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Excerpt Reveal: Rough Pages by Lev AC Rosen

Rough PagesSet in atmospheric 1950s San Francisco, Rough Pages asks who is allowed to tell their own stories, and how far would you go to seek out the truth.

Private Detective Evander “Andy” Mills has been drawn back to the Lavender House estate for a missing person case. Pat, the family butler, has been volunteering for a book service, one that specializes in mailing queer books to a carefully guarded list of subscribers. With bookseller Howard Salzberger gone suspiciously missing along with his address book, everyone on that list, including some of Andy’s closest friends, is now in danger.

A search of Howard’s bookstore reveals that someone wanted to stop him and his co-owner, Dorothea Lamb, from sending out their next book. The evidence points not just to the Feds, but to the Mafia, who would be happy to use the subscriber list for blackmail.

Andy has to maneuver through both the government and the criminal world, all while dealing with a nosy reporter who remembers him from his days as a police detective and wants to know why he’s no longer a cop. With his own secrets closing in on him, can Andy find the list before all the lives on it are at risk?

Rough Pages will be available on October 1st, 2024. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

“You ready for this?” Elsie asks. We’re standing over her car—a gold Jaguar convertible—both of us looking down at it like it’s a body laid out for viewing in church and not just sitting in the garage under her bar. “It’s been a while.”

“I wanted to give them some time without me,” I say. “I’m bad memories.”

There’s no body here, but if there were, we’d be bringing it back to life.

“Nine months is a longer time than some. I thought you were never going back, honestly,” she says, sliding over the door and into the driver’s seat, the pants of her sapphire-blue suit not even catching on the edge. I don’t tell her I never thought I would, either. I figured they’d be happier without me, that the invitations were just out of politeness. But now I need to return. Not for the family, though—something I can’t tell Elsie.

“I guess it’s just been long enough.” I try to get into the car like she did but my foot catches and I tumble in, my head landing in her lap. She bursts out laughing. That’s Elsie, she’s always laugh- ing. She makes for a good landlord in that way.

“Really don’t want to go, huh?” she asks, tucking her black bob behind her ears.

“Just my feet,” I say, righting myself. “The rest of me can’t wait.”

She smirks and pulls out fast, leaving the garage under the Ruby and heading out into San Francisco.

“I hope they don’t think of death when they see me.” I’m sur- prised when I say it. I hadn’t meant for that thought to escape my head.

She laughs in the wind like I’m being funny. Around us the buildings are rising up like the fingers of a closing fist, the sun low enough on the horizon the sky is going yellow.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says. “They don’t remember you with death. That was Alice. She was the murderer. You were the one who caught her.” They—the whole family. The one Elsie is a part of, even if she doesn’t live there. I met them nine months ago, spring of ’52. A queer family out at a private estate, safe from the world, they thought, until one of them was murdered.

“I was there for one of the worst parts of their lives.”

“You helped them get through one of the worst parts of their lives,” she corrects. “And now you get to be there for some of the good ones. You earned that. They believe it, even if you don’t. I believe it.”

I don’t say anything. Maybe she’s right. It was my first case, the case that saved me, showed me what living a real queer life— even if a secret one behind closed gates—could look like. I found the murderer in their midst, saved the Lamontaine soap empire. But that meant dredging up a lot, picking at everyone’s lives, all while they were already in pain. I wouldn’t want to remember me, if I were them. And now they have a new baby—adopted by Henry and Margo to the outside world, who thinks they’re the couple. But really, adopted by all of them—Elsie, Margo’s girl- friend, and Cliff, Henry’s boyfriend, and Pearl, Henry’s mother, if not by blood. It’ll be a strange life for the baby, keeping that secret. If it doesn’t get out before she can talk.

Elsie reaches forward to turn on the radio. Eddie Fisher is crooning “Anytime.” Elsie starts singing along.

“For someone who runs so many musical acts,” I say, “people would think you have a better voice.”

“I don’t sing around people. Only friends. And how about you, big shot? You can identify any song from the first few notes, spend all your money on records, and I’ve never heard you sing.”

I blush. “I’m worse than you.”

“Sing with me,” she says. And what the hell, I do. We’re both terrible, howling over Eddie, as she drives us across the bridge and out of the city. We keep singing with the next song and the one after that, until I feel hoarse. Then I just watch the ocean go by on my right, the sun sinking into it like a copper penny thrown in a wishing well. I wonder how much they’ve all changed. I wonder if they all really want me there, or if it’s just Pearl again, extending an invitation for everyone without asking them.

And I wonder why Pat, the family butler and now my good friend, called me, and said he needed me to come, his voice a hushed whisper into the phone, scared, before he said not to tell anyone.

When Elsie pulls up to the gate, I get out to open it, and the smell of flowers hits me, familiar and comforting and sad all at once. Even in February, they bloom.

I was so worried about them being ready to see me, I realize I never wondered if I’m ready to see them. I pull the gate open, wait for Elsie to drive through, and close it again, making sure to lock it. The estate looks mostly the same. Flowers everywhere, glowing in the pink light of sunset. They sway toward me, and I don’t know if it’s a welcome or a warning. This is where my story started, after all. Well, my latest story. Lavender House, Pearl hiring me for my first case, meeting Elsie, becoming a PI over her gay club, starting to try to have a real life again. This was even the case I met Gene, my boyfriend, on. So much started here, and I’m grateful to it, but looking out on it, I wonder if this is somehow a bookend. If now it’s going to take back everything it gave me.

“Stop staring and get in,” Elsie says from the car. I follow her order and she drives us down to the roundabout. The house seems the same—a beautiful, huge art deco thing, surrounded by flow- ers of all colors, especially lavender. The driveway is white stones, which look silvery in the dark. The fountain at the center of the roundabout isn’t scorched anymore; they must have fixed that. It gleams and sprays arcs of water in every direction, like a flower. I never got to see it working before. It’s pretty. The sound of the water is peaceful.

