Author Sandra Brown's new book "Blood Moon" is a bonus read for Club Calvi
Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE.
Find out more about the books below.
Bestselling author Sandra Brown is back with a steamy thriller. She talked to Mary Calvi about her new book "Blood Moon." Within days of its release, it made The New York Times bestsellers list.
Brown told Calvi this is one of the first books she's written where she had the title before the plot.
"It just came to me, those two words," Brown said. "I thought those would look great on a book cover, the double 'Os' in each word. I called my editor and said I had a great title for the next book. And he was like, 'Oh, what is it?' I said, 'Blood Moon.' He said, 'I just got cold chills.' And he said, 'What's the story about?' I said, 'I have no idea.' So, I had to come up with a story that fit the title."
The blood moon is a total lunar eclipse, when the sun, Earth and moon align.
"There's always been an eeriness attached to them throughout history," Brown explained. "Every culture, every religion and civilization has attached some kind of mysticism to a blood moon, because it turns orange or reddish in color. I thought it would make for a very atmospheric book. I built a mystery that would tie in."
The mystery unfolds when a producer of a TV true crime show in New York City is convinced that the disappearance of a young woman in Louisiana is connected to other missing women.
Before Brown started writing books, she was a television reporter. She's also a fan of true crime shows.
"I actually contributed to two crime TV shows over the course of my career," Brown told Calvi. "I thought a producer for those would really be interesting, because you get to solve a mystery, but it's not like you're in law enforcement. They do so much research and they get to interview all of the people who are involved. I thought that would make an interesting heroine."
Brown pairs the television producer with a detective in Louisiana who had worked on the case.
"The case was never solved," Brown said. "It's a cold case for him, and he wants no reminders of his failure. She goes from New York to Louisiana to tell him this story is not over yet. They start off on this adversarial relationship. But then, of course, it's a Sandra Brown book. I built in a relationship between the two."
"Blood Moon" is Brown's 86th book. She's published a book a year since the 1980s.
"I wrote 45 romances before I ever started writing mystery and suspense novels," Brown said. "I was doing four or five of those a year, so that's where a lot of the quantity came from. I've been very fortunate to have this longevity in this career."
"Blood Moon" has become her 77th New York Times Bestseller.
"To be so blessed, to be able to do what I love to do which is storytelling, and to do it for so long, and to make a living at it, I know how fortunate I've been in my career," she said.
You can read an excerpt, and purchase the book, below.
The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Blood Moon" by Sandra Brown
From the publisher:
Detective John Bowie is one misstep away from being fired from the Auclair Police Department in coastal Louisiana. Recently divorced and slightly heavy-handed with his liquor, Bowie does all that he can to cope with the actions taken (or not taken) during the investigation of Crissy Mellin, a teenage girl who disappeared more than three years prior. But now, Crisis Point, a long-running true crime television series, is soon to air an episode documenting the unsolved Mellin case. Bowie has been instructed by his unscrupulous boss to keep to his grievances and criticisms over the mishandling of the investigation to himself.
Beth Collins, a senior producer on Crisis Point, knows what classifies as a great story and when there's something more to be told. After working on the show for seven years, Collins is convinced that Crissy Mellin's disappearance was not an isolated incident. A string of disappearances of teenage girls in nearby areas have only one thing in common: They took place on the night of a blood moon. In a last-ditch effort to find out the truth, Beth enlists Detective Bowie to help her figure out what happened to Crissy and find the true culprit before he acts on the next blood moon—in four days' time.
With their jobs and their lives at risk, Bowie and Collins band together to identify and capture a perpetrator, while fighting an irresistible spark between them that threatens to upend everything.
Sandra Brown lives in Texas.
"Blood Moon" by Sandra Brown (ThriftBooks) $23
Excerpt: "Blood Moon" by Sandra Brown
CHAPTER 1
Saturday, March 8
The poignant lyrics of "Desperado" filtered through the cobwebs crocheted across the scratchy speaker in the ceiling. The ballad seemed a fitting soundtrack for his entrance.
Two steps inside, he stopped and stood silhouetted in the wedge of midday sunlight that shrank as the tufted leather door swished closed behind him and returned the barroom to the simulated nighttime in seedy watering holes on every continent.
This one hunkered near the line that separated Larouche Parish from Terrebonne. Neither parish would be proud to claim it, but the liability fell to Terrebonne. There wasn't a town close enough to have any significant attachment to the place, but it shared a zip code with Auclair.
He took off his sunglasses, folded the stems, and hooked one of them into the placket of his chambray shirt above the third pearl snap.
The bartender stopped thumbing through a magazine that appeared to have been thumbed through frequently, took his customer's measure, then said, "Is it raining yet?"
"Not yet, but I wouldn't bet against it by nightfall." He walked over to the bar and mounted a stool.
"Cold beer?"
"Coke, please. Lots of ice." "Coming up."
Then, from the outer reaches of the room: "Dude comes into a bar and orders a Coke. Ain't that what Dairy Queens are for?" The remark elicited a round of guffaws.
The newcomer at the bar looked over his shoulder toward the row of billiard tables. The only one currently in use was lighted by a fixture suspended from the ceiling. It hung low above the felt and shed light on a grungy foursome. The one who'd scoffed at him was propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, knee raised, left foot flat against the concrete blocks. He was grinding a matchstick between his teeth. Another was idly chalking a pool cue.
