WHO’S OUT THERE by Westley Smith

 

WHO'S OUT THERE

by Westley Smith

March 9 - April 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Inside Marburg State Park lies the remains of Camp Southwoods, where four counselors were slain twenty-six years ago. Their murderer, Douglas Lee Carver, has become a local boogieman with a chilling nursery rhyme attributed to his name. Locals believe the now-abandoned camp is haunted.

Ranger Colt Mitcham, leader of the Ranger Rescue Unit for Marburg State Park, ignores the ghost stories of Camp South Woods. He has real-world problems to worry about, like apprehending the person who's been vandalizing the grounds, finding a missing local man who's disappeared inside the park, and making sure that his team secures the park before the rapidly approaching blizzard – the worst storm in years – unleashes hell across the land.

But when a member of Colt’s team is found murdered, Colt begins to wonder if the tales about Camp Southwoods are true. Has Douglas Lee Carver returned? Or is there someone else out there? Someone with a personal axe to grind against Colt and his team, hoping to use the urban legends as a cover for their crimes and keep what happened at Camp Southwoods three decades ago from being exposed.

Praise for Who's Out There:

"An abandoned summer camp with a dark history, a brutal winter storm, and a group of park rangers fighting for their lives are the core of Westley Smith's WHO'S OUT THERE. With no help coming from the outside, Colt Mitcham has to figure out how to protect his crew as a relentless killer strikes again and again. This intense, blood-spattered page-turner had me in its grip from the beginning and kept me guessing until the end. Westley Smith is the real deal."
~ Joshua Moehling, USA TODAY bestselling author of AND THERE HE KEPT HER and A LONG TIME GONE

"Taut. Relentless... a plot careening to the brink and you're clinging on the edge all the way. Move over Voorhees. Step back Myers. Smith's WHO'S OUT THERE sends you both packing. Don't read this book until your feet are up, your blinds are drawn, and your glass is full-you're in it till the end!"
~ Tj O’Connor, Award Winning Author of THE WHISPER LEGACY and THE DEAD DETECTIVE FILES

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Action Adventure
Published by: Manta Press, Ltd
Publication Date: February 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 324
ISBN: 9781958370322 (ISBN10: 1958370320)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

God, it’s cold. Rumor Shoff checks his digital watch. 10:45 p.m. The Marburg State Park ranger won’t start his nightly rounds for another fifteen minutes. It will take him at least half an hour to forty-five minutes, to reach this end of the park. Rumor has plenty of time to accomplish his task. Perfect.

At the bed of his Ford F-150, he lifts a duffel bag with R. Shoff sewn into the canvas, and throws the strap over his shoulder. He pulls the trucker’s cap tighter to his balding head, the air rushes through its vented rear and prickles his dome. Chills walk up his skin. He zips his coat to his chin. Christ, it must be near zero with the windchill. The crisp, dry air burns his throat, and the scent of the oncoming snowstorm tickles his nose.

He’s alone in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Only the forest trees are watching. Silent observers who won’t tell a soul what he is up to—even after killing plenty of their kin.

Good. But Rumor needs to move. If caught by the park ranger at a quarter to eleven, he’ll arrest Rumor and charge him with trespassing on state land after dark. That’s the least of Rumor’s concerns. What’s in his duffel bag, however, is.

Heaving the strap to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, Rumor starts toward a large ranch-style gate serving as the entryway onto Serpentine Trail. The white moonlight casts the gate’s arch onto the gravel trail winding its way through the forest like a snake, past the Shoff Family Cemetery, and down to the shoreline of Lake Clarke, directly across from the abandoned summer camp.

Rumor starts past the gate and into the forest, the moonlight has trouble penetrating the leafless trees; the branches so thick and interwoven they block all but a few streaks of white light cutting through the bare canopy. But Rumor doesn’t need a flashlight to guide him; he’s taken this trail many times to get to the cemetery—day and night—before the land was stolen from his father.

Rumor’s face grows warm even in the bitter cold at the thought of the Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources (DCNR) stealing his father’s land. The DCNR came to his father a year and a half ago with an offer to buy thirty-two acres of woodlands that made up the southwestern shore of Lake Clarke, excluding the small plot of land on which the Shoff Family Cemetery rests. No sir! Uncle Sam won’t pick up the tab to take care of that. They planned to add to Marburg State Park’s already sizable acreage. With his father’s refusal to sell, the DCNR made an eminent domain claim—the right of the government or its agencies to expropriate private property for public use. His father sued. But it was a losing battle from the start, and the courts ruled in favor of the DCNR, forcing his father to surrender the land with zero compensation.

The DCNR can claim eminent domain or whatever fancy legal jargon the lawyers invented to sugarcoat the truth, but to Rumor, it was theft—plain and simple.

The trail curves sharply to the right, and the Shoff Family Cemetery appears on the left. Behind an old wrought iron fence, fifteen tombstones jut from the forest floor like crooked white teeth. The wind blows with a haunting whistle. The bare branches sway back and forth, casting long shadows across the front of the tombstones that look like skeleton fingers caressing the grave markers. Rumor pauses by the gate. Even in the shadowy darkness, he spots his mother’s tombstone. Feels his heart ache.

