Lea Wait's Blog, page 273

Weekend Update: December 19-20, 2015

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Jen Blood (Monday), Maureen Milliken (Tuesday), and Bruce Coffin (Wednesday), with a special Holiday Group Post Thursday and Friday.

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

from Kaitlyn Dunnett: I don’t think I’ve shared this here yet. It’s the cover for the 10th Liss MacCrimmon mystery, Kilt at the Highland Games, which will be published at the end of July.

What do you think?

 

 

 

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. Contact Kate Flora: mailto: kateflora@gmail.com

Merry Christmas!

And happiest of holidays from Lea Wait!

Christmas has always been my favorite time of year. I shop for gifts all year round, I look forward to the delicious food that is part of the season. I love Christmas carols and sentimental movies. And I collect Santas and other Christmas decorations.

When I lived in New York City I loved to take long walks, looking at decorated store windows and Rockefeller Plaza, and, later, when I lived in New Jersey, I took my daughters and mother to see The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center.

My home was the place where my single adoptive parent friends and their children gathered, 100-200 strong, to celebrate Christmas early in December. And my extended family gathered at my home Christmas Eve every year.

It was all exhausting, but I loved every minute of it. 

But years have passed since I celebrated joyously with my daughters and sisters and  mother … time moves on, and my family has dispersed.  I’ve married, and my husband, is, if not an absolute Grinch … well, I’ll just say Christmas is not HIS favorite time of year.

So my Christmases have been pared down over the years. Some years we haven’t had a big tree; most years diets dictate Christmas cookies be held to a minimum. My husband and I don’t exchange gifts, so the only gifts under the tree are delivered by the post office or UPS and come from loved ones far away.

Still, I decorate the house, and send Christmas cards and plan special food for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and I play Christmas carols, and watch sentimental movies. And Christmas, if not spectacular, is still a wonderful time of year.

So, today, I’m inviting you to peek at a few of the decorations that fill my home in December. Welcome — and Happiest of Holidays! 

DECEMBER CRIME ODDITIES

Susan Vaughan here. Because this is a crime writers’ site, crime being one of the key words, I thought I’d check out interesting crimes during the month of December.

According to FBI statistics of crimes reported to law enforcement agencies, violent crime increases during the summer months and decreases through the colder months, although thefts and robberies increase slightly in December. Due to Christmas shopping, maybe. My research didn’t turn up any weird or fascinating or humorous December crimes in Maine, but here are ones in other states.



FOOD HEIST #1… Just this December, a man in Albuquerque, New Mexico, craved his mother’s posole, a traditional Mexican stew so much that he stole it. The twenty-three-year-old ignored his mother’s refusal to give him the dish, so he broke in and ran off with the entire pot. Posole is traditionally made with pork, peppers, beans, and sometimes beef tripe. This recipe for Posole omits the tripe. The son was arrested on a residential burglary charge. No gift for him from mama this year, and nada from Santa.



FOOD HEIST #2… Also this December, in Syracuse, New York, a father and son stole more than $40,000 worth of chicken wings from the restaurant where they worked as cooks. The sheriff’s office said the men placed large chicken wing orders with the restaurant’s wholesaler over eight months time. Apparently the two sold their loot on the street and to other businesses. They’ve been charged with grand larceny and falsifying business records. I can’t imagine how the restaurant owner or bookkeeper didn’t pick up on this boom in chicken wings! Hmm, I wonder if they’re a “flight” risk.



THE CHIP HEIST (not food)… Now for a crime that yielded a much bigger haul, in Las Vegas. In December 2010, a man wearing a motorcycle helmet strolled into the Bellagio Hotel and Casino and held up a craps dealer at gunpoint. The robber ran back through the casino and sped off on his motorcycle, which he’d left parked just outside. His take? $1.5 million, but in chips that would have to be cashed in at the Bellagio or sold to a third party. Weeks later, when the brazen Biker Bandit then offered to sell some of the chips online, undercover police nabbed him. Facts emerged that after the theft, the Biker Bandit returned to the Bellagio to gamble and drink. While casing his target, he stayed at that hotel. Three weeks before, he’d robbed another casino. In an ironic twist, he was the son of a local judge. He received a sentence of three to eleven years for his crimes. And Santa repossessed the bike.



CRYPTIC CLUE MURDER… Finally, here’s a murder with an unusual coincidence. In December 1983, in Hialeah, Florida, a Hispanic man was found strangled to death in a vacant lot. This murder baffled police at first because of cryptic notes discovered at the scene. A plastic bag taped behind a nearby “no dumping” sign contained a poem: “Now the motive is clear and the victim is too. You’ve got all the answers. Just follow the clues.” There was also a riddle that led police to the next clue taped behind a speed limit sign. This poem was equally strange and also gruesome: “Yes, Matthew is dead, but his body not felt. Those brains were not Matt’s because his body did melt…” Eventually the police found an innocent explanation for this confusing mystery. On Halloween, four churches had set up a murder mystery game in which participants created fictitious crimes that involved hiding rhyming clues around the area. The night of the game, a rainstorm forced them to cancel, but the clues were left in place. The real death was a macabre coincidence. Later, the victim was identified and his murder appeared to be related to drug smuggling. Does anyone else think it strange that church groups would organize a murder mystery game, even on Halloween? What would Santa do?

