Mollie Cox Bryan's Blog, page 15

Annie Chamovitz’s Fun Interview

One of my characters, Annie Chamovitz, is interviewed on Chloe Gets a Clue. Check it out. What a fun blog!

Happy Birthday, Elizabeth

In an effort to bring you up to speed on what’s been happening with my Cumberland Creek characters, I’m publishing this short story. In my timeline, this happens a year before my next book (SCRAPPED) begins. This takes place in November and SCRAPPED takes place in October a year later. Many of you asked me about Vera’s pregnancy. So I wrote this story to fill in some gaps and I first published in my newsletter. If you’ve not subscribed, please do. Most of my short stories are published there first.

Happy Holidays!

Mollie

 

Happy Birthday Elizabeth

 

Vera placed her swollen feet on the stool as she sank bank into the chair. A long drawn out sigh escaped from her hulking body. She took in the scene before her—a fire in the fireplace, beautiful log cabin walls with quilts hanging on two of them, a rocking chair next to the stone fireplace. One of these days, Vera was going to learn how to quilt.

“I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to come to this retreat,” Sheila said.

“Good Lord, Sheila. It’s only thirty miles from home,” DeeAnn said, as she sat a plate of muffins on the table.

“Get those away from me,” Vera said, turning her face toward the window, which offered a view of the lake, and colorful autumn trees surrounding it.

DeeAnn tsked as she moved them to another table.

“It’s all I need to gain another pound,” Vera said. “I can barely move as it is.”

“Thirty miles of twisty country roads,” Sheila said to DeeAnn, ignoring the conversation about muffins and weight.

“I’m fine,” Vera snapped. “Just pregnant. I’m not due for another few weeks. So chill out Sheila.”

DeeAnn and Sheila exchanged a look.

“What was that all about?” Vera said, an octave higher than her usual.

“Nothing,” DeeAnn said and walked over to the fire, which the group had deemed   DeeAnn’s responsibility. She poked around at it.

Sheila sat down on the huge plaid couch next to her. “You’re just not yourself, dear.”

“Well, who the hell is?” Vera said after a few minutes. “After everything that’s happened…I’m not sure I’ve processed it all. Then there’s this,” she patted her stomach.

The Cumberland Creek Scrapbookers had been planning this retreat for months. It was the only weekend they could all get away at the same time together. They rented a cottage at Sherando Lake, which was a part of the George Washington National Forest.

“You’ll be fine. You’ve got us,” Sheila said.

Vera rolled her eyes. “Look at us. We are a mess. We came up here to scrapbook and…”

Why was Vera being so grouchy? She was more moody than ever.

With all of the tensions in their lives, along with the upheaval the recent murder created, they all felt a need to get away. Vera’s nerves were shot after the whole murder ordeal. Newcomer Annie was shaken, as well. They were all hoping to never have to deal with another murder again.

But so far, Sheila was driving Vera crazy by her fussing, DeeAnn was driving Vera crazy with all the goodies she was baking, Annie mostly went for long walks alone by the lake, and Paige sulked at the scrapbooking table alone. Why was she the only one scrapbooking?

Vera was worried the group was falling apart. They’d been together seven years as a scrapbooking crop—others coming and going but Sheila, Vera, DeeAnn and Paige were the main stays. Sheila and Vera had grown up together. Paige was a few years younger than them in school, but their families all knew one another. DeeAnn was from Minnesota—had married a local man, moved to town and opened her own bakery.

Since Maggie Rae’s murder, things had been tense within the group. It was almost as if making those scrapbooks for her family sapped all the creative energy from them too. They were adrift in their projects and lives.

But nobody had been more tense than Annie, the newcomer who thought she was moving to a sweet, bucolic place, not a town where your neighbor gets murdered in her basement. Annie had been stalked, too. Turns out by an “innocent” man who was troubled. She was so gorgeous that it was a wonder more men didn’t stalk her. Well, mused Vera, she was a bit intimidating, too. Sharp. Said what was on her mind.

Just then, Annie walked back in the house after another one of her walks, looking like a glowing, windswept  goddess. “It’s just so beautiful out there,” she said dreamily.

Vera grunted. She had always loved Sherando with its hills and lakes and thick forest surrounding it. But she was in no mood to talk about its beauty. Truth was, she wasn’t feeling well. She been feeling bloated and cranky for months, it seemed, but today it was different. She tried to fight off heartburn and back pain with Tylenol and anti-acid. It seemed like everything she ate made her hurt.

Looking at Annie, so tall and thin, made Vera want to heave. She was so over being pregnant. The charm of it wore off weeks ago.

 

“What are you working on over there?” Sheila said to Paige.

“Just an album for Randy,” she said. Randy was Paige’s only child, who had grown up and moved away. His father disowned him when he found out he was gay. Paige was trying to patch things up—not easy.

“How’s that going?” Sheila asked.

“Oh well,” she waved her hand. “You know. Randy and I are getting along fine over the phone. We spent that weekend together and had such a blast. But Earl? “ She shrugged.

“He’ll come around,” DeeAnn said. “I mean Randy is his kid, too.”

Paige frowned. “I hope so. But he’s been so brainwashed about gay people. And I suppose it’s harder for a man to come to terms with a gay son.”

Vera didn’t get that at all. She’d never tell Paige, but she thought her husband Earl was an idiot. But of course her own soon-to-be-ex-husband was not much better. But she was proud of Paige for forging ahead and patching up things with her son herself—without Earl’s blessing.

But sitting here, pregnant and without a husband, she didn’t want to hear this conversation at all. Something about it rubbed her the wrong way. You just never knew what kind of child you were bringing in to the world. Gay. Straight. Manic. Gifted. But Vera believed it didn’t matter—that you loved and supported your kid no matter what.

Vera saw Paige running her fingers over the page she just finished. The title was “Mother & Son.” It was surrounded by different photos of them together. One of when he was still a baby in her arms.

“Aw now,” Sheila said. “Look at that.”