Pearl comes out of the house first, her arms wide, a smile on her face. She looks the same: sixties, short, with short black hair, in a yellow blouse and white skirt.

“We finally got you here,” she says, hugging me before I’m even done getting out of the car. I glance up at the windows of the house. They’re curtained, but light shines through. No shad- ows standing in them this time.

“It’s good to see you,” I say.

“Elsie says you’re doing well, and I appreciated your Christmas letter,” she says. “But you should have come sooner.”
“I wanted to give you time, and then the baby—”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Andy.”

“He’s worried you’ll look at him and see death,” Elsie says, from the other side of the car.

Pearl’s face goes blank with shock for a moment, and I almost want to turn to Elsie, glaring, and tell her to take me back home. But then there’s a flicker of honesty, relief on Pearl’s face—yes, she does look at me and see death. After all, her wife died less than a year ago. She blinks, shakes her head.

“I see more than that, Andy.” She doesn’t lie, at least. “I see a new chapter for all of us. You included. And I see someone who looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in months. Elsie, what are you feeding him?”

“I don’t feed him,” Elsie says, headed to the door. “I just water him.”

Pearl throws her head back and cackles at that one.

“Well, come in, come in, come in . . .” She turns, waving me toward the door. Pat is standing there, waiting.

“Can I get a minute to say hi to Pat?” I ask, keeping a smile on. “I know he’s about to go help in the kitchen, so if this is my only moment . . .”

“He’ll be with us after dinner, he’s practically our nanny,” Pearl says as we walk to the door. Pat gives me a tight hug. “Oh, but sure, it would be rude if the first time he spoke to you he was serving you dinner.”

She goes inside, and Elsie follows, giving us a curious look. Then it’s Pat and me standing outside. The landing in front of the door has a beautiful art deco curve over it, and it casts both of us in shadow. Pat’s always been slender, but he seems thinner than before, his pale skin gaunt in the dark, his eyes wide. He’s in his fifties, but handsome, with high, delicate cheekbones and usually a wry smile. Not tonight, though.

“What’s going on?” I ask in a low voice.

“Thank god you’re here,” he says, barely a whisper, as he fum- bles in his pocket then takes out some cigarettes. I get out my case and light one for him before he drops them all on the ground.

“Pat? They’re going to be wondering.”

Pat was probably the first real welcome here. Pearl was kind, but she was hiring me for a job. Pat was honest—about my past, what people thought of me. He was sympathetic, and welcomed me despite everything; my being a cop until just a few days before meeting him, and my having been cold to him at the bars, cold to everyone in the community unless I wanted to be alone and naked with them. Hell, even then. Pat taking me under his wing was more than I deserved. He was funny, too, often singing and always smiling. That all seems gone now though, replaced with the kind of raw fear I’ve seen in the faces of clients before.

“You in trouble?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he says, looking at the ground, then at his cigarette. “But worse, if I am, then so is everyone in this house.”

“What?” I ask, my body cold.

He doesn’t say anything and instead inhales deeply on the cig- arette, then coughs. I realize I’ve never seen him smoke before. He coughs for a moment longer, while I wait. Finally, he looks at me.

“You know how I like to read,” he says, and I nod, thinking of his room upstairs, every wall a shelf filled with books, every table covered in them. “Well, on my day off, I usually help out at Walt’s, the bookshop up in North Beach.”

I shake my head; I don’t know it. “Help out?”

“The owners are gay. Howard and DeeDee, old old friends, both loved books, so they opened the place years ago. They stocked a lot of gay titles, so I got friendly with them, and last year they decided to start a book service, you know, sending members one book a month that’s hard to get otherwise, or maybe trying to publish some new ones themselves.”

“A book service?” I say, wondering how that could be so much trouble.

“There’s a publisher who’s been selling gay books through the mail for years, Greenberg. Sold over a hundred thousand cop- ies of The Invisible Glass. People want queer books, Andy. Don- ald Webster Cory, remember, who wrote The Homosexual in America—he started his own book service with the same idea, and so Howard and DeeDee thought, why not us, too? Just in Cal- ifornia, for people who came into the shop, people we knew . . . at first.”

“Isn’t Greenberg the one being sued by the post office? Looking at jail time, maybe.” The smoke curls from his cigarette, fading as it reaches out to the garden outside our little alcove, like it can’t escape.

Pat looks down at his hands again. “Yes. But that’s why it’s so important, Andy. These are our stories, and we need to read them, no matter what the government says. We need to read them so we know there are more of us out there, a community waiting. One guy wrote in, some college kid in Fresno, said he found a slip to sign up in a book in another store, and he signed up immediately. He’s never met another homosexual, and these stories are . . .” Pat dabs his eyes. “Howard wrote him back. He writes all of them back, so they don’t feel alone.”

I nod. “Okay. I get why this is important.” I’ve never been much of a reader, but maybe if I’d read more when I was on the force, I wouldn’t have felt quite so alone. “So what’s the danger?”

“The shop has been closed for at least a week and DeeDee and Howard haven’t been answering their phones, either. I went by on my day off, and no one was there. I’m worried. They hardly ever close this long, and never without telling me.” He takes an- other drag on the cigarette and looks at it as if he thought it would taste better.

“Maybe there was an emergency?” I ask.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m talking to you. I’m worried that the government found out, the post office told them, and . . . sending obscene material through the mail is a federal offense, right?” He lets the cigarette fall from his hand and it lands with a splatter of red embers. He stomps it out.

“Sure, but how would that be bad for you, or the family?”

He swallows and looks up at me. Pat is usually so filled with mirth and mischief, but now he looks truly scared. “Don’t you get it? We mail subscribers the books. That means we need . . . their names, addresses . . .” He turns away, steps out of the alcove down onto the roundabout. The stones crunch under his feet and the light from the house hits him, pale and yellow. I follow him down.