***

My latest release is ALWAYS A SUSPECT, the prequel to my Task Force Eagle series. Not a Christmas story, but it does take place during the holidays. You can find more information about my books at my website.

Plotting: The Thirty Thousand-Foot View

D.A. Keeley here. I’m honored to be invited to write a guest post for the Maine Crime Writers blog. I grew up in Readfield, lived in Presque Isle for a decade, and own a home in Old Orchard Beach. So, although I now work out of state, I consider myself a Maine Crime Writer at heart.

One more plea to be granted Mainer status: I write a series set in Aroostook County, a place close to my heart. My sleuth Peyton Cote is a single mother and U.S. Customs and Border Protection agent working in the fictional town of Garrett, where Fort Fairfield would probably appear on the map.

This fall I’ve been busy. My three-book contract with Midnight Ink is up. The June 2016 book, Destiny’s Pawn, is in production, and I’m pleased that my agent reports Midnight Ink wants to continue the series. This means at least one more Peyton Cote novel. Some writers don’t want to get locked into long-term commitments. However, by day, I chair the English department at Northfield Mount Hermon School, might be the only crime fiction writer to be dorm parent to 60 teenagers, teach AP English and Crime Fiction, and serve as the assistant director of the NMH Summer School. More importantly, I’m a husband, and a dad to 17-, 14-, and 7-year-old daughters (Delaney, Audrey, and Keeley — can you guess where the pseudonym comes from?). This leaves little free time. I write from 4-6 a.m.

Due to these commitments, I don’t want to write on spec: I’m hoping for another multi-book contract — a goal that means producing a three-book series outline, a task that is far from natural to me.

I once attended a keynote address given by Jeffery Deaver who explained that he writes 100-page outlines for 300-page novels. Similarly, my friend Clyde Phillips, executive producer and writer for Dexter and other shows, creates the arc for entire TV seasons and outlines his Jane Candiotti novels in similar fashion.

For me, creating a story arc that spans three books, offers detailed plotlines, and character developments  (including — spoiler alert — a marriage and a new and recurring antagonist) is a new process. And one that is hard as hell. It’s taken all fall. I write procedural novels that revolve around a woman whose primary professional task is to protect the U.S. from acts of terror. The landscape of terrorism changes hourly, so predicting what Peyton’s life will be like two or three years from now is not easy.

Also, I’m just not wired like Deaver or Phillips. To me, writing is like driving at night. I write to the end of my headlights, see where I’m at, and drive on. Likewise, we all write the books we’d like to read. I get jazzed by compelling characters and crisp dialogue; plot is always secondary. So creating a plot line and character arcs for what amounts to 1,200+ pages isn’t, as my grandmother in Augusta used to say, my cup of tea. Prior to this fall, my “outlines” only consisted of character sketches, detailed backstories and motivations for the book’s major players. The subsequent composing process meant taking those characters, putting them on the stage, giving them one or more conflicts, and seeing what they do.

The three-book outline is now finished and off to my publisher for review, and my fingers are crossed. The work was hard but valuable. Beginning with a story arc and outlining are new strategies for me — and a lot more work up front. But, if I can execute the plots well, the books should be fast-paced and tight.

I’m rolling the dice and betting on plotting, hoping that starting with a thirty thousand-foot view will make for better mysteries.

As D.A. Keeley, John Corrigan was a 2015 Maine Literary Award finalist.

BIO

D.A. Keeley is John R. Corrigan and K.A. Delaney and the author of nine novels. Most recently, Keeley is author of the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Agent Peyton Cote series, set along the Maine-Canada border. Bitter Crossing (2014) was a Maine Literary Award finalist. It was followed by Fallen Sparrow (2015). Destiny’s Pawn will be published in June 2016. Keeley was born in Augusta, Maine, and lives with his wife and three daughters at Northfield Mount Hermon School in western Massachusetts, where he is English department chair. A Mainer through and through, he tries to get to Old Orchard Beach, Maine, as often as possible. You can see what he’s up to by visitingwww.amazon.com/author/DAKeeley ordakeeleyauthor.blogspot.com or on Twitter (@DAKeeleyAuthor).

 

A Writer’s Year

By Noel Farquar, author of The Mean Streets and Fire Hydrants of Chicago, Ballou O’Brien Mystery#1

January: So full of happy expectations for the New Year. Must complete 85,000 word second-in-series mystery by November. First-in-series Amazon ranking currently 211,111 on the hardcover. Feeling optimistic. Only challenge to productivity is spouse who keeps coming into study and muttering about snow removal. Doesn’t she know I have a novel due? Word count so far: 7345. Onward!

February: Oh happy day! Publisher has dropped the price on my ebook to $1.99 for the month. Amazon ranking has zoomed up to 25,436 and I am Number One on the Amazon Bestseller List for Kindle ->Mystery, Thriller, Suspense -> Mystery -> Hardboiled ->Male PI ->Chicago Setting -> In the 1970s ->From Canine Point of View! Ahead of even Seymour Blatsky, the king of the subgenre. Gave in to urge to text Blatsky, “Suck it!” Let’s see him pretend he doesn’t know me at Bouchercon this year, even though we’ve been on the same panel four years running. No response so far. May have texted a few more times. Total Word count 10,712. Hard to write when you are checking Amazon ranking hourly. Also, spouse has been coming into study, dripping on carpet, and waving snow shovel in menacing manner. What does she want, some kind of credit? She lives here, too.

