Returning Home by Meredith Cole

Meredith Cole started her career as a screenwriter and filmmaker. She was the winner of the St. Martin’s Press/Malice Domestic competition, and her book POSED FOR MURDER, was published by St. Martin’s Minotaur in 2009.  She was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Mystery Novel in 2010. Her second book, DEAD IN THE WATER, came out May 11, 2010, and continues the adventures of Lydia McKenzie. She teaches mystery writing and screenwriting and lives in Virginia.

 

Returning Home by Meredith Cole
 
Some people have trouble placing my accent when they meet me, so they ask me where I’m from. It’s a complicated answer. I explain that I was raised in Central Virginia, my father is English, my mother’s family is from the Mid-West, my mother was raised in Northern Virginia and I lived in New York for ten years. 

Now that I’m back in Virginia again, I find myself starting to slide back into a southern accent.  It’s not very heavy, just a touch here and there. But my six-year-old son is mystified by the accent.  “Everyone here says ‘y’all’,” he complains to me after a day at kindergarten.  I tell him what it means, secretly happy that he is hearing an accent that I find so pleasing. Don’t get me wrong, there are unpleasant southern accents and lovely ones, but I never did warm to the accents in New England and New York. They just didn’t sound like home to me.

What does it really mean to be from somewhere?  I have a neighbor who has lived here 20 years, moving in around the time that I left town.  But I grew up here and have family living here.  I feel connected to the ground, the red clay and curving hills.  So am I more of a local than she is? When I lived somewhere else and visited, I always felt a little different.  I walked faster then the other pedestrians.  I was sometimes impatient during the small talk.  Now that I’ve taken the plunge and moved back, I’ve mostly slowed myself down so the speed of living here feels just right.

In my mystery series, I write about an “outsider,” Lydia McKenzie, who has embraced New York with a

fervent love that I never felt. I wanted to. There are so many things there that I enjoy, and I am eagerly anticipating a trip back to see friends and celebrate the launch of my second book DEAD IN THE WATER on May 26th at Partners & Crime. I navigated the subway and bus system like a pro, walked fast, was impatient at any delay, worked in TV where everything had to be done yesterday, and made many good friends there. The next book that I’m writing in the Lydia McKenzie series is set there, and I think of our old neighborhood often. I wish I could be in two places at once, and perhaps I am with my writing.

Our life is quite different now that we’ve left the city. The house has more square footage than our apartment, actual green space, and requires more stuff.  All of it seems to mean more work. My husband has planted a wonderful vegetable garden. My son exclaims over the height of our peas, making me believe he might actually eat them someday, and is raising baby preying mantises. I have my own office with a door and a view of trees, our porch swing, the road, and the neighbors from my two windows. 

I used to see the tall buildings of Manhattan in the distance. Now I have the Blue Ridge Mountains surrounding me.  There is no more beautiful sight to me than those mountains jutting up in the distance, gentle baby blue curves on the horizon.  Seeing them makes me relax and smile every time. I feel like I’m home.

the phone call no one ever wants to get

One week ago today, a series of events started playing themselves out that were totally unexpected - and completely unwelcome.

I had taken a day of vacation to get bags and boxes packed for our trip to Topsail Island the next day. Remember? The beach trip I've been squealing about? The latest loud squeal was right here - http://meanderingsandmuses.blogspot.com/search?q=Topsail+Island

Donald and Harley and I were going to the beach - Yay!!

But then, the phone rang.

Donald was at the hospital with chest pains, and next thing I knew I was by his side until two strangers strapped him onto a gurney, put him in a helicopter and whisked him away from me to Asheville.

Here's the story in Donald's words -

"I died last Friday from a heart attack. It wasn't for very long but a definite flat line on the monitors. Just like a light dimmer switch the light in my mind and the energy in my body were going to low in synch with each other and did go all the way to dark.

The emergency staff had given me blood thinner, clot busters, and even nitroglycerin. That was not enough. I found out much later that I had gotten the electric paddles. As I became groggily aware of my surroundings I spoke to whoever might be listening that I was not having fun and wanted to go home. There was some muffled laughter and someone told me that a helicopter from Asheville was coming to get me. I quickly requested a window seat and there was a little more muffled laughter.  

When the copter crew got there one of the crew was told by some unseen attendent that I had beat the ambulance fee by driving myself to the hospital and that made me laugh. My intent was never to cheat anyone out of a fee, but I was kinda of in a hurry. A special thanks to the quick actions of the Watauga Hospital emergency room staff who saved my life. Thanks to the Mission Memorial Hospital helicopter crew MAMA for getting me to Asheville alive. 
 

I would like to thank all the doctors, nurses, and other staff at Mission Memorial Hospital for taking care of me and fixing the broke part. They gave me a pat on the butt and sent me home yesterday around noon with Kaye Alan driving and Harley Doodle and I riding in style. Ms. Kaye is an excellent driver. It's great to be alive, home, and to sleep in our own bed. I want to thank everyone for their special support of Kaye Alan and I over the past few days

I am extremely grateful to be alive. Evidently God is not quite ready for me and the devil is not up to such a challenge. Both know I'd rather stand up and fight than do something I think is wrong. Thank you to all for your concerns and prayers."

