A Long Look Into The Past

By Chester Campbell

It hardly seems like fourteen years ago, but it became what I'd chalk up as a most unforgettable venture. Here, slightly edited, is how I described it in a piece I wrote a few years later:

Back in September of 2004, my wife, Sarah, and I undertook our most ambitious book signing tour, a five-day gig in Orange County, California. We did all our travels by car, so we made a two-week trip out of this one. Sharing the driving time kept a fairly fresh pair of hands on the wheel.

While cleaning up my desk the other day, I came across a small note pad with a few scrawled pages of cryptic notes jotted down during that trip. It’s interesting to see what random thoughts I chronicled from all we saw in traveling most of I-40 from Nashville, Tennessee to its end at Barstow, California. The pages only covered the trip out. We did our sightseeing on the way back, including a visit to the Grand Canyon.

According to my little book, we departed Nashville at 7:20 a.m. on Monday, Sept. 13. My first entry showed “cappuccino in Jackson,” which put us well into West Tennessee. I might add that we became addicted to cappuccino around this time, a habit that has stayed with us to the present. We like the kind you find in truck stops and gas stations along the Interstate. At home, we mix ours with powder from Sam’s.

I notedconstruction as we neared the I-40 bridge across the Mississippi. And the rain doused us with bucketsful as we trekked across Arkansas. However, I noted the temperature in Little Rock was a steamy 94 degrees. We stopped there for lunch at the Cracker Barrel. We made a habit of eating at Cracker Barrel. You knew what to expect and it’s invariably tasty.

As the weather improved, we zipped across Arkansas and kept pressing on until it got dark on us at Shawnee, Oklahoma. We picked out a likely looking Best Western not far off I-40 and checked in. Bummer. The restaurant was closed and the pool shut down by order of the Health Department. We were too bushed to look for another place so settled into the third room they gave us (the first had no a/c, the second door wouldn’t open).

Tuesday dawned with a welcome red ball in the sky. After we crossed into Texas, my notes mention “buttes, maize, cattle.” I was also impressed by the colorful lights on the Texas troopers’ cars. Happily, they didn’t flash them for us. The New Mexico border brought a mention of the state’s 75 mph speed limit. Another salient (not the word Sarah used) feature was the rustic rest rooms at their rest areas.

The farther west we traveled, the higher the elevation. I noted the landscape consisted of “high plains with zilch,” indicating little of descriptive value as far as I could see. We cruised through Albuquerque, where the colorful Spanish architecture impressed me . As the sun dropped lower, we found ourselves nearly blinded by that unyielding glow on the horizon. We stopped for the night at Grants, 6,466 feet up, a little shy of the Continental Divide. My notes say we ate at the 4B’s Restaurant, although it wasn’t memorable enough that I recall anything about it.

Since we had left Tennessee and were heading for California, we came dressed for summer weather. The lofty altitude left us shivering when we stepped out of the room Wednesday morning. We also discovered that the price of gas kept going up as we traveled farther west. My notes show $1.79, which doesn’t sound bad today.

Arizona brought more high plains and lots of rock. The different colors in the rock and the way they seemed piled about in places proved most noticeable. We stopped briefly in Flagstaff to check out the Grand Canyon tours for the following week, then began the downhill trek toward the California border. We found it a desolate area, with a 50-mile stretch between Seligman and U.S. 93 that was packed with absolutely nothing.

We crossed the border into the Golden State and stopped at Needles for the night. I had made a reservation at a motel there, but when we arrived they informed us the air conditioning was out. We said no thanks and went across the street to a nice Motel 6, where they had left the light on for us.

My final scribblings on Thursday indicate “Barstow 40 ends, the LA experience begins—more lanes, more traffic.” For some reason I failed to make note of the long stretch through the Mojave Desert before we reached Barstow. It was somewhat reminiscent of the landscape I experienced on a trip to the Holy Land a few years earlier.

My penultimate note indicates the freeways appeared not as bad as Atlanta, “just more of ‘em.” The final entry says only “Katherine’s tour.” But it was one of the highlights of the trip. Dear author friend Katherine Shephard took us on a tour of Orange County the day after we arrived. Kathy had a personality I can only describe as bubbling with enthusiasm and, as someone else said, a zest for life. She was a most gracious hostess. She had things to do but took time to drop by my signing at Barnes & Noble, where this photo was made. 

Kathy was the one who had given me the contact that got the B&N signing. Sadly, about the time we were there, she was diagnosed with the cancer that took her life after a long and valiant struggle. But her hospitality was one of the highlights of our tour, which included an appearance at the annual Men of Mystery event in Irvine, California and signings at three Borders stores.

