First Chapter: Jury Duty is Murder by Kate Damon

The verdict is in; a famed athlete is headed for prison. The jurors have done their job and are free to go back to their lives. But after being sequestered for four months, life as some knew it no longer exists.

HAROLD ASHMAN’s house is almost destroyed by a careless driver. Exotic dancer, CEECEE LAINE, discovers that her boyfriend is two-timing her, and she no longer has a job. Actor ALEX MANNING learns his career is down the tubes, and 72-year-old, HELEN RYDER, discovers her family is plotting to put her in an old folks home.

Then things take a turn for the worse. When former jurors start dropping like flies, CeeCee, Helen, Harold and Alex are convinced there’s a killer on the loose. Now the feuding foursome must find him before he kills them—or before they save him the trouble by killing each other.

Jury Duty is Murder is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

They surged en masse through the double glass doors and down the steps of the courthouse.  Expressions grim, the jurors stopped to face the dozens of TV cameras and reporters camped in front.  To the casual spectator, they presented a united front.  The battles that raged behind closed doors and threatened a mistrial appeared to be forgotten.  Only the most discerning eye would suspect otherwise.

The prosecutor made an obligatory statement, followed by one of the lawyers for the defense.  Cameras whirred dutifully, but the half-hearted questions the reporters asked didn’t fool anyone.  They were simply biding time until the real star of the media circus—juror #5—took her place behind the podium.  No one else—not the high-priced lawyers, not the other jurors, not even the tearful family members—existed as far as the media were concerned.   

Wearing her trade-mark pink “barely there” leather outfit and high-heeled pink boots, juror #5 stood out like a bright beacon in the sea of black suits and dull dresses favored by the other jurors.  Dubbed Cotton Candy by the press—CeeCee for short—she strutted red-carpet style to the podium.  Her hair circled her head in a pink cloud, falling to her shoulders in springy curls.  Eye-popping boobs rose and fell like gentle waves threatening to spill over her low neckline.  

Taking her place behind the microphone, she posed for cameras and demurely answered—and in some cases, refused to answer—questions in a throaty voice.  Only a handful of jurors agreed to talk to the media following the verdict.   

The reporters hammered away at her—rat-a-tat-tat.  What was going through her mind during deliberations? What took so long for the jury to settle on a verdict?  Which juror was the hold-out?  

The jurors had been advised not to give out too many details.  The verdict was a result of the evidence—nothing more.  CeeCee stuck to the script, albeit in a throaty purr that was better suited to a bedroom than outside a courtroom.

The oldest juror—the bitchy one the other jurors called Schoolmarm—glared at CeeCee with obvious disapproval.  Next to her, juror #7—an egocentric actor—tried in vain to push his way in front of the TV cameras and claim his fifteen minutes of fame.  The juror known as Shoe tried to pull a Houdini, but no escape route could be found.   

 But they weren’t the only ones who objected to CeeCee running the show.  A few feet away, the man known as Dipstick shuffled his feet, and shot visual arrows at the clamoring crowd.

The way they carried on—the media—you’d think that little Miss “Barely There” came up with the verdict all by her lonesome.  

But he knew better.  

Growing visibly weary of the questions, CeeCee flicked a strand of hair away from her face and looked straight into a Channel 9 camera.  “I’m so glad it’s over,” she purred.

Over.  The word was like a bullet exploding in Dipstick’s head.  He clenched his fists tight, driving his nails deep into his sweaty flesh.

He watched as she moved away, the crowd following in her wake.  

He lifted his hands and stared at the blood slowly pooling in his palms.  

I’ve got news for you, little Miss Barely There.  It’s not over.  Not by a long shot.  

About the Author:

When Kate Damon is not writing, she and her husband enjoy RVing, spending time with family and friends, raising Monarch butterflies, and playing a wicked game of bridge.

Writing as Margaret Brownley, she has published more than 40 novels and is a New York Times bestselling author. Known for her memorable characters and humor, she is a two-time Romance Writers of America Rita finalist.

Not counting the book she wrote in sixth grade, and the puzzle of the missing socks, this is her first mystery.