So. There you have it. Today, Donald and Harley and I are together at home, almost as if nothing ever happened. Almost. But not quite. However - Donald is expected to make a full recovery and the damage to his heart was minimal (10-15%), and that's expected to come back.  He has a stent in an area that was 90% blocked and it is doing its job.

While Donald was being so wonderfully taken care of at the hospital, Harley and I spent our nights at the Marriott Residence Inn just a couple minutes away from Mission Memorial Hospital. The staff could not have been kinder. During our entire stay in Asheville we were surrounded by angels; both at the hospital and at the hotel.

And surrounded by friends and family - both in reality and virtually.

Donald's Mom & Dad were there, and my gal pals Nancy & Dindy were there. You've heard me speak of the importance of old and dear friends.  Donald and I are the luckiest people on God's green earth when it comes to being blessed with dear friends.  Nancy & Dindy have been a part of our lives for our entire married life, and were a part of my life even before Donald entered it.  We've been through all sorts of times together  -  the wild & crazy, and the saddest of the sad.  It's what has forged a friendship that will last forever.  I also had the virtual support of friends and family literally around the world, with a constant stream of emails and notes on Facebook and phone calls from people expressing concern and offering help in every way imaginable. We will never forget those gestures. Cherished and treasured are every one of the notes and calls. The warm feeling of having friends, family, neighbors and co-workers, along with the mystery/crime fiction community AND the blogging community sending prayers, warm wishes and positive thoughts is not something to be taken lightly. I will always believe it helped the doctors and the nurses pull Donald through.

We've had one incident which has hurt terribly. When I called the rental folks at Topsail to tell them we would not be arriving, I asked if they would be able to switch our week to a later date we would appreciate it greatly. Their response was that they would try and for me not to worry about it. So, I didn't. Silly me. I was naive enough to think that a near fatal heart attack would out-weigh contracts and money and that Donald and I would still be able to take our anniversary/vacation trip. Unfortunately, that's not to be. The contract and the money won - we won't be able to just change weeks, and we won't be getting any sort of refund.  So. We won't be having that beach trip this year after all, but I still have my Donald. And that's a pretty nice trade-off, don't you think? The beach? Maybe next year.  In the meantime - thanks everyone.  From the bottom of our hearts.

In Which I Come Out of the . . . What's Smaller Than A Closet? by E.J. Copperman

 
In Which I Come Out Of The... What's Smaller Than A Closet? 
 
by E.J. Copperman 
 
On the very last page of my extremely upcoming (June 1!) mystery novel NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED (Berkley Prime Crime, first in the Haunted Guesthouse Mystery series), there is an author biography that reads:

E.J. Copperman is a native New Jerseyan and an award-nominated screenwriter, mystery novelist and freelance journalist who has written for /The New York Times, Hollywood Scriptwriter, Writer's Digest, Entertainment Weekly /and many other publications.

All of which is true (and "award-nominated" means I didn't win, except, to be fair, I did once get a journalism award, but that was a very long time ago, and I didn't even know I'd been nominated until a week after the ceremony). But until now, the truth has never been known publicly.

E.J. Copperman is a pseudonym.

I know; you're shocked. As if the initials at the front of the name weren't signal enough, here I am telling flat out that I'm actually someone else pretending to be me. Or, someone else who actually is me, but doesn't say so, for fear of being associated with myself. Or, a writer you might or might not have heard about, but let's face it, probably didn't read, or else I'd still be me, and not someone pretending to be me.

My head hurts.

Here's how it works in the publishing biz: You start out as yourself (most of the time). You publish a novel or two. Or three. And either they take off with the public--that fickle lot--or they don't. Authors whose books have become popular will tell you it's the product of colossally hard work, endless promotion, sometimes great talent, and determination to rival that of the grittiest marathoner. Those whose books are now available as free downloads or taking up space in a warehouse next to the Ark of the Covenant will tell you it's all a crapshoot, and those other writers are just lucky.

Whatever. The point is, your books sell, or they don't. If they don't sell a lot, but they sell close to enough, the publisher (or another publisher) might be willing to give you another shot. But in order to "wipe the slate clean" with booksellers, particularly extremely large ones with the initials, let's say B and N, you will be asked to put a different name on the cover of the book.

This is not the tiny issue a rational human being might believe: Authors generally are not paid a king's ransom (or, to be fair, even the ransom on a 1976 Dodge Dart) for their work. We usually subsist on a "day job," which pays at least some of the bills, and book advances, royalties and such are a sideline out of necessity, not intent. I can tell you truly, college tuition doesn't pay itself. So that name on the front cover of the book takes on more meaning; if we're not going to get rich at this, at least we can tell the world that this is our work.

And then, we're asked to change the name. Well, publishers ARE in the business to make lots of money, and while we'd like that, it's not always realistic. We do have to pay their bills in order to keep getting published, and that's fair. A new name? Hell, writers love to make up names (actually, I HATE making up names, but that's another whole blog in itself). Sure.

