A.R. Simmons's Blog: Musings and Mutterings, page 2
October 8, 2021
Legendary Detectives, BeatriceBradley
[Pic Gladys Mitchell]
In the 1930s, a golden age of detective stories, Glady Mitchell along with GK Chesterson, Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayer formed the “Detection Club.” Chesterson gave us Father Brown. Christie gave us both Hercule Peroit and Mrs. Marple, Sayers gave us Harriet Vane/Lady Wimsey. Mitchel gave us Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley, perhaps the first of the girls-kick-butts heroines through 66 novels.
[PIC Detection Club]
Beatrice Bradley is no shrinking violet, being as physically strong and adept as she is mentally. This eccentric detective ranks with the best of literary sleuths of all time.
Eschewing the subservient role most women of her era, she is far from cuddly, indeed described as somewhat cold-blooded. She is gaunt, lean, sinewy, and strong. She is formidable in bearing, and especially so when provoked.
[Here Pic of Diana Rigg as Bradley from BBC TV “Speedy Death”]
Her method is the epitome of the omniscient school. She lays her trap with precise location and timing and then coaxes her hapless prey into taking the bait. She is never at a loss, and nothing ever takes her by surprise. It is precisely when the “criminal genius” thinks he has her bested that she springs her trap.
No mere male can best or even equal her mentally or physically. She routinely puts them in their places by addressing them with the term “child.”
She is somewhat charmed: the shot fired at her, like the stone falling or tossed from the parapet, may take her by surprise, but never hits her. The elderly sleuth is light on her feet, stronger than she appears, and is possessed of a sixth sense that warns her when things aren’t quite as they should be. It is not so much that she is fey as that her subconscious mind warns her of danger in the nick of time. With her almost super-human power of observation, her vast knowledge of human behavior, and her uncanny ability to see the big picture, no mere genius can possibly outdo her.
She is well and appropriately educated, holding multiple doctorates and is an expert or master of psychiatry and psychology giving her an unequaled understanding of human nature. Like Hercule Peroit, she uses the little grey cells to solve crimes. In appearance and manner, however, she is the polar opposite of the persnickety Belgian detective. With a combination of intellect, grit, and single-minded determination, she attacks her cases, coming at them with a profound understanding of human nature and forensic science.
In eccentricity, she is a match for Sherlock Holmes. She was in her day, to put it mildly, a detective of a different sort. Utterly fearless and much more agile and strong that she appears. She is not a warm and cuddly woman, not a grandmotherly sort, nor the timid soul such as other famous female sleuths of the day. Not attractive, but wiry, all gristle and brains.
Call her cases, cozies, but don’t for a minute think that she is.
[Speedy Death]
[Come Away Death]
In the 1930s, a golden age of detective stories, Glady Mitchell along with GK Chesterson, Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayer formed the “Detection Club.” Chesterson gave us Father Brown. Christie gave us both Hercule Peroit and Mrs. Marple, Sayers gave us Harriet Vane/Lady Wimsey. Mitchel gave us Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley, perhaps the first of the girls-kick-butts heroines through 66 novels.
[PIC Detection Club]
Beatrice Bradley is no shrinking violet, being as physically strong and adept as she is mentally. This eccentric detective ranks with the best of literary sleuths of all time.
Eschewing the subservient role most women of her era, she is far from cuddly, indeed described as somewhat cold-blooded. She is gaunt, lean, sinewy, and strong. She is formidable in bearing, and especially so when provoked.
[Here Pic of Diana Rigg as Bradley from BBC TV “Speedy Death”]
Her method is the epitome of the omniscient school. She lays her trap with precise location and timing and then coaxes her hapless prey into taking the bait. She is never at a loss, and nothing ever takes her by surprise. It is precisely when the “criminal genius” thinks he has her bested that she springs her trap.
No mere male can best or even equal her mentally or physically. She routinely puts them in their places by addressing them with the term “child.”
She is somewhat charmed: the shot fired at her, like the stone falling or tossed from the parapet, may take her by surprise, but never hits her. The elderly sleuth is light on her feet, stronger than she appears, and is possessed of a sixth sense that warns her when things aren’t quite as they should be. It is not so much that she is fey as that her subconscious mind warns her of danger in the nick of time. With her almost super-human power of observation, her vast knowledge of human behavior, and her uncanny ability to see the big picture, no mere genius can possibly outdo her.
