The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she bargained for.
I’m delighted to announce that Touchpoint Press will be releasing my novel Wolf Catcher on February 2, 2022. For lovers of suspense and historical fiction based in fact, I encourage you to take a look.
Kate and Kaya, who are separated by nine centuries, both feel rejected by the societies in which they live and are bound together by one man. The Magician, as he came to be called, was discovered in 1939 when archeologists uncovered a tomb at a remote Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate beadwork, was surrounded by myriad pots, arrow points, and fine mineral specimens. But it was the wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands that the Hopi workers explained identified him as a magician.
But who was he? In my former role as a journalist, I was tasked with determining why this man, who appeared different from the people who buried him, was interred so reverently and with such incredible wealth. Many of the situations that fictional reporter Kate Butler faces in the story actually happened. My research carried me back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano, then forward into the present-day dangers of archeological looting and the black market sales of antiquities.
Some people love their Christmas decorations so much they keep them up long after the holiday season is over.
The winter holidays are funny things. Some people get all giddy at the thought of the festivities. You know the ones. Those folks who put their Christmas lights up in October and keep every strand in place until tearfully taking them down in April. Wreaths are a permanent fixture, and they feel compelled to send out those incredibly detailed family newsletters where everyone is happy, successful, and using all their spare time to feed the homeless.
Others, however, dread those year-end family/friend celebrations. Some despair at the thought of ugly-sweater parties, accidental pauses under the mistletoe, secret Santas, and those groaning tables of tempting but questionable potluck fare.
Don’t get me wrong. When I was a kid, I thought Christmas was grand, even though my parents made us work for every one of the cool things we got. In our house, one had to prove oneself worthy of those special gifts. I’d skied for several years before Santa deposited those bright-blue skis with my name engraved on the tips under the tree. And he added a light blue jacket that matched a new ski outfit. Very cool. Then, Santa decided that after two years of renting a clarinet, I could have my very own. Same with the guitar that appeared magically under the tree when I was 15. A sweet Yamaha 12-string that arrived via reindeer sled, three years after I’d begun plunking away on an old hand-me-down. Back then, we had to prove to “Santa” that our hobbies were not just passing fancies. And anticipation—a quaint idea in our world where everyone wants things right now—was a constant companion.
When my siblings and I were older, however, the thought of returning home for the holidays necessitated pre-party meet-ups at a local bar where we would fortify ourselves against the coming family event. Why, you ask? Mostly, we dreaded those gatherings because we had a very small group of partiers. Our whole family consisted of Mom, Dad, three siblings, two aunts, and an uncle. Despite the usual copious amounts of alcohol, everyone was pretty reserved, unless an argument broke out, which happened periodically since we were all loud and opinionated and no one ever agreed on anything. With such a small bunch of revelers, it was damn hard to hide when things got heated. And since no one in the group was apt to don an elf hat and be silly or break into Christmas carols, mostly we were so bored we couldn’t wait for the celebration to end. (I could also add here that my Mom was not a very good cook, but since she’s still chugging along at almost 97, maybe I should just let that slide.)
While this is not my family celebrating Christmas in the 60’s, it’s will give you a damned good idea of what those celebrations looked like.Where are the Sicilians when you need them?
Note that my small family was not of the huggy-kissy variety. We are of stoic Irish extraction, so Christmas Eve visits to my Italian friend’s home were a revelation. Two hundred people would materialize turning her house into a Sicilian-style, lipsmacking, backslapping madhouse. I’d watch her mother prepare for the locust-like arrival of the relatives. Just making cookies was astonishing. Since no bowl was big enough for the massive batches of Christmas cookies, five pounds of flour and a big sack of sugar would be dumped on the kitchen counter. A hole would be hallowed in the middle of the pile and a dozen cracked eggs would be deposited inside. Then she’d add everything else and mix the batter by hand. I was always sure those eggs would come oozing out and spill onto the floor, but they never did. Occasionally, Nonnie—my friend’s tiny, black-clad, widowed grandmother— would wander through, look at me and say something in Italian. I’m pretty sure she was trying to figure out how she ended up with a red-headed, freckled, blue-eyed granddaughter whose name she didn’t know. But then she’d grin, pat me on the cheek, and shuffle away. When comparing my family’s staid Christmas events to the frenetic Italian version, I could sense something was missing. Ours just wasn’t fun.