Website ➜http://margaret-brownley.com/

Twitter ➜https://www.x.com/katejuryduty

Facebook ➜https://www.facebook.com/MargaretBrownleyAuthor/ and https://www.facebook.com/p/Kate-Damon-61565155275435/

Instagram ➜https://www.instagram.com/katedamonbooks

BookBub➜https://www.bookbub.com/authors/kate-damon

Goodreads ➜ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4072660.Kate_Damon and https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/163681.Margaret_Brownley

First Chapter: Friends Are Forever by Mike Martin

 

Title: Friends Are Forever (A Sgt. Windflower Mystery Book 16)

Author: Mike Martin

Publisher: Ottawa Press and Publishing

Publication Date: May 1, 2025

Pages: 318

Genre: Mystery

Format: Paperback, eBook & FREE on Kindle Unlimited

BOOK BLURB:

As Winston Windflower, his police colleagues and their families gather in Marystown, Newfoundland, to celebrate those being promoted up the RCMP ranks, a sophisticated heist by international mobsters and local biker gangs unfolds in multiple cities and towns throughout the province, robbing banks and businesses of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The Mounties soon realize more than money is being lost.

In this, the sixteenth novel in the Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, author Mike Martin continues to craft intrigue in the cultural and geographical setting unique to Newfoundland and Labrador. Readers new to the Windflower mysteries and those returning will experience the joys of a close-knit community that thrives on the simpler things in life: por’ cakes, a lighthouse in serious need of a facelift, TV movie nights and the warmth of get-togethers with family and friends. 

Friends are Forever is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

Sergeant Winston Windflower couldn’t be happier for his friend and colleague Eddie Tizzard. On Windflower’s recommendation and with the approval of the big boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, Tizzard was being promoted to sergeant in the Mounties, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But in terms of being proud, Windflower might have to stand in line because in the crowd that was gathered at RCMP Headquarters in Marystown, Newfoundland, were Tizzard’s partner, Carrie Evanchuk, and his dad, Richard Tizzard. Both were beaming from ear to ear as they juggled Eddie and Carrie’s two children in their arms.

Carrie had the easier task as little Sophie had been fed and was now snoozing in milk heaven. Hughie, on the other hand, would try and make a break for it every now and then, so Richard had to hang on tightly. He finally gave in and handed the little boy over to his Aunt Brenda, who was sitting farther back in the audience with the rest of Tizzard’s extended family.

Eddie looked down over the assembled RCMP officers and his family and smiled when he saw Hughie trying to get up closer towards him. He could also hear Hughie yelling “Daddy, Daddy” whenever the little boy got pulled back into the crowd. He smiled again as his superintendent called him to the podium and asked him to take off his corporal’s uniform jacket. Ron Quigley then handed him his new jacket with three chevrons pointing down and a crown on top on the right sleeve of his dress uniform, the RCMP’s famous red serge.

There were no speeches. That wasn’t the RCMP’s style. So, the two men shook hands, and Tizzard walked back to his place to thunderous applause from his fellow officers and family. Next on the agenda was the promotion of Windflower’s assistant in Grand Bank, Constable Samira Gupta, to corporal. This time Windflower did the honours, and Gupta exchanged her old uniform for one with two chevrons pointing down that indicated her new rank. She didn’t have any family in the crowd but was very popular with the troops, given the nice round of applause that she also received.

Some of those were special cheers from Windflower’s wife, Sheila Hillier, and his daughters, Stella and Amelia Louise, who had come over from Grand Bank for the occasion. All three loved Sam Gupta. They loved Eddie Tizzard, too. But they all had also made a strong connection with Windflower’s new sidekick and now brand new corporal.

There was a small reception afterwards with coffee and a large cake with the RCMP insignia on it. Both girls had a large piece of cake while Windflower and Sheila visited with Richard Tizzard and Carrie. It was a great celebration day for the Force, as the members called it, and there was plenty of good cheer all around.

But while the Mounties and their families were celebrating, something far more sinister was happening a short distance from the hotel where they were eating their cake.

A group of men had ambushed an armoured truck, and two of them had managed to somehow get inside and now had both armed guards hostage. They ordered the guards to undress, took them to another vehicle, a large panel van, and shoved them inside. As someone else drove them off, the first two men stripped and put on the security guards’ uniforms.

