Spotlight & Excerpt: The Vanishing at Castle Moreau + Giveaway

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The Vanishing at Castle Moreau by Jaime Jo Wright

The Vanishing at Castle Moreau by Jaime Jo Wright Genre: Dual time Suspense/Thriller Published by: Bethany House Publishers Publication Date: April 2023 Number of Pages: 384 ISBN: 9780764238345 Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Baker Book House

Synopsis:

A haunting legend. An ominous curse. A search for a secret buried deep within the castle walls.

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In 1870, orphaned Daisy François takes a position as housemaid at a Wisconsin castle to escape the horrors of her past life. There she finds a reclusive and eccentric Gothic authoress, who hides tales more harrowing than the ones in her novels. With women disappearing from the area and a legend that seems to parallel these eerie circumstances, Daisy is thrust into a web that threatens to steal her sanity, if not her life.

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In the present day, Cleo Clemmons is hired by the grandson of an American aristocratic family to help his grandmother face her hoarding in the dilapidated Castle Moreau. But when Cleo uncovers more than just the woman’s stash of collectibles, a century-old mystery of disappearance, insanity, and the dust of the old castle’s curse threaten to rise again. This time to leave no one alive to tell the sordid tale.

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Award-winning author Jaime Jo Wright seamlessly weaves a dual-time tale of two women who must do all they can to seek the light amidst the darkness shrouding Castle Moreau.


Praise for The Vanishing at Castle Moreau:

“An imaginative and mysterious tale.”

New York Times bestselling author RACHEL HAUCK

“With real, flawed characters, who grapple with real-life struggles, readers will be drawn into this gripping suspense from the very first page. Good luck putting it down. I couldn’t.”

LYNETTE EASON, bestselling, award-winning author of the Extreme Measures series

“Wright pens another delightfully creepy tale where nothing is quite as it seems and characters seek freedom from nightmares both real and imagined.”

Library Journal

“Wright captivates. A thrilling tale. . . . Readers won’t want to put this down.”

Publishers Weekly

The Vanishing at Castle Moreau Trailer:

Read an excerpt:

The one who rescues, who loves, and who stands in the gap. God knew I needed you.

The Girl

MAY 8, 1801
When I was a little girl, my father would often come to my bedside after my screams wakened him in the night. He would smooth back my damp ringlets, the mere feel of his callused and strong hand inspiring an instantaneous calm. “What is it, little one?” he would ask me. Every night, the same question. Every night, I would give the same answer. “It is her again, Papa.” “Her?” He would tilt his head, giving credence to my words and refraining from scolding or mockery. “Yes.” I would nod, my head brushing the clean cotton of my pillowcase. “The woman with the crooked hand.” “Crooked hand, hmm?” His query only increased my adamant insistence. “Yes. She has a nub with two fingers.” A tear would often trail down my six-­year-­old cheek. My father would smile with a soothing calm. “You are dreaming again, mon chéri.” “No. She was here.” He must believe me! “Shhh.” Another gentle stroke of his hand across my forehead. “She is the voice of the mistress of your dreams. We all have one, you know. Only yours needs extra-special care because she isn’t beautiful like the rest. She is the one who brings the nightmares, but she doesn’t mean to harm you. She is only doing her best with what she has been given, and what she has been given are her own horrors.” “Her hand?” I would reply, even though we repeated this explanation many nights in a row. “Yes,” my father would nod. “Her hand is a reflection of the ugliness in her stories. Stories she tells to you at night when all is quiet and your eyes are closed.” “But they were open,” I would insist. “No. You only think they were open.” “I am afraid of the ghost, Papa,” I urge. His eyes smile. “Oui. And yet there are no spirits to haunt you. Only the dream mistress. Shoo her away and she will flee. She is a mist. She is not real. See?” And he would wave his hand in the air. “Shoo, mistress. Away and be gone!” We would survey the dark bedroom then, and, seeing nothing, my father would lean over and press his lips to my cheek. “Now sleep. I will send your mother’s dream mistress to you. Her imaginings are pleasant ones.” “Thank you,” I would whisper. Another kiss. The bed would rise a bit as he lifted his weight from the mattress. His nightshirt would hang around his shins, and he would pause at the doorway of my room where I slept. An only child, in a home filled with the fineries of a Frenchman’s success of trade. “Sleep, mon chéri.” “Yes, Papa.” The door would close. My eyes would stay open. I would stare at the woman with the crooked hand, who hovered in the shadows where the door had just closed. I would stare at her and know what my father never would. She existed. She was not a dream.

