Synopsis

Evita Peron’s jewels are missing. Only three people know that they are in a vault in the Swiss Alps; Evita’s corrupt and brutal brother Juan, her bodyguard Pierre, and a teenaged girl Mona, her newest protegee. What happens if two of them team up?

Like Eva herself, Mona comes from a broken family and has to make her own way. Perhaps that’s why the two women feel close. Evita is at the pinnacle of success but already in the grip of a fatal illness. We see her life through the eyes of Mona and Pierre, two people she trusts — and who betray her in the end. Or can theft and murder be justified?

A story of love, adventure, and murder.

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Praise

“This is a fast paced page turner.  A suspenseful, thrilling roller coaster ride with lots of twisty, loopy sections.  Head Games is an apt title for this enthralling read. “- Joy Renee, Joy Story

“Identity’s a big theme in this work, so if you’ve ever felt you were someone other than yourself, if you thought you might like to try living in someone else’s skin, if you’ve wondered whether your friends and loved ones were not exactly who they claimed to be, then this psychological labyrinth might just be your winding road to a good read”.- Carole Giangrande, Words to Go

“This was a book that grabbed me from the start. It’s a period in history that offered much to the world but also had some of man’s darkest moments.  Due to that it does provide rich material for a novelist and Ms. Rummel does an excellent job of taking her reader on a dangerous journey through the twists and turns of what many faced during the time. The characters are well developed and defined. The scenes are well described and I found myself feeling like I was actually walking the streets with the characters of the book.”-Patty, Books Cooks Looks

“To live during such tumultuous times would be horrible. You would have to be careful of every word that came out of your mouth. That might be easy when you are alert, but what about when you are so tired that you can’t even think? This book made me thankful that I was born in America in the 20th century. Any fan of riveting historical fiction will get lost in this book from page one.”-Lisa, Lisa’s Writopia

Guest Review by Nora

Among some of history’s greatest public figures, Eva Peron stands tall.

Perhaps one of the best loved politicians in Argentinian history, Eva, nicknamed Evita, was the wife of Juan Peron, who was president in the late 1940’s to early 1950’s (and again in the 1970’s). Because of her openness with the Argentinian people, Evita became beloved by her country and, when she passed in 1952 from cancer, the country went into mourning.

‘Evita and Me,’ is a historical fiction novel about a teenage girl who meets Evita in the final years of the great woman’s life and quickly becomes a close confidant.

Mona Ford is a sixteen-year-old girl living in Toronto with her mother whom she does not get along with. In the Spring of 1947, Mona’s mother informs her that a friend of hers, Liliana, has asked for Mona to come and visit her in Argentina.

Although Mona is initially hesitant to agree, she eventually decides to take the trip. Living with Liliana has it’s perks, as the woman is friends with (and works for) Evita Peron.

When Mona meets Evita, she is instantly smitten, and falls hopelessly in love with the older woman, determining that she will do anything to stay in her presence. Soon, Evita asks Mona to travel with her to Europe on a presidential tour, and Mona agrees. But after the tour is suddenly cut short, Evita asks Mona to go to Switzerland, to hide some of her jewelry in a vault and accept one of the keys. Years later, when Mona hears of Evita’s death, she realizes that she is one of three people to know about the vault, and one of only three that has a key.

This is a gorgeous, immersive book that reads almost like you are watching a great film. I felt so enveloped in the world that Erika Rummel creates in this book that I found myself wishing it was longer. ‘Evita and Me,’ is a reading experience that is unmatched!

