Unraveling the Mystery: A Review of Scandal of Vandals by Frank F. Weber

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the SCANDAL OF VANDALS by Frank F. Weber Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

About The Book:

Title: SCANDAL OF VANDALS

Author: Frank F. Weber

Pub. Date: July 25, 2024

Publisher: BookBaby

Formats:  Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 306

Find it: Goodreads, Purchase from Frank,  https://books2read.com/SCANDAL-OF-VANDALS 

Debra Grant, spouse of esteemed attorney Tug Grant, was brutally assaulted in her Minnetonka home on Wednesday morning and died later that afternoon at Park Nicollet Hospital. Debra, a Macalester College graduate, was a scout leader, a member of the Scenic Heights PTA and a beloved member of the Christian Women’s Ministry. Tug was in the headlines in 2018 for defending a member of the Minneapolis Combination (MN mafia) after the boss was accused of murdering a Disciples gang member. The police have not identified any suspects In Debra’s murder. Violent crime is uncommon in this affluent community.

Tug Grant had an affair with his secretary and his law clerk but had recently renewed his marital vows with Debra. Scandal of Vandals is based on true crime in Minnesota that was once touted as the crime of the century. Was the murder the repercussion of Tug’s affairs, a possible mafia hit, or gang retaliation? Some say, it was the day the Twin Cities lost its innocence.

 

Excerpt:

1

JON FREDERICK

8:45 P.M., SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2002

PIERZ

It was 46 degrees today, the warmest it would be all month. My cool cheeks felt like a mask on this starless night. I  traipsed along the riverbank on our farm, sinking into the  snow with each step. I carried my book and one of my dad’s  empty beer cans, now filled with gas, to a thicket of trees on a  bluff overlooking the river. My Sorel boots were snug due to  a recent growth spurt, but they kept my feet warm. I suppose  all my winter gear could be replaced, but it served its purpose,  and now wasn’t the time. I carefully set the can in the snow and  the book on a fallen tree while I gathered dried brush for a fire.  Once I had piled the wood in front of a tree stump, I poured  the gas on the stack and tossed a match into it, enjoying the  ominous “huff” it made when it ignited. As the fire started, I  stepped to the side and looked out at the river. The steep banks  were covered with snow. The river was never safe to walk on  in the winter. While much of it was covered with ice, it never  froze over completely. I loved this farm. We were losing it, and I imagined it would be bought up by some corporate farmer  who would never walk these banks. 

I had to get out of the house tonight. My older sister,  Theresa, had apparently been caught in a state of undress  with a firefighter in one of the trucks as the local volunteer  force rushed into the station for a call, so she was now the talk  of the town. Perhaps it’s one of the perils of having the Pierz  fire station next to Frosty’s bar. When I left the house, Mom  was kneeling in front of the couch, praying for her soul. Dad  wasn’t angry like he used to be. He’d given up and was now  depressingly quiet. It didn’t help that when confronted, The resa never minimized her behavior. Instead, she embellished  the story further by suggesting, “They had to turn the hose  on us to get us to stop.” 

My older brother, Victor, struggled with schizophrenia  and was convinced aliens were trying to communicate with us  in Morse code through the flickering lights on our Christmas  tree. Having a brother who tells tales of false inventions and  declares people are trying to kill him casts a shadow on our  family. I don’t blame Vic. The delusions and paranoia are real  and scary for him. Regardless of the stories, I love my family.  I respect my parents, laugh with Theresa, and take care of  Vic. But I’m alone and not loved in the manner I desire. I’m  loved in the sense that I’m provided for. My parents aren’t  the ‘Is something bothering you?’ type. They’re the ‘Do you  have your chores done?’ parents. Theresa visits home as little  as possible, and Vic is detached from the world. I had a good  year in football, but not good enough for a scholarship. The  same is true for my grades. Most of the kids in my grade  are considerate, hardworking people trying to figure out life.  Unlike the movies, the homecoming queen and king candidates  are decent people. 

