Meet Alicia Dean and Read About PRECARIOUS: MARTINI CLUB 4 ~ THE 1940s

About Alicia

Alicia began writing stories as a child. At age 10, she wrote her first ever romance (featuring a hero who looked just like Elvis Presley, and who shared the name of Elvis’ character in the movie, Tickle Me), and she still has the tattered, pencil-written copy. Alicia is from Moore, Oklahoma and now lives in Edmond. She has three grown children and a huge network of supportive friends and family. She writes mostly contemporary suspense and paranormal, but has also written in other genres, including a few vintage historicals.

Other than reading and writing, her passions are Elvis Presley, MLB, NFL (she usually works in a mention of one or all three into her stories) and watching (and rewatching) her favorite televisions shows like Ozark, The Walking Dead, Dexter, Justified, Sons of Anarchy, Haven, Vampire Diaries, and The Originals. Some of her favorite authors are Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane, Stephen King, Lee Child, Lisa Gardner, Ridley Pearson, Joseph Finder, and Jonathan Kellerman…to name a few.

About PRECARIOUS

Boston ~ 1947

Iris Taggart should be ecstatic.  She’s engaged to one of  the wealthiest men in Boston, and he dotes on her. But, her marrying a rich man is her mother’s dream, not hers. Iris longs to be a nurse and care for others, and she’ll never have the career she wants if she marries a Boston Blue Blood. It just isn’t done. 

Dante Morello returned from WWII a war hero, and now he’s a Boston detective working the South End Slayer case where a deranged killer is butchering the poor and homeless. Dante’s investigation leads him to reconnect with Iris—a girl he’s known most of his life—who is volunteering at the soup kitchen where the murderer finds his victims. When Dante learns Iris is in the killer’s sites, he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, and not just because she’s woken something in his heart he thought he’d never feel.

But neither of them is prepared for how precarious life can be. When secrets are exposed, and a madman’s full intent is revealed, will their love…and their lives…be destroyed?

Excerpt

Dante stood and rolled down his shirt sleeves, then slipped on his jacket, not bothering to straighten his tie. “Hello, Iris. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Y-yes.” She held something tightly in her fists and shoved it toward him. “I-I found this.”

He peered at the object—a woman’s scarf, which looked as though it had been dragged through a tar pit—then lifted his brows. “And?”

She drew in a deep breath, her breasts rising with the action. He forced his gaze back to her face. “I found it at the clinic.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting. He’d offer her a seat, but then she might stay all day, rambling on and on about whatever popped into her pretty head. On one hand, that sounded like the perfect way to spend his day. On the other, he had a killer to catch.

“The bastard left it there for me.” She didn’t apologize, or even flinch, at her use of the curse word. She thrust the scarf out again, and this time he took it. “Have you heard any news? Any new victims? It belongs to Alma Vernon. She’s dead, isn’t she?” The sentences fell on top of one another. Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. “Mercy me. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Dante tightened his fist around the scarf, battling the rage rising inside him. “How well did you know Ms. Vernon?”

“I saw her frequently at the kitchen. Then, a few days ago, she had a seizure, and I treated her.”

“Morello!”

Shannon’s shout drew Dante’s attention away from Iris, and for a moment, he was peeved at the interruption. Although she was bearing potentially disturbing news, seeing her lovely face was a balm to his soul.

“What is it?”

“We got a report of another victim.”

“Dammit to hell.” Dante shot a look at Iris but didn’t apologize for his language. He was damned well frustrated and feeling more incompetent each day. He said to Iris, “I’m sorry. I have to go. We’ll talk later.”

She nodded. Her lovely blue eyes swam with unshed tears, and her lips trembled. He wanted to stay, to hold her and comfort her. It was obvious that the killer was either fixated on Iris, or working his way through victims until he got to her. Either option opened a cold pit of fear in his chest.

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If You’re Fascinated With the Salem Witch Trials...

We all read Hawthorne's stories and books THE SCARLET LETTER and THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES in school, but did you learn what made the handsome brooding genius tick, and what haunted him?

I’ve always been fascinated with Hawthorne’s dark stories, but never knew he wrote out of his own fears and demons until I began researching my story about him and his wife Sophia. This was a true love story.