So in my case, I asked my daughter Eve, my son Joshua and our dog Copper for suggestions. They couldn't come up with much, but somehow, I was inspired. Not sure what did it.

I've been very careful (well... a tiny bit careful, sort of) about protecting my identity, in the belief that my publisher wanted it that way. I never refer to myself by my original name. I'm careful about how I describe myself (see attached photo). And I have been reluctant about booking personal appearances, although to be fair, the door's not exactly getting kicked in with offers. There are no photos of me on my web site www.ejcopperman.com (in case you were wondering).
Being scrupulous about such things has been sort of a kick; it's fun to pretend and to have a secret that you can keep to yourself and a select few. So E.J. Copperman will remain E.J. Copperman in my eyes. It's a different kind of writing anyway--a twist on paranormal that recalls Topper in the era of Twilight. I hope you'll take a look; it's a fun read. But who I am? Nope, you'll be getting no hints from me.

Except here: http://berkleysignetmysteries.com/author406

The Delights of Floral and Citrus Teas by Laura Childs

The Delights of Floral and Citrus Teas

Guest Blog by Laura Childs, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Tea Shop Mysteries, Scrapbook Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries.

With subtle hints of Spring perfuming the air, my thoughts always turn to floral and citrus teas.  When only the leaves, roots, or flowers of a plant are infused in boiling water, the result is an herbal tea or tisane.  Blended with rich black tea or mild green tea, these floral and citrus brews become complex delights that delight the senses and seem like harbingers of warmer days.

    

Jasmine tea, for example, is fragrant, refreshing, and a little bit comforting, too.  You’ll often find jasmine flowers blended with fresh green tea.  I think it’s the perfect brew for those days when you’re cozied up inside watching the rain spatter down.

    

Rose hips tea always seems slightly exotic and holds a hint of promise -  garden parties and soft summer nights when fireflies flicker like heat lighting.  Chrysanthemum flavored teas are aromatic but only slightly sweet.  Originally dried and blended for Chinese emperors, chrysanthemum tea is made even more delicious by the addition of honey or sugar.

    

Chamomile tea imparts a slight apple flavor and hibiscus tea is slightly tart and lemony.  As days get warmer, both of these teas make wonderful iced teas as well.

    

Black teas lend themselves to blending and melding with unique flavors.  They’re often blended with ginseng, peppermint, peach, mango, or vanilla bean.  In my newest Tea Shop Mystery, The Teaberry Strangler, my characters from the Indigo Tea Shop serve up a wonderful blend of black tea with exotic teaberry and mint flavoring.

    

What do you serve as an accompaniment to these delightful floral and citrus teas?  Try cucumber, watercress, and cream cheese tea sandwiches.  Or shrimp salad on sourdough crostini.  Or cream cheese on date nut bread.

    

Better still, try these recipes from The Teaberry Strangler:

Pecan Pie Muffins     

1 cup brown sugar, packed

½ cup flour

1 cup pecans, chopped

¼ tsp cinnamon

2 eggs

½ cup butter, melted

Combine brown sugar, flour, pecans, and cinnamon in mixing bowl.  Beat eggs well, then stir in melted butter.  Add egg and butter mixture to dry mixture, stirring until moistened.  Spoon batter into foil baking cups that have been greased, filling about 2/3 full.  Bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes or until done.  Remove from pan and cool on wire rack.  Yields about 8 or 9 muffins.

Hawaiian Tea Sandwiches

1 cup sugar

2 cups crushed pineapple, drained

1 cup walnuts or pecans, chopped

1 pkg. cream cheese (8 oz.) softened

2 to 3 Tbsp cream

Combine sugar and pineapple in saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring constantly.  Cool, then stir in nuts.  Mash cream cheese with fork and add enough cream to create a good spreading consistency.  Combine cream cheese with pineapple mixture.  Spread mixture on thin bread and top with another slice.  Trim off crusts and cut into triangles or finger sandwiches.  Serve immediately.

The Post-Book-Launch Blues by Kathryn R. Wall

Kathryn Wall wrote her first story at the age of six and then decided to take a few decades off. She practiced accounting for nearly thirty years in northern Ohio before retiring in 1994 with her husband, Norman, to Hilton Head Island, SC

Kathy self-published her first Bay Tanner mystery, In For a Penny, then was picked up by a regional publisher. After the publication of And Not a Penny More, she received “The Call.” An editor, having discovered the books while visiting family in nearby Beaufort, offered her a two-book hardcover deal with St. Martin’s Press, and she has been writing for them ever since.

She is a founding member of the Island Writers’ Network on Hilton Head, has served on the board of the Southeast Chapter of MWA, is currently the national treasurer for Sisters in Crime, and is vice-president of the board of Literacy Volunteers of the Lowcountry. She has also mentored in the local schools. She has two stepsons, four grandchildren, and two “greats.”

Kathy’s other books in the Bay Tanner series include, Perdition House, Judas Island, Resurrection Road, Bishop’s Reach, Sanctuary Hill, The Mercy Oak, Covenant Hall, and Canaan’s Gate, just released on April 27.

www.kathrynwall.com

 


The Post-Book-Launch Blues
by Kathryn R. Wall

I’ve never had children of my own, so it would be presumptuous of me to compare launching a book with giving birth or sending a child off to school. Still, I have a feeling the experiences are not entirely dissimilar, at least emotionally.