“There’s a list,” I say, realizing. “A list of homosexuals.” As we walk from the house, the smell of smoke fades and the flowers’ perfume becomes stronger, overwhelming.

Pat nods. “Hundreds. And I’m on it. And I mail the ‘illicit material,’ too. If the government finds out and decides to investigate . . .” He stares up at the sky.

“They could figure out everyone here. And then the adoption . . .” It hits me all at once. Adoption is tricky. The government investi- gates the families. The Lamontaines must have had to play pretend for a long time just for the adoption to go through. If the govern- ment finds out the family employs a homosexual, even if they pre- tend they didn’t know . . . I swallow.

He nods, looking back at the house and then walking along the side of it. There are bare trees here, with long, thin branches. I remember they bloomed pink, once. When we’ve reached the side of the house, he steps off the roundabout onto the grass and kicks it. “They’ll take her away. I’m so sorry, Andy. I just . . .” He looks down again and starts crying. I reach forward to put my hand on Pat’s shoulder.

“Okay, Pat. I’ll look into it. And if they do have the list, I’ll figure out how to make sure the family stays safe.”

He reaches out and clutches my hand tightly in his. “Thank you, Andy. I’m so scared. What if I’ve ruined everything?”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have the words to tell him that maybe he has.


Click below to pre-order your copy of Rough Pages, available October 1st, 2024!

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Forge Characters & Classic Cocktails

By Ariana Carpentieri:

With the weekend right in front of us, it’s time to get cozy with a good book and wind down from the week with a drink! And in light of the upcoming October 10th release of the dazzling new mystery The Bell in the Fog by Lev AC Rosen, we’re pairing Forge characters with cocktails. Main character Andy Mills is no stranger when it comes to bars and classy drinks. So if any of these delicious cocktails strike your fancy, be sure to give them a try!


Andy Mills, Mint Julep – The Bell in the Fog by Lev AC Rosen

Mint Julep cocktail with mint garnish in a copper cup

Missing people. Violent strangers. Scandalous photos. An old flame showing up out of the blue. Andy Mills clearly has his work cut out for him. He frequents many bars in The Bell in the Fog as he tries to solve a mystery that’s also tied to his past. While he doesn’t do much drinking on the job, this scene from the book features a perfect cocktail to pair with his character:

“He smiles and mixes something up, crushing leaves into ice, and making him smell like mint. I watch his arms as he turns the muddler, muscles swelling as they fill out his sleeves. He sets the drink down in front of me. ‘Mint julep. It won’t make you forget, but I think it’ll help you sleep through this when you head upstairs.’”

This mint julep recipe is sure to be just as refreshing as reading this historical mystery is!

Sasha Severn, Honey Mojito Cocktail – The Last Beekeeper by Julie Carrick Dalton

A glass of Mojito With Honey garnish with mint leaves and lime wedges

Julie Carrick Dalton’s The Last Beekeeper is a celebration of found family, an exploration of truth versus power, and the triumph of hope in the face of despair. In this beautiful ode to the natural world, Sasha witnesses the impossible: She sees a honey bee, presumed extinct. With bees comes honey, so I think this honey mojito cocktail will BEE the star of the show. This drink is pleasing to the pallet and might even give you a little BUZZ!

Maggie Mae Brightwell, Espresso Martini – At the Coffee Shop of Curiosities by Heather Webber

hand holding the stem of an espresso martini cocktail

Maggie Mae Brightwell is a bundle of energy as she runs Magpie’s, Driftwood’s coffee and curiosity shop, where there’s magic to be found in pairing the old with the new. But lurking under her cheerful exterior is a painful truth—keeping busy is the best way to distract herself. With ‘Coffee Shop’ literally in the title and all of Maggie’s wonderful energy, I think a coffee-themed drink with a caffeine-infused jolt of alcohol would work best here! Give this espresso martini cocktail recipe a try (from personal experience I can say this drink is definitely an excellent choice and tastes delicious!)

Mrs. Plansky, Long Island Iced Tea – Mrs. Plansky’s Revenge by Spencer Quinn

Long Island Iced Tea

It’s no secret that Mrs. Planksy is a sweet but strong old woman. She’s got a lot on her plate and is determined to get her life back after everything was unjustly stolen from her. I think a drink that’s sweet, but also packs a punch, would be a perfect fit for Mrs. Plansky. So I’d say a Long Island Iced Tea is the way to go! This is especially a perfect fit if you’re holding on to the last moments of summer before fall officially starts!

Katie Kuhlmann, Old Fashioned – A Good Family by Matt Goldman

bourbon old fashioned

Katie Kuhlmann’s marriage is falling apart. But she has a secure job, her children are healthy, and her house, a new construction in the prestigious Country Club neighborhood of Edina, Minnesota, is beautiful. She can almost ignore the way her husband, Jack, has been acting–constantly checking his phone, not going to work, disappearing from the house only to show up again without explanation. Outwardly, they have a seemingly perfect home life and are a good family with everything in order…but secrets are often hidden behind closed doors. So I think a classic, staple cocktail like an old fashioned would be the perfect fit. After all, a perfect ‘all-American’ family is a pretty ‘old fashioned’ notion!

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Forge Your Own Book Club: Lavender House by Lev AC Rosen

Lavender HouseBy Ariana Carpentieri:

With Halloween right around the corner, ‘tis the season for murders and mysteries! We may not have a haunted house for you, but we have the next best thing: Lavender House by Lev AC Rosen, coming your way on October 18th! This deliciously intense suspense will keep you on the edge of your seat and dying for more.

Lavender House, 1952: the family seat of recently deceased matriarch Irene Lamontaine, head of the famous Lamontaine soap empire. Irene’s recipes for her signature scents are a well guarded secret—but it’s not the only one behind these gates. This estate offers a unique freedom, where none of the residents or staff hide who they are. But to keep their secret, they’ve needed to keep others out.

