Lea Wait's Blog, page 22

If at First You Don’t Succeed, Try Again

Kate Flora: While I was vacationing in the west last week with husband, son, and son’s girlfriend, my 27th book, Burn the Diaries and Run was published by Encircle Publications. It’s true for most authors, I think, that whether it is our first book or our fiftieth, the arrival of that carton of books is a thrilling moment.

In truth, I’ve worked on the book, off and on, for so many years that I never expected it to reach that magic moment. Back in 1998, my first stand alone suspense novel, Steal Away, was published. It was supposed to be my breakout book. To distance it from my rather mediocre track record with the Thea Kozak series, Ballantine had me change my name from Kate Flora to Katharine Clark. I got a big advance for the book. An audio book deal. A book club deal. It was a big deal. No one told me, at the time, that if you got a big advance and didn’t earn out, you were pretty much screwed for the rest of your publishing life.

But while I was still filled with joy and excitement, in the way that authors will, I immediately started in on another stand alone. This one a political thriller. I drafted about the first 75 pages and excitedly sent them to my new agent, the one who had been so excited about Steal Away.  I waited eagerly for his reaction. Did he like it? Was I on the right track. Silence. I knew from experience that agents and editors could take forever to respond, so I was patient. Finally, I called him up and asked what he thought of the book. His response was it kind of bored him and he wasn’t interested.

Ah, the ups and downs of dealing with the publishing business. I finished the book. By then, he’d decided he didn’t want to be an agent any more and wanted time to find himself. The book went into the drawer. I moved on to other projects, like the next Thea Kozak mystery. From time to time, over the years, I would take the book out and work on it. It went through numerous working titles until I landed on The Senator’s Daughter.  

I rewrote. I dropped subplots. I slimmed down the narrative, cutting out some of Jenny’s adventures. I gave it to beta readers and incorporated their feedback. I sent it to my new agent, who wasn’t interested. But after the other book that had languished in the drawer, Teach Her a Lesson, found a home with Encircle, I decided to take a chance. Back around February, I sent them The Senator’s Daughter.

And then one day in the summer, out of the blue, I got a request to sign a contract to publish the book. At long last Jenny and her story would find its way to readers. But I wasn’t happy with the title. Encircle wasn’t happy with the title, which gave too much away. So in August, I was describing the story to my visitors from Berkeley. “So her mother has been attacked, and before she lapses into a coma, she said, ‘Run, Jen. Run. Burn the Diaries and run.’ ” And everyone in the room, in one voice, said, “That’s your title.”

Here’s a quick summary of the story:

Is one young woman, however resourceful, any match for ruthless politicians? That’s the situation Jenny Cates faces when she learns that her real birth father is a Senator now running for president. Jenny’s existence is a threat to his family values campaign, and his campaign will stop at nothing to get his hands on Jenny’s mother’s diaries, and eliminate the problem of Jenny herself. His rival, a New York governor, has designs on Jenny for different reasons. He wants those diaries to blow up the senator’s campaign, and wants to parade Jenny’s striking resemblance to her father before all the news outlets. With one man willing to kill her and another to use her, her beloved mother lying in a coma after a brutal attack, Jenny goes on the run.

The politicians have staffs of ruthless men willing to do their bidding. Jenny has only herself and people along the way she persuades to help her. Some are truly helping; others are happy to betray her. But she’s running for her life. In the brief periods of quiet during her odyssey, Jenny reads her mother’s diaries, forming a connection across the years to another young woman learning to make her way in the world.

When the governor’s men close in and Jenny is trapped, she’s forced to destroy those precious diaries. The governor tries to persuade captive Jenny to help him with his campaign against the father who never acknowledge her. But she’s seen how he treats people and won’t give him anything. Finally, she escapes and makes her way back to Maine, where, in a dramatic encounter, she tries to tell her story to a reporter as gunmen make a list ditch effort to kill her. Revealing her secret defuses the governor’s plans to use her and shames her father into withdrawing, freeing Jenny so she can finally go home.

Sound intriguing? I will send the first five readers who tell me they’ve bought the book a copy of my first Thea Kozak mystery, Chosen for Death, as a thank you gift. Already read it? Let me know and I’ll find you another book.

