Guest Post, Excerpt, & #Giveaway: The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth
- Archaeolibrarian
- 8 hours ago
- 10 min read
Book Details:
Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Between the Lines Publishing
Publication Date: November 18, 2025
Number of Pages: 334 (Pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-965059-65-4
@SuzanneTrauth @partnersincrimevbt
@suzannetrauth @partnersincrimevbt
Connie Tucker, a free-spirited beach bartender, has been estranged from her family in New Jersey ever since her actress mother, Simone, disappeared one night during a violent storm at the theatre where she was rehearsing. Uncontrollable and in a rage at the loss of her parent, fifteen-year-old Connie is exiled to California, due to her delinquent behavior, to live with an aunt she doesn't know.
Fifteen years later, Simone's murdered remains are discovered at a construction site and Connie returns to the east coast for the funeral-she owes it to her mother. The cold case unit will take over now and solve the crime. But then she discovers a message her mother left behind. It feels like a dispatch from the grave.
Connie must face her tortured past, the guilt of concealing a devastating secret, and the part she played in her mother's disappearance. Unearthing buried family history and childhood demons, she confronts the agonizing reality that she doesn't know where she belongs, where to call home. Who to trust. When a second suspicious death occurs, Connie races to unravel the events of the night Simone disappeared. Her mother was the first to die...but not the last.
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“They found Mom. You need to come home.”
Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.
Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.
She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.
The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.
Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest.
42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before.
Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family.
Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast.
The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her.
“Connie Tucker!”
She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared.
“Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen.
She’d aged. And not well.
Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.”
Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years.
“Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.”
Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.”
“Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?”
The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—”
Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her.
Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere.
Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt.
Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish.
The door swung open.
With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect.
A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air.
Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother.
A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night.
In my recent suspense novel, The First to Die, home is a theme that runs through the story from beginning to end. Though the book is full of secrets, regrets, guilt, and shocking past events, the place where characters are born and raised permeates the plot. Questions abound: Where do we call home? Whom do we call home? What constitutes one’s home and family?How do we relate to family? In Charles Dickens’ novel Martin Chuzzlewitt, hewrites: “Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” These are powerful words, full of both positive and negative connotations.
My protagonist Connie Tucker, estranged from her family for fifteen years, finally comes home to see her mother buried, and struggles with the idea of home. And who she can talk to, who she can trust. She faces the question: what is it like to return home after so many years.
These issues would be important for any of us in her situation, but even more so because this is a suspense story and Connie is obsessed with her mother’s death, she’s needing to know who she can believe in, whose word is good. And then of course her own life is in jeopardy…as it should be since we’re talking crime fiction.
In the novel, Finn Maloney—formerly a priest and currently a therapist—becomes a confidant for Connie; someone she can slowly begin to confide in, and receive advice from. He’s the brother of her best friend Brigid and knew her fifteen years ago when she was a teenager, struggling to handle her beloved mother’s disappearance. But now they are both older,
Finn seeing Connie as an adult, grappling with her arrival in her hometown, not the young girl who was scared and angry when she left the east coast to travel to the west coast, thrust on an older relative she didn’t know. Thomas Wolfe’s novel You Can’t Go Home Again makes an appearance when Finn counsels Connie that she can “go home again,” as long as she blocks out all of the static—neighborhood gossip, rumors, and the dredging up of the past—to focus on what’s important: family, friends, and the present. Not the past. Engaging with the people who represent home, starting with Finn himself.
But Connie’s birth family is part of the problem: her sister loves her but doesn’t completely understand her; Connie’s father reminds her of the terrifying circumstances of her mother’s disappearance and is the source of her teenage rage. The family home is not a reassuring, comforting place. So, she finds solace, a replacement for her home, along with her friend Brigid, in the neighborhood bar and grill run by a loving figure from her past, Old Man Porter, and in the home of her Uncle Charlie. Though blood is thicker than water, in Connie’s case, home becomes a small circle of friends that she can confide in, relax with, trust. Or at least she thinks she can.
There is no place like home for Connie, and in order to move on with her life she must confront its darkness as well as its grace. To acknowledge that the path to her future lies in this once-loved New Jersey town, with the people she knew as a young girl.Where she called home.
Suzanne Trauth is a novelist and playwright. Her novels include The First to Die, What Remains of Love (a first-place winner in Women's Fiction, Firebird Book Awards; a finalist in General Fiction, American Book Festival; and a finalist for the Hemingway Prize) and the Dodie O’Dell mystery series–Show Time, Time Out, Running Out of Time, Just in Time, No More Time and Killing Time. Ms. Trauth has co-authored Sonia Moore and American Acting Training and co-edited Katrina on Stage: Five Plays. She is a former member of the theatre faculty at a university and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dramatists Guild, and the League of Professional Theatre Women.
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"Where do we call home? Whom do we call home? What constitutes one’s home and family?" ~ I love this!
Great guest post! Thanks so much for sharing.