Murder in the Gilded City – Book Excerpt

Hello friend! Today I am chatting with author, Angela Kaufman who you may remember from two Creator’s Roulette posts on tarot and astrological archetypes, about her Crime novel, Murder in the Gilded City. Let’s welcome Angela. and learn more about the book. You will also find a book excerpt after the interview. 🙂

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Get to know the author: Angela Kaufman

Welcome back to Armed with A Book, Angela! Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!

Hi, my name is Angela Kaufman, my writing blends various interests but there is always a social justice lens. In addition to being an author and freelance writer I’m also a Tarot reader, Astrologer, and activist. Even when writing fiction, I try to be realistic in depicting oppression and corruption that impacts people’s choices. My writing tends to be left leaning and political and I also try to include spiritual and sometimes supernatural elements into the background as well and this is true of my latest book, Murder in the Gilded City.

What inspired you to write this book?

In early 2021 I learned that a community I had just moved in to was under threat of destruction by a wealthy local developer. This got me thinking about how enmeshed the interests of business and law enforcement can be and how this disempowers low income and other historically marginalized people. The ‘what if’ question that got me writing it was ‘what if there was a powerful businessman who suddenly became the target of a violent attack?’ The story came to formation based on how I imagined the police, media, and town officials would respond, even if they were following the wrong leads.

How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?

I started writing from a vague outline in early spring of 2021 and though the editing process was stalled for a bit the final edits were completed in early October of 2021.

What makes your story unique?

The story delivers local references that those familiar with Saratoga Springs and surrounding areas will understand, but it doesn’t offer a flattering view of the city, at least not based on the image this city tries to portray to its robust tourist industry. It’s not just a local interest story that may be fun for people who live in or like to visit Saratoga, the story is rooted in the politics that exist here, but these issues are universal and could relate to any town or city that props up business and tourism to the detriment of everyday people. There are also character arcs that the reader may not expect. Without giving any spoilers, let’s just say that Saratoga is a place where things aren’t what they appear to be on the surface, and the characters and plot embody this.

Who would enjoy reading your book?

People who enjoy fiction that is rooted in social issues and matters of justice beyond what happens in a courtroom may like this book. Readers who enjoy seeing the realities of political tension play out in a story would also like it. One of the characters is a private investigator who uses music, and specifically his record collection, to help him problem-solve so music lovers may find some Easter eggs in the story as well.

What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?

I hope readers will come to examine their own ideas about justice and power, and to understand their own relationship to these concepts.

Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?

As a writer I like it when two ideas that aren’t initially linked sync together. Without giving spoilers, there is a scene in which Levi Kingston, the detective, is mapping out a series of clues that are references to various song lyrics. As I was writing it, I realized that the album of one of the songs that serves as a clue is actually quite descriptive of the crime, but I hadn’t thought of that previously and it was exciting to discover this in the process of creating the scene. I still like to read it because of the anticipation and the investigator’s process of using music to embody the scenes and people he’s trying to understand.

What’s the best piece of advice you have received?

Even if you want your writing to convey a social justice theme or moral message, focusing on characters is the way to go. People don’t read the story because of an interesting plot, they read it because they want to know what happens to the characters.

If you could give a shout out to someone(s) who has helped in your writer journey, please feel free to mention them below!

Always thankful to Linda Lowen, who is a writing teacher and has been instrumental in helping me delve into fiction. Also, this book was helped along greatly by Alice Barden and Debbie Horan who provided great feedback in the early stages. 

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Book Excerpt from
Murder in the Gilded City

Chapter One

July 15, 2021

Saratoga Racetrack, Union Ave, Saratoga Springs

11:15 A.M.

Jesse

Jesse is halfway across Union Ave when he hears the engine rev. The traffic cop blows her whistle. Too late. A man in a Hawaiian shirt grabs Jesse by the back of his collar, seconds before the car speeds by. 

“Asshole!” Hawaiian Shirt yells at the red Ferrari, now well out of ear shot. 

Jesse squints to read the plate. He can’t be sure, but it looks like “NIKIV.” 

The crowd continues to push forward. He’s managed to hold his bag of Pink Sheets that list the names of today’s favorites expected to win. Jesse rubs his throat, sore from the sudden restraint of his collar, and eyes the traffic signal. They have the right of way. The remaining lines of cars wait for the crowd to cross. Some of the drivers lean on their horns. Others curse through open windows. 