 

Weekend Update: November 2-3, 2024

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Kate Flora (Monday), Brenda Buchanan (Tuesday), John Clark (Thursday), and Jule Selbo (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

 MAUREEN MILLIKEN announces that DYING FOR NEWS, the fourth book in her Bernadette “Bernie” O’Dea mystery series is available online and in stores (if your favorite bookstore doesn’t carry the book, or the series, ask them to order it). Check maureenmilliken.com for upcoming events and book signings.

When newspaper owner and editor Bernadette “Bernie” O’Dea’s house burns down on New Year’s Eve with an unidentified body in the charred rubble – who may or may not be her missing tenant – it’s clear the new year won’t be nice and quiet after all.

Bernie is already navigating boyfriend and police chief Pete Novotny’s increasingly challenging struggle with PTSD, so when the arson and murder investigation narrows its focus on her, she plunges into work trying to find an oasis of normalcy. Getting to the bottom of the local college’s plans for expansion is just the ticket.

Or not.

What Bernie thought would be a simple story isn’t simple at all, and she begins to uncover a dark conspiracy, with tentacles that reach to every corner of Redimere, including into Pete’s troubled police department.

The farther Bernie digs, the more tragic, and ultimately deadly, the consequences.

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business, along with the very popular “Making a Mystery” with audience participation, and “Casting Call: How We Staff Our Mysteries.” We also do programs on Zoom. Contact Kate Flora

For Halloween 2024 (only a day late)

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here on the first of November with a belated Halloween post. In keeping with our offerings of scary scenes from our books, mine comes from the seventh Liss MacCrimmon mystery, VAMPIRES, BONES, AND TREACLE SCONES. Liss MacCrimmon Ruskin, owner of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, is in charge of the Halloween festivities in her home town of Moosetookalook, Maine. Originally published by Kensington Books in hardcover, paperback, and e-book, and also available in large print, in this entry in the series newlyweds Liss and Dan and their friends are attempting to turn an abandoned house into a haunted mansion as a fundraiser. Minor mishaps and objects that mysteriously vanish only to reappear somewhere else seem like harmless pranks at first, but the game turns deadly when a skeleton Liss acquires for a special effect is replaced by the very real body. The reviewer for Publishers Weekly said that “cozy fans are in for a Halloween treat” and in the opinion of RT, this was “a solid addition” to a “charming series set in small-town Maine.”

Anyway, without further ado, here is my contribution to Maine Crime Writers’ scary scenes:

            Without waiting for Dan to join her, Liss headed for the parlor, which was designated as the first stop on the tour. The skeleton had worked perfectly the previous day, but the key to a successful performance was attention to detail. Check and double check—that had been the rule the stage manager of her former dance company had lived by. That simple philosophy had prevented theatrical disaster on more than one occasion.

            “Showtime,” she whispered as she opened the door from the hall.

            The eerie greenish illumination she’d installed came on as it was designed to, but the skeleton failed to sit up. Napoleon Bony-Parts remained in an immobile heap.

            Liss squinted in the murky glow, unable to make out much more than a vague shape lying on the sofa. She wondered why the plaster bones weren’t reflecting the green light. They weren’t florescent, but they ought to show up better than they were.

            Glad she’d brought at flashlight with her, she switched it on and at once swung the beam upward to check on the pulley. One end of the wire hung down, unattached and useless. Liss swore under her breath. “Damn mice.”

            She redirected the beam, aiming it at the sofa, and gasped.

            The skeleton was gone. In it’s place was one of the manikins. It lay sprawled in an ungainly pose on the sofa and someone had painted two bloody puncture marks on its neck, turning it into a “vampire victim.” Fake blood had even been dribbled down the side of the brocade cushions to puddle on the floor.

            Annoyed that someone had messed with her set piece, Liss’s first thought was that she needed to search the room for the skeleton. The eerie, pulsing green lighting effect made it difficult for her to identify even the most common objects. The parlor organ looked positively sinister.

            “Dan!” she shouted as she played her flashlight beam in a haphazard fashion over walls and furniture. Was that more fake blood? “The prankster got inside again!”

            She had to find Bony-Parts. She had enough time to reset this scene and return the manikin to the dining room, but only just, and only if she could locate the skeleton quickly.

