RELEASE DAY: J.L. Salter "The Ghostess & Mister Muir"

Blurb:

Though he doesn’t even believe in spirits, it takes only one haunting for Levi Muir to become entranced with the beautiful ghostess.

            A young veteran recovering from a wrecked relationship, Muir moves to Magnolia for his first year teaching high school English and resides in the renovated old hotel, which everyone knows is haunted.

            Despite his skepticism, Muir senses a presence, then smells a unique perfume. Later, he locates an old portrait of beautiful Danielle Gregg, who lived in that suite a century ago, but experienced a tragic death.

            His lovely new colleague, Lucy (science teacher and dedicated Spirit-Chaser), tries to convince Muir that the supernatural is real… and not to be taken lightly. Though Muir has been attracted to Lucy since the first day he spotted her, something begins to jam his thoughts whenever she enters his mind.

            Intrigued by the beauty and sensuality of the mysterious woman in the portrait, Muir tries to learn more about the ghostess and her untimely demise. Though still skeptical of ghosts and hauntings, Muir can’t shake the feeling there could be more to Danielle’s mysterious 1914 death than the locals believe.

            The more Muir encounters the lovely ghostess, the stronger his desire for even more contact! But Lucy’s willing to fight for Levi’s heart, because no self-respecting Southern girl takes second place to a spook.

 

 

Author:

My newest novel is “Hid Wounded Reb,” released by Astraea Press in August 2014. My other published novels (with Astraea) are: “Called to Arms Again” (May 2013), “Rescued By That New Guy in Town” (Oct. 2012), and “The Overnighter’s Secrets” (May 2012).  Also released through AP are the short novellas, “Echo Taps” (June, 2013) and “Don’t Bet On It” (April, 2014). Also, “Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold,” a screwball comedy released by Dingbat Publishing in December 2013… and its prequel, “Scratching the Seven-Month Itch,” which is due for release by September 2014.

Romantic comedy and romantic suspense are among nine completed novel manuscripts.

I’m co-author of two non-fiction monographs (about librarianship) with a royalty publisher, plus a signed chapter in another book and a signed article in a specialty encyclopedia. I’ve also published articles, book reviews, and over 120 poems; my writing has won nearly 40 awards, including several in national contests. As a newspaper photo-journalist, I published about 150 bylined newspaper articles, and some 100 bylined photos.

I worked nearly 30 years in the field of librarianship.  I’m a decorated veteran of U.S. Air Force (including a remote tour of duty in the Arctic, at Thule AB in N.W. Greenland).

I’m the married parent of two and grandparent of six.

 

 

 

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Excerpt:

 

Chapter One

 

Friday, August 15

“Aren’t you the new teacher who lives in the spooky old downtown hotel?” asked the female voice behind Levi Muir. Lurching into the flimsy cart against the faculty lounge wall almost caused him to spill his freshly poured coffee.

Turning, Muir realized the speaker was his attractive young colleague with lovely tanned legs. “I’ll be at the Whitecliff Apartments. Don’t know anything about a hotel.”

She moved closer and extended her sun-bronzed hand. “I’m Lucy Tierney, science department. Starting my sixth year.”

Nice to know there were some five year survivors at Magnolia High. “Levi Muir, English department. Rookie.”

“I know, Levi. We can all spot a newbie, but you look older than most.” Intently peering into his eyes, she smiled faintly. “Were you held back in college?”

Muir shrugged but didn’t explain.

“Have you been assigned a mentor yet?”

“Uh, don’t think so. Don’t recall it coming up.” His eyebrows lifted. “Are you…?”

“Oh, heavens no. Not me. I won’t serve as a mentor until my seventh year, at the earliest.” Then she lowered her voice. “The School Board even requires our principal to mentor someone each term and I’m betting she’ll take you on herself.” Lucy winked. “Mrs. Gull isn’t very inspiring and doesn’t make the time for effective mentoring, but she likes bossing the young single guys.” She pointed to his left hand.

Is she fishing for my status? Muir couldn’t arrive at an appropriate reply.

“So what do you think of your apartment in the legendary old Majestic Hotel?”

He winced with his bum ankle as he stepped to one side to let others access the dinged thirty-cup percolator. It was the final day of orientation and professional development training; Monday would be D-Day… when the students began classes. “Haven’t really stayed there yet, Miss Tierney. Tonight’s my first night.”

“Lucy. You’ve been here every day this whole week. Where have you been staying?” She pointed vaguely south, toward town.

“An aunt lives in Magnolia. My apartment wasn’t ready yet. Didn’t realize school started so early here. In fact, all I got was a nickel tour from a shrimpy manager who kept looking over his shoulder.”

Lucy nodded like she knew the man. “Where’s all your stuff?” She looked behind him as though it would be near. “Piled in the driveway at your aunt’s?”

Muir shook his head. “Left some things at my aunt’s, but I don’t really have too much besides what’s in my pickup. That’s why I was so intent on finding a furnished apartment.”

Her nicely-toned arm tensed as she reached for an empty cup, but she frowned and put it back down. “The coffee’s awful here.”

Already noted.

“Have you seen those old hotel furnishings?”

“Didn’t really notice, except to be sure I had a bed and a chair.”

“What about table and stove for cooking your meals? Plus couch and extra chair… for all your visitors?” Her warm smile suggested she’d be willing to be among them.