She is well and appropriately educated, holding multiple doctorates and is an expert or master of psychiatry and psychology giving her an unequaled understanding of human nature. Like Hercule Peroit, she uses the little grey cells to solve crimes. In appearance and manner, however, she is the polar opposite of the persnickety Belgian detective. With a combination of intellect, grit, and single-minded determination, she attacks her cases, coming at them with a profound understanding of human nature and forensic science.
In eccentricity, she is a match for Sherlock Holmes. She was in her day, to put it mildly, a detective of a different sort. Utterly fearless and much more agile and strong that she appears. She is not a warm and cuddly woman, not a grandmotherly sort, nor the timid soul such as other famous female sleuths of the day. Not attractive, but wiry, all gristle and brains.
Call her cases, cozies, but don’t for a minute think that she is.
[Speedy Death]
[Come Away Death]
September 22, 2021
I survived Coal Oil
Coal oil (kerosene) lit our great grandparents’ nights, and it fuels today’s jets. When I was a child it was also a miracle drug. Folks washed wounds with it and even took it internally—a good way to poison yourself!
Maybe its popularity came from the idea that the more evil-smelling and disgusting stuff was the better it was for you (think cod liver oil and creosote cough medicine). Rich people used to travel to spas like Eureka Springs to drink and soak in water that smelled like rotten eggs and tasted awful.
Despite its relatively mild aroma, coal oil’s curative powers were highly esteemed. There were other home remedies : tobacco juice relieved the welts of “wasper” stings, and lard poultices pulled poison from cuts and gashes. Coal oil was an antiseptic/healing balm.
My first encounter with the miracle cure came when I was four. Back then we boys went shoeless whenever temperatures permitted. They tell me that I literally ran wild, stubbing my toes on rocks, cutting my feet on broken glass, running thorns that had fallen from blue jays’ nests into my soles, and stepping on rusty nails.
One fall day, as I tore across the yard like a hellion, I ran through a gray mound of innocent-looking ashes. It contained live coals from a hog butchering the previous day. For those who don’t know where our food comes from, you can’t skin hogs. You scald them in a kettle of boiling water and scrape the hair off like shaving.
After my ill-advised shortcut through the bed of hot coals, my feet looked like I had a severe sunburn. I don’t remember any pain, but I vividly remember the smell when they soaked my feet in a tin bowl of coal oil.
I doubt the treatment did any good, but my elders were satisfied that they had applied the latest medicine.
“Hospital,” you say? No. Hospitals were where babies were born and where people went to die.
Coal oil was “snake oil.” But there is a petroleum product recommended by dermatologists to facilitate the healing of minor wounds: Petroleum jelly (Vaseline). Mine recommends it instead of antibiotic creams.
Maybe its popularity came from the idea that the more evil-smelling and disgusting stuff was the better it was for you (think cod liver oil and creosote cough medicine). Rich people used to travel to spas like Eureka Springs to drink and soak in water that smelled like rotten eggs and tasted awful.
Despite its relatively mild aroma, coal oil’s curative powers were highly esteemed. There were other home remedies : tobacco juice relieved the welts of “wasper” stings, and lard poultices pulled poison from cuts and gashes. Coal oil was an antiseptic/healing balm.
My first encounter with the miracle cure came when I was four. Back then we boys went shoeless whenever temperatures permitted. They tell me that I literally ran wild, stubbing my toes on rocks, cutting my feet on broken glass, running thorns that had fallen from blue jays’ nests into my soles, and stepping on rusty nails.
One fall day, as I tore across the yard like a hellion, I ran through a gray mound of innocent-looking ashes. It contained live coals from a hog butchering the previous day. For those who don’t know where our food comes from, you can’t skin hogs. You scald them in a kettle of boiling water and scrape the hair off like shaving.
After my ill-advised shortcut through the bed of hot coals, my feet looked like I had a severe sunburn. I don’t remember any pain, but I vividly remember the smell when they soaked my feet in a tin bowl of coal oil.
I doubt the treatment did any good, but my elders were satisfied that they had applied the latest medicine.
“Hospital,” you say? No. Hospitals were where babies were born and where people went to die.
Coal oil was “snake oil.” But there is a petroleum product recommended by dermatologists to facilitate the healing of minor wounds: Petroleum jelly (Vaseline). Mine recommends it instead of antibiotic creams.