            There! Behind the sofa. She hurried toward the spot, irritated by the way the bones had been so carelessly dumped.

            It was only when Liss bent down to examine the skeleton for damage that she realized she’d gotten it all wrong. She caught a sickening whiff of an odor she’d hoped she’d never have to smell again. The reek of death was both unmistakable . . . and terrifying.

            She jerked upright and, for the first time, her flashlight beam shone directly on the face of the manikin.

            Bile rose in Liss’s throat. Her knees went weak, forcing her to grip the back of the sofa to keep from falling. What lay there was not a manikin. It was a man. A very dead man. The red marks on his neck weren’t fake blood. The gore was all too real.

            But that wasn’t the worst of it.

            The worst of it was that she knew him.

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett has had sixty-four books traditionally published and has self published others. She won the Agatha Award and was an Anthony and Macavity finalist for best mystery nonfiction of 2008 for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2015 in the best mystery short story category. In 2023 she won the Lea Wait Award for “excellence and achievement” from the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. She is currently working on creating new omnibus e-book editions of her backlist titles. Her website is www.KathyLynnEmerson.com.

 

What? Halloween? Again?

Instead of a group Halloween post, we’ve been sharing scary scenes all month. And it has been quite fascinating. Today is actual Halloween, and just for fun, we’re resurrecting an old post from several years ago. A twist on two truths and a lie…here we offer three scary versions.

John Clark encouraging MCW members to participate in a game of Halloween Two Truths and a Dare. Each set of statements below has one that’s false. Your challenge is to decide which ones they are. Best guesser wins something interesting. Here are mine.

1-I once saw a rocking chair move on its own in an abandoned house.

2-My collection of shrunken heads was confiscated by the Maine State Police.

3-The Hells Angels let me sleep in an abandoned car while they played with fire inside a house.

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson chiming in with two truths and a lie. Can you tell which one is untrue?

1-A short story I wrote is included in a horror anthology.

2-Every Halloween we dress up a dead tree in our front yard so that it looks like a witch.

3-When I was compiling his memoirs for the family, my dead grandfather sent me a “sign” that he approved of the project.

Maureen Milliken two truths and a lie! [Or do we  just say “alternate facts” these days?]

1.-There’s something in the walls, eaves and between the floors of my house — too big to be mice, or even squirrels. I can hear it running through the ceiling when I’m in the living room. It — or they — is/are big and loud and I expect one day it’s going to burst through the walls like the monster in the movie “Aliens.”

2-The college I went to (Catholic college buildings from the 1840s) had a hidden exorcism room in secret tunnels under the older buildings on the campus, and particularly on Halloween, we’d go looking for it. Though we never found the room, we heard enough whispers and cries to know that the spirit of something was there.

3-Every time I open the door of a remote place — particularly state park and rest area outhouses, but also walk-in refrigerators and closets in public buildings — I expect there to be a body. I’m relieved, yet disappointed, when there isn’t one.

From Sandra Neily

1.     I navigated a dangerous mountain pass in a blizzard driving a Cadillac that carried a trunk-load of marijuana.

2.     A game warden with a spotting scope saw me skinny dipping in what I thought was a remote stream; he shared it state-wide.

3.     My boyfriend and I survived a cougar attack in Glacier National Park only to meet the animal again on the trail further down the mountain.

From Lea Wait:

1) Being at home alone when someone breaks into my home.
2) Getting off a plane in a third world country and being greeted by soldiers carrying machine guns.
3) Taking a taxi from the airport to my hotel and having the taxi (engine, underneath, inside, trunk) searched for bombs before I could be dropped off at the door.

From Barb Ross

1) One of the bedrooms in our old sea captain’s house in Boothbay Harbor is said to be haunted. On one of the rare nights Bill and I slept in that room, our cocker spaniel couldn’t settle. He paced and paced, panting, until we threw him out into the hall, whereupon he promptly lay down and fell fast asleep.

2) One of my ancestors was hanged as a witch just outside of Salem, MA.

3) I once trick or treated as the backend of a horse. I do not recommend it for many reasons, most especially because many grownups do not see the second candy bag sticking out from the back.