         

Writing Fast

By June Shaw

I had never written a novel in less than a year--until recently.

The first book I wrote took two or three years, and it collects dust. It was fun. It was exciting. It was awful. It went on and on, and I was having a good time getting it down because I had wanted to do such a thing for so long. Then I discovered most books shouldn't be much longer than 100 pages unless the author was well-known or the book fit into a certain kind of genre, but it wasn't the genre I was writing.

Each book I sold in my first cozy mystery series took about a year to write, and that time frame let me write and exchange manuscripts with my critique group and revise a couple of times before I sent them in. Here is the first one--Relative Danger.
https://www.amazon.com/RELATIVE-DANGER-Cealie-Gunther-mysteries-ebook/dp/B003YJEWNK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1490560419&sr=8-1&keywords=Relative+danger

Now I'm writing a cozy mystery series for a different publisher, and they want the books faster. They want one turned in every six months. At first I thought I couldn't do it, but then I sat, knowing I needed to do and many authors write two or three or even more books a year.

My first book in that series came out last month. The second will be published in August, and last week I finished the first draft of the third one.

Wow, how productive this publisher has made me. Thank you.

Many positive reviews tell me A Fatal Romance came out very well:
https://www.amazon.com/Fatal-Romance-Twin-Sisters-Mystery-ebook/dp/B01F0YVQEE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1490560830&sr=8-1&keywords=a+fatal+romance

John Lindermuth's New Novel

I've always been interested in history and few eras are more interesting than that of our American West. I'm also intrigued by mystery. So what could be better than combining the two?

As trappers, gold-hunters and settlers expanded into the West they ran head on into people they often regarded as less than human but who had cultures as diverse as their own. When conquered, these people were forced onto reservations where it was hoped they might be controlled.

Like most other reservations in the United States, San Carlos in Arizona was established by politicians ignorant of native cultures and relationships. The process forced both friends and enemies to live cheek by jowl in a harsh environment made worse by cheating agents and abusive soldiers while constantly being spied upon by tribal police and scouts who assisted the Army in hunting down renegades.

The conquered Yavapai and Tonto bands of the Apache people, formerly hunter/gatherers, turned to farming and were becoming near self-sufficient on their first reservation on the Verde River. This didn't sit well with contractors who profited from supplying the reservation. Orders came down for the Army to march these Indians 180 miles on foot to San Carlos in mid-winter, a move General George Crook called "cruel and greedy, the foulest blot in Indian history."

John Clum, who had been appointed agent in 1874 (after twice turning down the job), appears to have been a decent man who attempted to treat the people fairly and gave leaders more autonomy than they'd had under other administrators. He embarrassed and inspired the wrath of the Army when he and a small group of scouts brought in Geronimo and his band to San Carlos in 1877 without a single shot being fired

.

Despite Clum's best efforts, San Carlos was bleak, rations were short, there was animosity between the various bands and disease afflicted the people. No wonder then that many chose to break out, seek freedom in the mountains and over the border in Mexico.This is the background for Geronimo Must Die.

My protagonist is Mickey Free, based on an actual scout who served as a translator under Al Sieber in the Yavapai/Tonto campaign and then at San Carlos. His mother was Mexican, but his father has not been definitely identified. As a boy, Mickey was kidnapped by Pinal Apaches and an Army officer blamed it on the Chiricahua, igniting a decade-long war. Mickey was adopted by Nayundii, a White Mountain Apache, and he and his foster brother John Rope both joined Sieber's scouts.

As Mickey says in the book: "History's like an old mirror, distorted, smudged and fly-speckled. It don't always reflect things the way they are." This gave me the liberty to play with fact and fictionalize to suit my story.

There's a plot to kill tribal leaders in the hope Apaches can be convinced to leave the reservation in a great runaway. Sieber suspects Geronimo is behind it. But when Geronimo himself becomes a target of the sniper it falls upon Mickey to save him and discover who is behind the plot.

I love research and fortunately there are a ton of books, government reports and other sources for information on the period and the people involved. Incidentally, the San Carlos reservation stills exists. Despite formation of a Chamber of Commerce, a casino, a language preservation program and other efforts by the people, it is one of the poorest Native American communities in the

U.S. 

Here's a blurb for Geronimo Must Die: 

Geronimo and rascally half-breed Indian scout Mickey Free have never been friends.

