Title: Murder on Cape Cod
Review: Murder on Cape Cod by: Maddie Day
Title: Murder on Cape Cod
Journey through the dark, violent, and haunting landscape of World War II in Paris and beyond – Take on a harrowing tour through the depths of human depravity, exploring themes of love, loss, guilt, and redemption in this gripping historical tale.
Marc Tolbert, a young French-born man from a prominent American family, takes off to Paris for a fresh start after a breakup in 1939. Pursuing his dreams of attending a prestigious Parisian art school, he soon makes friends with some of history’s most notable figures, including Sylvia Beach and William Bullitt. Falling in love with an art model from one of his classes, he is blinded to the escalating violence around them as the war inches closer to the City of Lights.
What started as an adventure quickly becomes a nightmare as the war worsens, and Marc is faced with choices that will change his life forever.
When he finally faces the reality that he must leave Paris, fate deals him a cruel hand. Surviving the sinking of the RMS Lancastria, Marc is haunted by the deaths of his friends and the regret of not leaving sooner.
Returning to Paris, Marc is drawn into the resistance movement, risking everything to help those trapped behind enemy lines. But after being betrayed, he is captured and sent away to face the horrors of war and the guilt of his past mistakes.
The Siren of Paris is a powerful and emotional story that will keep you on the edge of your seat. With its compelling plot-driven narrative, vivid scenes, and intense action, this novel will transport you to the heart of war-torn Paris and leave you contemplating the weight of human choices and their impact on others. Whether you’re a fan of historical fiction, war stories, or symbolic themes, this novel will captivate and intrigue you from start to finish.
⤷The Siren of Paris is available at Amazon.
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Thrilling Historical Novels
Dramatic Sagas
Paris During WWII
Psychological War Narratives
Brings Tears to Your Eyes
Love, Loss, Guilt, and Redemption
*****
“May the Lord be with you,” the priest’s voice rang out to all gathered at Marc’s graveside. It was September 1967.
The cloaked man stood taller than all others gathered, self-luminous with the hood of his smock pulled over his head. In his right hand he held a staff with a round clock mounted on top.
Marc stood beyond the gathering, gazing back upon his grave. He saw his only sister, Elda, surrounded by all his other friends from France. The body of his soul beamed a reddish-golden light, as he anticipated the final moment he would leave in peace. He strained to see the face of the priest obscured from view under the hood.
“And also with you,” Marc whispered, looking toward the release from his life.
“Let us pray,” the priest said softly. With a rush, the first eleven souls appeared around him. They had come from the graveyards of Angoulins-sur-Mer, Les Fortes, Saint-Charles-de-Percy, Saint-Clément-des-Baleines, Saint-Palais-sur-Mer, Chatelaillon- Plage, Saint-Sever, Traize, Brest, Saint-Hilaire-de-Talmont and Saint Pancras. They wore drab olive-green uniforms, kit bags ready for war. They were soaked to the bone. Only a few had boots. The dial on the clock stopped as a moment of Marc’s life flashed before him.
“I no longer want to see you, Marc. It is finished. It's over,” Veronica stood shivering outside his dorm room. Winter, 1939. He dropped out of medical school after that. He decided to run. Marc’s soul turned a dark red. The pain came back, searing.
“O God, we pray you lead us to truth, deliver us all from violence, battle, and murder, and from dying suddenly and unprepared,” the priest said as he glanced up from under his hood, then down again before Marc could catch his face.
Twenty-two more souls gathered by the grave. They came from the graveyards of Bretignolles-sur-Mer, L’Aiguillon-sur-Mer, Port-Joinville, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Nantes Pont du Cens, Sainte Marie, Yves, Piriac-sur-Mer, Olonne-sur-Mer, Coulac and Charroux. Among the soldiers stood one woman dressed as a nurse, a Belgian boy and little girl, all with no name
Again, the clock stopped. Another memory surfaced.
