Momentary Lapses

A Miscellany of Murder

2011-10-28T11:52:00.000-07:00

Why is Adelaide, Australia, known as "The City of Corpses"? How many actors played Sam Spade? What were Dirty Harry's greatest lines? Do blondes have more fun - and fewer convictions? How do you bury a body?

There's nothing like a little murder to challenge the dark side of your brain. This dastardly little volume is organized by the seven deadly sins, giving you all the gumshoes, guns, and gore you need to explore the sinister side of human nature. From amateur sleuths to serial killers, this murderous miscellany of crime--both real and imagined--is just the thing for a dark and stormy night.

It's on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Spencer Gifts, and other discriminating places to buy books. OK, that's the end of the Blatant Self-Promotion.

Meet the Monday Murder Club, our Boston-area mystery writers group that "executed" the Miscellany. That's me at lower right and then, clockwise, Paula Munier, Jim Shannon, Andy McAleer and Stephen D. Rogers.

"Double Take" in Thin Ice anthology

2010-11-22T13:13:00.000-08:00

Thin Ice
Who is stealing from guests at the cheap Alpine-theme resort where Bev and Dillon are hiding out from the law? And who's going to take the blame so this lusty and larcenous couple can go free?

Two years ago Bev and Dillon—a match made in court-ordered therapy group—attempted the robbery of a church Bingo in “Double Dare,” published in the Deadfall anthology of crime stories by New England Writers. Now you can follow their further adventures in “Double Take,” published in the 2010 Level Best Books anthology, Thin Ice. Order your copy for $15 plus shipping at http://www.levelbestbooks.com/.

Enjoy this opening excerpt:

DOUBLE TAKE

We were about five seconds away from being arrested and all I could think about was how sexy Dillon looked in lederhosen. Not many men, not Americans anyway, could carry off those leather shorts with the embroidered suspenders and fancy strap across the chest, not to mention the knee socks, but my guy was one of them.

I was pretty stunning myself in a black-and-red dirndl cut low at the bodice and high at the hem with a bit of lace peeping out at each end. Together, me and Dillon had upped the sex appeal of the Green Mountain Tyrolean Inn about 6000 percent. We’d been here a month and made double in tips what we were getting, under the table, from Dillon’s mother’s second cousin Fred.

Friedrich, as he called himself at the resort, couldn’t even wade in the same gene pool as Dillon. He might have had a decent face about a hundred pounds ago, but right now he looked like the Man in the Moon choking on a hunk of bratwurst.

“Ingrates!” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Thieves!”

Well, duh….

"Still Lives" in Shore Voices 2010 Anthology

2010-11-22T12:26:00.000-08:00

"Still Lives," originally written as a 1,000-word entry in the 2008 NYC Midnight competition, is now published in an expanded and revised version in Shore Voices 2010, an anthology of works by members of The South Shore Writers Club. I've removed the original from this site. Shore Voices 2010 also includes a poem, "Retro-Lexicon," and a short humor piece I wrote several years ago for The Gator Springs Gazette, an online literary journal. To get a copy of the anthology for $5, send me an e-mail with your contact information. Please enjoy these opening excerpts from "Still Lives" and "The Exhaustive Chronicles of An Historically Unimportant Family."

STILL LIVES

Corey swayed to the soft music of the pipes, her bare feet padding through the cool grass, her tunic floating in the breeze off the Aegean. She danced about the young man reclining on a richly-draped pallet in the shade of the olive tree. Laurel leaves crowned his head, and a maiden knelt at his feet, playing the lyre. Another maiden proffered a golden dish brimming with grapes. Corey danced nearer, drawn by the intensity in the young man’s dark eyes, yearning for the feel of his arms, the touch of his kiss. She danced with increasing desperation, but could not close the distance between them. They remained frozen in their ancient tableau….

“Put down the jug, baby, and show me yours!” yelled the chinless wonder in the front row. “You can be my slave girl anytime!”

Instantly Corey was back onstage at Barely There, in a short peek-a-boo tunic, shackles and stiletto heels, balancing the urn on her head....

THE EXHAUSTIVE CHRONICLES OF AN

HISTORICALLY UNIMPORTANT FAMILY

…Yes, it is true that my ancestor, Guillermo Vicente Pasquale Domingo Marrón (nicknamed, as I am, “Mo”) sailed with Columbus on his historic voyage to India in 1492. It is also true that Mo died in 1498 without ever realizing that the golden land in which he sported with half-a-dozen plump, sloe-eyed beauties and contracted the mysterious pox that was to cost him his nose, his sanity, and his life was not, in fact, India or anywhere close to it. Having done his part in the decimation of one-third of Europe in the coming century and, by way of even exchange with the sloe-eyed beauties, an even larger percentage of the Caribbean population, Mo departed on his eternal voyage, attended by his noseless señora, seven dowerless daughters and the precious son born miraculously hale and hearty six months, two weeks and five days after Mo’s long-despaired-of return, to whom he issued this last injunction: “One word, son: Tobacco.”

Unfortunately for the family fortunes...

Taps

2008-10-20T21:19:00.000-07:00

This is my final, Round Three story for the NYCMidnight competition. For this assignment, the genre was Romance, the location was A Laundromat and the object was A Hammer. Limit: 1,000 words.

Summary: Mitch doesn’t mind taking the time to do things right, whenever Gail is ready to let go.

You can tell how a woman feels about a man by the way she folds his shirts.