March: Alas, ebook price has returned to $12.38 and Blatsky has returned to the Number One slot at Kindle ->Mystery, Thriller, Suspense -> Mystery -> Hardboiled ->Male PI ->Chicago Setting -> In the 1970s ->From Canine Point of View. Curse you, Seymour Blatsky, undisputed owner of 1970s Chicago, as seen by a dog. BTW, he finally texted back. “Who is this?” As if he didn’t know. Can also report all that snow shoveling has made spouse eerily strong. Total Word Count 15,170.

April: The Amazon reviews have started rolling in from my former period of heavy sales. Tell me please, what do these mean?

Hated it. The dog had such a co-dependent personality. He should see a shrink, LOL. Will not read another.

Could not put it down. Best book I have ever read. Can’t wait for the next one!

Please stop sending me these surveys. As I’ve said, time and again, I’ll review the books if I want to.

He’s no Blatsky.

 

Total Word Count 18,756. Exhausted from hourly check for new Amazon reviews. Also, Goodreads.

May: Unexpected call from agent today. Forget, since we rarely talk on phone, how young she is. Anyway, news not good. She’s heard some rumors. Bad winds blowing. Any chance I can turn my second-in-series in early? I tell her this is “unlikely” (given that I only have 20,013 words–I do not tell her this). She says, the sooner I have it in and on the editorial calendar for next year, the better. Nuf said. I ask, given my February performance on Kindle ->Mystery, Thriller, Suspense -> Mystery -> Hardboiled ->Male PI ->Chicago Setting -> In the 1970s ->From Canine Point of View, am I not safe? She is unimpressed.

June: Book Jail. Spouse is leaving sandwiches outside study door and muttering things about a “summer vacation.” “Don’t you know I have a novel to write?” More muttering. Good news: Total Word Count 50,347.

July: Book Jail. No sandwiches. Perhaps spouse has gone on vacation of which she spoke? Have had many pleasant chats with pizza delivery kid. Total Word Count 75,236. We’re on our way, baby!

August: Another call from agent. Publisher has merged, or more accurately, “been absorbed.” New guidelines: will only publish authors who own Number One in their Amazon Bestseller List category, and since the merger “partner” publishes Blatsky, I am on the chopping block. My editor thinks I have a shot of hanging in if I shift my novel from Chicago 1970s to Seattle 1980s and switch out dog for cat. I protest, have never been to Seattle, don’t know anything about 1980s, and am allergic to cats. Agent’s response, “That’s what Google is for.” Total Word Count -25,567. Also, spouse has not returned.

September: Seattle in 1980s turns out to be fascinating time. Cats, though, are bastards. Doing my best to make this one likable. No chance he’ll be co-dependent, though, LOL! Total Word Count 85,974. First draft is done! Still no sign of spouse. Several items of furniture and electronics also missing.

October: Bouchercon. Once again I am on panel on 1970s Chicago from canine point of view with Blatsky. “Nice to meet you,” he sniffs when we are introduced. Nice to meet you! This is our fifth panel together. Of course, am wondering about the wisdom of paying all this money and flying all this way, especially on a deadline, to be on panel about 1970s Chicago with a dog, when my series is apparently now set in 1980s Seattle with cat. Ah, well. Total Word Count 86,456. Returned exhausted to find marital bed removed from home.

November: Received royalty check for period January-June. Apparently, number one spot on Kindle ->Mystery, Thriller, Suspense -> Mystery -> Hardboiled ->Male PI ->Chicago Setting -> In the 1970s ->From Canine Point of View not as lucrative as I’d hoped. Puts me in a bit of a jam as spouse has unaccountably stopped paying utility bills. In good news, will be sending The Grungy Streets and Sand Boxes of Seattle, Snuffles O’Brien Mystery#1 to editor tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

December: Another call from agent. The bad news, editor has been sacked. The good news, new editor loves manuscript and is prepared not only to publish but to offer additional two book deal if I can change story back to 1970s Chicago with dog, by first of the year. Can I! Have nothing but time on my hands now that I am burning remaining furniture for heat, recharging laptop in car, and typing by firelight. Feeling so lucky. God, I love this life!

Hope you had a great year, too. Happy Holidays to all, and Good Bless Us Everyone!

Weekend Update: December 12-13, 2015

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Dorothy Cannell (Monday), Barb Ross (Tuesday), special guest John Corrigan (Wednesday), Susan Vaughan (Thursday), and Lea Wait (Friday).

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

from Kathy Lynn Emerson: I’ll be guest blogging at Dru’s Book Musings on Wednesday, with a giveaway of one copy of Murder in the Merchant’s Hall on offer.

 

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. Contact Kate Flora: mailto: kateflora@gmail.com

The Inevitable Cat

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett here, blatantly plugging Murder in the Merchant’s Hall, available in hardcover and ebook formats in the U.S. since December 1. The Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries, Murder in the Queen’s Wardrobe and Murder in the Merchant’s Hall, are hybrids. Each of these novels combines murder with espionage. The publisher labels them thrillers. They are set in the sixteenth century, so they are also in the historical genre. There is a story arc/subplot involving the personal life of my sleuth and sometime spy, Rosamond Jaffrey. But when it comes to finding out who dunnit, Rosamond is an amateur, not a professional. The novels contain a minimum of gore and there is no gratuitous sex or violence. The mystery is centered on a closed community—the very definition of a traditional mystery. And, since I write at the cozy end of the traditional spectrum there is, of course, a cat.