Fuck cancer.

Rumor starts again. The gravel trail fades away and turns to dirt, worn-down over time by hikers making their way to the lakebed on the backside of the hill. He hasn’t been past the cemetery since August 1997 and doesn’t want to go down there now. Still, the DCNR needed to pay for what they had done. And by God, Rumor was going to collect in spades, even if that meant scaring up the memory of that dead girl he and his father discovered the morning of the camp massacre.

Along the shoreline, where the cold water of Lake Clarke laps at the rocks and bankside like a soft kiss, Rumor pauses to catch his breath. The smell of mud and fishy water mixes with the crisp night air that smells both clean and repugnant to him. The full white moon is visible above, and its reflection ripples across the water. In the open, the cold wind cuts across the lake bowl. It stings Rumor’s face and makes his nose leak. He slides the sleeve of his jacket under his nose and sniffs back a glob of snot. The last time he stood there was the morning of the massacre at Camp Southwoods, when he was six.

Across the inlet of water, the steel cable tinks against the flagpole in the courtyard at Camp Southwoods. It’s a lonely, eerie sound that causes Rumor to shiver, as if a ghostly voice speaks from the past. The moonlight casts an eerie white glow across the rundown mess hall, tucked between two identical shotgun-style buildings—the boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses. The dilapidated structures stand out against the clear northeastern sky—though it’s about to be overtaken by the dark snow clouds rolling in from the South.

The ghost-town vibe of Camp Southwoods still resonates with residual energy from the grisly murders in the early morning hours of August 5, 1997. Rumor’s stomach churns as the vivid memory unpacks itself and his eyes drift to where they found the girl, washed up on the shore. She was lying on her side, facing away from them, her brown hair tangled with lake weeds, wet leaves, and interwoven sticks. On the back of her yellow T-shirt was a word in large red letters: COUNSELOR. Rumor thought she was sleeping. But when his father rolled her over to check on her, Rumor saw her pretty face was split from her hairline to her mouth, leaving a fleshy fissure where the axe had struck her. On either side of that gory canyon, two lifeless, milky-white eyes were locked on him in a death stare. An arrow was through the swell of her left breast. Deep lacerations scarred her forearms, and the first two fingers on her right hand were gone. She was from Camp Southwoods, just across the inlet—the torn and bloody yellow T-shirt with the camp’s name and logo affirmed this.

Rumor remembers screaming in horror at the sight of the dead camp counselor. Then, his father was next to him, hurrying them back up the trail to call the police.

Her name was Alice King, and how she ended up there raises the hackles on Rumor’s neck. He tugs his coat closer. But she wasn’t the only camp counselor found slain. Kurt MacReady, Virginia Steel, and Ted Charno also met their demise at the hands of fifteen-year-old Douglas Lee Carver, who, for reasons unknown, decided to hunt them down with a bow and arrow (taken from the camp’s archery range) before stealing their faces with a violent strike with an axe. Three of the victims, Rumor has learned in his research of the murders, were disposed of quickly. But Alice King had valiantly fought back. Sadly, she fell to Carver’s wrath by the lake before washing up a few feet from where Rumor now stood.

Since the murders, a local legend arose of a curse on Lake Clarke and a curse on Marburg State Park itself. Locals claim to see shadow people on the trails or around the camp, hear whispering and laughing, and see lights emanating from the rundown cabins. The lore has grown exponentially over the years. So much so that locals have reimagined an old nursery rhyme, “Bye, Baby Bunting,” to scare the bejesus out of one another for nearly three decades. Rumor knew it well:

Little counselor running,
Douggie Carver’s gone a-hunting
Gonna catch that counselor,
Gonna cleave that counselor,
Little counselor done running.

But those campfire tales are just that…tales. You have work to do. Rumor checks his watch. 10:55 p.m. Get your ass moving.

He continues to follow the trail south along the lake to an area known as Ice Fisherman’s Cove. It’s a favorite spot for ice fishermen to set up because the water freezes fast and hard in the winter. By a large oak tree leaning dangerously over the trail, Rumor drops the duffel bag and squats beside it. He unzips the bag and pulls out a gardening shovel. A battery-operated DeWalt drill with a three-inch wooden drill bit in its jaws. A 350 ml syringe. And a bottle of Tardon—an herbicide that kills woody plants. He drops to his knees at the oak's base and begins clearing away a small patch of earth with the shovel. The January ground is frozen and tough to dig up. Perspiration dampens his back even in the cold. But he’s persistent, despite the challenging work, and continues removing the earth until the oak’s root system is bare.

He rechecks his watch. 11:10 p.m.

Need to hurry this up.

With the drill, Rumor bores into the oak’s most prominent root. Once done, he opens the Tardon bottle, takes out the syringe, dips the wide plastic needle into the herbicide, and extracts a barrel full of blue liquid.

What was that? Footsteps?

Rumor searches the trail ahead but sees no one in the moonlight. It could be an animal. A deer?

The legend of Camp Southwoods, and its murderous boogieman, has lit his imagination. Stop it. There ain’t any ghosts in these woods. I’m alone.