About FOR THE LOVE OF HAWTHORNE

Salem, Massachusetts witnessed horrific and shameful events in 1692 that haunted the town for three centuries. Accused as witches, nineteen innocent people were hanged and one was pressed to death. Judge John Hathorne and Reverend Nicholas Noyes handed down the sentences. One victim, Sarah Good, cursed Noyes from the hanging tree: “If you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink!” She then set her eyes on Judge Hathorne. “I curse you and your acknowledged heirs for all time on this wicked earth!” Hathorne was not only Sarah Good’s merciless judge; he also fathered her son Peter and refused to acknowledge him.

In 1717, Nicholas Noyes choked on his own blood and died. Every generation after the judge continued to lose Hathorne land and money, prompting the rumor of a family curse. By the time his great great grandson Nathaniel was born, they faced poverty.

Ashamed of his ancestor, Nathaniel added the ‘w’ to his last name. His novels and stories explore his beliefs and fears of sin and evil, and he based many of his characters on overbearing Puritan rulers such as Judge Hathorne.

When Nathaniel first met Sophia Peabody, they experienced instantaneous mutual attraction. Sparks flew. He rose upon my eyes and soul a king among men by divine right, she wrote in her journal.

But to Sophia’s frustration, Nathaniel insisted they keep their romance secret for three years. He had his reasons, none of which made sense to Sophia. But knowing that he believed Sarah Good’s curse inflicted so much tragedy on his family over the centuries, she made it her mission to save him. Sarah was an ancestor of Sophia’s, making her and Nathaniel distant cousins—but she kept that to herself for the time being.

  

Sophia suffered severe headaches as a result of childhood mercury treatments. She underwent routine mesmerizing sessions, a popular cure for many ailments. Spirits sometimes came to her when mesmerized, and as a spiritualist and medium, she was able to contact and communicate with spirits. She knew if she could reach Sarah and persuade her to forgive Judge Hathorne, Nathaniel would be free of his lifelong burden.

Sarah Good’s son Peter had kept a journal the family passed down to the Peabodys. Sophia sensed his presence every time she turned the brittle pages and read his words. John Hathorne’s legitimate son John also kept a journal, now in the Hawthorne family’s possession. Living on opposite sides of Salem in 1692, Peter and John wrote in vivid detail about how the Salem trials tormented them throughout their lives.

Nathaniel finally agreed to announce their engagement, and married Sophia on July 9, 1842. They moved into their first home, The Old Manse in Concord, Massachusetts. Wanting nothing else but to spend the summer enjoying each other, we became Adam and Eve, alone in our Garden of Eden, Sophia wrote in her journal.

As success eluded Nathaniel, they lived on the verge of poverty. After being dismissed from his day job at the Salem Custom House, he wrote The Scarlet Letter, which finally gained him the recognition he deserved. But the curse he believed Sarah cast on his family still haunted him. In the book he asks for the curse to be lifted.

                      The House of the Seven  Gables, Salem, MA, built in 1668

                                                            Photo by Me

Sophia urged Nathaniel to write a novel about the house, knowing it would be cathartic for him. While they lived in Lenox, Nathaniel finished writing The House of the Seven Gables. The Gothic novel explored all his fears and trepidations about the curse. He told Sophia, “Writing it, and especially reading it aloud to you lifted a tremendous burden off my shoulders. I felt it physically leave me. I carried this inside me since my youth and couldn’t bring it out to face it. And I have you, and only you, to thank.”

But he did not believe the curse could be lifted.

Sophia invited renowned spiritualist John Spear to The Gables. She explained that she needed to complete one final step to convince Nathaniel the curse was lifted.

Purchase For The Love Of Hawthorne on Amazon

BOOTLEG BROADWAY, a Story of Debauchery and Romance. Prohibition, booze, music, sex, murder… New York…what a time to be alive!

The birth of BOOTLEG BROADWAY:

After FROM HERE TO 14^TH STREET set in 1894, I needed to set this a generation later, which happened to be the 1930s—with Prohibition and the Great Depression as the backdrop. This is the first book I ever wrote where I created the characters first, with nothing to do yet. The plot developed the way it did because of who they are. My goal was to get the protagonist Billy McGlory into one mess after another. This era couldn’t have been more suited to Billy’s adventures, a few of which he barely escaped with his life.