I’m not in the selection as people have kept a safe distance  from me ever since I assaulted an older boy for bullying my schizophrenic brother four years ago. Other than a bloody  nose, the boy wasn’t seriously hurt. My anger worked for  Vic. The bullying ended. I, however, am viewed as someone  with the potential to go off the rails. I probably should have  explained myself since it happened in front of my class, and  my peers weren’t aware of the torture Vic had been through.  I was too ashamed to desire sympathy, so I quietly took the  consequences. I’ll never forget the bus ride home. No one sat  within two seats of me for the first couple of stops. Then, a  courageous girl with flowing brunette locks and scintillating  green eyes sat next to me. Serena Bell is the brightest and  most beautiful girl in our school, but because she expressed  her kindness without reservation, she also had her critics. It  was consistent with my theory that there is nothing you can  do to get everyone to like you. If you tried, someone would  hate you just for that. But I didn’t see Serena outside of school  as she belonged to a ballet company and didn’t date anyone  around Pierz. I want someone to talk to who isn’t going to  judge me based on everything happening with my family—a  girl who will at least try to understand me. I’m not sure that  person exists. 

I returned to the fire, picked up my book, and read forward from the bookmark: 

 

“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears,  for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than  before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude,  more gentle.” 

 

Charles Dickens wrote my thoughts so succinctly. I wanted  to cry, but I couldn’t. Tears had been beaten out of me years  ago. Even if I couldn’t participate, I felt Dickens’ sentiment  deeply. I returned to immersing myself in his written words.

“What are you doing?” an angel’s voice asked. 

I glanced up to see Serena approaching the fire. Her long  brunette locks flowed from underneath her slouchy beige knit  hat, and her body was covered by a forest green peacoat. My  sixteen-year-old classmate only lived a mile down the road  from me, but I never saw her around. God, if you could get  her to love me, you could take my life at thirty, and I’d die a  happy man. 

Embarrassed, I held my book to the side, away from her.  I stood up and offered her my stump. “Here. I was just sitting  here thinking.” Trying to make light of my family’s misfortune, I quipped, “If you’ve heard the rumors about our farm,  it’s all we can afford to do.” 

“Where are you going to sit?” 

I set my book on the ground and dragged a log over to  the fire. “Here.” 

After I sat, Serena smiled at me and, instead of going to  the stump, picked my book up out of the snow. “You wouldn’t  want people to know you’re reading Great Expectations.” She  slipped her mittens off, opened the book, read the pages that  embraced the bookmark, and then stepped in front of me. 

“I just needed to get away,” I explained. 

“I’ve seen you here before. I finally had the courage to  come and speak to you. I would have come sooner if I had  realized you were reading Dickens. I mean, you never know  what a teen boy might be looking at in the middle of the woods  by himself at night.” 

I laughed. She sat close to me on the log. The warmth of  her body made me pleasantly nervous. Her green eyes were  mesmerizing. 

She continued, “I heard you made the WCCO all-state  team of the week in football. That’s impressive.” “Thank you.” 

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t been to a game.”

“It’s okay. I don’t play because I expect people to watch.  I play because it’s like chess performed at one hundred miles  per hour with all the pieces in motion during every move.” 

“Can you explain it to me in words I can understand?” “I’m quarterback, so I can change the plays. If I can’t  figure out what the defense is doing, I send someone in  motion.” I stood up and pumped my right leg. “Let’s say  there’s a defender covering the wide-out on the right side.  When the wide-out sees my foot moving, he runs behind  me to the other side of the field. After he crosses, I see the  defender on the left side isn’t picking him up. Then I know  the defender is coming after me instead, on a blitz. More  defenders are coming after me than I have blockers, so I have  to change the play and get rid of the ball quickly.” I laughed  at the look of confusion on her face. I sat back down by her.  “So, I guess the answer is ‘no.’ I can’t really explain it in a  manner you could understand.” 