“I can watch out for myself, you know. I am not small anymore. You should go,” Elda was only eight years old at the time. Marc could see she blamed herself. His soul constricted. The hands of the clock moved again. His light turned blue.
“O God, we pray for those who suffer in silence with guilt, and for those who suffer with shame, regret, and remorse.”
“I've seen enough,” Marc cried out to the priest. Thirty-three souls arrived from the graveyards of La Couarde-sur-Mer, La Turballe, Saint-Denis-D’oléron, Sainte-Marie-de-Ré, Olonnes, Bouin, Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie, Aytré and Barbatre. The clock stopped.
“One-way ticket, first class, June 14, crossing on the Normandie, please.” Marc’s soul recoiled from this moment. He knew why he had left. The hands on the clock resumed. His light turned a dark purple.
“Please, let this go, it is just the past,” Marc called out to keeper of the clock. The staff remained steady.
“O God, our time is in your hands. Look upon us with favor as we, your servants, begin another year of life.”
Sixty-five souls appeared in a flash from the graveyards of Le Bois-Plage-en-Ré, Château-d’Olonne, Saint-Hilaire-de-Riez, Ile d’Yeu, Beauvoir-sur-Mer, Saint-Georges-D’oléron, Ars-en-Ré, La-Barre-de-Mont, Dolus, Saint-Trojan, L’Épine, La Plaine-sur-Mer, Noirmoutier-en-l’Ile, L’Herbaudiere, and Le Clion-sur-Mer. Again Marc felt the weight of time pulling him backward.
“Happy birthday, young man. Better get a move on it. You have a ship to catch today,” his mother handed him his hat the morning he left for France. The words pierced him. She drank herself to death from worry in the spring of ’42.
“Why must you show me this? Is this my judgment?” he cried again. His light turned dark green. The clock bearer looked up briefly from under his hood. The clock began to move.
“O God, whose glory fills the whole of creation: Preserve and protect those who travel from every danger and bring them in safety to their journeys’ end,” the priest intoned.
233 souls, men, women, children and soldiers from the graveyards of Saint-Nazaire-sur-Charentes, Les Moutiers-en-Retz, Prefailles and La Baule-Escoublac gathered around Marc. Time compressed. The clock slowed to a stop. Dread replaced fear.
“When you get to Paris, let Ambassador Bullitt know you are in town. He would be glad to see you. We were classmates back in college before the war.” His father pulled the car up to the French Line Pier. The image flickered before Marc in the fading light. His father never took art school seriously. The pain of these last words to him before a heart attack killed him in ’44 brought Marc to his knees. Two eyes peered from under the hood as Marc’s face twisted in anguish. The clock dial started to spin.
“O God, we pray for those who have died. May your love and light keep them eternally yours in peace and life without end.” Everyone who had gathered whispered a name. Marc swallowed hard. 370 souls gathered from the graveyards of La Bernerie-en-Retz and Pornic to join the other souls. The clock stopped.
“You should have left Paris, Marc, and never returned,” she said before the Gestapo officer read the charges. Marc groaned under the weight of this most painful moment, feeling regret and shame. His light turned dark as obsidian and the clock began to run.
“Make this stop. I have forgiven her,” he pleaded. The priest removed his hood and bared his face. Marc recognized him instantly: the betrayed priest he had known during the war. Yves.
“O God, the Father of all, who commanded us to love our enemies: Lead us both from hatred and revenge and, in your good time, enable us all, who are known unto you to stand before you in eternal peace,” the priest looked directly at Marc. The words ripped through him in shock waves, fracturing him on his side three times, and once down the middle. The clock stopped spinning. Marc noticed that the second hand now moved steadily forward with temporal time.
An unknown number rose from the sea, the beaches, and ditches to join the 859. Marc, overwhelmed, stared in disbelief at the priest’s face before him. With all his strength, he strained to whisper, “Why?”
