ABOUT THE BOOK -
Murder Run centers on Jed Cooper, a wayward handyman grappling with the untimely death of his employer, a fragile choreographer who secluded herself in the Litchfield Hills.
As the fallout mounts, the reader is taken to various locales in and around Manhattan, an escapade in Miami Springs and back again to the Connecticut hill country until this twisty conundrum finally plays itself out.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR -
A frequent contributor of articles on all facets of creative writing and acting, Shelly appears in numerous periodicals including Southern Writers Magazine. He is also a film critic and contributor to writers' blogs and websites in the U.S. and the U.K.
His fiction includes Twilight of the Drifter, The Twinning Murders,and Lilac Moon. His Hollywood crime caper Tinseltown Riff was released in March 2013.
Among his works of non-fiction are the acclaimed The Actors Studio and texts on The Art and Craft of Screenwriting and writing for the stage. Shelly lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina.
Visit the website - HERE
MY THOUGHTS -
For me, the best thing about this book was Jed! I loved him and his strange personality. He was a fun, quirky, quiet character that made you just naturally feel sorry for him. I didn't like the cops at all! They were really kind of mean to Jed. A couple other reviewers didn't like Jed, but I loved him. I don't know why, maybe I've known a few people like him. LOL
This was a little more hard core mystery than I normally read, so it was a little slow at times and a little difficult for me. But I still did enjoy parts of it.
This book got some great reviews from others so please do not base your decision to read or not to read on my review!
In his continuing daze during those early morning hours, thoughts of Miss Julie slipped in over and over. It wasn’t only a nightmare that wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t just a world clear out of its mind with Jed caught in the mess. There was no bailing out, no way to switch it off, no country mile and acres of distance he could put between it.
But what could he come up with they would buy? What would damn well get them cracking?
Maybe if there was a starting point, a because-of-this-then-that. Maybe around the time she first hired him to take care of the plowing and shoveling. The tasks gradually increasing: installing the motion detecting flood lights, changing the locks, fixing the overhead garage door, adding insulation up in the attic.
But all the while she never let on why she needed to hole up in that old cape. And why, in between her dreaminess, she was so skittish.
As his daze took over again, there was still no rhyme or reason. Like the old farm hand said the second his mom dumped him off at his grandparents’ when he was eleven. No one would tell him who his real father was. And his mother was at it again, saying a man was going to hook her up with a big opportunity in real estate in Chicago. And she’d send for Jed soon as she was all set up. Which nobody believed, especially her folks.
So all there really was, was you are what you do. Out on the tracker, hitching the row planters, threshing in the fall. The combines, dumping the grain into the big truck, weighing it at the elevator, storing it in the silo.
Then the drought wiping out the corn crop. Unpaid taxes, unpaid loans and mortgage payments. Circumstances that made it impossible to stay with his grandparents.
All of it a jumble now. The daze, the memories, the death, the predicament: What’ve we got here, Jed? A country boy from Indiana? A Connecticut drifter? A short-term New York dropout with a record All those scrapes you got in . . . untimely death, . . . scratches on your face . . . another suspicious relationship with an older woman . . . all the bull you’ve been handing us.
Still coming up short, faced with having to fend off Hanson and Curtis by noon and
get them on the stick.
Then, out of nowhere, the New York connection kicked in. Seventeen when his mom was forced to reclaim him. This time, it was the international gold and silver market because she’d latched onto a new sidekick named Rocco. A cramped fourth-floor walkup on Hester Street. Jed forced to go to school with guys calling themselves Cobras dealing on the side. Girls bragging about their sex lives. Some of the Cobras out to get him. Didn’t like his looks, too fair-haired. Didn’t like the way the girls teased him, called him Slim, went for his blue eyes and the way he slipped off when they asked if he’d like to help with their homework: “Nobody home but me, Slim, nobody there to disturb us.” Guys also didn’t like that he hardly talked except to ask the English teacher, What’s this story all about?
There was no way the Cobras were going to call him Slim. They called him “Flash”—now you see him, now you don’t. Bad enough he wasn’t OG, original gangster or mixed blood. Like any new kid, least he could do was stand his ground. There was only one way to take his measure.
It was always late afternoon when they were laying for him. Jed was not about to get caught up there in the flat, trying to distract himself with today’s homework assignment. His escape route meant crawling out the window, crossing over from one steel-railing balcony to the other, careful not to slip on the narrow ledge. Then down three fire escape ladders, latching on to the one dangling above La Bella Ferrara bakery at the edge of the blue awning. If he timed it right, he could land on the upper awning pole, grab onto the brace at the side of the leather shop, hang loose to make sure there were no passersby beneath, let go, hit the sidewalk and take off.
Then it was west on Hester, snaking in and out of Goldberg Fabrics, a dash down Centre to the corner of the Souvenir Exchange and Canal. The second he ran smack into the Chinatown hawkers and shoppers, he was home free. So many racks of stuff, touts peddling knockoff fake Gucci and Prada handbags, and a sea of tourists heading in both directions. Just to make sure, he’d edge his way into the Cortland alley and bide his time, ease into the crowd and get lost for a while. The signpost that led him back was the yellow dome-shaped marquee under a red stick figure.
This run worked for those few weeks in early fall, through the days of waning sunlight. Worked till that return flight during a drizzly afternoon when there was hardly anybody about. When he could swear he was being tailed. So he circled in and out around the yellow cabs, crossed over Centre and made a dash to Hester. But he no sooner turned up Mulberry when they caught up to him. Three of them, one bigger than the rest. They said nothing. He didn’t even have time to make out who they were. He’d broken the rules too often. You’re supposed to take what’s coming and be cool about it.
On the bigger guy’s signal, they shoved him backwards through a plate glass window and were gone before anyone knew what happened.
And that’s where the memory dissolved as he finally dozed off.
Thank you "Virtual Author Book Tours" for sending me an e-book copy for my honest review.
Get your copy from Amazon - HERE
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