Last Thursday, Canaan’s Gate, the tenth Bay Tanner mystery, had its grand unveiling. Getting my new books off the ground has become an annual event at Jump & Phil’s, a Cheers-like bar and grille here on Hilton Head Island. The owners, two guys who went to the University of Georgia together, were my friends before they were Bay Tanner fans, and it sure doesn’t hurt that I’ve set scenes in their establishment for the past nine books. In fact, “my” table sits in the back in the corner near the fireplace, and the wall behind it is surrounded with framed copies of my book covers.

Thursday night we had a great crowd. Since we’re now devoid of independent bookstores this side of Beaufort, a local gift and stationery store that stocks my mysteries handled the sales. I’d sent out postcards, and there were posters at Paper & Party Plantation, at the restaurant, and in the window of the Starbucks around the corner. There was a steady stream of folks, most having come to purchase Canaan’s Gate, but also some tourists who just happened to wander in for the best burger on the island. All in all, it was another highly successful event, and we all went home happy. I love it when something like his turns out to be a win-win-win situation.

So where do the blues come in? Where—and when—they usually do: about 3:30 in the morning when I woke up with my mind racing. Apparently some normally dormant part of my brain had been working overtime while I slept, and I woke suddenly with a feeling of sadness I couldn’t at first identify. I eased out of bed and wandered into the den. Curled up in my husband’s recliner in the dark, I tried to figure out what was bugging my subconscious enough to wake me out of a sound sleep.

And here’s what I figured out: it was over. All the planning, the long hours, days and weeks in front of the computer; the worry about getting the plot right and moving the characters along on their life journeys; the rewriting and revising, sifting through the feedback from critique partners and editors; wrestling with the copyedit and the first pass pages—all of that was over. For good or ill, my baby had been thrust out into the world, and there wasn’t a blessed thing I could do about it now. It would be read and dissected and commented upon by people who had spent their hard-earned cash for the right to laud or dismiss my efforts.

As I sat there in the dim light from the streetlamp down the way, it also occurred to me that part of what was making me sad was the realization that what I had sweat blood over for more than a year would probably be old news in a matter of days. People would read /Canaan’s Gate/ and that would be that. They’d like it—or not—and move on to other books, other interests, other ways to occupy their hours. I always hope they’ll close the back cover and be sad that it’s over, that they’ll wish that I, like some of my contemporaries, could turn them out more frequently. When people at signings and events chide me (mostly with good humor) for only producing one book a year, I always tell them it’s like Thanksgiving dinner: it takes a whole lot longer to prepare than it does to eat. Maybe not the best analogy, but it usually brings a smile, especially from women of a certain age who actually cook.

Still, I wonder sometimes if the average reader has any clue how much of a writer’s life and blood is poured into the creation of even the most fleeting work of literature; how long a journey it is from those first tentative keystrokes, eyes locked on an intimidating blank screen, to sitting at that table smiling proudly, surrounded by stacks of books. They probably don’t, and I guess there’s no good reason that they should, any more than I have a true concept of how an artist transforms a pristine canvas into a thing of breathtaking beauty. The creative process is a strange beast, and maybe it’s better not to try to dissect it too finely.

Sometime during all this rumination, I got sleepy again and eventually crawled back in beside my husband. The next morning, I woke feeling upbeat, the blues in the night a faint memory. I’m so lucky to be where I am, doing work I love, and, hopefully, bringing pleasure to readers. Can’t ask for much more than that, can you? And besides, I have next year’s book to finish.

Sissyfriss and Lou Lou are going to the beach

Sissyfriss and Lou Lou came by for a visit last night!

I had not seen Sissyfriss Sockmonkey and Lou Lou Skiptoo since February. Remember - they dropped by out of the blue - during an ice storm, no less.

They ended up hanging around, we drank some wine

Then I noticed Lou Lou and Sissy were off having what appeared to be a serious chat

Then Sissy had what can only be called a bit of a crying jag

Then they both passed out.





The next morning they had decided to quit drinking.

and we had a book give-away.  that was fun.

But then they put on their snowshoes and trundled on down the mountain back to Auntie Coo Coo's house.  We've chatted a few times since, but we hadn't seen one another.

If you'll remember, the story was that Sissyfriss and Mr. Sockmonkey were experiencing some marital discord. For awhile after that things were better, but they're on the outs again. Mr. Sockmonkey just can't seem to get his act together, and Sissyfriss, as much as she loves him, gets a little weary of his childishness and has to take a break every now and then.

And Lou Lou is always there for her.

During our visit  last night we started talking about our upcoming vacation.   Sissy and Lou Lou asked if we wanted them to stay at our house while we were gone, but we've already got that covered.  Then we decided it would be fun for them to come to the beach with us, and they agreed!  Yay!  It's going to be TOO fun!  and don't you know we will have stories to tell.

They were still up jabbering about the trip when we went to bed.  Last I heard they were talking about where they were going shopping today to buy new bathing suits.

