I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the SCANDAL OF VANDALS by Frank F. Weber Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my
post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Author: Frank F.
Weber
Pub. Date: July
25, 2024
Publisher: BookBaby
Formats: Paperback,
eBook, Audiobook
Pages: 306
Find it: Goodreads, Purchase from Frank, https://books2read.com/SCANDAL-OF-VANDALS
Debra Grant, spouse of esteemed
attorney Tug Grant, was brutally assaulted in her Minnetonka home on Wednesday
morning and died later that afternoon at Park Nicollet Hospital. Debra, a
Macalester College graduate, was a scout leader, a member of the Scenic Heights
PTA and a beloved member of the Christian Women's Ministry. Tug was in the
headlines in 2018 for defending a member of the Minneapolis Combination (MN
mafia) after the boss was accused of murdering a Disciples gang member. The
police have not identified any suspects In Debra's murder. Violent crime is
uncommon in this affluent community.
Tug Grant had an affair with his secretary and his law clerk but had recently
renewed his marital vows with Debra. Scandal of Vandals is based on true crime
in Minnesota that was once touted as the crime of the century. Was the murder
the repercussion of Tug's affairs, a possible mafia hit, or gang retaliation?
Some say, it was the day the Twin Cities lost its innocence.
Excerpt:
1
JON
FREDERICK
8:45
P.M., SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2002
PIERZ
It was 46 degrees today, the
warmest it would be all month. My cool cheeks felt like a mask on this starless
night. I traipsed along the riverbank on our farm, sinking into the
snow with each step. I carried my book and one of my dad’s empty beer
cans, now filled with gas, to a thicket of trees on a bluff overlooking
the river. My Sorel boots were snug due to a recent growth spurt, but
they kept my feet warm. I suppose all my winter gear could be replaced,
but it served its purpose, and now wasn’t the time. I carefully set the
can in the snow and the book on a fallen tree while I gathered dried
brush for a fire. Once I had piled the wood in front of a tree stump, I
poured the gas on the stack and tossed a match into it, enjoying
the ominous “huff” it made when it ignited. As the fire started,
I stepped to the side and looked out at the river. The steep banks
were covered with snow. The river was never safe to walk on in the
winter. While much of it was covered with ice, it never froze over
completely. I loved this farm. We were losing it, and I imagined it would
be bought up by some corporate farmer who would never walk these
banks.
I had to get out of the
house tonight. My older sister, Theresa, had apparently been caught in a
state of undress with a firefighter in one of the trucks as the local
volunteer force rushed into the station for a call, so she was now the
talk of the town. Perhaps it’s one of the perils of having the
Pierz fire station next to Frosty’s bar. When I left the house, Mom
was kneeling in front of the couch, praying for her soul. Dad wasn’t
angry like he used to be. He’d given up and was now depressingly quiet.
It didn’t help that when confronted, The resa never minimized her behavior.
Instead, she embellished the story further by suggesting, “They had to
turn the hose on us to get us to stop.”
My older brother, Victor,
struggled with schizophrenia and was convinced aliens were trying to
communicate with us in Morse code through the flickering lights on our
Christmas tree. Having a brother who tells tales of false inventions and
declares people are trying to kill him casts a shadow on our family. I
don’t blame Vic. The delusions and paranoia are real and scary for him.
Regardless of the stories, I love my family. I respect my parents, laugh
with Theresa, and take care of Vic. But I’m alone and not loved in the
manner I desire. I’m loved in the sense that I’m provided for. My parents
aren’t the ‘Is something bothering you?’ type. They’re the ‘Do you
have your chores done?’ parents. Theresa visits home as little as possible,
and Vic is detached from the world. I had a good year in football, but
not good enough for a scholarship. The same is true for my grades. Most
of the kids in my grade are considerate, hardworking people trying to
figure out life. Unlike the movies, the homecoming queen and king
candidates are decent people.
I’m not in the selection as
people have kept a safe distance from me ever since I assaulted an older
boy for bullying my schizophrenic brother four years ago. Other than a
bloody nose, the boy wasn’t seriously hurt. My anger worked for
Vic. The bullying ended. I, however, am viewed as someone with the
potential to go off the rails. I probably should have explained myself
since it happened in front of my class, and my peers weren’t aware of the
torture Vic had been through. I was too ashamed to desire sympathy, so I
quietly took the consequences. I’ll never forget the bus ride home. No
one sat within two seats of me for the first couple of stops. Then,
a courageous girl with flowing brunette locks and scintillating
green eyes sat next to me. Serena Bell is the brightest and most
beautiful girl in our school, but because she expressed her kindness
without reservation, she also had her critics. It was consistent with my
theory that there is nothing you can do to get everyone to like you. If
you tried, someone would hate you just for that. But I didn’t see Serena
outside of school as she belonged to a ballet company and didn’t date
anyone around Pierz. I want someone to talk to who isn’t going to
judge me based on everything happening with my family—a girl who will at
least try to understand me. I’m not sure that person exists.
I returned to the fire,
picked up my book, and read forward from the bookmark:
“Heaven knows we need never
be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of
earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than
before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.”
