Peg Cochran's Blog - Posts Tagged "murder-in-the-margins"
The English Way of Life
Murder in the Margins, the first book in my Open Book Series written as Margaret Loudon, comes out on October 27. Here is my main character, Penelope Parish, talking about her life in England as a writer in residence at a bookstore in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.
Hi! We haven’t met yet. I’m Penelope Parish. I’ve written a Gothic novel, and much to my surprise, it hit the bestseller list! Which is all fine and dandy, but now my publisher wants me to follow it up with another hit and I’m totally (and I mean totally) blocked.
So…I’ve taken a writer in residence position at the Open Book bookstore in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England. Everyone thinks that the English are just like us--which they are, sort of. But they have their own ways of doing things and saying things I've learned. Instead of a Main Street, they have the High Street; they prefer tea to coffee and have charming names for their favorite dishes like "bubble and squeak" and "bangers and mash."
But I'm managing to get along even though being American seems to be something of a curiosity in this small town where most of the residents have been born and raised.
The town is currently all agog because the red-headed Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke has become engaged to an American romance novelist. Horrors!
So when murder ensues, poor Charlotte Davenport becomes the first suspect. And she begs me, a fellow American, to help her prove her innocence. I’m going to do my best to be of service always assuming I don’t get myself killed first by driving down the wrong side of the street!
Hi! We haven’t met yet. I’m Penelope Parish. I’ve written a Gothic novel, and much to my surprise, it hit the bestseller list! Which is all fine and dandy, but now my publisher wants me to follow it up with another hit and I’m totally (and I mean totally) blocked.
So…I’ve taken a writer in residence position at the Open Book bookstore in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England. Everyone thinks that the English are just like us--which they are, sort of. But they have their own ways of doing things and saying things I've learned. Instead of a Main Street, they have the High Street; they prefer tea to coffee and have charming names for their favorite dishes like "bubble and squeak" and "bangers and mash."
But I'm managing to get along even though being American seems to be something of a curiosity in this small town where most of the residents have been born and raised.
The town is currently all agog because the red-headed Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke has become engaged to an American romance novelist. Horrors!
So when murder ensues, poor Charlotte Davenport becomes the first suspect. And she begs me, a fellow American, to help her prove her innocence. I’m going to do my best to be of service always assuming I don’t get myself killed first by driving down the wrong side of the street!
Sneak Peek at Murder in the Margins
Dear Fellow Readers,
Is everyone getting ready for the weekend? Or do you have to work? So many things are closed or off limits right now but there are plenty of ways to find enjoyment and reading is one of them! Murder in the Margins debuts on October 27 (I'm writing as Margaret Loudon) but I thought you might enjoy a sneak peek and a chance to meet Penelope "Pen" Parish!
Penelope negotiated the roundabout at the top of the High Street and was admiring a red sweater in the window of the Knit Wit Shop when a horn blaring close by made her jump.
She returned her attention to the road and was horrified to see another car coming straight at her. She jerked the steering wheel, overcorrected, bumped up over the curb, slammed on her brakes and came to a stop within an inch of a cement planter filled with bright orange and yellow mums.
Her heart was beating hard, her palms were sweaty and there was a haze in front of her eyes.
The other car, a Ford Cortina, had stopped in the middle of the road and the driver was standing next to it.
Penelope took a deep breath, opened her door and got out.
“What do you mean driving down the wrong side of the street,” she said, still slightly breathless, as she approached the other driver.
The driver looked amused. He wasn’t handsome but had a kind, open face that was very appealing. He was an inch or two shorter than Penelope’s six feet. Penelope had sprouted up early and there had been hopes that she would follow in her mother’s and sister’s footsteps and model, but although she was attractive enough, the camera didn’t love her the way it did them. Besides, Penelope had no interest in parading around having her picture taken.
The fellow still looked amused. She knew she needed to rein in her indignation but it was her default setting and not easy.
“You scared me half to death,” she said, pushing her glasses back up her nose with her finger.
“You’re American,” the fellow said. He had a slight Irish lilt to his voice.
Penelope raised her chin slightly. “Yes.” She was about to say what of it when a horn honking made her jump.
A line of cars had formed behind the driver’s Ford Cortina and a red VW Golf was attempting to pull around it.
Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth as the realization hit her. “I was on the wrong side of the road,” she said in a horrified voice.
“Exactly.”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot…I thought…” Penelope stuttered to a halt. “I’m so terribly sorry. You’re not hurt…or anything…are you?” She swayed slightly.
“I’m fine,” the fellow said, his face creasing in concern. “But I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be okay.” Penelope took a deep breath. “It’s only that I think I forgot to eat lunch.”