Don’t groan! There are very good reasons for including animals, particularly cats, in mystery novels. Top of the list, naturally, is that the author has cats, loves cats, and can’t resist writing about them. I plead guilty to those charges. The cat in the Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries is modeled after Feral, one of the three felines who currently share our home. Beyond that, however, cats can serve several useful purposes in fiction.

They humanize their owners. Rosamond is not the easiest person to like. She’s prickly, defensive, too well-educated to fit easily into a male-dominated society. As a child, she was spoiled rotten. She has also inherited the worst characteristics of both of her parents, neither of whom was exactly a paragon of virtue. Rosamond is wary of showing  affection to other people, even her own husband, who was her best friend growing up. Since she clearly needs a relationship to show her in a softer, gentler light, I gave her Watling, a large gray and white striped cat she rescued when he was a kitten. She named him for the place she found him, Watling Street, the old Roman road that runs from London into Kent.

Cats may not function as well as dogs when it comes to standing guard or hunting game, but they are no slouches when it comes to defending their territory. They are also good judges of character. If a cat takes a dislike to someone, that may not mark that person as the villain of the piece, but it does send a clear signal to be wary of him or her. By the same token, if Watling allows anyone other than Rosamond to pick him up, hold him, or pet him, you may be sure that person is one of the good guys.

In Murder in the Queen’s Wardrobe, Watling signaled his approval of one particular character. When Rosamond had to be absent from home for an extended period of time, that person was the only one who could get Watling to stop howling all night long. I must add an aside here. Feral, the model for Watling, does not howl. He doesn’t even meow. He’s the most silent cat we’ve ever owned. Perhaps that’s why I made Watling obnoxiously loud.

This, too, qualifies as “hunting”

In Murder in the Merchant’s Hall, Watling has a more important role, that of distracting the men who come to search Rosamond’s house. He performs it admirably, and once again makes it clear which characters are wearing the white hats.

What does Feral think of all this? Silent as always, he’s not saying, but since the two other cats with whom he shares our home are featured players in the contemporary mystery series I write as Kaitlyn Dunnett, I expect he feels it’s about time he had his fifteen minutes of fame.

What do you think about using cats or other animals as continuing characters in mysteries? And if you see a cat on a cover, do you automatically think “cozy”?

 

 

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of over fifty books written under several names. She won the Agatha Award in 2008 for best mystery nonfiction for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2014 in the best mystery short story category for “The Blessing Witch.” Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries (The Scottie Barked at Midnight) as Kaitlyn and the historical Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries (Murder in the Merchant’s Hall) as Kathy. The latter series is a spin-off from her earlier “Face Down” series and is set in Elizabethan England. Her websites are www.KathyLynnEmerson.com and www.KaitlynDunnett.com

 

Dream it, then Do it

Kate Flora: I begin with a confession. I stole this title from my mother. It comes from a newspaper column she wrote years ago, when she used to do a weekly column called, “From the Orange Mailbox.” It was about identifying one’s dreams and then acting on them. It made such an impact on my childhood best friend, Karin, that she read it at mom’s memorial service. I come back to it from time to time when I find myself cowering under my desk or spinning in small, slow, unproductive circles. And because my mother was very brave and I admire bravery, I remind myself of her advice as I try to shove myself forward.

So I stole the title. And why not? It’s a good title. As we all know, there is no copyright in titles, imitation truly is often the sincerest form of flattery, and there is more right than wrong in heeding the advice of one’s mother. So here I am, as we come into the season of craziness and challenged schedules, when we’re all getting too busy to THINK about anything, writing about the process of thinking and planning for the year ahead, and about to encourage you to join me in considering what might change the shape of your upcoming year.

Perhaps you’re saying, “Okay, but what do those tightrope walker’s feet have to do with this?” But you already know, don’t you. For most of us, taking chances on doing new things out of our normal comfort zone can be as scary as we imagine walking on a tightrope would be even if we were only a few feet off the ground. This is especially true about the things we dream. There’s a big risk involved in taking the steps to move from a dream, with all of its inherent possibilities, to the reality. Our steps may be clumsy. Our execution inept. Often we don’t even know how to start. But most of us learned to walk, and to read, and to drive a car.

Because I teach and have done a lot of consulting for writers, I’ve watched a lot of people taking those first tentative steps toward being a writer. If you’ve always dreamed of being a writer, it can be truly scary to actually clear the desk and sit down to start writing. What if you can’t do it? What if you discover that writing is actually hard? Second confession: It is. What if the flowing sentences and stories you always imagined aren’t flowing? Third confession: We sometimes write for months to reach that amazing phase where things flow, but when they flow it is one of the world’s greatest highs. And it never would have happened if we hadn’t been in the chair, writing, when it hit. What if you discover that your first drafts read like “See Dick and Jane run?”

Well, the truth is that realizing dreams isn’t easy. But looking ahead, ask yourself which is better, to exit this life having lived fully and taken some chances or to have held your dreams tightly in your fist and never risked finding out if they could be realized?

