Title: The Dreamer of
Downing Street
Author: Roberta L. Smith
Series: The Mickey McCoy Series
(Prequel)
Genre:
Paranormal/Mystery/Romance/Historical
Publisher: Self Published
Release Date: Aug 23 2014
Edition/Formats Available In: eBook
& Print
Blurb/Synopsis:
In 1944 Denver, twenty-six year-old
Franklin Powell is doing what he does best, helping clients with his psychic
gift. Then his brother causes the past to come crashing into the present and a
memory Frank has kept buried since the age of six surfaces. Now his life is in
an uproar. He must prove that what he remembers is true or his mother may spend
the rest of her life in prison. But even if he succeeds, it appears there is a
powerful someone behind the scenes who could care less if she is innocent. Why?
Because of a seething hatred for Frank. To make matters worse, the woman he
loves needs his help with a serious problem of her own—a problem that could get
him killed. Frank can’t let that stop him. He dives right in and while his
psychic gift doesn’t seem to be doing him any favors, it’s a good thing that a
couple of newly-acquired ghosts appear to be on his side.
Book Links
Every author has a
writing process. But what is your READING
process? Favorite spot, must have a cup of tea or coffee or soda, or snack, or
something? Please
tell us your reading habit!
Mostly I read at night, in bed, before I go to sleep. If I
start a book, I will do my best to finish it even if I’m not liking it all that
much. Often books start out slow and I
end up getting into the characters and the story and I’m happy I continued to
read. If I don’t like a book at the
outset, it may take me days and days to get into it. If the writing is outright bad, I don’t
continue, but I will know that in the first paragraph and don’t waste my time. Unfortunately,
I’m a slow reader which means I can’t read as many books as I’d like. If I love a book, however, I read for hours
whenever and wherever. I don’t need a
favorite spot or cup of tea or coffee. I
just go for it.
Roberta L. Smith was born and raised in
Southern California. She is a graduate
of the University of Redlands and lives in the High Desert with her
husband. She is an active member of the
High Desert Branch of the California Writers Club. Roberta had always been intrigued by the
unexplained. Her favorite stories
growing up involved ghosts and sometimes the macabre. As a child, she wrote a
letter to Boris Karloff telling him she knew he didn’t mean to kill the little
girl in “Frankenstein,” so it’s no surprise that the four novels she has
published thus far are in the paranormal genre.
Author Links
Authors Other Works
The Mickey McCoy Paranormal Mystery
Series
One of Life’s Distorted Moments
Stand Alones
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
Leadville, Colorado - 1924
I COULD FEEL Mother’s anxiety the moment she took my hand to
pull me out of the canvas top touring car. I landed with a squishy sound as my
boots hit the sloshy ground and I righted myself. The sight before me was
forlorn to say the least: a couple of cabins―shacks really―a privy, shed and
the hoist frame of a mine shaft no longer in use, all dusted with snow. It was
spring, but just barely. And it was cold.
“You’ll be all right with the boy,” our driver called to my
mother from his seat inside the car, arm outside the window, finger pointed.
“Just remember what I told you. Call her Mrs. Tabor. She don’t like when people
address her as Baby Doe. Show her respect. If she opens the door with a shotgun
in her hand, just talk real nice. She guards the Matchless like a rabid dog and
don’t trust people much. I ain’t sayin’ I blame her, just that’s how she be.”
Mother nodded and started toward one of the cabins, my hand
in hers. I nearly cried out that she was hurting me, her grip was that tight.
But I thought better of it. A tongue lashing would most likely result and that
would be more painful. I stuck my free hand in the right-hand pocket of my coat
and grabbed hold of one of the toy cars I kept there.
My heart beat rapidly. I was anxious, too. Not because of
where we were or who we were about to meet. I was concerned for Mother because
I’d never seen her in such a state. She paused for a moment and took several
deep breaths as she stared at the small, one-room shack ahead of us. It cast a
friendless feel out here on the hill amid the other wooden structures that were
all part of the derelict mine. Constructed of planks that had weathered many
winters, it wasn’t exactly ramshackle, but it was close. Not that I would have
thought of that word at the time. I was six.
After a few more steps, my anxiety left me and the happiness
I felt at being on a trip with Mother—just me, not my older brother Bobby nor
my older sister Jane, just me—took hold. My siblings got most of Mother’s
attention at home. With only me in tow, I would be foremost in her mind.
I looked at the front door of the cabin and “knowings”
hopped into my head. Back then, that’s what I called the psychic thoughts that
came to me. I knew we were about to meet an old woman who had been beautiful at
one time. So beautiful that other people had been jealous. I knew that she was
hated and that she lived alone.
I will just have a
talk with that woman. So what if she’s peculiar, if they say she’s lost her
marbles . . .
I glanced up at Mother. “Here, Mama,” I said, offering her a
fistful of aggies and cat’s-eyes I kept stashed in my pocket along with the
cars.
“What?” Her brows knit together as she looked at the
contents of my hand.
“You said she lost her marbles. She can have these.”
Immediately my mother’s face turned to granite. I’d
responded to something I thought
she’d said aloud. “Why do you like to torment me?” There was a frantic
undercurrent to her tone and the lines around her mouth deepened.
My heart seemed to freeze as it always did when I said
something wrong and she glared at me with disapproval. La-la-la-laa. La. La . . . I sang in my head to
block any more of her self-talk.
Mother took another step and the front door creaked open a
few inches.
“Stop!” a sharp, clear voice rang out. “What do you want?
Who’s that boy with you?”
Mother stalled. The word “ostracized” came to me. My brain
changed the word to “ostrich-size” which made me think the woman we were about
to meet was big like an ostrich.
Mother’s voice cracked when she spoke. “This is my son,
Franklin.”
The door opened farther and my jaw dropped. We were in the
presence of the old woman I had seen last night amid one of the strangest
experiences that had ever happened to me.
The Heiress of Linn Hagh by Karen Charlton
The Curse of Malenfer Manor
