One Month, and One Day...

of freedom, that is.

My husband reminded me yesterday I'd been off work for a month.
It feels longer. Odd how that would be, but it's still great!

I hurt my knee last week (and really, it doesn't surprise me), so I've been taking it easy. Other than painting the wooden steps to the porch--had to paint a primer, as it was raw wood, and next I'll give it a coat of paint. All in due time.

Since the mosquitoes came out, the woodsy garden is taking care of its own as of late. Other than spraying something on vegetation so that deer won't eat it, I haven't been back there much. I've concentrated on the other gardens. One up by the house. I had to get in the last of the annuals. That's about when I felt the twinge in my knee. I've upped my doses of Glucosamine Chondroitin complex--I'd dropped my dose to 2 pill per day, but decided maybe that wasn't such a good idea, since my knee was beginning to complain. This helps with the soft cartilage in knees so that you can move freely (and not have to use a frigging walker!!). I began taking this many years ago. All I know is it works for me. If I hadn't discovered it, who knows what would have happened. Since I'm not a fan of doctors operating unnecessarily on me (my sister had knee surgery, last year, and it took her a year to recuperate, and she'd gained weight because of all the sitting). I'd recommend it to anyone with painful knees. There's my plug for the day.

Other than that, I have been working on my works in progress.

Today we'll examine Murder on the Mississippi. I'm still debating whether to keep it Murder ON the Mississippi, or maybe AT, since the murder happens in a nearby park, not exactly on the river, but near it. Would anyone care?

Well, I've got this one character, I just love him. His name is Ed Lamont. He's an elderly gentleman who happens to resemble Mark Twain enough he does a show on his own riverboat--which is currently in repairing state. Ed is great uncle to Lainey--my MC. She calls him "Uncle Ed", as he doesn't want to be reminded how old he is. Which is fine with her. A lot of folks in town think he's a bit loopy, because he may, from time to time go into his Mark Twain bit. Always wearing the clothes, has the bushy mustache and white hair that circles his head like a cloud.

Lainey is a bit confused by the way people have claimed their dislike for the girl from her class who was murdered. In this scene, Ed--Uncle Ed--helps her categorize her friends and acquaintances.

“Morning,” I said as he took my hand and gave it the usual kiss on the back.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Not at all. Take a load off,” I said, motioning to the rest of the bench.

He did with a windy gush as he sat.

“Did'ja go to church?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said.

“I guess I'm not the only sinner in town, eh?” We both laughed. He patted my arm with his amusement. I gazed up at him. Pursing his lips, he whipped out that slim cigar, posed himself at the end of the bench, the other hand grasping the lapel of his coat. I knew he was going to go into a Mark Twain quote or two.

“There has been only one Christian. They caught him and crucified him—early.” He leaned toward me on the end of that, to make it seem significant. I caught it easily enough. A Christian would turn red in the face and bombast him. My lips curled, despite myself. In a way I had to agree.

“Faith,” he went on in his eloquent and rich voice, “is believing something you know ain't true.”

“Did he really say that?” I asked, astonished.

“Oh, yes.” Lamont tucked the unlit cigar between the first and second finger and crossed his knees, eyes settled on me. “You look upset, my child. What is it? Talk to me.”

I smiled. Out of all the people I knew, Uncle Ed was the kindest, most honest and most intelligent man I knew. I was astonished that I was actually related to him. At times I told him things—shared things with him—I simply couldn't share with my aunt, or even my girlfriends. Ours was a unique friendship, a bond that was based on the fact we understood and agreed with each other more times than not. I remember touring his house with my aunt, and saw all the art, beautiful and colorful paintings of flowers and landscapes that looked as though someone had taken a picture, that's how good the artist was. In many nooks and crannies there were hand-thrown clay pieces in unusual shapes and colors. I'd learned his wife had been the artist. Whatever she touched, she turned into a piece of art. She actually did shows in all the major cities. I could tell he missed his wife, Elaine, calling her “El” for short.