When I was a kid, I was such an avid reader that I used to take twelve books out of the library every week. I’d read six on the weekend and the other six during the week. The library was my temple. Writers were amazing people. I was completely entranced by their ability to take me into another, imagined world and hold me there through the power of their storytelling. I haven’t changed much. I still find writers amazing and I’m still entranced when I pick up a book that keeps me from seeing “the bones” or analyzing what the writer is doing, when I don’t want to stop reading. After twenty-five years at the desk and with fourteen books and numerous short stories on the shelf, I’m still excited about writers and writing.

Back in those library days, I dreamed of being a writer.

Taking the chance of realizing that dream may not be easy. I was in the unpublished writer’s corner for eight years before I sold a book, and sustaining my faith and effort took most of my courage for a very long time. But lately I’ve been thinking that it’s time to start expanding the dream. I’ve been asking myself what else is important, what else do I want to try out? Do I want to write different things? Have different adventures? Learn new things to broaden my perspective and help me see the world differently? I’m finally old enough not to be embarrassed about trying to do things that I may not be good at. I sing like a crow, but sometime soon I’m going to hunt down someone who has compassion for crows and take singing lessons. You probably won’t find me sprawled sexily across a piano like Michelle Pfeiffer, as we age we have to be cautious about breaking our osteopenic bones, but I may yet croak with joy.

I dream of writing a competent screenplay, despite the daunting nature of Final Draft. Of writing the books I’m scared to write. I dream of learning to take an interesting photograph where the people in it aren’t red-eyed, or blurred, or carefully centered by the type of photographer who once worried about coloring inside the lines. I’m trying to learn to color outside the lines. To tap dance. To stop putting myself into a box.

So far, I’ve only managed to kick a few holes in the sides of the box, but light is getting in.

What have you always dreamed of? What are you afraid to do? What’s holding you back? What might change that?

As soon as we’ve decorated, cooked, decorated, cooked, undecorated, cleaned up, and rested, let’s start thinking about some new adventures. Dream it? Sure. But then why not do it?

What Are You Doing About It?

Vaughn Hardacker here: Recently I responded to a facebook post from someone whose mother and father were old friends of my parents. I posted a comment in regards to the government allowing 10,000 Syrian refugees into the U. S.: “Before we allow any refugees from Syria, we should take care of our homeless veterans (I’m paraphrasing here)” She in turn posted a reply that could have been taken as someone shaking a finger in your face: What are YOU doing to help the homeless?

My reply: I am a member of a group that is currently working to establish a veteran’s homeless shelter in Aroostook County. We have already met with representatives from the offices of Senator Collins (we have also teleconferenced with the senator), Senator King, and Congressman Poloquin and members of their offices are involved in the effort. We looked into a location at the former Loring Air Force Base and after a period of time cut off all communication with them because each time we met they came up with a different excuse why they couldn’t commit to leasing us a location. The truth of the matter is that a private company entered into the discussion and threw more money at the Loring Development Committee (a situation of which we made the above mentioned officials aware). Our argument is that we wanted a long-term facility, whereas the private corporation may pull out at any time that they feel it is not profitable.  The thing that irritates me the most is that when Loring closed, the base was given to the State of Maine. The state then gave it to the LDA and the LDA is choosing money over the welfare of our veterans. We have not given up though and are looking at sites in Caribou and Van Buren.

I am the Senior Vice-Commandant of Meo Bosse Detachment 1414 of the Marine Corps League and, in conjunction with Cary Medical Center in Caribou, I have established the Aroostook Veteran’s Advocacy Committee, of which I was elected chairperson. I mailed a letter to every veteran’s organization in Aroostook County inviting them to select a representative to the committee. At-Large members of the committee are from the Veteran’s Administration, the offices of our federal and local elected officials. We held our first meeting on October 3, 2015 and of the thirty-three organizations invited, fifteen sent representatives. Our goal is to present the Veteran’s of Aroostook County as a single entity when pushing for veteran-related legislation. The AVAC will be speaking for over 1,000 Aroostook County Veterans and elected officials from such a sparsely populated part of the state will pay attention to the prospect of gaining or losing such a large block of voters.

Other than that I haven’t been doing much.

By the way, she replied back saying she was proud of me and forwarded the post to several people she knew were dealing with the same issues. Think about the impact that turning a bunch of government owned empty buildings into housing for the homeless across the country could have!

So as the holidays close in on us, give thanks for what you have and don’t forget those who are not as fortunate.

 

Holm for the Holidays

The holiday season is upon us, which means this is my last post of the calendar year. It’s been a pleasure blogging alongside the fine folks of Maine Crime Writers – and I’d like to thank our regular readers for sitting shotgun on THE KILLING KIND’s path to publication. It’s been a wild ride, and one that shows no sign of slowing down; I’m delighted to report that last week the Boston Globe declared it one of the Best Books of 2015! (Come to think of it, THE KILLING KIND would make a fine gift for the thriller fan in your life. Just sayin’.)

I thought I’d leave you with a Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. It’s a fun little elf noir that serves as a sequel of sorts to the Rankin/Bass production of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I hope you enjoy it, and that whatever you and yours celebrate this holiday season, your days are merry and bright. See you all in 2016!

The Final Bough

Hastily Penned by Chris Holm in a Crass Attempt to Exploit the Spirit of the Holidays

I woke to the sound of slay bells.