“I can’t wait for this baby to get here,” Vera said, feeling more hopeful as she looked at Paige and her page. Look. They survived the baby years, the toddler years, middle and high school, then college. Surely she could manage.

But she’d be managing without a husband.

Oh, Bill wanted to be a part of it all. She was sure he would be—but not in the same way Earl was with Paige and Randy. Her mother, Beatrice, would help as much as she could, too. But she was no spring chicken. Fear ripped through her as it often did ever since she’d been pregnant. She just wanted to scream: “What kind of a sick joke is this, God?”

She’d always wanted to have a baby, but at 41? Alone?

“Me, too,” Sheila said. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had a baby to play with. I can’t wait.”

Sheila had four of her own. One was heading for college next year. One was heading for high school—one in middle school, the youngest in elementary.

“Funny, you somehow think of them as an extension of yourself. But they really are their own people. And sometimes it’s not something you planned on or even ever imagined,” Paige said, sort of to herself.

“I’m glad you’re getting to take some time away,” Annie said, changing the subject, as she looked at Vera. “Try to get as much rest as you can, while you can. We’ll all be there to help you out. But this peace and quiet, here, in these mountains…well, once you become a mom, you’ll see these moments are fleeting.”

Annie sat down at the scrapbooking table and fingered through some paper. DeeAnn joined her.

Finally, Vera thought, everybody is at the table. Well, everybody but her. Maybe it was going to be okay. Maybe they would survive as a group—after the weeks of them investigating the murder and now the trial and with all the gruesome details it revealed about Maggie Rae and her family life. Would anything be the same again?

“You know, that’s true,” DeeAnn said, sifting through an envelope of photos and papers. “But I’ve never regretted having kids. I’m so proud of mine I could burst. Doesn’t mean there hasn’t been times I wanted to wring their skinny necks,” she said and laughed.

Annie laughed along as Sheila joined them at the table.

“Are you all actually going to crop at this scrapping retreat?” Vera said. “How about that?”

“Of course we are!” Sheila said, with a little too much cheer in her voice.

Annie went to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. “Anyone else?”

“I’ll take one,” Paige said. “I need it. Dealing with Earl about Randy has set my nerves on edge. I want him to come home for Christmas. Randy wants to come home. But Earl is all like ‘what will people think? What about the church?’ “

“Those are good questions,” DeeAnn said, after a moment.

“What?” Vera squealed, rolling herself out of her chair. “It’s nobody’s business is what I say.”

“Now, wait, Vera,” DeeAnn said, putting her scissors down. “Paige and Earl live here. They’ve been at that church forever. God knows what will happen if Randy walked through those doors.”

Vera waved them off as she walked up to her chair at the table.

“Man, my back just aches,” Vera mumbled, before sitting down.

“That chair going to be okay?” Sheila said, getting up from hers.

“Sheila, sit down. Good Lord,” Vera said.

Annie reached over and turned the radio on—Alison Kraus was singing. That was one singer they all agreed about so they left it on the station. They wouldn’t get much choice in these mountains anyway.

They all began to dig through their papers, photos, books, and a photo escaped from Vera’s unruly pile. It was Maggie Rae, smiling at the camera, sitting on a swing, must have been in high school, maybe college.

Tears suddenly stung Vera’s eyes as she looked up at DeeAnn.

“We did good by her,” DeeAnn said, in a hushed tone.

Sheila reached out and grabbed Vera’s hand. “We certainly did.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” Vera managed to say.

“Me neither,” Annie said from across the table. “I keep thinking about her kids.”

“I just wish…we could have stopped it,” Vera said.

“Shhh,” DeeAnn said. “Nothing we could do about that.”

“We just didn’t know,” Paige said.

“But we need to be more aware,” Annie said.

Vera nodded. “Yes. Hopefully, nothing like this will ever happen again in Cumberland Creek. But let’s make a pact to be more vigilant. There were signs. Let’s not ignore them any more.”

They all nodded in agreement.

Vera felt her body give off a great heaving sigh as the tension in the room seemed to disappear.

Damn, she was hungry. She started to get up to get a plate of raw veggies that was on the kitchen counter. The room spun and she sat—or rather—fell back into her chair.

“Vera?” Sheila was on her like white on rice.

“Just got a little dizzy. I’m sure it’s my blood pressure,” Vera said. “Something I’ve had to deal with for a few months, now. All this extra weight. Fifty pounds! “

“Are you sure?” Sheila said, reaching for her hand.

“Yes,” Vera said and took a deep breath. “Help me up. I just want that plate of veggies.”

“I’ll get it,” Annie said.

But as Vera stood, leaning on Sheila—a woman half her size—pain ripped through her back and lower abdomen as large gush of water came pouring out from her. It was in a great puddle on the floor.

“Oh great,” Sheila said. “Just great.”

“Shut up, Sheila,” Vera said.

“What?” DeeAnn and the others stood and raced to Vera’s side.

“I just lost my water,” she said, sounding much more calm than what she felt.

“Whoa,” Annie said. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Okay,” Paige said. “We can do that. Let’s just get cleaned up and packed up and leave. “

“We better do it quickly,” Annie said.

“Of course,” Sheila said.

“I mean,” Annie said as she pointed at the window. “It’s snowing.”

“That’s just a little skiff,” DeeAnn said, a Minnesotan who knew her snow. “I’ll drive. It will be okay.”

 

Supplies thrown into to their crates. Clothes heaped into their suitcases. Bags zipping. Food placed into containers and bags.

And the snow started to come down with big fluffy flakes against a gray sky and huge evergreens. Clumps of snow hung on to the green branches.

A white dusting covered the roads. Better that it happen now than later, Vera  thought. But still, she wasn’t due for another three weeks. She took a deep breath, trying not to panic. The weather casters had not called for snow—though it was November and her mother had warned her about the possibility.