I know what you’re thinking. Christmas, isn’t about parties and revelry and gazing at my friend’s handsome cousin Vito leaning rakishly against a doorjamb beneath the mistletoe. No, it’s a religious holiday. As a former, hardcore Catholic, I am well aware of that aspect of the event, and I admit that I sometimes miss all that gilded, incense-infused, clerical pomp. But as anyone who has ever watched TV around the holidays knows, Christmas is really about buying stuff and parties. (Some of you are now praying for my soul, but one must tell the truth.)
Today, I wince at the frantic holiday activity that seems to consume people. My sweetie pie and I long ago stopped exchanging gifts, because there’s nothing we want or need. And since the kids are all in their twenties, there seems no reason to haul out the decorations. Note that I learned a neat trick last year. If the kids want a tree, I’ll buy it, but they have to put it up and take it down. So far I’ve had no takers.
Here’s a solid holiday wish, though it didn’t turn out exactly the way Mulder intended.
I will admit that Peace on Earth is a swell Christmas idea. But when I hear the phrase I always picture Mulder in the TV series X-Files when the disturbed FBI investigator is given a wish. “I want Peace on Earth!” he says with conviction. Suddenly, there’s silence and the genie explains that all the people on Earth are now gone, as per Mulder’s request.
Which reminds me of that other winter holiday: New Years. As a former waitress and bartender, I might have relished the results of Mulder’s wish during that particular celebration, considering the usual mass of crazy revelers standing six deep at the bar. New Year’s Eve was so out of control that I have hidden myself at home on that night for decades. And I wear a hard hat, just in case some celebratory wacko feels like shooting a weapon into the sky to ring in the new year.
All that said, please don’t think me Scrooge-like. If you invite me to a holiday party, I promise I will kiss and hug and backslap in honor of those long-ago Sicilians. I will embibe and try every dish on your buffet. And, even though it didn’t work out so well for Mulder, I will make the most important wish of all. “I want Peace on Earth!” I’ll cry. And maybe, if you all don’t disappear, you’ll wish for it too.
Ancient ruins, haunted memories, and a ruthless criminal combine with a touch of mystic presence in this taut mystery about a crime we all must address.
THE CASTLE
Anne Montgomery
Contemporary Women’s Fiction/Suspense
TouchPoint Press
September 13, 2021
Maggie, a National Park Ranger of Native American descent, is back at The Castle—a six-hundred-year-old pueblo carved into a limestone cliff in Arizona’s Verde Valley. Maggie, who suffers from depression, has been through several traumas: the gang rape she suffered while in the Coast Guard, the sudden death of her ten-year-old son, and a suicide attempt.
One evening, she chases a young Native American boy through the park and gasps as he climbs the face of The Castle cliff and disappears into the pueblo. When searchers find no child, Maggie’s friends believe she’s suffering from depression-induced hallucinations.
Maggie has several men in her life. The baker, newcomer Jim Casey, who always greets her with a warm smile and pink boxes filled with sweet delicacies. Brett Collins, a scuba diver who is doing scientific studies in Montezuma Well, a dangerous cylindrical depression that houses strange creatures found nowhere else on Earth. Dave, an amiable waiter with whom she’s had a one-night stand, and her new boss Glen.
One of these men is a serial rapist and Maggie is his next target. In a thrilling and terrifying denouement, Maggie faces her rapist and conquers her worst fears once and for all.
REVIEW COPIES OF THE CASTLE AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST
Also available on NetGalley
Contact: Chelsea Pieper, Publicity Manager, Media Liaison
My old friend Laurie often told me people want to help, all you have to do is ask. It wasn’t until recently that I understood.
