A Key to All that Glitters A Key to All that Glitters Category:  Romance Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press ISBN-10:  9781603132 Type: Fiction Pages: 350 Copyright: November 15, 2008 ISBN-13: 9781603132251 A Key to All that Glitters by Kathleen Rowland, an exclusive release from Whiskey Creek Press, is a romantic suspense available in both print and ebook formats. Balancing her thriving yoga spa and raising twins, Widow Heatherlee Baronova is slammed by her late husband’s past when an ex-con demands a key to a safe deposit box. Naïve, Heatherlee knows nothing about it. When her spa Clearwater is robbed, the police investigation is headed by Sheriff Marc Duarte, a sheep rancher from the silkiest gentry of town. The last thing she wants is for Marc to prove that dirty money built Clearwater. Marc knows her problems with a Russian theft ring will escalate beyond bad press and the bottom line. After the twins are kidnapped, she starts listening. Shrewd, rugged, and rich, Marc is clueless that this coppery-haired bundle of determination and desire married her husband because he looked like him. He does see a practical advantage, but if he goes undercover as “out of hiding” Yuri Baronov, will it be a death sentence?    Excerpt Chapter One Heatherlee Baronova sat there stunned. She faced her late husband’s…whatever. His partner, lover, or friend showered words that felt like pellets of ice. She wanted to head for cover where she could think. Here she couldn’t get past the immediate pounding in her chest and roar of blood in her ears. She’d been trapped into listening to something about which she knew nothing. She couldn’t move, needed to breathe. Another ten. . . . twenty seconds passed. Panic pressed on her, but she couldn’t let it consume her. Because her upstairs apartment had toys strewn all over, she’d invited her to a public area. They sat in her spa’s open-air loggia that spilled over the rugged Pacific coastline, and she was glad she’d chosen that spot. She’d hoped to hear a cute story. Instead, the tempest of a woman beat the dead horse. “I want my half. Yuri promised. You know what key.” Heatherlee knew nothing about a safe deposit box and threw up her hands. “I wish I did!” Medusa spat her words. “We partners, friends from Russia.” “He never mentioned you.” She glanced at valued customers from the Silver Age Yoga workshop. The loggia’s peaceful setting didn’t bring calm to this hellcat. She watched her fiery stare dart from one corner of the room to another and said, “No one dangerous lurks in the shadows.” She wished for a private cubbyhole. The stranger paused for a second. “You Yuri’s widow.” We’re going the third round. “That’s right. I’m five years his widow.” “Give me key now.” A flash of anger streaked across the tough woman’s features. Suddenly, her chest hurt from racing palpitations. Anxiety clamped her lungs. Her fingers tingled, and she sensed a panic attack in the making. Not this! She felt twilight dizziness and watched gentle waves turn surreal and glisten in the noontime California sun. Breathe. She inhaled, deep and long. Slowly panic drained away and urgency took its place. The tyrant’s face was beat red, but her hailstorm began to make an inkling of sense. More than once, he’d been a whopping big liar. Truth feels as right as rain. She had no choice but to attend to this unsavory business. With more breaths she willed away a panic attack and spun her thoughts to something concrete, her daily schedule. She’d teach Hatha Yoga at one and then pick up the twins, currently safe at preschool. The woman wouldn’t know about the twins, conceived In Vitro. “Your name again?” “Svetlana Kessk. I from Russia like Yuri.” His self-proclaimed partner was a hardened, graying blond. Young, she’d have been stunning with those high cheekbones. Heatherlee reached for the courage that had momentarily deserted her. She forced herself to think and conjured up his relatives, nearly silent at his funeral. “He was born there, but his roots were in L.A.” Svetlana jerked from a slump. “No. Roots in old country. He good at English. No accent.” “Care for iced tea?” Hoping to find her own composure, Heatherlee tried her best to put normalcy into her tone. “Vodka.” Svetlana strained across the bistro table. “Sorry, no alcohol in the house. I wasn’t expecting company until Thanksgiving. How about pomegranate juice? It’s as tart as wine.” She didn’t wait for an answer and rushed to the efficiency kitchen for the bottle of juice. A resin pilgrim couple and their turkey pal dangled their legs over the counter. She wanted to disappear into their Plymouth Rock imagery. She returned and set the juice down. Svetlana grabbed it and twisted off the top. “I drink it straight up.” After she’d finished it, her expression