About BOOTLEG BROADWAY:

In this sequel to FROM HERE TO 14^TH STREET, Vita and Tom McGlory and their three children are struggling to make ends meet.

It's 1932. Prohibition rages, the Depression ravages, and Billy McGlory comes of age whether he wants to or not. Musical and adventurous, Billy dreams of having his own ritzy supper club and big band. On the eve of Billy’s marriage to the pregnant Prudence, the shifty "businessman" Rosario Ingovito offers him all that and more. Fame, fortune, his own Broadway musical…it's all his for the taking, despite Pru's opposition to Rosie's ventures.

Meanwhile, Pru's artistic career gains momentum and their child is born. Can anything go wrong for Billy? Only when he gets in way over his head does he stop to wonder how his business partner really makes his millions, but by then it's far too late…

Nicknames from real life:

As in FROM HERE TO 14^th STREET, a lot of characters have nicknames like Piggy Balls and Dirty Neck Bruiso. I sat around the table with my surviving aunts and uncles who were then in their 80s and 90s, and they rattled off these nicknames from ‘the old days’ in Jersey City like they made them up yesterday. That was a standard Italian neighborhood custom, everybody had a nickname. Some were more descriptive than others. But you didn’t just ‘get’ a nickname. You had to earn it.  

Some more nicknames from the old neighborhood:

Bruno Chicken Body

Butta Jeans

Charlie Burp

Chick a la zoo

Dirty Dicky

Dirty Neck Bruiso

Floody

Frankie Butch Butch

Gravel Gertie

Hoo Hoo

Jazzy Lou

Jijji Balls

Jinji

Johnny in for the pot

Juu-jo

Sloppy

Vigi-Leak

My fav passage from BOOTLEG BROADWAY (which made my aunt cringe):

Pru had kept closemouthed all day about what she was giving him for his birthday. He badgered and hounded her, but she wouldn’t give in.

As Ma began divvying up the rum cake, the doorbell rang, and Da came back with a long box. “This thing’s heavy. What’s in here, Pru? Billy’s tombstone?”

Billy cut the ribbon with the cake knife and slid the lid off. Wads of tissue paper filled the box. As he removed the last layer of covering and revealed what was inside, they all gasped—a sculpture of a naked man, in all his masculine glory—and fully aroused. He had one hand on his hip and one foot upon a pedestal on which was inscribed in bold letters, “BILLY.”

“Oh, crap.” His face turned red hot. 

Where Did I Begin?

This was the first book I ever wrote where I created the characters first, with no storyline whatsoever. All I knew was that it was during Prohibition, and I wanted to get the main character, Billy McGlory, into one mess after another.

Here’s a prime example of that, in this excerpt:

Heading south on Madison Avenue, I heard the siren. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the unmistakable Greyhound radiator ornament of the Lincoln behind me. Cop car. All the gangsters drove Lincolns, which had a top speed of 80, so the cops had to get Lincolns to keep up with them. I tried to get the hell out of his way—he must've been going to a robbery or a diner or something. I pulled over, and he pulled up next to me. Oh, shit. It was me he was after.

I rolled down the window and asked sweetly, "Yes, sir, what can I do for you, sir?"

"License and registration please."

"Uh—what's wrong, officer? Did I commit a traffic violation?" As the son of the ex-Chief of Police, I should have been real comfortable around cops, but to tell the truth, they scared the hell out of me. The cops my father knew weren't the crooked ones. They were the straightassed ones, just like him, who fought Tammany and made a career out of busting crooks. They didn't have a price, like the rest of them. Hardnosed bastards, some were frustrated politicians and not smart enough to get into law school, so they enforced the laws from behind their badges. Hell, I was all for law and order, but these guys sometimes took it too far. "Your back license plate is missing."

Relief drained me. "Oh, drat. It must've got stolen. You know this city—just crawlin' with thieves."