Yet, Mickey has already saved Geronimo's life twice (without acknowledgement) and is the only one who can keep the great Apache leader out of the sniper's sights now. The sniper has already murdered several tribal leaders and Mickey believes it's all a plot to prompt a great runaway from the hated San Carlos reservation.

Mickey's efforts are stymied by Al Sieber, head of scouts, and John Clum, reservation agent, as well as suspicion of other Indians. Adding to his problems, Mickey is in love with a girl whose name he keeps forgetting to ask and who may be allied to the plot.

Only perseverance, risk to his life and, eventually, Geronimo's help will enable Mickey to resolve this dangerous situation.

Geronimo Must Die will be published March 28 by Sundown Press.

________________________________________

A retired newspaper editor, J. R. Lindermuth lives and writes in a house built by a man who rode with Buffalo Bill--which may have helped inspire his interest in the West. His 15 published novels are a mix of mystery and historical fiction. Since retiring, he's served as librarian for his county historical society, assisting patrons with genealogy and research. He is a member of International Thriller Writers and a past vice president of the Short Mystery Fiction Society.

New Mystery Series

by June Shaw

I am so excited to announce that Kensington's Lyrical Press has just published A FATAL ROMANCE, the first book in my new Twin Sisters Mysteries!

This series is set in a place I live in and love--South Louisiana's bayou country. The second book, DEAD ON THE BAYOU, is scheduled to come out in August--and I'm writing like crazy on the third, SAVING MOM. (The twins' mother lives in a retirement home.)

Writing these books is fun and difficult and so rewarding once they're done. Here's the opening of A FATAL ROMANCE:
I stood in a rear pew as a petite woman in red stepped into the church carrying an urn and stumbled. She fell forward. Her urn bounced. Its top popped open, and ashes flew. A man’s remains were escaping.

“Oh no!” people cried.

“Jingle bells,” I hummed and tried to control my disorder but could not. Words from the song spewed from my mouth.

“Not now,” my twin Eve said at my ear while ashes sprinkled around us like falling gray snow. She pointed to my jacket’s sleeve and open pocket. “Uh-oh. Parts of him fell in there.”

I saw a few drops like dust on the sleeve and jerked my pocket wider open. Powdery bits lay across the tissue I’d blotted my beige lipstick with right before coming inside St. Gertrude’s. “I think that’s tissue residue,” I said, wanting to convince myself. I grabbed the pocket to turn it inside out.

“Don’t dump that.” Eve shoved on my pocket. “It might be his leg. Or bits of his private parts.”

“Here Comes Santa Claus,” I sang.

She slapped a hand over my mouth. “Hush, Sunny.” 

The dead man’s wife shoved up from her stomach to her knees, head spinning toward me like whiplash.

“Sorry,” Eve told her. “My sister can’t help it.”

Beyond the wife, a sixtyish priest and younger one and other people appeared squeamish scooping coarse ashes off seats of the rough-hewn pews. An older version of the wife used a broom and dustpan to sweep ash from the floor. People dumped their findings back into the urn. Other mourners scooted from the church through side doors. A boiled crayfish scent teased my nostrils. Someone must have peeled a few crustaceans for a breakfast omelet and didn’t soap her hands well enough.

Ashes scattered along the worn green carpet like a seed trail to entice birds.

“Look, there’s more of him. I’ll go find a vacuum,” I said.

The widow faced me. “No! Get out.”

“But she’s my sister,” my twin said.

“As if I can’t tell. You leave with her. Go away.” The petite woman wobbled on shiny stilettos, aiming a finger toward the front door.

I sympathized with her before this minute. Now she was ticking me off. I’d been kicked out of places before but never a funeral. “I didn’t really know your husband, but Eve did. I stopped to see if she wanted to go out for lunch, and she asked me to come here first. She said y’all were nice people.” 

“We are!” The roots of the wife’s pecan-brown hair were black, I saw, standing toe to toe with her, although my toes were much bigger inside my size ten pumps. I was five eight and a half. She was barely five feet. Five feisty feet. “But you’re not going to suck up parts of my husband’s body in a vacuum bag.” She whipped her pointed finger toward me like a weapon. “And you need to stop singing.”

I wanted to stop but imagined parts of the man that might be sucked into a vacuum cleaner and ripped out a loud chorus, my face burning. Nearby mourners appeared shocked. Mouths dropped open.

“You don’t know my sister,” Eve told the little woman who’d just lost a spouse. Actually, lost him twice. “Sunny can’t help singing when she’s afraid. And that includes anything dealing with sex, courtesy of her ex-husband.”

“What does sex have to do with Zane?” The wife’s cheeks flamed.