“What on earth is wrong with you? What if we get a snow storm? You ready to have that baby holed up in a cabin with nobody to help you but those crazy scrapbookers?” Beatrice had said.

Damn her. Why did she always have to be right?

Vera couldn’t call Bill, couldn’t call her mother, as there was no cell service until they were down off the mountain.

Somehow, Beatrice was already at the hospital. Someone had managed to call her. How did Vera miss that?

And Bill was nowhere to be found.

“Where is Bill?” Vera managed to say, after she caught her breath from a contraction that gripped her and her mother grabbed on to her hand.

“He’ll be here,” Bea said.

“Now, we see you want a natural childbirth,” the nurse said as Vera was placed into a wheelchair, with the scrapbookers swarming around her, like she was their precious queen bee. Of course. Her friends would always be there for her. She warmed.

Beatrice harrumphed.

Another pain tore through Vera, along with her stomach getting as hard as a bowling ball.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said between breaths. “Give me what ever drugs you’ve got.”

 

Later, as she held her daughter, with her mother and Bill on either side of her, she was awash in emotion and warmth. She fell hopelessly in love with the sweet girl-child in her arms.

“What did you decide for a name?” Bill asked. “What do we call her?”

“Elizabeth,” Vera replied.

A strange sound came from Beatrice—something between a sob and a gasp. “My Mama’s name.”

 

 

 

 

The Men of Cumberland Creek: A Brush-Up

This blog post is a reposting from the launch of my first book SCRAPBOOK OF SECRETS. As I am launching my second one, SCRAPPED, I’ve been reposting to remind you about my characters before we go into the next book. Soon I’ll introduce you to Cookie Crandall, my newest character.

Okay, so I’ve gotten you up to speed on all of my main characters and some of the secondary characters—all women. But not any of the male characters.  So, I thought I’d introduce them to you.  Yes, SCRAPBOOK OF SECRETS is a mystery novel, but it’s a traditional mystery, which (among other things) means the characters and their relationships are important to the story.

Mike Chamovitz (Annie’s husband) is a pharmaceutical sales rep and is away from home for a few days at a time. Have you been following my Pinterest account? (Here’s link to that.) If you are, then you know that I imagine him as a Johnny Depp look alike. At first glance, Mike and Annie have a wonderful relationship. He is a much more patient and settled person than Annie is, though.

Here is a bit from the book about them:

“Annie’s memories of their time together before the children helped her to cling to the hope they would get there again someday. They met at a book fair—and their conversations were often about literature, politics, philosophy. Mike’s mind was a beacon that lit a fire in her. She always found something he said sparked the desire in her to learn more. Do more. Be more.”

Bill Ledford (Vera’s husband) is a lawyer and I imagine him as David Duchovny, but balding. Bill is smack in the middle of mid-life and thinks he has it all figured out. Turns out, he doesn’t. (In facts, she still thinks a lot about her old boyfriend Tony.) Here’s a little about Bill and Vera:

“For all intents and purposes, Vera thought, Bill was the perfect husband—always kind and polite, cleaned up after himself, and he was an attentive lover, for which she had always been grateful. But lately, she just didn’t want to be bothered. Sex was more trouble than it was worth—so more often than not, she told him no, she was tired, or not feeling well. And he would never question her. But sometimes the thought of making love with him absolutely just filled her with dread.”

Detective Adam Bryant is the only detective in the small town of Cumberland Creek, yet he is Harvard-educated, and smart as a whip. The trouble with Adam is he is socially inept and comes across as sexist on several occasions. He is in  good shape and a very attractive man, even if he has a bit of a swagger. (In truth, maybe that swagger is part of his appeal.)  Check out Pinterest to see who I’d cast as Adam. Heh.

Here’s the scene in which many of the scrapbookers first meet Adam:

“Greetings exchanged, the detective walked into the room filled with pretty scrapbooking doodads, paper, and food. He was a large man, tall, about six feet, five inches in height and broad at the shoulders, narrow at the hips. He was manly-looking enough to look out of place in this group of women, who were all sitting there gaping—a decent looking, clean-shaven man in a blue suit with eyes to match. Shoes polished to a shine. Spiffy. Maybe an ex- military man? Hadn’t Vera seen him at the funeral?

“I’m Detective Bryant,” he said flashing his badge. “I just have a few questions for you. Now what’s going on here?” He gestured at the table.

Vera cleared her throat. “Dinner,” she said, with a smile. “Would you like some?”

All three of those men play important roles in all three of my books—even though they are secondary characters. The focus is on the women. But it the first book SCRAPBOOK SECRETS, there is another man that’s key in the story—Robert Dasher, Maggie Rae’s grieving husband. Here’s a bit of Annie’s observing him:

“Robert was a devastatingly handsome young man. He looked like he stepped right off the pages of GQ. His clothes hung on him just like a model’s, clung in the right places, showed off his thin, but muscular physique, Those blue eyes, though, held very little emotion. Annie could not read anything in them—even in the wedding pictures. He was smiling, but his eyes looked the same as when he wasn’t smiling. Odd.”

Just a note here: We see Robert Dasher from afar in SCRAPPED and HYBRID (Book #3).

 

Five things I thought about during my morning run:

1. Sometimes the only thing that makes sense to me is my feet on the pavement.

2. Four Bluejays on a bare bush.

3. How meaningful answers are never easy to find.

4. Hot sweaty skin. Cool breeze. Tears stinging.

5. Nobody needs an assault rifle, unless you are in the military. I think we all can agree to that. Yes, indeed.

Cumberland Creek: A Brush-Up

At the end of the month the second book in my Cumberland Creek Mystery Series will be published. SCRAPPED takes place a full year after SCRAPBOOK OF SECRETS. I think a lot of series are spaced closer together and maybe the others in my series will be. But in the mean time, I went back and looked at some of my old posts where I introduced you to my characters and thought it would be fun for you to revisit before the next book comes out. And who knows…maybe some new reader will happen on this post and decide to pick up both books.  Next post: The men of Cumberland Creek.  Stay tuned for more on Cookie Crandall, my new character.