Mostly it’s a comfortable routine: shoulder to shoulder, flip the sleeves, fold it over, done. Sometimes she shakes it like the bastard’s still in it or tosses it on the laundry pile like she doesn’t give a damn. Or she folds it inside-out or with the design in so he can’t tell which shirt is which.

I was working in the laundry room of the Kingsfield apartments when a woman stumbled in with an overflowing basket.

“Let me get that for you.” I jumped up and we commenced a little tug-of-war till I guess she decided I was just a regular guy with old-fashioned manners. I set the basket on one of the folding tables between the banks of washers and dryers. “Right here okay?”

“Yes, thanks.” She was attractive rather than pretty, old enough to be interesting, with thick-lashed gray eyes and a shy smile. She gestured at my toolbox and the baseboard and molding I’d already removed. “Is it all right to do laundry now?”

“Fine, as long as you don’t mind the noise.”

“Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“I’m stripping the paneling. You can see it’s pretty banged up.” I pointed out scuff marks and scratches on the pine laminate covering the lower walls. “Then I’ll sand and patch, prime the walls and paint ’em—brighten up the place.”

“Sounds like a big job.” She had a voice like rich coffee, a little creamy, not too sweet.

“Well, the paneling’s stuck on with adhesive as well as nails, so it takes some time.” I picked up my chisel and hammer and began freeing the first panel from the sheetrock underneath. “It’s tempting to rush a job like this—to take big whacks that splinter the panel, and then pry it off in pieces.”

I repositioned the chisel and tapped it with the hammer. “It’s better to go slow, start at the top and work your way underneath till the panel’s ready to give. Less damage to the wall that way, too.”

“I liked the paneling—but I suppose it’s just what I’m used to.” She shrugged. “Thanks again for your help.”

“You’re welcome. If you need anything, my name is Mitch.”

“I’m Gail,” she said, and turned away. I watched as she lifted lids on three washers before finding an empty one. Then she pulled a man’s flannel shirt from the basket and began loading clothes in careful layers.

We worked to the sounds of my hammer, the rattle and clink of quarters in the coin slot, and the splashing, churning and spinning of the washing machines. Gail left the laundry room to return twice more with full baskets. She was moving her last load to a dryer when I broke for a snack.

“Would you like a soda?” I rummaged through my cooler. “I’ve got cheese sticks, too, and red grapes. No seeds.”

“Just a soda, thanks.”

“Chateau root beer or orange zinfandel?”

Her smile bloomed. “Orange, please.”

I leaned against the dryer next to hers. It was running with a pleasant hum and clickety-click as buttons and zippers tumbled against the drum. The heat felt good.

Gail fed wet clothes into her machine. I spotted jeans and tee-shirts too big to be hers, some dress shirts and a jacket with the Celtics logo. I checked her hands. No ring.

“Have you lived in the building long?” I peeled a cheese stick.

“Almost four years. Do you live here, too?”

“I’ve got a little house nearby. I’ll be working here a lot, though. The new management’s sprucing up the place.”

“About time.” Gail started the dryer and leaned against it, keeping some distance between us. “The old landlord never fixed one thing on the list we made when we moved in.”

“We?”

She drained the rest of her soda and twisted the cap back on the bottle. “Me and my husband. Terry.”

I thought she was going to say more, but the signal buzzed on one of her dryers. She lugged over a laundry basket and piled the dry load in it.

“I’ve got it.” I hoisted the basket onto the nearest folding table.

Gail tumbled all the clothes out of the basket and pulled a shirt from the pile. A man’s flannel, green and blue plaid. She straightened the collar and pressed it flat. She folded the shirt in half lengthwise, shoulders touching. She matched up the sleeves from shoulders to cuffs and folded them forward on a diagonal across the body of the shirt. She flipped up the tail ends and smoothed them flat. She made one more fold to create a neat, square package. She laid the shirt in the bottom of the basket as if she were laying an infant down to rest. She reached for another shirt.

“I better get back to work.” I stuffed the bottles in my cooler. “It’s been nice talking to you, Gail.”

She placed another shirt, folded neat and square, in the basket. She folded three tee-shirts and added them to the pile.

“Terry died two years ago.” she said, her hand resting on the stack of shirts. “Car crash.”

I stepped toward her. Stopped. “Aw, Gail. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” She folded a crease down the legs of a pair of jeans. “I’m donating his clothes to the Pine Street Inn shelter.”

Two years later, I thought. I said, “That’s great.”

The signal buzzed on another dryer. She filled her basket. I carried it to the table.

“Someone should wear these,” she said. “Somebody who doesn’t have …good clothes.”

“Can I help?” I touched the basket. “You know, carry some of the load?”

“Thanks.” She flashed her shy smile. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

I crouched down by the next section of panel. It’s tempting to rush the job, but I set the chisel, aimed the hammer. Tap. Tap. Tap.
# # #

Routine Procedure

2008-09-29T00:56:00.000-07:00

This is my Round Two story for the NYCMidnight competition. For this assignment, the genre was Historical Fiction, the location was A Dentist's Office and the object was A Leather Jacket. Limit: 1,000 words.

Summary: Mulroney's job is to keep a Cold War spy from spilling secrets under anesthesia. But what Witte reveals is even more chilling.

“The cyanide capsules?” Witte tapped a forefinger against his jaw. “Last one I had was right here. Top rear molar. I chewed on the other side of my mouth for a year-and-a-half.”

Mulroney’s tongue swirled against his own molars. He still had the full set, with three Army-issue fillings courtesy of a bored dentist in Panmunjong, just before the armistice in ’53.

“You know the first thing I ate when I got that sucker out?”

“Sir?” Mulroney cocked an eyebrow.