Rumor shakes the silly thought away, plunges the 350ml of Tardon into the root, and empties the barrel. Drink it up. The Tardon kills the trees slowly over several weeks. He’s poisoned many trees around the park. Some are on trails like this one. Some in parking lots where a tree collapse could damage structures, costing the DCNR a lot of money in time and repairs. That’s just what Rumor wants. He refills the hole with dirt, replaces his equipment in the duffel bag, and stands.

Gazing upon the oak leaning precariously over the trail, Rumor knows it’s just a matter of time before it topples. He smiles jovially. Poisoning the trees is only one of the many subterfuges Rumor has committed around the park: clogging the toilets in the guests’ facilities, wrecking the well pumps so the park didn’t have water for drinking and cleaning, dumping trashcans, spray painting obscenities on the public pavilions. He even lit a few fires that burnt some acres on the park’s western side in late September. Maybe I’ll drill holes in the canoes this summer. Or put wasps’ nests in the garbage cans. Or poison the drinking water. He has little concern about someone getting hurt from his shenanigans: people are collateral damage. Pride flows through his veins, pure like holy water, warming him. He’s giving it to the man for stealing his father’s land.

But the warmth is quickly blown away as another gust of wind howls across the lake. Rumor shivers and looks at his watch again. 11:22 p.m. Time to get going.

He returns to where the trail winds back into the woods, past the Shoff Cemetery, and eventually to the parking lot. The desolate tink, tink, tink of the cable snapping against the flagpole at the abandoned campground cuts across the inlet.

Footsteps! On the trail again.

Someone is there! Cold fear shoots through him and tightens his chest like a clenched fist. I can’t get caught. Not now. Not when there’s so much more to do.

He ducks behind a large white sycamore and checks his watch. 11:29 p.m. The park ranger may be down there, checking for trespassers or even looking for him after finding his pickup in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Or it might be a few local kids hiking to the abandoned campground to get high, drink, or make out. They might even tell each other ghost stories about Carver’s victims haunting the area.

Rumor peers around the tree and scans the trail from which he just came. No one lingers about. The tightness in his chest eases. Still, he tries to tune out the wind and focus on the sounds of approaching footsteps. But if they were there and not a figment of his imagination, they’re gone now. He lets out a slow, grateful breath and feels the tension in his muscles relax.

Rumor steps out from behind the tree. He’s about to turn away when he sees a human silhouette step off the trail and duck into the forest about twenty-five yards away.

I’m seeing things, he thinks, as his balls shrivel into his pelvis and goose pimples rise from his feet to his scalp. He’s heard stories about hikers seeing shadow people on the trail, ducking in and around trees. Is that what he’s seeing now? A shadow person? No! There’s no one out there. It’s the wind causing the tree branches to swing and the shadows to move, nothing more. He swallows. His throat is dry like dust. But you heard footsteps—twice now—and saw the shadow. Someone or something is out here with you. Maybe one of Carver’s victims? An unseen frozen hand clasps upon his lungs in a powerful, vicelike grip.

Fuck this!

Rumor turns on his heels to bolt up the trail when a loose rock gives way, and his right foot slips out from underneath him. He loses his grip on the duffel bag, which slides from his shoulder into the dark somewhere, and falls hard on his right elbow. The impact with the unforgiving ground peels the flesh back, and the sting of cold air bites at the raw, bleeding wound. He stifles a scream. He can’t risk someone hearing. Through the discomfort, he pulls himself to his feet and darts up the trail toward the dark, concealing woods where he’ll be safe from…well, whatever it was that he saw duck off the trail.

He doesn’t stop or look back until he’s far enough from the shoreline, hidden deep within the woods where no one—man or ghost—can see him. He bends at the waist to catch his breath, to allow his heart rate to slow. It beats in his ears like a sinister drum. He now understands what it must be like for people who say they’ve seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster…

“A ghost,” Rumor whispers in the dark.

Of course, Rumor will never admit ghosts are real. Just like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are nothing more than stories made up by fringe outliers looking for attention. What he saw tonight were moving shadows, brought on by the wind and an overactive imagination. Rumor feels that the only ghosts down there are memories.

Then why were you running?

He doesn’t entertain this thought and looks at his watch. 11:40 p.m. Christ! I need to—

My duffel bag! It isn’t slung over his shoulder. You must’ve dropped it when you fell. His bloody elbow begins to thump with discomfort at his carelessness. How could you be so stupid! He can’t leave it behind. If found, the Rangers will easily link the tree poisoning and the vandalisms back to him because his damn name is stitched on the side.

No. Leaving the duffel bag isn’t an option.

Rumor gazes down the trail into the dark hollow and listens for footsteps again. But only the breeze blows through the trees, rustling what leaves remain on the branches. He’s positive that everything he’s experiencing—the footsteps, the shadowy figure—is a manifestation brought on by the camp’s violent history and his memories of that fateful day. His head was full of enough lore about Carver and Camp Southwoods to trick anyone’s brain into thinking someone was out there, maybe even following him.

Steeling himself against his fears—real or imaginary—Rumor takes a step. Then another. Soon he’s heading back toward the lake to find the duffel bag. In his mind, he keeps repeating:

They’re only stories.

