Sara Paretsky's Blog, page 2

One Last Favor

Have you ever had to work for someone who was so entitled they thought you should sweep the sidewalk in front of them? A friend of mine did when life was falling down around her. She wouldn’t take money from me, so I wrote this story to boost her spirits (and she managed to leave her alcoholic husband, finish her accounting degree and raise her two children in comfort, so sometimes there are happy endings.)

The princess was grateful. She was no longer fully flexible, or completely sober, but she inclined her head and gave her most glittering smile. We don’t need flashbulbs when we photograph you, sweet Irving Radovich said when he covered her arrival at the Marine Ball. That smile lights the room. Or had it been when dear Princess Diana visited? So many fabulous parties, they all blurred into one colossal ballroom opening onto a wide veranda with a scintillating naval attaché supporting one down wide steps that led to a manicured lawn ending in a lake.

“I need to be paid,. Two hundred thirteen dollars and seventy-eight cents.”

The princess blinked. The scintillating naval attaché was replaced by Rachel, stolid, lumpy Rachel in her t-shirt and jeans.

“I thanked you,” the princess said.

“And you owe me money, Danielle. I brought your goldfish all the way from Chicago.”

“”It’s Princess Vladimirovna when you speak to me, Rachel! Besides, you were coming here anyway,” the princess said, tone sharp.

It was useless being gracious with peasants. They only understood the knout. Her mother-in-law, whose grandfather had been a grand duke – minor royalty, but still royalty! – had often mourned the loss of the knout in treating the insolent servants and shopkeepers who now peopled all their lives. And grand duke was a mistranslation, as every Russian scholar knew. Grand prince, it should be, which made her a princess.

“I was going to Boston,” Rachel said. “Driving up here to you in Vermont is a hundred seven miles out of my way. Two hundred fourteen miles round-trip at fifty-five cents a mile, plus food et cetera for your fish for two weeks. I’m only asking you to pay for the extra travel, not the whole trip.”

“I looked after your fat stupid daughter over the Christmas holidays to save you the cost of her airfare home,” the princess said, her voice going up half an octave. “If we’re going to have brains like accountants, then let me present you with a bill for Letitia’s room and board. Four weeks times four years.”

“Letitia did all your cooking and cleaning for you so that you didn’t have to pay a housekeeper for those sixteen weeks.” Rachel’s face reddened. “And I don’t know why you think she’s stupid. She’s graduating from college, which is more than your daughter ever did, and she has a job, instead of embezzling my money so that I had to sell one of my houses.”

It was the princess’s daughter who’d embezzled from her mother’s bank accounts. Rachel didn’t have multiple houses. She didn’t have one house, just an apartment over a bar, where the cheap rent helped her save money for daughter’s education.

“How dare you talk to me like that?” The princess looked around wildly for something to throw, and when she didn’t see anything close at hand, yanked a ring from one of her fingers and hurled it toward Rachel. It hit the goldfish bowl and fell at Rachel’s feet. The fish continued to circle the bowl, unfrightened by the ping the ring made when it hit the glass.

“Ladies, ladies, what’s going on here?” Sanford Marwood came around the corner of the house. He was the princess’s current escort. She hadn’t married when her first husband died – she would have had to relinquish her title – but there had been a steady stream of escorts to take his place.

“It’s the goldfish.” The princess held her hands out appealingly. “You know Beady adores him, and so Rachel drove him from Chicago; we couldn’t trust him to the movers. Now she thinks I ought to pay her.”

Beady was the grandson, five years old, with the kind of nickname people in the princess’s circle considered cute. Beady’s birth name was Logan Pavel Vladimirovich IV. He lived with his grandmother. His mother – the princess’s daughter – had signed away her maternal rights in exchange for the princess not prosecuting her over the embezzlement.

“Be a good sport, Rachel.” Sanford smiled, showing all his teeth. They looked like horse’s teeth, square, yellow.

