Your First Read of A Dark and Deadly Journey

Evelyne Redfern returns for book 3!

I wanted to share something special with you today. Something I’ve been sitting on for a long time!

In September, A Dark and Deadly Journey, book 3 of my Evelyne Redfern mystery series, hits bookstore shelves. This book sees Evelyne and her partner David jetting off to World War 2 Lisbon in search of a missing informant who might hold the key to Britain winning the war. It’s full of parties, glamor, spies, and deception—all things I love in my mysteries!

Today I’m sharing with you an exclusive excerpt from the book. The story picks up right as Evelyne and David arrive in Portugal and disembark from the plane. All they have to do is drive into Lisbon and start their investigation, but, and as Evelyne’s readers will no doubt know, nothing is quite so straightforward when it comes to Evelyne!

The aeroplane taxied to a stop and our fellow passengers began to stand to collect their things. I reached for my handbag and shifted to button my navy wool coat and reset my matching felt hat from where it had been pushed off the crown of my head. I suspected I looked a state, but there would be time to freshen up once we arrived at our hotel.

I followed David out of our seats and down the aisle to the metal steps leading to the grass airstrip. Beside the aeroplane, we collected our luggage, David gallantly offering to carry mine, and turned to the airfield’s little building that marked the exit.

We were halfway across the field when I said, “I believe Miss Summers arranged for a car to collect us. Let me just check . . .”

I opened my handbag, intent on pulling out the typed schedule, when I looked up sharply.

“What’s the matter?” asked David.

“My book isn’t here.”

“Do you remember putting it back in your handbag?”

“I’m not certain.” I’d had it before I nodded off and then . . . “I don’t think I did.”

He glanced back to the thin stream of passengers behind us. All of the luggage was gone and the crew was chatting, cigarettes between their lips, a few feet away from the aeroplane.

“It probably slipped between the seats. You’d better go back and look.” He reached for my suitcase. “I’ll wait for you inside the building.”

I hurried off, hand clamped firmly on my hat to keep the wind whipping across the airfield from stealing it off my head. None of the crew looked up as I approached. I would just slip up the stairs, nip in, retrieve my book, and be on my way, no protracted explanation required.

I tiptoed up the steps, but as soon as I was through the open door, I realized that I wasn’t alone in the cabin. Indeed, I could see the top of a man’s head, leaning against a window asleep.

“What I wouldn’t give to be able to sleep like that through turbulence,” I muttered before calling out, “Sir, we’ve landed.”

I went to my seat and crouched down. My book was jammed between the wall of the plane and the seat’s leg. I retrieved it, pushing a bent corner of the cover back into place. When I stood, I tucked the book into my handbag.

The sleeping man still hadn’t moved.

“Sir,” I called out again, taking a few steps down the aisle toward my fellow passenger, “it’s time to wake up. We’ve arrived in Sintra.”

I reached the man’s seat in the second row from the front and realized he was the one who had almost bumped into David and been so rude about it. Jessup, was it? Whatever his name, his case was on his lap, his bowler hat on top of it, and he was fast asleep.

I reached out to shake his shoulder, and when I did, he slumped forward. His hat slid off the attaché case, and his head lolled forward at an unnatural angle coming to rest against the seat in front of him.

I jumped back, pressing a hand to my chest.

Someone had broken the man’s neck.

There was a time when, despite my love of detective novels, my first reaction might have been to back away and find help. However, the last few months had dramatically altered my relationship to death. Instead, I swallowed back my instinct to flee and unsnapped my handbag, my eyes never leaving the man’s body as I freed my handkerchief.

I guessed that it would only be a matter of moments before the crew finished their cigarettes and someone joined me in the cabin. Moving quickly but precisely, I peeled back the man’s jacket lapel and reached into his left inside pocket to retrieve his passport. His passport photograph was serious and unsmiling, and the name Michael

Jessup was listed next to it. The description stated a few other basic details including this profession—banking— and his county and date of birth—Surrey, England; 23 March 1905.

I slipped the passport back into Jessup’s pocket and checked the one on his right side. Inside, I found a slim black leather diary. I flipped the cover open and found a handwritten receipt for a Hotel Metrópol tucked between the endpapers. Replacing the slip of paper, I skipped to the previous day’s date, where the flight time was penciled

in. I flicked through a few pages, most of which were filled with times and abbreviations I didn’t immediately recognize, but when I paged back one more day, something made me stop. It was an entry in pencil from a few weeks ago that read Winn? underlined twice.

Why, I wanted to know, did a dead man have our missing informant’s name written in his diary?

I began to reach for Jessup’s attaché case when I heard the clang of leather-soled

shoes on the stairs leading up to the cabin.

I groaned, muttering, “Mrs. White is going to have my head for this,” as I swiftly hiked up my skirt and tucked the diary into the top of my stocking.

Then, as my hem fell back into place, I let out the unholy scream of a woman who’s just stumbled upon a dead body.