Not that I recognized them as such at first. It’d been some time since I last heard them. During the Cabbage Patch Riots of ’83, that was. Management worked my fellow elves to the bone that year, trying to keep up with demand, and when the union finally struck, they sent a cadre of their Rock ’Em Sock ’Em ruffians to bust up the picket line. Me and the rest of the North Pole PD did our best to keep the violence from bubbling over, but our best wasn’t good enough. Ever since that day, I’ve walked with the help of a candy cane – and believe me, I was one of the lucky ones. Lots of pointy-toed shoes aimed skyward once the snow settled that day, and the bells chimed clear through to midnight, honoring the fallen.

Don’t let the red suit fool you – El Hefe’s no friend to the working elf.

Anyways, when I woke, I just assumed the godawful ringing was in my head – I’d hit the nog pretty hard the night before. Which explains how I wound up coming to in someone else’s bed.

She was a short drink of water, with a pair of getaway sticks that went most of the way to the floor. She sat beside me in the bed, wearing a saucy flannel nightgown and matching sleeping cap, her pointy ears jutting fetchingly out to either side. Not bad, I thought to myself. Now if only I could remember her name.

“I thought you said you were a cop,” she said, plucking a lollipop from a silver case and placing it between her luscious lips. “Some kind of big-wig detective, to hear you tell it.”

“I did?” I asked, rubbing sleep out of my eyes and trying in vain to remember anything of the night before. “I mean, I am!”

“Then shouldn’t you be going? Sounds like you’ve got a case.”

Damn. The dame was right. The slay bells meant one of our kind had been killed.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing my pants, and my pointy blue police cap, its copper bell jingling. “Uh, listen – I had a great time last night…”

“Sure you did,” she said, flashing me a dazzling set of teeth – a rarity among elves. Our diet’s nothing but candy and Christmas cookies all year ’round – and it ain’t like working for Big Red comes with dental. My own teeth were pitted and scarred and too long past their last brushing, and felt fuzzy from sleep and candy both. “Of course, you passed out before anything happened. Drunk as you were, I’d be surprised if you even remember my name.”

Shit. She had me. Best to bluff. “Of course I do, sugarplum,” I said, pulling on my shoes and making for the door, beside which rested my trusty cane, “but if I told you what it was now, you’d just feel bad for trying to guilt me. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

I pushed open the door of her modest hut, and stepped out into the bitter cold. My bum hip and nogged brain throbbed in time. As the door swung closed behind me, she called to me, “It’s Holly.”

***

Christmas lights flashed blue and red across the crime scene; looked like my boys had beaten me here. They’d roped off the scene with crime garland, and it was a good thing; it had already attracted its share of looky loos – elves and toys both. Made sense: it was Christmas morning, so folks didn’t exactly have much else to do. Least the reindeer weren’t awake yet; all those hoof-prints can be murder on a crime scene.

I lifted up the garland and stepped under, snow crunching underfoot. “Whadda we got, Mel?”

“A damn mess,” Mel replied, his face grave. “Looks like an Abominable attack. Nothing even left to bury.”

He wasn’t kidding. The snow was a churned up mess of Abominable tracks, broken tree limbs, tufts of fur – all bright red with spattered blood. Soon as I saw it, I knew I’d never look at a Cherry Snow Cone the same again.

“Any witnesses?” I asked.

Mel nodded toward a cute little number perched atop a Yule log at the edge of the scene. “The victim’s little lady. Claims she saw the whole thing. Want me to take her statement?”

“Nah – I’ll talk to her.”

I hobbled over to where she sat. She looked up as I approached, tears brimming in her bright blue eyes.

“Hiya, dollface,” I said. It wasn’t a term of endearment – she was a doll. Eleven inches tall, with big doe eyes, a fake-looking rack, and synthetic hair of platinum blonde. “You got a name?”

“Mitzie,” she replied.

“No kidding?” I said, eyeing the sleek, expensive lines of her designer skiwear, which clung tight to her preposterous curves. “You look more like a Barbie to me.”

She looked down, her face reddening. “I’m off-brand,” she said.

Ah. Explained the tacky makeup.

“You wanna tell me what you saw?”

Her head bobbed. “It was horrible. My poor Hermey and I were out for a walk, when the Abominable just came out of nowhere! He scooped up Hermey, and ate him in one bite. Would have eaten me too, I think, if I weren’t indigestible.”

I made appropriate noises of sympathy, asked some follow-ups, took some notes. It was odd – her affection for the deceased seemed genuine enough, but something about her story just didn’t ring true. Of course, that coulda been because the dame was made of molded plastic.

In the end, I thanked her for her time, and had one of my officers take her home.

***

Once I left the scene, I headed over to Santa’s shop to let Hermey’s supervisor know he’d punched out for the last time. It was SOP in all cases involving elf injury or death. The big day had come and gone, so the factory floor was quiet – left mostly to the janitorial staff, though a few mechanics fussed over one of the robotic assembly arms at the far end of the room. Time was, my people were known for their woodworking skills, their exquisite craftsmanship, but those days are long gone. What kid still wants a hand-tooled rocking horse in the age of X-Box 360s? So we adapted. Went high tech. Cranked out console after console all year long, and the games to match. You wouldn’t believe how much Gates and company gouge us on the licensing fees.

Hermey’s supervisor was a barrel-chested elf with bushy eyebrows that looked as though they were always set to angry, and a severe, triangular goatee to match. A fat cinnamon stick dangled unlit from his mouth, though his snow-white teeth didn’t show any sign of stains. I was glad it wasn’t lit. Smoking’s such a filthy habit. Though I will admit that on occasion, I enjoy a pinch of nutmeg between cheek and gum.