Should I tell her about his privates possibly being in my pocket? Second thoughts said not to. “Who knows? But you don’t need to worry. I certainly wasn’t having an affair with your husband,” I said, quieting my song to a hum.

“Just the thought of sex makes her sing,” my sister explained. “Maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t think of it often.”.

The widow shook her finger. “Zane was always faithful to me.”

“I’m sure he was,” I said, working to get my singing instincts under control. Nodding toward the carpet, I spoke without a hint of a tune. “I’d really like to help you get those pieces of him out of the rug. If we can just find an empty vacuum bag, I’ll—”.

“Go! Get away!”

www.juneshaw.com        http://amzn.to/2k1GBys

OLD IS COOL AND SO IS WRITING!

by Jackie King

I’m a writer, so I write. Sometimes I have to write what’s foremost on my mind. Today that happens to be writing as I grow older.  If you’re a writer, everything is connected with your writing. And no matter what your age is today, one day you too, will be old. So this morning, instead of trudging ahead on my latest Work-in-Progress, I’m talking about my Life-in-Progress.

Arranging your life successfully as you age isn’t as easy as it looks. And I’m one of the lucky ones. I have two daughters in the area who are both willing to help. The problem is, I don’t want to be a pain in their backside. I must say that hard as I’ve tried, I have complicated both of their lives. But I make a discernable effort to minimize their problems.

Years ago I vowed that I wouldn’t unnecessarily cause my children pain. I won’t go into the history of why, just that this was my goal for dealing with adult children. Did I always accomplish this? Of course not. But with all honesty, I can honestly say that I’ve tried.

Here was my game plan when I hit about 75: Since I’m single, I sold my four-bedroom house and downsized to fit into a three-room apartment in a complex for seniors. My daughters helped me, but the decision was mine. Here are my self-imposed ground-rules:

The “treasures” that I spent a lifetime collecting are just “stuff.” Look at the need to shed them as a relief, not a tragedy.

No “meltdowns” allowed. (I had one rather serve collapse right after I moved. Luckily my youngest daughter was with me, and she was wise enough to just let me boohoo in her arms until I recovered my equilibrium.)

I had to try two senior complexes before I found the right fit for me.

I made up my mind that I’d be happy.

I adopted the motto: OLD IS COOL! Because it is. (imo)

I chose a drop-dead date when I would stop driving, and then sold my car to my youngest granddaughter. Her delight at having a bright red, sporty-looking car, sweetened the bitterness of this pill.

As with all of my decisions, I made up my mind not to grieve over what laws of nature governor.

My rule as a writer: NEVER GIVE UP WRITING.

Write something each day that it’s humanly possible. (Did I break this vow? Of course. But as soon as possible, I went right back to writing. And I’m not talking about my grocery list.)

Growing old is sometimes a challenge. One must reject bitterness, regret and loss, and then press forward with hope, courage and faith.

Now back to my new cozy with the working title of Corpse Under a Sagebrush. Which more than likely will change.

Cheers,

Jackie

INDIE PUBLISHING: My New Venture in 2017

by Jackie King

Technology in printing and the popularity of ebooks have changed the publishing world in ways that have transformed the book industry.

I’ve always been something of a late bloomer, and my entrance into publishing my own books is no different. When I started writing seriously, that was back in the late 1980s, self-publishing was considered to be something that only hobbyists indulged in to bolster their egos. Twenty-first century publishing is a whole new ballgame.

The once shabby title of “self-publishing,” is now called “Indie publishing," and has a shine all its own. Now everyone and his favorite author seems to be considering some type of Indie publishing. Including yours truly.

At the close of 2016, I asked for the copyrights to all of my books and novellas to be returned to me, and the regional publisher I worked with for many years graciously agreed. So with the help of local writer/editor, Joshua Danker-Dake, and local graphic designer/artist, Mark Combs, I am in the process of printing Blue Cameo Books.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Josh Daker-Dake, Writer and Editor

“Self-publishing was time-consuming, but straightforward—it’s nothing any reasonably computer-savvy person can’t do with a little bit of diligence." Josh Daker-Dake—interview with Publisher’s Weekly 2015

Mark Combs, Graphic Designer/Artist

This imprint will soon republish all of my Grace Cassidy Mysteries, and my stand alone contemporary mystery, MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE, which is set in the Oklahoma Panhandle. Later in the year I’ll issue a collection of my historical novellas that are set in 1889 Guthrie, Oklahoma Territory, at the time of the Land Run.

