Death By Mistake
Abigail Keam
(A Josiah Reynolds Mystery, #22)
Publication date: October 13th 2025
Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

In a world of oak-cured bourbon, antebellum mansions, and Thoroughbred farms, secrets buried in the deep earth are never hidden long.
Josiah has resigned herself to being alone. Her boyfriend, Hunter left her for an old flame, and Josiah vows not to interfere in his life. She cares for the man and wants him to be happy. So, it comes as a shock when Detective Drake informs her that Hunter has been arrested for the murder of his wife, Kathy Wickliffe. Josiah simply can’t believe Hunter would harm another human being. She must uncover the truth—and fast. There’s the law, and there is Josiah’s justice!

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The Josiah Reynolds Mystery Series
Death By A HoneyBee
Death By Drowning
Death By Bridle
Death By Bourbon
Death By Lotto
Death by Chocolate
Death by Haunting
Death By Derby
Death By Design
Death By Malice
Death By Drama
Death By Stalking
Death By Deceit
Death By Magic
Death By Shock
Death By Chance
Death By Poison
Death By Greed
Death By Theft
Death By Betrayal
Death By Trauma
Death By Mistake
Death By Mail

AWARDS
2010 Gold Medal Award from Readers’ Favorite for Death By A HoneyBee
2011 Gold Medal Award from Readers’ Favorite for Death By Drowning
2011 USA BOOK NEWS-Best Books List of 2011 as a Finalist for Death By Drowning
2011 USA BOOK NEWS-Best Books List of 2011 as a Finalist for Death By A HoneyBee
2017 Finalist from Readers’ Favorite for Death By Design
2019 Honorable Mention from Readers’ Favorite for Death By Stalking
2019 Top 10 Mystery Novels from Kings River Life Magazine for Murder Under A Blue Moon
2020 Imadjinn Award for Best Mystery – Death By Stalking
2022 Finalist in Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Finalist for Best Historical Category – Murder Under A Full Moon
2022 Finalist the Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Historical Category – Murder Under A New Moon
2022 Death By Chance: A Josiah Reynolds Mystery Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Finalist for Best Cozy Mystery

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EXCERPT:

Hunter Wickliffe woke up. Something had sounded in the night and awakened him. Getting out of bed, he went over to the large double-hung sash window, catching sight of a car racing away around the curve of the driveway to Wickliffe Manor. He could hear the car screech to a stop and then turn onto Old Frankfort Pike. He looked at his watch. It was two twenty-three in the morning.

Donning trousers and flip-flops, Hunter trudged down the hallway and opened the door to his wife’s son, Palley’s bedroom. The bed was messy, but no Palley. He then slogged to Kathy’s room, gently knocked, and opened the bedroom door.

The bed was made, showing no one had slept in it. Odd. His wife usually went to bed around midnight.

After checking the upstairs bathrooms and finding them unoccupied, Hunter went down the grand staircase and searched throughout the entire first floor of his 19th-century home. He couldn’t find either Kathy or Palley.

Hunter checked the decorative ceramic bowl by the open back door and saw Kathy’s keys were there. Stepping into the velvet night, he shouted Kathy’s name.

No one returned his call.

Thinking it strange Kathy was not in the house, Hunter went outside to look for her. Discovering Kathy’s Lexus parked in the driveway, he placed his hand on the hood. Hunter found it cold to the touch, so she had to be on the grounds somewhere. He headed to the stables as he heard the boarded horses acting up. That was always a bad sign.

As he walked down the dark gravel path to the horse barn, a Great Horned Owl hooted in the distance, Black Angus cattle snorted in their pasture, and the crunch-crunch of his flip-flops on the gravel were the only sounds to be heard. The otherwise eerie quiet unnerved Hunter. He made a mental note to get some dogs. Dogs were good indicators of people and things not being in place. They were always aware of the unusual. A dog walking beside him in the dark would give him confidence.

Was he frightened?

Hunter was certainly wary.

Something was definitely off.

He picked up a thick fallen branch from a walnut tree and carried it with him. Closer to the barn, he distinctly heard the horses kicking their stalls and neighing occasionally. Not a good sign. Perhaps a coyote had been sniffing around the stable.

