Winner announced soon for the first Club Calvi book of fall 2025!
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Find out more about the books below.
Club Calvi has a family saga, a thriller and a book of historical fiction for its Top 3 FicPicks
You can help decide the next book for Club Calvi!
We are asking you to vote on our next read. Here are your choices:
"The Cut" by Richard Armitage is a psychological thriller about a man and a community haunted by a killing 30 years ago, and the secrets revealed as the killer is about to be released from prison.
"The Wilderness" by Angela Flournoy is a saga spanning more than 20 years about five Black women as they experience love, grief, family and the importance of friendship.
"The Girl in the Green Dress" by Mariah Fredericks is historical fiction about a real-life murder mystery during the roaring '20s in New York, with Zelda Fitzgerald helping in the investigation.
You can read excerpts and vote 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.
Voting ended at 6 p.m. on Sept. 14. The winner will be announced soon!
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"The Cut" by Richard Armitage
From the publisher: You can't escape your past. The cut always reopens.
In the sleepy village of Barton Mallet, the old ruins of Blackstone Mill watch over the residents and their quiet lives. Ben Knot and his friends are looking forward to a summer of fun and freedom once their last year of high school is over. The class of 1994 have been through a lot together, but teasing turns to bullying when the Knot gang targets young Mark Cherry. As violence escalates, the group fractures and tragedy strikes. Before the summer is over, one of them will be killed. Murdered by someone they called a friend.
Thirty years later, Ben is an award-winning architect who has moved his family back to Barton Mallet. His girlfriend, Dani, is a lovely stepmother to his children—budding actor Nate and star athlete Lily—but even though the family is happy, Ben has never been able to forget the tragedy of the past. And it's a past that is quickly coming back to haunt him, with the murderer's imminent release from prison. Ben's glittering career is also starting to tarnish as some shady business deals have put him on the path to bankruptcy. With the killer's parole date approaching—and the banks calling in their loans—Ben struggles to keep a grip on his perfect life.
When Nate lands the leading role in a new horror film, Dani jumps at the chance to propel him towards stardom. But when the film crew descends on the village, the dream starts to turn into a nightmare. The film is not quite what it seems. Ben's children are being pushed to the limit, and his paranoia makes him question the film makers' motives. Ben is desperate for answers and will stop at nothing to keep his family safe.
If the first cut is the deepest, then the last cut is going to end it all.
Richard Armitage divides his time between New York and London.
"The Cut" By Richard Armitage (ThriftBooks) $22
"The Wilderness" by Angela Flornoy
From the publisher: Desiree, Danielle, January, Monique, and Nakia are in their early twenties and at the beginning. Of their careers, of marriage, of motherhood, and of big-city lives in New York and Los Angeles. Together, they are finding their way through the wilderness, that period of life when the reality of contemporary adulthood—overwhelming, mysterious, and full of freedom and consequences—swoops in and stays.
Desiree and Danielle, sisters whose shared history has done little to prevent their estrangement, nurse bitter family wounds in different ways. January's got a relationship with a "good" man she feels ambivalent about, even after her surprise pregnancy. Monique, a librarian and aspiring blogger, finds unexpected online fame after calling out the university where she works for its plans to whitewash fraught history. And Nakia is trying to get her restaurant off the ground, without relying on the largesse of her upper middle-class family who wonder aloud if she should be doing something better with her life.
As these friends move from the late 2000's into the late 2020's, from young adults to grown women, they must figure out what they mean to one another—amid political upheaval, economic and environmental instability, and the increasing volatility of modern American life.
Angela Flournoy lives in New York.
"The Wilderness" by Angela Flournoy (ThriftBooks) $23
"The Girl in the Green Dress" by Mariah Fredericks
From the publisher: New York, 1920.
Zelda Fitzgerald is bored, bored, bored. Although she's newly married to the hottest writer in America, and one half of the literary scene's "it" couple, Zelda is at loose ends while Scott works on his next novel, The Beautiful and the Damned.
Meanwhile, Atlanta journalist Morris Markey has arrived in New York and is lost in every way possible. Recently returned from the war and without connections, he hovers at the edge of the city's revels, unable to hear the secrets that might give him his first big story.