Excerpt

26 July 1952

I knew she was dying, but when I saw the obituary in the Globe and Mail, it triggered an inner quake. The print lines wavered so that I had a hard time reading the words. She made herself one of the most powerful women in the world. She founded charitable institutions. She battled on behalf of workers and women. The print lines steadied, but I still couldn’t make sense of the words. They sounded unfamiliar. I didn’t recognize the woman on the page. Of course, that was the official version of Evita, as opposed to my private memories. And I’m no longer sure about them either. If I knew anything about Evita once, I gave it up when we said goodbye in Madrid, five years ago. I could feel her retreating even earlier. During the last days of our togetherness, she took all the necessary steps, preparing to go away and vanish from my life. That’s why I stole her necklace. I needed a tangible connection, a solid piece made of precious metal and stone, with its own expensive light, something she had touched and I could touch in turn, something that was forever. It was theft, yes, but was it a crime? It’s not as if I had a choice. I didn’t weigh the pros and cons. I didn’t make a conscious decision to act. It was more like basic instinct, an overwhelming need that could not be denied. I can’t be blamed for doing what I had to do.

After I got back to Toronto, I pushed the memory of Evita to the back of my mind, but I couldn’t keep it shut up there entirely. It lay in ambush for me, waiting to stab me with the sudden recall of a personal detail – the perfect curve of Evita’s lips, for example, or the elegant movement of her hand waving to the people as we drove through the city in an open car, the sudden roughness in her voice when she was angry, the way she kissed Juan, carnal and angelic at once. I had these retro-glimpses of Evita, but I never looked at her life as a whole the way the obituary did. I couldn’t come up with a coherent story to explain who she was and how she lived and why I adored her. In fact, you can’t compose a person’s life story until they are dead and can no longer interfere with your imagination or the memories that have congealed into nostalgia. As long as people are alive, there is always a chance they might disappoint you. I mean, you think of them as young and beautiful, the way they were when you saw them last, and then you run into them again and they have become old and their faces have turned to dust, a sight from which you cannot recover. Or you remember them as brilliant, and the next time you see them, they talk about the weather or their allergies and bore you until you have no goodwill left.

But Evita was dead now. I felt a strange lightheadedness when I thought of her, a centrifugal pull to lose myself in the memory of her beauty and the beauty surrounding her, the presidential palace which must be hollow now without her, but with everything still intact, the white bedroom, the dressers full of lingerie and closets full of haute couture dresses, dozens of furs – an ermine bed jacket and an ostrich feather cloak, rows and rows of delicate high-heeled shoes and designer purses. Only Evita was missing, and I felt a longing for her ardent temper, her vivacious gestures, and electric intensity — a longing beyond adoration. I wanted to be like her.

I turned back to the obituary and the photo spread that went with it. There was a picture of people lining up to see Evita lying in state. They knelt in prayer on the rain-soaked pavement. A field kitchen had been set up for them, the article said. The queue was twenty blocks long, and they were standing four abreast. They were like pilgrims who had come to visit the shrine of a miracle-working saint. There was also a close-up of Evita lying in state in a mahogany coffin with a glass lid, surrounded by mauve and white orchids. She looked tranquil and beautiful. Her hands were folded in prayer, a rosary of silver and mother of pearl wound around them – a gift from the Pope, the article said. On the fingers of her left hand were the three rings she always wore: a large solitaire diamond, an eternity ring set with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, and a simple band of gold – her wedding ring. But the bulk of her jewels, worth millions, was missing, the article said. Yes, and I wonder how long it will take Peron to catch up with us. I never told anyone about our night journey or the two steel caskets we deposited in the bank vault. Did the others keep their mouths shut as well?

About the Author

Award-winning author, Erika Rummel is the author of more than a dozen non-fiction books and seven novels. Her seventh novel, ‘Evita and Me’ is being published on May 24, 2022.

She won the Random House Creative Writing Award (2011) for a chapter from ‘The Effects of Isolation on the Brain’ and The Colorado Independent Publishers’ Association’s Award for Best Historical Novel, in 2018. She is the recipient of a Getty Fellowship and the Killam Award.

Erika grew up in Vienna, emigrated to Canada, and obtained a Ph.D. from the University of Toronto. She taught at Wilfrid Laurier and U of Toronto.  She divides her time between Toronto and Los Angeles and has lived in Argentina, Romania, and Bulgaria.

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Giveaway

This giveaway is for 2 print copies and is open to Canada and the U.S. only.

This giveaway ends on July 23, 2022 midnight, pacific time.

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