softened. Heatherlee took note of her thirst, knowing a war with nerves brought on dehydration. She caught sight of the Silver Agers as they wandered behind them, toward the efficiency kitchen. Led by town matron Anna Duarte, they spoke among themselves and poured bottles over crackling ice. Her well-heeled clients paid on the honor system and dropped bills into a jar. She wondered if Svetlana was destitute. Was she hungry? If she ate something, would she go away? Heatherlee scooted alongside her clients for zucchini bread, forcing a smile. Thankfully, the gadflies were busy talking while she dumped the contents of the jar, around twenty dollars, into a plastic bag. Juggling a water bottle and several slices of bread on a napkin, she returned to sit opposite Svetlana. Damned if her hands weren’t shaking. The money bag dropped to the table, and her fumbling fingers pushed the bread across. The vagrant shoved a slice into her mouth Her other hand snatched the money, and Heatherlee’s thoughts raced to a single post-mortem fact. For a jewelry sales rep, Yuri’s accumulation of funds and property was remarkable. He’d left her a rich woman. “Okay, Yuri’s widow, I tell you whole thing one more time.” Svetlana hunched forward. “He and I make deal. I take fall. Go to jail. Got out. Yuri dead. My half in safe deposit box. I want key.” For a horrible split second, Heatherlee worried that Yuri had died for a crime they’d committed. She decided to cooperate and later, come up with a better plan. “I’ll try to find it. What bank?” “Orange something bank.” A crumb sat on her upper lip. “Even if I don’t find the key, I can ask at the Orange County Bank if they have a safe deposit box for the two of you.” “Tell no one. I just got out of jail.” She banged the table with a fist. “I get it. You’re afraid the bank will look you up.” Svetlana fished through her plastic purse and pulled out a Starlight Motel Pen. “I stay here. Room three.” She held it up for Heatherlee to read the name and then scribbled a ‘three’ on a napkin. She shoved it across the table. Crumbs flew. Heatherlee clasped it with an unsteady hand. “Find key!” Svetlana’s words came out like a hiss. She stormed from the loggia. As she passed through the swinging door, it slapped her on the butt. No doubt for the benefit of the Silver Agers, Anna Duarte said, “Heatherlee, dear, it’s not one whit mysterious what you’ve got on your hands. Unsatisfied customers need to eat less. She’s obviously toned.” She gave her a polite nod. “She does have that, Anna.” For another five minutes she sat there, refusing to fidget. When she finally moved, she darted through the swinging door and across the spa lobby. She ducked into a stairwell, hidden within a closet. Yuri had arranged for several passageways to be built. Any closet brought on anxiety for Heatherlee, but this time, fleeing felt good. She pounded upstairs to her apartment. Inside its protective walls, she dialed her friend, a lawyer. Tara had the working-through-lunch habit. “It’s Heatherlee. You know I’ve had suspicions about Yuri.” It took a few minutes to share Svetlana’s story. Goosebumps spilled across her skin as she replayed the scenario. “The jailbird rocked you off your ass. Have a panic attack?” Tara knew her all too well. “Almost.” Even though every breath had felt like an Olympic event, yoga had taught her to breathe them away. “I suspect Svetlana’s coming out of the woodwork to get at money that isn’t hers.” Tara’s voice was tight and sharp as she turned from friend to criminal lawyer. “Remember, though. After Yuri’s death, I didn’t know how he got the fat bank account or paid off the mortgage.” “You really believe this woman was Yuri’s partner?” “I do.” Heatherlee recalled the beads of perspiration on Svetlana’s forehead. “Her desperation was sincere.” Tara blew air. “That makes them partners in crime.” “It seems she’s paid for hers.” “I’ll look up a ruling against Svetlana Kessk and phone the president of the OC bank. As his widow, you’ll want to access the box and all that glitters within. I’ll message over a letter on your behalf.” “Hold off on that last part, Tara. I’m going to hire Leviticus Blake.” “A private investigator is a good idea. Leviticus is the perfect choice. I still advise you to alert the cops. An ex-con and two thugs want a key to Yuri’s safe deposit box.” “It’s a good idea in theory. Too bad the cops are in bed with the Landings Beacon. My business depends on goodwill. If this leaks, Clearwater’s name will turn to mud.” “Well, Leviticus and Mae won’t be back until this evening. They’re spending the day with his grandson.” Tara and her husband lived next door to the Blake couple. When Heatherlee hung up the phone, panic returned like a golf ball in her throat. Somehow Svetlana had found her. It made her worry that her