Stay tuned . . .

Of Fairy Tales and Dragons by Suzanne Adair

Suzanne Adair writes a mystery/suspense series set during the Southern theater of the Revolutionary War. Her first book, Paper Woman, won the 2007 Patrick D. Smith Literature Award from the Florida Historical Society. In 2009, Camp Follower was a finalist for both the Daphne du Maurier Excellence in Historical Mystery/Suspense Award and the Sir Walter Raleigh Award for Fiction. Check her web site or blog for more information.

 

 

 

Of Fairy Tales and Dragons

by Suzanne Adair

When I tell someone that I'm an author, it usually generates a query about what I write. My response is that I write historical crime fiction set in the Southern theater of the American Revolutionary War. Categorizing my fiction satisfies people, stimulates additional interest among those who like reading that type of material, and earns me expressions of social acceptance.

Imagine the reactions, instead, if I told people that I write fairy tales.  They'd frown and recoil, as if I'd sprouted warts over my face, and find a polite excuse to leave my company. They'd think, Suzanne Adair's elevator isn't going to the top floor.

But I confess that I really do write fairy tales. At their cores, my novels published thus far — Paper Woman, The Blacksmith's Daughter, and Camp Follower — are each fairy tales. And I continue to write fairy tales, unabashedly.

The prolific English writer G. K. Chesterton said, "Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed."

Not all dragons possess the same strength. Some require extra effort to be slain. Thus fairy tales teach children about creativity and perseverance — good traits for them to develop in the midst of a copycat, instant-gratification culture.

Extra-powerful dragons have names like Disease and Poverty. What's interesting is that the same extra- powerful dragons that imperiled Assyrians, Celts, and Huns threaten us in the 21st century, in first-world countries. Consequently, when I write about these dragons in the 18th century, readers recognize them.

Historical fiction, like speculative fiction, removes the pressure to regard what's written as an in-your-face tale with an All-Important Lesson. What I'm actually doing is sneaking in stories about how people in the past might have dealt with dragons that have names like Psychopath, Addict, Shell-Shocked Soldier, and Child Molester.

Look for a traditional fairy tale that doesn’t terrorize children on some level.  You won't find it. In those old tales, lessons are taught well through fear. It is fear, not reward, that motivates heroes to slay dragons. When the hero stands beneath the dragon's shadow, the hero realizes that his/her existence is at stake. The dragon must be slain. Otherwise, the dragon will continue to imperil the hero's existence.

Some dragons will not be slain, no matter how a hero strives. But the hero doesn't stop striving, just because he or she cannot kill the dragon. As the Pirkei Avot says, "You are not expected to complete the work, but neither may you cease from doing your part."

What is my "part" as a writer of crime fiction? I believe mysteries and thrillers are actually fairy tales for adult readers. They appeal to people who have been denied justice in the real world or who have seen loved ones denied justice. These readers embrace crime fiction so they can see wrongs righted. They read to escape the grimness of a world in which some dragons will not be slain.

Each time I receive letters from my readers who thank me for helping them forget about a real-world dragon for a few hours, I believe I've done my part. By writing what I write, I make a difference in the lives of others — but not just by helping them escape.

You see, fairy tales aren't fluff. Every time you read one, whether it's traditional or contemporary, you're exposed to dragons that hobble the human race. You see them from different, often fresh, angles. These angles challenge you to ponder prickly issues anew, search yourself for resolutions perhaps invisible behind the defenses you've erected about your own soul.

The next time you read crime fiction, look for the dragons. Look for the angles. And ask yourself, "What is my solution to this dilemma? Might my solution benefit others?"

What dragons have you slain, and how?

Was it "really" that good? memories.

One of my literary heroes is Laura Lippman.

The first Laura Lippman book I read was totally by accident.

How many of you have discovered some of your favorite writers this way?  Not by reading about their books, or hearing about them from a fellow book loving friend, but by simply browsing through a book store and happening upon a book that leads you to discover a writer you fall in love with.  All of us have done that, right?

It just so happens that two of my favorite writers were discovered in an airport bookstore.

Laura Lippman and Linda Fairstein.

I was in the Baltimore airport waiting for a plane to fly back home.  Our new home in Boone, NC.  Brand new.  I didn't really know a lot about  Boone yet except that it was where my husband was, and had been for months.  It was where I had not been because I had stayed in Atlanta to sell the house.  Who knew it was going to take so long?  And during this time I got so homesick for the home of my heart I could hardly bear it.  Looking back now, I think I was homesick for the Eastern Shore of Maryland, where I grew up, because I was between homes and feeling untethered.  Not a good thing for a nester like me.  I need my "stuff" around me - including my husband.  We had, at this point, been married for 10 years and had never spent a night apart.  All of a sudden we were spending lots of nights apart and came to the realization that it took the two of us to equal one fairly responsible adult.  Separate we just weren't functioning all that well.

Sharing our day over the phone didn't hold a candle to sharing our day face to face.  And having an argument over the phone is the pits.   And celebrating our 11th wedding anniversary apart was harder than I can ever say.

