Luck Secrets by B.T Polcari
About Author B.T. Polcari…
B.T. Polcari is a multiple-award-winning author whose debut novel, Against My Better Judgment, won Honorable Mention in the Mystery/Crime Category of the Eric Hoffer Awards and the Silver Medal for YA Mystery in the Readers’ Favorite Awards. The book was also one of only 134 Eric Hoffer Grand Prize Finalists out of 2500 entries, a First Horizon Award Finalist for debut authors, a Finalist in Cozy Mysteries of the American Fiction Awards, and a Finalist in Humor/Satire/Comedy of the Best Book Awards.
Polcari’s second book, Fire and Ice, was a category finalist in The Eric Hoffer Awards and a finalist in both the Cozy Mysteries and Humor/Comedy/Satire categories of the American Fiction Awards.
His third book, Lucky Secrets, has received critical acclaim from Kirkus and The US Review of Books, among others (for a small sample, see Editors’ Review on the Lucky Secrets Amazon page).
Polcari is a graduate of Rutgers University and a proud father of two wonderful children. He’s a champion of rescue pups (Mauzzy is but one example), craves watching football and basketball, and, of course, loves reading mysteries. Among his favorite authors are Richard Osman, D.P. Lyle, Frederick Forsyth, Robert B. Parker, and Michael Connelly. He is also an unapologetic fantasy football addict. He lives with his wife in scenic Chattanooga, Tennessee.
This is a spotlight on “Lucky Secrets” by B.T Polcari
Lucky Secrets Blurb
College student Sara Donovan is in the homestretch of graduating when a mysterious package arrives with an invitation to an exclusive contest. One that will drastically change the winner’s life. Included are unsettling photographs from forgettable chapters in her life and a threatening note strongly suggesting she participate.
With no good options, Sara enters the contest and finds herself at a fabulous mansion up against eight formidable opponents, each with a dark secret and all racing to solve seven levels of riddles and puzzles.
After a contestant’s body is discovered, Sara contemplates dropping out when another package arrives, its chilling contents making clear she’s at the center of a dangerous game with deadly consequences if she quits. But what it doesn’t say is—what happens if she wins?
What Readers can expect fromLucky Secrets
The genre is YA Mystery although the book has crossover appeal to all generations as a Cozy Mystery. My hope is that readers will laugh as they work on solving the mysteries, which in Lucky Secrets includes multiple puzzles. When I set out to write the Mauzzy & Me Mystery Series, of which Lucky Secrets is the third book, I wanted to write fun quirky books with a young protagonist who people looked on as different but possessed an inner strength even she didn’t know was rattling around in there somewhere. In both Fire and Ice and Lucky Secrets I also focused on Sara Donovan, the protagonist, learning from past mistakes and gaining in confidence and growing her self-image. At the end of the day, I want readers to finish the book with a smile on their faces, laughter in their hearts, and the knowledge that being true to yourself and believing in your convictions will carry you a long way. Ultimately the story is about perseverance and self-belief.
From a pure “expectations” standpoint, The US Review of Books said it best of Lucky Secrets in their “Recommended” review: “Sherlock Holmes meets Stephanie Plum in this highly entertaining third volume of the Mauzzy & Me Mystery Series. Award-winning author Polcari combines delightful storytelling, a skillful writing style, and excellent character development to add his signature undertone of humor to this mystery/thriller….Fans of escape rooms, the board game Clue, and the Netflix murder mystery franchise Knives Out will enjoy attempting to solve the riddles and clues alongside the characters.”
Lucky Secrets Purchase Links
Lucky Secrets Purchase Links for Paperback
Signed copies can be purchased at B.T Polcari’s website.
An excerpt fromLucky Secrets…
The white-haired man, holding a blue folder, addressed everybody from the same open end of the seating arrangement as Percy had ten minutes earlier. “Thank you for coming. I am Creighton Winston, attorney for the contest’s founder, whose name shall remain confidential. However, rest assured, this person is a generous philanthropist, scholar, and respected citizen.” The attorney’s gaze traveled along the occupied sofas and chairs. “Has everybody brought their envelopes per the instructions?”
Some nodded their assent, others held up letter and manila envelopes, all looking daggers at the man. I pulled my envelopes out and held them up.
“Very good,” Winston said. “Full disclosure, my firm only prepared the invitation. The founder provided me with the sealed envelopes to go with each specific invite. Only you and the founder know the contents of your second envelope.”
That statement confirmed the so-called founder was the blackmailer. And assuming he owned El Sueño, he was also extremely wealthy. It made sense. With wealth comes power. I studied the attorney. The man oozed money. Could he be the person behind all this? Was he just pretending to be the founder’s attorney and in fact, I was staring at my blackmailer?
A smallish middle-aged woman with toned arms and perfect makeup raised a manila envelope like the one I received. Small dark-brown eyes that appeared even smaller behind oversized black-framed glasses glared at the attorney. “Are you telling me you had nothing to do with this sordid envelope and the despicable allegations it contains?”
“That is correct, Ms. Fantucci. All I know is, the founder believed some of you might have needed a little—push—to attend this meeting. And hence, your second envelopes.”
“More like a swift kick in the britches,” Scooter complained.
Mumbles and grumbles rolled through the room.
Winston forced a smile. “The founder imparted to me that every contestant was personally selected because each of you has a secret that absolutely must remain—a secret. Especially from law enforcement.” He glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “Since the winner of the contest will become fabulously wealthy, it would seem, everyone is here because of a potentially—lucky secret.”