cronies might know about the twins, born after his death. Annie and Galen were all that mattered, and she didn’t want the thugs anywhere near them. Fuzzy recollections of Yuri’s peculiar trips swirled about her mind, but redirecting gloom was a practiced talent. Like an ostrich, she stuffed her head in the sand. Personal crises, it was the best way to get through them. Not even Mae or Tara would guess that she was sitting in the corner of her bedroom for under an hour, unable to decide what to wear. During the second hour, she forced herself to stay positive. Back downstairs, teaching yoga was real and sane. Up and at them, she drove herself hard through an advanced track. Since the temperature was a comfortable seventy-two, she held her class on her roof garden. Clients paid a premium price for outdoor workouts under the UV protection of a gauzy shade. She started them out with Sun Salutations. Most were seasoned practitioners, easily led through a sustained pranayama practice. Her inversions, balances, and bends were fluid, but mind altering to nothingness wouldn’t come. * * * * Sheriff Marcellus Duarte tossed a leg over the side of his bed. It wasn’t his divorce anniversary that kept him awake. He rolled to his side in a half doze. With the holidays coming up, his blues had worsened. A week away, Thanksgiving would trumpet in the season for families. He didn’t have one. The singles scene put him in a restless mood. Who was the blonde tangled up in his sheets the night before? Dawn or Fawn, something like that. To survive the festivities and endless foodstuffs, he could dish up someone sweet. He wouldn’t. Their party personalities reminded him too much of Pilar. The crackling of a 911 call brought him to the here and now. Hokay. I’m awake. Propped with an elbow on the mattress, he reached for the two-way radio on his bedside table. He strained to hear the dispatcher over the static. “Sheriff, I’m shooting over a recording. Over.” “Ready. Over.” He listened. “Heatherlee Baronova. 15 Cannery Row. Break-in downstairs. Carried my twins to the roof.” The woman’s voice was a dusky whisper. Tiny voices whimpered. The dispatcher’s voice broke in. “Intruders hit the first level. The victims are a mother and her two children. They occupy the second floor. They’re hiding on her roof garden. Police are dispatched.” “I’m on my way.” He knew the Cannery Row location. The painted-lady Victorians were no more a cannery than the Fox Hollow Condominiums were furrows for foxes, but names stuck from what used to be. Cops would arrive first. Marc’s job as temporary sheriff was to oversee their investigation. After pulling on jeans, he slipped on an official shirt with the badge attached. He rammed a small tablet and pen in the breast pocket. Hastily, he ran out the door to the cruiser. Marc knew every inch of the Duarte County Road. It took him from his ranch down the coastal bluff. He rounded turns with tires squealing and hunched forward over the steering wheel. Coming through fog to Landings Beach, the town flanked the Pacific like an ominous jewel box. He hoped things wouldn’t happen faster than he could take them in. He picked up the cruiser’s radio mike. Sheriff Duarte here. I’ll be at the Cannery in five. Keep me posted.” He heard other sirens pierce the night as he peeled down the final hill. Ahead, gaslights of the historical section glowed over the dark water. Slowing at a stop sign, he rounded the corner along a stand of trees and rolled down his window. The teeth of the wind bit him in the face. It would be cold for the woman and children on a roof. His nostrils filled with the scent of eucalyptus. No sirens now. The dispatch operator interrupted. “Another call’s come in from the same woman. I’ll shoot it over to you.” Preparing for the worst, he set his elbow on the window frame, arched his hand across his forehead, and squeezed as he listened to a recording from moments before. “Heatherlee Baronova.” A siren resounded in the background. “Have a telescope. Two men. A woman dragged by her hair to a dark Mercedes. Pulling north. License plate…FY5.” Marc clicked to headquarters. “Put two units after and an all points bulletin out on a dark Mercedes, partial license FY5, heading north on the PCH. See if a chopper can lift from Irvine. We’ve got an abduction. Who’s working the swing?” “Sergeant Ditzman and a rookie have it all night.” He didn’t waste a second telling himself the woman hiding with her children hadn’t been discovered. Thieves would have scrammed when they’d heard the siren. Marc knew all about Clearwater, a pricey health spa. His former wife called it Omtown. Yoga and Pilates kept her trim, but that effort turned out to be for her boss-lover. He connected with the cop on assignment. “Sheriff Duarte here. Give me an update.”