July 19, 2021
Cane Creek Devilry
Historical Fiction vignette thematic of the story DEVILRY
1863, Cane Creek Settlement
Solomon thrust calloused hands into the bucket, splayed his fingers, and brought them slowly toward the surface to distribute the tobacco seeds evenly through the ashes. He worked patiently lest he spill the precious blend. Even with perfect eyesight, the intermingling was necessary for proper distribution in the seedbed, and Solomon’s eyes were far from perfect. At thirty-eight, they had begun to dim, a trait shared by all the Epps according to his mother.
“A sower went forth to sow,” he murmured as he sifted the mixture onto the finely milled soil, gauging distribution by color as the dark loam turned ash gray.
He often quoted scripture or sang hymns while working. The Lord had blessed his labors, enlarged his borders, and given him Dolly, the bride of his youth. She had taken the baby up the Military Road to the Kittrell’s where Patience lay in confinement awaiting her firstborn. The old women declared the signs propitious for birth today.
He thought of his friend Caleb Kittrell, impossibly far away and fighting for the rebellion. Solomon was the sole Union man in the Cane Creek bottom. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of equality of all men with slavery, but he couldn’t take up arms in defense of his country if it meant killing his own people. He prayed for a merciful and quick end to the horror.
Finished, he upturned the oaken bucket and thumped it smartly to dislodge the last of the invisible seeds. In a few weeks, the seedlings would be ready to move to the field. Lacking cash, he hoped to trade his small crop for the store goods Dolly needed. He straightened, craning his neck to squint at the sun. The seedbed sat against a sheltering hill to the northwest and gently sloped to catch the sunlight. Barring a late frost, the seedlings would prosper as they had the previous two years.
“Lord willing,” he said, turning toward the path leading by the spring and on down to the back of the cabin.
In the light shade of the budding oaks and hickories, he felt the lingering chill of winter. Today held promise of an early spring. He was eager to get on with the work of another year.
Coming around the cabin, he nearly collided with a man on horseback. Behind him, a dozen more sat silently staring at him, most with blank expressions, but some with amusement.
“You be Solomon Epps?”
“I am.” He took in the man’s butternut uniform. The others wore common clothing. “And who would you be, sir?”
Behind him, a gangly boy of no more than fifteen barked a laugh.
“Colonel Sparks.”
A chill ran through Solomon. He was glad Dolly was at the Kittrell’s.
“If it’s provender you need, Colonel, take what you want. We don’t have much, but you’re welcome to it.”
“You would do that for a Confederate man?”
“I have no part in this war, sir.” He motioned toward to small outbuildings. “Yonder is the corncrib and smokehouse. Take what you need.”
Sparks nodded solemnly. “You’re a Union man.”
“I am an American, but I will not fight against my people, north or south.”
“If you ain’t with us, you’re agin us,” pronounced Sparks.
With a whoop, the teenager jumped from his horse, pulling a knife. “Over yonder’s a hickornut tree,” he yelled excitedly, running toward a fifteen-foot sapling.
He shinnied up it until it bent over. “Help me peel her, Johnny!”
Another boy slid from his horse and went to help, hacking with a heavy Bowie knife until the three-inch thick trunk shattered, felling the tree. The two slit and peeled the bark with frenetic energy.
Sparks turned back to Solomon. “You chose the wrong side, Mister Man.”
“I didn’t choose.”
The boys plaited strips of bark into a hasty rope. It would stiffen to uselessness within days. Presently, it would serve its purpose.
“You want to pray?” asked Sparks.
Solomon shook his head. “I’m prayed up.”
Sparks stiffened at the words. “You’ll sing a different tune afore long.”
“This is wrong, but killing me today is not what you’ll have to stand in judgment for. Lord grant that you some day find him precious to your soul that you may be accepted of Him.”
“You think that will save your blue-belly hide?” spat Sparks.
“I reckon not.”
No further words passed, and as the culmination approached, even the blood-scenting teenagers fell silent. The deed was accomplished with efficient, if not neat, haste.
The bushwhackers were climbing out of the valley before the first smoke turned eyes farther up the creek toward Epps’ burning cabin. Old Man Kittrell tried to get the frantic woman to stay behind as he rode down to spy out the tragedy, but of course she had to follow. As he cut Solomon down, Dolly screamed, running toward the ruins of her life.
“There weren’t no need of this,” said the old man, thinking for the first time that he had lived too long.
Cane Creek—Devilry
1863, Cane Creek Settlement
Solomon thrust calloused hands into the bucket, splayed his fingers, and brought them slowly toward the surface to distribute the tobacco seeds evenly through the ashes. He worked patiently lest he spill the precious blend. Even with perfect eyesight, the intermingling was necessary for proper distribution in the seedbed, and Solomon’s eyes were far from perfect. At thirty-eight, they had begun to dim, a trait shared by all the Epps according to his mother.