Charles Dickens wrote my
thoughts so succinctly. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Tears had been
beaten out of me years ago. Even if I couldn’t participate, I felt
Dickens’ sentiment deeply. I returned to immersing myself in his written
words.
“What are you doing?” an
angel’s voice asked.
I glanced up to see Serena
approaching the fire. Her long brunette locks flowed from underneath her
slouchy beige knit hat, and her body was covered by a forest green
peacoat. My sixteen-year-old classmate only lived a mile down the road
from me, but I never saw her around. God, if you could get her to love
me, you could take my life at thirty, and I’d die a happy man.
Embarrassed, I held my book
to the side, away from her. I stood up and offered her my stump. “Here. I
was just sitting here thinking.” Trying to make light of my family’s
misfortune, I quipped, “If you’ve heard the rumors about our farm, it’s
all we can afford to do.”
“Where are you going to
sit?”
I set my book on the ground
and dragged a log over to the fire. “Here.”
After I sat, Serena smiled
at me and, instead of going to the stump, picked my book up out of the
snow. “You wouldn’t want people to know you’re reading Great
Expectations.” She slipped her mittens off, opened the book, read the
pages that embraced the bookmark, and then stepped in front of me.
“I just needed to get away,”
I explained.
“I’ve seen you here before.
I finally had the courage to come and speak to you. I would have come
sooner if I had realized you were reading Dickens. I mean, you never
know what a teen boy might be looking at in the middle of the woods
by himself at night.”
I laughed. She sat close to
me on the log. The warmth of her body made me pleasantly nervous. Her
green eyes were mesmerizing.
She continued, “I heard you
made the WCCO all-state team of the week in football. That’s impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t
been to a game.”
“It’s okay. I don’t play
because I expect people to watch. I play because it’s like chess
performed at one hundred miles per hour with all the pieces in motion
during every move.”
“Can you explain it to me in
words I can understand?” “I’m quarterback, so I can change the plays. If I
can’t figure out what the defense is doing, I send someone in
motion.” I stood up and pumped my right leg. “Let’s say there’s a defender
covering the wide-out on the right side. When the wide-out sees my foot
moving, he runs behind me to the other side of the field. After he
crosses, I see the defender on the left side isn’t picking him up. Then I
know the defender is coming after me instead, on a blitz. More
defenders are coming after me than I have blockers, so I have to change
the play and get rid of the ball quickly.” I laughed at the look of
confusion on her face. I sat back down by her. “So, I guess the answer is
‘no.’ I can’t really explain it in a manner you could understand.”
She gripped my bicep with
her mitten. “I promise I’ll try to get to a game next year, even if I
can’t understand it.” “I went to your ballet.”
Surprised, she leaned back.
“With whom?”
“By myself.”
“Why didn’t you tell
anyone?”
“It’s not something football
players brag about.” “You should have found me after.” She leaned against me.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”
“Of course, I wanted you
to—goof. I have to get back home, or Mom will send the Sheriff, police,
and fire department after me. I was at the end of my walk when I noticed
you.” “My sister might be able to distract them.”
Serena laughed knowingly.
“That isn’t on you.” She stood. “Okay, read me a line from Great
Expectations before I go.” “I don’t have to read it.” I stood facing her and
recited, “I loved her against reason, against promise, against
peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement
that could be.”
Without hesitation, Serena
kissed me. I will cherish that moment forever. It was a moment of warmth
for a boy, lost in a blizzard, trying to find home. The night had split
open, and the light revealed Serena’s requited love for me for the first
time. I was flabbergasted by the possibility that Serena could love
me. It was a warm, loving kiss that continued while the endorphins
in my brain danced in ecstasy. I felt bulletproof. She stepped back and
said, “Tell me the next time you’re coming out here so we can have a
little more time.”
“I can walk you back.”
“No, you can’t,” she
grinned. “If my parents see you, there won’t be a next time.”
I sat on the stump and
watched her disappear into the night. It was the best moment of my
life.
(3
DAYS LATER)
10:02
P.M., TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2002
DAD WAS A RUGGED VETERAN who
had a habit of calling me into the living room to view the bad news of
the day. Tonight, we watched medics wheel three bodies out of a
two-story farmhouse in South Troy, Minnesota. Dad turned to me and
said, “The way the economy’s destroying farm families, I’m surprised this
isn’t happening all over the state.”
WCCO newscaster Frank
Vascellaro turned to his wife, Amelia Santaniello, and said, “The
family’s sixteen-year-old son has been taken into custody.”
Dad asked me, “How long do
you think they’ll keep a married couple on the news together? My bet is
they don’t make it a decade. She kept her maiden name.”
Frank and Amelia looked like
a happy couple to me. “What do you call the name a guy was born with?”
“I don’t know. What?” Dad
studied me skeptically. “There’s no word for it. It’s just his name. In 1975,
Kathleen Harney from Wisconsin wanted to keep her maiden name. She had to
appeal her case to the state supreme court to do so. The circuit court
ruled by common law she should take her husband’s name.” Common law
refers to enforced practices because they are popular or common rather
than by legal statute. “But the supreme court ruled, under English common
law, her legal name is the name she has always been known as.” “Seems
like a bad way to start out a marriage,” Dad suggested.