“Peanuts, out at Griffith Stadium. The rookie, Killibrew, hit a homer, but what I remember most is the crunch of those roasted ballpark peanuts.” Witte laughed. “That’s how I cracked the damn tooth. But if you asked me then, is it worth it? I’d say, ‘Hell, yes, and toss me another bag of peanuts!’”

Witte slapped his fingers against the arms of the dental chair. With the linen towel clipped to the chain around his neck, he looked like a middle-aged tyke about to be force-fed his Malt-o-Meal. “Get that dentist, Mulroney. I’ve decoded microfilm in less time than he’s taking with those X-Rays.”

“You know I can’t leave you, sir.” The man was nervous, Mulroney realized. Witte was a legend who’d spent ten years spying on the Nazis and behind the Iron Curtain. The Reds thought he was their double-agent in D.C. But the guy was anxious over a routine dental procedure.

“National security? Screw that!” Witte snorted. “I won’t be out of it. No laughing gas, no ether. Just a local painkiller.”

“If things go as planned, sir, that’s true.”

“This is bullshit. I’ve got no secrets left to spill.”

“It’s procedure, sir.”

Witte resumed the hand-slapping, a complicated rhythm that reminded Mulroney of a heavy bombardment or an old western cavalry charge.

Swift footsteps approached the doorway. Mulroney thrust his hand through the slit of his leather bomber jacket and grasped the butt of his automatic. He’d cut the pocket away when he jumped from the service to the civilian-run CIA. He drew back just enough to feel the slide of metal against polished leather.

The dental assistant, a large-boned woman in starched white uniform and cap, carried in a covered tray as if she were serving hors d’oeuvres at the Officer’s Club. Mulroney nestled the weapon back into the holster and dropped his hand to his side.

“Dr. Malcolm will be with you shortly,” she told Witte with a crease of the lips that served as a smile. She set the tray on a metal table and wheeled it next to Witte’s chair. Water swirled in the porcelain spit bowl on the other side, and the rest of the room was dominated by a squat column sprouting dental appliances like so many misshapen branches. The assistant side-stepped Mulroney and left the room.

Witte lifted the towel off the tray of instruments. He selected what looked like a small pliers and worked the jaws open and closed. “You ever have a tooth pulled?”

“Once, sir, yes.”

“Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?"

“It was half out anyway.” Mulroney allowed himself a slight smile. “Took a real bastard of a punch to loosen it up, though.”

Witte seemed not to have heard. “The Nazis pulled the teeth from the corpses. In the camps. They wanted the gold fillings, of course. One of my guards in Lefortovo was with the Soviet army at Auschwitz. He carried dice made from Jewish molars.”

Mulroney twirled his tongue over his back teeth. They were all still there.

Witte picked up another instrument, bent at the end with a thin point. “This one is for picking and scraping at the teeth. On a healthy tooth is one thing, but you dig this point into a soft spot…”

Mulroney cringed, remembering the probing and drilling by the Army dentist in Korea.

Witte tossed the instruments back on the tray. He started the rhythmic slapping again.

“Mulroney?”

“Sir?”

“I could take the beatings.”

Mulroney said nothing.

“I could take the stinking prison and the bad food and no sleep. I took the darkness.” Witte’s fingers curved into his palms, hard enough to leave nail marks. “More than a year without light, without another human voice. Alone. I took it.”

“I know, sir.”

“But you’re thinking, why couldn’t I take the rest? You could take it, right? You’re tough.” Witte shook his head. “You’ve got no imagination.”

Mulroney’s jacket seemed too tight, his body too warm in the cramped room full of picks and probes and drills. The chair looked like it ought to have restraints, binding Witte in place. Mulroney pulled down on his jacket, felt the weight of the pistol on his hip.

“You took their money, sir.” Not much, Mulroney knew. Not enough to blow the story of rescue and escape back to the West. Not enough for a big house and fancy car, a glamorous woman or expensive vices. Just enough for the occasional ballgame and a bag of roasted peanuts.

“Don’t kid yourself.” Witte stared at the dental lamps, hanging over him like two dead eyes. “It was never the money.”

Mulroney squared his shoulders. “It’s not what you took, sir. It’s what you gave them.”

“The names.”

“Six lives.”

Witte drummed on the armrests. “I lied about the cyanide capsule. It makes a good story, but back then? I never had such a thing, no way to end it, anytime.”

He flashed Mulroney a sad, secret smile. “This is not a filling, Mulroney.”

“Sir?”

Witte laughed, and Mulroney glimpsed the spymaster still operating inside the disgraced and humbled shell. “A little drilling to hollow out the tooth, then they pop in the capsule and a rubber plug. I hear it’s quick. Ten grains, two minutes.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” And Mulroney was damned if he’d let any government dentist near his molars again.

“That was my price.” Witte drummed on the armrests. “I’ll play this double game for them, but if I’m compromised again?”

Witte clenched his teeth.

# # #

Portia's View

2008-08-15T22:45:00.000-07:00

This story was originally written as my first assignment in the NYCMidnight Writers short-short competition. My group had to write a 1,000-word max story in two days with a designated Genre (open), Primary Location (rooftop of a skyscraper) and Object to include in the story (video camera).

I decided to take advantage of the Open Genre to try something more artsy-craftsy than my usual style. I spent much too much time on the opening (and had to cut most of it), then had to rush the ending. The result was a total head-scratcher.

I liked enough about the story to work at it, though. This is the revised version. Enjoy.

PORTIA'S VIEW

Summary: When a celebrity platypus comes to call, Craig and Miriam find the best view from the tallest building in New England is from the outside looking in.