The racetrack was closed to spectators last year because of the COVID pandemic. People went nuts over the track before, Jesse thinks, wondering how much worse it will be after a year of deprivation. As he surveys the opulent costumes, frilly hats purchased from upscale boutiques found in abundance in downtown Saratoga, Jesse recalls the time his cousin Jimmy had come to visit from New Jersey. They were both in grade school then. 

He remembers how Jimmy eyed the dresses and suits, then asked him if the people were making a movie. 

“That’s just the racetrack,” Jesse had replied, as his father drove them past the source of Saratoga’s worldwide fame. 

“It doesn’t look like the racetrack we have,” Jimmy confided in him, as if sharing a shameful secret. It took years for Jesse to understand what his cousin meant. Trips to the track were an obsession for Jimmy’s father, Jesse’s Uncle. It was the reason his aunt finally left, leaving Jimmy with a father who thought nothing of dragging him to the track for a day of gambling when his addiction got the better of him.

Jesse can’t imagine a racing town that isn’t a playground for the affluent. He can’t imagine the run-down stands and dirty bleachers described by his cousin. 

This is his second year working for the paper. He has seniority, so he’s claimed this corner. He nods to Freddo, a kid he knows from school, who has a cooler set up on the other side of the entrance. No competition, he sells marked up bottles of water. Freddo’s a year younger than Jesse, but his baby face makes him look even younger. Maybe that helps him make a few extra bucks. Jesse turns his back toward the entrance gate, ignoring the chanting protestors who convene every Sunday. Traffic resumes and he grabs Pink Sheets from his bag to wave at the people passing by. 

Some sales already, but most people swiftly walk past. Some almost knock him over, not wanting to miss the best seats. Jesse tries to time his sales pitch so his voice isn’t drowned out by the chanting protestors calling to shut down the track. Calling it animal abuse. Most days it’s hot as hell for him, and all he had to do was stand on a corner selling papers. He knows horses are dying. He hears the stories about how they get vanned off, removed mid race with injuries. If the people running the track are as rude as the people showing up to watch the races, he can imagine the stories are true. 

He feels bad for the horses. But he just wants to make some cash. Buy an old car, fix it up, just in time to get his license at the end of the summer. Before working here, he spent a summer working at one of the hotels. Well, half a summer. People were nasty and he got tired of cleaning their bedsheets real quick. Out of the corner of his eye, Jesse sees a group of protestors huddling off to the side. He shrugs it off. Probably planning what to chant next.

“You selling Pink Sheets?” a voice breaks his thoughts.

“Yes, Sir,” Jesse smiles at the older man wearing American flag patterns on his knee socks. 

The pattern repeats on his shorts, his shirt and even his…. 

What are those things called?

He has to stretch to remember the term suspenders. 

“Two dollars.” 

Satisfied with his transaction, Jesse once again turns to see who is walking up Union Ave toward the entrance. A woman with a hat, veil and a 1920s style dress walks beside a man dressed like a character from that Bridgerton show his mom watches. 

A group of girls a little older than Jesse, maybe eighteen, maybe in college. One pulls a wagon. They hit an uneven sidewalk and the wagon turns over, dumping ice and drinks. The wet mess splatters on a couple behind the girls. She, wearing a sundress that looks like the seams are about to give way, he’s wearing a sailor’s outfit. Sundress and Sailor curse at the group of girls, one of whom looks close to tears. Another, with sunglasses and tattoos, gives Sundress and Sailor the finger as the couple walks past, kicking a can of beer out of their reach. A third woman from the group kneels and gathers their drinks back into the wagon. 

Jesse has seen it all. He doesn’t feel sorry for any of them. Not even the ones who stand out. Who aren’t all lacey dresses and frilly hats. The ones whose desperate expressions remind him of the look he so frequently saw on his uncle’s face, before the family stopped visiting altogether.

As his eyes scan the sidewalk, he swears he sees a familiar trio. A woman with dyed blonde hair who looks about his mother’s age. A guy with sunglasses and short buzzed hair. A tall lanky guy with a sun hat and shades. They look like the trio that was huddled together. Except they weren’t wearing the #StopHorseRacingNow shirts anymore. 

He must be mistaken. He turns back to face the intersection and decides the sun must be getting to him. 

“Hey Freddo, let me get one of those waters,” he reaches a five out in the direction of the kid with the cooler. 

***107***

Kristen, 11:20 A.M.

Kristen eyes her newly painted nails, hot pink tips fading into lime green at the base, as she swishes the skirt of her new dress. 

Not bad for a do-it-yourself mani-pedi. 

