{"product_id":"feel-the-bern-isbn-9781984861146","title":"Feel the Bern","description":"\u003cb\u003eWho knew fighting for a living wage could be so deadly? Bernie Sanders and his Gen Z intern are drawn into a murder investigation in a small Vermont town in this hilarious spin on cozy mysteries from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHope Never Dies: An Obama Biden Mystery\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFall is bursting out all over Vermont, and while the rest of the Congress enjoys its recess, Senator Bernie Sanders has returned to his beloved home state for a weekend of events in Eagle Creek, “America’s #1 Leaf Peeping Destination.” It’s up to intern and Eagle Creek native Crash Robertson to keep the senator on schedule—and out of trouble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCrash’s hopes for a quiet homecoming are dashed, however, when the lifeless body of a community banker with ties to “Big Maple” is found in Lake Champlain. While the sheriff’s department closes the case as an accident, a leaked autopsy indicates foul play…with a trail of syrup leading directly to one of the senator’s oldest friends. Bernie, taking a page from the cozy mysteries he’s addicted to, enlists Crash in a quest to uncover the killer’s true identity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf Crash allows the senator to go too far off-script, it will be the end of her yet-to-begin political career. But as the suspect list grows to include a tech bro set on “disrupting” the maple syrup industry, struggling small-business owners, and even Crash’s own family, she realizes there’s more on the line than her own future. If the unlikely duo can’t solve the mystery of the Maple Murderer before they strike again, Bernie’s life-long fight for justice may come to an unplanned end.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThis (totally fictional!) mystery also features recipes from Eagle Creek’s Vermont Country Shed, including Vermont Cheddar Mac \u0026amp; Cheese, “Feel the Bern!” Maple Sriracha Hot Sauce, and more!\u003c\/b\u003e“Hilarious . . . [A] fast paced, entertaining mystery . . . Bernie Sanders makes for a terrific sleuth. . . . I highly recommend this as a fun holiday gift for the Bernie-lover in your life.”\u003cb\u003e—Doreen Sheridan, \u003ci\u003eCriminal Element\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fun frolic . . . Of course there are mitten references. And maple syrup ends up being central to the murder mystery. But there’s more to the senator’s spiel here than shallow reflections on his love-hate relationship with capitalism. . . . Shaffer weaves in a little subtext on modern frictions, and possibilities, in dialogue between local and state political participants and their Washington representation.”\u003cb\u003e—T.E. Lyons, \u003ci\u003eLeo Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Amusing . . . Shaffer cheerfully ties sprawling plot threads together with clever nods to Vermont and its Socialist senator. Readers will be eager for more.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAndrew Shaffer\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the Obama Biden mysteries \u003ci\u003eHope Never Dies\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHope Rides Again,\u003c\/i\u003e the presidential satire \u003ci\u003eThe Day of the Donald,\u003c\/i\u003e and over a dozen other humorous works of genre fiction from mystery to horror. An Iowa native, Shaffer lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with his wife, novelist Tiffany Reisz.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every Vermonter has a Bernie Sanders story. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It begins when I was in elementary school. Bernie was visiting our classroom to warn us of the coming climate catastrophe. Heavy stuff for a seven-year-old girl. “Let me be clear,” he said in that gravelly baritone of his, “the future of the planet is in your hands. Now is not the time for thinking small.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I glanced over at the sleepy-eyed boy next to me who was spooning paste from a jar into his cakehole like it was a pint of Ben \u0026amp; Jerry’s. If the future depended on kids like Brandon, the planet was screwed. Luckily for Mother Nature, I made a silent but solemn vow to pick up the slack. I could already tell that life was going to be just another group project, one where I would be stuck doing most of the work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Years would pass before I could let Bernie know how much his visit influenced my decision to go into politics. By the time I volunteered on his presidential campaigns, he’d become a big  deal. Suddenly, everybody wanted to “feel the Bern.” It wasn’t until grad school that I found myself in the same room with him again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At twenty-three, I was one of the younger students in Georgetown’s poli-sci program. Second-year students are required to complete a semester-long congressional internship, and the Sanders office was at the top of my list. And not just for the home-state connection. Unlike most internships in town, Bernie’s actually paid a living wage. If I got into the program, I could take a much-needed break from Lincoln’s Chinstrap, the DC dive I bartended at part-time. Playing therapist for sloshed, emotionally wounded older men is less fun than it sounds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Some congressional offices swiped right on anyone with a pulse. Not the Sanders office. Everyone I knew in my grad program was applying there, even the lone Young Republican (bless his tiny bow tie). With such a large applicant pool, Bernie could afford to be selective. Only the best of the best made it into the program; only the best of the best of the best made it through the program. It was said that if you could survive a semester interning in the Sanders office, you could survive anything—even a Cancún vacation with Ted Cruz. Prospective employers knew this. A letter of recommendation from his office could get your foot in any door in town . . . except for the Sanders office, ironically. Bernie already had his ride-or-die squad. The chances of getting a full-time job with him after the internship were about as good as the chances of Elon Musk getting to Mars. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I learned that I’d secured an in-person interview with the senator, I thought, \u003ci\u003eOf course I did\u003c\/i\u003e. Not to brag, but my CV game was strong: Dean’s List, Honor Roll, you name it. Grades had never been a problem for me. Still, this town was stacked with straight-A students (excluding members of Congress, of course).