As the reception continued at the hotel, the fake security guards resumed the route that the real guards had been on and made stops at a number of local businesses before making one last visit to the bank in the shopping mall. They looked like the real deal as they walked into the branch. But instead of making their usual stop at one of the tellers, they asked to speak to the manager. A few minutes later the manager was left tied and muffled in the safe, and the false security officers walked out through the bank’s main doors with bags of loot from their efforts.

By the time the alarms were sounded and the bank manager released from the safe, the robbers were long gone. Gone from the bank and gone from Marystown. The real security guards were found out on the highway where they had walked to after being dumped in a deserted area. The day after, when the police started looking for suspects, they were not only off the Burin Peninsula, but they were waiting for a flight at the airport in Gander to take them completely out of the province. Of course, none of that would be known for days as the investigation into the boldest crime in Marystown history began.

After the ceremony and reception, the parties went their separate ways. Eddie Tizzard and his family went back to their house for a quick visit with everybody before his father and sisters and their crew headed back to Grand Bank. Windflower made the rounds, saying goodbye to everyone before loading the girls into Sheila’s car and driving back home to Grand Bank himself. It was springtime, or some facsimile of spring in that part of the world.

April meant not just showers but any combination of rain, snow and sleet. Often you got all three on the same day. Today it was cool and clear. Not quite sunny, but close enough, thought Windflower as he watched the urban setting of Marystown melt into the barren wilderness of the highway back home. He also thought about how lucky he was, lucky not just because he’d seen two of his favourite people in the world get recognized but because of his life in general.

He had recently moved back into the RCMP after a period away for reflection about what to do next in the world. He had been a Mountie all of his adult life and was tired of the time away from his family and the increasing dangers of the work. Plus, it was an organization that seemed resistant to change, and that meant it was hard to grow. Windflower tried a few other things but gradually and steadily came back to the RCMP and police work. At the urging of another old friend and now superintendent, Ron Quigley, he agreed to take over as inspector of the whole southeast coast section of the RCMP.

There were some conditions. First of all, he could continue to live in Grand Bank and not have to transfer over to Marystown. That was a deal breaker for Sheila and so for him, too. He could work out of the old Grand Bank detachment that had been shuttered during the last round of funding cutbacks. He would travel back and forth and be available to meet with staff in Marystown on a regular basis. Eddie Tizzard, now a sergeant, would be his second-in-command and oversee the operations over there on a day-to-day basis.

Secondly, he would need his main admin person, Betsy Molloy, back again. She had been his right-hand person and eyes and ears in the community as long as he had been in Grand Bank. And he would need an assistant to help him in the police work. At one time that had been Carrie Evanchuk, but she was quite busy with two small children at the moment. So, Corporal Samira Gupta had been brought in to fill the breach. She had proven quite capable as well as personable, and Windflower had added her to his gratitude list.

But his true gratitude was for the joys of his life, Sheila and their two girls, Stella and Amelia Louise. Sheila was his foundation and his rock in life. He knew that no matter what happened during the day, he would come home to her love at night. And the girls kept him young and youthful. His late Uncle Frank had told him that we think we are here to teach the little ones, but if we listen carefully, we will learn far more about life from them. He was right, thought Windflower, peeking into the back seat to see them playing together as he took the first exit into Grand Bank that would take them to their house.

They had all just gotten inside when his cell phone rang. It was Gupta.

“You better come back over,” said Gupta. “There’s been a robbery. More than one, in fact.”

“What’s going on?” asked Windflower.

“Hard to say right away,” said Gupta. “I’m at the bank where the bank manager was trapped in their safe by two armed security officers. But we’re now getting more reports from local businesses that they are involved as well.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

“Problems?” asked Sheila.

“A robbery in Marystown,” said Windflower. “Sorry, I have to go back.”

He kissed Sheila and gave both the girls a hug. He patted his collie, Lady, on the head. She looked surprised and disappointed that he was leaving. Without her. “Sorry, girl,” he said as he left to get into his cruiser and drive back out of Grand Bank.

About the Author:

Mike Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.

He is the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 16 books in this light mystery series with the publication of Friends are Forever. 

A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawn won the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.

Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.

Mike is Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.