I’m very excited with this new venture, and am enjoying learning more and more about the craft of self-publishing each day. The illustrious SistersInCrime organization plans on sponsoring a ListServ for its members sometime this year.

Very soon I’ll show the new covers of my “Corpse,” series, featuring Grace Cassidy, an independent B&B inn-sitter who offers her services to overworked innkeepers who desperately need a vacation.

WAITING FOR SANTA -- AND THE NEW BOOK

by June Shaw

This morning I heard footsteps padding around on my roof and had hopes: Maybe it was Santa (I mean it's the coldest day so far this winter in south Louisiana--the low forties last night.)

It wasn't such a surprise, though, when a man came down, a slim man who'd gone up on the ladder I had watched him lean against the house. That was before I felt the wind's chill and pulled my nose back in my snug house.

He came down minutes later and knocked on my backdoor again. "I'm sorry. There's a spot right over there that feels soft," he said. "I need to go to the lumberyard to get a piece of plywood to replace it and a few shingles that match yours."

At least it didn't sound too terrible. That wouldn't be such a large bill, I figured--even though spending any money on work on the house right before Christmas didn't seem right. I mean, the kids did want presents. Of course mine are grown and would be content to receive nothing, but they'll get gift certificates to a favorite restaurant or building supply place they frequent. The teens are different. They might say they don't need anything--Wait, they're girls and teenagers, and would never make such statements. But they are most pleased with cash to spend on things of their choosing so that's what they'll get.

Now me: I want to get more work done on my current book--SAVING MOM, and I am pleased to say I have quite a bit done.

I also want to get make preparations for the first book in that new series, which is set down here. It's called A FATAL ROMANCE, and it is available for pre-order now! It will be released on Jan. 24.

As you can tell, I am satisfied, even if the little footsteps from my rooftop didn't come from the person I had hoped for. Looking forward to having the first book in a new cozy mystery series is a wonderful present!

What would you like Santa to bring you?

http://www.juneshaw.com

TRUE THANKSGIVING STORY and Pecan Pie Recipe

by Jackie King

Thanksgiving is the perfect time for reminiscing and for remembering family stories. These generational memories are often centered around cooking and good food, and these special tales of family history should be treasured and never forgotten.

Here is a yarn spun for the pleasure of all gathered at a festive Thanksgiving meal celebrating God’s abundance and goodness. Such true stories cry out to be told and retold.  

June Butts with Sofia her Great Granddaugter

June Butts with her grandson, Jamie Horn

Memories of Papa Peeling Pecans for the Grandkids

 “We called our grandfather, Papa,” June Butts, now a great grandmother herself, said. “Back in those days different generations of the family lived in the same house, and it was wonderful to grow up with an older person who had the time to tell stories and to teach us kids about the generations past. I think maybe that’s one reason why families were closer back then.”

 The comely woman smiled and the faraway look that came into her blue eyes told me she had transported herself back to South Texas and a simpler life sometime in the 1950’s.

 “We had a pecan tree and Papa peeled pecans for the kids. We’d sit in a circle at his feet, listen to his tales, and eat the perfectly shelled and halved nuts as he passed them around.”

 “Peeled pecans?” I asked, trying to imagine how such a feat might be possible. “How could he peel pecans?”

 It was Thanksgiving Day and I had been invited to join June’s family for a traditional dinner of turkey, dressing and all of the trimmings. We were sitting around the table drinking coffee and savoring that mellow sated satisfaction that fills a group of friends during happy times.

 “With his pocket knife,” June said.

 “His pocket knife?” I asked. “You’re kidding.”

 “I’m not!” June’s robust laugh was typical of a woman who was Texas born and bred. “He peeled those pecans just the same way you’d peel an orange. He’d slice off the top and the bottom, cut slits around the nuts and then just peel off the hulls. Those pecans came out in perfect halves and he’d hand them to us kids.”

 “That must have been one sharp knife,” I said, wondering how he kept from cutting off his fingers.

 “That it was,” June said. “And he could peel those nuts really fast. Sometimes he’d peel enough for Mama to make us some pies.” She sighed with remembered pleasure. “Mmm—mmm—mmm, those pies were good! We never had much money, but we had happy times, anyway. God was always good to my family.”

 “I’ll bet you learned to cook from your own mother,” I said.

 “Sure did. Mama and Daddy had eleven kids, and I was helping stir up dinner as soon as I could hold a spoon and stand on a stool to reach the table.”