Anyway - the house finally sold, we were finally together in that little mountain house we had dreamed of.  But I needed to get back to my roots.  I needed to cross bridges over huge expanses of water.  When I mentioned this need for water to Donald he pointed out that we had a creek, and we had a pond - a pond chuck full of rainbow trout, by golly.  True enough.  And quite lovely.  But.  Not big enough for need of a bridge, and certainly not big enough that I'd ever see sailboats out there.   I needed to smell marshy smells and eat crabs that had very recently been innocently swimming along minding their own business.   I needed to spend a little time with friends who had known me since we were kids.  People I could just be myself with; even in a state of upheaval - excited about our new life; scared to death about whether we were doing the right thing; and acting a bit manic about it all.  So home to Cambridge I scooted where Pam & R.T., and Debby & Gordon opened their arms and their hearts once again and gave me back my sense of home.  (I love these dear to my heart people, and I hope they're reading this 'cause I don't tell them so near often enough). After a too short visit, they pushed me back out of the nest and into the Baltimore Airport - whatever its name is - - Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport, I think.  It used to be named Friendship Airport.  Don't you love that?  Can you imagine having an airport with that name these days?!  

I got to cross my bridges over huge sweeps of water.  The Bay Bridge makes my heart swell and I love it.  The bridge crossing the Choptank River into Cambridge, however, makes me cry buckets.  Either way.  Going or coming.  Doesn't matter.  I am going to cry buckets.  Better that I'm not the one doing the driving.  And after boo hooing and trying really hard to make sure Pam & R.T. didn't see it happening, next thing I knew I was in the airport.

Where's the first place you head when you're in an airport?

For me, it's coffee first, then the bookstore.

And there right inside the bookstore door was a display for a local writer named Laura Lippman who was a reporter for The Baltimore Sun.  There were two books; BALTIMORE BLUES and CHARM CITY, and I grabbed them both.  

 

I love Baltimore.  Cambridge is a small town and trips into "The City" were always a treat.  Catching a Baltimore Orioles game with my Mom and Dad was always something to look forward to for weeks ahead of time and then talk about for weeks following.  We loved those Orioles.  I never got to a Colts game, but my Dad did.  He always got home later than he said he would, and he had always had a tad too much to drink, and he always brought my mom a little souvenir thinking it might make her less angry at him for being later than he said, and having had a tad too much to drink.  Bless his heart - he just never really got it.  And bless my Mom's heart for never really being as mad as he thought she was.   And for actually keeping those tacky things he brought home.  I mean - truly.  WHERE are you going to shop in the middle of the night on the road between Baltimore and Cambridge other than a truck stop, and are they known as great spots to shop?  Well, maybe it just depends on what you're shopping for.

Anyway. 

Along with these two books, I grabbed another one 'cause I just thought it sounded interesting.  FINAL JEOPARDY by Linda Fairstein.

Turns out, it was one of my lucky days.  I loved all three of those books and Ms. Lippman and Ms. Fairstein are both, 13 years later, still on my "auto-buy" list.

In addition to reading Laura Lippman's books, I also read her Memory Project.  Are y'all familiar with it?  Most of you are, I know.  But if you're not, do scoot over there.  It's wonderful.  Here's an excerpt from her webpage explaining it - "The point of the Memory Project is two-fold. First, it functions as a memory and writing exercise for me. I start with something I do remember -- the cost of a candy bar in my childhood, for example -- and see how many more memories it can summon back. 

 

But the Memory Project is also meant to be the interactive piece of this web site, a place where my frequent correspondents, or not-so-frequent correspondents, can play the same game with their own pasts."

Read the whole piece about Memory Project here.

The reason I'm bringing it up now is because the piece she most recently wrote has bounced around in my head for the past couple of weeks.  It's about pizza.  Donald and I are always searching for good pizza.  It's a constant quest.  I don't think we've ever taken a trip that we don't search out the local pizza place, usually supplemented by suggestions by as many  local people as we can work up the nerve to ask.  It's a fun thing and we have lots of memories surrounding our restaurant experiences.  We may not always remember everything about a trip, but we can always recall what we ate.  Because of all this, the piece Ms. Lippman wrote, and the comments following it, have been particularly fun for me to  read.  I think you'll also enjoy it, and I'm going to be especially interested in hearing how you react to it.

She starts with this -

"The best slice of pizza I ever had was . . ."

she then tells where and it in turn sparks a memory, which she writes about in her own inimitable style, and you can read it here.

and I ask each of you - was that special meal you remember so vividly REALLY that good, or was it that elusive "something else" that made it so.

What do you think?

My Flirtation with Fame by Larry Karp

 Here I am, as posed by a Seattle times photographer to "look mysterious."  The longcase clock behind me contains a rare music box that plays from folded cardboard 'books'.

 

Larry Karp grew up in Paterson, NJ and New York City. He practiced perinatal medicine (high-risk pregnancy care) and wrote general nonfiction books and articles for 25 years, then, in 1995, he left medical work to begin a second career, writing mystery novels. The backgrounds and settings of Larry's mysteries reflect many of his interests, including musical antiques, medical-ethical issues, and ragtime music. His most recent book, The Ragtime Fool, is the concluding work of a ragtime-based historical-mystery trilogy that covers the birth, death, and revival of ragtime music in America. Larry lives with his wife Myra in Seattle; they have two grown children, and a grandson.