“Her husband didn’t care.
Kathleen wanted to add her husband to her insurance, but the school she
worked for told her she had to change to her husband’s name to do
so.”
“Now she has me on her side.
This is one more case of the government sticking its nose where it
doesn’t belong. Who the hell are they to tell her what her name should
be?”
“Prior to that ruling, women
couldn’t get a credit card or a passport unless they did so in their
husband’s name.” “Do you see what’s going on there?” Dad pointed to the
TV. “That family was killed by their son, Richard Day. I have a friend
who lives nine miles north, in Mazeppa, who gave me the scoop. Both
parents and a brother are dead. Day’s eight year-old sister is in critical
condition in the hospital.” “I saw. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about
it. It’s not the first tragedy in South Troy. That’s where Laura
Ingalls’s only brother died before he reached a year.” When he didn’t
respond, I added, “Did you know that Laura Ingalls Wilder refused to say
‘obey’ in her wedding vows?” He shut the TV off. “Yeah, I should just leave the
damn tube off.”
This was as close as Dad
came to apologizing. I appreciated his concession and told him, “It’s all
right. You can’t change the world’s problems if you’re not aware of
them.
Maybe someday I’ll be in a
position where I can do some thing about it.”
In a calmer tone, Dad said,
“I saw you talking to that Bell girl down by the river. Remember, you
just take that thing out for pissin’, and you put it back as soon as
you’re done.” “Sound advice,” I remarked.
Dad shook his head,
“Although, honestly, if you keep sharing that damn trivia, I’m never going to
have to worry about you getting laid.”
I elected not to respond. He
might be right, but I can’t help it.
Mom entered the room to let
us know that the language being used was not acceptable. Instead of
confronting Dad about it, she fixed her gaze on me. It was clear she
wanted me to follow her into the kitchen, so I did.
“I like Serena,” Mom smiled.
“If you ever get a girl pregnant, you take responsibility for the child. I
expect you to do what’s right by the mother.”
“I understand.” I really
didn’t want to have this conversation.
Mom opened the refrigerator
door and contemplated tomorrow’s meals as she asked, “Have you ever
thought about asking out that Golden girl? She’s a saint.”
Not from the TV show. The
girl in question’s last name was Golden. I wondered, “Isn’t she my
cousin?” And as much as I admired saints, I wasn’t interested in dating
one.
“Second cousin, so it’s not
a legal issue. What’s going through that brain of yours, Jon?”
“I was considering the
consequences of knocking up a saint.”
“That’s not funny.”
It was a little funny. I
stepped away. “Can this conversation be over?”
“I just don’t want to have
to hear who you’re dating at Thielen’s Meats again. Why don’t you tell me
yourself ?” Mom was now facing me.
“Because I don’t want you to
think you have a say in it.” “That’s mean.” I knew Mom was frustrated about
the state of our finances, and I didn’t want to add to her distress. “I’m
sorry. I’m just tired.” I was being honest, but I probably could have said it
better.
“Understandable. You’ve got
a lot going on. You can’t afford to be in love. Girls today expect you to
take them places and buy them things.” The shame on her face was no less
than what she was painting across mine. Having said enough, she
nodded to me, indicating that she had accepted the apology. It was as
affectionate as we got in our family.
“I have to end the
conversation, Mom. If I don’t shower, you’ll never have to worry about a
girl getting close to me.” It may seem a little rude, but anyone who has
been in a conversation with my mother understands. She continues to talk
until you say something like, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
About Frank F. Weber:
Frank F. Weber is a forensic psychologist specializing in homicide, sexual assault and domestic abuse cases. He uses his unique understanding of how predators think, knowledge of victim trauma and expert testimony in writing his true crime thrillers. He has profiled cold case homicides and been interviewed on investigative shows such as Snapped and Murdered by Morning. His Award Winning books include Murder Book (2017) The I-94 Murders (2018) Last Call (2019) Lying Close (2020) Burning Bridges (2021), Black and Blue (2022), The Haunted House of Hillman (2023) and Scandal of Vandals (2024).
Website | Instagram | Facebook | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub
Giveaway Details:
5 winners
will receive a finished copy of SCANDAL OF VANDALS, US only.
Ends September 17th, midnight EST.
a Rafflecopter giveawayTour Schedule:
Week One:
|
9/2/2024 |
Excerpt |
|
|
9/2/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
|
|
9/3/2024 |
IG Post |
|
|
9/3/2024 |
Excerpt |
|
|
9/4/2024 |
IG Post/TikTok Post |
|
|
9/4/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
|
|
9/5/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
|
|
9/5/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
|
|
9/6/2024 |
IG Review |
|
|
9/6/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
Week Two:
|
9/9/2024 |
IG Review |
|
|
9/9/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
|
|
9/10/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
|
|
9/10/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
|
|
9/11/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
|
|
9/11/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
|
|
9/12/2024 |
IG Review |
|
|
9/12/2024 |
IG Review |
|
|
9/13/2024 |
IG Review |
|
|
9/13/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.