“This really isn’t bad. I mean, for having to wait a whole year,” Tina rubs her arm in reassurance. Kristen nods her head, then recounts the story.

“My mom and Rick owe me this. They promised if I got good grades, I could have this party, and it was supposed to be last summer.”

“It was so unfair,” Mandy chimes in, pulling their cooler as they walk down Union Ave. 

“I made good on my end of the deal. Got all B-‘s and two C+’s and still had to wait a year!” Kristen claps her hands on ‘wait a year’ for emphasis.

“Emperor Cuomo had to go and ruin our entire senior year for a virus that only kills old people.” Tina added.

Kristen loves that Tina is so political. She doesn’t pay attention to politics. But on this one point they all agree. Their senior year, the most important year of their lives, had been ruined. 

“Can you believe Rick wanted me to just have a barbecue in the backyard?” Kristen wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“He’s so lame!” Mandy comments.

Kristen cringes inside. Mandy reminds her of a mouse. Minnie Mouse Mandy. She tries to fit in, but she can be so extra. 

“I’m glad you didn’t let him cheat you out of the party you deserve. They promised you. And after a year of Hell, we all deserve a par-tay!” Tina flails both arms and breaks into a dance move as she speaks the word ‘par-tay.’ Not to be outdone, Kristen stops to twerk, and the two girls descend into laughter. Mandy tries to join in but lacks their grace and nearly stumbles over the cooler.

“What do you think of my new dress?” Kristen asks as she twirls, the crème skirt flares, and the delft blue vines and flowers printed on it sway before settling back down. Her hat is decked out with a matching blue ribbon and floral arrangement. 

“Love it,” Mandy, who is wearing slacks, even on a girls’ day at the track, is quick to reply.

Tina knows how to dress. She always looks like a model if you ignore the piercings and tattoos. When Tina tells her how much she also loves Kristen’s new dress, she’s flattered.

“It’s not the one I was going to wear last season. I had to make my mom get me a new one. 

What do they expect when I couldn’t go to the gym for a year?”

“Right?” Tina adds, “I’m just getting back to my Cross-Fit workout.”

Their conversation is cut short when Mandy squeals. Tripping over the sidewalk, both she and the cooler go flying.

Kristen wonders if Mandy’s too-dark shades are distorting her vision. Who trips over a sidewalk? Ice and sodas and beer scatter everywhere. Some of the ice melted and water splashes Kristen’s new dress and the couple behind them.

“Why don’t you watch where the fuck you’re going?” 

Kristen feels her face grow hot. She’s too shocked to speak and stands frozen as if she’s been slapped.

The lady with him has on a dress Kristen almost bought. Thank God she hadn’t, that’s all she needs to make things awkward. The guy is dressed in some ridiculous suit like he’s about to board a ship in a 1950s musical. They push past and hurry toward the entrance.

In an instant, Mandy is on the ground doing what she always does, scrambling around trying to fix it by putting all the drinks back in the cooler. 

Let Mandy do that. She’s petite and that kind of thing comes easier to her. 

Tina gives the couple the finger, but they are already well on their way. 

“Are you ok?” she asks Kristen. 

Kristen knows she’ll start crying if she tries to talk, so she just nods her head and folds her arms over her chest. Nobody talks to her that way. Tina leans in to hug her.

“Ignore them. We’ve waited a year for this. Nothing’s gonna ruin it, right?”

***107***

Bonvenuto, 11:25 A.M

Joe Bonvenuto pulls at the collar of his dress shirt. Short sleeves or not, he’s already starting to feel sweat saturate his undershirt. The air conditioning is now blasting in the limo, but it isn’t helping. He exhales slowly as if blowing out a candle on a birthday cake.

It is a birthday, of sorts. 

Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me….

Not his birthday specifically, but the inaugural race of his new horse, Candleabra Barbara. He smiles at the thought of the clever name. His wife hates it. 

He’s glad his wife stayed home.  

He’s also glad he took the limo today. He wasn’t going to at first, but Mack had insisted on it. “You’re going to be our guest of honor!” Mack informed him when he was notified he’d receive an award as a thank you from NYRA for his generous donations to the New York Racing Association throughout 2020. It didn’t take much arm twisting for Bonvenuto to agree. An award, a new horse, and likely some nice winnings, Bonvenuto has a lot to look forward to today.  

He watches out the dark windows as crowds mull down Union Ave toward the entry gate. As the limo turns into the special entrance for drop off only, he eyes the growing number of protestors with their signs and leaflets and is once again relieved to have made the right choice by taking the limo directly to the VIP parking. 