Intro to my characters

My Cumberland Creek Mystery series revolves around a group of women in a small but growing Southern town. They get together to scrapbook, eat, and as it happens, to solve murders.

The story is told from three main characters points of view. They are surrounded by a secondary group of women and men. There’s also a third tier of characters I like to call my “walk-ons.” I thought I’d introduce you to the main three characters and next week I’ll tell you more about the secondary characters. The third group of characters shifts from book to book.

Annie

Annie Chamovitz is 36-years-old and has “retired” from the rough and tumble world of Washington, D.C., investigative journalism. She and her husband Mike moved to Cumberland Creek from Bethesda, Md., a posh suburbanish city.  Her family is the only Jewish family in town.  When the book opens, she is a stay-at-home mom to Sam and Ben.  After being in Cumberland Creek about a year, she is finally invited to a weekly scrapbooking crop. She goes to the scrapbook gathering—reluctantly. Visions of frilly stickers and glitter paper dissuade her. Soon, she is part of the group, finding she loves the “puzzle” aspect to scrapbooking.  Soon enough, she also gets sucked back into freelance journalism.

A narrative bit about Annie:

The first time Annie was asked the most popular question new residents were asked, which was “What church do you attend?” she grimaced. She felt violated. She was used to moving in an urban community in which such questions were not asked.

My favorite quote from Annie:

“I don’t need my husband’s permission, Detective, just his support. This is the twenty-first century,” she said.

Vera

Vera Matthews has just turned forty. She is the owner of the only dancing school in town. She has never quite resolved her longing for the stage. So, among other things, she delights in changing hair color and make-up palettes. She is married to her college sweetheart, Bill Ledford. She grew up in Cumberland Creek, went to college in New York City, and danced professionally for a brief period of time. Because she’s childless, she makes scrapbooks for her students and herself.

A narrative bit about Vera:

It wasn’t as if she kept secrets from her dearest friends. Some things were too private to talk about at a crop. After all, crops were primarily for scrapbooking. Oh yes, there was the social aspect that one couldn’t deny. But nothing deep or heavy should be broached.

My favorite quote from Vera:

“I may be a bitch, but I work too hard for my money to go and have some pop psychologist to charge me to tell me about the psychological aspect to a hobby. For godsakes. Some people just sap all the fun out of everything,” Vera said, taking a bite of the cake.

Beatrice Matthews

Beatrice Matthews is Vera’s eighty-year-old mother and is not a scrapbooker. She is a quantum physicist and has conversations with her dead husband, who appears in ghost form throughout the book—but only to her. She grew up on Jenkins Mountain, one of the many mountains surrounding the town of Cumberland Creek. At the beginning of the book, Bea is stabbed.

A narrative bit about Bea: Now this knife in the neck business concerned her. Who would do such a thing? And what would have happened if it had not been lodged just exactly where it was? She could have died—or worse, been paralyzed, at the mercy of the likes of Vera and Sheila, two mid-life fools if ever there were.

My favorite Beatrice quote: “Your Daddy bought it for me and taught me how to use it. I feel safe with it here next to me in my nightstand. So over my dead body will I get rid of it.  In fact, you can bury me with my gun in one hand and Leaves of Grass  in the other,” Beatrice said.

 The Second Tier of Characters

Three other regular croppers meet every Saturday night—DeeAnn. Paige, and Sheila, who is the scrapbook consultant in the group.

Since my last post was a bit long, I thought I’d keep it short this time and tell you a bit about DeeAnn.

DeeAnn has been in Cumberland Creek for twenty-five years—and she’s still considered a newbie. She married a local man—her college sweetheart—who is the high school principal. She’s got two daughters, both in college. Fair skinned and freckled, she’s a large, muscular woman—with a baker’s arms and heart. There’s nothing she likes better than feeding people. She brings the most delicious snacks to crops. Her bakery is the only one in town. There are others on the outskirts of Cumberland Creek. As a baker, her focus has always been on bread, cake, and cookies. (Pamela’s Pie Palace has the pie market cornered.) In the first book, DeeAnn hires an intern who has a way with muffins.

A quote from DeeAnn:

“Classical tonight ladies?” Sheila asked.

“Hell no,” DeeAnn said, getting up to head for her bag, pulling out a CD.  “Let’s hear some Stones.”

Paige

Paige Swanson grew up just outside of Cumberland Creek proper—sort of between Jenkins Mountain and the town. She grew up in the modern Mennonite church, which means that to look at her, you’d never know she was a Mennonite. In fact, you might think “aging hippy” when you first see Paige, even though that is not what she is at all.  She is fond of tie-dye shirts and dangly earrings.  In fact, when Annie first meets Paige she thinks her name doesn’t suit her at all. “She looks more like a Willow or Moonbeam.”

Paige is the high school history teacher. She’s the mother of one son—Randy, who is a chef living in Washington, DC, with his partner. She has not spoken to him in years. This issue is a dark cloud hanging over her that bursts from time to time.  His homosexuality goes against everything she believes in—or so she thinks.

Like all Cumberland Creek Croppers, Paige is a pretty good cook, but she loves to make cakes and cupcakes. Her specialty is red velvet.

Sheila

Sheila is one of the most interesting characters in the book—she is the scrapbook consultant who refuses to allow her children into basement, where she holds her weekly scrapbooking crops. She is also an avid runner, rarely missing a day.

Sheila and Vera grew up together—their mothers were best friends. Sheila’s mom passed away years ago from breast cancer—and so this is an issue that is near and dear to Sheila’s heart. She runs in a lot of breast cancer awareness marathons and so on.

Sheila’s scrapbook room, house, and scrapbooks are immaculate—but Sheila herself rarely is. She wears wrinkled mismatched clothes at times and hardly bothers brushing her hair—or wearing lipstick.