He leaned toward me slightly, “Are you upset about that young lady's death? What was her name again?” Thick brows that I swear were long enough to be curled, bunched together.

“Arline,” I said. “And actually, I'm not upset about her death, as much as I am about how people around town felt about her.”

He sat back, cigar perched in his hand as an elbow leaned on the chair's arm. “I see. And what do all these fine people of this fine town think, or say about his poor, dead young lady?”

“They pretty much hated her. My friends—” I broke off and shook my head and for a moment had to gather my thoughts. My uncle patiently waited for me to go on. “One is pretty much indifferent, the other definitely hated her.” I made a little frustrated gasp. “Today I'm wondering why I'm even friends with them,” I said, despondently. This had been another spiraling thought in my head last night. I confused about my feelings. I felt guilty for being angry at them, but because they were my friends, I felt I should stick up for them. But I just couldn't help it. I didn't see it their way.

“I see.”

“I don't know how to—oh, what's the word I need?” I squinted out across Front Street where an old fashioned-looking street lamp on the corner stood next to the Decadence shop, which had all sorts of hand-made deviant chocolates and fudge, reminding me I needed a hunk of fudge desperately. Decorative brickwork, with more ginkgo trees, looking as though they sprouted from the bricks naturally, decorated our main thoroughfare. The overall effect gave it a nice aesthetic and orderly look, and hinted at its heyday in the early to mid-1800's. Old brick buildings hunched together on the other side of the old street. Beyond these buildings, the mighty Mississippi shown like a broad silver ribbon. Directly across from me was Aunt Bea's Fanciful Emporium with everything you didn't need, but once you saw it, you had to buy it. The dark green awnings and flags out front fluttered in the breeze. Behind the buildings, a train slowly rumbled into view, then made a couple of short bursts on the horn. We waited until the noise from the train's engine and horn went by.

“You mean categorize?” he asked, getting back to our discussion.

“Well, yeah.”

He nodded, looking out across the street as I had. “Well, I'll tell you mine. Maybe you'll be able to figure out where your friends fit.” I sat forward, and poised my pen on the page, just in case I felt what he said was brilliant—which it could very well be. Since I'd known him these past two years, I'd always wanted to record his words. So, today I would.

“There are those I love—” he looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes “—among which, of course, are you and your aunt.” He patted my hand. I wrote down the word LOVE. Then I added a 'D' so it was 'loved'.

“Then there are acquaintances—people I like, and I speak to on a regular bases.”

“Then, there are those I tolerate.”

I wrote ACQUAINTANCES on the next line and below that TOLERABLE.

“And then there are those I avoid at all cost.”

I paused trying to find the antonym for “tolerate”. He leaned over and said, “Try insufferable.”

I laughed as I wrote that one down.

“What you do is put all the people you know under those headings.” He nodded toward my notebook. “Whatever heading your friends come under, only you can know. It's a fine line with friendships. But again, you can be friends with a bear, but you don't want to be around when he's hungry.”

I laughed again. “So, those you tolerate, do you like them at all?”

“That would depend. I like my mail lady. She's the in the tolerable column.” His voice went growly on the last few words as he made a sour face. “Barely tolerable,” he amended.

“Why?”

“She yammers too much, for one. And also,” he leaned and lowered his voice, “thinks I'd be a good catch, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah. So you merely tolerate her.”

“Yes.” He nodded, slotting the tip of the cigar between his lips. “And avoid her when I can.” He shook his head with a chuckle.

“And the ones who are insufferable, do you hate them?”

“Hate is a strong word, Lainey. I choose not to use it, if I can.” He pondered his next words for a moment. “However there are certain people in public office I genuinely despise. And maybe, if some of them died of natural causes, I wouldn't loose a wink of sleep.” He smiled as though he were thinking of the very ones at that moment. “But in this life you will find that you will come across certain people who don't care for you, and likewise, you care naught for them. It's just human nature. And while the feelings are mutual, it wouldn't be a stretch to say I genuinely despise someone, but I wouldn't want to wish them ill. Do you understand, Lainey, my dear?”