***

Excerpt from Who's Out There by Westley Smith. Copyright 2026 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Westley Smith is the author of the crime thrillers Some Kind of Truth (Wicked House Publishing) and In the Pale Light (Watertower Hill Publishing). In the Pale Light landed on IngramSpark’s #1 pre-order charts in the mystery, thriller, and hard-boiled detective category. He is also the author of the psychological thriller, They Came at Night (Watertower Hill Publishing). He has two self-published horror novels, Along Came the Tricksters and All Hallows Eve.

Writing since he was ten, his first short story, "Off to War," was published nationally at sixteen. His short stories have recently appeared in On the Premise and Unveiling Nightmares. He was the runner-up contestant in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s Mysterious Photograph Contest, and his short story "Winter Reflections" was chosen as a finalist for Crystal Lake Publishing's Shallow Waters short story contest. He also had a short story, "The Security Guard," in the horror anthology "Hospital of Haunts," (Watertower Hill Publishing) which hit #1 on Amazon, and his true encounter with the urban legend of York, PAs, Toad Road and The Seven Gates of Hell, was featured in George Watertower and Other Childhood Terrors (Watertower Hill Publishing).

He lives in southern Pennsylvania with his wife and two dogs.

Catch Up With Westley Smith:

WestleySmithBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @wssmith100
Instagram - @wsmithbooks
Facebook - @westleysmith100

 

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WHO'S OUT THERE? The Winner, That's Who! 🎉💀

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Hades' Revenge by Ella Jade

 

Title: Hades' Revenge

Series: Morally Gray Gods #1

Author: Ella Jade

Genre: Dark Romance

Tropes: Age Gap/Father's Enemy/Daddy Vibes

Cover Design: Dark City Designs

Model: Wander Aguiar

Release Date: September 23, 2026

BLURB

When a vicious assassin is banished from the only life he’s ever known, he starts over only to be tempted by the goddaughter he hasn’t seen in almost twenty years.

Hades

Vindictive, malicious, some would even say sadistic…

I couldn’t argue with any of those assessments. We are who we are. I’m a vengeful assassin who will stop at nothing to make those who wronged me pay. And I’m thirsty for revenge.

Eighteen years ago, I took the fall for a man who was like a brother to me. I even vowed to protect his daughter by becoming her godfather— and then he betrayed me.

Two decades later, his daughter, now a stunning woman, strolls into my life, having no idea who I am or what I’m capable of. Capri takes an unhealthy interest in me, the older and dangerous man, and I don’t do anything to discourage her. I welcome her obsession because it suits me.

When her infatuation with me grows stronger, I prove just how vindictive, malicious, and sadistic I really am. Is she the opportunity I need to enact my revenge against her father or is she the reason I finally let this vendetta go?

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USA Today Bestselling author Ella Jade writes dark mafia romances with dominating mob bosses, the strong women who challenge them, and suspenseful twists that keep her readers turning the pages.

When she isn’t reading or writing sexy, angsty, and intense words, she indulges in a well-crafted martini and binge watches episodes of Dallas, Falcon Crest, and Dynasty, where she learned at an early age how to spin an old-school cliffhanger. She also enjoys spoiling her two chihuahua writing companions.

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Devotion of a Wolf by CJ Ravenna

 

Title: Devotion of a Wolf

Series: Viking Wolves #3

Author: CJ Ravenna

Genre: MM Paranormal Romance

Tropes: Second Chances/Time Travel/Shifters

Amnesia/Fated Mates

Release Date: March 9, 2026

BLURB

A familiar stranger. A forgotten past. A love that defies timelines.

Soren

For as long as I can remember, something’s been missing from my life. When I meet Lyall Eriksson, I realize it was never something I was missing but someone. Lyall is sweet and gorgeous, and our connection is instantaneous. Like we’ve known each other for years.

Because we have. Lyall insists that we had a life together… in the Viking Age.

Oh, yeah, and he’s a Viking werewolf.

My whole life has been a lie, constructed to protect the secrets of the paranormal world. Learning the truth could cost Lyall everything, and I could be forced to forget him, us, all over again.

Despite the risks, Lyall’s determined to remind me of the truth: I’m his mate, and nothing, not even time itself, will come between us again.

Devotion of a Wolf is the third book in the Viking Wolves series, featuring amnesia, second chances, and a hard-won happy-ever-after. This installment can be read as a standalone, but the series is best enjoyed sequentially.

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Releasing July 31

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CJ Ravenna loves to tell stories where the ordinary meets the extraordinary. Her books often feature an explosion or two, possessive and protective werewolves who adore their mates, steamy and swoony romance, and of course a happy ending.

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The Memories We Made

 

The Memories We Made: Remembering Us: Part I of II
Cara Dee
(The Game Series, #16)
Publication date: March 6th 2026
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, LGBTQ+, Romance

The Game Series, #16 • Standalone • Duet • Book 1 of 2 • Hurt/Comfort • Family • Dom/Dom • Opposites Attract
Ash and Nathan’s story begins on a blistering day in Philadelphia, with a rough-around-the-edges scaffolder yelling outside the office of a trauma specialist. Psychology major Nate decides to give this brute a piece of his mind.