It used to drive Penelope’s sister crazy that she had to constantly watch her diet to maintain a slim figure while Penelope could go a whole day without even thinking about food then devour a meal worthy of a linebacker and still never gain an ounce.
“As long as you’re sure….”
Penelope waved at him. “I’ll be fine.” She gestured toward the cars lined up down the road. “You’d better get going. That mob looks ready to attack you.”
He smiled. “I guess I’d better.”
Mabel Morris, whose Miss Marple-like appearance and demeanor belied her former career as an MI6 analyst, was behind the counter when Penelope pushed open the door to the bookstore.
She was all rounded curves and had fluffy white hair that tended to want to go every-which-way and pale powdery skin. Her blue eyes however had depths that suggested she wasn’t unacquainted with tragedy and the seamier side of life.
“My sainted aunt,” she said when she saw Penelope, “you look like you could use a good strong cup of tea.”
“A shot of whiskey is more like it,” Penelope said as she slumped against the counter. “Not that I’m in the habit of drinking in the middle of the day.”
“This is strictly medicinal.” Mabel pulled a bottle of Jameson and a glass from under the counter. She poured out a generous splash of whiskey and handed it to Penelope. “Drink up and then tell me what’s having you look like Hamlet’s father’s ghost.”
Murder in the Margins
Is everyone getting ready for the weekend? Or do you have to work? So many things are closed or off limits right now but there are plenty of ways to find enjoyment and reading is one of them! Murder in the Margins debuts on October 27 (I'm writing as Margaret Loudon) but I thought you might enjoy a sneak peek and a chance to meet Penelope "Pen" Parish!
Penelope negotiated the roundabout at the top of the High Street and was admiring a red sweater in the window of the Knit Wit Shop when a horn blaring close by made her jump.
She returned her attention to the road and was horrified to see another car coming straight at her. She jerked the steering wheel, overcorrected, bumped up over the curb, slammed on her brakes and came to a stop within an inch of a cement planter filled with bright orange and yellow mums.
Her heart was beating hard, her palms were sweaty and there was a haze in front of her eyes.
The other car, a Ford Cortina, had stopped in the middle of the road and the driver was standing next to it.
Penelope took a deep breath, opened her door and got out.
“What do you mean driving down the wrong side of the street,” she said, still slightly breathless, as she approached the other driver.
The driver looked amused. He wasn’t handsome but had a kind, open face that was very appealing. He was an inch or two shorter than Penelope’s six feet. Penelope had sprouted up early and there had been hopes that she would follow in her mother’s and sister’s footsteps and model, but although she was attractive enough, the camera didn’t love her the way it did them. Besides, Penelope had no interest in parading around having her picture taken.
The fellow still looked amused. She knew she needed to rein in her indignation but it was her default setting and not easy.
“You scared me half to death,” she said, pushing her glasses back up her nose with her finger.
“You’re American,” the fellow said. He had a slight Irish lilt to his voice.
Penelope raised her chin slightly. “Yes.” She was about to say what of it when a horn honking made her jump.
A line of cars had formed behind the driver’s Ford Cortina and a red VW Golf was attempting to pull around it.
Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth as the realization hit her. “I was on the wrong side of the road,” she said in a horrified voice.
“Exactly.”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot…I thought…” Penelope stuttered to a halt. “I’m so terribly sorry. You’re not hurt…or anything…are you?” She swayed slightly.
“I’m fine,” the fellow said, his face creasing in concern. “But I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be okay.” Penelope took a deep breath. “It’s only that I think I forgot to eat lunch.”
It used to drive Penelope’s sister crazy that she had to constantly watch her diet to maintain a slim figure while Penelope could go a whole day without even thinking about food then devour a meal worthy of a linebacker and still never gain an ounce.
“As long as you’re sure….”
Penelope waved at him. “I’ll be fine.” She gestured toward the cars lined up down the road. “You’d better get going. That mob looks ready to attack you.”
He smiled. “I guess I’d better.”
Mabel Morris, whose Miss Marple-like appearance and demeanor belied her former career as an MI6 analyst, was behind the counter when Penelope pushed open the door to the bookstore.
She was all rounded curves and had fluffy white hair that tended to want to go every-which-way and pale powdery skin. Her blue eyes however had depths that suggested she wasn’t unacquainted with tragedy and the seamier side of life.
“My sainted aunt,” she said when she saw Penelope, “you look like you could use a good strong cup of tea.”
“A shot of whiskey is more like it,” Penelope said as she slumped against the counter. “Not that I’m in the habit of drinking in the middle of the day.”
“This is strictly medicinal.” Mabel pulled a bottle of Jameson and a glass from under the counter. She poured out a generous splash of whiskey and handed it to Penelope. “Drink up and then tell me what’s having you look like Hamlet’s father’s ghost.”
Murder in the Margins