“Yes. I think I do.”

“It's just easier for me to categorize the people in my life, so I know what side of the street to walk on, which shops to avoid, and who I don't want making me a meal at a local diner, if you know what I mean. Does it help?”

“I think so.” I looked at my list. I tried to decide where to put a few people. AJ I barely tolerated. Arline, I didn't know, but I had nothing against her, so I decided she was an acquaintance. Someone I knew, but had no feelings one way or another about. I began labeling a few others. Under LOVE, there were only a few people. Uncle Ed would be one, along with my aunt, of course. But I couldn't really put my friends under that heading. At the moment, I was hovering over placing Wendy under “Tolerate” at the moment. I really didn't understand her emotions over Arline. Possibly it was the overreacting teenage hormones at work here. Or, perhaps, she merely hadn't matured as much as I had. Or, it was something more organic.

The last of the clicking train cars disappeared from view, and the warm, humid air fluttered flags and awnings a little harder, making a noise behind us. Birdsong in the tree above us gave way to a few cars that shushed by.

“The sheriff arrested AJ Beaumont, last night,” I announced, and waited for his reaction.

“Beaumont?” He paused and thought a moment. “That name rings a bell.”

“His father's a lawyer.”

“Ah!” he barked. “That overbearing curmudgeon? His father was a—well, I won't say it in front of you. But his son?”

“Yes. He graduated with me, just this past June.”

He nodded. “So, it's believed he killed this young lady?”

“A piece of jewelry was found in her hand. They think it belonged to him. I saw him wearing it—or one just like it.”

“Incriminating evidence.” He nodded.

I doodled on a new page, and then found myself writing the words, incriminating evidence, necklace/jewelry. And a big question mark. Lamont watched me.

“What else is bothering you, Lainey, my dear?”

“The reason.”

“The reason?”

“I mean motive. Why he killed her. If he did.”

“Ah, yes. Presumed guilty until proven otherwise.”

“I just wish I could get into Arline's apartment before it's cleared out.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “I might be able to find something the police missed.”

“An excellent idea. Where does she live?”

“The Chandelier.”

“I know Madeline Couch, the owner-manager,” he said.

“An acquaintance?” I smiled.

He smiled back. “Yes, a good acquaintance. I could give her a call. Tell her you'd like to come out there and look around.”

“That would be great!” I said. “But I'd have to tell Sheriff Weeks, first, and have his approval.”

“Then call him. Tell him.”

I twisted my mouth with indecision. “He'll just think I'm meddling in police business.”

“Lainey, you've a gift,” he said patting my hand. “You have great instincts for a young lady. I do believe you've an old soul. And your power of observation is better than most flat-footed policemen.”

“You're embarrassing me.” I chuckled. It wasn't the first time I'd been told I had an old soul. But someone had actually noticed I had the power of observation, and good instincts. Maybe I should have him speak to my aunt.

“When would you be going out there?” he asked, a small fold-out cell phone in hand. It was odd seeing a man who so resembling a famous early-twentieth century writer holding a twenty-first century electronic gadget.

“Probably tomorrow, since we're closed.”

He made the connection, and while he spoke to the woman on the other end—making small talk—my aunt drove up in her blue Toyota. I hopped up and stepped over to the curb, knowing she'd need help. Poe was first to jump out of the front seat and into my arms. I petted him with a kiss to the top of the head. Loved.

Finding Voice

I wrote this on Monday in my journal...

I think I've found Lainey's voice. It gradually came to me--or was coming to me--and then this morning I was jotting down this scene and there it was.

It's hard to explain this phenomena (other writers know what I mean by this), but there it was. I'd been writing along, pages, chapters, filling the document with scenes, dialogue, which I tried to give life to. In some cases they were bare bones, no fleshing out, or attempts at it have been like a fishing trip, where the fish don't bite. I would be left with the thought that eventually I'd find a way to make it better.

And then, one day--this day--I'm writing a vivid scene (one of those which either wake you, or you have it in your head when you wake), and BOOM! There it is! Your character has, well, character.