“Why, you ask?" the priest voice thundered through the sky in a quick response. "Your marker reads ‘Known unto God!’ That is why,” Yves voice reverberated back to Marc, his face staring back in shock. “Those are souls who died without last rites, final confession, or do not even realize that they are dead, just waiting in limbo until they can be found,” Yves said, his voice booming and vibrating with a strange undulation as he raised his eyes towards the assembly that had gathered.
“I am the soul collector of the lost and forgotten of this war. This is my calling. Behold the assembly of those ‘Known Unto God,’” Yves said, his voice clear, natural and crisp. His form glowed as he raised his arms towards the assembly that rose high into the sky, looking back upon Marc and the Priest. He struck his staff once on the ground.
“I will not treat you any differently than I have any one of them who now lie in wait until the time arrives to stand before the Lord,” Yves said as he stood in the center of a Dodecagon of souls of number unknown. He rapped his staff a second time on the ground. Marc's eyes snapped into focus on the staff with a nausea of anticipation.
“The life review is to examine your conscience for sin and prepare for your final confession,” Yves said with a stoic glare. Marc glanced at the clock on the staff to read the time. Yves struck the staff a third time. A shockwave emerged from the clock traveling in all four directions. “The clock is now set," he said, "May the Lord Be with you.”
The clock reached June 18, 1939, eight thirty at night. A fear greater than the judgment of hell filled Marc, as he realized he would now watch his life during the war all over again.
***
June 18, 1939—East Bound Atlantic Ocean
The S.S. Normandie’s bow parted the sea as she carried her passengers toward France that Sunday. Marc dressed for dinner in his finest tuxedo. Before taking the last dinner at sea, he entered the chapel of the ship for his evening prayers.
“And may you, my Father in heaven, keep my family in your protection. I pray for my mother, Lynette, my father, Eldon, and my little sister, Elda. Amen,” Marc knelt alone in the chapel. He made the sign of the cross as he rose to leave for dinner.
– Excerpted from The Siren of Paris by David LeRoy, David Dribble Publishing, 2012. Reprinted with permission.
David LeRoy is an author and avid explorer of the intersection of philosophy, psychology, and art. His debut novel, The Siren of Paris, is a poignant work that emerged from personal family research he undertook in 2010 to locate missing persons of WWII.
LeRoy's fluency in French and two-year sojourn in France afforded him unique insights into the French culture he deftly weaves into his literary work. With a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy and Religion, an MBA from California State University Sacramento, and an MSc. Applied Data Science from Paris, France, LeRoy is a polymath with diverse interests and an insatiable curiosity for knowledge.
He currently resides in California, where he continues to write and pursue his creative passions.
Connect with him on social media at:
╰┈➤ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thesirenofparis
╰┈➤ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/14760740-the-siren-of-paris?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=v6UbhLIMmb&rank=1
The Champagne
Crush
Caroline O’ Connell
(Les
Femmes Series)
Publication date: September 16th 2025
Genres:
Adult, Contemporary, Romance
For fans of The Paradise Problem, a slow-burn romance about a socialite in over her head in a high-stakes job promoting a new sparkling wine with a difficult boss who wants to see her fail—despite the electric sparks flying between them.
Catherine Reynolds has enjoyed a life of luxury, but her diplomat parents have cut her off financially, leaving her flat broke. She is determined to turn things around and gain her independence—so, when an old family friend offers her a lifeline as a PR consultant for his sparkling wine company, she jumps at the chance. But working with Chris McDermott, the company’s sexy, stubborn president, is anything but easy.
A purist at heart, Chris clashes with Catherine’s glitzy marketing flair; still, the chemistry between them is undeniable. As they travel from New York to Napa, Paris, and the Champagne region of France, their partnership blossoms amid high-stakes industry rivalries and a launch that could make or break them.
When sabotage threatens to shatter their dreams, Catherine must dig deep to prove her worth. With the dazzling unveiling of their new sparkling wine in Bordeaux in jeopardy, will she and Chris overcome the challenges of the past and present to secure their future—and find love in the process?