 And now they’re worried they’re keeping a murderer in.

Lavender House is the perfect pick for your next book club discussion. Here’s a breakdown on what to watch, what to eat, what to drink, what to listen to, and what to discuss while you read it!


What to Watch: 

Lavender House is a whodunit story with well-guarded secrets and utterly unforgettable characters. Its plot is steeped in early 1950s noir, so a film we suggest pairing with this sharp read is The Woman in Question. In this 1950 murder-mystery movie, a fortune-teller named Astra is found murdered. During the investigation, a detective questions Astra’s housekeeper, who conveys Astra in a favorable light. Yet upon speaking with some of Astra’s other family members, a less appealing image of the victim is revealed. It’s up to the detective to figure out Astra’s true identity and what’s been hiding under the surface all along.

What to Eat:

According to P. J. Vernon, author of Bath Haus: “Tightly spun and utterly immersive, Lev AC Rosen delivers a deliciously twisty and queer whodunnit in Lavender House. With a mid-century mystery as sprawling as its titular mansion, the velvet knives in this one are sharp as hell.” We think a “deliciously twisty” book calls for an equally as deliciously twisty snack–like churros. Because churros are always a good idea…and so is reading Lavender House!

What to Drink: 

The book opens with our main character, Evander Mills, sitting in a bar and nursing a few martinis. So what better drink to pair with this impactful book than a classic martini? If you’re looking for a beverage with slightly less of a punch, then a mocktail martini would also do the trick!

What to Listen to: 

Looking for the perfect playlist to accompany this riveting read? We’ve got you covered! Lev put together a killer list of late 40s and early 50s songs that will have you wanting to break out an old record player so you can properly swoon. Click here to check out the full blog post featuring Lev’s  breakdown of his song choices and peruse the Spotify playlist below!
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What to Discuss:

Download the Lavender House Reading Group Guide for insightful questions to get the discussion going!

Rosen_Lavender House_RGG

Click below to order your copy of Lavender House!

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The Lavender House Playlist By Lev AC Rosen

Lavender HouseA delicious story from a new voice in suspense, Lev AC Rosen’s Lavender House is Knives Out with a queer historical twist.

When your existence is a crime, everything you do is criminal, and the gates of Lavender House can’t lock out the real world forever. Running a soap empire can be a dirty business.

Read below to see Lev’s playlist for his upcoming novel Lavender House!


By Lev AC Rosen:

To me, music is such a great way to capture the energy of a historical piece. Not just as an author making a playlist to have on as I write, but for readers, too. Music evokes a time so quickly. A mention of It’s Raining Men takes you to the disco era. Mister Postman immediately paints a Motown picture. Music is time, and it’s succinct in a way that describing an outfit or room can’t always be. So I knew I wanted to use it when writing Lavender House (and it didn’t hurt that I love the music of the late 40s and early 50s).

But as I started using it more and more, I realized that with a first-person narrator, the music had to be important to the character, too – how does he recognize these songs? And that helped me fill in some of Andy. Music is the thing he loves; it reminds him of his dad, it reminds him of friends, and it kept him company in a way that his fellow officers and his anonymous hook-ups could not. As I’ve been writing the sequel, I gave Andy a new home, and I knew the first thing he would buy for it would be a record player and radio. That’s what music is to him. It’s the first thing he needs to survive beyond food and water.

So with that in mind, one of the first things I did was make a playlist of all the named songs (and a few cut ones) in Lavender House. They were chosen for their vibe, generally, because they expressed the time, and because I like them, but also because of their mood, and how it matched the moment.

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Tennessee Waltz, sung by Patti Page

Honestly one of the most 50s songs I could think of, it’s the first one on the page, playing in the background of the bar as Andy tries to drink himself to death. It’s a melancholy song for a melancholy moment.

2. Mixed Emotions, sung by Rosemary Clooney

Again, another song that to me expresses the early 50s very well – but also, perhaps I was tempted by the on-the-noseness of the title for the moment. Andy getting in a car, going who knows where, taking a case he barely understands, when just moment ago his plan was suicide – he’s having a lot of mixed emotions himself.

3, 4, 5. The St. Louis Blues and After You’re Gone sung by Kay Starr and Cold Cold Heart sung by Dinah Washington

For Cliff’s strip tease/lip-synch (though, fun fact: the term “lip synch” didn’t exist til the 60s, so I had to find other ways to say it), I knew I wanted something sexy, but also kind of sad, and most importantly, something interactive – lines he could reach out and touch Andy on, and suggest that it was Andy who was being with holding and cold. My first instinct was After You’ve Gone because of it’s tone of ‘you’ll regret this’ which felt very haughty and Cliff. But after a few drafts, I decided it was too much of a bop, not enough longing in it, and switched to Cold Cold Heart, which had a lot more sensuality to it. And then my editor pointed out I needed the rights to use the lyrics of songs from that time period. Oops. So I did a deep dive into songs which were technically in the public domain now, but had recordings that were done in the late 40s or early 50s. My friend Molly was invaluable here, and managed to find another Kay Starr number for me – The St. Louis Blues. Again it’s about a cold man leaving a sad woman, and while a bit more upbeat, it still has that great sense of longing, and wonderful lines for Cliff to playact to, like “Oh my man’s got a heart like a rock cast in the sea.” And best part? The B-side of the record was After You’ve Gone, so I got to get that in, too – even if I couldn’t use the lyrics.

6. Kiss of Fire sung by Georgia Gibbs

One of my weirder choices, with its opening notes that sound like Pretty Woman and much more modern overall vibe. But I wanted something that felt like a tango. The staff, particularly the couple Dot and Judy, don’t get as much time on the page as the family in Lavender House. So when I had Andy go down into the kitchen to meet them for the first time, before they go stony and cold with him, I wanted a moment where they didn’t see him, and were just being themselves, a moment to express who they were out of sight. This song is sexy and fun, and when Judy and Dot dance to it, even just for a moment, you get a glimpse of who they really are.