Kate Flora

1 While driving on a foggy night on Route 128, a woman suddenly appeared in the middle lane, waving her arms wildly for me to stop. I rolled down my window and she approached the car and said, “Pull over to the side and stop.” When I continued to stare, she said, “It’s okay, Fraulein. It’s what the Fuhrer wants you to do.”

2 Once, while I was on a visit to New York, there was a man on the subway staring at me. Unnerved, I got off and explored above ground, but an hour later, there he was again, staring. So I went back to hotel, more than a little bit spooked. When I went out a few hours later to get some dinner, he was eating in the restaurant I choose. Was I being followed?

3 A few years ago, on a Sisters in Crime field trip to the New Hampshire Medical Examiner’s office, she showed us the morgue freezer where the bodies were stored, and once we were all inside, she went out, shut the door, and turned off the light. That sure made the visit memorable.

Brenda Buchanan

1- Many people fret about roller coasters, but I love ‘em. The steeper and twistier, the better.

2 – I’m not afraid of spiders or snakes.

3 – I love to camp in remote places, sharing the woods with animals but no other people.

Jen Blood

1 – As teenagers, my friends and I regularly broke into a creepy abandoned inn in Northport for seances and canoodling.

2 – At seventeen, my ex-bf and his buddies took me out trick o’treating as their little sister, dressing me in a sheet topped with a Winnie the Pooh baseball hat because I was short enough to pass for a child.

3 – When I was in my late twenties, a woman in white appeared in my room at Kirkpatrick Hall my first night at Goddard College, whispered something that I couldn’t understand, and then vanished. I was wide awake at the time, and to this day wonder if someone spiked the punch at that first Goddard dinner.

Readers, have you ever played two truths and a lie? It’s a lot of fun, and it turns out that writers are pretty convincing liars. And do you know which of the above are the lies? When we ran this the first time, John Clark promised a prize. I bet if you’re one of those who comments, he might still find a prize for you.

Birthday Books

Charlene D’Avanzo: Tomorrow is my Birthday so here are a few birthday books.

“The Secret Language of Birthdays” – Your Complete Personology Guide for Each Day of the Year by Gary Goldschneider
The Secret Language of Birthdays highlights your strengths, weaknesses, and major concerns while offering practical advice and spiritual guidance. After you study your profile, it will be hard to resist examining those of family, friends, colleagues, and even celebrities.

 

 

“The Gift of Years” by Joan D. Chittister
The world glorifies youth and degrades old age. The Gift of Years flies in the face of this conventional wisdom. It is a wonderful celebration of the blessings of growing older, clear-eyed and unsentimental about the reality of the ageing process but showing us that our later years are gift, not burden. It is time for us, Joan Chittister says, to let go of both our fantasies of eternal youth and our fears of getting older.

Unlock the secrets of your personality with this captivating guide by world-renowned psychic Judith Turner that combines astrology, psychology, and psychic insights to reveal the hidden truths linked to your birth date.

Have you ever considered what your birthday truly signifies? It is not just a date on the calendar—it’s a treasure trove of insights into your identity, personality, and potential. Packed with personalized insights, this enlightening guide offers a fresh perspective on who you are and who you can become.

Did you know that you have a specific flower, gem, and fragrance specifically tied to you? Are you aware of your lucky numbers, the name of your guardian angel, or even the ideal day of the week to request a raise? Each person carries unique traits, and every birthday is a reflection of the individual born on that day. With The Hidden World of Birthdays, you’ll be able to:

Uncover the most compatible astrological signs for your relationships and partnerships.

Learn which colors enhance your charisma and charm, soothing your spirit during life’s challenges.

Meet your spiritual guides—your star, angel, guardian angel, and spiritual stone—that enrich your life and guide you on your path.

“Happy Birthday to Me! By ME, Myself” Dr. Seuss
A book that kids can write (and draw) about their birthday—with a little help from Dr. Seuss!

Weekend Update: October 26-27, 2024

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Charlene D’Avanzo (Monday), ??? (Tuesday), a  Halloween Group Post (Thursday), and Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

Matt Cost had the cover reveal for his November 13th release of Mainely Mayhem, Book 6 in the Goff Langdon Mainely Mystery series.

From the back cover:

Things are not right in Brunswick. Chabal is wracked by the nightmare that was the Wendigo. Langdon is hired to investigate the questionable moral integrity of one of Brunswick’s favorite sons and gets thunked in the head and left to die on a boat mooring in the Atlantic Ocean. And that is just the beginning of the bad.

