Title: The Dancing
Boy
Author: Michael Matson
Publisher: Dark Oak Mysteries
Publication Date: April 6, 2014
Pages: 256
ISBN: 978-1610091411
Format: Paperback
Genre: Mystery
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Book Description:
Treat Mikkelson is not exactly a burnt-out case but he’s grown
tired of his life as a criminologist, weary of memories of a marriage gone
wrong and of his time in Vietnam. Trying to burn the bridges to his past, he
finds and remodels a cabin on a small Pacific Northwest Island, settles down to
enjoy fishing, setting his crab pot, digging for clams and documenting the
lives of his island neighbors.
When an elderly woman in the nearby tourist town of La Conner is
found dead however, the victim of what appears to be an accidental fall,
Mikkelson is persuaded to look into her death. The discovery that it was
murder leads to something even more shocking: the human trafficking of young
boys brought into the US and Canada.
Book Excerpt:
Sometimes people die simply because they’re in the
way. Because they’re a problem and killing them looks like the solution
to the problem.
In that case there’s usually little or no anger
involved. Just an analytic decision to remove an obstacle. A business
decision. You do it and move on. Shit happens.
If Margaret Neilssen hadn’t made a decision to sell the
property after all these years, she could have died in bed at the age of 110
for all he cared. Selling made no sense. It wasn’t as if she needed the
money. She already had everything she needed. Stocks, investments,
a picture-post-card fully-restored, turn-of-the-century Victorian home on
Second overlooking La Conner’s main street, the tourist shops and restaurants
with their docks backed up against the slough and across that the sparsely-lit
homes of the Swinomish Indian Reservation.
She could afford to keep the land. She’d held onto it
for nearly half a century, hadn’t she? Paying taxes on it. Letting
it just sit there growing weeds. Then she and her shiny-pantsed lawyer,
Trousdale, had put this development thing together. Just like that. No
warning. No discussion. Just live with it. There was no way
he could accept that. Not now. Not ever. He had other uses for the
land.
It was not yet eleven. Early for a city but not for a
small town. Most of La Conner had already dug itself in for the night.
Around it, the gravid, scentless, tulip-rich fields, dank with the earlier
memory of daffodils and narcissus, lay black and sleeping, deep in dreams of
tomorrow’s busloads of camera-laden tourists. Lights from a few
businesses along First Street… the Salmon House Inn, the grocery, the La Conner
Bar and Grill…still reflected across the thick, flowing, obsidian surface of
the slough. A single car pulled away from the curb by the bank building
and out onto the narrow street heading south. “Pull-and-Be-Damned Road”
they’d called it back in the ‘30s before it was paved and farmers bringing
their produce into town in horse or mule-drawn wagons for shipment south to
Seattle by boat had cursed its muddy ruts.
Usually on a weekend, even in winter, the town was as deep
in tourists as it had once been in mud. But it was mid-week and now only
a handful of late diners leaving the Salmon House Inn were still on the
street. A young couple, arm-in-arm strolled past the darkened windows of
the shops selling brass fittings, blown glass, clothing, woodcarvings, antiques
and jewelry. A few locals wandered blearily in and out of the La Conner
Bar and Grill.
Chances are no one would notice or even remember if he
decided to use First Street, he thought. That route would take him past
the few open businesses to the left turn at the end of the street across from
the Cranberry Cottage, then left again past the old Gaches Mansion. But
people noticed motorcycles and being invisible was a lesson learned long
ago. He turned two blocks before First, motored south for several more blocks
before turning right onto Second. There were no shops here and no one to
see him pull his Harley into the unlit, unpaved alley that ran between Calhoun
and Benton. He parked in the hard packed dirt space behind the United
Methodist Church and crossed Benton to the side away from the corner
streetlight keeping as much in the shadows as possible.
Not that being seen was much of a problem now that he was
away from the main business district. Few homes along Benson or Second were
lit. And he was dressed for darkness: black jeans, black turtleneck
sweater under a black windbreaker, thin black leather gloves, a black watch cap
pulled low over his forehead, face blackened with burnt cork. Still, he
took no chances.