7. Would I Love You? Sung by Doris Day

Doris Day is one of the other classic singers of the 50s I knew I needed to use. I wanted a song that was popular enough folks might sing along, and one calm enough to set the mood for the casual family breakfast it plays in the background of. Though Lavender House is brimming with a lot of secrets and emotions, there are moments – especially breakfast, when they all sit down together – when I wanted to fact that they’re still a family who loves each other to come across.

8. Too Young, sung by Nat King Cole

I wanted something with a similar energy to Would I Love You? To come on afterwards, to keep the mood going. Too Young has that great sweeping opening and even goes more romantic, perfect for Andy to notice the casual normalness of the relationships here.

8a. The Thing, sung by Phil Harris

I also wanted something that felt like an artifact, a silly 50s song, for someone to immediately shut off after Too Young. This fit the bill. I’ve spared you by not putting it on the playlist.

9. Mad About the Boy, sung by Maxine Sullivan

Oh Gene. Sweet, wonderful Gene, who I knew I wanted to not only introduce here, but set up to become more central in the sequel. Something romantic, and a bit sexy… but also Andy has just been beaten within an inch of his life and is passed out. But when he comes to, Gene next to him, I knew I needed the music to fit. This song is a little twinkly – as I imagine it might be coming out of a post-beating-blackout – but sexy, romantic, mysterious and obviously sets up Gene as an object of affection.

10. Why Don’t You Do Right, sung by Peggy Lee

I HAD to have some Peggy Lee. And why not use this song, made famous by that classic noir icon Jessica Rabbit? It’s one of my favorites. So when Cliff was drunk-dancing again and I wanted the music sexy, this was the perfect choice.

11. The Lady Drinks Champagne, sung by Pat (in the book) and Johnnie Ray (in the playlist)

Pat, the butler, is a wonderful character, and I thought it would be fun to give him a moment to shine, a song to sing as a sort of alarm at Andy’s request. But what song would Pat sing? A ballad for sure, Pat’s the type to enjoy holding a note, but also something filled with melodrama, and as he was supposed to be sweeping, something he could sing to a broom with real style. I don’t know why this song fits all of that so perfectly, but it does, and every time I reread the moment when Pat started singing, thinking of this song made me laugh because I could picture him camping it up so perfectly.

12. Wheel of Fortune, sung by Kay Starr

In an early draft, this plays in the final scene, a sort of obvious statement about how things have turned out and Andy’s life has turned around, but at some point I decided it was far too on the nose, and cut it. Still a fun song, though.


Click below to pre-order your copy of Lavender House, coming October 18th, 2022!

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Excerpt Reveal: Lavender House by Lev AC Rosen

Lavender HouseA delicious story from a new voice in suspense, Lev AC Rosen’s Lavender House is Knives Out with a queer historical twist.

Lavender House, 1952: the family seat of recently deceased matriarch Irene Lamontaine, head of the famous Lamontaine soap empire. Irene’s recipes for her signature scents are a well guarded secret—but it’s not the only one behind these gates. This estate offers a unique freedom, where none of the residents or staff hide who they are. But to keep their secret, they’ve needed to keep others out. And now they’re worried they’re keeping a murderer in.

Irene’s widow hires Evander Mills to uncover the truth behind her mysterious death. Andy, recently fired from the San Francisco police after being caught in a raid on a gay bar, is happy to accept—his calendar is wide open. And his secret is the kind of secret the Lamontaines understand.

Andy had never imagined a world like Lavender House. He’s seduced by the safety and freedom found behind its gates, where a queer family lives honestly and openly. But that honesty doesn’t extend to everything, and he quickly finds himself a pawn in a family game of old money, subterfuge, and jealousy—and Irene’s death is only the beginning.

When your existence is a crime, everything you do is criminal, and the gates of Lavender House can’t lock out the real world forever. Running a soap empire can be a dirty business.

Lavender House will be available on October 18th, 2022. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

I thought I’d have the place all to myself, this early. Like church on a Tuesday— no one but you and God— or in my case, the bartender. But there’s a guy and girl, high school kids or maybe just twenty, sitting at one of the booths in the back. They’re trying to keep their voices low, but he’s failing, getting angry. Something about wiener dogs. It’s weird the things people fight over.

He pounds the table and she whimpers a little. I sigh, feel my body shifting to get up. I don’t have to do this anymore. Hell, no one even wants me to. That’s why I was fired. But some habits you can’t break. So I down what’s left of my martini, motion the bartender to pour another, and stand up and go to the back of the place, where he’s holding her wrist, tight. Her arm is stretching like a shoelace as she tries to stand up, but he won’t let go. On her other wrist, she’s wearing a charm bracelet. Just a few charms: An eagle, that’s a mascot for one of the local schools, with “1950” under it, so she graduated two years ago. A book, so she’s a reader. A wiener dog, for her pet, I’m guessing, and the source of the argument. And an apple. Teacher’s favorite, or she just really likes apples, maybe. Not enough life lived for many charms. Not enough to cover the bruise, either.

“I think the lady wants to go,” I tell him. I’ve had enough to drink that I sound like a two-bit tough guy. Maybe I am a two-bit tough guy.

“Mind your own business, pal,” he says. He talks like he’s seen too many mobster movies. Or maybe he’s just trying to match me.

“Miss, you want to leave?” I ask her, looking past him.

“Hey, hey, mister, don’t ignore me,” the kid says. I keep my eyes on the girl.

She nods, but doesn’t say anything, so I reach out and I pull back his finger from her wrist, hard. He yelps in pain but she gets loose and runs out of the bar, the little bell on the door jingling as it closes behind her.