 It happened that we were drinking Texas Pecan flavored coffee. I took a sip of the hot brew and savored the rich flavor. Pecans, family and holidays equal pure pleasure, I thought. Everyone sitting at the table owned their own cell phones and computers, but some things never change. The memory of “peeled pecans,” outranked any of the electronic pleasures available to the diners.

Only the delicious food that we shared stayed the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loretta Carson’s Pecan Pie

1 Scant cup sugar

1 cup dark Karo Syrup

3 eggs

3 Tablespoons melted butter or margarine

Pinch salt

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup pecans

Beat eggs and sugar until blended. Add Karo syrup and mix well, then add melted butter, salt, vanilla and pecans. Mix well and pour into 9 inch unbaked pie crust. Bake at 400 degrees for 8 minutes. Turn heat down to 325 degrees and bake for 35 minutes. (Center will be set.)

Happy Thanksgiving to All

by Jacqueline King and Jennifer Sohl

Chasing the Blues by Writing

November 9, 2016

I have a bad case of the Blues today. Better than last night around midnight, but still feeling sad. In my struggle to avoid a gloomy day, I searched my memory for a happier time.

A conversation held at a Malice Domestic Conference sprang to mind. A guy who happened to be another cozy mystery writer said, “My whole day goes better if I write.”

“Really?” I said, “So does mine.” The other authors gathered with us agreed.

So today, in pursuit of a lighter heart, I sat my fine broad butt in the chair in front of my computer and continued working on my newest project. This cozy mystery has the working title of CORPSE IN THE SAGEBRUSH. It’s set in the Oklahoma Panhandle a little farther west than my just published suspense novel MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE.

Sunset on the Plains

Photo by Rhonda Smith Hodges

These two books are very different, but my therapy will be the same: Telling a story from my heart.

Here’s wishing all my readers and fellow authors that their day be filled with joy.

Cheers,

Jackie King

VOLUNTEER YOUR WRITING

by June Shaw

I love to sell material I write. I really do. Getting to write and have something published was tremendously gratifying. It was when I first began.

Things have changed.

Yes, I'm still thrilled to learn that anyone would want to read something I create. It's especially pleasing when readers tell me or write that they enjoy my work and even ask for more. That is so exciting!

Exciting, too, is getting paid for words I write. The first essay I sold to a magazine many years ago brought me forty dollars. I was a widow with five young children, and receiving extra money, especially for words that I wrote, was unbelievable.

Over the years now I have written a number of books, had a great time doing it, and earned much more than in earlier times.

I've also enjoyed nonprofit writing. A number of years ago the president of our Chamber of Commerce asked if I would write a column on retiring in our area. There would be no pay, but I could advertise my books in my byline. It would not need to be any longer than five hundred words. "And you can write that in your sleep," she added.

She was right. I've penned "Retiring on the Bayou" for quite awhile now. I've interviewed people and told of their exciting pursuits since they left their nine-to-five jobs.

But now it's time for mine. I just finished a column for the paper and started it by saying it would be my last. They should easily find someone else to create a different column. I will have more time to write my novels--but I'll miss having so many people in town tell me how much they enjoy my columns.

http://www.juneshaw.com

Characters That Form Our Lives

and Later Come Alive in Our Stories

by Jackie King

One of my earliest memories is sitting in a circle with my brother, sister and various neighbor kids as my mother told us stories. Delia Hodges Sprague could spin a yarn about any character or characters we might name. Let’s say that I wanted a story about Cinderella, my sister Joan wanted the heroine to be Wonder Woman and my brother J.D., chose Tarzan of the Apes.

No problem to Mother. She’d create one tale using each of these characters. The story would be exciting and it would make sense. At least to kids.

Delia Hodges Sprague was a storyteller, an actress, a teacher and a sometimes writer. This redheaded dynamo was smart, fun and very temperamental. My childhood was sometimes difficult, sometimes frightening and always challenging. But life was never boring.

Mother taught me to read, and when there was nothing to read, to make up stories inside my head and entertain myself with imaginary friends and foes.

Delia Hodges Sprague is often found in my books. Sometimes she’s in the guise of a father, a mother or a best friend. In my latest mystery, MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE set in the land of her childhood, the Oklahoma Panhandle, she’s walks and breathes in the character of Winnie Doolittle.

$3.99 at Amazon Kindle

Delia faced real danger with lionhearted courage: she rode boxcars from Oklahoma to New York state at the age of 20, challenged rattlesnakes in my grandparents pasture and tarantulas in the outhouse of a country school. But small things shattered her: imagined slights, walking into her bank to ask for a loan or having a conversation with her own father.