She and Beatrice pick on each other incessantly—but underneath, Beatrice and Sheila care for one another. One of the ways Sheila endears herself to Bea is by making sure she’s well-stocked in pie.

 

Scrapped, Chapter Three

This is the last free chapter of SCRAPPED I can offer you. If you didn’t see the first two, scroll around on the blog and you will see them. They are also printed all together in the back of the first book, SCRAPBOOK OF SECRETS. SCRAPPED will be published December 31 and I am counting the days. You can pre-order on Amazon. If you hit the like button, I’d surely appreciate it. Enjoy!

 

Vera’s back twisted in pain as she placed a sleeping Elizabeth into her crib. After all the years of dancing, who would have thought parenting would be the most physically taxing thing on her body?

“She’s down for the time being,” she said to her mother, who was sitting next to the fireplace, wrapped in a quilt.

“Go and have a good time,” Beatrice said. “This fire is so nice. Think I’ll stay right here. Be careful, Vera. It’s not safe out there.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

It had been almost a week since the mysterious body washed up in their park, with nobody claiming it. How sad to think that nobody missed this woman enough to report her absence—or to claim her body.

But still, Beatrice was acting a little more concerned about her safety than usual. Vera wondered if Beatrice would ever be the same. After she returned from her vacation in Paris, a general malaise hung over her, and no matter what Vera said or did, it was clear Beatrice didn’t want to talk about this trip, which she and her long-gone husband had dreamed about taking for years. Vera had thought she would return home with countless stories about the city, its food, and its people, but she didn’t. Instead, she’d shared a few photos and thoughts, said she was glad she went, but that was it. Vera mused over this as she opened the door to Sheila’s basement scrapbooking room.

“How’s Lizzie?” Sheila said after Vera sat down at the table and cracked open her satchel of scrapbooking stuff. She was still working on chronicling Elizabeth’s first birthday party.

“Rotten, but asleep for now,” Vera said, feeling a wave of weariness, reaching into her bag for chocolates. She had found a new chocolate shop in Charlottesville the other day and was smitten with the handmade dark chocolate spiced with chili pepper. Who would have imagined? She sat the box on the table. “Chocolates,” she said.

“Have some pumpkin cranberry muffins,” DeeAnn said, shoving the plate toward Vera.

“Thanks,” Vera said.

“God, these are so good,” Annie said, taking another bite of muffin.

“Thanks. We’re selling a lot of them at the bakery,” DeeAnn said and sliced a picture with her photo cropper. “Business hasn’t slowed down a bit for us, thank God.” She made the sign of the cross across her ample chest, even though she wasn’t Catholic. She was the town baker, and her place was always busy, particularly in the mornings.

“Wish I could say the same thing,” Sheila said, pushing her glasses back up on her nose. “Digital scrapbooking is all the rage. I’m losing business with it being so paper based.”

“My business is going through a rough patch, too,” Vera said. “This darned economy.” After a few minutes of silence, Vera brought up the subject of the mysterious body. “You know, I just can’t get the dead woman out of my mind,” she said. “Any word yet on who she is?”

“Not that I know of,” Annie said. “I’ve called the police a few times. Bryant’s supposed to let me know.”

“I wouldn’t trust that,” Sheila said, placing her scissors on the table with a rattle and a clunk.

“Don’t worry,” Annie said. “I have his number. I’m already researching these symbols carved into her body.”

“Symbols?” Cookie asked.

“A first I thought it was Hebrew, but it’s not.”

“Ooh,” DeeAnn said. “That just gave me the chills.” Her blue eyes widened, and she leaned on her large baker’s arms. “I’m thinking Satanists . . . or witches. . . . Sorry, Cookie.”

“Witches don’t do that kind of stuff,” Cookie said. “We are gentle, earth loving, people loving. I’ve told you that.” She grinned.

“I would assume you are not all the same, though,” Annie said. “That there are bad witches, just like there are bad Jews or Christians.”

“Well . . .” Cookie shifted around in her chair as it creaked. “You’re probably right about that.” She turned and asked Sheila, “Now, how do I use this netting?”

Sheila happily showed Cookie the technique. She unrolled the netting from the packaging ball. One side of it was sticky. She placed it on the page at a diagonal and pressed down, then cut it with her scissors, giving it a rough edge, which added to the textured page.

“I honestly still don’t know why you call yourself a witch,” Vera said.

“Oh, Vera, would you just please leave it alone?” Sheila said. “Good Lord. We are having a crop here, not a trial.”

Cookie smiled slightly. “Thanks, Sheila, but I don’t mind answering. I call myself a witch because I feel I’m honoring the women who were burned at the stake in the name of witchcraft. I reclaim it. That’s all. And if people have a problem with it, they can either educate themselves or not. But I don’t dwell on their issues with it.”

“Humph,” Vera said and laughed. “I guess she told me.”

Cookie smiled. “Well, you asked.”

“Indeed,” Sheila said. “I’d much rather talk about your sex life than Cookie’s witchcraft.”

“Oh yes, me too,” Annie said. “What happened last week? What kind of kinky sex did you have last weekend?”

“Good Lord,” Sheila gasped, red-faced, clutching her chest. “The way you just blurt those things out.”

Paige, the other steady scrapbook club member, entered the room with a flourish. Paige, DeeAnn, Sheila, and Vera were the original crop. Annie came along last year; then came Cookie.

When Vera thought about how things had changed over the past year, it almost gave her vertigo. She was now the mother of a sixteen-month hellion of a baby, who refused to take naps and didn’t want to be weaned. Annie was going to be a published author. Sheila’s daughter Donna was now in her senior year of high school—which set Sheila all atwitter from time to time. Paige had announced she was going to take an early retirement from the school system—this year, her twenty-fifth, would be her last. And DeeAnn’s bakery was just becoming more and more successful.

Paige’s breezy pink silk shirt almost caught on the corner of the ragged table as she waltzed by. “Sorry I’m late.” She placed a scrapbook on the table and opened the pages. “I had a flat tire, and it took a while for my husband to get it changed. I mean, Jesus, it’s not as if he hasn’t changed a tire before. What kind of muffins do you have there?”