Craig leaned on the parapet of the John Hancock Tower, arms wrapped around Portia, his wind-chapped features creased in an idiotic smile. Miriam panned left, filling the frame over his shoulder with a clutch of sailboats bobbing and weaving on the Charles.

“Did you get it?” Craig shouted over the roar of the rooftop ventilation units.

“I didn’t get much of Portia,” she screamed. “You’re too close.”

He stepped back half-a-step and Miriam zoomed in on the stuffed platypus—taxidermically-stuffed, not some plush cuddle toy—framed against the view across the river to Cambridge. Portia’s broad front feet, webbed between the curved claws, rested on the parapet. Her duck-billed snout pointed to the Great Dome of MIT.

“Got it!” Miriam slipped the camera into the pocket of her shoulder bag. “Now let’s get out of this blasted wind!”

Craig gathered up the platypus, belly-to-belly, one hand cradling the skull, the other cupped just above the tail. He followed Miriam across the roof to the relative shelter of the elevator shaft. She dropped down, knees raised, back to the wall. He eased down next to her. Portia’s glass eyes, spaced wide on either side of a duck-billed pout, glared at Miriam as if blaming her for the indignities of the past three days.

Portia the Exploring Platypus was a celebrity, a world-traveler with a website chronicling her jaunts around the globe by llama, pedicab and catamaran, jetpack, polar icebreaker and Humvee. The latest video showed Portia snowboarding in the Alps. (There was no record of her subsequent flight from Zurich to Boston, tucked under a seat in Craig’s carry-on tote, nesting on a pile of dirty shirts and boxers.)

“How much time do we have?” Craig draped the platypus across his lap, a position Miriam had yet to occupy after two week’s separation. “When does Frank have to lock up?”

Miriam’s cousin ran the Hancock’s maintenance crew, one of the few people with access to the highest rooftop in New England. They’d been up here before, and it had been her idea to pose Portia against the view in each direction.

“We’ve got till four, more than an hour. We got all the good stuff.”

“Let’s see.” Craig shifted closer to Miriam, his chin tucked against her collarbone as she flipped open the screen on the videocam.

She ran the tape from the beginning, a shot of them sitting on the floor of their cramped Brookline apartment, Craig waggling Portia’s front feet at the camera.

“Hello, this is Craig and Miriam from Boston,” he said. “And this is our famous friend, Portia the Exploring Platypus. She’s visiting us after a lovely holiday in the Swiss Alps with our friend Gerhard. Come with us as we go exploring with Portia.”

The shot cut to Craig holding Portia, the Hancock Tower looming in the background. “That’s our first stop,” he said. “We’re going 800 feet up to the top of the biggest freakin’ mirror in New England.”

Miriam paused the video. “You’ve definitely got a future in TV—sales.”

“Everyone’s a critic. Keep going.”

“Okay, here’s the first side, the northeast. There’s the State House in the distance...”

“Bo-ring. Nice and shiny, though, huh, Portia?”

“See, a little closer in, the Public Gardens? See through the trees?” Miriam pointed with her little fingernail. “That’s a swan boat.”

“I bet she’d love that.”

“Here’s the southeast...”

“The way to escape—planes, ships, trains and automobiles.” Craig wiggled his butt. “There’s a beach on Cape Cod, Portia, calling our names.”

“Speaking of escape…”

“Whoo-hoo! Fenway Park.” Craig boosted the platypus to the level of the video screen. “Hey, Portia, want to take in a game while you’re in town? Or look! Sailboats! That’s cool.”

Miriam froze the screen and lifted the camera closer to Craig. “You look goofy. Cuddling a platypus.”

“I’m not cuddling her, it.” He eased the platypus off his lap and took the camera from Miriam. He studied the image of himself, arms around Portia, gazing across the river. “You’re right. I look goofy.” He flipped the power switch and the screen went black.

“We’d better go.” Miriam rocked to her feet and for the first time sensed the tower swaying under her. She stared at her shoes till the rooftop stopped moving.

Craig stepped out from the shelter of the elevator shaft. His eyes swept the roofscape lined with mechanical hulks, bristling with coils and antennae, and crowned with a satellite dish. “It just hit me,” he said. “This is the view nobody ever sees. I’ll take the camera this time.”

Miriam held the platypus out stiff-armed against the backdrop of generators, ventilators and whatfors, the life system of the sleek façade. Then she turned sideways, cuddling Portia belly-to-belly, one hand cradling the back of her skull, the other cupped just above her tail.

“Craig!” she called. “You didn’t look goofy. You looked happy.”

“Yeah?” Craig crouched behind a capped pipe large enough to hold the camera. “Sit down against that square gray thing!” He crossed to her side. “I’ll take Portia.”

Miriam’s smile stiffened. She dangled the platypus by one paw. “If you want.”

“Don’t move.” Craig jogged back to the camera and propped Portia up on her hind feet against the pipe. The Record light flashed on.

This time, when Craig dropped down by her side, he pulled Miriam onto his lap. “I think I can cut back on my travel,” he said, smiling and waving at the camera. “The new guy’s ready.”

“That’s great.” Miriam waved at Portia. “I think I’m ready, too.”

* *

There’s a new portrait on the website of Portia the Exploring Platypus. She’s hunkered down by a rooftop elevator shaft, in a pile of clothing, nesting.

# # #

Got Blood?