“What can you tell me about the victim?” I asked him, after filling him in on Hermey’s sorry state.

“I can tell you he wasn’t much of a toymaker,” he said. “No aptitude for it – and no desire to learn. Why, just two months back, I moved him to Decorations and Accessories because he couldn’t assemble a motherboard worth a damn, though truth be told, he was no better at making wreaths.”

“You know anybody who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”

The elf’s eyes narrowed in suspicion – though I thought I might’ve caught a hint of panic in that look as well. “I thought you said his death was an accident,” he said.

“I said it appeared to be. But I’m required to look into every angle.”

“Ah,” he said, his face brightening in false cheer. “No angles here! Truth is, I didn’t know the boy too well. You’d be better off talking to his friends.”

Something about this case just didn’t sit right, like fruitcake in July. But it was clear I wasn’t going to find any answers here. “You got any names?” I asked him.

“Well,” he said, “he was always blabbing on about some reindeer by the name of Rudolph.”

***

“Look,” Rudolph said, “I told you, me and Hermey were tight and all, but I don’t know nothing about what happened to him. The way I heard it, it was an Abominable attack, pure and simple. So why you gotta come around and bother me so early? Been kind of a long night, you know?”

The reindeer was three sheets to the wind, the breath pushing past his pearly whites damn near flammable with peppermint schnapps fumes, and his nose so red from drink it glowed. Odd seeing teeth so nice on anyone who made their home at the North Pole, let alone three someones in one day. But if there was any rhyme or reason to the impeccable choppers I’d seen today, it was eluding me. Just like whatever it was that was hinky about this case.

“Look, I understand this isn’t the best time, but I’m concerned there may be more to this case than there seems. If there’s anything you can tell me about Hermey that might help my investigation, I’d appreciate it.”

“What’s there to say?” he said, either drunkenly belligerent or defensive, I didn’t know which. “Hermey was a good friend, and now he’s gone. Maybe you should be talking to his wife.”

“I already spoke to Mitzie,” I said.

Rudolph laughed. “Mitzie? Mitzie ain’t his wife. Hermey took up with Mitzie a few weeks back, lavishing her with Corvettes, condos, and clothes from the toy shop – and not those knock-off ones either, but the real Barbie deal. I told him he was nuts – he had a fine looking lady-elf at home, after all, and cute as Mitzie was, she wasn’t nothing but smooth plastic under them fancy clothes. But Hermey wouldn’t hear none of it. Guess he was smitten. Word is, his missus took it pretty hard.”

“Hard enough to want to hurt him?”

Rudolph shrugged, inasmuch as any reindeer can. “Why don’t you go ask her yourself?”

“I think I will,” I said. “His little lady got a name?”

“Sure,” slurred the reindeer. “Her name is Holly.”

***

Holly didn’t look too happy to see me again. Can’t say I was surprised. She also didn’t look too broken up when I told her Hermey was dead, and that did surprise me some. In fact, in any other case, it would’ve been cause for suspicion – but then, I knew she didn’t off the guy, since according to Mitzie’s report, Holly and I’d been tossing back some nogs at the time of the attack. But maybe she, I don’t know, bribed the Abominable or something. Stranger things have happened, I thought – though truth be told, that wasn’t true. Abominable snowmen may be a lot of things, but they ain’t the bribe-taking type.

“Listen, Holly,” I said, “I have to ask: did you have anything to do with your husband’s disappearance?”

“Of course not!” she said, and managed to look suitably horrified at the question. “What kind of awful person do you take me for?”

“The kind who picks up strangers in nog-joints on Christmas Eve and neglects to mention you’re a kept elf, for one.”

But Holly just laughed. “You’ve got me all wrong, detective. And you’ve got Hermey all wrong, too. Our relationship’s not like that. See, Hermey isn’t into me – not like that. His interests lie… elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” I asked. “You mean…”

“Dentistry,” she said. “It’s been his dream since childhood to be a dentist. When we first met, he said I had the worst teeth he’d ever seen. You should have heard him – he sounded like a love-struck fool. Back then, there wasn’t an elf would give me the time of day on account of the bad breath my periodontal disease gave me, so me and Hermey, we decided to make it official. He figured it would give him the opportunity to practice in peace, and in return, I got all my dental work for free. And now look at me,” she said, flashing me another of her dazzling smiles.

The glimmer of an idea formed somewhere in my mind, like tinsel on a distant tree. But whole pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit, which meant someone I’d talked to today was lying to me. It was time to shake the box, see what was rattling around inside. “Rudolph tells a different tale,” I said. “He claims you’re the jealous type. That maybe you had an axe to grind.”

“The only one of us with an axe to grind is Rudolph – and it’s with me, not Hermey. He’s been sore ever since last New Year’s, when he made a pass at me and I turned him down. Those fly-boys think they’re Santa’s gift to women, but if you ask me, there’s more to romance than some swagger and a giant pair of antlers. I’m sure he thought it was pretty funny, sending you here to harass me – and anyways, he was probably just deflecting, so you’d stop asking him where Hermey is.”

At that last, pieces began to click into place. Not enough to tell the tale, but an outline was taking shape, like I’d found the corners of the puzzle.