Beside Second he paused briefly, then crossed the street
quickly and entered the old woman’s backyard. Here he paused again,
breathing in the faint scent of early dogwood, lilac and bitter cherry
beginning to flower in the adjacent yards. A towering laurel hedge and a
massive rhododendron, probably older than the house itself, blocked views from
the street and left the house in near total darkness; a gothic gingerbread
silhouette pasted against the deep gray overcast of the sky. There was no
sign of movement inside. The lower floor was unlit. Only a lone
flickering blue light from a TV set in one of the rooms upstairs indicated
anyone was inside.
Quietly he padded across the well-kept lawn to the back
porch and tried the door. Locked. But he’d expected that. He
didn’t want to jimmy it although he would if he had to. It was an old
lock and would only take an instant. But there was always a chance
someone might check later and find marks. He’d prefer to find another way
in.
He found what he was looking for on the south side of the
house. A window carelessly left partially open not far from the flight of
concrete steps that rose adjacent to the property and provided foot access
between First and Second Street. The proximity of the steps bothered
him. If any of the locals left the tavern and used them he might be seen.
It was a chance he decided to take. He eased the window open, hoisted
himself over the sill and lowered himself silently down onto the floor
inside. There he crouched, forcing himself to hold completely still for a
full five minutes until his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room and until
he was sure no one upstairs had heard him enter. When he was ready to
move he looked around, carefully noting the placement of furniture, the
contents of the room. It appeared to be a parlor or library of some sort
furnished with heavy oak tables, Morris chairs, standing Tiffany-style lamps, a
thin, dark patterned oriental rug over the hardwood floor. One wall of
the room was taken up with bookshelves. A door opposite the bookcases and
standing slightly ajar opened onto what appeared to be the downstairs hallway.
The only sound, a low murmur from the television, came from
upstairs. He closed the window and locked it using the metal catch at the
top. Softly, he crossed the room and entered the hall, then moved along
it to the stairs leading to the second floor, pleased to find they were heavily
carpeted. Nonetheless, he moved slowly, placing his feet as close to the
edge of the risers as possible to minimize any potential noise. At the
top of the stairs a dark hallway led off to the right to what he guessed were
bedrooms. Straight ahead of him across the short landing was a door
slightly ajar. A band of light, alternately gold and blue spilled out
from the open gap and across the surface of the landing. The sound of the
television was still low but clear enough now for him to hear distinct
words. A movie, probably. To the left was a bathroom. He
checked his watch. Nearly eleven. Whatever was on the TV would
probably end then but he was in no hurry. He slipped into the bathroom
and pressed himself up against the wall by the sink.
About the Author
Michael Matson was born
in Helena, Montana, and was immediately issued a 10-gallon Stetson and a pair
of snakeskin
boots. After formative years spent in New Jersey, North Carolina,
New York, California, Hawaii and Japan, Michael earned a journalism degree from
the University of Washington in Seattle. Following a brief military stint in
Oklahoma, where he first encountered red, sticky mud, heavy rain and
tarantulas, he returned to Seattle and worked as an advertising agency
copywriter, creative director and video producer.
In 2007 he (regretfully)
left Seattle for Mexico to have time to write and has since published The
Diamond Tree, a fairytale for all ages; Bareback Rider, an inspirational
adventure for children; and Takeshi’s Choice, a mystery novel. His short
story “Gato” was selected for inclusion in Short Story America’s 2014
anthology. His second mystery novel: The Dancing Boy, was released
by Dark Oak Mysteries, a division of Oak Tree Press in April 2014 and is
available at Amazon.com
He lives with his wife
María Guadalupe (Tai), in Morelia, the colonial capital city of Michoacán,
where, despite all the bad publicity given the area by U.S. news media, he has
never seen a narcotraficante. His website is: www.findmichaelmatson.com
The Dancing
Boy Tour Page
My Review:
This would be a great movie or television series. Treat comes out of retirement to find out what happened to Margaret, and if it was murder. The beginning of the book was confusing and I had no idea how the author was going to put it all together. However he did, and he did it well. Because there were so many characters and information the author was preparing us for the rest of the book. There is no extra information here and I recommend keeping a cast of characters, it made the interactions later on in the book easier to read, but you don't have too. I do give the author credit for spreading awareness about child abuse. I am giving this book a 4/5. I was given a copy to review, however all opinions are my own.
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