Website & Social Media:

Website ➜  https://sgtwindflowermysteries.com/ 

Twitter ➜ https://www.x.com/mike54martin 

Facebook ➜  https://www.facebook.com/TheWalkerOnTheCapeReviewsAndMore

Chapter One: The Golden Manuscripts: A Novel by Evy Journey

Title: The Golden Manuscripts: A Novel
Author: Evy Journey
Publisher: Independent
Publication Date: April 2, 2023
Pages: 360
Genre: Historical Fiction/Women's Fiction/Mystery

Chapter One

November 2000

Rare Manuscripts

I sometimes wish I was your girl next door. The pretty one who listens to you and sympathizes. Doesn’t ask questions you can’t or don’t want to answer. Comes when you need to talk. 

She’s sweet, gracious, respectful, and sincere. An open book. Everybody’s ideal American girl. 

At other times, I wish I was the beautiful girl with creamy skin, come-hither eyes, and curvy lines every guy drools over. The one you can’t have, unless you’re a hunk of an athlete, or the most popular hunk around. Or you have a hunk of money.

But I’m afraid the image I project is that of a brain with meager social skills. The one you believe can outsmart you in so many ways that you keep out of her way—you know the type. Or at least you think you do. Just as you think you know the other two.

I want to believe I’m smart, though I know I can be dumb. I’m not an expert on anything. So, please wait to pass judgement until you get to know us better—all three of us. 

Who am I then? 

I’m not quite sure yet. I’m the one who’s still searching for where she belongs. 

I’m not a typical American girl. Dad is Asian and Mom is white. I was born into two different cultures, neither of which dug their roots into me. But you’ll see my heritage imprinted all over me—on beige skin with an olive undertone; big grey eyes, double-lidded but not deep-set; a small nose with a pronounced narrow bridge; thick, dark straight hair like Dad’s that glints with bronze under the sun, courtesy of Mom’s genes. 

I have a family: Mom, Dad, Brother. Sadly, we’re no longer one unit. Mom and Dad are about ten thousand miles apart. And my brother and I are somewhere in between.

I have no one I call friend. Except myself, of course. That part of me who perceives my actions for what they are. My inner voice. My constant companion and occasional nemesis. Moving often and developing friendships lasting three years at most, I’ve learned to turn inward. 

And then there’s Arthur, my beautiful brother. Though we were raised apart, we’ve become close. Like me, he was born in the US. But he grew up in my father’s home city where his friends call him Tisoy, a diminutive for Mestizo that sometimes hints at admiration, sometimes at mockery. Locals use the label for anyone with an obvious mix of Asian and Caucasian features. We share a few features, but he’s inherited a little more from Mom. Arthur has brown wavy hair and green eyes that invite remarks from new acquaintances. 

Little Arthur, not so little anymore. Taller than me now, in fact, by two inches. We’ve always gotten along quite well. Except the few times we were together when we were children and he’d keep trailing me, like a puppy, mimicking what I did until I got annoyed. I’d scowl at him, run away so fast he couldn’t catch up. Then I’d close my bedroom door on him. Sometimes I wondered if he annoyed me on purpose so that later he could hug me and say, “I love you” to soften me up. It always worked.

I love Arthur not only because we have some genes in common. He has genuinely lovable qualities—and I’m sure people can’t always say that of their siblings. He’s caring and loyal, and I trust him to be there through thick and thin. I also believe he’s better put together than I am, he whom my parents were too busy to raise. 

I am certain of only one thing about myself: I occupy time and space like everyone. My tiny space no one else can claim on this planet, in this new century. But I still do not have a place where I would choose to spend and end my days. I’m a citizen of a country, though. The country where I was born. And yet I can’t call that country home. I don’t know it much. But worse than that, I do not have much of a history there. 

Before today, I trudged around the globe for two decades. Cursed and blessed by having been born to a father who was a career diplomat sent on assignments to different countries, I’ve lived in different cities since I was born, usually for three to four years at a time. 

Those years of inhabiting different cities in Europe and Asia whizzed by. You could say I hardly noticed them because it was the way of life I was born into. But each of those cities must have left some lasting mark on me that goes into the sum of who I am. And yet, I’m still struggling to form a clear idea of the person that is Me. This Me can’t be whole until I single out a place to call home. 