When notorious man-about-town Joseph Elwell is found shot through the head in his swanky townhouse, the fortunes the two southerners collide when they realize they were both among the last to see him alive. Zelda encountered Elwell at the scandalous Midnight Frolic revue on the night of his death, and Markey saw him just hours before with a ravishing mystery woman dressed in green. Markey has his story. Zelda has her next adventure.
As they investigate which of Elwell's many lovers—or possibly an enraged husband—would have wanted the dapper society man dead, Zelda sweeps Markey into her New York, the heady, gaudy Jazz Age of excess and abandon, as the lost generation takes its first giddy steps into a decade-long spree. Everyone has come to do something, the more scandalous the better; Zelda is hungry for love and sensation, Markey desperate for success and recognition. As they each follow these ultimately dangerous desires, the pair close in on what really happened that night—and hunt for the elusive girl in the green dress who may hold the truth.
Mariah Fredericks lives in New York City.
"The Girl in the Green Dress" by Mariah Fredericks (ThriftBooks) $22
Excerpt: "The Cut" by Richard Armitage
PROLOGUE
JULY 1994
It had to happen at night. There had to be a forest, a full moon and a thunderstorm. A masked man chasing through the dark or a vampire hunting its sacrificial prey. Sometimes there had to be both.
The crack of thunder was closely followed by a sudden blinding flash of sheet lightning, tearing open the sky like an atomic bomb. From the top of the imposing tower of Blackstone Mill, the fourteen-year-old boy teetered precariously, trying to hold the video camera steady against the force of the gale. Blinking away the sudden glare of electricity, he pressed his eye back to the viewfinder. A stifled scream cut through the cacophony of noise. At first, he thought it was a fox, but the second time he heard it, there was no doubt: the sound was human and racked with fear.
The scream was drowned out by a car alarm, blasting a warning into the night.
The boy pressed himself into the smoke-blackened wall of the chimney, feet slipping on the narrow ledge. He found his balance and tried to focus the lens of the video camera on the ground, fifty feet below.
The night had been full of pranks. A flank of Stormtroopers in white spray-painted skateboard helmets had pursued him from the school gates, all the way down The Cut to Cheney End. Indiana Jones had chased Sarah Connor out into the thunderstorm, squealing with laughter, towards the flooded river.
The reason the boy had sprinted out of the woods and mounted the makeshift ladder inside the chimney stack was to film the fireworks from the Crow's Nest. The view from up there was spectacular. Shrieks of joy echoed across the meadow as comets and willows exploded and fountains of golden rain burst into the sky. But the two figures who now appeared in the shot did not seem to be having fun at all.
One of them, dressed in pale chiffon, stumbled out into the mud, pursued by a terrifying demon, heavy black robes billowing in the gale. Sprinting across the footbridge, the apparition in white took the towpath towards the wheelhouse at the side of the mill. This definitely wasn't part of the festivities. There was a desperate urgency to the chase; it was a real fight.
In the distance, the deafening roar of a motorbike engine ricocheted off the stone walls of the mill. Emerging from the thicket of trees, the beam of its headlamp ignited the scene – and then the heavens opened. A drenched Chewbacca draped in a sheepskin rug stumbled out of the ruined mill, pulling an R2-D2 Henry vacuum cleaner behind him, followed by two Terminators and a bin-bag Darth Vader with dying sparklers. Everyone ran for the cover of the trees as the rain extinguished the last of the Roman candles. In the chaos, the two figures he'd been tracking in the frame of the camera had disappeared over the broken stone wall of the mill race. He'd lost them.
Droplets of rain splattered across the lens, obscuring his vision. The boy tried to shield the camera with the sleeve of his denim jacket. The red body warmer and high tops of his Marty McFly costume had seemed like a good idea earlier, but now he was soaked through, and the clothes were clinging to his skinny body. His trainers slid against the wet stone walls as he braced one foot either side of the narrow chimney and tried to climb higher. He slipped and chunks of crumbling mortar clattered down the chimney to the first level, fifty feet below. He grabbed the side of the turret and, regaining his footing, he put the viewfinder back to his eye. Panning the camera, he retraced the route of the two figures from the footbridge to the weir, following the swollen stream to the wheelhouse on the far side of Blackstone Mill.