The other two were leaning against the table, slurping from their bottles of beer.
All were eyeing the "dude" with insolent challenge.
But after being on the receiving end of a prolonged and unflinching stare, the spokesman of the four anchored the matchstick in the corner of his mouth beneath a droopy mustache, let his foot slide to the floor, pushed himself away from the wall, and said to the one preparing the cue, "You gonna shoot, or what?" Still muttering with amusement among themselves, they resumed their game.
The bartender, having watched the exchange with interest, opened a can of Coca-Cola and poured it over a glassful of ice. "Here you go."
"Thanks."
"Bartender, add that to my tab, please."
She was seated in a dim corner booth, chosen because it had an unobstructed view of the entrance, allowing her to see him when he arrived, which she'd wished to do. She'd been early; he'd been right on time.
She'd observed everything that had transpired without having been observed herself. The bit he'd done with his sunglasses had looked casual enough, something one would naturally do when coming from daylight into a darker interior. But she deduced that it had also given him time to let his eyes adjust, take in the scene, and get an idea of the bar's layout and what he was walking into. She'd escaped his notice only because her booth was in a section of the bar where only meager light relieved the gloom.
As he'd walked from the entrance over to the bar, his tread had been loose-limbed, his demeanor nonchalant. His exchange with the bartender, although not effusive, had been friendly enough. But it had taken nothing more than a look from him to squelch the derision of the men playing billiards.
At the time, he'd been facing away from her. But she knew that he must have fixed on them the calculating gaze that now zeroed in on her as he picked up his drink and walked over.
When he reached the booth, he tipped his head toward the vacant bench. "This seat taken?"
She shook her head.
He slid in across from her. They appraised each other with undisguised interest but without comment until he said, "Thanks for the Coke."
"You're welcome."
Dunking the drinking straw in and out of her glass of club soda, she continued her assessment of him. He'd gone to no trouble whatsoever to impress her. He was unshaven and had bed head. His shirt was wrinkled and worn tail out. His jeans were clean but faded, worn to near white at the knees. They had a hole in the left front pocket and stringy hems. They seemed to be one with him, fitting his form and sauntering tread too well to have been purchased that way, already fashionably distressed. The aging had come from actual wear. Years of it.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"No? Except for the getup, you're exactly what I expected."
"Based on what?"
"Your voice over the phone."
"What about it?"
"Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."
She stopped fiddling with the drinking straw and let it sink into the glass. Sitting back against the booth and crossing her arms, she subjected him to a lengthier and even more disapproving once-over that terminated on his implacable stare, from which she didn't back down. "What did you mean by 'except for the getup'?"
"The LSU ball cap? You've never worn it before. It doesn't fit your head, it's way too new, and it doesn't go with your bespoke purse." He glanced down at it lying beside her on the bench. "Between those two accessories, I'm betting the LV is more you."
She didn't acknowledge that he was right. "You're not wearing a badge."
He didn't comment on what was obvious. "Do you have a badge?" she asked.
"In a wallet."
"Photo ID?"
"In a wallet."
"On your person?"
"Yes."
"Would you show them to me, please?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Well…" He folded his arms on the table and leaned in, lowering his voice. "First off, you asked me—no, instructed me—not to show up here looking like a cop. Wearing a badge sort of gives that away. And anyhow, I never wear my badge to be seen.
"Secondly, the pack of hyenas shooting stick? I know that the DEA is on their tail. Now, if they saw me flashing you a badge and ID, they'd peg me as some brand of law officer, and that would likely result in an outbreak of trouble. I know damn well they're armed; I just don't know what kind of firepower they're carrying, and finding out could lead to bloodshed.
"Thirdly, the bartender has given up his MotorTrend to polish a shot glass. In a joint like this, that level of cleanliness is uncommon if not downright nonexistent. He's pretending not to watch us, but he hasn't missed a thing. I don't know whose side he would be on if a gunfight erupted. If one did—and I can almost guarantee it—you could get hurt, and I would hate that."
"Your conscience would never recover?"
"No, my career. For a while now, my superior has been looking for an excuse to fire me. If you, an innocent bystander, got injured or killed during a shootout initiated by me, it would be more excuse than he needed to give me the boot.
"All that to say that I'm going to keep my ID wallet in my pocket, my weapon under my shirttail, play it cool, and after we conclude this—whatever this is—I'll be sure to get the license number of that redneck pickup parked out front, which I'm almost certain belongs to those fentanyl pushers and not to you, then notify the DEA where they're hanging out.
"So, for everyone's safety and well-being, let's just go on pretending that this meeting is random, that you're a neglected housewife who's slumming in Auclair, Loooziana. You came in here trolling for an afternoon rodeo. I happened in, you looked me over, and figured I'd do."
By the time he'd finished, she was seething, but she tried to appear as unfazed as possible. "Your back is to the bar- tender. How do you know what he's doing?"
"He's reflected in the blacked-out window behind your right shoulder. No, don't turn to look. Trust me." He picked up his glass and took a long drink, then barely smothered a burp.
She tamped down mounting irritation, which would get her nowhere with him. But she couldn't resist saying, "I came here with an open mind, willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you actually are an arrogant p****, aren't you?"
Excerpted from BLOOD MOON by Sandra Brown. Copyright © 2025 by Sandra Brown Management, Ltd. Reprinted with permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.