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo
Also check
out Caroline’s
other book, Affordable Paris
Hotels!
Your Ultimate Guide to a Perfect Trip to Paris is the must-have
resource for travelers who want charm, comfort, and location—without the luxury
hotel price tag.

—
Author Bio:
CAROLINE O’CONNELL has written five travel guides and numerous travel articles for magazines, newspapers, and websites. Her Romance In Paris guide has won widespread praise: “There is no better person to guide you through Paris than Caroline” — Peter Greenberg, the Travel Detective, radio host, and Travel Editor on CBS-TV. And Library Journal raved — “Reading this breezy but informative guide to Paris is like having a series of conversations with a well-traveled friend…”
Her debut novel, THE CHAMPAGNE CRUSH: A Romance Novel (Spark Press), is due out on September 16, 2025.
GIVEAWAY!
The Champagne Crush
Blitz
Except
Sightseeing in Paris
(after work trip to Champagne)
As they walked out, Chris asked, “What’s on the agenda for this afternoon?”
Catherine’s eyes lit up. “Shopping, of course, though I’m on a tight budget. Mind if we stop at my favorite lingerie boutique?”
Chris draped his arm around her shoulders. “Far from it. Consider it my duty to assist in your choices—after you’ve modeled the contenders.”
“Sounds like an athletic event,” she said.
“Might very well be after you’re done.” Chris’s arm around her tightened as they found a nearby cab.
“What’s so special about this place?” he asked during their ride over to the Right Bank.
“Family tradition. My French grandma used to take me there. Herminie Cadolle is credited with inventing the bra in the late 1800s. She cut a corset in half and voilà .” Catherine made a cutting gesture across her chest. “Every garment was handmade, called sur mesure, to fit each woman’s body. Now much of their lingerie is ready to wear, prêt à porter.”
“Don’t they sell stuff like this in New York?”
She shook her head. “Not really. Cadolle is still run by Herminie’s descendants—same high standards, top silk and black French lace, quality craftsmanship.”
Ten minutes later, they walked into the boutique on Rue Cambon. A young saleslady welcomed them and directed Chris to a sitting area. Catherine perused ensembles hanging artfully on a partition while Chris was served coffee. Then the ladies got to work.
Catherine had a gift card from her French grandma; she hoped the amount would cover a matching bra and panty set and a silk cami. In her modeling days, she and Vanessa had worn camisoles as an undergarment for an extra layer to stay warm or as a sexy top under a fitted suit jacket, buttoned up partway with the lace peeking out.
The saleslady understood exactly what Catherine preferred and they had a good selection in Catherine’s small size. Catherine playfully dangled a few lacy nothings in front of Chris on her way to the dressing room. She’d never been to a lingerie store with a man waiting nearby. She found it incredibly sexy. As she tried on each delicate bra and panties set, she envisioned modeling them for him.
Catherine knew she was playing with fire and had some trepidation. Chris had made his intentions crystal clear. No holds barred while they were in Paris. After the trip, they’d go back to their agreement to wait until the launch.
She was intensely attracted to him. Her quandary: She had difficulty letting her guard down when it came to intimacy. She might freeze up. That could nix this love affair before it started. She liked him so much she was willing to take the gamble.
There’s something to this French stuff, Chris mused, while waiting on a velvet settee with a cup of strong coffee. The French didn’t hide their appreciation for sexy lingerie. He’d passed more boutiques displaying lacy bras and barely-there undies on the streets of Paris than in any other city. Of course, the woman who’d captured his interest was all in on this enticing game.
In a dressing room nearby, she was in the process of selecting an ensemble that he hoped to get her to model for him in private, post haste. Fortunately, their hotel was a few blocks away.
Catherine emerged with her purchases in a decorative gold bag and looked pleased with the results. This woman really does like to shop.