Everyone has a home they’ve set roots in. We may not be aware of it, but a significant part of who we think we are—who others think we are—depends on where we’ve lived. The place we call home. A place I don’t have. Not yet. But I will.

I was three when I left this city. Having recently come back as an adult, I can’t tell whether, or for how long, I’m going to stay. You may wonder why, having lived in different places, I would choose to seek a home in this city—this country as alien to me as any other town or city I’ve passed through. 

By the end of my last school year at the Sorbonne, I was convinced that if I were to find a home, my birthplace might be my best choice. I was born here. In a country where I can claim citizenship. Where the primary language is English. My choice avoids language problems and pesky legal residency issues. Practical and logical reasons, I think.

About the Author

Evy Journey writes. Stories and blog posts. Novels that tend to cross genres. She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse.

Evy studied psychology (M.A., University of Hawaii; Ph.D. University of Illinois). So her fiction spins tales about nuanced characters dealing with contemporary life issues and problems. She believes in love and its many faces.

Her one ungranted wish: To live in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She has visited and stayed a few months at a time.

Author Links  

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Chapter One: Going There: Tales from the Riviera and Beyond by Donna Fletcher Crow

 

Title: Going There: Tales from the Riviera and Beyond
Author: Donna Fletcher Crow
Publisher: Verity Press
Publication Date: December 3, 2023
Pages: 152
Genre: Travel Memoir / Short Story Collection

In the summer of 2021 my daughter-in-law and I slipped through a brief window of sanity in a world driven mad by the Covid pandemic. Our purpose was to see my granddaughter Jane to a summer program in Monaco, then back to her ballet school in Switzerland. In spite of restrictions, protests, and nail-biting worries, the result was a marvelous experience.

I invited characters from my mystery series to join me in my imagination and have their own adventures in each setting. Their encounters are: Nice: “The Crime of Passion”; St Tropez: “The Mother Decrees”; Villefrance-sur-de-mer: “The Ghost Boy”; Monaco: “Fracas in Monaco”; The Loire Valley: “The Old Winemaker”;  Saint Gallen: “Whispers of Legend”.

The final coda is “Home Another Way” As 2 years later I return from quite a different trip aboard the Queen Mary 2 and my characters join in the celebrations as worlds coincide.

More information on the book GOING THERE: TALES FROM THE RIVIERA AND BEYOND can be found at https://www.amazon.com/Going-There-Tales-Riviera-Beyond-ebook/dp/B0CPHBRVJH?ref_=ast_author_mpb.

First Chapter

The Beginning

Summer 2021

Okay, I booked this trip knowing the world—and especially travel—was still in the grip of a pandemic. Covid-19 was causing cancellations, cutbacks, and inconvenient constraints. It was, however, hardly the first international trip I had undertaken at a time of world-wide crisis.

But first. Let me explain. Granddaughter Jane had an interval between her summer program at the Princess Grace Ballet School in Monaco and her return to her regular studies in Basel. Daughter-in-law Kelly and I were convinced she needed our chaperonage. Never mind that Jane had recently turned a very mature 19, was securely locked in during her time in Monaco, and that she knows Central Europe far better than either one of us…

The fact is, though, Kelly and I are both writers, so we’re forever keen for new experiences to add to our tool kits.  Kelly is a food writer with a Cordon Bleu Grand Diplome, and I am always eager for all things literary—especially intriguing settings for murder to ensue. Kelly crafted an itinerary perfectly suited to both our interests. 

My husband took some convincing. People were still dying of the dreaded virus. We read daily of travelers detained for weeks in hotel rooms at their own expense when they tested positive. Even if one passed the crucial medical test required to board a plane, there would be numerous inconveniences (and there were many reports of tests giving “false positives”)… I smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, dear.” And continued packing.

After all, travel restrictions had eased to the point of international travel not being entirely forbidden as it had been for the previous 18 months. Besides, as I said earlier, I had done this before. 

In 2001 I took one of the first planes to fly out of Boise after 9/11. The international crisis certainly added a frisson to my “Holy Longing for Sacred Places” pilgrimage through England and Scotland. Some of my most vivid memories include smiling at the lapel pins of crossed Union Jacks and Stars and Strips one saw everywhere in London. And sitting on a remote beach at the back of Holy Island—on the spot where Vikings first invaded England—and seeing Royal Air Force fighter jets roar overhead. Still, I knew my shivers and awareness of distant war could hold nothing to the terror the Lindisfarne monks had experienced. Twenty years later I asked, What terrors could the inconveniences of a world-wide pandemic hold for me?