And attractive company she’d be. But Muir wasn’t ready to engage any new females right away… not after that awful split with Eva. “Don’t really cook, at least not worth mentioning. And not expecting many visitors, since I really don’t know anybody here except Aunt Martha.”

 

New Release: From the Ashes

FROM THE ASHES

by Janet W. Butler

Can love mend a broken spirit?

Concert artist James Michael Goodwin has been in a race against time and lost: crippled and unable to perform, he decides to end it all. But fate intervenes in the form of Melody Rowland, who reaches him on a level no woman has done before. Can James trust Melody with his music…and his heart?

Melody Rowland is on the verge of launching her performing career when James Michael Goodwin walks into her life again, after nearly destroying her four years before. Soon, she realizes that playing his music is one thing; admitting she’s never stopped loving him is another…

****

About the Author:

Janet W. Butler couldn't decide whether to be a musician or a writer—so she's elected to do both. After earning her degree in Music Theory from Roosevelt University, she married a percussionist, sang in a madrigal group, discovered the world of opera choruses…and scribbled stories, something she's been obsessive about since the age of ten. She also presently belongs to the IPFW Choral Union, in which at times she sings soprano notes only dogs can hear.

Originally from Chicago, she's a transplant to northeast Indiana, where she lives with her husband, Patrick, daughter, Jessica, and Cassandra “Trouble” Butler, SRC (Spoiled Rotten Cat). When she has the occasional profound thought, she blogs at www.catholicwriterchick.blogspot.com.

Now available at

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Excerpt:

“You did it, Goodwin! You son of a gun!”

James Michael Goodwin had savored those words when he first stepped offstage. But now, in the early hours of a midwinter morning, his friends’ exuberance rang hollower with each step.

Through the stage door leading out of the depths of Symphony Hall, toward the parking garage where an attendant stood ready to retrieve his black convertible, the truth now tolled like a somber bell inside his head, a macabre counterpoint to the remembered applause still ringing in his ears.

He closed the driver’s side door, switched to a public-radio jazz show on the car stereo, then swung the Mercedes through the side streets toward home. He was finished.

Too soon.

At last.

Fifteen years, he’d had, good years. Even when he never got enough sleep, playing jazz piano in smoky two-bit college rooms and seedy bars all night, then dozing in between fits of scribbling down charts in the back of the band bus. The hard work paid off in time. The crowds got bigger, the critics kinder. The CDs sold. And then came years of Grammys and flying first-class…

…and tonight, a five-minute standing ovation from a crowd known to be stingy with its praise.

Boston’s upper crust had thrown him a whale of a party. Never mind James could barely hold his champagne glass without dropping it, couldn’t shake hands without wanting to cry out in pain…

Looking down as he drove, he felt sweat bead on his upper lip. How were those gnarled, twisted fingers controlling the steering wheel? Were they this bad onstage? Had anyone known how hard he fought to play his own music? Had the crowd suspected they were watching his swan song?

He parked the car and locked it. All that mattered now was he’d left them smiling. Wasn’t that the best any man could hope for, in the end?

Inside his townhouse, the trappings of his life made a surreal, dark portrait: the oak worktable, covered with orchestral score paper and nubby pencils, the bottle of India ink, the calligraphy pens. Shrugging out of his topcoat, he crossed the room and picked up an oversized manila envelope, then slid onto a polished bench fronting a sleek ebony Bösendörfer grand. He moved to switch on the piano lamp, then decided against it, slipping the narrow sheaf of score paper out by feel. Light wouldn’t make any difference on it now.

He knew the title page already read Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, and his name. The first concerto — the one he’d played tonight — had been a gamble, a dare to himself, to reckon back to his classical training for a serious piece.

That bet he’d won. But lightning never struck the same man twice. This second time he’d tempted fate, writing that page so soon, and he’d paid for it. Stuck at the second movement, against a wall he couldn’t penetrate, he’d pleaded with the caged Muse, only to have his petitions drop into a fathomless void.

Now, one month shy of his thirty-first birthday, James Michael Goodwin was a man with his best days behind him, a man who’d outlived his usefulness. Now his failure was complete, and his silence would be eternal.

“Has-been,” Toni had taunted him. And his ex-wife had been right.

Gently, he slipped the manuscript back under cover, rose and placed it on the piano bench. It could stay as it was. Maybe someone in the music world would treasure it more that way. Like Schubert’s unfinished Eighth Symphony.

Opus posthumous.

Taking a deep breath, he crouched down and opened a squat oak cabinet, took out a half-empty bottle of scotch and a glass. He willed himself to ignore the slight spill as he poured, amber drops over the side of the glass bespeaking his unsteady grip. One finger, two fingers. He tossed down the burning liquid, quelled the urge to choke. This was his celebratory toast to himself, for knowing when to leave. A man couldn’t lose it on that.

He paused a few moments, allowed the liquor to warm and numb his senses. Then he unlocked the side door on the cabinet and drew out a third object from its secret place. His hands shook a little cradling the cool blue steel, but these quavers were born less of infirmity or even fear than genuine, if bittersweet, relief. He could stop pretending now. He could stop smiling on the outside while despair tore him in two below the skin.

It was over.

Breathing shallowly, he settled at the worktable. Swallowed back the aftertaste of scotch and defeat. Grasped the ready .38 in his left hand. Felt one last, fleeting jolt of pain as he drew the weapon upward, as he positioned it carefully at the spot where a pulse throbbed beneath his temple. Then James closed his eyes, slipped his index finger around the trigger. Caressed it for a moment. And, gently, squeezed.