They got back to the hotel in record time. Chris suggested a stop at the Costes bar for a late-afternoon cocktail. He managed to find a dark corner where they could sit side by side in a secluded leather booth with no distractions. After ordering the house specialty—a pitcher of Caipirinha, sugar cane, liquor, and lime—Chris reached for Catherine’s hand.
I’m head over heels for this woman. He hoped she felt the same and it wasn’t a dalliance on her part.
In the ruins of a fallen Empire, the first ever female pilot takes part in a flying boat race to free her people from the foreign oppression…
Publication Date: September 20, 2023
Forty years since Constantinople fell to the Venetian flying citadels, high-altitude Aether racing is the favoured pastime of bored, wealthy Latin nobles. Ikaria, proud daughter of a legendary Aether engineer and one of the best racing pilots in the Aegean, is determined to uncover the truth behind her father's mysterious disappearance at the end of the last Grande Regatta of Negriponte.
Driven by the thirst of vengeance and pursuit of engineering excellence in equal measures, Ikaria vows to win the next Regatta herself - and to find out what really happened to her father. But there's a catch: a new Imperial edict bars her, and anyone not of noble blood, from taking part in Aether races. To her rescue comes Sire Mikhael of Chiarenza - an enigmatic handsome young Greek turncoat in the service of new Latin masters. His motivations unclear, the source of his funds and supplies a secret, Ikaria nonetheless agrees to accept his help: together, they set out to challenge the supremacy of the six Hexarchs, the infamous Flying Barons of Negriponte.
Pick up your copy of The Flying Barons of Negriponte at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CJKXXQB1 .
Book Excerpt:
A black-headed gull landed on the bowsprit. It glanced around, confused as to why a small, sleek sailboat suddenly appeared in its path in the middle of a billowing cloud hundreds of feet above the surface of the sea. Its eyes met Ikaria’s; the bird squawked in indignation and spread its wings as if to protest this sin against God and nature. A sudden, violent gust pushed it off the spar. Still squawking in disgust, the gull continued on its way while the boat pushed onwards, deeper into the cloud and out the other side.
A white-washed dot of Saint Elijah’s chapel appeared among the rocky outcrops, marking the eastern end of the Chalcis Pass. Ikaria reached under her tunic and took out a small brass key, inlaid with a piece of ruby glass, hung on a silver chain at her neck. Gingerly, she inserted it into a slot in the side of the Caput Chamber and turned it a quarter to the right. A conduit linking the Inhibitor Retort with the Tribikos Manifold hissed, indicating a forming air gap. She turned the spigot in the nozzle, releasing half a dram of the Inhibitor into the Sublimation Aludel. It took another few moments for the reaction to start. She turned to the Hygroscope and observed the four liquids behind the pane of rock crystal: a mixture of quicksilver, aqua fortis, brine and fish oil, each coloured with a different hue of vitriol, indicated the proportion of gaseous Quintessence – the Naviferous Aether – in the air under the hull. The liquids bubbled behind the crystal, reacting to a sudden change in pressure, then stabilised at the new levels, layer upon layer, at their respective measuring notches carved in the crystal pane. And then – a new layer emerged where there shouldn’t be one: a fifth, ruby-coloured liquid filled out the unmarked space between the quicksilver and aqua fortis.
James Calbraith is a Poland-born Scottish writer of history-adjacent novels, coffee drinker, Steely Dan fan and avid traveller.
Growing up in communist Poland on a diet of powdered milk, “Lord of the Rings” and soviet science-fiction, he had his first story published at the ripe age of eight. After years of bouncing around Polish universities, he moved to London in 2007 and started writing in English. Now lives in Edinburgh, hoping for an independent Scotland.
His debut historical fantasy novel, “The Shadow of Black Wings“, has reached Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award semi-finals in 2012. “The Year of the Dragon” saga sold over 30,000 copies worldwide.
His new historical fiction saga, “The Song of Ash” has been on top of Amazon’s Bestseller lists in UK for months.
Connect with James:
Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Bookbub | Wattpad | Quora