list of the stores in my area, and I could pick any store I wanted, deciding when I’d like to sign there. After trying out the idea with some trepidation, I now hold fairly regular Friday and Saturday book signing events in the chain’s grocery stores. In preparation I notify my contact in the General Merchandise office, she notifies her contact in that store, and I visit the store early, taking copies of the books (usually 4) I plan to sell on the days of my visit so they can put the UPC codes in their system.

On signing days I am allowed to set up inside the front entrance of the store where I will be for seven or eight hours each day. I take in a small table, two chairs, a colorful cover for my table and set up books on easels and also any free hand-out material I am presenting—book cover postcards, bookmarks, and business cards. I stand most of the time, and I am usually the first person customers see when they enter the store. You might say I act as a greeter, offering a cheerful hello. If people hesitate or come to look at my books, our conversation continues.

Grocery customers are a huge cross-section of humanity in any area, much more varied than those seen in any bookstore or at advertised signings. If you want to learn how people in an area look, sound, and live their lives, sign in a grocery store. I continue to be amazed at the number of men who shop alone and, more than any other group, enjoy finding someone to talk to, though they are not often book purchasers. Older women are excellent potential customers, and also like to talk. I hear many stories, some are incredibly sad. I have even shared hugs and tears with a few of these women. I have spoken with people, usually younger, who say they love to read and obviously want a book but explain they haven’t the money to buy one. An example is the young mother who showed me a $20.00 bill and said that was all she had to cover groceries for herself and her son for the week.

The opportunity to own a real book signed by the author catches many. I also present books as excellent gifts, very easy to wrap and mail, and quite a few of my books are sold for gifts, though the purchaser often plans to read it first. A number of my customers have never been in a bookstore or even know if there is one in the area.

Other differences between these and traditional book signings?  The surprise element among those entering the store when they see my table. The number of people who want a friendly chat. Questions from those who are wanna-be writers or have even finished a book and wonder how to get it published. The number of people, generally middle-age or younger, who are in too big a hurry to acknowledge a greeting.

So, if you are a published author, I recommend grocery store book signings. Grocery stores are a very good place for profitable impulse sales!

(Note, I always write a positive report covering general observations and happenings in any store I visit, and send it to my contact at the office. This, it turns out, is greatly appreciated.)

Radine Trees Nehring, 2011 Inductee, Arkansas Writers Hall of Fame
http://www.RadinesBooks.com

For more than twenty years, Radine Trees Nehring’s magazine features, essays, newspaper articles, and radio broadcasts have shared colorful stories about the people, places, events, and natural world near her Arkansas home.

In 2002, Radine’s first mystery novel, A VALLEY TO DIE FOR, was published and, in 2003 became a Macavity Award Nominee.  Since that time, she has continued to earn writing awards as she enthralls her original fans and attracts new ones with her signature blend of down-home Arkansas sightseeing and cozy amateur sleuthing by active retirees Henry King and Carrie McCrite King.

Website URL:  http://www.RadinesBooks.com

Blog URL:  http://radine.wordpress.com

Facebook URL:  http://www.facebook.com/RadineTreesNehring

Twitter:   @RTNehring

LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/in/radine-trees-nehring