“You talk about him like he’s still around, I said. “Hermey isn’t into you. That his interests lie elsewhere. I’d stop asking where Hermey is. What do you know that I don’t?”

Holly blinked at me a moment, panic written across her face. “Nothing!” she said. “Honest, I don’t.”

I don’t know why, but I believed her. She had that kind of face. Trusting. Sweet. The kind of face an elf could get used to coming home to. “But you suspect something.”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s just…”

“What is it?” I prompted. “You can tell me.”

“That chippie of his,” she said. “The one with the nice skin and the fake boobs. She’s not his type. Her teeth are plastic and flawless, and the rest of her, he wouldn’t care about. So if I were you, I’d be wondering why, exactly, he took up with her.”

***

I had to give it to Holly. Without her, I never woulda cracked the case.

Summer in Nyack was warmer than I expected. Even in August, the North Pole barely gets above freezing, and whenever it does, it’s nothing but shorts, swimming, and AC for me. I ain’t cut out for any climate where the mercury climbs more than halfway up the thermometer. Even the relative cool of this waiting room was making me sweat.

It’d been some months since I put it all together – since I’d answered every question but one. But that one question kept on bugging me, so I bit the flame-orange Nerf foam bullet, filled out an off-season sleigh requisition, and made my way here. To find Hermey. To get my answer.

The bored, matronly human behind the front desk called, “Next.” I was the only patient in the waiting room, so I hopped down off my chair, and hobbled caneless toward the door she indicated. I felt ridiculous in my street clothes. My T-shirt and Bermuda shorts had been made for a child, the latter with a spot inside the waistband to write my name and address, and the former emblazoned with some kind of anthropomorphic sea sponge. My shoes and hat were literally pointless, instead rounded at toes and tip, respectively. But if the lady who called me in noticed anything out of place about my height or garish outfit, she didn’t show it. Which was all the confirmation I needed I was in the right place.

The place in question was the dental practice of one Dr. Herman Tannenbaum, opened six months back. I was willing to bet Dr. Tannenbaum bore more than a passing resemblance to a certain deceased elf. And, after twenty minutes in the dentist’s chair, during which a harried dental technician made all manner of disapproving noises while she flossed and brushed my teeth, my bet paid out – in the form of a tiny, pointy-eared elf in a lab coat walking obliviously in for my consult.

“Hiya, Hermey,” I said.

Hermey pursed his lips. “Claire,” he said to the technician, “why don’t you take your lunch? I’ll take care of Mr…” he glanced at my chart and smiled, thin and humorless, “…Pine.”

Claire left without a word. Hermey closed the door behind her.

“So,” Hermey said, “how’d you find me?”

“It wasn’t easy,” I admitted. “The scene you set, you had us pretty well fooled. The cherry Snow-Cone-syrup blood was delicious, by the way.”

Hermey shook his head. “You know, you really should consider cutting back on the sweets. Your enamel is a wreck.”

“Thanks, doc – I’ll take that under advisement. Funny you say that, though, ’cause the truth is, it was teeth that set me thinking something wasn’t right. Your wife’s, on which you’d honed your craft. Rudolph’s, so he would look the other way come Christmas Eve. Your boss’s, as payment for the toys he stole so you could lavish little Mitzie with the gifts she demanded in return for her cooperation, since her teeth were fine as is. She was the key to the whole plan, wasn’t she? I mean, I checked the dimensions of her box, and it turns out it’s just big enough for an elf to fit in. Tell me, was little Abby Mitchell heartbroken when she got you under her Christmas tree instead of the doll she’d asked for?”

“You’re welcome to ask her if you like,” Hermey said. “She’s in the room just down the hall. Her overbite is coming along quite nicely, by the way, and all the work I’ve done on her was free of charge. She didn’t ask for Mitzie anyway, you know – what she really wanted was a Barbie doll. It was her parents who requested the off-brand, because they couldn’t afford name-brand accessories in this economy. If Mitzie’d been left under that tree, both she and Abby would have been sorely disappointed. And anyways, I couldn’t stand the thought of making one more wreath. Being forced to build toys when your calling lies in fixing teeth is bad enough, but being told I wasn’t even good enough for that? It was more than I could bear.”

“So you tied your final bough and then made your escape. Clever. There’s just one thing I’ve got to know. How’d you fake the Abominable attack?”

Hermey laughed. “I didn’t! I just asked nice, and he agreed to help. He prefers to go by Bumble, by the way.”

“Come again?”

“Bumble and I go back quite a ways – nearly as long as me and Rudolph, as it happens. And believe me, he’s anything but abominable. Sure, he was grouchy enough when we first met – but you would be too, if every tooth in your head were impacted. I pulled them for him, and ever since, he’s owed me one. I figured it was high time I cashed in. So, are you going to take me back?”

I thought about it long and hard, but in the end, I let him stay. Chalk it up to the Christmas spirit, I suppose. After all, where I’m from, Christmas is a way of life. Guess the Big Man ain’t all bad if he taught me that.

Besides, old Hermey is a magician with a dentist’s drill. I may’ve returned empty-handed, but my chompers have never looked better. You don’t have to take my word for that, either – you could ask my little lady. She and I’ve been going strong for going on four months – ever since I got back from Nyack.

Speaking of, I gotta split. Christmas is coming, and me and Holly got some halls to deck.