When I was a child she often awoke screaming bloody murder from recurrent nightmares; battled depression her entire life and fought breast cancer until her death. She was an extraordinary woman of courage. I loved her with all my heart. But she wasn’t an easy mother to have.

To see the best side of Delia Hodges Sprague, read MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE, and observe Winnie Doolittle. To see the more complicated side of my mother, notice Emily Ashcroft.

Most everyone loved my mother—especially me. I hope you’ll enjoy her as Winnie Doolittle in MURDER ON THE EDGE OF NOWHERE

Below is a clipping from the end of chapter two after Liz O’Brien and Winnie Doolittle find cousin Christabel in Liz’s garage:

“Help!” Liz screamed. “Oh, my God. Someone. Anyone. Please help.” They stretched Christabel on the grass.

“Won’t do no good to yell.” Winnie’s voice was cold, toneless. “You know how to do that resuscitation thing?”

Liz forced herself to press her mouth against Christabel’s cold lips. Her gut twisted. Why didn’t someone drive by? She alternated the breathing routine with chest compression for what seemed forever, but she knew it was useless. Christabel was unresponsive. Liz felt for a pulse. Nothing.

“You might as well quit.” Winnie pulled at Liz’s shoulder. “She’s dead. We’ll have to call the police and tell them she killed herself.”

“But that’s crazy. Christabel would never commit suicide. Nothing could make me think that.”

“Oh, hell, Liz. Don’t be stupid. I’m not telling you what to think. I’m telling you what to say.”

Galley Proofs for MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE

by Jackie King

Yesterday I received galley proofs of my latest mystery, MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE. The odd thing in up-to-date publishing trends, at least with my small regional publisher, is that the ebook came out a few weeks ago. I’ve been reading this version and have been appalled at some of the errors. Did I do that? I ask myself, or was it the publisher’s editor, the publisher himself?

It doesn’t really matter. It’s my book, and I accept all responsibility for any mistakes. Which is what Galley Proofs are all about. The last ditch chance to catch and correct mistakes. 

For those who don’t know, Galley Proofs are pages of the novel sent to me online. I print them out on paper, or do a final $3.99 at Amazonedit on a copy online. My choice. 

The good news is that this means the paper version will soon be available.

Jackie at Work on Galley Proofs

And that’s what I’m doing just now—or it will be as soon as I finish this post. And according to both my calendar and my watch, I’d better get at it. Now!

Cheers, 

Jackie

My Latest Mystery--Suspense, Not Cozy

MURDER AT THE EDGE OF NOWHERE, is now available on Amazon Kindle!

Embezzlement, Blackmail and Murder

On the Oklahoma Panhandle!

When Liz O’Brien returns home to make peace with her ailing mother, she expects boredom and monotony. Instead, she finds a morass of secrets that land her in the crosshairs of a killer. Who would have thought that Tumbleweed, an Oklahoma panhandle town so tiny it could disappear as a mirage, would be rift with embezzlement, blackmail and murder?

Plus: The romantic designs of handsome cowboy from her past, really throw Liz for a loop.

Here’s how the story begins:

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Prologue

“Everyone has something they want to hide, but you have more than most.” Christabel Steele flipped her hair backwards, a movement that she knew accentuated her beauty. She pictured her sleek, golden hair fanning in practiced perfection over her right shoulder. The gesture usually mesmerized men and annoyed women. But today her quarry’s eyes glazed with fear. Christabel licked her lips, savoring the moment. Like an antelope caught in underbrush. But instead of blood, I’ll taste money.

Emotional pain radiated from her dupe, and Christabel drew strength from the suffering. Her earliest memory was watching her father suck marrow from a steak bone while he skillfully tormented her pliable mother. Without so much as raising his voice, the man could cause his beautiful, gentle wife to turn pale as moonlight and cry like a baby. Christabel had watched and learned. Daddy had been dead five years now, but she still worshipped him. He had taught her well.

“I still have trouble understanding how you found out.”

“You mention that each time you come, and my answer never changes.” Christabel laughed. “Your tawdry little secret was clear to me from the beginning. I saw and recorded every detail in my journals.” Christabel swirled the half-filled champagne glass, never moving her gaze from her prey. “I’ve kept notes on what I’ve seen for a very long time. I started back in the second grade when I got in trouble for tellin     g people’s secrets.”

“You’ve been a monster since a child! A bad seed.”

“Oh, please.” Christabel licked her lips again, savoring her victim’s pain, which was stronger than she had expected.

“And you think people will continue paying forever?” The prey’s voice tightened and Christabel’s lips curved higher.