The friends who told me to move on didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. Moving on wasn’t happening—and I knew that better than anyone after being trapped at the bottom of a heartbreak for an excruciating year now, where I had nothing but crippling anxiety and our memories to torture me. Everything we’d built, the family we’d created, the pictures, that damn National Parks passport, the ring on my finger, echoes of laughter and promises… I’d been there, watching you, being your test subject, as you’d become the rope rigger you were today. With amusement glinting in your eyes, you’d called me the OG bondage bunny. Me, the primal predator, who thought about chasing brats through the woods, your bondage bunny.
We’d given each other laugh lines. We’d loved so damn hard. We’d stood in front of our friends and family and vowed to fight for us forever.

Almost twenty years together. Four beautiful children.

What the hell happened, Nate?

You didn’t have to tell me. I already knew. I was a coward. I’d let my fears hold us back.

The question now was if I still stood a chance, because…frankly, living without you was impossible.

I’d do anything to get you back.

The Game Series is a BDSM series where romance meets the reality of kink. Sometimes we fall for someone we don’t match with, sometimes vanilla business gets in the way of kinky pleasure, and sometimes we have to compromise and push ourselves to overcome trauma and insecurities. No matter what, one thing is certain. This is not a perfect world—and maybe that’s why the happily ever after feels so good.

Goodreads / Purchase

—

EXCERPT:

If his boss got off work at five PM, the yuppie should work similar hours, right?

I checked my watch and then squinted up at the building.

Five minutes past five.

A breath gusted out of me, and I ran a hand through my hair.

This was stupid. I should just head home, get out of my work clothes, and take a long shower.

And yet…I couldn’t shake the urge to smooth things over with the yuppie. In all the chaos earlier, and the damn heat, I’d misinterpreted what Garcia had said. Now I could recall his saying that several people had complained about the noise, and I’d applied it all to this suit guy. But all he’d mentioned was my creative use of words. He hadn’t technically bitched about the noise.

Hold up, is that him?

I held up a hand to shield my eyes from the late-afternoon sun, and I zeroed in on the guy coming out from the building.

It was him. He had put on his messenger bag, and he had a bike helmet in one hand.

Totally fit my impression of him. Yuppie on a bicycle.

I cleared my throat and trailed closer as he aimed for the row of bikes next to the stairs.

“Oi. Glasses.” I figured it was a better nickname than Yuppie.

Hey, it worked.

He threw a frown over his shoulder.

I gestured at myself. “The paste-eater from earlier.”

The frown faded, but he definitely nailed the standoffish vibe. “Now I remember.”

Okay, he had the biting, dry sense of humor down.

“I cut the goddammits and motherfuckers to a minimum after our productive chat,” I offered.

He unlocked his bike and stuffed the chain into his messenger bag. “My boss mentioned an improvement.” He side-eyed me. “Did you just get off work?”

“Half an hour ago,” I replied. “It’s possible I felt bad for how I acted earlier, so I decided to see if you were on your way out too.”

“I am. After a lovely day here, I’m looking forward to my evening shift at a hotel in Center City,” he drawled.

Oh damn. “That blows. I’m sorry about today, man. I won’t piss you off tomorrow, I promise.”

“Are you sure? You seem to have a knack for it.” He put on his helmet. Then he sighed and pulled out his bike. “Maybe I could’ve handled things better too.”

I smiled. “Water under the bridge.”

Except, now I kinda wanted this little meeting to run longer. He really was hot, and considering he’d checked me out before, it didn’t seem unlikely he was gay. A guy had to give it a go, didn’t he? My weekend was open.

“So, uh…do you have enough time to get something to eat before work?” I asked. “There’s a place down the street. They water down anything alcoholic, but their chips and guacamole are out of this world.”

He knitted his brows together. “You wanna spend happy hour with me?”

I’d prefer a date, but we could call it happy hour between two strangers.

“Of course.” I shrugged. “I obviously want a moment to explain myself. I didn’t fucking eat paste as a kid. I ate crayons.”

Fuck yeah, he actually smiled. “Okay. Happy hour sounds good.”

Fucking A.

Author Bio:

Romance Across the Spectrum.

I’m often awkwardly silent or, if the topic interests me, a chronic rambler. In other words, I can discuss writing forever and ever. Fiction, in particular. The love story—while a huge draw and constantly present—is secondary for me, because there’s so much more to writing romance fiction than just making two (or more) people fall in love and have hot sex.

There’s a world to build, characters to develop, interests to create, and a topic or two to research thoroughly.

Every book is a challenge for me, an opportunity to learn something new, and a puzzle to piece together. I want my characters to come to life, and the only way I know to do that is to give them substance—passions, history, goals, quirks, and strong opinions—and to let them evolve.

I want my men and women to be relatable. That means allowing room for everyday problems and, for lack of a better word, flaws. My characters will never be perfect.

Wait…this was supposed to be about me, not my writing.

I'm a writey person who loves to write. Always wanderlusting, twitterpating, kinking, cooking, baking, and geeking. There’s time for hockey and family, too. But mostly, I just love to write.