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now that I’d made the cut, I needed to do something to distance myself from the pack. Something bold. Something that would make Bernie remember the name “Crash Robertson.” And not just because I was the only girl named “Crash” on the planet. Like Alexander Hamilton, I needed to shoot my shot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As luck would have it, I knew Bernie’s one and only weakness. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost people think he’s nothing more than a political machine, a man whose only hobby is fighting for the working class. While there’s some truth to that, even political machines need fuel. A little birdie told me on good authority that the senator was a sucker for Vermont maple syrup. The little birdie was my mother, who managed the general store back in my hometown of Eagle Creek, Vermont (“New England’s #1 Leaf-Peeping Destination!” according to a press release put out by the Eagle Creek Chamber of Commerce).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eGrade A Golden\u003c\/i\u003e, my mother texted me. \u003ci\u003eThe lighter the better.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She also asked if I would invite Bernie to be the grand marshal of our town’s harvest festival parade. Outside of maple syrup, Champ Days is, like, the one thing people in my hometown are proud of. It’s all so cringe. \u003ci\u003eLet me get the job first,\u003c\/i\u003e I’d texted back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Okay, so Alexander Hamilton never thanked anyone for their time with a bottle of syrup. Nobody quashes political beef with duels anymore, either. They just duke it out on Twitter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bernie’s chief of staff met me in the waiting area of the Sanders office. It was a typically sauna-like afternoon in mid-August and Lana O’Malley was dressed head-to-toe in black. Either she was immune to the heat, or she actually enjoyed it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lana ushered me into a windowless conference room without a word. Bernie, seated at the table in a rumpled baby-blue button-down shirt, looked like he’d just been roused from a nap. He might well have been—the Senate was in summer recess, and Bernie was still in DC interviewing a parade of fanboys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He reached across the table to shake my hand. “Bernie Sanders,” he said with that famously gruff voice, the one that made him sound like he was on a Brooklyn street corner hawking newspapers announcing an end to the Great War.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Crash Robertson,” I said, shaking his hand. As I was taking a seat, I spied half a dozen bottles of syrup pushed to the far end of the table, all presumably left behind by my competition. My heart sank. The half-pint of artisanal syrup in my handbag had cost me a week’s worth of tips at Lincoln’s Chinstrap. If I didn’t get the internship, I would be eating ramen for the next month. And not the good stuff from the food trucks near campus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You want to be a campaign manager,” Lana said, reading off my application.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I volunteered on both of the senator’s presidential campaigns,” I said. “The energy was off the charts. There’s something about being in a room with so many people, all working toward one goal. It all seems so unpredictable and exciting and amazing and now I’m rambling, aren’t I?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Take a breath, you’re fine,” Lana said. “To be clear, though, this internship is a desk job. We don’t have campaign staff at the moment. The senator has a few years before he’s up for reelection.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t remind me,” Bernie mumbled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What I was after was experience, I told Lana. A chance to learn the ropes from the best of the best. “I’ve heard this office is where coal is turned into diamonds,” I said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBernie’s frown deepened. “We support clean energy here.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThroughout the rest of the interview—correction:\u003ci\u003e interrogation\u003c\/i\u003e—I kept waiting for Bernie to jump in with a question of his own. Even mentioning how inspirational his elementary school visit had been failed to get a reaction out of him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My ten minutes flew by. Either that, or Lana was showing me mercy by cutting the interview short. There were more victims waiting in the lobby. “Do you have any questions for us?” she asked absently, scrolling through messages on her Apple Watch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was ready to take the loss when my eyes fell again on the cluster of maple syrup bottles. Several were corporate brands cut with cheap corn syrup, easily distinguishable by their garish labels and faux-homestyle names such as “Maplewood Springs” and “Canadian Gold.” Someone had even brought Bernie an old bottle of Aunt Jemima’s, which had been discontinued when Quaker Oats realized nobody wanted their pancakes with a side of racism. The bottles lined up in a row all had one thing in common, though: they were all as dark and thick as used motor oil. There wasn’t a single bottle of light syrup on the table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Screw it. I reached into my handbag for my bottle. As I whipped it out, Lana reached out to intercept it like a Secret Service agent throwing herself in front of the president.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bernie muscled it away from her. “Doc McGilliam’s Barrel-Aged Golden Reserve Batch,” he said, reading the label in quiet reverence. “Holy moly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mom had said I couldn’t go wrong with Doc’s. He was a local eccentric who produced some of the finest artisanal syrup in the state. The only trouble was finding it. It had been a tough season for sugarmakers in Vermont. Another abnormally warm spring. The early harvest—the source of all light, golden-hued syrup— had been hit the hardest. Stores had sold out of what little was produced months ago. Thankfully, that’s why they’d invented the internet.New York Times Bestselling Author of \"Hope Never Dies\" and \"Hope Rides Again\"","brand":"Ten Speed Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303262015717,"sku":"NP9781984861146","price":16.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984861146.jpg?v=1767726803","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/feel-the-bern-isbn-9781984861146","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}