She gripped my bicep with her mitten. “I promise I’ll try  to get to a game next year, even if I can’t understand it.” “I went to your ballet.” 

Surprised, she leaned back. “With whom?” 

“By myself.” 

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” 

“It’s not something football players brag about.” “You should have found me after.” She leaned against me. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.” 

“Of course, I wanted you to—goof. I have to get back home,  or Mom will send the Sheriff, police, and fire department after  me. I was at the end of my walk when I noticed you.” “My sister might be able to distract them.” 

Serena laughed knowingly. “That isn’t on you.” She stood.  “Okay, read me a line from Great Expectations before I go.” “I don’t have to read it.” I stood facing her and recited,  “I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement  that could be.” 

Without hesitation, Serena kissed me. I will cherish that  moment forever. It was a moment of warmth for a boy, lost in a  blizzard, trying to find home. The night had split open, and the  light revealed Serena’s requited love for me for the first time. I  was flabbergasted by the possibility that Serena could love me.  It was a warm, loving kiss that continued while the endorphins  in my brain danced in ecstasy. I felt bulletproof. She stepped  back and said, “Tell me the next time you’re coming out here  so we can have a little more time.” 

“I can walk you back.” 

“No, you can’t,” she grinned. “If my parents see you, there  won’t be a next time.” 

I sat on the stump and watched her disappear into the  night. It was the best moment of my life. 

 

(3 DAYS LATER)

10:02 P.M., TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2002

DAD WAS A RUGGED VETERAN who had a habit of calling me  into the living room to view the bad news of the day. Tonight,  we watched medics wheel three bodies out of a two-story  farmhouse in South Troy, Minnesota. Dad turned to me and  said, “The way the economy’s destroying farm families, I’m  surprised this isn’t happening all over the state.” 

WCCO newscaster Frank Vascellaro turned to his wife,  Amelia Santaniello, and said, “The family’s sixteen-year-old  son has been taken into custody.” 

Dad asked me, “How long do you think they’ll keep a  married couple on the news together? My bet is they don’t  make it a decade. She kept her maiden name.” 

Frank and Amelia looked like a happy couple to me.  “What do you call the name a guy was born with?”

“I don’t know. What?” Dad studied me skeptically. “There’s no word for it. It’s just his name. In 1975, Kathleen Harney from Wisconsin wanted to keep her maiden name.  She had to appeal her case to the state supreme court to do so.  The circuit court ruled by common law she should take her  husband’s name.” Common law refers to enforced practices  because they are popular or common rather than by legal statute. “But the supreme court ruled, under English common law,  her legal name is the name she has always been known as.” “Seems like a bad way to start out a marriage,” Dad  suggested. 

“Her husband didn’t care. Kathleen wanted to add her  husband to her insurance, but the school she worked for told  her she had to change to her husband’s name to do so.” 

“Now she has me on her side. This is one more case of the  government sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong. Who the  hell are they to tell her what her name should be?” 

“Prior to that ruling, women couldn’t get a credit card or  a passport unless they did so in their husband’s name.” “Do you see what’s going on there?” Dad pointed to the  TV. “That family was killed by their son, Richard Day. I have  a friend who lives nine miles north, in Mazeppa, who gave me  the scoop. Both parents and a brother are dead. Day’s eight year-old sister is in critical condition in the hospital.” “I saw. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it.  It’s not the first tragedy in South Troy. That’s where Laura  Ingalls’s only brother died before he reached a year.” When  he didn’t respond, I added, “Did you know that Laura Ingalls  Wilder refused to say ‘obey’ in her wedding vows?” He shut the TV off. “Yeah, I should just leave the damn  tube off.” 

This was as close as Dad came to apologizing. I appreciated his concession and told him, “It’s all right. You can’t  change the world’s problems if you’re not aware of them. 