“It’s too early for this, fellas,” the bartender says, the words coming out of him in one long sigh.

“I was just helping the lady,” I say, turning my back on the kid, walking back to the bar. I know he’s going to come up behind me, so I wait till I feel him, then spin and catch the fist as it connects with my shoulder. Not that hard. Just enough I wheeze a little, which makes him smile, like he’s won something. I don’t like that smile. Reminds me too much of the mirror. So I grab his wrist and yank his arm back.

“Hey, hey,” the kid says, “fuck you.”

He swings with his other fist, so I catch that one, too, and turn him around, holding his arms behind him.

“You can’t do this!” the kid says. He looks over at the bartender, who keeps his eyes on the glasses in front of him. The kid stares as I march him to the door and then turns his head around to look at me. “You’re drinking martinis? This early? That’s cool, man. I can buy you one. We can talk this out.”

I roll my eyes, kick the door open, and push him out of it, onto the ground. He goes face first, but I know he’ll just have a scrape. I’ve done this enough—before. Sometimes it makes me feel better, helping, like I’ve done some good in the world. Not today, though. Probably for the best. Might make me reconsider my plans.

He stares at me, the sun beating down on him and the concrete, like he’s waiting for me to say something.

“Don’t be rude to women,” I announce, loud enough someone across the street looks over. It’s the best I’ve got. I hiccup. Then I grin, ’cause I’m pretty drunk and I still managed to toss him out. And because I have another martini waiting for me.

“Screw you,” he says, getting back up, but it sounds weak and he knows it. I turn around and bounce off the glass door of the bar, which has closed behind me. There goes my heroic exit. The kid starts laughing, but I step back, rub my nose, and turn the handle, walking back in, the kid still cackling behind me.

I take my seat and drink the new martini in front of me in one swallow. The bartender looks at me like I’m the sorriest sight in San Francisco, and maybe he’s right, but I try not to let it show. I lift my chin and order another, keeping my voice even, proud. I’m proud to be in this bar at 2 p.m. on a Monday. I’m proud to have thrown some kid out on the street, even though it’s not my job anymore. Hell, I’m proud to be jobless, blacklisted. I’m proud to have just ordered my fifth drink. I’m probably not fooling anyone, but I can try. He mixes it for me turned away, and if he makes a face, I can’t see it. And with the kids gone, no one else is around to judge. I tap my fingers slowly on the bar. I’m patient. I have all day—that’s the plan: drink all day so when it’s dark, and no one will notice, I’ll be drunk enough to pitch myself into the bay.

I like the bay for it. It’s how Jan Westman was found. I remember looking at her on the shore of Stinson Beach, when we still thought it was just a case of a drunk falling into the bay. She looked peaceful. She hadn’t been in the water more than a night. Her skin was pale, a little blue, her eyes closed by the old man who found her and called in the local police, who called us after finding her ID. He’d folded her arms over her chest, too, and Lou said it was morbid, but I thought she looked relaxed, at ease with what had happened. I was actually surprised when her blood came back sober and we had to look at it as murder, and then when we caught the guy and found out what had been done to her. If a night in the water can wash away trauma, make a body like hers look serene, I think it can at least do it halfway for me.

When the door of the bar opens, it rattles me out of the memory, and I’m staring at my drink again, Patti Page singing “Tennessee Waltz” from the radio, her voice soft with static. I have the record of this one. I almost wonder what will happen to it, after, but then the martini slides that thought away.

I don’t even bother glancing up to see who’s come in until she sits down next to me. Her lips are painted bright red. She’s wearing a yellow skirt that cuts at the calf and a matching jacket decorated with a circular black-stoned brooch. Perched on her short, dark (surely dyed at her age) hair is a small hat with a small pin in it of an overlapping “WAC”—the Women’s Athletic Club. Her style is dated, but very high society. I’ve seen plenty of women like her, their money protecting them from the change they fear so badly, like a suit made of gold foil.

She lights her cigarette, perched in a holder, and asks the bartender for a Manhattan. She has a deep, sharp voice, and it cuts through the fog of drunkenness in my mind. She’s right out of a movie—she could ask me to kill her husband any second now. She swivels on the stool next to mine, and I have half a mind to tell her she’s barking up the wrong tree—why not? But when I look up, she’s not making eyes at me. Not like that, anyway. She looks at me like she feels sorry for me, a baby bird fallen from the nest. Well, screw her. I might be over, as far as lives go, but I’m nothing to feel sorry for. I’m doing this on my terms.

I smile at her, hoping she’ll stop looking at me like that. That works sometimes—I’m a good-looking guy and a smile makes people feel at ease. But since the day before yesterday my smiles haven’t fit right, and this one is no different. She’s not impressed by it. But I can tell that’s not my fault. She’s not impressed by much, this woman. So I turn away, prepared to ignore her outright. But then.

“Evander Mills?” she asks as the bartender puts her Manhattan down in front of her. She says it like it’s a question she already knows the answer to. I get the impression that’s the only kind she asks.

“How do you know my name?” I try not to let the alcohol slur my words.

She sips her drink, then takes the cherry out and sets it on the bar, staring at it like it owes her money and isn’t the one bit of sweetness in her drink.

“I know why you were fired from the police force,” she says, eyes still on the cherry.

And just like that, whatever traces of the martinis that were left in me vanish in a shiver of ice and the acrid smell of her cigarette smoke. I stand up, because otherwise I’d fall off my stool. I don’t look at her. I fumble in my coat for my wallet and take it out, ready to settle, but she rests a gloved hand on my arm and squeezes.

“Relax,” she says. “It’s a selling point with me.”

I stop fumbling and stare at her hand on my arm. She drops it, but lifts her chin and now she’s smiling at me. Her smile fits. It’s like the ones I get and give in the Black Cat sometimes. Not the smile that’s an invitation, but the one that says, “I know you, we’re safe here, we’re home.” Even if they never worked on me, not like they were supposed to, I know those smiles.