“I was a good sport to drive three hours to get here. I need to get back to Boston. We’re having a dinner to celebrate Letitia’s graduation. If Danielle can’t pay me, I’ll take the fish with me. I can release it into the New England Conservatory koi pond.”

She turned around and started for her car. The princess shrieked at her to stop, come back, don’t steal Beady’s fish!

“How much does she want?” Sanford asked.

“Two hundred thirteen dollars and thirty-eight cents,” Rachel said.

“Buy the boy another goldfish. He won’t notice the difference,” Sanford said.

“I’ll notice that the bowl is missing,” the princess said. “It’s a family heirloom. Baccarat crystal made for my great-grandmother’s wedding. The Prince of Wales came to that; Queen Victoria was ailing at the time. If you don’t put the bowl down right now, I’m calling the police.”

“That’s a good idea,” Rachel said. “You can act all princessy with them and they can write me up a ticket for driving 1300 miles to give you a goldfish you were too high-and-mighty to bring with you. Or you were too scatterbrained. I’ll call Letitia so she can be ready with a story for her blog, in case your pet cops put me in jail.”

“Stay where you are, Rachel, there’s a good girl.” Sanford disappeared into the house. He came back a few minutes later with a check. “It’s all filled out, Princess: you just have to sign it and we can be done with this little problem.”

He held out the check with a pen. The princess scowled but signed and Sanford presented Rachel with the check. She looked at it, shrugged, and put the fishbowl under one arm while she tucked the check into her pocket. When the check was safe she handed the bowl to Sanford.

She was getting back into her car when Beady came running up to the house, his nanny behind him.

“Rachel! Are you working for us here?” he piped in his high child’s voice.

“Just dropping off your goldfish.” She gestured toward the bowl. “Your nana says you loved this goldfish.”

“Granny,” the princess said. “Only peasants call their grandmothers ‘nana.’”

“Goldfish? I hate the goldfish!” Beady screamed at his grandmother. “I want a puppy. I told you, I want a puppy!”

“Just this once, Beady, to please me, try to like the goldfish,” the princess said in her most plaintive voice.

Beady yanked the bowl from Sanford’s hands and dropped it onto the paving stones.

Rachel poured coffee out of her travel mug and poured in water from a bottle. She scooped the fish into the cup and drove off. The princess paid no heed; she was standing over the broken bowl weeping in tune with her howling grandson.

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Sara on the Axe Files

Sara joined David Axelrod, founder and director of the University of Chicago Institute of Politics, on his CNN podcast The Axe Files. She talked about her family history, the recent rise in antisemitism, using her writing to give voice to the marginalized, the creation of V.I. Warshawski, and work on abortion and women’s rights.

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David Thompson Special Service Award

Sara is pleased to be this year’s recipient of the David Thompson Special Service Award, given by the Bouchercon Board to honor the memory and contributions to the crime fiction community of David Thompson, a much beloved Houston bookseller who passed away in 2010. Winners are selected for their “extraordinary efforts to develop and promote the crime fiction field.”

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Coming April 16, 2024: Pay Dirt

Sara’s novel Pay Dirt is coming in Spring 2024!

V.I. Warshawski is famous for her cool under fire, her sardonic humor, and her unflinching courage. All that changed when a case ended with a father killing the child she’d been hired to find. She’s second-guessing herself, forgetting to eat, forgetting her workout.

Her worried friends send her down to Kansas for a weekend of college basketball; Angela, one of her protegées is a Northwestern star. And that’s when her troubles really begin.

READ EXCERPT

The post Coming April 16, 2024: Pay Dirt appeared first on Sara Paretsky.

Coming in Spring 2024: Pay Dirt

Sara’s novel Pay Dirt is coming in Spring 2024!

V.I. Warshawski is famous for her cool under fire, her sardonic humor, and her unflinching courage. All that changed when a case ended with a father killing the child she’d been hired to find. She’s second-guessing herself, forgetting to eat, forgetting her workout.

Her worried friends send her down to Kansas for a weekend of college basketball; Angela, one of her protegées is a Northwestern star. And that’s when her troubles really begin.