Judge Cornelius Remington is being fast-tracked to be a Supreme Court Justice-why? After only a five-day investigation of Remington, Langdon is pulled from the case, suggesting that the judge had already been rubberstamped and that the White House staff and FBI were just going through the motions. But there are questions about the man’s past that Langdon can’t shake, a past that might still live in the present.

“Welcome to Maine: The Way Life Should Be.” Or so the billboard reads upon entering the state. But that was before MAYHEM, a corruption born in Brunswick that has seeped throughout the state and is threatening the entire nation.

It is up to Langdon to find and stop MAYHEM before it is too late. And the clock is ticking.

Jule Selbo will be leading a class at CRIME BAKE Nov 8 – we’ll have fun exploring how to “3D” the great characters you are writing (or planning to write) by use various story genres to go along with Crime and Mystery.

And talk about structure of your stories, how various genres such as horror, paranormal, fantasy, thriller and more can enhance and make the write “funner” (to use a word embraced my grand-niece).

CRIME BAKE takes place Nov 8-10 at Boston/Dedham Hilton and it’s full of “funner” and “inspirations” and networking and just great times with fellow writers and readers!

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business, along with the very popular “Making a Mystery” with audience participation, and “Casting Call: How We Staff Our Mysteries.” We also do programs on Zoom. Contact Kate Flora

A Scene from Mainely Mayhem by Matt Cost

In honor of Halloween, an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Mainely Mayhem, in which Chabal relives her ordeal at the hands of the Wendigo from book five, Mainely Wicked.

Langdon might’ve just poured his third glass of brown liquor when things went to hell.

“How can you know how I feel?”

Langdon looked across the fire where Chabal had suddenly screamed. Her face was flushed and her eyes glowed hot in anger. Jewell put her hand on Chabal’s arm. “I’m sorry. I just worry—”

Chabal knocked her hand from her shoulder. “You want to know how I feel?”

Even dog looked concerned. Not a sound could be heard except the crackle of the fire.

“Everybody tells me how to deal with it. My husband. My shrink. Strangers in the grocery store. You. Everybody. But nobody knows.” Chabal stood up and threw her glass into the fire, the residue of wine flaring briefly in the dark night.

Langdon stood up. “Hey, babe, let’s—”

“Sit the fuck down.” Langdon sat. “Everybody wants to know why I drink all day. How I feel. What my thoughts are. Okay, I’m going to tell you.” Chabal looked up in the sky. “First of all, the moon was full, bigger than I’ve ever seen it. Not like that puny ball up there now. I woke up groggy from being drugged as they stripped me naked. Naked.” Chabal pulled her shirt over her head. Langdon went to stand. “Sit the fuck down. I’m doing this my way.” He sat.

Chabal kicked her shoes off. Pulled her shorts off. Reached behind and undid her bra. Slid her panties to the ground. She stood stark naked in front of them all, the fire creasing shadows into her bare skin, crevices and cracks across her stomach—creating an opacity of her body that matched her tortured soul.

“Then they strapped me to a cross like Jesus Christ and cut me, sliced into my body, to use my own fucking blood to tattoo me with strange symbols—hieroglyphs to draw Satan to the task at hand. His bitches with breath so vile and odious it made me wish they’d just stick the knife in my heart and end the whole thing.”

Langdon was glad to see she didn’t have a knife. He saw Jewell looking at him, imploring him to stop this insanity. He raised a hand to her, lowered it, gave a slight nod to the negative. The message was clear. Let it play out. As far as he knew, this was the first time Chabal had spoken openly about that night. Sure, she often woke up screaming in the night. But this was no nightmare. Maybe the real- life when awake kind.

“Then they carried me out of this cottage and hung me, cross and all, from some rope by a bonfire. Not some little dinky thing like this fire, but a blazing inferno, a conflagration that was meant to welcome the Devil, old Beelzebub himself.”

Chabal raised her hands over her head, the flickering flames of the fire dancing across her body and began to chant nonsense.

Langdon caught Susie staring at him. He shrugged. Pursed his lips.