"License and registration, please," he repeated, in what passed for a more menacing cop voice. Now he assumed his cop stance, pudgy fists on meaty hips, waiting while I dug through the glove compartment, tossing aside all the crumpled up sheet music and junk crammed in there. Oh, that's where my emergency pack of cigarettes was, and that old box of prophylactics! But damned if I couldn't find the registration.

"Uh—I can't find it, but it's my car, honest. I mean, it was a gift to me, but it's been paid for, it's not stolen or anything. I can probably find it in my penthouse. You wanna follow me there? It's only two blocks aw—"

"Step out of the car, please."

Uh-oh. I felt my bowels burning. I had two briefcases bulging with two shitloads of money in the back seat.

He poked his head into the car. "What's in the briefcases?"

"Uh—I dunno. I'm doing an errand for somebody."

"Yeah, I'll bet you dunno. Step aside, please."

"Hey, you got a search warrant?" I demanded.

But demanding a search warrant from a New York City cop was like demanding a shot of Scotch from Satan in the middle of Hell.

I didn't want to look. I turned my head and flattened my palms on the roof of the car, like I was being searched. I heard the clicks as he sprang the latches and his not-so-surprised "mm-hmmm" as he checked out the contents.

"Who you doing this errand for, sonny boy?"

What was with the "sonny boy"? He wasn't much older than me. I knew he just wanted to put me down. Screw that. I've been called a lot worse by much better cops than him. He obviously didn't know who I was. "Uh—I'd better get a lawyer or something."

"You'd better come with me."

"Look, uh—you wanna just take a few bills outta there and forget it?” I asked, real generously. “I mean, uh—we're all in this mess together, ya know—"

"Bribing an officer of the law is a very serious offense, sonny boy. You'll have to come with me. Park your car there, please."

"Here? But there's a hydrant here. I'll get a ticket." 

 I CONSIDERED THESE TITLES BEFORE I CHOSE BOOTLEG BROADWAY (feel free to use any of these if you’re writing a book set during Prohibition or the Depression—it was a tough decision)

Headin' for Better Times

How Strange

If It Ain't Love

If I Had You

Never Let the Same Bee Sting You Twice

Opus One

PA6-5000

Puttin on the Ritz

Say it Isn't So

See if I'll Care

Smile

Somebody Loves You

Take the A Train

Thanks for the Memory

Under the Moon

When Dreams Come True

Wherever you Are 

OTHER PROHIBITION BOOKS YOU’LL ENJOY:

The Stork Club - Ralph Blumenthal

Once Upon a Time in NY - Herbert Mitgang

Incredible NY: High Life & Low Life - Lloyd Morris

The Night Club Era - Stanley Walker 

Purchase BOOTLEG BROADWAY:

The Wild Rose Press

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Amazon Paperback

Barnes & Noble Nook

iTunes

  

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Book Quote from Depression/Prohibition Romantic Thriller BOOTLEG BROADWAY

For Book Quote Wednesday, the word is LUCK. Authors, find LUCK in your book and Tweet using #BookQW.
A short snippet from my Depression/Prohibition novel BOOTLEG BROADWAY, Book Two of the New York Saga:
With a few hours till the joint opened, Billy went behind the bar, filled his flask, then went outside to lean against the brick wall and watch the world go by. This entire scene was foreign to him, this workforce who made their living by day and slept by night. A life he wasn’t cut out for. Bored with watching that after two minutes, he walked towards the Columbus Circle subway, passing all the briefcase-toting workaday stiffs in suits. He glanced at the tired and haggard faces. And these were the lucky ones-­they had jobs.
The subway reeked of stale urine, and for the first time in years, he had to stand and be a straphanger. The train swayed and jolted. The lights dimmed and blacked out, on and off. He lost his balance several times, bumping into bodies pressed up against him; he couldn’t have fallen if he’d tried. He mouthed silent thanks he’d been born with musical talent; he’d go off his nut if he had to live like this.
getBook.at/NewYorkSagaBookTwo

For Third Scene Thursday, Here's Scene 3 of Biographical Thriller SHARING HAMILTON

I wrote my biographical novel about Alexander Hamilton, his wife and mistress when I read about "The Reynolds Affair" which nearly ruined Hamilton's political career and his marriage. My author friend Brian Porter wrote a subplot about a serial killer on the loose in Philadelphia and blended it into the story. Brian has written several books about Jack the Ripper, and this was right up his alley.