2008-03-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

Jan Brogan at http://www.jungleredwriters.com/ was kind enough to describe this blog as both humorous and profound. Certainly, there is a long literary tradition of the two going hand-in-hand, from the Satires of Juvenal (nope, can't quote any) to Jane Austen, Mark Twain and Erma Bombeck. I can't always live up to Jan's billing, but this piece is one I delivered last month at the Red Cross Apheresis Blood Donors dinner. I hope you enjoy it and--for mystery writers, in particular--consider giving back some of the blood you spill on your pages.

The Wall
By Maureen Walsh

Another day at the spa in my big comfy seat,
No laundry to fold as I watch the TV,
No telephone calls interrupting my reading,
No kids calling “Mom!” No dog needing feeding.
Warm blankets, cold beverages, baskets of food—
All for the price of some donated blood.
Now I’m done for the day, getting set to depart;
The donor specialist makes a note in my chart.
“Shall we schedule your next donation?” she says,
And all the reasons “Not To” run through my head:

My schedule’s uncertain, I can’t pick a date.
Between work and my family, there’s a lot on my plate.
I’ve got meetings and projects and deadlines upcoming,
And a guy dropping by to check out the plumbing.
The house needs a cleaning from attic to basement,
My sluggish computer’s in need of “defragment.”
My kid’s birthday’s next week, so I’ve shopping to do,
And I still haven’t gotten my shot for the flu.
My car’s making a noise that’s got to be checked,
And there’s an elderly neighbor I mustn’t neglect.
I should call when my calendar’s not quite so full...

But before I can say it, I notice—The Wall:

The pictures of people, every age, shape and size,
Their smiles bright with courage and hope in their eyes.
I read all their names, I read every story,
And two words that seem to be written just for me:
“Thank you” and “Thank you” and “Thank you” again,
Like each one has reached out and shaken my hand
And said “Thank you for donating platelets today,
So I could go shopping, so my daughter could play,
So my husband could walk with me down to the beach,
So the small pleasures of living are still within reach.”

“Thank you for energy, stamina, strength,
For a life that is richer, no matter the length,
Because of the gift you have given us here,
Because you didn’t wait till your schedule was clear.
Thank you for making the time to keep coming,
Despite birthdays and deadlines and clogs in the plumbing.
We know your time’s precious, and we treasure each hour
Of living you give us by sharing the power
Of plasma and platelets and red cells and more,
Of the elixir of life we can’t get from a store.
We can’t grow it or mix up a chemical brew,
So thank you for sharing the gift that is You.”

With their faces and voices filling my head,
I smiled at my friend with the chart and I said,
“I want to make 20 donations before the year ends,
And what’s more, I’ll work on bringing my friends.
I’ll reschedule today, so you don’t have to call.
I can always make time for my friends on The Wall.”

THE DECOMPOSING ROOM PRESS

2008-01-22T11:04:00.000-08:00

Publisher Launches Five New Detective Series
By Mo Walsh, Corpserespondent

Minimally competent hacks are wanted to write for our new niche detective titles on a work-for-hire basis. We provide clever character names, contradictory plot points and impossible deadlines. You do the rest.

1. The Amateur Detective
Harmon Beasley is a Garbage Man and proud of it. The castoffs and leftovers he collects are windows to the lives of the people on his route. Each story will focus on a provocative piece of rubbish that sends Harmon on a search for answers, aided by his lover, Constance Cabot-Whyte, PhD, an entomologist, and her teen-age triplets: Roach, Aphid and Mary. In the debut novel, The Aquamarine Ashbin at #1A, Harmon discovers thirteen discarded left shoes. The series continues with The Beige Barrel at #2B and The Crimson Carton at #3C.

2. The Specialist/Multi-Cultural Detective
Rostam “The Rug Man” Rudagi is the world’s foremost expert on carpet fibers. As a young boy, he escaped from his native Iran by hiding inside a shipment of cheap, mass-produced carpets being smuggled out to Arab bazaars for sale to gullible American tourists. Obsessed with carpets ever since, Rostam has earned several obscure advanced degrees in textile engineering and works six stories underground in a secret FBI laboratory. There he analyzes carpet fibers associated with crimes and can determine not only the fiber content and color, but also manufacturer and dye lot; degree and content of soiling; cleaning products used and whether they were purchased on sale; how many days since last vacuuming and type of machine used; area rug or wall-to-wall; species, breed and diet of pet that made stains; and weight of the person who last walked on it. In his first case, Persian Carpets Actually Come from Turkey, he helps foil the perfect murder by matching the victim’s bathroom mat to fibers coughed up in hair balls by the suspect’s cat.

3. The Historical/Literary Figure Detective
Beloved children’s author, Beatrix Potter, solves a series of grizzly crimes and transforms them into charming allegories starring cuddly anthropomorphic ducks, chicks, bunnies and frogs. The True Tale of the Floppsy Bunnies and Mrs. Tittlemouse, for example, recounts the kidnapping of Benjamin Bunny’s six daughters by a white slavery ring. The True Tale of Samuel Whiskers or The Roly-Poly Pudding covers in succulent detail the career of Jeffrey Daumer’s great-grandfather. Other titles and topics: The True Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck (dominatrix accidentally drowns a client); My Little Book About the Real Squirrel Nutkin (sordid life of rent boys); The True Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit (a powerful new hallucinogen hits the mean streets); and, of course, The Shocking True Tale of Peter Rabbit (super-pimp Mr. McGregor defends his patch when Peter comes looking for a “Ho”).