“Then the king fucking bastard, the Wendigo himself, came and told me what he was going to do to me. How he was going to gut me and bleed me out, my life leaking from my still breathing body, and how he was going to make a fucking stew of me. And then he was going to eat me, and we would be one and the same and together for all of time.”

Chabal looked around the circle, her eyes feverish, pausing on each one of them. “And I’m not sure that he didn’t eat me and that we are the Wendigo.”

 

Author Bio for Matt Cost

Over the years, Cost has owned a video store, a mystery bookstore, and a gym. He has also taught history and coached just about every sport imaginable.

During those years, since age eight actually, the true passion has been writing. ‘I Am Cuba: Fidel Castro and the Cuban Revolution” (Encircle Publications, March, 2020) was his first traditionally published novel.

Cost has now written five books in the Mainely Mystery series starting with “Mainely Power” and five books in the Clay Wolfe Trap series starting with “Wolfe Trap”. A few historical fiction pieces fill out the shelves. Mainely Mayhem is due out November 13th.

Cost now lives in Brunswick, Maine, with his wife, Harper. There are four grown children: Brittany, Pearson, Miranda, and Ryan. A chocolate Lab and a basset hound round out the mix. He now spends his days at the computer, writing.

Surprised by Joy

On his death, Louise Penny dedicated a bench to her late husband with the inscription “Surprised by Joy,” a reference to the C. S. Lewis autobiography and a phrase she has written elsewhere about finding personal meaning in. I’ve been thinking about the nature of joy this year, as most of the outer world seems determined to suck all of the joy out of our lives. I’m not about to enumerate the list of possible things that can squeeze the pleasure out of daily life—in any event, you will have your own list—but just what the hell does it mean to be joyful any more?

Writers make their own joy. If you follow our public personas—the social media, events—you’ll see the curtain of introverted extroversion we pull over what we’re doing. But few of the writers I know are joyous at the prospect of having to talk about their work, especially work that they finished months or years ago, and pretending all along they knew what they were doing. Our joy is in the work, the doing.

I think of joy as an ephemeral feeling, not a steady state you can aspire to. You can make yourself available to it, put yourself in a place to receive it, but I’m not convinced it’s something you can generate. The joyous times I remember most clearly were when I was surprised by the feeling: packing my truck to move back north from Virginia in 1984, asking Anne to marry me, catching my first steelhead.

So if we are always to be surprised by joy, how can we prepare for that?

One of the benefits of maturing, as we in our eighth decade like to speak of it, is a general and pervasive slowing down. The body slows down, the mind is less elastic, and you often have to descend to the seventh level of your word basement to find the bon mot you had only yesterday. Perversely, the fact that I have less time left to live than I already have lived compels me to slow down, to appreciate the cardinal’s red at the feeder, the petrichor after a thundershower, the hope in planting garlic and daffodils I won’t see until spring.

If you cannot manufacture joy, you can create the circumstances in which it can flourish, like intuition, like creativity. Writers know how hard it is to work when you’re worried about money or family or any of the thousand other things our days throw at us. To write well, you carve out space and time, solitude (if that’s your thing), and open yourself to the possibilities. You create the opportunity for your work to thrive.

I’m seeing the possibility of joy in the same way. The only rules seem to be: slow down, breathe in, take care. And allow yourself to be surprised.

Fire at the Petard, Book 2 of the Hayden Kent series

When Kate Flora, our fearless leader, sent out a suggestion that we feature short, scary scenes from our books, my first thought was: YIKES, my second thought was: Fire at the Petard.

In Death By Sunken Treasure Hayden Kent is seeking Mike Terry’s killer. Mike had discovered a Spanish treasure ship and claimed the salvage right. A few days later, he washed up on the beach at Pigeon Key dressed in full scuba gear. The valve on his air supply turned to the off position. It didn’t feel like an accident. At the start of this scene, Hayden has received a call from one of Mike’s business partners, Devon Rutherford. Devon asks Hayden to meet him at his restaurant, The Petard. When she arrives, the restaurant is closed, but Devon’s car is parked outside the kitchen entrance.

I keyed the alarm on my car and walked to the kitchen door. It opened at my touch. Emergency night-lights illuminated the large kitchen. The place smelled of deep fryers and fatty meat. A thick layer of grease coated all the surfaces. The door to the bar stood at the other end of the room. A faint light shown through the porthole window in the door. I made my way to the door, my shoes making sucking sounds and sticking to the floor with every step. How did this place pass the health inspection?