Maybe someday I’ll be in a position where I can do some thing about it.” 

In a calmer tone, Dad said, “I saw you talking to that Bell  girl down by the river. Remember, you just take that thing out  for pissin’, and you put it back as soon as you’re done.” “Sound advice,” I remarked. 

Dad shook his head, “Although, honestly, if you keep sharing that damn trivia, I’m never going to have to worry about  you getting laid.” 

I elected not to respond. He might be right, but I can’t help it. 

Mom entered the room to let us know that the language  being used was not acceptable. Instead of confronting Dad  about it, she fixed her gaze on me. It was clear she wanted me  to follow her into the kitchen, so I did. 

“I like Serena,” Mom smiled. “If you ever get a girl pregnant, you take responsibility for the child. I expect you to do  what’s right by the mother.” 

“I understand.” I really didn’t want to have this  conversation. 

Mom opened the refrigerator door and contemplated  tomorrow’s meals as she asked, “Have you ever thought about  asking out that Golden girl? She’s a saint.” 

Not from the TV show. The girl in question’s last name  was Golden. I wondered, “Isn’t she my cousin?” And as much  as I admired saints, I wasn’t interested in dating one. 

“Second cousin, so it’s not a legal issue. What’s going  through that brain of yours, Jon?” 

“I was considering the consequences of knocking up a  saint.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

It was a little funny. I stepped away. “Can this conversation be over?”

“I just don’t want to have to hear who you’re dating at  Thielen’s Meats again. Why don’t you tell me yourself ?” Mom  was now facing me. 

“Because I don’t want you to think you have a say in it.” “That’s mean.” I knew Mom was frustrated about the  state of our finances, and I didn’t want to add to her distress. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” I was being honest, but I probably could have said it better. 

“Understandable. You’ve got a lot going on. You can’t  afford to be in love. Girls today expect you to take them places  and buy them things.” The shame on her face was no less than  what she was painting across mine. Having said enough, she  nodded to me, indicating that she had accepted the apology.  It was as affectionate as we got in our family. 

“I have to end the conversation, Mom. If I don’t shower,  you’ll never have to worry about a girl getting close to me.”  It may seem a little rude, but anyone who has been in a conversation with my mother understands. She continues to talk  until you say something like, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

Why Should You Read It?

Frank F. Weber’s Scandal of Vandals delves into a chilling true-crime case that shook Minnesota to its core. The brutal murder of Debra Grant, wife of high-profile attorney Tug Grant, sends shockwaves through the affluent Minnetonka community, where violent crime is rare. Weber masterfully paints a complex portrait of Tug’s life, weaving together the threads of his legal entanglements, mafia connections, and extramarital affairs, leaving readers to wonder if Debra’s murder was a personal vendetta or a professional consequence. The story’s pace and detail make it impossible to put down, as each clue pulls you deeper into this harrowing mystery.

What sets Scandal of Vandals apart is its exploration of the human side of crime—how public figures like Tug grapple with private demons. The book raises thought-provoking questions about loyalty, betrayal, and justice in a community that suddenly finds itself under a microscope. Weber’s careful blend of true crime and psychological insight creates a captivating narrative, making this a must-read for fans of real-life mysteries.

 

About Frank F. Weber:

Frank F. Weber is a forensic psychologist specializing in homicide, sexual assault and domestic abuse cases. He uses his unique understanding of how predators think, knowledge of victim trauma and expert testimony in writing his true crime thrillers. He has profiled cold case homicides and been interviewed on investigative shows such as Snapped and Murdered by Morning. His Award Winning books include Murder Book (2017) The I-94 Murders (2018) Last Call (2019) Lying Close (2020) Burning Bridges (2021), Black and Blue (2022), The Haunted House of Hillman (2023) and Scandal of Vandals (2024).

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Giveaway Details:

5 winners will receive a finished copy of SCANDAL OF VANDALS, US only.

Ends September 17th, midnight EST.

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