Romance Junkies Reviewer, Kris Jones
Widow Heatherlee Baronva greets a woman who says she knew Yuri, Heatherlee’s late husband. Then she sits there stunned as the stranger confesses that she served time in prison for a crime she and Yuri committed. Now she’s there for the reward Yuri promised, a key to a safety deposit box holding a wealth of gems. All of this is news to Heatherlee. She has no knowledge of any key, lock box or who the woman is sitting across from her. But the truth in what the woman says is brought home to her when a break-in occurs that night. Heatherlee barely gets her young children to safety on the roof of her townhouse.

Sheriff Marcellus Duarte responds to the 911 call and finds a frightened and confused Heatherlee. Marc knows her from high school and as the wife of a big time jewelry salesman who has worked with his mother as a volunteer on many charity events. Surprisingly, he has an unusual reaction to the vulnerable woman. He wants to wrap her in his arms and tell her everything will be all right. Even more, he’d like to care for her kids, not much more than toddlers. Fresh from a divorce, he knows the threesome would fill his life and give him a fresh start. But first, he must solve the riddle of the deposit box of jewels.

As the truth unravels, the gears of the scheme someone set in motion slowly grind to a halt. Questions arise. Is Yuri really dead? Are there jewels left in the box, and to whom do they belong? Who could have wanted to cause such harm to Heatherlee? Is Marc someone she can trust, or is he one more frightening disappointment in her life? The answers are harder to bear than Heatherlee imagined.

A KEY TO ALL THAT GLITTERS is an interesting book dealing with a woman who seems afraid of most everything at the beginning to one who grows and stands up for herself and her family, and takes bold steps into her future. I liked that author Kathleen Rowland makes her hero Basque and adds characteristics of this lesser-known ethnic culture to the storyline.

By Romance Junkies Reviewer: Kris Jones

Long and Short Reviews, Camellia

A Key To All That Glitters by Kathleen Rowland
Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
Genre: Contemporary
Length: Full (327 pages)
Heat: Spicy
Rating: 4.5 Books
Reviewed by Camellia

Balancing her thriving yoga spa and raising twins, Widow Heatherlee Baronova is slammed by her late husband’s past when an ex-con demands a key to a safe deposit box. Naïve, Heatherlee knows nothing about it. When her spa Clearwater is robbed, the police investigation is headed by Sheriff Marc Duarte, a sheep rancher from the silkiest gentry of town. The last thing she wants is for Marc to prove that dirty money built Clearwater.

Marc knows her problems with a Russian theft ring will escalate beyond bad press and the bottom line. After the twins are kidnapped, she starts listening. Shrewd, rugged, and rich, Marc is clueless that this coppery-haired bundle of determination and desire married her husband because he looked like him. He does see a practical advantage, but if he goes undercover as “out of hiding” Yuri Baronov, will it be a death sentence?


Mature characters, Heatherlee Baronova and Marc Duarte, with more than their share of baggage, along with a diverse group of secondary characters, come together making A Key To All That Glitters a mesmerizing story that vibrates with love and suspense.

Heatherlee, a survivor and nurturer, gives much to the people she loves and to her community. Smart and goal-oriented, she prioritizes with her preschool-age twins first on the list. Having made peace with who she is after a degrading and deprived childhood, she copes well after the death of her husband. When her upscale Clearwater Spa is robbed, she handles the terrifying experience with courage.

When Marc Duarte, the man she’s loved since high school, comes to investigate the robbery, Heatherlee reminds herself she is now a successful businesswoman with children, not a shy teenager. Marc, long divorced from the woman he married to please his Basque family, finds himself enthralled with the striking, confident woman Heatherlee has become.

Kathleen Rowland’s sophisticated settings in California and Chicago are perfect for the multicultural characters that must deal with intrigues that range from international jewel thievery to social snobbery. Bridging the gap between five-generation Basque sheep-ranching families and a drug-addict’s daughter that once lived in a bus and made her way by selling cans to feed herself and her brother seems an insurmountable task—even if she is a respected entrepreneur with money.

While there are obstacles, the toe-curling, breathtaking love scenes heat up the pages at times eclipsing all else. However, the heartwarming happenings with the twins leave a special feeling of rightness with the world. These two little charmers wiggle their way right into the heart.

Kathleen Rowland creates an edgy story with crime, with a touch of paranoia (not always unjustified), and adds a heaping helping of love.

A Key To All That Glitters is a gem for one’s library.