Other mystery novels by Larry Karp include The Ragtime Kid and The King of Ragtime (the first and second books in the trilogy), First Do No Harm, The Midnight Special, Scamming the Birdman, and The Music Box Murders. Larry's mysteries have been finalists for the Daphne Du Maurier and Spotted Owl Awards, and have appeared on the Los Angeles Times and Seattle Times Best-Seller Lists.

Larry's nonfiction books include Genetic Engineering: Threat or Promise?, The View From The Vue, and The Enchanted Ear.

 This is where I write my books, the white outbuilding, down the hill from our house, separated from the neighbor's house by a wall.  No phone, no other people in the room, no Internet, nothing else going on, no distractions outside.  Nothing to keep me from writing. 

 And here I look less mysterious, in my office (with Internet access) in the house, where I go after I finish my day's writing, to take care of the business side of the job. 

A couple new pictures added - Wonderful Pictures!  - - - 
see Larry's comments in the comments section below

MY FLIRTATION WITH FAME

by Larry Karp

I'm Mr. Midlist. My seven mystery novels have gotten good reviews, and sold enough copies to keep me in the game. But no one would mistake Larry Karp for Michael Crichton.

Once upon a time, though, I had my feet on the road to the Big Time. Back in 1977, I wrote THE

VIEW FROM THE VUE, an account of my years as a med student, intern, and resident at New York's Bellevue Hospital. The book came out in hardcover from Jonathan David, a small New York house.

Then, one early-spring day in 1978, I got a long-distance call in my office at the University of Washington Med School. The caller identified himself as an editor at a big publisher of mass-market paperbacks. “I guess you've heard we acquired the soft-cover rights to your book from Jonathan David,” he said.

I told him no, I hadn't heard any such thing.

“Well,” he assured me, “we have.” And then he spent 45 minutes by the clock telling me that everyone at the publisher's was crazy about THE VIEW, and that it was going to be a lead issue several months hence. “Dr. Karp, I'm going to put everything behind your book,” he crowed “I'm going to make you the next Michael Crichton. I want to send out two publicity people to get the ball rolling. Next Saturday OK?”

The publicity people, a cheerful and peppy young woman and a young man to match, came as scheduled, took me to a posh waterfront restaurant, and assured me that a year from that day, my star would be eclipsing Michael Crichton's. It did not escape me that the date was April 1, 1978, but I dismissed the implication with a smile.

The campaign was supposed to go into high gear in a few months, but summer came and went with no further word from the editor, the publicity people, or anyone else. The publication date arrived, as did ten complimentary copies of my book, but that was it.

My calls to the editor went unreturned. My letters disappeared into a bottomless hole. Finally, one morning, I called the editor's office, told his secretary I was Jack Marshall, an editor at Random House, that I needed to speak with her boss, and that it was urgent. And by George, she put me through. Talking as fast as my pipes permitted, I asked the editor to please not hang up, that I was not planning to shoot him or sue him...yet. I just wanted an explanation.

I heard a huge, deep sigh. Then, he apologized for having evaded me all those months. “I was embarrassed,” he said. “Just when we were about to launch your campaign, the company decided they were only going to publish westerns, and they pulled the plug on everything else. They were legally obligated to bring out the book, so they did, but they weren't going to put any money into promoting it. Which makes no sense to me. For what it's worth, I'm going to be leaving here as soon as I can find another job.”

But that wasn't quite the end of the story. Fast-forward some twenty-five years to a Bouchercon, where I noticed that this same editor, now working at another publishing house, was going to be on a panel. Of course I attended the session, then afterward, walked up, introduced myself, and asked whether he remembered me.

If I had had a camera there, I could show you the definition of sheepish. “I was sure that book was going to make your career and mine,” the editor said. “I really did think you were going to be the next Michael Crichton, and I've never been so pissed off or embarrassed in my life. I just couldn't bring myself to call you.”

I told him not to worry, that I'd paved a few roads to Hell myself. We shook hands and wished each other good fortune.

I suppose it might've been nice to be rich and famous, but as Mr. Fats Waller used to say, “One never knows...do one?” No point complaining. I'm having a ball writing mystery novels that get good reviews, and sell enough copies to keep me in the game. And Michael Crichton's dead.

The Perfect Fake and the Real Thing by Elaine Viets

 

Elaine Viets writes two national bestselling mystery series.  Her Dead-End Job series is a satiric look at a serious subject – the minimum-wage world. Elaine and her character, Helen Hawthorne, work a different low-paying job each book, from  telemarketer to hotel maid. Publishers Weekly called her hardcover debut  “wry social commentary.” Elaine’s second series features St. Louis mystery shopper Josie Marcus in The Fashion Hound Murders.  The debut, Dying in Style, tied with Stephen King on the Independent Mystery Booksellers bestseller list.  Elaine won the Agatha, Anthony and Lefty Awards.