one

Daisy François
APRIL 1870
The castle cast its hypnotic pull over any passerby who happened along to find it, tucked deep in the woods in a place where no one would build a castle, let alone live in one. It served no purpose there. No strategy of war, no boast of wealth, no respite for a tired soul. Instead, it simply existed. Tugging. Coercing. Entrapping. Its two turrets mimicked bookends, and if removed, one would fear the entire castle would collapse like a row of standing volumes. Windows covered the façade above a stone archway, which drew her eyes to the heavy wooden door with its iron hinges, the bushes along the foundation, and the stone steps leading to the mouth of the edifice. Beyond it was a small orchard of apple trees, their tiny pink blossoms serving as a delicate backdrop for the magnificent property. Castle Moreau. Home to an orphan. Or it would be. Daisy clutched the handles of her carpetbag until her knuckles were sure to be white beneath her threadbare gloves. She stood in the castle’s shadow, staring at its immense size. Who had built such an imposing thing? Here, in the northern territory, where America boasted its own mansions but still rejected any mimicking of the old country. Castles were supposed to stare over their fiefdoms, house lords and ladies, gentry, noblemen, and summon the days of yore when knights rescued fair maidens. Castles were not supposed to center themselves inside a forest, on the shore of a lake, a mile from the nearest town. This made Castle Moreau a mystery. No one knew why Tobias Moreau had built it decades before. Today the castle held but one occupant: Tobias’s daughter, Ora Moreau, who was eighty-­six years old. She was rarely ever seen, and even more rarely, ever heard from. Still, Ora’s words had graced most households in the region, printed between the covers of books with embossed golden titles. Her horror stories had thrilled many readers, and over the years, the books helped in making an enigma of the reclusive old woman. When the newspaper had advertised a need for a housemaid—­preferably one without a home or ties to distract her from her duties—­it was sheer coincidence that Daisy had seen it, even more of a coincidence that she fit the requirements. And so it was a surprise she was hired after only a brief letter inquiring after the position. Now she stood before the castle, her pulse thrumming with the question why? Why had she accepted the position? Why would she allow herself to be swallowed up by this castle? The stories were bold, active. Women disappeared here. It was said that Castle Moreau was a place that consumed the vulnerable. Welcoming them in but never giving them back. Daisy stiffened her shoulders. Swallowed. Tilted her chin upward in determination. She had marched into hell before—­many times, in fact. Castle Moreau couldn’t possibly be much worse than that.
Cleo Clemmons
TWO YEARS BEFORE PRESENT DAY
They had buried most souvenirs of the dead with the traditions of old, and yet what a person didn’t understand before death, they would certainly comprehend after. The need for that ribbon-­tied lock of hair, the memento mori photograph of the deceased, a bone fragment, a capsule of the loved one’s ashes—­morbid to those who had not lost, but understandable to those who had. Needing to touch the tangible was a fatal flaw in humanity. Faith comforted only so far until the gasping panic overcame the grieving like a tsunami, stealing oxygen, with the only cure being something tangible. Something to touch. To hold. To be held. It was in these times the symbolism attached to an item became pivotal to the grieving. A lifeline of sorts. For Cleo, it was a thumbprint. Her grandfather’s thumbprint. Inked after death, digitized into a .png file, uploaded to a jewelry maker, and etched into sterling silver. It hung around her neck, settling between her breasts, just left of her heart. No one would know it was there, and if they did, they wouldn’t ask. A person didn’t ask about what was held closest to another’s heart. That was information that must be offered, and Cleo had no intention of doing so. To anyone. Her grandfather was her memory alone—­the good and the bad. What he’d left behind in the form of Cleo’s broken insides were Cleo’s to disguise. Faith held her hand, or rather, she clenched hands with faith, but in the darkness, when no one was watching, Cleo fit her thumb to her grandfather’s print and attempted to feel the actual warmth of his hand, to infuse all the cracks and offer momentary refuge from the ache. Funny how this was what she thought of. Now. With what was left of her world crashing down around her like shrapnel pieces, blazing lava-­orange and deadly. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Cleo muttered into her phone, pressing it harder against her ear than she needed to. She huddled in the driver’s seat of her small car, all of her worldly possessions packed into the trunk and the back seat. She could hear the ringing on the other end. She owed it to Riley. One call. One last goodbye. “Hey.” “Riley!” Cleo stiffened in anticipation. “. . . you’ve reached Riley . . .” the voice message continued, and Cleo laid her head back against the seat. The recording finished, and Cleo squeezed her eyes shut against the world outside of her car, against the darkness, the fear, the grief. This was goodbye. It had to be. The voicemail beep was Cleo’s cue. She swallowed, then spoke, her words shivering with compressed emotion. What did a person say in a last farewell? “Riley, it’s me. Cleo. I—” she bit her lip, tasting blood—“I-­I won’t be calling again. This is it. You know. It’s what I hoped would never happen. I am so, so sorry this happened to you! Just know I tried to protect you. But now—” her breath caught as tears clogged her throat—“this is the only way I can. Whatever happens now, just know I love you. I will always love you.” Desperation warred with practicality. Shut off the phone. There was no explaining this. There never would be. “Goodbye, Ladybug.” Cleo thumbed the end button, then threw the phone against the car’s dashboard. A guttural scream curled up her throat and split her ears as the inside of the vehicle absorbed the sound. Then it was silent. That dreadful, agonizing silence that came with the burgeoning, unknown abyss of a new start. Cleo stared at her phone lying on the passenger-­side floor. She lunged for it, fumbling with a tiny tool until she popped open the slot on its side. Pulling out the SIM card, Cleo bent it back and forth until it snapped. Determined, she pushed open the car door and stepped out. The road was heavily wooded on both sides. Nature was her only observer. She flung the broken SIM card into the ditch, marched to the front of the car, and wedged the phone under the front tire. She’d roll over it when she left, crush it, and leave nothing to be traced. Cleo took a moment to look around her. Oak forest, heavy undergrowth of brush, wild rosebushes whose thorns would take your skin off, and a heap of dead trees and branches from the tornado that had ravaged these woods decades prior. The rotting wood was all that remained to tell the tale now, but it was so like her life. Rotting pieces that never went away. Ever. She climbed back into the car and twisted the key, revving the engine to life. Cleo felt her grandfather’s thumbprint until it turned her skin hot with the memories. Memories of what had set into motion a series of frightful events. Events that were her responsibility to protect her sister from. Goodbye, Ladybug. There was no explaining in a voicemail to a twelve-­year-­old girl that her older sister was abandoning her in order to save her. Cleo knew from this moment on, Riley would play that message, and slowly resentment would seep in as she grew older. Resentment that Cleo had left and would never come back. But she couldn’t go back. Not if she loved Riley. Sometimes love required the ultimate sacrifice. Sometimes love required death. Death to all they knew, all they had known. If Cleo disappeared, then Riley would be left alone. Riley would be safe. She could grow up as innocent as possible. So long as Cleo Clemmons no longer existed. *** Excerpt from The Vanishing at Castle Moreau by JAIME JO WRIGHT. Copyright 2023 by Jaime Sundsmo. Reproduced with permission from Bethany House Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—­for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—­without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