“A sower went forth to sow,” he murmured as he sifted the mixture onto the finely milled soil, gauging distribution by color as the dark loam turned ash gray.
He often quoted scripture or sang hymns while working. The Lord had blessed his labors, enlarged his borders, and given him Dolly, the bride of his youth. She had taken the baby up the Military Road to the Kittrell’s where Patience lay in confinement awaiting her firstborn. The old women declared the signs propitious for birth today.
He thought of his friend Caleb Kittrell, impossibly far away and fighting for the rebellion. Solomon was the sole Union man in the Cane Creek bottom. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of equality of all men with slavery, but he couldn’t take up arms in defense of his country if it meant killing his own people. He prayed for a merciful and quick end to the horror.
Finished, he upturned the oaken bucket and thumped it smartly to dislodge the last of the invisible seeds. In a few weeks, the seedlings would be ready to move to the field. Lacking cash, he hoped to trade his small crop for the store goods Dolly needed. He straightened, craning his neck to squint at the sun. The seedbed sat against a sheltering hill to the northwest and gently sloped to catch the sunlight. Barring a late frost, the seedlings would prosper as they had the previous two years.
“Lord willing,” he said, turning toward the path leading by the spring and on down to the back of the cabin.
In the light shade of the budding oaks and hickories, he felt the lingering chill of winter. Today held promise of an early spring. He was eager to get on with the work of another year.
Coming around the cabin, he nearly collided with a man on horseback. Behind him, a dozen more sat silently staring at him, most with blank expressions, but some with amusement.
“You be Solomon Epps?”
“I am.” He took in the man’s butternut uniform. The others wore common clothing. “And who would you be, sir?”
Behind him, a gangly boy of no more than fifteen barked a laugh.
“Colonel Sparks.”
A chill ran through Solomon. He was glad Dolly was at the Kittrell’s.
“If it’s provender you need, Colonel, take what you want. We don’t have much, but you’re welcome to it.”
“You would do that for a Confederate man?”
“I have no part in this war, sir.” He motioned toward to small outbuildings. “Yonder is the corncrib and smokehouse. Take what you need.”
Sparks nodded solemnly. “You’re a Union man.”
“I am an American, but I will not fight against my people, north or south.”
“If you ain’t with us, you’re agin us,” pronounced Sparks.
With a whoop, the teenager jumped from his horse, pulling a knife. “Over yonder’s a hickornut tree,” he yelled excitedly, running toward a fifteen-foot sapling.
He shinnied up it until it bent over. “Help me peel her, Johnny!”
Another boy slid from his horse and went to help, hacking with a heavy Bowie knife until the three-inch thick trunk shattered, felling the tree. The two slit and peeled the bark with frenetic energy.
Sparks turned back to Solomon. “You chose the wrong side, Mister Man.”
“I didn’t choose.”
The boys plaited strips of bark into a hasty rope. It would stiffen to uselessness within days. Presently, it would serve its purpose.
“You want to pray?” asked Sparks.
Solomon shook his head. “I’m prayed up.”
Sparks stiffened at the words. “You’ll sing a different tune afore long.”
“This is wrong, but killing me today is not what you’ll have to stand in judgment for. Lord grant that you some day find him precious to your soul that you may be accepted of Him.”
“You think that will save your blue-belly hide?” spat Sparks.
“I reckon not.”
No further words passed, and as the culmination approached, even the blood-scenting teenagers fell silent. The deed was accomplished with efficient, if not neat, haste.
The bushwhackers were climbing out of the valley before the first smoke turned eyes farther up the creek toward Epps’ burning cabin. Old Man Kittrell tried to get the frantic woman to stay behind as he rode down to spy out the tragedy, but of course she had to follow. As he cut Solomon down, Dolly screamed, running toward the ruins of her life.
“There weren’t no need of this,” said the old man, thinking for the first time that he had lived too long.
Cane Creek—Devilry
April 1, 2021
Chapter 7 Reveal
ERASED
Ch 7-Two Kinds of Cold
The woods near Rocky Creek in Shannon County
Deputy Vince Newell felt the cold flesh of the boy’s neck, seeking vainly for a pulse. The body’s color and the position of the ignition switch told the story. He keyed his lapel mic to call it in.
