Title: Death of a Wandering Wolf
Series: A Hungarian Tea House Mystery
Author: By Julia Buckley
Format: paperback, 288 pages, $7.99
Published: June 30, 2020
Read an excerpt: you know you want to—->click here
Summary so you know what it’s about:
Hana Keller is enjoying a day off from serving up tea and delicious pastries at her family’s Hungarian Tea House when her downtime turns deadly….
The only thing Hana loves more than a good cuppa is finding a delicate porcelain treasure to add to her collection. She’s usually on the hunt for teacups but when she spots a rare wolf figurine at a local yard sale, she knows it’s her lucky day. Hana also knows the wolf is valuable and tells the seller that he’s charging too little for it. His reaction is peculiar–he says he received the wolf from someone he doesn’t trust and he just wants it out of his life.
Hana is inspecting her new prize when she finds a tiny microchip attached to the bottom of the porcelain wolf. When she shows the figure to her police detective boyfriend, Erik, Hana is shocked to learn that the chip is actually a tracking device. They decide to confront the seller about the sneaky sale but when they arrive at his house, they find him dead. Erik and Hana now must hunt a calculating killer who has no intentions of crying wolf when it comes to murder.
An Inheritance of Books
By Julia Buckley
My mother, Katherine, sometime in the 1970s.
If I had to pick one person who most influenced my innate desire to read and write, it would have to be my mother. When I was little, she took me to the library and enrolled me in a book of the month club so that I’d always have things to read. Perhaps more importantly (educators say), she was always reading, thereby role modeling the idea that reading was essential and fun. She was the volunteer librarian at my grade school, another way that I associate my mother with books. We would walk down to the tiny school library at library time, and she would have already selected a pile that she thought I was likely to enjoy (she was always right). Through her I discovered all sorts of new literary adventures.
When I got older, she and I shared reading material. It was she who introduced me to writers like Mary Stewart, Phyllis A. Whitney, Victoria Holt. But she also liked Dorothy Eden, Ngaio Marsh, Agatha Christie, Patricia Wentworth, Dorothy Sayers. She wasn’t tied to only one genre; she loved all books—fantasy, horror, history, biography. She simply loved to read.
It was fun, when we would hand titles back and forth, to discuss them and explain why we loved them. It was a club of sorts, a way of bonding mother and daughter (often my sister was there too, reading all the same stuff. She and I accumulated an extensive Nancy Drew collection as girls). I think sometimes my father was quite jealous of our little group because he had no interest in reading fiction, or perhaps no time. He’s actually quite a voracious reader today.
My mother could read and write in two languages—English and German—and so some of the books she read were utterly inscrutable to me. She could also read some French; her affinity with languages was (and is) something that I admired about her. She was a very intelligent person who never thought much about her intelligence.
My favorite memories of my mother as a reader involve her sitting with some book in her gold armchair. She would become vague and foggy and wouldn’t really respond when we tried to talk to her (we were always annoying her, we five children) because she was really getting into her story. Eventually she would get up and make dinner or do whatever chores she had assigned herself, but in the evening she’d be back in the chair, her glasses put aside, her nose in the book. She was there when I kissed her goodnight and went to bed, and if I got up in the wee hours to go to the bathroom, she was often still there, at three, four in the morning, unable to put down that book until she knew the resolution.
We used to make fun of her when she would walk around bleary-eyed the next day, saying “Well, why in the world didn’t you just go to bed?”
Now, of course, I know why, and I’ve stayed up until almost dawn with some of the most compelling books (the trick is to not start a book late in the evening if you think it will be a great one).
Those memories of my mother and books–the books she gave me, the books she read—are permanent. While some images of her have receded, that image of her in the chair, her blue eyes glued on the page, her clever hands turning pages again and again—that one stays with me, a lovely picture of my mother in her essence.
About the author
Julia Buckley is a Chicago author and teacher. A lover of mysteries herself, she spent her teen years absorbing the wonderful mystery and suspense fiction of the 20th Century, all of which helped to influence what she writes today. Her published series include the Writer’s Apprentice mysteries, the Undercover Dish mysteries, the first in the Teddy Thurber series, and the Madeline Mann mysteries. She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime and the Chicago Writer’s Association.
Julia lives with her husband, three cats and a big rambunctious Labrador. She has two grown sons. In her free time she likes to watch Netflix (on which she has discovered the joy of French cinema), tend to the potted plants on her deck, read great books, or take part in one of her two book groups.