“Well you have, haven’t you?” Christabel moved her body sensuously against the sofa. “And not just in cash.” Her enjoyment intensified as the person’s misery grew. “I never tell my victims everything I know about their little indiscretions. A pinch of uncertainty adds excitement to the hunt. Then, the slightest hint of knowledge and you all get the same stricken look on your faces—like an antelope just before a mountain lion pounces. I watched that once on TV.”

The victim flinched and Christabel laughed.

“Growing up, I watched my parents carefully. I inherited Mother’s beauty, and Daddy’s brain. I learned how to get what I wanted by mirroring him.” Christabel smiled. “Knowing is power and power is even better than sex.”

“You’d do this even if cash wasn’t involved, wouldn’t you?”

Christabel arched an eyebrow. This one was smarter than she’d thought. “Perhaps. My family has run Tumbleweed since the late 1800s. We’ve always called the shots here—my father before me and his father before him. I like making people dance to my tune. And I like the money.”

Her life was perfect.

Then she remembered Liz. Why the hell hadn’t her cousin stayed in Tulsa where she belonged? Everyone claimed the bitch had been a huge success. Crashed through the glass ceiling and became VP of some company. Now she’d returned and wanted her house to herself.

She’d hated her cousin forever! It was Liz’s fault she’d gotten pregnant and had that embarrassing baby with his brown skin.

Christabel flicked her tongue across her scarlet lips remembering the night a heartbroken Liz had eloped on the rebound to marry that worthless Danny O’Brien. I thought she was gone forever. Oh, the hell with her.

Christabel took another swallow of the expensive wine. Her victim always brought the finest. She frowned and sniffed the glass. She had left the room for only a moment in order to carry that wretched cat upstairs and lock the beast in Liz’s room. Could there be something in the champagne? Christabel smiled. Impossible. Too much fear. “You brought the money?” She held out a small aristocratic hand. “All of it?”

“Yes.” Her victim sat quietly, and the quietness annoyed Christabel. She sipped the champagne again. Of course, it tasted the same; it was her fourth glass. She drained the flute, then smiled. She’d finish the whole bottle and offer none to her prey. Daddy had taught her how to hold her liquor and how to keep victims in their place.

“You promise not to tell?”

“If you pay, I never tell.” Christabel let contempt curl her lips upward, then enjoyed the resentment mirrored on the victim’s face. Christabel laughed. “At least, I haven’t yet.”

The room grew suddenly warm. The fragile stemmed glass weighed heavily in her hand and her head spun. What was happening to her?

A black pistol appeared from a pocket as if by magic, grasped by the visitor’s white-knuckled fingers. “Sit still.” The voice was hard and angry and not a bit frightened.

“What the hell...?” Christabel asked. It took her a minute to regroup. She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. You shoot me and your sins become public. My cousin Liz will give my journals to the police. You won’t be able to pay her to stay silent. Miss Perfect wouldn’t take a bribe to save her own life.”

“I’m here now, and I’ll find the books before she comes home.”

“Books? I quit writing on paper years ago.” Christabel’s words started to slur. “Even if you find my old journals and smash my iPad, there are tiny things called thumb drives you’ll never find.”

“I’ll take the chance.” Her visitor reached into the same pocket and pulled out a plastic bag, passing it to Christabel. “Put that over your head.”

“You think I’m crazy?” Christabel felt even dizzier. Her eyelids were heavy. If only she could close them for a minute, she’d be all right…back in control.

“If you don’t do what I say, I’m going to shoot off one side of your face.”

Not her face, her beautiful face! This couldn’t be happening. She was the hunter. She had never been prey.

“I won’t kill you. I’ll just take off one cheekbone. I’ll even call 911 before I leave. Only, no man will ever look at you again. Your outside will be as ugly as your inside. That’d be worth going to jail for.”

The image so terrified Christabel that she slipped the bag over her head, leaving the bottom open to breathe through. She’d stall. Keep talking. She’d think of a way to get the edge. She always did, just as Daddy always had.

Her visitor walked behind her and put the barrel of the pistol against her face. Christabel sat still, not daring to move. She felt fingers reach forward and tighten the bag around her neck. The gun seemed like ice against her skin.

Christabel drew in a sharp breath, and then the plastic shrink-wrapped her mouth. She couldn’t raise her hand, and she couldn’t breathe! She might really die! For the first time, she knew what fear meant, then blind terror.

The last sound Christabel heard was glass shattering when the champagne flute slipped from her fingers.

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Print copies will be available soon!