“Pumpkin cranberry,” Annie answered, holding her page up and eyeballing it. “We were just going to talk about Vera’s sex life.”

“Oh, really? What did he do to you this time?” Paige asked.

Vera just laughed and waved her hand. They wouldn’t believe her if she said that there was absolutely no sex between them the last time she went to the city. They just laughed a lot and talked even more. They had so much to say to one another. She would never tire of hearing Tony’s Brooklyn accent as he told her stories about going on tour with this or that dance company. His voice soothed her—it felt like home. And his touch burned her skin with a passion she hadn’t known since they were together all those years ago in college, as young dancers. Maybe it was time he visited Cumberland Creek. But how would Bill feel about that? Would he make trouble for them? God knows she couldn’t keep his coming a secret. He’d be arriving on a Harley, and if that wasn’t enough of an attention getter, he was a beautiful dark man. Not many of those around Cumberland Creek. He’d stick out no matter where they went.

“Yoo-hoo.” Paige waved her hand in front of Vera’s face. “Where are you? I was asking about the dead body. Did you say she had red hair?”

“Yes,” Vera said. “Long red hair. Annie saw her.”

“You know, I was just thinking about this the other day. There seems to be a bunch of redheads that live up on the other side of Jenkins Hollow,” Paige said, twirling her own wavy blond hair with her slender finger.

Vera looked at Annie, who, at the mention of Jenkins Hollow, coughed on her wine.

“I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Annie finally said.

 

 

Scrapped, Chapter Two

If you’ve not read Chapter One of SCRAPPED, you can find it here. In the mean time, here’s chapter two. The book will be available December 31, 2012, which means I will have had TWO books published in the same year. But who’s counting, right?

Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Well, if it isn’t the scrapbook queen, looking like hell on a Sunday afternoon,” Beatrice said to Sheila as she walked in the kitchen, where they were all gathered.

Sheila waved her off and walked by her. Vera just shook her head. Sheila and Vera were best friends from childhood, and Beatrice loved to pick on Sheila, just for the fun of it.

“Nice to see you, Bea,” Annie said.

“At least someone around here has some manners,” Beatrice said.

“What are you doing here?” Annie asked.

“I came to see my grandbaby and was just on my way out. The child is sound asleep.”

“I went to the store, came back, Mom was here, and Cookie had things under control,” Vera said.

Cookie poked her head in from around the corner. “Yes, Elizabeth went straight down after you left. I made soup and tried to get your mother to stay.”

“I will now,” Beatrice said. “If everybody else is going to eat the vegetarian organic stuff she calls food, I guess it can’t be so bad.”

Beatrice hated to admit it, but the pumpkin soup did smell heavenly. But she thought all of this vegetarian, back-to-the-earth stuff was nonsense. She suspected that if any of these young, flighty types had to survive from “living from the earth,” they wouldn’t know the first thing about it. But she couldn’t help but like this Cookie—even though she had many of the characteristics Beatrice would have despised in anybody else.

First, she was too damned thin—even thinner than Annie. The woman looked like she needed a big, thick, bloody steak. She was pale and wispy, with long black hair, which she sometimes pulled off her face with a thick, colorful headband. Eastern-looking silver jewelry always dangled from her. Her eyes were almost unnaturally green, and she carefully applied a bit too much eye make-up. While Vera, her own daughter, changed hair color more frequently than anybody she’d ever known, Beatrice preferred the natural look.

Cookie was a yoga teacher and taught classes in Vera’s dance studio. Yoga was a good thing, Beatrice knew, but this woman took herself a bit too seriously with all the “Namastes” and “Peace be with yous.” Who did she think she was? A divine messenger?

Ah, well, she chalked it up to youth. Basically, Cookie was a good sort—very good with Elizabeth, Bea’s one and only granddaughter. She sat down at the kitchen table with the other women. God knows what they were chattering about. She wasn’t paying a bit of attention. She suddenly thought of going upstairs and waking up Elizabeth just so she could hold her, play with her. Of course, she’d never do that—not in front of Vera, anyway.

“Did you hear me?” Vera was suddenly sitting next to her. “A drowned person washed up in the park today.”

“What? In Cumberland Creek?” Beatrice said, clutching her chest. Cumberland Creek, population twelve thousand, going on twenty thousand or so. When Beatrice was a girl, there was a fuss about the population reaching 750. It was two thousand for twenty years or so. She lost count a few years back with all the new housing development on the west side of town. McMansions.

“Yes, in the river at the park,” Vera said. “Scary.”

“I imagine. Who was it?” she asked Annie, who was sitting down at the table next to Vera.

“I have no idea. Detective Bryant said they might know her name by tomorrow.”

“Her?” Beatrice replied.

“It was sort of hard to tell, but there was a lot of long red hair,” Annie said, twisting her own wavy black hair behind her ear.

“Hmm. I don’t know of many redheads around here. Do you? Of course, sometimes I feel like I don’t know half the people here anymore.”

“Could be from somewhere else,” Annie said, just as bowls of steaming pumpkin soup were being passed around the table.

The scent of the spiced pumpkin reached out and grabbed Beatrice. The scent of pumpkin, spiced with cinnamon and cumin, filled the room. Suddenly she was nearly salivating in anticipation. She reached for a slice of the crusty whole wheat bread—still warm from the oven—and spread butter on it. Goodness, Cookie had gone to a lot of trouble; she had even baked bread.

“Great soup, Cookie,” Vera said and sighed. “You didn’t have to do this. I wasn’t expecting you to bake bread . . . just watch Lizzie while I went out for a bit of exercise and groceries.”

“Now, don’t worry about it,” Cookie said. “Since she went right to sleep, I had some time on my hands. I just wanted to help out. I know how hard it can be. I was raised by a single mom.”