 


Author Bio:

Jaime Jo Wright

Jaime Jo Wright is the author of six novels, including Christy Award winner The House on Foster Hill and Carol Award winner The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond. She’s also the Publishers Weekly and ECPA bestselling author of two novellas. Jaime lives in Wisconsin with her cat named Foo; her husband, Cap’n Hook; and their littles, Peter Pan and CoCo.

To learn more, visit Jamie at: www.jaimewrightbooks.com (& check out her Podcast – MadLit Musings!) Goodreads BookBub – @JaimeJoWright Instagram – @JaimeJoWright Twitter – @JaimeJoWright Facebook – @JaimeJoWright

 


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Spotlight & Excerpt: Cowboys and Chaos + Giveaway

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Cowboys and Chaos by Elizabeth Pantley

Cowboys and Chaos Magical Mystery Book Club #3 by Elizabeth Pantley Genre: Paranormal Cozy Mystery Published by: Better Beginnings, Inc. Publication Date: November 2022 Number of Pages: 250 ASIN: B0BB1HS7XL Series: Magical Mystery Book Club #3 Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads  

This is no ordinary book club! When the group chooses a book, they are whisked away from reality to find themselves totally immersed in the story. The characters, the setting, and the murder all come to life. In order to exit the book, they’ll need to solve the mystery and reach The End.

This time, the club chooses a mystery that takes place in a quaint western town – in the old Wild West. That sounds like great fun, until they arrive in the dusty old town in the Arizona desert, among cowboys and saloons. They discover that the outhouse isn’t the worse thing about this trip.

The good news is that Paige, Glo, Zell, Frank, and the other members of the club discover plenty of surprises here, and they have a great time visiting a piece of history. They’ll get to live through many exciting moments as they unravel this cozy mystery story.


Read an excerpt from Chapter 2 of Cowboys and Chaos:

 

“Hey,” said Forrest. “Who’s that guy in the backyard?”

Everyone shuffled over to the window. A man was roaming around the property with what appeared to be a metal detector in his hands.

