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Nero’s Fiddle

“Savage, fearless, and darkly hilarious.”

 Nero’s Fiddle is a murder mystery with a mission. When investigative journalist Debra Ann Wynn travels to rural Arkansas to expose a brutal crime, she uncovers a corrupt county where power protects itself, truth is dangerous, and silence is the price of survival.

Part thriller, part political satire, and part moral reckoning, Avril Maria Serene’s novel delivers sharp humor, unforgettable characters, and a story that refuses to pretend everything is normal.

Not for the faint of heart—
but impossible to ignore.

Description

A murder mystery in the same way Dr. Strangelove is a war movie.

The crime is real.
The corruption is real.
The absurdity is the point.

When investigative journalist Debra Ann Wynn receives a desperate call from family in rural Arkansas, she travels to the isolated town of Nero’s Fiddle expecting to uncover a brutal crime.

What she finds instead is something far worse.

Narcissus County is a closed ecosystem of power where:

  • the County Judge owns most of the land
  • the Sheriff enforces loyalty instead of law
  • churches preach obedience instead of compassion
  • and speaking the truth can destroy an entire family.

As Debra Ann digs deeper into the assault and murder of a teenage girl, she discovers that the crime is only the surface of a much darker system—one designed to protect the powerful and silence anyone who challenges them.

But exposing the truth will come at a cost.

Because in Narcissus County, justice isn’t just dangerous.

It’s forbidden.

Scroll up and grab your copy today.

Editorial Reviews
——————————

“Avril Serene shows us her absolute mastery of written emotion – I laughed, I cried, I got angry, I worried… and the ending has to be the most satisfying I’ve ever read…” – RWC, Rockford, IL

“Think Dr. Strangelove meets a rural crime thriller.” – RWW, Portland, OR.

“The scene with the drain auger alone was worth more than what I paid for the book.” – JJS, Seattle, WA.

“The most quotable book I’ve read in ages…” – BMM, Des Moines, IA.

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Excerpt (from Chapter 39):

“… We need to take cover.”

Paul’s tone was even and controlled, but the urgency in his voice came through loud and clear.

He grabbed my coat off the back of the chair and tossed it at me, yanking his off the hanger in the closet. After pulling me down by the shoulders so that we were squatting beside the bed frame, he flipped the mattress and box springs onto their sides, shoving them against our front window.

“Stay down! That was the desk clerk. Her friend tends bar at the country-western place. She called to warn Dolly that a bunch of drunk MAGAt rednecks in an open pickup are coming here. They’re shooting shotguns and rifles into the air, out to get ‘those fucking Antifa foreigners.’ Dolly and her friend say they mean us.”

Paul pulled the two nightstands and the dresser in behind the upended mattress. Turning the courtesy table and chairs on their sides, he added another layer to the barricade.

We could hear a horn blaring in the distance, along with male voices yelling and screaming as they approached.

Paul quickly duck-walked to the corner where we’d kept our checked bags. He unzipped his, pulling out his department-issued Glock and two clips.

Returning to my side, we held each other tightly. Paul positioned himself between me and our hastily built defenses, both of us hunched over, our backs to our barricade, our heads tucked.

The sudden squealing of tire rubber made my heart leap into my throat.

The roar of an engine resonated through our little room.

Then, the loud kuh-WHUMP! of a pickup’s suspension bottoming out a few feet from us.

Suddenly, an explosion of gunfire and shattered window glass.

I screamed, my entire body jumping in place, my heart pounding, a jackhammer trying to escape my chest.

Tiny shards of glass sparkled in the light from the fixture above, showering down upon us.

Paul and I tightened our grip on one another as another spray of gunfire peppered the wall behind us with bullet holes and the distinctive pattern of buckshot.

A round caught the porcelain base of a table lamp Paul had set on the floor; its implosion added to the chaos, noise, and flying debris.

Then, off to our left, an enormous boom – maybe a shotgun? – but this one seemed like it was going away from us.

Was someone returning fire?

…

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