As in all books, I know basically where I'm going. Like driving in the dark with one headlight. It's just getting to that destination without hitting a deer, or having a flat tire--something that stops you cold.

Well, today, it came. Yep. Lainey Quilholt, my MC of my murder mystery has come alive in my head, and I suddenly knew her like the back of my hand.

The following is the scene in which she just popped out on the page. And mind, its in Chapter 9... but here is the section. Set-up: Lainey is investigating the apartment of the girl who was murdered. It's been up-turned by someone looking for something, and Lainey just happened to find whatever incriminating pictures to explain--she hopes--why she was murdered.

And this is the one point in the book she is physically threatened. As a cozy, you can have your MC get into sticky situations, she can get out of them, or a combination of her and someone coming to her rescue. This is one of those situations.

I walked through the living room carefully, my phone out, and began making a video of my walk-through, meanwhile talking about what I saw as I went along. I picked up a few large pictures, opened their backs, which wasn't hard, as the glass was shattered, but found nothing. Finding nothing in the living room, I stepped down the hallway, picking up scents from her bathroom. I opened the door. Expensive perfumes had been left untouched on her bathroom tile counter. The medicine cabinet was emptied, but there wasn't a mess—no toothpaste or lipstick smeared on mirrors or walls. Again, drawers were turned out. Obviously, the destruction wasn't out of hatred, or a need to trash her place. They were looking for something hidden. My instincts were on the mark.

In the bedroom, similar destruction, as everywhere else, filled my eyes. Only in here her clothes were scattered everywhere. The closet was completely emptied. I saw no hidden safe inside, so the person who had been hopeful of something of this sort had been out of luck. Books from shelves were strewn all over. I was a bit surprised that Arline would have books of any kind in her apartment, but upon close examination I learned she liked romance novels. The books themselves were thrown open, face down on the floor. Again, suggesting to me that this person was looking for something that could be slipped between the pages of a book. A picture, or a document came to mind. The person who had been looking would have shook the book, hoping something would slip out.

Oddly, they did not yank down the pictures off the wall, nor disturb those on her dresser. They were looking behind the drawers again. If they had found something, I wouldn't know. But I still wondered if Arline wasn't a bit too bright for locating something she needed to hide from someone she might be blackmailing.

I had been assured by Weeks that the forensics had dusted thoroughly for fingerprints, so I didn't feel the need to don any sort of gloves to begin searching. I took down the first picture and opened up the back. I found nothing in the first three I took down. These were pictures of Arline on a quarter horse. Obviously, she owned a horse and rode dressage in competition. Something that Wendy hadn't mentioned in her rant about what Arline had and Wendy didn't have.

I moved to the next series of pictures. One was of Arline and AJ at the prom. They were a good looking couple, no doubt. Another picture that sat squarely on her dresser was of her and AJ in evening attire. I looked at a small card tucked into the far left corner. This was their engagement announcement and picture.

A thrill went through me as I picked it up and turned the little metal brackets that held the picture in place, and opened up the back. Carefully, I removed the cardboard underneath the velvet backing. Unbelievably, a piece of paper folded in half was revealed. I held my breath, took it out and unfolded it. The picture was hard to see in the dim lighting, but it was of a car with a crumpled front end. I turned on the lamp by the bed, sat and leaned toward the light so that I could see the details of the photo. This was an enlargement of the actual photo. I had to wonder what happened to the pictures, and were there any negatives?

Now that I had better lighting, I could see that there was someone slumped behind the wheel, but couldn't make out who.

Quickly I went to the other photo. The one of their prom. Upon opening this one, I was rewarded again with a prize. Another picture, similar to the first one I'd found, only this was a close up and I squinted to puzzle out who it was when a sound out in the hall, or further in the living room, alerted me that someone was coming. I quickly shoved the pictures the underneath my shirt at the small of my back, and into my waistband to hold them in place. Grabbing my phone off the bed, which was still recording, I held it facing the door to record whoever walked through.