There. He adjusted the focus and zoomed in closer. He had them in his sights. Two shapes moving frantically along the wall that led towards the dilapidated water wheel. He held his breath as they battled against the rain, staggering dangerously close to the edge of the deep water. The black-robed demon reached out towards his quarry, grasping at diaphanous chiffon billowing in the storm. The girl in white was cornered. She grabbed at the rotten wooden frame of the wheel and began to climb. The demon pounced on her, pinning her down. For the boy filming, it was too much to bear.
'HEY!' He broke cover, leaning out precariously from the top of the tower. 'LEAVE HER ALONE!'
A massive volume of water was now rushing into the mill race as the torrential rain flooded the already bloated river. The noise of the torrent muffled the boy's cry, but the black-cloaked demon turned for a second, scanning the area. Then he looked directly above him and stared right down the barrel of the lens. The boy with the camera froze. Oh s***, he'd been seen. He ducked out of sight, his feet slipping on the iron pitons hammered into the walls and his legs quivering with fear as he began to descend. He had to get out of there. The motorbike engine revved a warning below, and in a flurry of speed the accelerating bike mounted the wall and then disappeared from sight.
The boy's legs buckled as he reached the first level, landing on the scaffolding that was keeping the whole structure of the mill from collapsing. He found the ladder and began to climb down. As he reached the middle rung, the ladder dislodged itself from the platform, swinging out over the void and hitting the wall on the other side. The camera slipped from his grip and clattered on to the ground below. He hung from his arms and dropped on to the flagstone floor, twisting his ankle as he landed. He cried out in pain but didn't stop; there wasn't a second to lose. He had to move. Now.
He grabbed the camera and sprinted to the exit, his ankle burning and already swelling inside his trainer. Outside, the gale was driving the torrential rain sideways. He braced himself, raising the viewfinder to his eye as he crept through the cavernous doors out into the darkness of the meadow.
BOOM! A demonic grey face punctured with rusty nails suddenly lurched into the shot. Holy s***! The boy jumped back in shock. The mask was torn, menacing eyes staring directly at him. The boy backed away in fear, stumbling in the mud, then turned and sprinted for his life. His heart punched at his ribcage as he pelted towards the cover of the trees. Bare sapling branches whipped his face as he dodged through the looming arms of the birch trees.
As he reached the ditch at the edge of the thicket, fenced in with chain link, he could see the lights of the motorway in the distance. He launched himself over, hitting the bank too short, and began to slide into the waterlogged brambles. Waist-deep in rising water, the boy tried to keep the camera dry. Sharp thorns caught in his hair and scratched his face as he fought to climb out. Then, out of the darkness, a hand reached over his face and grabbed his jacket, hauling him up the bank. His left fist cracked against the skull of his attacker as he broke free and scrambled over the fence, tumbling down the other side. The steep cutting of the motorway, covered in shale, broke his fall as he skittered down towards the glare of oncoming lights. His head hit the tarmac of the hard shoulder and he lay there, motionless.
The distant roar of traffic melded with a ringing noise in his ears and even the wind and the rain didn't seem to touch him anymore. Maybe this was it. The end. Suddenly he could feel someone breathing, very close to his face.
'Give it to me.' A hand grabbed at his throat, holding him down. 'What did you see? Huh? GIVE ME THE CAMERA.'
The boy tried to hold on to the evidence of what he had just witnessed, but a balled fist slammed hard into the bridge of his nose and his head whiplashed against the ground. He released his grip, and the camera was gone. All the tension began to drain out of his body, leaking across the hard wet tarmac of the motorway, and as the ground became soft and fluid, he melted into oblivion.
Excerpted from "The Cut" by Richard Armitage. Published by Pegasus Crime on September 2, 2025.