Beatrice grimaced at the phrase “single mother,” which was not what she wanted for her daughter, who wouldn’t let her ex move back in—no matter how much he begged. Thank the universe, Bill had moved out of Beatrice’s house and into his own apartment, finally. Beatrice hoped that it would work out—for the baby’s sake—but Vera wasn’t interested. Beatrice couldn’t blame her for that. Also, Vera was seeing a man in New York. They rarely saw each other, and Vera had yet to bring him home to Cumberland Creek. She stole away to New York when she could. Beatrice doubted that it was serious. Bill, however, was seething. Served him right.

So there was another unexplained death in the small, but growing town of Cumberland Creek. Beatrice mused that things had just calmed down from the Maggie Rae case. Just what the town needed: more media attention, more outsiders, as if the new McMansion dwellers on the outskirts of town weren’t enough for her and the other locals to manage. Beatrice hated to generalize about folks, but they all thought they were mighty important.

“So, does the death look suspicious?” Beatrice asked.

“I hate to say it,” Annie said, dipping her bread into the creamy orange soup. “But it does to me. It looks like she was placed in a sack. I’m not sure she could have put herself in it. And there were these weird markings on her arm.”

“Markings?” Vera said. “Like scratches?”

“Sort of,” Annie said. “It might not mean anything.” She turned back to her soup. “Man, this is good, Cookie.”

A smile spread across Cookie’s face. “Thanks.”

Cookie didn’t smile like that often, Beatrice mused. It wasn’t that she was gloomy; she always had a look of bemused happiness. But it was in her eyes and the way she spoke.

Beatrice tuned out the chitchatting. Until they knew it was a murder, what was the point in speculating? She didn’t want to believe there was another murder in this community. Damn, the soup and bread were just what she needed today. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

Just then there was a knock at the door. It was Detective Bryant, who walked into the kitchen.

“I heard you were at the park this morning,” he said to Sheila. “Did you see anything suspicious?”

He looked happy, like a man with a mission, energetic.

Sheila thought for a moment. “No. It was pretty quiet. But if I remember anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh my God, it smells heavenly in here,” he said, stretching his arms, then turning around to see Beatrice. “But look what the devil brought in.”

Beatrice swallowed her soup. “Bite me, Bryant.”

He chortled.

The detective sure could hold a grudge. But then again, so could Beatrice.

 

Scrapped, Chapter One

Just in case, you haven’t read the first book in my Cumberland Creek Mystery Series, where the first three chapters are in the back, I thought I’d give you a glimpse of book two here. SCRAPPED will be published December 31, 2012 and you can already pre-order it on Amazon. (End of sales pitch. heh.)

Chapter One

Spending Sunday afternoon watching the police drag a body from a river was not what Annie had planned for the day. She was kicking a soccer ball around in the backyard with her boys when she was called away.

She took a deep breath as she walked through the crowd and over the yellow tape, which roped off the section to the river where the police and paramedics had gathered. Red and orange lights circled and flashed. Ducks swam in the river. A comforting arm slid around a woman standing in the crowd. A group of Mennonites stood from the bench they were sitting on and lowered their heads. What were the Mennonites doing at the park on a Sunday? Odd.

Across the river, where the park was more populated, Annie saw children playing on the swings and bars on the playground. Also, a rowdy game of basketball was taking place in another corner of the blacktopped surface. In the grassy area, a Frisbee was being thrown between three friends. Groups of mothers had gathered on the benches, trying not to alert their children or to look too closely at what was happening across the rushing Cumberland Creek River.

A hush came over the crowd on this side of the river as the nude body of a small red-haired woman emerged from the water in a torn sack, her hair dangling over the side, along with a foot. The body, mostly shrouded by the shredded sack, was placed on the ground. Cameras flashed—again.

Every time Annie viewed a dead person, she silently thanked one of her old journalism professors, who had insisted all his students witness autopsies. “If you’re going to get sick, it’s better here than in front of a cop. He’ll lose all respect for you.”

“Hello, Annie,” said Jesse, one of the uniformed police officers she had come to know over the past year of reporting about Maggie Rae and her family. Now Annie found herself under contract with a publisher to write a book about the case, which she was just finishing up. But she was still freelancing for the Washington Herald from time to time and was called in this morning to check this out. Was this incident another murder in the small town of Cumberland Creek?

“Hi, Jesse. Where’s your boss?”

“Behind you,” came his voice. Then Detective Bryant walked by her to look over the body more closely. His eyebrows knit, and he leaned in even closer, sliding gloves on his hands. “What the hell is this?”

“Scratches?” Jesse said, looking closer.

Annie was hoping to avoid looking closely at the actual body. Although she’d seen way too many dead bodies during her tenure as a reporter, it never was any easier. And she thought she’d left this behind her when she left Washington. She’d gotten sucked back into reporting during the Maggie Rae case. She was just beginning to get some breathing space—her book sent off to the publisher, nothing much else to report on in Cumberland Creek—and now this. She hoped it was an accident and not a murder.

“No,” Detective Bryant said. “Look closer. They are little markings of some kind. I can’t quite make them out. Where’s the coroner?”

Annie forced herself to look at the gray-blue arm the detective was holding gingerly in his hand. Okay, it’s just an arm, she told herself. But she could see the markings.

“It looks like Hebrew,” she blurted.

“Really?” Jesse said.

“Look again. That’s not Hebrew,” Detective Bryant said.

Annie leaned in closer. She had to admit, now that she was looking closer at it, that it didn’t look like Hebrew at all.

The detective turned to the coroner as he walked closer to the group. “I want close-up photos of these markings. Photos from all angles.”

“Must be a recent drowning,” the coroner said. “If that’s the cause of death.”

“What makes you say that?” Annie asked.

“You can still recognize the body as a person. If it goes too long, it’s difficult.”

Annie’s stomach twisted.