“Hello? Who's there?” I said, my heart having suddenly begun pounding in my chest.

The door opened a little wider, and the young man with incredibly blue eyes, who'd been in the bookstore looking for this very apartment building, was standing there staring at me. Today he was wearing cream-colored chinos and a dark blue shirt and some sort of lace-up boots.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he said in an accusatory voice. Apparently he didn't recognize me from that day he was in the bookstore. Just as well.

“I might ask you the same, but since you asked, my name is Lainey Quilholt, and I've permission to be here by both the police, and the landlady. Do you?”

“I came to see Arline. What happened here?” he said, looking around.

“And your name is?” I wasn't going to let him go without learning his name.

“Dave.”

“Dave? Just Dave?”

He made an exasperated sound like he couldn't be bothered. “Dave Corbin.” He pointed at me, those blue eyes edged in black seemed to throw sparks. “Again. Why are you here? Where's Arline? What the hell happened here?”

Either he was doing a stand-up job of acting like he didn't know about Arline, and wasn't the one who had turned her place upside-down, or he really didn't know. I couldn't discern which.

“Arline is dead,” I said and waited, still recording his reaction with my cell phone. At least I hoped I was, I was too afraid to look down at the cell phone in my hand to tip him off what I was doing, or that I was holding it.

“Dead?” he said. One hand went out and grasped the frame of the door as he slumped a little. I couldn't decide if his expression was one of shock, or relief. There was thought that you couldn't go by how a person reacts to such news. Some people are good actors, and others simply are shocked and can't show emotions right away. “How?”

“She was murdered,” I said.

“When?”

“Two nights ago. On Friday night.”

He mulled this over for a few beats. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, I'm grabbing a few things I left here,” I lied. He had no business knowing. I wanted to get out of there real fast, but I felt that there might be more incriminating pictures hidden somewhere. I had wanted to check the smaller pictures, plus that large switch plate in the kitchen which hadn't worked—which I figured might be a possible hiding place.

He gathered in the scene, saw the dismantled pictures on the bed and said, “What are you doing? Why have you opened up those pictures? What did you find?” His accusatory voice rose.

I lifted my chin. “None of your business.” I hadn't brought my purse in, because of the burden of carrying it while I searched, not that I carried a weapon in it or anything, but as heavy as it was, I could certainly have used it to swing at his big head with.

In a flash he suddenly had a knife in his hand and held it up. It looked like a switch-blade, not that I knew one knife from another. Although the bed stood between us, I didn't feel that was much of a barrier. I could see him scrambling over it to get to me easily. My brain went through a hundred ways I could react, some of which included throwing things at him—like a stupid girl (which was how I felt at that very moment), to running around the room screaming (like a trapped hamster in a cage with a cat after it), and there was my personal favorite scenario (and totally unrealistic), where I became a combination level 5 black belt and professional kick-boxer.

Returning to my reality quickly, I searched my immediate options—throwing pillows wouldn't hurt, or stop him. I eyed the picture frame with the glass just as he said, “How 'bout I cut you a knew belly button.” He wiggled his knife to get his message across.

“Me first.” I grabbed the picture frame, glass and all, off the bed and flung it like a Frisbee. Reflexes like a cat, he dodged just in time. A good thing he did because the frame clattered off the wall, but the glass stuck into the drywall by one corner about three or so inches. I didn't have time to think about what it might have done to him if he hadn't moved. But that definitely got his attention. I grabbed the other picture, took the glass out of it and held it, poised to fling it at him again, even knowing I'd probably cut myself when I threw it, but he'd get cut worse. At least I hoped so. But after that, my options were nil. Filming it all was now no longer important, and at some point I'd dropped my cell phone.

“Don't come any closer, or I'll cut you in half!” I shrilled.

He snarled, looking as though he'd call my bluff and made another step forward.

At that exact moment, someone burst into the room yelling, “Freeze, scumbag!”

Corbin froze.

“Drop it!” came the command. It was Weeks with his service revolver pointed at Corbin's head.