READ EXCERPT

The post Coming in Spring 2024: Pay Dirt appeared first on Sara Paretsky.

Life After Dobbs

Spared the flames
I returned to Domremy
Minded my brothers’ children and their sheep
Seasons came and went
My hair changed from burnished copper to duller bronze and then to grey
Cataracts grew across my eyes
And children sidestepped the hero of Orleans –
Not that old woman with her threadbare fables of leading troops to war!
Each spring new lambs arrived
I sang them lullabies
Recounting those old battles
Where freedom triumphed

And in the greater world the citadel collapsed
The king whom I’d adored gave up our victories.
Word came to her, not St. Michael, nor St. Margaret
Word came from girls violated beyond their bearing

And so, old though I am, cloudy eyes hunting through cupboards and chests,
Yes, there is my armor, rusted from disuse
My stiff knees protest, my back jolts me with pain
But I bend my bones to my will
Pulling on the greaves
Arthritic fingers struggle with buckles and vambraces
My old horse hears the clang of shield on steel
Whinnies in a creaky voice
Stands as I find a stool,
Climbs up
One tired old leg over the pommel
And so once more to battle

— Sara Paretsky

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The Reviews Are In!

Overboard is now on sale everywhere and I’m pleased to report that the reviews have been positive. The Washington Post chose it as one of their 10 noteworthy books for May. Publisher’s Weekly said “Propulsive…. The tale’s relentless pacing, sky-high stakes, and strong social justice advocacy should keep readers invested in the expertly crafted characters’ fates. Series fans will get their money’s worth.” And Booklist said “Paretsky’s clever plotting and storytelling crusades against corruption remain unchanged in this particularly evocative visit to Vic’s world.” Read an excerpt here.

Overboard Launch Events

Overboard will be on sale everywhere on May 10th (May 5th in the United Kingdom) and I’m pleased to report the reviews have been positive.

Here are the launch events for Overboard.

* On Tuesday, May 10th at 7 pm CT Anderson’s Bookshop  in Naperville, IL is hosting my first in-person event since the pandemic: the launch of Overboard. I’ll give a reading, answer questions, and sign books. Even though we’ll be wearing masks, we’ll have a great time.

* On Wednesday, May 11th at 7:30 pm GT/1:30 pm CT the Staffordshire Libraries will host a Q&A with me. Wherever you are in the world, you’re welcome to join in.

* On Sunday, May 15th at 5:30 pm CT I’ll be onstage with the incomparable Donna Seaman as part of a lineup that includes the brilliant Pulitzer winner Jacqueline Woodson, Luis Urrea and many others at the American Writers Festival in downtown Chicago.

* On Monday, May 16th at 6 pm CT Rogue Women Writers  has invited me to chat with MC Tracy Clark and writers James Rollins, Amanda Quick and Chris Holm on Rogue Reads. This fun virtual event invites you to eat, drink and ask questions. We all submitted recipes for snacks that readers can make and eat while we talk. Here’s your chance to see what VI Warshawski does with figs and goat cheese. You can see the event live on their Facebook  page or on YouTube.

* On Wednesday, May 18th at 6 pm ET, Alafair Burke and I will be chatting at Mysterious Bookshop in New York.

* On Saturday, June 4th at 2 pm CT I’m delighted to be back in person at Centuries and Sleuths in Forest Park, IL.

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Sal’s Gin and Grits

Opening scene; ext shot, Sal’s Gin and Grits. This is a dingy building on an urban street, windows heavily barred and with thick blinds blocking any view of the interior. A door of re-enforced steel is locked. Surveillance cameras cover the sidewalk.

Second shot: the alley entrance. Teens, boys and girls, dressed in cheap clothes, but ones that reflect current fashions. They’re carrying on fragmented conversations in between looking at their phones or tablets.

1st boy: Crap! I never knew she said stuff like that!

2nd boy: Like what? Grabs his friend’s phone

 3rd boy: OMG, I can’t believe she got away with that.

Girls cluster around the device, then walk away with scornful laughs. We’ve been knowing that since we were eight.