The closer I got to the bar, the more a smoky odor tickled my nose. It didn’t seem related to any item on the menu. Puzzled, I opened the door. A blast of heat seared my face. Wispy tendrils of smoke filled the room.

Flames danced in the rear of The Petard’s barroom. The acrid smoke stung my eyes. I backed up into the kitchen and pulled the door handle hard. It shut with a sucking sound. The roaring of the fire deafened me. It dawned on me that the door between the kitchen and bar provided fire and water protection.

In the brief instant I’d stood in the open doorway the kitchen had filled with smoke. It hung everywhere. Tendrils of greyish black swirled in the air. I put a hand out and grasped a counter to stay connected to something to lead me out. My hand touched a towel. Devon. Could he be trapped? He’d asked me to come. I’d spoken to him no more than a half hour ago. My fingers worked the nap of the towel under my hand. I had to try to find him.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. After three false one handed tries, my thumb managed to dial 911. The smoke choked me. “Fire in The Petard,” I managed to cough out.

“Emergency services are on the way. The alarm company called us. Are you in a safe place?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes,” I lied. “Someone is in the building. In the office I think. The owner.”

The professional voice said, “Stay on the line with me and make sure you are safe.”

I responded by disconnecting the call and stuffing the phone in my pocket.

Worried that the firefighters would get to The Petard too late for Devon, I threw the towel over my arm. My hands groped along the rear wall of the counter until I found a spigot, drenched the towel, and wrapped the cloth around my face. My nose burned when I inhaled droplets of water with my first breath.

Concern emptied my head of everything except the floor plan of the bar. Devon and Jake used a little room in the center of the bar as an office. A line of shooting trophies stood on a shelf over the door. Floor plan fixed firmly in my head, I made my way to the door and touched the flat of my hand to it. Not hot yet.

I shoved the door open, and flames fed by the oxygen from the kitchen roared and shot in all directions. It took all my willpower to stay in the restaurant and let the door to freedom close behind me. Once the door shut, the flames tamed.

Black choking smoke filled the air. Flames filled my vision. They licked out from everywhere and leapt in a macabre dance.

Memory told me the bar lay to my left. I put a hand out, fishing around. My fingertips met something solid. I moved toward it, keeping a wary eye on the flames. They appeared closer now, some almost at my feet. Embers lit pathways in the air above me like Fourth of July sparklers run amok. Every breath hurt. I struggled to keep my breathing shallow. I didn’t want to draw the heated air too deep into my lungs.

I sidled closer to the solid object. My hand kept moving over the edge. I put the flat of my hand on the bar. The heat rising from the surface made me jump back. Something sticky instantly covered my palm. Lacquer on the bar melted into a sticky mess. I reached out again and allowed my fingertips to graze the bar top.

Unable to see anything I moved carefully to avoid falling over some unseen obstacle. My fingertips followed the edge of the bar around to an opening. Spreading my arms wide, I flapped my hands trying to grab something on each side to help guide me behind the bar. The knuckles on my left hand hit something that felt like wood. Must be the front of the liquor wall. A slick surface met my questing right hand, the steel of the back bar workspace.

Keeping fingertips on both of the surfaces, I made my way toward the center of the bar. Inching ever closer to the fire.

A series of loud pops from exploding liquor bottles almost drove me back to the kitchen. I felt like I’d been in the bar for hours. The air seemed thicker. More explosions. A shard of glass cut down the side of my arm. My heart beat loudly enough to fill my ears, even over the roar of the flames.

I forced myself to follow the bar to where I thought the office door cut the back wall in two. My left hand lost contact with the inside bar surface, pitching me forward. Groping wildly I found the surface again. My hand felt around the inside of the space and located the office door. I prayed Devon was inside and alive. The fire’s roar galvanized me. If Devon called out, I would never hear him. I shoved the door of the office open. Fire hadn’t yet found the inside, but smoke filled the room. A prickle of fear touched my heart. How could I find him? I didn’t dare let go of the door. It was my only way to safety. No light penetrated inside the room. Even the flames provided no illumination here.