Dropping the branch, Hunter stepped through the side door. Searching for the light switch, he found it and turned on the overhead barn lights. The horses immediately quieted down. He first noticed the pedestal fans, which were supposed to circulate the air on warm nights, were turned off. He looked at his watch again. It was two forty-five. As the night cooled, the fans were programmed to switch off at three.

He stepped to the nearest fan and touched the housing. The metal felt wet. Now what would cause water on the fans? Hunter looked up. The roof wasn’t leaking. Besides, it hadn’t rained.

“What’s going on, ladies?” Hunter asked as he opened the stall doors and checked several horses close to the west entrance until he noticed bales of hay lying in disarray on the floor of the barn’s central aisle. Someone or something had also overturned the sweet feed buckets near the storage closet. A sense of dread filled him.

“Kathy? Kathy, are you here?” Hunter called out.

The only responses were horses nickering. Hunter strained to hear his wife’s response or maybe a faint cry for help. Perhaps she went to check on the horses and fell. He wanted to hear something—anything resembling a human voice.

Certain that something was amiss, Hunter went into the first five stalls and opened the back stall doors to a large paddock, letting the pregnant Thoroughbred mares out. He brought them in only at night to keep coyotes and wandering dogs away from them. Free, the horses ambled over to a water trough for a quick sip of cool water.

The last four stalls contained pleasure horses boarded at the Wickliffe Farm. Hunter slid open the stall door and grabbed the skittish Arabian horse by the halter. “Whoa, girl. Whoa. That’s a good girl.” He opened the back exterior door of the stall and pulled the horse toward the outside. She happily joined the other horses now grazing hay left out for them.

Hunter went to the next stall to check on a Quarter horse when he noticed shiny

splotches of a dark substance on the center aisle’s rubber mat. He squatted down and swiped the dark substance with his finger. The substance was gooey, and as he raised his hand to inspect it, the overhead light illuminated the unmistakable red color. Hunter smelled the red substance and rubbed it between his fingers. As a forensic psychiatrist, he had seen enough dead bodies to know this was coagulated blood!

He jumped up and frantically searched the last stalls. “Kathy! Kathy!” There were two remaining horses, which he quickly pulled into the paddock. It wasn’t until Hunter came to the remaining stall that he discovered Kathy lying on her back with unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling. He quickly checked for a pulse, and when he didn’t discover one, Hunter slid down the wall of the stall in disbelief. Shocked, he sat beside his dead wife and put his head between his hands, moaned, “Oh, Kathy. What did you do? What did you do?”

Author Bio:

Abigail Keam is an award-winning and best-selling author who writes the Josiah Reynolds Mystery Series about a Southern female beekeeper turned amateur sleuth living in the glamorous world of oak-cured bourbon, antebellum mansions, and Thoroughbred farms.
Besides loving history, Kentucky bourbon and chocolate, Abigail loves honeybees and for many years made her living by selling honey at a farmers’ market like her protagonist, Josiah Reynolds. She is an award-winning beekeeper who has won many honey awards at the Kentucky State Fair including the Barbara Horn Award, which is given to beekeepers who rate a perfect 100 in a honey competition.
Miss Abigail has taken her knowledge of beekeeping to create a fictional beekeeping protagonist, Josiah Reynolds, who solves murder mysteries in the Bluegrass. While Miss Abigail’s novels are for enjoyment, she discusses the importance of a local sustainable food economy and land management for honeybees and other creatures.
She currently lives on the Kentucky River in a metal house with her husband and various critters.

Website / Facebook / Pinterest / Instagram / Amazon / Bluesky

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Death By Mistake Crush Blitz

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The Itch of Greed
Christa Nardi
(Izzie Di Sante Mysteries, #6)
Publication date: September 22nd 2025
Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

A dark cloud hangs over baseball season in small town Rosedale when star pitcher Randy Kampton is taken out of the game for good.

The DA is determined to pin the crime on Cole Rigley, a friend’s brother and fellow pitcher, citing the fierce competition for a major league trade as his motive for murder. Rigley’s brother, asks Henry and reluctant restaurant owner Izzie Di Sante to help prove his innocence. Adding fuel to the fire, Kampton stole Rigley’s girlfriend months earlier.

While Kampton’s pitching skills are universally acknowledged, no one, not fans or teammates, has a kind word to say about him, making for a long list of suspects. Rigley, on the other hand, is respected for his talent and team spirit. The wild card is another pitcher recovering from a car accident, whose open roster spot has all three men vying for the same prize.