~Cara.

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Round Up the Unusual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens

 

ROUND UP THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS

by Elizabeth Crowens

March 9 - April 17, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery

 

Against the backdrop of WWII, no one expected to find a murdered stagehand on a Warner Brothers sound stage. With so much at stake, Jack L. Warner hires Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, the two young private eyes who recently resolved his high-profile Maltese Falcon/Blackbird Killer Case. Social justice crusader Leon Lewis suspects local Nazi sympathizers are responsible. Lewis assigns a German stuntman, a veteran of the decadent subculture of Weimar Berlin nightlife and one of his newest operatives, to join forces with the private detectives.

According to Warner, the show must go on, but everything from bomb scares to the Japanese internment, to unruly parrots, forbidden love, and family crises conspires against solving the crime. “As Time Goes By,” actors Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and the rest of the Casablanca ensemble join the professional private eyes to round up the unusual suspects and capture the killer.

Love 1940s classic movies? Treat yourself to the award-winning Hounds of the Hollywood Baskervilles (Book 1) and Bye, Bye Blackbird (Book 2) of Elizabeth Crowens’ Babs Norman’s Golden Age of Hollywood mystery series by Level Best Books.

Round Up the Unusual Suspects Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery with humor
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 20, 2026
Number of Pages: 328
ISBN: 979-8-89820-189-0 (paperback)
Series: A Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery, Book 3 || Amazon, Goodreads
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Mystery Series

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Read an excerpt from Round Up the Unusual Suspects:

Chapter One

“Nobody’s allowed to die on one of my sets!” hollered Jack L. Warner. “Who’s the jackass who wants to halt my production?”

Flanked by his personal assistant Bill Schaefer, Jack dragged Hal B. Wallis, his head of production, over to the sound stage filming Yankee Doodle Dandy, starring James Cagney. He swung open the door as soon as the red warning light turned off and stormed inside.

Michael Curtiz, the film’s director, dumped his megaphone and threw down the gauntlet. The parade band on stage accompanied his rage with a drumroll and cymbals.

Warner nabbed Curtiz’s discarded megaphone. “Rally the troops—all of them! I have a studio-wide announcement.”

Curtiz, turning red, clamped his hands over his ears. The actors and background extras, dressed in woolen military uniforms, stopped marching and sweltered under the hot lights. The live orchestra fell silent.

“Sir, maybe we should check out the dead body first,” Schaefer suggested with hesitation.

At Warner’s command, an assistant rolled back a piece of movable scenery to reveal a prone figure, an unknown young man wearing bloodied street clothes, but with a swastika carved on his neck.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Warner asked. “He looks like he’s just sleeping on the job.”

Backing up a few steps, Wallis broke out in a cold sweat. “Has any-one been a-ble to i-den-ti-fy him?”

The assistant director strained to keep self-control but trembled. “Every-one denies knowing him. Our director, however, insisted we ignore the victim and stay on schedule.”

Wallis, turning green, gulped down his rising bile but regained his voice. “That’s unconscionable. We should secure the set. Everyone will have to swear to secrecy, and under no circumstances is the press to know about it.” Schaefer clutched his stomach, and his knees became unsteady. He grabbed a chair to brace himself.

Jack L. strutted the sound stage like Napoleon planning a counterattack and examined the casualty of war with a sense of unnerving calm. He wrinkled his nose and instructed his assistant, “Better call the Burbank PD. Won’t take long under these broiling lights for him to stink to high heaven.” The actors, who’d remained in the stance of military attention, were about to wilt. Offstage, on both sides, waited singers and female tap dancers dressed in skimpy satin costumes as a tribute to Uncle Sam.

“At ease!” Warner shouted, accompanied by a round of relieved sighs. “You think you can direct my film picture?” Curtiz shouted in his choppy version of Hungarian-bastardized English.

“I can and I will,” Warner barked. “Don’t forget, I sign your paychecks! Furthermore, I still can’t understand why you summoned half the musicians’ union to play instruments off-camera when you could’ve used a recording. Money wasted!”

Curtiz glared, with fire in his eyes. “It’s because they’re featured on camera at the beginning and the end of the scene!” He cursed in his native Hungarian tongue and stormed off the set.

Jimmy Cagney, the star of the show, followed. “You can find me in my dressing room.”

Undaunted by his director and lead actor’s histrionics, Warner demanded to see the production notes. After a quick glance, he scraped his fingernails through his receding hairline.

“Too much…can’t picture it. Summon your editors and set up a projector—somewhere—anywhere, on the damned wall if we must. I’d need to see the dailies and bring me that hot-headed Hungarian Goulash Gulag Meister and his la-di-da lead actor.”

Wallis broke the point of his pencil by slamming it down on his notepad. “All these delays…I don’t want to hear a word from you about going over budget.”

“I’m the one who makes the final decisions. Respect your commanding officer!” Warner admonished his confused subordinate.

Wallis gave him a weak salutation, but only out of respect. “Aye! Aye, sir!” Warner gave one last look at the body. “Go ahead, call the police,” he said to Schaefer. “And hire those two private detectives.”