Suddenly the room was full of cops, and within moments Corbin was pushed into the wall, assuming position, searched and handcuffed by two deputies. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to watch and realize I was now safe.

“Charge him with trespassing and assault with a deadly weapon for starters. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know,” Weeks said.

His two men roughly pushed Corbin out of the room.

The excitement was over and my knees shook. I slumped from adrenaline dump. Strong arms grabbed me and held me up. A heavy chest and pleasant aftershave in my face while Week's voice above my head said, “I gotcha Lainey-bug. You're safe. You'll be alright, now.”

After pulling myself together and letting out my held breath, I breathed, “Thank you.” He released me and I stood on my own.

“You okay now?” He bent to look at me in the face. His eyes squinting, the crows feet deepening around them.

“Yeah.” I took stock, breathed some more thinking about how close that had come. “I almost cut him in half.” I pointed to the glass embedded in the wall.

“Too bad you didn't. Could've saved me the job of processing the punk.” I let out a small, very weak chuckle at his joke. Somehow I don't think he was joking all that much.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Mrs. Couch called, said there was the same guy prowling around the place as the other day. Didn't like the fact you were here on your own, and we got out here pronto.”

“He's the one came into the bookstore,” I said. “Asked me where The Chandelier was.”

“Really?” Weeks hands were at his hips, utility belt making it a little difficult to give him a relaxed pose, but he managed. “We'll straighten this all out later. Find out who the hell he is and why he was so interested in this place.”

“You going to question him?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Can I watch?” He gave me a startled look. “You know, through two-way glass, or something?”

“We don't have a two-way mirror, nothing fancy like that. But we do have a live video feed.”

“That would work.” We moved through the room, toward the hallway while talking. I stopped. “Oh. Wait. I forgot, in all the excitement.” I pulled out the two concealed pictures I'd found from my shirt and handed them to Weeks. “I found these behind some pictures.”

He took them and squinted at them. “Looks like an accident with a car.”

“Yeah. I heard that Arline had an accident while coming down from the Dells, back in June. She had to have had some sort of insurance claim. But I don't know what sort of car she owned, or anything. You might want to check this out.” I pointed at the second one. “See? That's not Arline behind the wheel. It almost looks like AJ.” I was squinting at the blown up version of the first photo.

“Where'd you find these?” he asked, looking through them again.

“She hid them behind two nice pictures of herself and AJ.”

“How'd you come up with looking there?”

I shrugged. “My mother hid things in her framed pictures. I didn't know for sure, but it made sense to check these, since the framed pictures were on Arline and AJ.” I looked up at him. “They were once engaged, you know.”

“No. I didn't.” Holding the pictures he said, “This is great. Is this what you were looking for?”

“No. I was hoping for her bank book. But I'm sure whoever had gone through here like a tornado has it.” I held up a finger. “Wait,” I said, having thought of the non-working light switch in the kitchen. Weeks followed me through the apartment. I paused at the light switch. “You got some sort of screw driver?” I asked when he pulled up beside me.

“Sure.” He took out a Swiss Army knife and pulled the correct tool out. “Open that. This light switch wasn't working. I'm just curious as to why.”

Weeks worked all four screws out and lifted off the switch plate. Sure enough, there were no wires, but a small hiding place in the wall. There was something inside. Weeks reached in and pulled out a small camera.

“Man, how did you think of this?” he asked, holding the camera, looking at it.

I shook my head. “All I know is that Arline and AJ were really arguing that night at the park. Someone said she wasn't working any more. And also that she had this expensive apartment.”

“You thinking blackmail?” he asked.

“I'm thinking she may have been holding something over AJ's head. She can't tell us anything, now. But these things might help.”

He nodded. “Lainey, any time you want to help out, let me know.”

“I want to hear what Corbin has to say,” I said.

“Follow me to the station.”

For the first chapter you can go to:

Murder on the Mississippi

Just so you know, this is a WIP, and it's not perfect, (subject to rewriting and changes).