4. Hard-Boiled Female P.I.
Antimony Fargo, named androgynously for a mineral and a western city, is as cool and tough under pressure as such male counterparts as Tulsa Schist (same naming device) and as hot and tender under Tulsa’s male parts as … well, nevermind. She only dresses up when she wants to pass as a hooker and can’t cook anything that doesn’t come in its own microwaveable container. But she’s extremely smart, really. In her first case, Which Nut Do You Want Me to Shoot Off First?, she goes undercover at Monica’s Mystique as a sensitivity-training counselor for lingerie executives accused of sexual harassment.

5. Innovative Entry in the Mystery Field
The Virtual Detective is a software program that solves the most complicated crimes in a nanosecond once its programmers have converted all pertinent case documents to Boolean logic statements. Then it returns to its on-going affair with the central database of the DMV. The first novel, Killed But Not Dead, is scheduled for publication in 2012, once the MIT supercomputer completes the conversion process.

Contact Liv Rand-Unynz, Editor, “The Decomposing Room Press,” for additional writer's guidelines. If you can’t find our address, you don’t have what it takes to write a mystery.

(Photo of Cadaver Tomb in the Church of St Mary, Hemingbrough, North Yorkshire, U.K.)

Tagged! I'm It!

2008-01-04T14:38:00.000-08:00

I've been tagged by Cathy Cairns, http://catherinecairns.com/blog, one of my Sisters in Crime, to play a fun game of getting-to-know-you.

Here are the tagged rules:
1) Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
2) Share 7 facts about yourself.
3) Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4) Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So here we go:

1. I have a hard time letting go of my mistakes. I still replay gaffes from my school days or jobs I held 25 years ago. It’s the social, character-related goofs that stick. If I ever offend you, I’ll apologize, send you flowers, bake you a cake and leave you money in my will.

2. In fourth grade, I played the title role in two acts of a five-act play, in French, of “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” I wore my brother’s long underwear, black patent leather shoes, a crown and (for Act 3 but not Act 4) a cape. My senior year at an all-girl high school, I got my role as Horrible Henry in the class musical, “Carnival,” because I could sing like a walrus. I’ve always loved to sing, but have a chorus voice that needs support. I sing Loud Soprano in my church choir.

3. I have read almost all of Georgette Heyer’s books, mysteries as well as Regency and Georgian romances, and have copies of most of them. Check out “Envious Casca,” and “Death in the Stocks.”

4. Squeaky shoes or chalk on a blackboard doesn’t bother me much, but the sound of chewing drives me crazy. I have to eat at the same time to mask the noise or go in another room. I have three teenage boys who probably wonder why I leave the breakfast table so soon after they start on their Cheerios or peanut butter toast.

5. I’m no good at anything that requires speed or agility, but I’m a very good swimmer, I enjoy strength training and pilates, and I once won a 5th place trophy in the Women’s 18-24 division in a half-marathon.

6. I sewed most of my kids’ Halloween costumes, including Worf from “Star Trek: The Next Generation,” Daniel Boone, the White Power Ranger, Woody the Cowboy, the Pharaoh, and Neo from “The Matrix.” They’re all packed in bins for the next generation. Doesn’t matter if the seams are straight.

7. My family has a dominant “know-it-all” gene. We always raised our hands in class and could never succeed at Jeopardy! because we can’t resist guessing. Conversation at a family gathering sounds like a scene from Kafka. I’ve never read Kafka, but I know that’s what it sounds like.

I'm working on my "taggees." It's a "you go first" kind of thing. Stay posted.

1st Tag, Good Sport Felicia Donovan at http://feliciadonovan.blogspot.com

A Thrill of Hope

2007-12-18T21:00:00.000-08:00

Our snug little house glowed with light and color, but there was no holiday cheer in our hearts in December, 1985.

The Christmas tree spread its festive branches in the corner where a crib had stood two months earlier. The garlands and candles adorned surfaces once cluttered with diapers and baby toys and medical supplies. And the silk poinsettias and mistletoe brimmed in baskets left over from the sympathy bouquets for our precious Ellen Marie.

We were weary, drained by our little girl's death as we had not been by the challenging fifteen months of her life. No more intensive care, no more surgery, no more night nurses, oxygen tanks, and sudden returns to the hospital.

No bright-eyed little girl with the silent, joyous laugh snuggled trustingly in our empty arms.

We plunged into the bustle of the holidays, tramping the shopping malls, grateful for the busy-ness of the season that made it easier, for a time, to fill the empty hours and spaces. But Christmas day itself loomed bleak and joyless for our small family circle. There would be no children, just a star on the tree from Baby's First Christmas, her last.

But just as the coming of Jesus transformed the world, another child came to us on Christmas Eve, bringing comfort and hope and joy.

The first hint of his presence was a faint blue tint on a strip of plastic that should have stayed white. The doctor at the hospital wrote down dates and shook his head, but ordered the blood test out of pity for us on Christmas Eve. And late that afternoon, the good news came from a calm voice on the telephone, without trumpet blasts or angel choirs--but we heard them just the same.

That night our snug little house glowed inside and out. And the next day, there were smiles and tears of joy mingled with the sadness. The talk around our Christmas dinner table was of the future as well as the past and the might-have-been.

In our rejoicing over our own Christmas Child, we knew the wonder and beauty of the coming of the infant Jesus. For what speaks so much of hope and promise and boundless possibilities as a baby, a new life that changes the lives of others simply by being?

"A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices!" The great gift of Christmas came to our sorrowing family in the unseen presence of a little child. On that day and through the dreary winter months, his life renewed ours.

It was to be his great gift to us.

In the spring we learned that our Christmas Child would not live long after birth. Brian David was born on the evening of September 6, 1986, and died forty minutes later. We held him close and spoke to him softly, words of comfort and love and gratitude.