“Oh,” I say.

Her eyes are shot with strands of red, not the kind from exhaustion or reefer. The kind from crying for days. She’s wearing concealer, but nothing can hide eyes like that except sunglasses.

She glances at the bartender, who, having nothing else to do, is watching us, seeing how this will play out. Then she turns to me and takes a money clip out of the black purse she’s put on the bar and throws down enough cash for both of us.

“Let’s go sit over there,” she says, grabbing her drink and motioning with her chin at the booth farthest from the bar. I pick up my drink and follow her as she walks over, then sit down opposite her. The cheap leather squeaks under me. This is the same booth the kids were in. It still smells like the girl’s perfume, too sweet.

“I know you need work. I might have a job for you.” She says it softly, so the bartender can’t hear—that sort of job. The booth we’re in is in the corner and light from the big windows shines in, making me squint. It’s hard to read her with her back to the light like that.

“What kind?” I sip my drink.

“The kind like you used to do for the police. The inspector kind.” She takes a long drag of her cigarette. “You were good, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. My chest gets warm with pride or arrogance or alcohol, I’m not sure which, then it gets cold again real fast, when I remember that that part of my life is over. “But look, I don’t want people to think that I—” That I’m queer, I almost say. Though, of course, I am. And everyone knows it now. Or at least, everyone on the police force, which is enough.

“No one will think anything,” she says briskly. “No one will say anything. That’s the whole point of a private detective, isn’t it? Privacy. And besides, I’m not someone people would know in that sense.”

I sip again. I’ve never worked freelance before, but this could be good. This could be something worth hanging around for. Money. Go out with a bang—a few more nights at the Black Cat, or maybe even the Oak Room or the Ruby, fanning out cash and boys flocking around me before I’m back to waiting for sundown and a dark part of the bay to wash myself off the world. I suddenly realize I want that so bad I can taste it, smell it—lips, breath on my neck, tinged with whisky. One more night. A kiss goodbye.

A chance to help someone again, too. I don’t think about that part, though. I just open my mouth.

“All right, so what’s the case?”

She swirls the last of her drink in the glass. “What made you good at it? Being an inspector?”

“I like helping people.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That wouldn’t make you good at it.”

I smile, but I can feel it looks sad, so I take it off. “Crimes are about secrets,” I tell her. “And I have enough experience keeping secrets I’m very good at finding them.” I pause. A bitter laugh spits out of me. “At least, I thought I was.”

She nods. “How did you end up getting caught, then?” she asks. “If you were so good at it.”

I look down at the table. Formica winks back up. Lou was out sick. He usually told me what club they were hitting—not ’cause he knew about me, but because I asked every couple of weeks, and he thought it was just us chatting like partners do. “I had a system,” I tell her. “It was flawed.” Flawed ’cause I asked Jim instead, forgetting he was an idiot, trusting him not to get it wrong. Since the judge ruled that gay people could gather and be served, the bars weren’t illegal, not exactly. But if you found “immoral” goings-on, that was enough to shut them down. Immoral like kissing, like touching, like—“And I really wanted . . .” I stop. She reaches out and puts her hand over mine.

“I know,” she says. “We all make mistakes when we want something.”

“Still. I wish it had been a different kind of mistake.” I remember Jim kicking open the door to the bathroom, chuckling, saying loudly he needed to check it was clean. Making everyone feel uncomfortable—that was the goal. When the door opened I was on my knees, already trying to scramble up. We were paraded out in cuffs before we could zip up our flies. The bartender claiming he had no idea, the female impersonator on stage sighing loudly, the other patrons shooting us looks—pity, anger, amusement. The bar got fined, but not shut down, at least.

“Did you tell everyone else?” she asks.

I feel a cold drop of ice in my blood. “About what?” I look back up at her.

“The police, when they were coming. Your system. Did you warn people?”

I wait too long, long enough it may as well be an answer, so I move on. “You said you had a case?” I ask her.

She pulls her hand away. There’s a moment where we look at each other, so quiet we can hear each other breathing. I know what she’s thinking, but I don’t answer the question she doesn’t ask: Why not? Because the answers are selfish, arrogant: I was too worried about myself to think of anyone else. Their own fault for not looking out for themselves. Other queers aren’t my responsibility anyway. I wouldn’t tell her the truth: that we’re all alone in this world, and it never occurred to me to pretend like we weren’t.

“Murder,” she says suddenly, in the same hard tone she used to order her drink, which she now lifts and finishes in one swallow. “You’ve solved those before, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “Plenty. This is someone close to you? The one you’ve been crying over?”

She frowns and touches at the corner of her eye with her thumb, pulling at the skin a little. “I thought I’d hid it,” she says.

I shake my head. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. It was my . . .” She glances up again, looks behind me. I turn to see—the bartender is still watching us. “Maybe we should drive. You’re interested in the job?”

“Yeah,” I say, licking the inside of my mouth. “Interested. But I don’t even know your name.”

She smiles, and then throws back her head in a loud laugh. “I haven’t said it, have I?” She extends her hand. “I’m Pearl Velez.”

Her grip is as hard as her voice. She smirks as we shake.

“And you were about to say—the victim?”

“Irene . . .” she says. Then glances at the bartender again.

She stands up, tossing her cigarette into the glass. “But let’s talk more about that on the way.”

I down what’s left of my drink and follow her outside to where one of those new Packard Mayfair convertibles is waiting. It’s dark red with black leather interior and the top is down. She opens her door and slips in and when I stare, she reaches over and pops open the passenger door for me. I get in and before I even close the door, she’s burning rubber, reaching into the glove compartment for a pair of sunglasses with her eyes still on the road. The radio is already on, Rosemary Clooney singing “Mixed Emotions.” Pearl drives fast, confident, wild. She swerves around anyone obeying the speed limit and throttles the gears to climb over the hills, heading west, zipping over the Golden Gate Bridge. Some mist still lingers over the water, but the sun is bright enough I squint and slump in my seat, holding on to the door handle so I don’t fly away. Once we’re over the bridge, she really lets it out, moving so fast I can feel the wind pressing itself into my mouth and nose, like water blasting through my brain to clean the drunkenness out.