In Rosedale, loyalty to the minor league team runs deep, and Izzie’s digging into the players’ pasts draws resentment from fans, police, and management alike. When the team’s PR person is targeted after meeting with her, the threats become all too real. The closer Izzie gets to uncovering the truth, on and off the field, the higher the stakes, and the more dangerous the game becomes.

Goodreads / Amazon

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CHAPTER 1:

An alert sounded on my phone as I entered Cenare, the Italian restaurant I owned with my sister Chloe. While Chloe was a foodie, I took care of the business side of things. Before our parents died, I freelanced as a journalist following homicides in New York City.

I was committed to the restaurant and Chloe, but my passion was murder, so I kept the homicide alerts coming. Occasionally, if one sparked my interest, I took some time to search out my next story. Homicides provided a rush the restaurant business didn’t give me. I put my things down on the small table in the kitchen area and pulled up the message.

“Breaking news! The Rosedale Thorny Bats will be hurting this season. Their best pitcher, Randy Kampton, died under suspicious circumstances. His body was discovered by the custodians in the Thorny Bats locker room early this morning. Stay tuned for details.”

The announcement prompted me to check my other sources for unsolved homicides, although I’d never heard of the Thorny Bats or Kampton. I assumed if the man was a pitcher, the sport was baseball. It was spring and our guests or employees occasionally mentioned baseball. Growing up, Chloe and I spent most of our time in the restaurant. We lived and breathed Cenare.

My escape was writing. I knew from experience that the death of those close to you changed your life. My stories focused on the impact of a sudden death – usually a homicide – on those left behind. I found less resistance from law enforcement when I focused on cold cases or those that were stalled. Most often, my casual interviews with those who knew the victim provided clues to the killer.

Unfortunately, sometimes the killer targeted me. Having lived in New York City for five years, I was prepared for that, even in small town Pinewood, Maryland, where murders rarely happened. With the first ever murder in our small town a few years back, I clashed with the local police detective when the immediate conclusion was a burglary, and I disagreed. For the record, I was right.

With the murder of an athlete, Kampton’s death would likely be quickly solved if the alert was any indication. Not finding anything else of note in the alerts, I went through my morning routine of checking income, paying bills, placing orders, and taking inventory. At least I used my degree in business management. I preferred taking care of those tedious tasks before anyone else arrived.

As usual, Chloe arrived with a breakfast treat as I finished the accounting and started the inventory.

“Good morning, Chloe. Those look and smell delicious.”

“Thanks, Izzie. Help yourself. I got this idea in my head and combined ingredients from an apple brownie recipe and a cinnamon streusel cupcake. Ryan assured me they were more than edible.” With money from the estate and the restaurant, Chloe had completed her training at the culinary institute nearby. In and out of the restaurant, she often created dishes. Breakfast for me and whomever else wanted a taste tended not to be traditional Italian. For the restaurant, she kept with the family tradition and stuck to Italian dishes.

I chuckled. “I don’t know how you can cook here all day and then try out new things when you get home.”

“Well, Ryan brought some work home that he needed to get done like yesterday. Only he didn’t get the assignment until that morning.” She shrugged. “I got creative in the kitchen while he worked.”

Since she and Ryan married a few months ago, she hadn’t been as creative with her morning treats, though I could always count on her to provide my breakfast. When she took a week off for her honeymoon, I had to fend for myself, usually stopping at the local bakery on my way to work.

“It’s delicious! Not quite brownie and not quite muffin. Still very moist and I’m a sucker for cinnamon and apples. I’ll have to freeze some of these for the next time I see Henry. Now that he’s taken the detective exam and he may be working part time in Franklin, I hope to see him more often.”

Henry and I had started off as friends and our relationship moved forward from there. He was always a willing assistant and backup when I pursued a story. Helping me out prompted him to pursue his private investigator credentials.

“Speak of the devil.” I showed Chloe the phone, took the container of treats, and sat down at the table.

“Hi, Henry. How are you?”

“Good. I may have a case for you and wanted to give you a heads up. Do you have a few minutes?”

I grabbed a piece of paper off the nearby printer. “Sure. What’s going on?”