I tried to call for Devon. The makeshift respirator covering my face made shouting impossible. Worse, the cloth was drying out. Smoke filed my nostrils and mouth with every breath. A wave of tiredness washed over me. The smoke lightened briefly, sucked through the ceiling vent of the air conditioner. A lump curled beside the desk. I let go of the door behind me and took a step in the direction of the lump. Black smoke filled the room again. I dropped to my knees and crawled. Certain I reached the desk, I ran my hand along the floor. Nothing. I groped up, down, and around the desk leg. Nothing.

My eyelids drooped. The thought of moving defeated me. Where were the fire trucks? I had to lie down. I shook my head to clear the thought. I made one last sweep. My swinging hands knocked over a wastebasket. Could a wastebasket look like a body? I didn’t know. I fought the desire to stretch out and sleep. A loud roar hurt my ears. A thousand explosions sounded. Fear brought bile to my throat. I made one last desperate attempt to find Devon before I crawled backwards.

My feet touched something. Wall, door, I didn’t know. Joy at my good luck bubbled up in my chest. I forced myself to stand. My questing fingers found a knob. The door felt hot to the touch. I didn’t remember it being hot before. I pulled the door open the tiniest bit. My breath caught painfully in my throat. Fire engulfed on the far side of the bar. Huge flames soared over the top. I had to get out. I had to get to the kitchen entry. Fear pulled me through the door.

I grabbed the back of the bar with my right hand. The searing heat of the stainless counter almost made me pull my hand back. Something wet on the counter stung my hand. The liquor bottles.

They’d exploded on this half of the bar too. Behind me, behind the bar, coming straight for me, was a wall of fire. The fire almost surrounded me. Every second I delayed brought the inferno closer. I had to get to the kitchen door before the flames cut off that avenue of escape.

Throwing caution to the wind, I raced toward the door and safety. My chest burned. Every breath stabbed the length and depth of my lungs like daggers. I reached where I thought the door would be. My hand pushed. Nothing. It took all my willpower not to give in to the panic bubbling up in me. How could the fire be so bright and show me nothing?

Frantic now, my hands beat the walls. Heat flowed down my back in waves. I thumped harder. I moved from side to side, my fists finding nothing but solid wood. My strength ebbed as the fire robbed my body of the oxygen I needed to survive. I fell forward. The wall opened, and I kept falling. The cooler air of the kitchen surrounded me. I couldn’t grab anything to break my fall. It went on for an eternity.

Looking Down, Not Up

Sandra Neily here:

four cord … ready

Looking down, not up, I found surprises this week. Most leaves, except for brilliant, coppery beech, have left the trees up here around Moosehead Lake. I was not looking forward to November even though we got the wood in before snow.

I was feeling a bit down. Until I looked down. Really looked … down.

But first, this amazing poem from Mary Oliver to get us in the ‘looking down’ mode.

I’d always mourned the flowers going too, but now they were bursting with life. Seeds, soft and ready to float on the wind. Seeds jam-packed into fragile pods that will melt away in the next wind. Seeds, humped or loudly misshapen, advertising meals to birds and small creatures that would feast and then drop them somewhere else to bloom.

Fragile beauty everywhere.

I agree with Oliver about the Goldenrod “whispering goodbye.”  I think it is now so much lovelier with its gentle pink petals than it ever was when it trumpeted the end of summer with a crass, way-too-insistent yellow.

So now we will put the orange on the dog and walk the woods knowing that the flowers have given their ALL. Which has been a joy.

Don’t miss the Dick Cass post for Thursday, “Surprised by Joy.”  Thanks, Dick!

(And in no particular order, Queen Anne’s Lace, Pearly Everlasting, Clover, Black-eyed Susan, Mallo, Flox, Goldenrod, and some large unidentified pod.)

 

Sandy’s debut novel, “Deadly Trespass, A Mystery in Maine” won a national Mystery Writers of America award, was a finalist in the Women’s Fiction Writers Association “Rising Star” contest, and was a finalist for a Maine Literary Award. The second Mystery in Maine, “Deadly Turn,” was published in 2021. Her third “Deadly” is due out in 2025. Find her novels at all Shermans Books (Maine) and on Amazon. Find more info on Sandy’s website.