“The Reynolds Affair,” the country’s first sex scandal, would last for two years.

 Universal link to SHARING HAMILTON on Amazon

Here's Scene 3, for Third Scene Thursday:

Maria

Phila., Wednesday, August 3, 1791

“Hell’s bells, Maria, ye think I’m made o’gold?” James thundered as I entered our parlour laden with packages: a bottle of Madeira, a satin bonnet to match my new pelisse, and kid gloves, having left my old pair at the White Rose Coffeehouse.

“These are hardly extravagances. After all, you boasted you made three hundred dollars last month.” I relished reliving the moment when he showered coins and notes all over our bed, foretelling how I was “coming into money.”

            I dumped the packages onto our new Rococo settee. “Do you want your wife looking like a slattern?” I flicked his gold watch fob, which he’d bought because “Hugh Dugan has a new one.”

            “Nay, but you ain’t Mrs. James Monroe, either, so dinna try puttin’ on airs like her.”

            “Mrs. Monroe couldn’t get a rise out of you if you downed three scores of oysters. She’s frigid—so I hear.” I smirked, slapping his thigh with my new gloves.

            “At least she reads all the books she owns. Did you ever read any of these flub-dubs?” He swiped at my row of leather-bound books, knocking Volume I of Shakespeare to the floor.

            “Of course I’ve read them. Twicet and thricet.” I picked up my well-worn Bard tome and replaced it on the shelf. “I read the Bard’s plays over and over. But I never discuss England with strangers. Too dangerous these days.”

            “You know more about Macbeth than about me,” James scoffed. He stood the new Madeira bottle on our table and uncorked it with the screw he wore on his key chain.

            “All you read are those tittle-tattle sheets,” I accused, and rightly. He paraded his brotherhood with the scandal mongering Thom Callender, whose weekly tabloid tarnished many a sterling reputation, from senators down to their stable boys.

            “Aye, and mayhap our names will appear in them someday.” He poured wine into his pewter tankard he’d named Douglas. Hard-swilling males named their tankards and their members. James bestowed “Canute the Great” upon his member—but I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was less than accurate.

             “I keep our private life private. So don’t blabber to Callender about what a tigress I am,” I teased as he poured me a goblet of wine.

            “Nay, I shan’t. But ah’m glad you brought it up. Sit down, Maria, we need to talk.” He clasped my fingers and walked me to one of our matching Chippendale chairs—his last splurge from a profitable venture—and pushed down on my shoulders till I sat.

            “Brought what up? Talk about what?” I trembled. I never knew from one day to the next what—or who—James would bring home.

            “Have you more ‘golden geese’? I hope so. We can use some more plate and furniture.” We moved “up” thrice since settling here. We now dwelt in a three-story brick townhome on Pine Street with one outbuilding. We always rented. “Or can we finally buy a house of our own?”    I fixed my gaze upon my husband of seven years. Our passion and lust matured into love and devotion, but the desire lingered on.

            He’d been an apprentice and journeyman goldsmith until the Revolution, but he hadn’t the capital nor the patience to rise to master. He made a gold chamber pot for his most famous client, Thomas “all men are created equal” Jefferson, and his reputation grew from there. But goldsmithing wasn’t enough for James. He lived by his wits and one scheme after another. He groomed and dressed as a dandy, but when he opened his mouth, he made it obvious he hailed from a Glasgow slum.

I harbored mixed feelings about it—I admired his shrewdness, yet he courted disaster, speculating in land deals and currency. With my urging, he ran for the Continental Congress but lost to his friend Dayton. No hard feelings. James didn’t want the job. Too much traveling. As I gazed at his muscular figure ’neath his tight britches, a familiar surge of desire warmed me. With his swarthy good looks and persuasive charm, he made a fitting match for politics.

            With his political run over, he served a brief sentence for counterfeiting. He posted bail, but our landlord evicted us. I stayed by his side as we trawled the streets of New York in the dead of winter, scrounging for lodgings.        

“No golden geese this time, my pet. Not yet, anyways.” He took a sip.

