Pre-Order Blitz
Murder
on the Steel Pier
A
Tess Mancini Time Travel Mystery
By
Rosie
Genova
About the Book:
Publisher: Two
Roses Press
Publication Date: March
31, 2025
The morning after a
blowout thirty-fifth birthday celebration in Atlantic City, crime reporter and
party girl Tess Mancini wakes up in an unfamiliar place—1955. Bread is eighteen
cents a loaf, Ike occupies the White House, and the Boardwalk is crawling with
vintage cars and vintage wise guys. A bewildered Tess is sure of only two
things: One, she’s not crazy, and two, the clothes are fabulous. And somehow,
she’s living the life of her Great Aunt Theresa, who disappeared decades before
Tess’s birth.
In her 1950s existence, Tess is a reporter for the
local newspaper, living and working at a boarding house owned by her Zia
Antonetta, an Italian immigrant with secrets of her own. Tess also discovers
that Theresa has a kid brother, teenaged troublemaker Val Mancini—also known as
Tess’s paternal grandfather. Though determined to return to her own time,
Tess’s curiosity takes over. What happened to the first Theresa Mancini? And is
Tess’s trip through time somehow connected to her aunt’s fate?
But when young Val is accused of murdering a boarding
house guest, a Nazi in hiding, Tess ends up with two investigations on her
hands, and though desperate to leave the Nifty Fifties, she’s stuck in time
until she can prove Val’s innocence. As she searches for answers, she finds
allies in a dishy police detective and a suspiciously charming fellow reporter.
She also crosses paths with a Mid-Century icon of science—possibly the one
person who can help her get back home—but not until she finds a way to keep her
grandfather off Death Row.
Because before Tess can get back to the future … she
needs to make sure she has one.
Purchase Links Can Be Found At:
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Excerpt:
From
Chapter 1, Murder on the Steel Pier
Someone was smoking a
cigarette. I sniffed, and spikes of pain started at my chin and shot through
the top of my head. Oh God, make it stop, and I promise I’ll never touch
another drop of tequila. Being another year older was bad enough—did I have to
be punished for it, too? My nose twitched as the smoke teased my nostrils and
caressed my olfactory nerves. I’d quit a month ago, but the longing for a cig
came roaring back.
With my eyes still
closed, and my head nailed to the pillow, I had one coherent thought: This is
supposed to be a smoke-free hotel. As far as I knew, it was also bird-free, but
the chirps and twitters assailing my ears were clearly coming from feathered creatures.
Then again, it’s Atlantic City. Maybe the birds were part of the hotel show.
Ever so slowly, I slid my hands from under the covers and cupped them over my
ears.
“Please, birdies,” I
whispered. “Stop singing.” Geez, they sounded close enough to be in my room. I
exhaled, yoga style. C’mon, Tess, time to open your eyes. You can do it. Actually, I couldn’t, as my lashes were
glued together. (Had I slept in my make-up? Not a good sign.) Still covering my
ears against the piercing bird song, I fluttered my left eyelid and squinted.
Big, fuchsia-colored
roses seemed to scream at me from the wall. And sun—blinding, eyeball-searing
sun—streamed in through an uncovered window. And not a hotel window bolted shut
and draped to keep out that awful light, but a wooden one with glass panes. And
across the top, a ruffly white curtain.
Okay, not my hotel. So
where was I? My empty stomach grew queasy; I wouldn’t have gone home
with a stranger. Though I did remember a cute blond guy playing the slots next
to me, but it was all so … blurry. I eased open the other eye. Across
the room was a vanity table draped in more white ruffles. Somehow, I doubted
the blond guy lived here.
This place was obviously
some kind of historic inn or something, but that still didn’t explain how I’d
gotten here. I looked down at the sheets, also decorated with roses. Only these
were little yellow ones. Somebody sure liked her florals.
“So weird,” I muttered.
Hands shaking, eyes half closed, I felt around for my phone, but my fingers
landed on a string of beads. I let go of the necklace and blinked hard, trying
to ignore the little flashes of pain behind my eyes. Next to me was an old-fashioned
nightstand; on it was a lamp with a frilly pink shade, an analog alarm clock
ticking loudly, and the “necklace,” which had a cross hanging from it. A face
stared at me from a black-and-white photo. I shifted closer, peering at a guy
with slicked-back hair, thick brows, and dark-lashed eyes. Across the bottom of
the picture was a name, signed in blue ink. I frowned at the image. Who the
heck was Tyrone Power? Was he someone’s boyfriend? Or part of the décor?
Hangover and rubber legs
be damned, I had to get moving and find my phone. But before I could get a big
toe out from under the covers, a knock sounded at the door. I sat up in the
strange bed, holding my throbbing head as though it were a soft-boiled egg.
“Tess? Are you awake
yet?” The voice on the other side of the door had a slight Irish brogue. “Can I
come in, then?”
“Yes,” I croaked. Whoever
she was, she knew my name. Despite the sunlight, the room was chilly, and I
huddled under the cotton blankets as the woman bustled in holding a small tray.
I sniffed coffee and toast, and when she set it down on the nightstand, my
stomach gurgled audibly.
“Now,” she said, wiping
her hands on her apron, “we served breakfast some time ago, and when you didn’t
come down, I knew you’d be oversleepin’ again.
Your auntie will have my hide and your own if you don’t get down to that
kitchen.” She crossed her ample arms and sent me a stern look. “You know we
don’t serve anyone in their rooms, guests or otherwise, but Carolina insisted I
bring you your coffee. Said you’re no good without it.”
I looked up at a
broad-shouldered woman in a green housedress. Over that was an apron in a loud,
orange-and-green pattern of forks and spoons. Her thick white hair, twisted
into a bun, was bright against her weathered skin. Her small dark eyes gave the
impression of two raisins set in a gingerbread face. I’d never seen her before
in my life.
“Sorry, Mrs.
Flaherty.” How did I know that? It
surely must have been her name because she didn’t correct me. I sat up quickly,
my mouth hanging open in shock, and the blankets slipped to my waist.
Mrs. Flaherty took a step
closer to the bed and narrowed her eyes at me. “Just what are you wearing,
missy?” What was I wearing? I glanced down at the cursive “T” stitched
on the pocket of my favorite monogrammed PJs. Expensive ones. And why did she
care? I opened my mouth to answer, but Mrs. F got there ahead of me. “They’re
silk,” she hissed. “And black, for the Lord’s sake.”
“Uh huh,” I said slowly,
wondering if she commented on the nightwear of all her guests. Still, I pulled
the blankets up to my chin.
“Best not let your auntie
see them. Don’t know how in the world you afford such things,” she grumbled.
“Eat up quick now, and bring down that tray when you’re through.”
“Okay,” I whispered,
staring at the door she closed behind her.
About the Author:
Photo by Joan Marie Photography
Proud Jersey girl Rosie Genova is a multi-genre author. Her work
includes a Jersey shore cozy series, The Italian Kitchen Mysteries, and the
upcoming Tess Mancini Time Travel Mysteries, set in 1955 Atlantic City. She is
also the author of standalone suspense and a couple of rom-coms that presently
live in her computer files (but are longing to be released into the wild). A
former teacher and journalist, Rosie’s non-fiction has appeared in Entrepreneur
magazine and The New York Times. The mother of three sons, Rosie
still lives in her favorite state with her husband, too many dusty antiques,
and a charming mutt named Lucy.
Contact Links:
Website: http://www.rosiegenova.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RosieGenova
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6462450.Rosie_Genova
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Rosie-Genova/author/B00BEKZU5U
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