I have had a friend for many years who advised me that if I ever needed help all I have to do is look around, find a person, and ask. At the time, I smiled and claimed I understood, and yet the thought of needing assistance from a stranger rankled. (In fact, I struggled with asking loved ones for help.)
Still, Laurie insisted that it worked every time. Note that when we met, Laurie was confined to a wheelchair, the result of an accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down. Still, it didn’t seem to slow her down. I watched her play wheelchair tennis and we skied together, with her guiding her sled down the mountain using short, modified poles, something she sometimes did attached to blind skiers, so that they too might experience the thrill of skiing. Laurie has worked her whole life, traveled the world, and not too long ago I watched as she rolled across a stage to accept her PhD.
Recently, I thought of her advice. A badly broken leg that required surgical repair had me homebound for several months. A knee scooter became my prime mode of transportation. When the doctor informed me that I was free to walk in my big, plastic boot, I was thrilled, but my enthusiasm dampened the moment I took my first step.
It hurt! A lot! Kind of like I was breaking my leg all over again. Day after day, I tried, but after several weeks, my leg didn’t feel much better. I finally began to believe the doctor’s prognosis that it would take six to tweleve months for me to get back to normal.
When my sweetie pie, who’d been tending to my needs, got a very bad cold, we both agreed he should stay home, so I wouldn’t get sick, as well. The time had come for me to figure things out myself.
Determined to get back into the world on my own, I hobbled to my car and drove to the health club, grateful that my left leg is the mangled appendage. I leaned heavily on my cane and walked the few steps to the trunk of my car where I managed to pull out my scooter. The wheels were unwieldly and I realized I probably wouldn’t be able to get it back in the car. I muddled that problem over in the pool, where, as you might expect, walking was so much easier. Ah….
As I was leaving the club, I asked the young man at the desk if he could help me.
“Of course!” He graced me with a beautiful smile. After he got my scooter situated, he helped me to the driverseat, and offered me a fist bump before waving me off.
That felt so nice that I tried it again on the man who does security in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. Again, a lovely smile. “Happy to help!”
It went that way the rest of the day. My favorite was the eleven-year-old girl who smiled shyly at me as I scooted through the grocery store. After passing by, she did an about face and approached me. “Can I get anything for you, ma’am?” She looked so sweet and earnest.
“How nice of you to ask,” I said. “But I already have everything I need.”
She smiled, nodded, and bounced away.
After another gentleman in the parking lot pushed my scooter into the truck and waved, I sat there thinking about people in general. As an avid consumer of the news, I sometimes get disillusioned about mankind. But now I know most people are nice. They want to help. And, as Laurie taught me, all you have to do is ask.
Ancient ruins, haunted memories, and a ruthless criminal combine with a touch of mystic presence in this taut mystery about a crime we all must address.
THE CASTLE
Anne Montgomery
Contemporary Women’s Fiction/Suspense
TouchPoint Press
September 13, 2021
Maggie, a National Park Ranger of Native American descent, is back at The Castle—a six-hundred-year-old pueblo carved into a limestone cliff in Arizona’s Verde Valley. Maggie, who suffers from depression, has been through several traumas: the gang rape she suffered while in the Coast Guard, the sudden death of her ten-year-old son, and a suicide attempt.
One evening, she chases a young Native American boy through the park and gasps as he climbs the face of The Castle cliff and disappears into the pueblo. When searchers find no child, Maggie’s friends believe she’s suffering from depression-induced hallucinations.
Maggie has several men in her life. The baker, newcomer Jim Casey, who always greets her with a warm smile and pink boxes filled with sweet delicacies. Brett Collins, a scuba diver who is doing scientific studies in Montezuma Well, a dangerous cylindrical depression that houses strange creatures found nowhere else on Earth. Dave, an amiable waiter with whom she’s had a one-night stand, and her new boss Glen.
One of these men is a serial rapist and Maggie is his next target. In a thrilling and terrifying denouement, Maggie faces her rapist and conquers her worst fears once and for all.