The Perfect Fake and the Real Thing
By Elaine Viets

 
Retail offers endless opportunities for rudeness. I should know. I’ve had jobs in shops on and off since I was 16. I’ve worked with customers – and for bosses – who inspired me to craft murderous tales where they died horribly.

But retail isn’t always nasty. Occasionally, I see incredible acts of kindness.

I did the research for “Half-Price Homicide” at Hibiscus Place Emporium, a Fort Lauderdale designer consignment shop. When I was there, the store was owned by Manny Lopez, a young man from Ecuador. Manny taught me that real Panama hats are actually made in his country, not Panama.

Manny also possessed amazing tact. Hibiscus Place sells designer purses on consignment. Many of these purses cost $500 to $3,000 new. To me, anything that costs $3,000 should have wheels and a motor, but I’m not a fashionista.

Hibiscus Place clients would bring in expensive designer purses that were barely used – sometimes still in the original boxes – for consignment sale. They got half the selling price and Manny got the other. It was a good system. Many women will not leave the house without a purse sporting a designer logo.

But designer purses are easy to fake. Manny saw a lot of those, too. He refused to sell them at his store. His customers could tell the subtle differences between the genuine article and the imitation.

One afternoon, I watched Manny with a sweet-looking older woman who wanted to sell two fake purses.

The purses were fake – even I could see that, across the shop – and there was nothing subtle about these imposters. Their dull metal trim and poorly matched print fabric were two of the more obvious giveaways.

But the fake purses had been gifts from the woman’s son, and she treasured them. She had no clue they weren’t real designer bags. She wasn’t trying to cheat anyone.

The scene with Manny and the woman was so amazing, I wished I’d taped it. Instead, I put it in my ninth Dead-End Job mystery, “Half-Price Homicide.”

In the novel, the fictional store owner is named Vera and Helen Hawthorne is working yet another dead-end job at the designer consignment store. Here’s the scene from “Half-Price Homicide.”

***

A short, sturdy woman entered the shop. She looked like the perfect grandmother. Her blue pantsuit had a tabby cat on the front. She had fluffy white hair and a sweet smile. She opened a plastic grocery bag and brought out a purse wrapped in a white towel.

Perfect Grandma carefully peeled away the towel and said reverently, “This is a genuine Louis Vuitton.”

Helen could tell it was a fake and a poor one at that. The classic brown monogram Vuitton bag had missing stitches on the leather handle tabs. The brass fittings were dull and the nylon zipper looked cheap.

“Was it a gift?” Vera asked.

“Oh, yes,” Perfect Grandma said. “My dear son Edward and his wife brought it home from their Caribbean cruise. They bought me two designer handbags.” Her face was pink with pride. “I wouldn’t sell this one except that my Social Security doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. And I have my Gucci.” She patted another obvious imitation.

“The Louis Vuitton is a beautiful purse,” Vera said. She held it up and pretended to admire it. “I wish I could buy it, but we’re overstocked right now. But thank you for bringing it here.”

“Maybe later,” Perfect Grandma said, and swaddled the purse like a newborn.

***

Manny had no retail reason to be kind to Perfect Grandma. She couldn’t even afford to buy his real designer purses at Hibiscus Place. He let her keep her pride and her illusions.

She’ll never know what Manny did for her. I hope nobody tells her the truth about sonny boy’s gifts.

“Half-Price Homicide” will be in stores May 4. To order your copy go to www.elaineviets.com.   If you’d your copy autographed, choose Mystery Lovers Bookshop from the three stores on my home page. 

 

(Starred review) Half-Price Homicide: A Dead-End Job Mystery Elaine Viets. NAL/Obsidian, $22.95 (272p) ISBN 978-0-451-22989-2

A posh Fort Lauderdale, Fla., resale shop provides the snazzy scene of the crime in Viets's superior ninth mystery starring Helen Hawthorne, the queen of dead-end jobs and magnet for murder (after 2009's Killer Cuts). Helen and Vera Salinda, the owner of Snapdragon's Second Thoughts, are shocked when Chrissy Martlet, a wealthy developer's sexy trophy wife, is found fatally bonked on the head with a Limoges pineapple, then hung with a Gucci scarf after trying to sell Vera some of her designer goods. Identifying Chrissy's killer as well as the culprit who bashes in the head of a model friend with a beer bottle tests Helen's sleuthing abilities to the limit. A teasing plot twist serves up a reminder that even if her greedy ex-husband, Rob, might finally stop pestering her and better jobs appear, there are still mountains to climb before Helen can rest easy with Phil, her PI honey. Viets doesn't waste a word in this tight, fast-paced installment as she deftly balances comedy and tragedy.(May)
 

Agatha Award Winners

Malice Domestic has presented their annual Agatha Awards for excellence in mystery writing.

The winners are:

Best Children's/Young Adult Novel

The Hanging Hill, by Chris Grabenstein


Best Nonfiction

Dame Agatha's Shorts, by Elena Santangelo


Best Short Story

"On the House," by Hank Phillippi Ryan


Best First Novel  

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, by Alan Bradley

Best Novel  

The Brutal Telling, by Louise Penny

Congratulations to the all the winners and all the nominees!