Wallis scratched his head with a look as if a screwball comedian had thrown a cream pie in his face. “Who?” he asked.

Warner clenched his jaw. “Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, those young kids who solved the Blackbird Killer Case and saved the cast of The Maltese Falcon. That was a close call for everyone.”

* * *

The phone rang at B. Norman Investigations. Guy picked up and said Jack Warner’s assistant was on the line. Babs motioned for him to hand over the receiver.

“The Big Boss desires your company,” Schaefer told her.

“If he doesn’t mind throwing in two mouth-watering prime-rib dinners at the Smoke House for us,” Babs said, who hadn’t eaten all day, “we’ll consider that his consultation fee.”

The two PI partners headed downstairs to their building’s garage, where they now had their own assigned adjacent parking spaces instead of playing roulette for empty spots on the street. Babs put her key into the ignition of her ailing Crosley—the Clown Car, the brunt of Guy’s constant jokes, with a paint job that resembled a motley patchwork. The moment she put her foot on the gas pedal, it made a bone-shaking screech of metal against metal and emitted exhaust that would’ve choked a triceratops.

“We’re taking mine,” Guy said after he stopped wheezing. He rolled up his windows to keep out the foul scent. “Can’t believe you never had the sense to replace that fossil since it never ran well.”

They pulled out of the garage, and he donned his sunglasses. “Now, you’re stuck with it since our government stopped new automobile production and only people in vital professions, such as doctors and clergymen, qualify to purchase remaining inventories.”

“Private eyes don’t have priority?”

He shook his head. “Not in your sweet life. Those assembly lines are being converted to produce tanks, aircraft, and weapons for the military. Mark my words. Next thing you know, they’ll demand that we ration fuel and rubber for our tires like they do in England. Read the papers if you don’t believe me.”

Guy flashed his Warner Brothers pass to the gate security guard. Babs panicked as she searched inside her purse. “I must’ve left mine in my car.”

“Try flirting,” Guy whispered.

She snorted in defiance. “I will not!”

Much to her surprise, he sweet-talked his way into saying, “She’s with me,” and pulled into an empty guest parking slot.

When they arrived at the Yankee Doodle sound stage, the crime scene investigation was well underway. The Burbank PD sectioned off the area where the deceased lay, but nearby, Curtiz insisted on conducting rehearsals even if it was too noisy to roll sound. He ordered the gaffer and his electrical crew to prep the lights for the next set of shots, but they went berserk, thinking a light was shorting out every time the crime scene photographer’s flashbulb went off.

Curtiz insisted his captive cast and crew finish what they started. He’d work around the police, even if it meant yelling and screaming, at the risk of losing his voice, to make sure they kept quiet.

“Isn’t Jimmy Cagney your star?” Guy looked around for the missing actor.

Curtiz made an unintelligible grunt and spat into his handkerchief. “We shall work around his crybaby tantrums.” He launched a new battle with Wallis. “You complain that clocks ticking means money. Then why does Warner have to be such a stingy fat cat?”

Wallis bit his lip to keep from laughing at the director’s deliberate jabs at the English language. “Our detectives-for-hire are here.” He pointed out Babs and Guy. “Jack wants you to perform the entire number, Yankee Doodle Dandy, from start to finish.”

The director stood his ground. “That’s not how we shoot it. We fall behind schedule. Then Jack gets more and more angry.”

Warner paced the floor, bellyaching to himself and to any of the cops who would listen. “What if Cagney had been the intended victim? Not that I’m glad this man is an unknown Joe Palooka, but you get where I’m coming from.”

The moment Babs saw the corpse, her stomach lurched. Guy took his handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth. “Did you find any ID?”

“Found a driver’s license in his wallet,” said one cop. “He’s got a German-sounding name: Gerhard Sauer.”

Warner, holding a script, muscled in on their conversation. “I want to see this scene played out from start to finish.”

Since Cagney left the set, Guy volunteered to stand in and improvise his choreography, but the studio head ignored his suggestion. “If that fussy thespian wants to act like a child, I’ll just have to take over and go through the motions.”

Babs took her notepad out of her pocketbook. “Did anyone hear any strange noises?” She looked around for reactions but got none. “Did you consider that someone killed Sauer elsewhere and, for whatever reason, dumped his body backstage?”

Babs blew her anger out of her nose. No one seemed to listen. Wallis gave the PIs an overview to get them up to speed. “The film, Yankee Doodle Dandy, is about the life of lyricist and composer George M. Cohan. He performed with his family, and they called themselves The Four Cohans. Playing his father, we’ve got the famous actor who played the shot-up Captain Jacoby from The Maltese Falcon, Walter Huston.”

“Give My Regards to Broadway is also one of Cohan’s famous songs,” Guy mentioned.

“We’ve included that one, along with Over There. All patriotic numbers that helped us endure WWI. Just think, we have a song for every star and a star for every stripe.”

Wallis stopped and scratched his chin. “You know…I rather like that line. Must insist on using that quote for our trailer. However, what you’ll see on screen is a show within a show, as if our cinematographer was shooting a documentary. At the beginning and the end of the scene, the camera will pan, showing an establishing shot of everyone inside the theater. That’s where our live orchestra comes in.