It has been more than twenty years since that Christmas of deep despair and redeeming hope. Kevin and I have been blessed with Dennis, Tim and Greg--three boisterous, beautiful sons who enrich our lives immeasurably. Our house is decked with lights and decorations and alive with young voices.

Christmas is indeed a time of joy, but it is also the season of hope, of God's love coming to us in human form.

Halloween Treat:"Interview with a Peevish Vampire"

2007-10-27T12:10:00.000-07:00

By Mo Walsh

Well, that does it! I’ve been brushed off by Anne Rice AGAIN in favor of some slick interview with the latest Vamp with a Gimmick. You know the sort of thing: biker vamps, Miss Transylvania, the secret Kennedy vampire, CIA vampire recruits. What chance does an ordinary guy like me, who just happens to be a vampire, have against the militant Vamp Pride types? I think I’ll call myself the Undead Chef or maybe Herb, the Hemoglobin Gourmet.

You know, I’d still have my cable cooking show in Columbus if I hadn’t been outed by some Fanged Crusader. So what if I don’t actually eat what I cook anymore? I’m not ashamed. It’s just one of those things about me my mother doesn’t need to know. But try telling that to Bon Appetit! They wouldn’t even consider an article on La cuisines des morts . Even The Buckeye Barbecuer turned me down.

Don’t go! I didn’t mean to impugn you or your fine publication… What was it again? Succulent! Right. Very, uh, hmm… I’m not looking at your neck. Really, I just want to do the interview. Help yourself to the hors d’oeuvres. Where were we? La cuisine des morts! My inspiration, and I don’t care what anybody says. Obvious, hah! Not one of those precious Europeans or that Creole crowd that hangs around LeStat thought of it. But I’m just a cable cook from Columbus. I wouldn’t know a gourmet from a gourmand from Gordo the talking pig…

La cuisine, right. The idea came to me soon after I became a vampire– How? I don’t think that’s relevant. The idea– Really, it’s not very interesting. La cuisine– Oh, all right! I got asked out on a date, okay? She was an assistant something or other on the night crew at the cable station. She said she could get me a better time slot and did I want to talk about it over dinner at my place. And she had this look in her eye… I thought it was Lust. Easy mistake, since I’d never seen that particular emotion directed at me before. Later I recognized it as the same look my poodle gives a bowl of horsemeat–she doesn’t find it particularly attractive, but she can’t wait to get her chops on it.

Why me? Well, that night’s show was “Cooking Herbal with Herb” and Dawn–scary name for a vampire, huh?– has a thing for herbs. Not Herbs, herbs. Plain blood is so bland, actually metallic, and I was expounding on the virtues of chervil, fennel, tarragon and shallots to jazz up any dish. So naturally, Dawn wondered if the flavors would…flow through. Unfortunately, she overdosed on the flavor of my Scarborough Faire flan. Drained me to the last drop, and I was undead before you could say “garnish and serve.”

And that leads directly into my idea for La cuisine des morts. More hors d’oeuvres? You’ve heard the expression, “You are what you eat”? From a vampire’s point of view, that is literally true. Vamps who used to like fast food hang around burger joints. Yuppie vamps love the Thai food crowd. And did you ever wonder what happens to vegetarians who turn vampire? We have our own category, “Hemo-Ovo-Lacto.” But the blood has to come from vegetarians.

This is where my inspiration comes in! La cuisine des morts is my personal collection of more than 500 recipes that any vampire can prepare with very little fuss and only thirteen hundred dollars in kitchen aids. Looks like just another cookbook? No, no, no, no, no. See here? At the end of each recipe? “Serve guest. Wait one hour. Taste.” Inspired!

What do mean, you don’t get it? Oh, really? Then why don’t I explain it after dinner. Would you like to scrub up? Clean some of that grime off your neck..tie And that ring around the collar…bone. There’s some nice-tasting, uh, nice-smelling soap in the bathroom, and a potato brush.

###
First appeared in the webzine, Gator Springs Gazette: “Blood Moustache” issue, October, 2002. The image, “The Vampire,” by Philip Burne-Jones, is in the public domain.

Show Me the Body

2007-08-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

This spring I shared a short mystery story I've been working on for years with the South Shore Writers Group. I've never been happy with the ending. Any of them. One comment in particular redirected my focus and helped me bring the story to a satisfying conclusion. I guess it's the mystery writer's "Jerry Maguire" nugget: "Show me the body."

In the discussion that followed, I realized it wasn't the literal body of a victim that was so important to the woman making the comment, but for her to feel a more immediate connection to the crime, to be a witness of sorts. Too much of the crime was revealed in dialogue between my cop characters.

I reworked the ending--again--and "Nuisance Call" has been accepted by Level Best Books for the next anthology, "Still Waters." My lesson learned: Show me the Body. Anyone else have lessons to share?

Fiction Needs Friction

2007-01-31T19:06:00.000-08:00

Back in November I attended the New England Crime Bake and came home with all sorts of stimulating and useful stuff swarming in my head and the intention of posting the best of it here. It's going to take a while. (You don't need to know about the water leak in my wall, right?) But here's the one word that sticks out most: Conflict.

I realized my characters are way too reasonable. They play off each other, enhance each other, exchange witty repartee, but there isn't enough tension in their relationships. They'd make nice folks to live and work with in real life, but fiction needs friction. It needs unreasonable people, reasonable people behaving badly, people with tempers and egos and contrary streaks.

Fiction Needs Friction.

