After ten years as a Military Police investigator, Tony DeLucca thought coming home would mean peace and quiet. He was wrong.Days after returning, Tony finds himself at the center of a murder investigation—not as an investigator, but as the last hope for his new landlord’s son. When local musician Derek Paulson is found dead and Ryan White is arrested for the crime, Tony can’t shake the feeling that the wrong man is behind bars.
A small-town mystery where solving a murder becomes more than a case—it’s the beginning of everything Tony didn’t know he was looking for.
Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, something gets taken from you.
It doesn't happen all at once. There's no single moment you can point to and say, "That's when it changed." It's gradual. Quiet. The world you grew up believing in, where things resolved and right outweighed wrong, starts to blur at the edges. And then one day you're an adult, and you know better, and you can't quite remember when that happened.
I think about that a lot as a father.
Like most parents, I find myself sharing a version of the world that I know isn't entirely accurate. Good wins. Justice matters. Things work out. I do this not because I’m naive, but because what's the alternative? You can't hand a child the full weight of how the world really works and call it parenting.
I think that’s why people read cozy mysteries. It's not entirely conscious. We don’t sit down to read a book as a response to the world feeling heavy. But most mysteries — and certainly cozies — offer something the real world doesn't always deliver. Resolution. Answers. A case that gets solved, wrongs that get righted, a killer who gets caught. The person in the white hat saves the day.
In a genre full of small towns, warm kitchens, and quirky neighbors, that's the most comforting thing of all. The certainty.
We all carry a version of the world we believed in as kids. A place where things made sense and the rules were clear. Where good and evil weren't complicated. We know now that it was never quite that simple. But we believed it once, and maybe some of us never stop looking for it.
I'm writing about a world I wish our sons could experience. The world I wish we could all still live in, even briefly. A place where, for 249 pages at least, justice prevails.
We teach our children to see the world that way, and maybe that's not wrong. Maybe that stubborn, quiet insistence that good outweighs bad is the most important thing we can pass on.
I just happen to pass it on one murder at a time.
Dad's truck was in the driveway when I pulled up, which meant he was back from the fair. I found him in the garage, putting away his clipboard and the folding chair he always took to his judging duties.
"How'd it go?" I asked.
"Good turnout this year. Some real quality work from those kids." He looked tired but satisfied. "How about you? Did you get your apartment situation sorted?"
"Keys are in my pocket, and I'm officially a renter as of today." I leaned against the workbench. "I thought I'd start gathering some stuff to take over tomorrow. If that's okay."
"Course it's okay. It's your stuff." Dad wiped his hands on a rag. "What are you thinking? Clothes, toiletries?"
"That, and my record player. I bought a box of records at an estate auction today."
Dad's eyebrows went up. "Records? Didn't know you were still into that."
"I'm not sure I am," I admitted. "But Brenda talked me into it, and now I've got a box of vinyl and nowhere to play it."
"Your player is in your room, right where you left it." He studied me for a moment. "Brenda's got good taste. Your mother always said records sounded better than CDs anyway."
We headed inside, and I walked down the hall to my old bedroom. It looked exactly like it did the day I'd left. Same posters on the walls, same quilt on the bed, same bookshelf with my old records lined up next to the portable stereo.
I spent the next hour going through my dresser and closet, pulling out clothes I'd need for the week. It felt strange, packing up to leave. I'd been home for just a couple of days, and already I was moving to the apartment. But it was just a few blocks away. Close enough that I could still stop by for coffee or dinner, and close enough that Dad wouldn't be alone if he needed me.
"You know, your mother would be excited about this," Dad said from the doorway. "You, getting your own place, starting fresh."
"Yeah," I said, zipping up the Army backpack. "I think she would."
"And she'd tell you not to wait too long to figure out what you want to do with your life. You've got good instincts, Tony. Whether it's investigating or something else, you'll figure it out."
I thought about the box of records in my truck, the apartment waiting for me downtown, the murder case I'd just started looking into. "I'm working on it, Dad."
"I know you are." He pushed off from the doorframe. "I'm making spaghetti for dinner. You staying?"
"I wouldn't miss it."
We headed back to the kitchen together, and I set the bag by the front door next to the record player. Tomorrow I'd move into the apartment, start my investigation in earnest, and figure out what to do with a collection of records I didn't know I wanted.
But tonight, I'd have dinner with my father. Some things were more important than murder investigations.
Kevin Zelenka is an avid reader, amateur chef, and expert procrastinator. A former parenting writer and editor, he’s had an unfinished manuscript (or three) rattling around in his head for decades. Originally from Minnesota, he eventually escaped the cold and settled in Las Vegas, Nevada, where he lives with his wife and their twin sons. Cool Change is Book 1 in the Originally Pressed Series.
When Tony DeLucca returns to Flat Rock, Minnesota for a funeral, he expects a quiet goodbye, not unanswered questions.
Thank you so much for featuring my book Cool Change on your site!!
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