“I’ve got a dead teenage boy here. It looks like carbon monoxide,” he said as he copied down the license plate of the late model Ford Ranger. “He’s wearing a tux. Just a minute and I’ll get his ID if he’s got one on him.”
He rocked the stiffening body enough to extract the wallet.
“It appears to be Kent P. Rossiter of 887 CR 603 Shannon County.”
“That’s the boy that was reported missing after the prom. Is the girl with him?”
“Girl? No. There’s no one else here.”
Ch 7-Two Kinds of Cold
The woods near Rocky Creek in Shannon County
Deputy Vince Newell felt the cold flesh of the boy’s neck, seeking vainly for a pulse. The body’s color and the position of the ignition switch told the story. He keyed his lapel mic to call it in.
“I’ve got a dead teenage boy here. It looks like carbon monoxide,” he said as he copied down the license plate of the late model Ford Ranger. “He’s wearing a tux. Just a minute and I’ll get his ID if he’s got one on him.”
He rocked the stiffening body enough to extract the wallet.
“It appears to be Kent P. Rossiter of 887 CR 603 Shannon County.”
“That’s the boy that was reported missing after the prom. Is the girl with him?”
“Girl? No. There’s no one else here.”
March 19, 2021
Chapter 6 Reveal
ERASED
Ch 6-A Lot of The I-Don’t-Knows
The logging trail to the burned cabin:
Kit’s headlights swept through the Baskie Chapel graveyard as she turned in.
My first case is so cold that it’s dead, she thought. Maybe this is all I’m good for.
Since the domestic disturbance call, she had rehashed the case repeatedly, sifting the sparse evidence to see if she had missed something.
“I’ve got a good a list of I-don’t-knows,” she mumbled.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
Ch 6-A Lot of The I-Don’t-Knows
The logging trail to the burned cabin:
Kit’s headlights swept through the Baskie Chapel graveyard as she turned in.
My first case is so cold that it’s dead, she thought. Maybe this is all I’m good for.
Since the domestic disturbance call, she had rehashed the case repeatedly, sifting the sparse evidence to see if she had missed something.
“I’ve got a good a list of I-don’t-knows,” she mumbled.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
March 17, 2021
Chapter 5 Reveal
Ch 5-Emotional Overload
ERASED Chapter Reveal
"Are you offended that I looked you up?"
“No. It’s kind of flattering I guess,” she said, immediately thinking that it was another dumb remark.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
ERASED Chapter Reveal
"Are you offended that I looked you up?"
“No. It’s kind of flattering I guess,” she said, immediately thinking that it was another dumb remark.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
March 12, 2021
Free SECRET SONG
Get a free copy of SECRET SONG (Richard Carter #4)
Evil does not require evil intent.
Contemporary Mystery/Suspense series.
https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B00DWAU8T8
www.bluecreeknovels.com
Evil does not require evil intent.
Contemporary Mystery/Suspense series.
https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B00DWAU8T8
www.bluecreeknovels.com
March 10, 2021
ERASED Chapter 4 Reveal
Metaphorical image of Kit's case file.
Ch 4 Dying Embers
Murder books tend to thicken with age. That doesn't mean the case is resolving.
Are the coals of Kit's mystery man case about to die out for good? Or are they about to ignite?
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
Ch 4 Dying Embers
Murder books tend to thicken with age. That doesn't mean the case is resolving.
Are the coals of Kit's mystery man case about to die out for good? Or are they about to ignite?
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
March 5, 2021
ERASED Chapter 3 Reveal
This is a sat map image of a cabin just outside Mark Twain Forest.
Ch3 An Old Lady's Memory
Hettie owned the land, but insists that neither her husband or any family member built a cabin on it—just what Kit needed, another unanswered question.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
Ch3 An Old Lady's Memory
Hettie owned the land, but insists that neither her husband or any family member built a cabin on it—just what Kit needed, another unanswered question.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
February 27, 2021
ERASED Chapter 2 Reveal
Chapter 2-Ashes and Advice
These are the ruins of a cabin that was just outside the national forest land.
It seemed likely that the burned cabin was connected with the nearby homicide.
Kit needed to discover its owner.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
These are the ruins of a cabin that was just outside the national forest land.
It seemed likely that the burned cabin was connected with the nearby homicide.
Kit needed to discover its owner.
ERASED (Richard Carter #14) is coming this summer 2021
These short previews contain no spoilers.
Musings and Mutterings
Posts about my reading, my writing, and thoughts I want to share. Drop in. Hear me out. And set me straight.
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