Excerpt: "The Wilderness" by Angela Flournoy
You Can't Pronounce It
Some descents thrill more than others. Landing at Charles de Gaulle is not thrilling, as it's one of those major metropolitan airports tucked away from the city in a way that prevents worthwhile aerial views. In Cairo, depending on your point of origin, if you sit on the lucky side of the plane you might see the pyramids at Giza brushing up against desert on one side and high-rises on the other, as if the pyramids were digitally superimposed instead of the oldest structures there. Arriving at LAX, if you're traveling west, from New York, say, you might have to wrap your head around snow- capped mountain ranges, smog-blanketed valleys, and the glinting Pacific before touching down. When the pilot announced their descent into Charles de Gaulle, Desiree looked out the window, expecting to see what?
The Eiffel Tower, maybe. She saw nothing so spectacular. Deep browns and greens, the blank gray of cement apartment buildings.
They had taken a red-eye from Los Angeles. The cabin was quiet, and most shades were drawn. Nolan slumped a row ahead. His arm had drooped over the aisle-seat armrest for most of the ride, liver-spotted knuckles grazing the tube of light on the floor. Desiree had hardly slept, and when she did she felt guilty, jolting upright and peeking between the seats to check on him.
Now, at landing, her grandfather coughed. An uncomfortable cough, because it made others uncomfortable, reminded them of mortality. Anyone within earshot felt culpable. Should they pat him on the back? Call for help? Offer water? A wheezing, hacking, full-bodied affair that prompted a biological anxiety, like riding an elevator with a very pregnant woman. An awareness that something, some type of above-and-beyond compassion or physical contact might be required of a stranger toward another stranger. He brought his handkerchief to his mouth, and Desiree watched it come away dry. She decided to break an unspoken rule about how he liked to be treated in public: she handed him her half-full water bottle. He put the bottle in an unsteady grip, fingers curled tight around the cap, and drank with unsteady hands.
"I missed the little breakfast?"
He lifted the inflight menu up to his face. Still mostly smooth, save for the hairs that sprouted from the flesh-colored mole on his right cheek. His nose, beakish, kissed the cardstock.
"Like half an hour ago."
"Mm. Shoulda woke me up."
A week of firsts: first trip with just her and Nolan, first time sitting in business class, with its obscene amount of space for each seat, seats that reclined flat into little cots, and attendants plying her with food throughout. By the time she'd relented and booked their tickets, it was either business or a later flight, and Nolan wouldn't hear about any more delays, so here they were, on his dime. Her first time, and she was the only brown face on this side of the curtain. She suspected others thought her to be some sort of nurse escorting Nolan, who appeared to be an elderly white man. She was sort of a nurse, kind of. In any case, there were free cocktails, as many as she wanted, and a comforter softer than the one she used at home.
Every morning, beginning two years ago, she'd rub alcohol on his lower abdomen, secure a piece of butter-colored flesh between her forefinger and thumb, and try to be quick and neat with the needle. It marked the beginning of a new kind of intimacy for the two of them. When his weight dropped, she moved to the flap of his withered biceps, where the blue veins showed through, and finally to the underside of his thigh, where the skin was pale and pliant as biscuit dough. Six months ago, as she helped him put on his socks, she saw a black patch of skin just beneath his heel. No bigger than a kumquat. She reached for it, palm upward, and Nolan jerked his foot away, curled his long toes into something like a fist. His eyes were vacant, but his mouth trembled. Desiree, who had not cried in at least five years, sat back on the floor and wept.
Prior to him needing help with insulin injections, they had lived together like a couple who'd long ago stopped touching each other but had never bothered to separate. They said good morning and good night when the occasion arose, sometimes ate meals in the same room, and discussed unavoidable household matters, such as needed repairs. Nolan would not admit he needed help. He treated Desiree's return home like an imposition, refusing to hire someone to clear a space for her among the old tennis rackets, pool noodles, and a Ping-Pong table in the back house. She spent the first month back home covered in cobwebs and dust from making space for herself. Three years later and he was still acting surprised and a bit shy to see her at the breakfast table in the morning, as if he anticipated her leaving any day, as if he hadn't come to depend on her for meals packed away from the restaurant where she worked, as if he even kept a datebook anymore and could keep track of his own doctor's appointments.