“The Cohans perform in a stage production of a show titled George Washington, Jr. The song-and-dance medley scene we had been shooting before everything went haywire centers on Grand Old Flag. Once edited, it will look like we shot it from start to finish, but since Warner told me you used to be actors, you probably know that most of the time we shoot scenes out of order. We’ll stop within sections to film close-ups and from different angles. Everyone’s curious to see if there are clues about the killer in the footage we’ve shot so far.”

Babs asked Wallis if he’d drop her a line when the footage was available for viewing.

Jack Warner, however, seemed to have his own agenda. He took over as director and insisted on doing a dry run. “Up with the curtain! Places, please. Stand by, and on with the show of the century. It’s the most original thing to hit Broadway. You know why? Cagney…or Cohan, to be more accurate, is the whole darned U.S. of A. squeezed into one pair of pants.”

Wallis asked the PIs to follow him and take seats with the extras in the audience.

“How many actors does the scene start off with?” Babs asked.

“Not including the live orchestra and the packed seats filled with the audience, I guess there are about thirty-five, but more join in later.”

Lighter on his feet than expected, Warner skipped across the stage and justified substituting for Cagney, who refused to leave his dressing room. “Believe it or not, I’ve had experience as an entertainer. When my brothers and I started our family business, I used to sing in the aisles in between screenings.”

Wallis drew a deep breath and released it. “There he goes again. The boss loves telling everyone the story of his debut in show business. Often, I wonder whether Jack secretly always wanted to be a performer instead of running a studio.” He explained the upcoming scene while everyone blocked the action. “Jimmy sings Grand Old Flag. Twenty young Boy Scouts stride in from the top of the stairs. Betsy Ross sews the flag, upstage center. Eight more adults, who look like members of a military band, join them in song and advance from upstage right. After that, we cut away to five or six members of a fife and drum corps.”

The PIs made every effort to follow Wallis while Warner danced on stage with the hired actors. “Upstage left, a variety of singers march forward, representing the common man and the working class—policemen, bakers, bankers, a nurse, miners, railroad workers—showing their solidarity. Everyone turns toward the flag and breaks into My Country, ’Tis of Thee in front of people manning an anti-aircraft gun.”

Guy, who had been counting on his fingers, lost track. “How many would that add?”

“Probably another thirty. Central Casting must’ve broken out bottles of champagne after receiving our requisitions. Then the stage curtains close, and the spotlight falls on Cagney, downstage right. In come the tap- dancing dames, many bearing American flags. This is where we rival MGM’s schmaltzy musicals with their elaborate costumes and choreography. Enter Uncle Sam, played by Walter Huston, and the Statue of Liberty. Then Jimmy wows everyone with his signature dance steps. More female flag bearers emerge from behind the rear curtain. Our stage crew has rigged the floor with conveyor belts, giving the illusion that the actors are marching toward the audience while they’re actually staying in place.”

“Otherwise, they’d march right off the stage,” said Babs.

“Correct, but we wouldn’t want them to do that,” Wallis explained. “As the cinematographer pulls back and widens the focal length of his lens, background curtains continue to open until we see a painted backdrop of the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. I’m no expert in visual effects, but it gives the audience the feeling there must be well over a hundred people proceeding down the boulevard. Pretty spectacular, don’t you think?”

The assistant director leapt onstage and reminded Warner that the soldier actors were still suffering under the scorching lights and waiting for their next order. “Sir, we’re not rolling camera. We should dismiss them.”

“Tell them it’s a wrap until further notice. I won’t approve an exorbitant dry-cleaning bill for everyone schvitzing in their costumes.”

With military precision, the assistants rounded up the various groups of performers and shuttled them toward wardrobe. Curtiz and James Wong Howe, his cinematographer, remained to discuss how they’d execute the rest of that scene.

Warner scribbled a note and handed it to his assistant. “Bill, tell these two to drop everything. I’m calling a meeting to order and want them present.”

Schaefer reviewed his memo pad. “Sir, you scheduled one with them already.” Then he checked his watch. “They should be there…right now.”

Jack pointed to Babs and Guy. “Then you’re coming with me and away from the crime scene.” In a rush, he sprinted ahead.

Babs shouted loudly enough for him to hear her as he gained distance. “We’ll need to sign a contract to make our assignment official!”

“Pick up the pace, you slowpokes, and I’ll cut you a check after we get there.”

***

Excerpt from Round Up the Unusual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright 2026 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Crowens is bi-coastal between New York and Los Angeles, where she has worn many hats in the entertainment industry. Awards include Lefty nominee for Best Humorous Mystery, Agatha nominee in multiple categories, MWA-NY Chapter Leo B. Burstein Scholarship, NYFA grant, Eric Hoffer Award, Glimmer Train, Killer Nashville Claymore finalist, Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Top Picks, two Grand prize and six First prize Chanticleer Awards. Crowens writes Golden Age of Hollywood mystery with humor and alternate history in her Time Traveler Professor series. She also has a popular Caption Contest on Facebook.

Catch Up With Elizabeth Crowens:

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