“So where are we going, Pearl?” I have to shout to be heard over the wind in our faces.

“We’re going to our home. Irene’s home. Her full name was Irene Lamontaine, and she was my wife.”

The wind is loud, so for a moment I think I didn’t hear her right.

“Your what?” I ask.

She smiles without looking at me, and I can’t quite read her expression behind the sunglasses, but I think it’s amused, like this is the sort of thing she has to repeat a lot. “My wife.”

I lean back. Even in the clubs and bars, no woman calls another woman her wife, at least not as loudly as Pearl is. They whisper it, or say it as a joke, or defensively, trying to start a fight. No one says it like Pearl just did, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Come on, Mr. Mills,” she says, still smiling. “Surely my loving a woman isn’t enough to shock you.”

“Only that you’d say it out loud like that.” I try to keep my voice casual.

“Where we’re going, we say everything out loud,” she responds, her voice a growl imitating the engine.

“Then why do you need me?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer—I’m not sure if she heard me. The wind pulls through her hair, makes it flutter, and she speeds the car up just a bit. Around us, San Francisco has faded away into a stretch of the 101. The water is to our right, past some open fields. The light is cold and yellow.

“So everyone there . . . ?” I let the question hang.

“Yes,” she says. “We’re all queer. It’s why we don’t want the police around.”

I lean back in the seat. Sure, I’ve been around queers in groups before. The Black Cat, the Beige Room, Mona’s, plenty of places in the city, and I’ve been to most of them. But those are for the night. Those are for lingering looks and meetings in the bathroom, dancing sometimes, flirting, and always looking out for the cops, for a blackmailer, for something that would force you back out onto the street, into the real world, where no one would look at you the same if they knew. You’d be unemployable, except at some low-wage bar gig back in one of those clubs. Friendless, aside from the others like you. A whole other life you didn’t choose—or the other option. My option, before Pearl sat down next to me.

But shacking up? Friends? Family? We don’t get to do that, unless we’re very careful, or have nothing left in the real world, are already cast out. Not someone like Pearl.

“You’re smiling,” she says. I realize she’s right. “Why?”

“I guess, it’s just, two days ago, I would have told you to turn the car around.”

“And now?” she asks.

Now . . .” I laugh. None of the guys I’d worked with for the past ten years, guys I’d called friends, who I thought would have taken a bullet for me— none of them would even look at me as they led me from lockup to the chief’s office. Even he wouldn’t meet my eye as he told me I was done. Conduct unbecoming, perversion, lewd acts. They said they wouldn’t lock me up, though. That was their one token for my years of service. They’d just let everyone know what I was and what they’d found me doing and my life in the real world would be over.

“Now,” I say, “what do I have to lose?”


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And Hilarity Ensues

Image Place holder  of - 8By Lev AC Rosen

I’d never thought of myself as particularly funny person before setting out to write All Men of Genius. But somehow, I got it into my head to write something inspired by two classic romantic comedies. I’m not sure entirely why. I suspect because at the time I was writing the novel, there wasn’t much lighter steampunk out there—this was before Boneshaker came out, much less the Parasol Protectorate series—and while I loved the aesthetic, and the books were good… they were all such downers. I wanted to do something fun. So I looked to fun for inspiration. And then somewhere along the line, well into writing it, I realized I had to be funny.

Humor is one of the hardest things to do, and if you don’t find my book funny, I will not hold it against you. It’s incredibly subjective—moreso, I’d be willing to say, than other forms of art. I tried to hit as many different notes of humor as I could—high witticism, low sex humor, dark humor, random swearing bunnies—but I also know that these are all funny to me, and might not be funny to my next door neighbor. There are some books/tv shows that my friends find hilarious which I find so tedious that they are actively aggravating and make me want to hit things. Humor is like that—hit the right note for the right person, and they’ll laugh, hit the right note for the wrong person, and they’ll get offended, or angry or sad. But one thing I did learn is that you have to hit it hard. Sure, you could right something mildly amusing and safe—and everyone will find it pleasant. But the risk of going over the top is one worth taking—a laugh is better than a smile. I’ve never been the sort to try to write a book for everybody, something sweet and mildly amusing and forgettable. That’s something I learned while writing this—I think humor needs to go to extremes (in my case, that extreme is most often of the ridiculous sort) to really be worth doing.

The other lesson I’ve been learning about writing funny is that it’s not taken as seriously—once the book is out. That may seem like a contradiction—humor isn’t meant to be taken seriously—but I like to think that at least some of my jokes had a point, and overall the book had some weight to it. They say a comedy can never win best picture at the Oscars, and I’m feeling something similar when I hear people react to my book. Not all of them, mind you—there have been many wonderful reviews and letters which get at the heart of the more serious aspects of the novel, as well and enjoying the comedic wrapping—but there have been several who seem to read it and soon as they laugh, and understand that the book is a comedy, stop engaging with it on an intellectual level—they just sit back and enjoy the laughs. Which is great—anyone enjoying my book for any reason is great. I want to make that perfectly clear. But it makes me feel a little marginalized on behalf of what I’ve written. I don’t mind being thought of as funny. But it’s a little sad to me that some people think of it as just funny.

It’s a tricky business, the funny one. It’s a little like juggling while giving an impassioned speech on the repeal of DOMA. You have to keep all the balls in the air, and even then, sometimes people will just applaud the juggling, not the speech, and maybe someone will throw rocks at your afterwards. But it’s worth it for the people who laugh and nod. Hell, it’s worth it if you can make yourself laugh.

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