Another airport observation: if the surrounding city has a decent black population, then a good number of them will be working at the airport. A dark-skinned, long-limbed young man whose nametag read "Ade" met them at the gate to push Nolan's wheelchair. They'd packed light, one duffel bag between the two of them, which Desiree carried, plus Nolan's portable dialysis machine, which Desiree rolled. This was supposed to be a quick trip, and he would not allow her to bring anything that required checking. It was the first time in her life she felt excited at the thought of her grandfather's musky, menthol-and-sage smell seeping into her clothes. Two shirts, three pairs of socks, and one pair of jeans. Desiree had rolled up five pairs of panties tight and tucked them into her messenger bag.
Ade parked the wheelchair on the passenger-pickup curb, and Nolan cleared his throat, which was Desiree's cue to tip the man. But he'd insisted she wear a traveler's money belt under her shirt, so the cash was strapped tight around her torso like a girdle. The seconds that passed as she fumbled for the money were too awkward for Ade to bear. He smiled big, ducked his head a little, and took a step toward the sliding doors.
"Merci, merci," Nolan called to him. "Désolé, we're sorry."
Ade put a hand in the air, brushing away the apology, and turned back to the terminal. Nolan's gravelly, outdated Louisiana French was bad. Cartoon skunk bad. Desiree couldn't even speak French and she could discern that much.
"Already acting like tacky Americans," Desiree said. Her grandfather didn't hear. She'd said it in that special register—loud enough to be heard by most, but not loud enough for Nolan—that she used when he was embarrassing her in public.
Their driver pulled up, hustled out of the van to help Nolan out of his wheelchair. A chubby, balding white man too cheerful for so early in the morning. Nolan held a file folder with all the papers for their itinerary and a few maps from the Triple-A office off Adams back home. For more than a decade he had not made a single plan, not even dinner plans. He delegated when necessary, but he would not organize an event. Birthdays and holidays came, he blew out candles and thanked Desiree, her sister Danielle, and the neighbors for coming, but not once did he request a gathering, propose an outing. What others planned for him, he enjoyed. Now Nolan was Mr. Plans. He sat up front in the van, chitchatted with the driver in his rudimentary French, spread his map on the dashboard.
The driver merged onto an expressway. Its cement walls bloomed with graffiti. Words—some French, some English—juxtaposed with names and images. The name Farouq bubbled out in a harsh burgundy at a forty-five- degree angle. A buxom, black-haired woman planted one orange stiletto on the nipple of a pink pacifier. A wide swath of gray paint bisected the image, someone's vain attempt to impose order on the wall. Or perhaps the artist desired a clean slate but ran out of time to finish the job. Desiree would lose herself in this jumble of shapes and messages if possible. She would wait for the van to slow down, pull back her door, and step into traffic. Jackrabbit her way to the thin shoulder. Disappear. There hadn't been time to prepare for what she was doing here. She hadn't thought about how hard it would be to do alone. But private as her grandfather was, she'd known better than to try to invite anyone else. He hadn't even invited Danielle.
From The Wilderness by Angela Flournoy. Copyright © 2025 by Angela Flournoy. Reprinted courtesy of Mariner Books, an imprint of Harpercollins Publishers.
Excerpt: "The Girl in the Green Dress" by Mariah Fredericks
The Fitzgeralds were unseen but made their presence known. Through the richly carpeted corridors, Markey heard the scratch of a phonograph, the boozy moan of trumpets, and the lament of Mamie Smith as she sang.
A few guests had opened their doors, either hoping to locate the source of the disturbance or kill it with a glare. Smiling apologetically, Markey followed the music until he reached room 1023. The record was so loud, he pounded harder than manners dictated. For a short while, all he heard was Mamie: Now I got the crazy blues . . . Since my baby went away . . .
The door opened. A child beamed up at him. "Mr. Morris!"
It had been some time since anyone looked so delighted to see him. It was not, he realized, that she was so specially glad to see him, but that she seemed to have more capacity for delight than most people. He wasn't remotely surprised she'd gotten his name wrong, but her enthusiasm was unexpected— and infectious. He saw now that she was an adult— and indeed Southern, judging from the blithe way she dispensed with the R in his name. Rapidly, he added up the elements that had made him mistake her for a child: her bobbed golden hair, the eagerness in her green eyes, the fullness of her cheeks, the clarity of her brow. It was an uncommonly broad face, as if two people had been incompletely merged, possessing all the changeable vitality of double brains, double heart, double appetite and will. He saw why Scott had called her the most beautiful girl in Alabama, also why Dottie had tutted. Personally, he thought she deserved the title.