He removed his brown fedora, and his wild brown hair joined his golden scarf to blow wildly in the wind. He methodically ran the device back and forth over the lawn. Every few minutes he would stop and kneel on the grass, leaving wet spots on the knees of his khaki cargo pants. He’d put his ear to the ground, then pop up with a gleeful look on his face and continue scanning the lawn. He reached into one of the pockets of his brown safari jacket and pulled out a pair of binoculars. He aimed them around the yard and then up into the sky.

I opened the back door and stepped outside.

“Hello? Excuse me?” I called. “Can I help you?”

The man walked briskly over to us. He thrust out his hand toward me. “Dr. Atticus Papadopoulos. A pleasure.”

“Paige Erickson. Nice to meet you.” Even in shock, my manners prevailed.

The group had followed me outside and were standing in a circle gawking at him. The man put down his device and efficiently went from person to person. He reached out and shook each person’s hand. He looked each one in the eye and listened intently to their name as if he were memorizing it. He even reached down and shook Frank’s paw.

Frank looked him up and down and examined his archaeological professor-like outfit. “Hello Dr. Jones. Welcome to the Snapdragon Inn.”

“Ah! Wonderful, wonderful. The cat speaks! Marvelous!” He clapped his hands. “Actually, it’s Dr. Papadopoulos, but you can call me Atticus,” he said, totally missing Frank’s reference to Dr. Indiana Jones from Raiders of the Lost Ark. “Your ability to communicate is one more sign that the crossover exists at this point! Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!”

When he completed the circle, he verified my suspicion that he’d been memorizing our names by pointing at each person in turn. “Paige. Glo. Zell, Sebastian, Vee, Moonbeam, Forrest. And of course, the fascinating, remarkable Frank.”

The cat stood taller, and I could just about see his head growing in size. Exactly what we needed, a person to boost Frank’s already bursting ego.

“Sooo, Atticus. What are you doing here?” Glo asked as she came to stand beside me, hands on her hips, looking the stranger in the eye.

“Yeah,” said Zell, charging to the front of the group and standing nearly toe to toe with him. She looked up into his face, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. With her diminutive size and cotton ball-like hair she looked anything but intimidating. “And what’s with the metal detector? Looking for buried treasure?”

“Ah, good question, Zell. This is not a meager metal detector. It alerts me to points of extraterrestrial energy.”

“Are you a kook, then?”

Atticus threw back his head and laughed, his wild hair flopping back and forth with the movement. “No, madam, not a kook. I am a doctor of astrobiology; my major area of interest is extraterrestrial technology and travel.”

“What the heck is astrobiology?” Zell squinted her eyes at him.

“A woman with a curious mind. I like it.” He nodded in approval.

I glanced at Glo and rolled my eyes. Great. Now another ego being stroked. Zell and Frank were already impossible to live with, this would boost their annoy-ability level.

“Astrobiology is the academic field that studies the origins of life on our Earth and the existence of life elsewhere in our universe. The study of extraterrestrial visits is my main area of interest. Your inn happens to be at a key crossover point for a confluence of energy.” He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels looking pleased with his discovery.

Zell had an abnormally studious look on her face. “What do you mean by a confluence of energy, Doctor?”

Glo and I chuckled, since Zell’s normal response to him would have been, “Huh? Whatcha talking about?”

“Excellent question, again.” He pointed at Zell with a snappy movement. “Energy encircles our planet both horizontally and vertically.” His arms flailed about as he demonstrated the circles, then he crossed his arms, one atop the other. “At certain points the lines join and there is a high level of intra-space energy. These locations are an ideal landing spot for extraterrestrials, or for the creation of a time/space portal. This inn sits directly atop a high energy confluence crossover point.”

“Well, that’s not a surprise,” said Zell. “We do have an enchanted library with magical books that take us inside them for adventures.”

“Zell!” We all yelled as one.

“Yes! I knew it!” Atticus pumped his arm. “I want in. Can you take me on one of your adventures?”

***

Excerpt from Cowboys and Chaos by Elizabeth Pantley. Copyright 2022 by Elizabeth Pantley. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Pantley. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Pantley
Elizabeth Pantley says that writing her Mystery and Magic book series is the most fun she’s ever had at work. Fans of the series say her joy is evident through the engaging stories she tells. Elizabeth is also the international bestselling author of The No-Cry Sleep Solution and twelve other books for parents. Her books have been published in over twenty languages. She lives in the Pacific Northwest, a beautiful inspiration for her enchanted worlds.

Catch Up With Elizabeth Pantley: www.NoCrySolution.com/books/ Goodreads BookBub – @DestinyFalls Instagram – @destinyfallsmystery Facebook – @DestinyFallsMysteryandMagic

 

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