Disappointment crushed me. “I fear this announcement more than all your other schemes. What is it?” I gulped the fruity wine, hoping to be tipsy for this.

            He scraped his chair back and sat, fingering his watch. Whenever he fiddled with his watch or rings from Ben Franklin’s estate auction, I knew something vexed him.

            “Maria…” His eyes pierced mine. My heart sank farther. “We were well on our way to being gentry till this morn. I lost it all on a land deal.” His eyes dropped. “For the now, we stand on the line between hard up and impoverished.”

            My ire heated me head to toe. “What about the two thousand you invested?” I struggled to steady my voice. “The shares in the Bank of the United States?” Alexander Hamilton created the bank earlier this year, although James didn’t like the Treasury Secretary. He called him a snob to his face. “How could you be so irresponsible?” I grabbed the nearest object, a brass candlestick, but he snatched it away afore I could fling it.

            “It looked like a sure thing…but ah’ll make more.” Another of his promises. “Til then, we’re one hunk of bread, these wine bottles, and a dram of whisky from malnourishment. And five days from eviction. The rent comes due Monday.”

            I shook with fear. “There you go, pulling it out from under us, as you do time and time again! When will you learn, James?” I had some coin hidden. But after that—what? Too distraught to even look at him, I swept away tears of exasperation with my clenched fist.

“Money slips through your fingers like shucked oysters.” My voice shook. My entire body shook. “I know not how much more of this I can take. What’s next, the almshouse?”

            As he stroked my cheek, my rage yielded to pity. He’d become poor in an endless quest to be rich. “No, we’ll never resort to the almshouse. Before we met, I lived in a stable whilst seeking work, too proud to apply to the almshouse as a pauper.”

            I released a deep breath. “Oh, James, I love you so, but I feel trapped, with nowhere to go but up and down with you.” Desperate for a solution, I began spewing forth ideas about what I could do: “I can take in laundry. Or work as a cook. Or a whitewasher. Or a soap maker.” I paced the floorboards, wringing my hands. Then a much better source of income struck me. “I can give violin instruction to those toffynoses in the court end of town!”

He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Bah to all that. Listen. I know a brilliant way to make money—a lot more money—in a shorter time than ever before. And it involves Alexander Hamilton, Mr. Treasury himself.”

            At the sound of his name, I heated up. That recurring memory made me tingle all over: the first time I’d met Mr. Hamilton, his violet eyes nestled on my décolletage, his russet hair glinted in the candlelight, his lips kissed my hand—my heart surged just thinking about it.

            “What about Al—him?”

            “I dinna know the chap intimately, but I do know his weakness: beautiful women. Adams once said ‘Hamilton’s ambitions have their source in a superabundance of secretions he could not find whores enough to draw off.’” He clucked, as if in disapproval. “Tis not idle gossip. If a curmudgeon like Adams knows about it, tis true. Secondly—” He refilled Douglas to the rim. “Hamilton recently got embroiled in a payoff scheme, being seen with a trull. He favors paying hush money, rather than harm his reputation. Hence—we can chip away at that weak spot and wear it down farther.”

            I shook my head. “Already I do not like this. Underneath the bad metaphors, you are saying you can bilk Al—Secretary Hamilton out of some money.”

            “Tis not bilking, dear wife. He shall git something much more valuable in return.”

            I paused. “I’m afraid to ask, but . . . such as?”

            He cracked a smile and winked. “You.”

SHARING HAMILTON Now Available for Pre-Order--October 30 Release Date

I'm delighted to announce that my historical romantic thriller, SHARING HAMILTON, co-written with best selling author Brian Porter, can now be pre-ordered. It centers on the nation's first sex scandal in 1791 between Alexander Hamilton and the beautiful Maria Reynolds, whose con artist husband James blackmailed Hamilton. This became tabloid fodder of the time, known as "The Reynolds Affair."

My British author friend Brian Porter writes murder mysteries set in England. I needed him to add his skills on writing about the darker side of life to produce the subplot about a Jack the Ripper-type murderer prowling the nighttime streets of America's first capital, Philadelphia. The challenge was to take my completed manuscript and seamlessly add the subplot as though the whole book was written in one continuous stream.

SHARING HAMILTON will be released on October 30.

Click here to pre-order