Zoe’s head whipped toward me. With eyes wide, she mouthed law enforcement. I threw her a little headshake, even as my body exploded in tingles. I have no such secrets—anymore. I think. A picture popped in my head of the open safe-deposit box with the gold artifact, gold bar, and emeralds. With my name on the signature card. Somebody obviously manufactured a secret for me. But why? And is it the same for all the contestants? Were they also blackmailed into coming for something they didn’t do? Or were they…
The attorney opened the blue folder. “Before reading the contest rules, I would like to briefly introduce the contestants, all of whom are based in the greater-Birmingham area, and their associates, if any.” He nodded in my direction. “With the exception of Miss Donovan, who is from Annapolis but goes to school in Tuscaloosa. When I say your name, please raise your hand.” His attention focused on the man who saw himself superior to all in the room. “Mr. Karsh Azarian.”
The pompous violin expert flicked a hand.
Winston nodded toward the man. “Mr. Azarian, who is here on his own, is a former collegiate basketball player at an academically-elite university and financial asset manager with an enviable record of providing returns that consistently beat the market by a surprising margin.” He paused. “And apparently, he’s also a Stradivarius aficionado.”
Azarian glowered but said nothing.
“Ms. Jessica Doerr,” Winston said, looking at a platinum-bottle-blonde unsuccessfully trying to appear in her fifties. She briefly raised her hand. Next to her sat a withered woman easily in her eighties. “Ms. Doerr, who is here with her mother, Virginia Byrd, is a mortgage banker with her own agency, specializing in refinancing services for the senior community.” He looked to the flip-flops dude slumped in one of the chairs. “Mr. Rodney Toft.”
“I go by Rod,” the frizzy-haired man stressed.
“Very well,” Winston replied. “Mr. Toft, who brought his girlfriend, Ashley Tennison, is a cryptocurrency exchange investor and trader as well as a technology venture capitalist. His recent meteoric rise with regards to wealth generation has been the talk of the financial world.” He motioned to the seething lady who had spoken up earlier. With a fake smile, he said, “Everyone met Ms. Olivia Fantucci, who is an attorney with her own firm specializing in large class-action lawsuits and personal injury. People either love her or hate her.”
The lady returned the attorney’s plastic smile with a death stare, thin lips pressed tight, eyes mere slits. Menacing.
Winston’s smile broadened, lingering on Fantucci for a second or two. “Ms. Fantucci’s associate is her friend, Marissa Chevalier.” He turned to a trim grandfatherly-looking man with short, white hair, a receding hairline, and a hooked nose. Sitting next to him was an elegantly-understated woman with an air of quiet wealth and privilege. “Mr. Spencer Fernsby.”
The man half-stood and threw a little wave and nod before sitting again.
“Mr. Fernsby, who is here with his wife of forty-eight years, Kathleen Fernsby, is the founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of the telecom giant, CLATEL Communications. In a mere five years, Mr. Fernsby has overseen the growth of CLATEL from a mid-sized regional provider to a national behemoth and stock-market darling.” Winston gestured to the gorgeous musician. “You also have met Mr. James Dougal, who, like Mr. Azarian, is here on his own. He is a real estate agent with his own agency specializing in high-end luxury properties.”
Dougal stood and bowed, a glittery smile on his face. “If you’re looking to buy or sell, call—”
“Mr. Dougal,” Winston interjected, “this is neither the time nor place for personal aggrandizement or”—he gave him the snootiest of looks—”advertising.”
Jimmy’s heartwarming smile vanished. Putting up a hand, he said, “My apologies,” and quickly sat.
Like he did earlier with Fantucci, Winston’s gaze lingered on Jimmy before addressing the car salesman. “Mr. Burl Jablonsky is the owner of four car dealerships—”
“Five,” Scooter said.
“Excuse me, five car dealerships including—”
“Just opened the fifth last month. Probably why you don’t have it in that there file.”
Winston eyed the beaming Jablonsky. “Yes, of course, you did. Mr. Jablonsky is the owner of five car dealerships including two luxury franchises. Correct, Mr. Jablonsky?”
The car man gave a thumbs-up. “Yes, sir. And like I said, y’all can call me Scooter. Got the nickname way back when I bought a scooter franchise and my baby brother here, Billy—”
Winston broke in. “Thank you, Mr. Jablonsky, but you can regale everyone with your colorful life stories over the next two weeks during dinner, which I will be getting to momentarily. Mr. Jablonsky’s brother, William Jablonsky, is his associate.” He extended an arm toward a dull-looking man in a plain black suit with a long, narrow face, pallid skin, and slicked-down silver hair combed to the side. “Now here we have Mr. Frederick Volkov, an immensely successful financier, stock trader, and arbitrageur. And as all can see, Mr. Volkov’s associate is his brother, Ivan Volkov.”
The dour Frederick Volkov sat motionless, heavy-lidded gray eyes focused on Winston with a burning intensity contrary to his persona. Next to him sat a carbon copy of the man, less the white-hot glare. His identical twin. And I mean—identical. Right down to the suits they wore.
Winston turned to me. “And last but certainly not least, we have Miss Sara Donovan, a business student at the University of Alabama and a nationally-recognized amateur sleuth. With her is Miss Donovan’s friend, Miss Zoe Harp.”
I gave a half-wave, my ears burning.
Winston consulted the folder in his hand. “Miss Donovan is the only contestant under twenty-one, although she will be celebrating a birthday tomorrow.” His gaze settled on me. “Which happens to be the Ides of March.”
Scooter jumped up. “Hey, y’all, you know what they say,”—he jabbed a stubby finger at me—”beware the Ides of March.”
“Please be seated, Mr. Jablonsky,” Winston scolded, “and refrain from any further outbursts.”
The man sat, his bearded face crimson, a vein pulsing in his temple.
Karsh Azarian sized me up, his brow furrowing. “All very interesting. Amateur sleuth, hmm? We will have to keep a close eye on that one.”