“These people ought a get jobs!” he grumbles at the limo driver, gesturing with one hand toward the lines of protesters blocking the entrance gate. 

***107***

Jesse, 11:45 A.M.

Jesse checks his phone. He’s been on this corner for what seems like days. The race will start soon. He’s made less than half his usual earnings.

Damn. 

It’s getting hotter. One of the protestors walks up and down the sidewalk handing out bottles of water. Jesse recognizes her. Short red hair, middle aged lady. Here every weekend, for years. 

“Here, you look like you could use one of these,” she hands him a water bottle. 

“Thanks,” Jesse nods in appreciation. He wastes no time chugging the water. 

“And some nutrition,” she reaches into the pocket of her vest and hands him a granola bar. Now that was a nice touch, Jesse thinks, not realizing until now that he’s starving.

It will be over soon, he tells himself, feeling an ache forming in his tired legs. Almost over.

***107***

Kristen, 11:47 A.M.

They arrive at the box her mom and Rick rented for the party to find it’s been decorated. Balloons and streamers hang from the ceiling and confetti is sprinkled on the table.

“You guys!” Kristen turns to Tina, then to Mandy, tears in her eyes, smile wide. “We need to take pictures!” 

Kristen races ahead and discovers Brittany is already there with Tish, who is tying off a balloon. 

“My favorite colors!” Kristen squeals as she eyes the pink and lime green decorations.

“And we got you a cake,” Tish gestures to the table where a sheet cake decorated to look like a unicorn is visible through the plastic cover of an ornate box. Drinks and food are all spread out and they take turns posing for selfies in front of the track. 

“How many more people are coming?” Mandy asks. 

“About thirty, and then we’re all going to the house my mom rented for the weekend!”

Kristen strikes a pose, lifting the heel of one foot and adjusting her face in a look of surprise. Someone takes a picture. They giggle and take turns posing and clicking. Someone turns on music and Kristen hears her new favorite song playing. She and Tish start dancing together, and Kristen sings along.

You coulda been early…. But it’s too late…

“I love this song!” Mandy joins them and now everyone is singing.

You coulda been early… But it’s too late.

“This song is amazeballs,” Kristen agrees. 

“It fucks, and this cake fucks, and this party is gonna fuck!” Tish puts an arm around Kristen, they lean their heads together, Kristen holds her phone to her face as if it was a microphone and they continue to sing.

You coulda been early…

When the song is over, Kristen grabs a drink from the cooler. All her friends together, finally. Laughing, chilling, drinking; It feels like forever since they’ve been able to do this.

“When it starts, I want to go right down to the very front!” Kristen says, “I want to be able to reach out and touch the horses!”

The race would be starting soon.

***107***

Bonvenuto, 12:01 P.M.

Bonvenuto strolls toward the box he rented for his company, StoreMore, the latest branch of his real estate business. The StoreMore logo is proudly displayed on a banner hanging from the entry to their section, also on display along the track. He’s one of the most loyal donors. He can see that Patti, Lenny and Justin have already arrived. 

Bonvenuto tips his hat and sits heavily at their table. Someone prepared a photo of his horse, Candleabra Barbara, surrounded by tokens of good luck. 

Justin is pouring drinks and they raise their glasses.

“To Candleabra Barbara!” Patti toasts.

“To Joe Bonvenuto!” Justin adds. 

Lenny puffs on his cigar and hands Bonvenuto a box of Cubans.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Bonvenuto laughs and lights up.

***107***

Paulina, 12:22 P.M.

The heat is over-bearing and her car’s air conditioning hasn’t worked in years. She shuffles among the papers and books in the passenger seat and finds the box she’s looking for. Slightly larger than a shoe box, all gun metal grey. Its delicate contents perfectly in place, unlike the contents of her car- what’s left of her belongings- haphazardly strewn across the back seat. 

She holds it on her lap, trying to keep her hands from trembling, and checks the time. Soon. A mosquito buzzes around her head and as she swats it away, she runs a hand down the stubble that has replaced her once long, wavy, dark hair. The cut not for fashion but out of necessity. A change she made just before leaving her sister’s house. Before making the final downgrade from cot to car. Her buzzed head gives her one less thing to worry about. 

With a deep breath, she closes her eyes, makes the sign of the cross and whispers the words of her favorite prayer. In her mind, she hears her grandmother’s voice reciting it along with her. In Italian, just as Nana taught her. 