As the girls turn away, we see the boys are looking at Judy Blume’s Forever.

A younger girl runs around the corner of the building: (gasping for breath) Cops!

2nd boy bounces tennis ball hard against the back door.

Scene Two: Inside Sal’s Gin and Grits

Sal, the owner, is sitting behind the bar. She’s a heavy-set woman in her fifties, wearing thick pancake and a sweatshirt that says, MARA . A cappuccino machine and tea samovar are on the shelf behind her. She’s looking at a tablet, but frequently scans the room to see if anyone wants refreshments.

Forty or so patrons sit around tables. They range in age from eight or nine to eighty or ninety.  All are looking at tablets. They are quiet for the most part, although every now and then one or more of them is excited by something they’ve seen on the screen in front of them. On the far side of the room, Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis, Sonny Payne and a few others are sitting near their instruments,  but they are reading or chatting quietly among themselves.

The noise of the tennis ball against the back door galvanizes the room. The musicians begin playing a fast number. A big overhead TV starts broadcasting a football game. Sal rips off her sweatshirt, revealing a tatty velvet top that covers her massive bosom only with the aid of safety pins.

A set of shelves drops down behind her, covering the cappuccino machine and samovar with shelves of liquor bottles.

A second later, the steel front door is opened with police wielding giant battering rams.

Sal: Why, Detective Mulligan, what brings you here? Want some of my – grits?

Mulligan: You know damned well why I’m here, Sal. You’re operating an illegal library.

Mulligan:  (snatches a tablet from a girl and reads) Are you There, God? It’s Me, Margaret! This is the fifth time we’ve caught you serving Judy Blume to a minor.

He grabs her discarded sweatshirt. MARA. Make America Read Again. Might have known.

(picks up another tablet) Felix Ever After! We warned you to give them something wholesome, like Gone With The Wind. You should be ashamed of yourself. And you’ll get fifteen to life to think of your shame.

The room is swarming with cops. They grab Jack Lemmon’s bass and shake it. A copy of the 1619 Project falls out.

Cop: Hands behind your back, Pervert!

Mulligan: Adults, you’re off to holding cells. Your kids are going into foster care where they will not ever have to read another line of print.

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Tom Phillips Changed My Life

The summer I turned 19, in 1966, Martin Luther King came to Chicago to support the local Civil Rights movement in their fight for open housing, and for access to jobs. The Presbytery of Chicago supported this mission, and asked for college students volunteers, who would be embedded in the neighborhoods, and assist in any way asked of them. Although I was a Jew, I was accepted as a volunteer and assigned to work for Tom Phillips at Marlboro Presbyterian Church to help run a daycamp for local kids aged 7 – 11. We were asked to perform a sort of soft propaganda in an all-white blue-collar community – winning hearts and minds – to try to move away from hatred as a response to diversity.

Tom was the best manager I ever worked for. He gave our group of three volunteers guidance and direction, but left us to manage the day camp on our own. He taught me how to think outside my own narrow experience of life. We took our forty kids everywhere in Chicago, by bus and L. We had story time, music – one of our group, George Harris, knew a thousand songs and knew how to engage the kids in singing them. Some I still sing myself. We had a little cooking club. When the ringleader of the big boys learned we were making chocolate pie from scratch, he signed up. (Against my advice he tried a piece of unsweetened chocolate, and then bullied the other boys into eating some, too.)

Tom also involved us volunteers in the politics of the city, from the big stuff downtown to the power structure in our own community, including the local Catholic church, where most of the neighborhood worshiped. We met with our peers in the Catholic Youth Group, and were dismayed at their support for their drunk, racist alderman, but Tom talked us through that, as well.

The next year, when I graduated from university and was at loose ends, Tom and his wife Carolyn invited me to live with them and their two children while I looked for work. This cemented my connection/commitment to Chicago, and led, indirectly, to my meeting my husband.

Tom died yesterday. I am grieving, but I am constantly grateful for my time with him and with Carolyn.

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