REVIEW COPIES OF THE CASTLE AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST
Also available on NetGalley
Contact: Chelsea Pieper, Publicity Manager, Media Liaison
It took a while, but I have made peace with my cane.
“You can walk in your boot,” my surgeon said.
I was so excited, but wondered at the way he eyed me.
“It’ll hurt,” he pointed out.
Despite those words, I wasn’t worried. I’d been in a lot of pain over the previous months, the result of a bout of Covid that somehow evaded my vaccine jabs and caused me to pass out, resulting in a badly-broken leg. Still, as I faced the man who’d made me the proud new owner of a large titanium plate and eleven screws, I was convinced that I’d be running around in short order.
But I was wrong. My leg had been inactive for a long time. Putting pressure on my foot felt like it was breaking all over again. “Owww!” I yelped as I staggered about in my boot.
“Take it easy!” my sweetie pie said, frowning at my awkward display.
I have lots of new hardware. Apparently, it’ll be a while before my metal bits start getting along with my regular bits.
“How long will this take to get back to normal?” I asked my physical therapist. When he agreed with the surgeon that it would be anywhere from six to twelve months, I scoffed. I wondered if they were predicating their replies on the fact that I’m 66. I can’t tell you how many doctors in the last year or two have smiled and reminded me that I’m, um, elderly. Which makes me want to shout that I’ve worked out all my life, I eat right, and get my sleep. Yes, I drink some wine with dinner and have a bit of chocolate everyday, but I’m healthy and certainly not old!
Because I felt the need to research what is considered old age, I will now have to retract my previous statement. Turns out the World Health Organization says old age begins at 60. Sigh…
I have been toddling around for three weeks. Improvment is achingly slow. Sometimes, I still cheat and grab my scooter.
“Have you considered a cane?” I was asked during a PT session.
A chill ran down my spine. A cane? I visualized myself bent over and shuffling, a halo of white hair, a flowery housedress, and some fuzzy slippers. Still, in a fit of frustration, I purchased a walking stick from Amazon. It’s shiny turquoise with a big, square bottom so I won’t fall over. The only thing that made me feel better was the fact that by definition a cane has long been considered a symbol of strength and power, authority and social prestige. While the definition goes on to explain that it is predominately men to whom a cane is a sign of success, I feel secure jumping on the bandwagon.
My cane and I are learning to become friends. I still feel a little quesy when I grab the handle. The first ten steps or so make my leg bark in protest. But there’s no other way to get better. So, for the time being, me and my cane “got a thing, goin’ on,” do, do do…🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Ancient ruins, haunted memories, and a ruthless criminal combine with a touch of mystic presence in this taut mystery about a crime we all must address.
THE CASTLE
Anne Montgomery
Contemporary Women’s Fiction/Suspense
TouchPoint Press
September 13, 2021
Maggie, a National Park Ranger of Native American descent, is back at The Castle—a six-hundred-year-old pueblo carved into a limestone cliff in Arizona’s Verde Valley. Maggie, who suffers from depression, has been through several traumas: the gang rape she suffered while in the Coast Guard, the sudden death of her ten-year-old son, and a suicide attempt.
One evening, she chases a young Native American boy through the park and gasps as he climbs the face of The Castle cliff and disappears into the pueblo. When searchers find no child, Maggie’s friends believe she’s suffering from depression-induced hallucinations.
Maggie has several men in her life. The baker, newcomer Jim Casey, who always greets her with a warm smile and pink boxes filled with sweet delicacies. Brett Collins, a scuba diver who is doing scientific studies in Montezuma Well, a dangerous cylindrical depression that houses strange creatures found nowhere else on Earth. Dave, an amiable waiter with whom she’s had a one-night stand, and her new boss Glen.
One of these men is a serial rapist and Maggie is his next target. In a thrilling and terrifying denouement, Maggie faces her rapist and conquers her worst fears once and for all.
REVIEW COPIES OF THE CASTLE AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST
Contact: Chelsea Pieper, Publicity Manager, Media Liaison
Author Anne Montgomery 