“You know the guy who always gives me a hard time about driving an automatic or having a family car? Phil Rigley?”

“Dark hair, hazel eyes, not quite as tall as you, and maybe a year or two younger. A southern twang.”

“That’s him. He called this morning, wanting my opinion. His brother, Cole, plays ball with the Thorny Bats. Cole contacted Phil this morning. Something about a player dying and the police interviewing everyone. Phil didn’t have many details, but he wanted me to look into it.”

My phone pinged with an alert. “I caught one announcement earlier and then another just came in. A custodian found Randy Kampton, a pitcher for that team, dead this morning. It was a sports broadcaster the first time, the usual police blotter the second time. Nothing else. Where did the Thorny Bats come from? Is there a new major league team in Maryland?”

“No. The Baltimore Orioles is the only major league team. The Thorny Bats is a triple-A minor league team out in Rosedale. The players are good and some eventually get picked up by a major league team. I played in college and a few of my teammates went on to the minor leagues. We lost touch but I may see if I can locate them.”

“The news I caught indicated a suspicious death. Thorny Bats is a weird name for a team though.”

“Minor league teams often have interesting names, usually related somehow to their location and often suggested by fans. Rosedale, thorns, and baseball bats – Thorny Bats. Makes perfect sense to me.” He chuckled. “Keep me posted. If it’s a homicide, Phil thinks his brother will be a person of interest. Both Cole and Kampton are pitchers, and Kampton stole his girlfriend.”

“Both would give Cole two motives. I’ll call you after lunch with any updates. Katie just walked in. Right now I best finish the inventory and start the lunch prep.”

Katie was a chef-intern from the culinary institute. We’d hired two to help Chloe and relieve her of 12-hour days. A brunette in her mid-twenties, Katie stood a good six inches shorter than my five foot ten, with the figure of someone who competed in gymnastics through high school and still used her gym membership. She added to Chloe’s energy in the kitchen. Chloe hummed and listened to her favorite tunes when not directing Katie. They worked well together and became fast friends.

Jerry, another intern, comes in mid-afternoon, when Katie leaves. Jerry towers over Katie at six foot. Husky, he looks more like a bodyguard than a chef. Before switching careers after twenty years, Jerry worked for stuffed-shirt lawyers as a paralegal. He burned out about the time his mother became ill. He started as a server and moved into the second intern position. Jerry’s personality and age lent itself to being a calming influence in the kitchen.

“Katie, be sure to try Chloe’s latest breakfast treat, but save some for Henry, please.”

She laughed. “Will do.”

Inventory done, I moved to the restaurant side. As I dressed tables, Jennifer, the manager, joined me. She became the manager when the original manager left. A long-term employee since before Chloe and I took over, Jennifer was in her mid-thirties, older than both Chloe and me. She continued in the role of server most often, but also helped with training new servers, and took on hostess responsibilities when I took time off to chase down a story.

As the waitstaff filtered in, I raced upstairs and put on a dress, a throwback to when our parents were alive. Our mother thought it added an element of class and set Cenare apart from fast-food places. As I reentered the kitchen area, I took a deep breath. I might not be a foodie, but the smell of the spices made me smile.

Lunch went smoothly and I fidgeted at the hostess stand. I wanted to check my computer and phone for any updates on the Kampton death. It had been months since a case grabbed my attention. This time, it sounded like Henry and his buddy wanted me involved. I wasn’t too sure how the league, minor or otherwise, would appreciate me asking questions. Sometimes questions uncovered secrets best left untold, at least from their perspective.

Author Bio:

Christa Nardi is an accomplished author of cozy mysteries with an edge – still no graphic violence or sex or profanity, but touching on social issues. Christa’s background is in higher education and psychology, much as her protagonists, Sheridan Hendley in the Cold Creek and Sheridan Hendley mystery, along with Stacie Maroni in the Stacie Maroni mystery series. She has always loved mysteries – reading them, writing them, and solving them. She reviews books on her blog, predominantly cozy mysteries.

Christa is a member of Sisters in Crime and can be found on occasion at Bouchercon, Killer Nashville, or Malice Domestic. She writes four series: Cold Creek Cozy Mysteries, Sheridan Hendley Mysteries, Stacie Maroni Mysteries, and the Izzie Di Sante mysteries. Christa also collaborates with Cassidy Salem in writing the Hannah and Tamar Mysteries, featuring teen sleuth sisters.