She was not entirely dressed. Covered, somewhat, in men's pajama bottoms and a silk robe that looped at the waist. A sudden gesture and it would fall open, and she seemed a girl given to sudden gestures. Had he interrupted them husband- and- wifeing? She was chewing gum, so he thought probably not. When she took his hand and pulled him inside, he felt both welcomed and joined in conspiracy.
The Fitzgeralds had not just taken a suite at the Ritz; they had taken it over. The living room was the size of his entire apartment. Small plates with the remnants of sandwiches, bits of cheese, smears of chocolate and caviar sat abandoned on side tables, chairs, the floor, the top of a grand piano. Flutes and highballs were every-where he looked. The ashtrays were full, and most of the plateware held cigarette stubs. Near the gramophone, a pile of records had been knocked over, sliding like playing cards across the carpet.
From the other room, he heard a man's voice declaim, "And what are your plans now?"
His heart sank; another reporter was here.
But then the same voice answered in a lighter tone, "I'll be darned if I know. The scope and depth and breadth of my writings lie in the lap of the gods."
Mrs. Fitzgerald tugged on Markey's hand. "Scott's interviewing himself for some article. I'm trying to draw him out."
She marched to the gramophone— the heavy silk tie swung dangerously— and turned up the volume.
His anxiety escalating with the volume, Markey called, "Mrs. Fitzgerald . . ."
"Zelda, please!" she shouted. "Zelda, I . . ."
A sudden bang made him jump; gun was his first thought. But then he saw it was simply a slammed door. Scott was with them. Ignoring Markey, he screamed "Turn it off!" at the exact same moment that Zelda snapped the volume to nothing. Husband and wife gazed at each other. Zelda rocked on her feet. Markey felt sure that something— highballs, gramophone records, bodies— would be hurled at any moment.
Was it possible Fitzgerald had become even more handsome? Like his wife, Fitzgerald was only partly dressed, wearing trousers and an undershirt. His feet were bare. His hair had probably been combed that morning, but in his temper, a lock had fallen over his beauteous man-of-genius brow. The eyes showed the bruising of late nights, but it hardly mattered. Not more handsome, thought Markey. It was just that now his looks belonged to F. Scott Fitzgerald, and it was better to look like F. Scott Fitzgerald than anyone else.
Hand out, he took a step forward. "Morris Markey. We met at a party a while ago, I don't know that you would remember."
Sensing her husband's ambivalence, Zelda said, "He's with the newspapers."
"I know," said Fitzgerald. "What I don't know is why he's here." Suddenly he smiled. "I don't mind— I just like to be kept informed."
There were teeth behind the smile, a reminder that fast chat was not only desirable; it was essential. If Markey was going to demand the attention of a man bold enough to interview himself, he had to earn it. He was suddenly conscious that he had not attended university, while Fitzgerald had gone to Princeton.
How he said it mattered. The words, also the tone, had to be right. He could not sound too eager for their interest. Settling his hands in his pockets, he said, "This morning I saw a man shot through the head. I thought maybe you might know him."
Zelda instantly dropped to the couch opposite him. Fitzgerald was more skeptical, but sat beside his wife, nonetheless. They looked like siblings, thought Markey. Their twinned attention was the most intoxicating thing he had ever experienced.
"Oh, my," breathed Zelda. "Was it Luddie?"
"Alec," guessed Fitzgerald.
"George!"
Husband and wife pointed to each other in agreement.
"It was a man by the name of Joseph Elwell." They did not know the name and their enthusiasm dimmed. "He was an authority on bridge. He was at this hotel last night. I'm hoping you saw him."
It sounded foolish even to him; hundreds of people passed through the Ritz on any given evening.
"I'm particularly interested in the girl he was with. She had reddish- brown bobbed hair, and she was wearing a green- and- silver dress that looked like shredded-up dollar bills.
From "The Girl in the Green Dress" by Mariah Fredericks. Copyright © 2025 by Mariah Fredericks. Reprinted courtesy of Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin's Publishing Group.