As Detective Bryant dropped the arm, she viewed the face of the victim between the clusters of shoulders of the police as they backed away. Young. Blue eyes staring blankly. Tangled red hair. Her face showed no sign of struggle—like a grimace or a look of anger or regret. The woman looked like a gray-blue rubber doll. Of course, what expression would a dead person have but none?

“Who found her?” Annie asked.

“It was a runner this morning, a Josh Brandt,” Detective Bryant answered. “He’s home now. I’d appreciate it if you’d give him some time before you zoom in for the kill,” he said and grinned, his blue eyes sparkling.

Annie refused to engage with his taunting. She watched as he brushed away a strand of red hair from the young woman’s face. It was the most gentle gesture she’d ever seen him make.

“So what do you think the markings are?” Annie asked the detective.

“I’ve no idea,” he said. “But I’m going to find out. I have a friend that specializes in symbols—if that is what these markings are.”

“Will you let me know?”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing better to do,” he said and smirked.

“Any idea who she is?”

“None,” he said. “Check back with us tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” she said and walked away.

It was a beautiful fall day—so much color—golds, reds, crimson, orange, yellow. Fall in Cumberland Creek was as colorful as any painting or photo. It could be an advertisement for the way fall should look, with its mountains, colors, and crisp blue skies.

Annie looked off into the distance at the mountains. Bryant would probably not let her know about those symbols, Annie decided. She would have to research them herself. She was sure of it. She stood on the dirt path and quickly sketched some of the symbols—if that was indeed what they were, and not odd scratches from a struggle with rocks or the limb of a tree. If they were simply scratches, though, the markings were weirdly smooth. Her stomach twisted again. Another murder. They just needed to confirm the cause of death and call it one—but Annie felt that it was. That the body was in a sack made her more certain, and she wondered if the sack had been weighted before the river’s rocks and current slashed it to pieces.

She walked along the riverside path toward Cumberland Creek proper, where she lived. She walked right past Vera’s dancing school, closed because today was Sunday, as were all the town businesses. It wouldn’t do anybody any good to open on Sunday. There would be no customers. Most of the population in Cumberland Creek spent Sundays in church and at home—except for Annie, Vera, and their friends, who were usually nursing mild hangovers from the Saturday night crop, when they gathered to scrapbook in Sheila’s basement.

Annie reached the sidewalk, which veered toward Vera’s house. When she’d talked with Vera this morning, she’d said Cookie was coming over and was planning to watch Vera’s daughter, Elizabeth, and make her special pumpkin soup, while Vera went to the grocer’s. Annie’s mouth began to water. The woman could cook.

She could also do some yoga, twisting her body into all sorts of poses as if it were nothing at all. Annie loved Cookie’s Friday evening class. She had taken classes when she lived in the D.C. area, but none were like this. Cookie created a safe environment in which you could explore and reach out for new poses—she was not a teacher who pushed you to do anything painful.

Cookie explained to them one evening how she kept a yoga journal as a beginner and how it helped for her to see how much she’d progressed. Now Annie was working on something similar, a combination scrapbook or dream book of sorts— mundane, with ordinary beginning techniques interspersed with writing about a pose or thought. She was using self-portraits. This was a different kind of scrapbooking than what Annie had first learned from the Cumberland Creek crop; it was more like art journaling.

Annie thought about stopping by for a few minutes before heading home, but she should be getting home to Mike and the boys. But it would be nice to see her friends after witnessing the disturbing events at the park. Of course, she’d have to fill them all in.

“Oh God, there you are!” Sheila came around the corner, nearly knocking Annie over. Her hair needed brushing, her glasses looked crooked, and her T-shirt was a wrinkled mess.

“What’s going on?” Annie said, steadying herself. Why was she so tired today?

“Did you hear? They found a dead body in the river,” Sheila said, panting.

“Man, this place is amazing,” Annie said. “News travels so fast.”

“What?” Sheila said.

“I was just there,” Annie said.

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Sheila said, taking her by the other arm. “Are you heading to Vera’s place?”

Annie nodded. Okay, so she wouldn’t stay long.

When Vera opened the door, smiling, the smell of pumpkin, cinnamon, and cumin, with its promise of warmth, met Annie, the image of a drowned young woman fresh on her mind.

 

 

 

Five things I thought about during my morning run:

1. No Zumba for me this morning. It’s a great morning for an outside run and there won’t be many of these left.

2. Wanted to go to Yoga last night, but I’ve been in this weird headache situation for days. It might have been really good, but then again…

3. Thinking about SCRAPPED and its release. Dec. 31. It hardly seems possible. My second novel.

4. Pulling together a blog tour.

5. I’m sure it will rain. Big puffy clouds, gray, mottled moving across the sky.

Mary Burton’s Draft Process—the Final Word, Almost

So some have you have been following along with the writing process of my third book in the Cumberland Creek Mystery series. Because I’m always looking at ways to be a more efficient and better writer, I decided to try Mary Burton’s draft process. I ran across this on her blog and it made such a perfect sense to me. (For a reminder of what her process is, click here and go to her initial blog post. Here, here,  here and here are my previous blog posts. ) So I thought I’d give it a go.

Overall, the process forced me to slow down a good bit. I am a fast writer, which is a good thing in some aspects. But when it comes to catching typos and other problems, it hasn’t served me well. My brain works for quickly even when I reading and I think that it skips over any mistake I make. (that is not the case with other writer’s mistakes. I catch those, only too well. ) I think because I approached this book is a more organized fashion, I was able to let the “final” draft sit for a good bit longer. This helps immensely. The other thing that really helped was printing the manuscript out. The eye catches more and different typos on the physical page than the computer.

I think I’ll use this process, or some variation of it, in the future. I’ve just turned in the manuscript to my Kensington editor. I feel really good about this book, even thought the story became more complicated than what I anticipated. I’m hoping he notices a difference in how much cleaner the manuscript is.  In the mean time, it’s time for me to set aside thoughts about book three—and time to focus on book 2: SCRAPPED, which will be published on December 31. Stay tuned for contests and signing dates and so on.