Ta-Da!

2006-11-30T13:09:00.000-08:00

I've done it to myself again--spent 30 days proving that writing only a couple of thousand words a day (even skipping holidays and entire weekends altogether) produces a a couple of hundred pages of manuscript. And even this slap-dash, quantity is everything approach results in some interesting characters, snappy dialogue and surprisingly thoughtful passages.

Why can't I do this the other eleven months of the year? Rephrase: Why don't I do this the other eleven months of the year? Or, since revising is not nearly as word-intensive and I now have four-and-a-half roughly drafted manuscripts, why don't I spend the equivalent amount of time editing those manuscripts into something I can submit for publication?

So... Ta-da! and celebration for the completion of another year of Nanowrimo.

Resolved: By the time Nanowrimo 2007 rolls around, at least one finished manuscript will be in the hands of potential agents. Stay tuned for details.

Will

2006-10-26T07:41:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the mother of one of my Sisters in Crime for her no-nonsense reply to the age-old writer's lament, "I don't know if I'll ever get this book done."

"You will if you want to."

I really can't add anything to that.

Calendar Girl

2006-10-21T10:01:00.000-07:00

(Photo by Roger Leo)

Call me Mrs. June.

This photo is taken (with permission--nay, encouragement) from the Sisters in Crime New England 2007 Calendar. That's me on the left with the deadly clippers (secateurs to you Brits) with fellow Sisters in Crime Judy Copek and Toni L.P. Kelner and Brothers in Crime Hans Copek (alive) and Steve Kelner (dead).

The month is June, which happens to be my birth month, and I also appear with the other sisters in the August group photo. I'm holding one end of the banner with the slogan I wrote for the national 20th anniversary celebration of Sisters In Crime: "SinC into a Good Mystery." I hope you will. For SinC Books in Print, visit www.sistersincrime.org.

Additional images from the calendar and ordering information are available at http://www.sincne.org/calendar.html.

"Impressively Adequate Fiction"

2006-10-09T13:20:00.000-07:00

I got the chance over the weekend to meet Chris Baty, founder of National Novel Writing Month, and hear him talk to an audience at MIT. The on-line writing challenge started in 1999 as "an over-caffeinated dare" and has grown from 30 participants to more than 42,000 last November. Chris's idea is simple: "Thirty days, fifty thousand words, you and your imagination. Go!"

I first signed up for NaNoWriMo in 2002 and completed a 50+K draft of a mystery novel--on December 2nd. In 2003, I tried to clear the decks of all distractions and minimize my other commitments in November. As my plans began to fail and item after item got added to my calendar, I gave up at about 25K. I tried a different strategy in 2004, concentrating on adding to the daily word count and making no particular effort to avoid other commitments. I even attended my first New England Crime Bake weekend smack in the middle of the month. I finished my 50,000+ novel draft with about two hours to spare. Last year, I followed the same strategy and finished ten hours before the deadline.

And that's what NaNoWriMo gives me: A deadline and permission to get on with the writing and to leave details like plotting and characterization to either work themselves out along the way or wait for the revision process. Chris Baty calls this "Releasing your inner MacGyver, the part of your brain that thrives on high wire, no net below, clock ticking situations."

So, I've decided to take on the challenge again in November 2006. I'm not sure what or who I'm going to write about yet. I might give some characters from a recently written short story their own novel-length adventure. I might develop one of the backstories from last year's NaNoWriMo project. I might ignore the highly-polished first chapter I wrote for a mystery novel about eight years ago and plunge into the story fresh and determined to see it through to conclusion.

Stay tuned. And visit www.nanowrimo.org if you want to take up the challenge to write 50,000 words of "impressively adequate fiction."

About the Hat

2006-10-01T12:55:00.000-07:00

Yup, that's me wearing the mystery-writing hat my son gave me for Christmas last year. So far, it's served as an ice-breaker at writers' events, concealed the evidence of a bad hair day, and kept my head dry on a rainy walk to Kate's Mystery Books in Boston. My goal is to wear it, at least in spirit, for some part of every day as I wrestle with the draft of my first mystery novel.

Writing Update: Yesterday I sent off the revised manuscript of a short story, "Deceptions & Desires," for a one-on-one critique by a published mystery writer at the New England Crimebake. The submission was restricted to 15 pages, and that limit helped me refine my draft. The biggest decision I had to make: Get rid of the opening line that had been the genesis for the story in the first place. Yes, it was intriguing, but it also gave away a plot turn and was forcing me to start the story with a prolonged flashback to the events that came before that part of the story. Once it was gone, I was able to introduce my first-person narrator, Cape Cod Detective Jeff Jenner, in a more detailed and natural fashion. (Yes, he's getting up in the morning, but only because he's been called to a crime scene. No tooth-brushing or ruminating on the night before involved.)

Lesson Learned: Limits can help you stretch your writing skills.

Critics Have Always Been With Us

2006-08-05T10:09:00.000-07:00

The Conundrum of the Workshops
Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew --
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks "It's striking, but is it Art?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked
and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest --
Had rest til the dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree -- and new as the new-cut tooth --
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg;
We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould --
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
Now if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might know as much as our father Adam knew.

FWQ #1

2006-07-13T12:13:00.000-07:00

Favorite Writing Quote #1:

"If you invent two or three people and turn them loose in your manuscript, something is bound to happen to them - you can't help it; and then it will take you the rest of the book to get them out of the natural consequences of that occurrence, and so the first thing you know, there's your book all finished up and never cost you an idea." - Mark Twain

You are welcome to post your own FWQs here.