“Oh, Signore, fa di me uno strumento della tua pace…”

She envisions things going according to plan. Exactly as she’s rehearsed it.

“For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned…”

She has one chance. Scene by scene plays in her mind. 

One chance.

“And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”

***107***

Nikolas, 12:23 P.M.

“You here every Sunday?” Nikolas asks one of the protestors as he shoves the chewing gum to the left side of his mouth. She’s holding a sign with a list of names. Nikolas knows his own horse’s name is among them. He pretends not to know.

“Oh, and whose names are all these, here?” he asks, grinning. 

The protestor, Kyle, answers. Nikolas thinks it sounds like a rehearsed line. “These are the names of horses who have died in the racing industry. The names in red died here, in Saratoga.”

“One more question for you,” he leans in close, grinning again, voice saccharine like his chewing gum. 

“What’s that?” she asks. 

“When are you going to give up this bullshit and get a life?” He lets out a loud cackle. He then rips up the leaflet she’d given him and lets the pieces scatter on the sidewalk at her feet. 

“Better clean that up, wouldn’t want to get arrested for littering,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks into the track entrance.

***107***

Paulina, 12:38 P.M.

Prayer complete, she lights up a clove cigarette, inhales deeply, and turns on her radio. She scans the stations until she finds something to calm her nerves. She finds this in Bob Marley. 

Every Little Thing. She takes another drag on her cigarette, trying to believe the lyrics.

***107***

Nikolas, 12:39 P.M.

Nikolas tips the brim of his hat up to fit the binoculars over his eyes. He’s got a good view of the track, but his eyes are on the crowd, which is still filing in. He scans the aisles, looking for a glimpse of his mentor. 

Nothing.

A jab to his right arm shakes his view, binoculars almost knocking into his eye. He turns to see a boy, ten or eleven or one of those leggy, frenetic ages when kids are incapable of sitting still and not being annoying. The kid is fidgeting in his seat, crossing, then uncrossing his legs. Climbing in his chair, arms and legs flailing into the seats nearby when he can’t get comfortable. 

Jesus Christ. 

He’s about to say something to the kid’s mother, who is busy staring into her phone and ignoring her child, when she perks her head up. 

“Let’s go potty before the horses start!” she grabs his arm and practically drags him from the seat, not taking her eyes off the phone as she exits the row of seats.

He watches as they maneuver through the crowd. The woman had taken her purse but left the kid’s sweatshirt and an oversized designer bag on the seats to keep their place.

Nikolas’s gum is losing its flavor. He notices this as something shiny catches his eye. Lara Bars peek at him from inside the bag. He transfers the binoculars to his left hand then casually reaches his free hand into the bag grabbing one, then two of the bars. 

As he noshes one, a peanut butter and chocolate blend, dense and chewy, squirreling the other away in his jacket pocket, he resumes his search with the binoculars. 

***107***

Kristen, 12:40 P.M.

“It’s time! Let’s get a better view!” Kristen takes a swig of the Mint Julep Mandy mixed for her, gathers her girls, and heads for the very edge of the track. 

***107***

Bonvenuto, 12:43 P.M.

Bonvenuto finishes his cigar just as Mack takes to the field with his microphone. He can barely see the man, but for the projection of his image on the large screens surrounding the track. They already bowed their heads for the National Anthem and the race is about to begin, but first, he’ll introduce Bonvenuto, who would say a few words, bullshit here, kiss the ring there, and then they’ll sit back and win some money.

“We would not be here today without the support of our generous donors. Today, I want to recognize a shining star in our local business community, Joe Bonvenuto of StoreMore and Bonvenuto Development.” Mack gestures toward the box where Bonvenuto is waiting, his cue.

“Let’s hope this is Joe’s lucky day, it may just be the lucky day for his newest horse, a promising addition to the racing season, Candleabra Barbara,” Mack pauses now, giving both man and horse a chance to come forward.

The crowd breaks out in cheers and applause. Bonvenuto waves his hands in the air as he walks down to the track to join Mack. 

From the other side of the track, his trainer, Marco, walks with Candleabra Barbara. He smiles, running through his speech in his mind. The people he needs to thank. The words of wisdom he plans to impart. He’ll stand by his horse, smile for the cameras, and then the race is on.

He reaches for the microphone.

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Interested?

Find this book on Amazon, Goodreads, IndieStoryGeek.

Thank you for hanging out with us today. Connect with Angela on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. You can also check out her website and learn more about her work.

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