And even that was hardly my first experience traveling in troubled times. In 1996 I had set out for Northern Ireland shortly after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement with my teenage daughter and her best friend in tow. Thankfully, the IRA bombs that exploded two blocks from the library where I was researching and the bomb that demolished a London bus while we were there didn’t phase us. But the bombing of Central Manchester profoundly influence the book I was working on.

Again, there had been the time in March of 2003, when I was in retreat at a monastery in Yorkshire and the American president issued an ultimatum giving Saddam Hussein 48 hours to disarm. My husband called and said, “Come home. Now. There will be war.” 

My dash the length of England down to London remains a blur in my mind, but I will never forget crossing London in the tube, knowing that if the expected gas attack were to happen then, the noxious cloud would spread down the tunnels unhindered.

No, I wasn’t terrified, or even frightened. As is my normal fallback position, I took the historical perspective. My uppermost thought was: Is this what it was like during the Blitz?

So, in more modern times, as I sat out my postponed flight in the Brussels airport, awaiting a rescheduled plane with a worse connection and less comfortable seat, and much-delayed arrival, (who wants to be sitting in an airport when they could be on a beach in Nice?)

my mind turned to those pivotal moments that fill the history books I love to read. What was it like for the little, everyday people caught up in the momentum of the times? My experiences are small potatoes, indeed, compared to the great annals, but realizing that my inconveniences are part of experiencing history helps relieve the frustration and adds a wider meaning to the moment.

What’s having to wear a face mask compared to wearing a gas mask? What sort of depravation is a pre-packaged sanitized meal (no matter how weird hummus and bruschetta tasted for breakfast) compared to years of rationing? Or even starvation? Some day will we be talking about having a “good lockdown” like our parents or grandparents talked about a “good war”?

Just a year ago our nightly walk in the park near our home was a great adventure. Our only outing. Today, since the airplanes and airports are less full, we intrepid ones who have ventured out—perhaps beyond our comfort zone, and willing to put up with the added inconveniences for family or business needs—find an element of camaraderie in the shared adventure; if not actual danger.

As my waiting dragged on, my mind turned to the writing I hoped this foray into the unknown would inspire. A series of blog articles, no doubt, but what else? A novel for one of the three mystery series I write? Hmm—perhaps Felicity and Antony from my Monastery Murders could be visiting a monastery in France or Switzerland and find a gripping puzzle that led them to look into ages past? Or Lord and Lady Danvers from my Victorian true-crime series could travel to the continent—after all, the Victorians were inveterate travelers—and be drawn into a crime only they could solve? Or Elizabeth and Richard, my retired English lit professors, now living in England, what literary figures might they be studying on the Riviera when they inconveniently trip over a body?

Well, it did make the waiting go more quickly. And the questions returned many times during the ensuing days of gorgeous touring, but in the end they all presented me with ideas for short stories—which, Gentle Reader, I offer to you here.

About the Author

Donna Fletcher Crow, Novelist of British History, is an award-winning author who has published some 50 books in a career spanning more than 40 years. Her best-known work is Glastonbury, The Novel of Christian England, a grail search epic depicting 1500 years of British history. The Celtic Cross is a 10-book series covering the history of Scotland and England from the 6th to the 20th century. 

Crow writes 3 mystery series: The Monastery Murders, contemporary clerical mysteries with clues hidden deep in the past; Lord Danvers Investigates, Victorian true-crime stories within a fictional setting; and The Elizabeth and Richard literary suspense series, featuring various literary figures. Where There is Love is a 6-book biographical novel series of leaders of the early Evangelical Anglican movement. The Daughters of Courage is a semi-autobiographical trilogy family saga of Idaho pioneers.

Reviewers routinely praise the quality of her writing and the depth of her research. Crow says she tries never to write about a place she hasn’t visited and one of her goals in writing is to give her readers a you-are-there experience.

Donna and her husband of 60 years live in Boise, Idaho. They have 4 children and 15 grandchildren, and she is an avid gardener.

Author Links  

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