When not writing or reading, Christa and her husband enjoy travel, their three grandchildren, and their dogs. Christa supports dog rescue and local shelters.

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The Itch of Greed Blitz

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Murder, Mystery & Mothers
Fran Heap
(A Willowcroft Cozy Mystery, #1)
Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

“You’d better leave town or else”.

After a devastating betrayal mystery writer Tammy Rumbelow flees LA for a charming blue cottage in Willowcroft, Michigan. But when a yellowed letter in the attic reveals an unsolved 70-year-old locked room murder in her living room, her peace is shattered.

Determined to start fresh, Tammy enlists the help of a ragtag group of locals:

Bookstore owner Olivia Huddlestone offers a sanctuary for clandestine conversations and genealogical sleuthing among her shelves.

Eccentric Mrs. Hazel Temperance mines her knitting circle for gossip.

Retired detective “Wally” has contacts at the sheriff’s department.

Tech whiz kid Xander Simmons hasn’t met a computer he didn’t like—or a website he can’t hack.

And a stray cat with a nose for clues…

As threatening letters appear and break-ins escalate around town, Tammy must prove to herself—and her inner critic—that she’s capable of solving a murder, or will that be two?

Perfect for fans of multi-generational mysteries filled with quirky characters like Only Murders in the Building and crime-solving writers like Castle.

The complete series:

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

At three in the morning, with her cursor blinking on an empty page, Tammy Rumbelow stumbled upon an online listing in rural Michigan. For the First time in months, a flicker of hope sparked.

The realtor’s photos of the little blue cottage with its front porch and white picket fence, had set her heart alight. The interior was as enchanting as the exterior, featuring an antique writing desk where inspiration could strike.

On a whim—or perhaps out of desperation—she’d picked up the phone and bought it based on the pictures alone. She had never even visited the state before. Had fate handed her a lifeline, or had she made the biggest mistake of her life?

Now, six weeks later, Tammy’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel; nerves and fanfare clashed in her stomach. This was it—her fresh start. But a familiar undercurrent of doubt threatened to bubble to the surface. She turned off the highway. The country roads, flanked by dense forests of oak, maple, and pine, marked the last stretch of her six-day drive from Los Angeles to Willowcroft.

She rolled down the window. The crisp breeze tousled long, wavy strands of brown hair over her face. Tammy inhaled, savoring the clean air. It reminded her of childhood summers—when life was untangled.

As the miles stretched behind her, the hum of the tires a constant companion, fragments of her former life in LA surfaced. Tammy’s chest constricted at the memory of her best manuscript—a boundary-pushing idea. But she’d never seen it in print, at least not under her name. Instead, her rushed, uninspired replacement made it to the shelves, the one cobbled together in the aftermath, her creativity fractured and trust shattered.

The book reviews rang in her head. “No emotional depth.” “Lacked soul.” Tammy winc ed, acknowledging their bitter truth. But the one that stung the deepest: “She’s not just over forty, she’s over, full stop.” They don’t know the real story behind those pages.

“You can never do anything right,” her mother’s sneer boomed, reopening old wounds. It had taken years to quiet the nagging doubts from her childhood, but the betrayal let those words flood back stronger than ever. The steering wheel grew slick under her clammy palms.

A road sign came into view, providing a diversion. “Welcome to Willowcroft. Township Population 999. Greater Willowcroft Population 5,124.”

Will I tip the scales to an even thousand? Any distraction helped. Was two thousand miles far enough away to break free?

Author Bio:

I am based in Melbourne, Australia but have lived in London, Copenhagen and New Jersey. I’ve been to 61 countries but want to visit over 190.

I’m a poor excuse of a redhead who loves ancient ruins and drains, hates dusting, revels in going behind the scenes, can’t smile in photos and detests selfie sticks (though I now own one).

I have a penchant for collecting quirky data and my favourite saying is: curiosity killed the cat, but information brought him back.

I have wanted to be a writer since I was nine but also had aspirations of being a famous actress, an astronaut, owning a department store and opening up a youth hostel. I became a career Nanny and Neonatal Nurse instead.

Now I am an author of cozy mystery novels (and travel books).

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