alison bruce, have laptop -- will travel

The Year of the Water Dragon

2012-01-29T14:49:00.000-05:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR

I love Chinese New Year. Not only is it an excuse to slurp your noodles (long noodle = long life), but it happens well after the maddening rush of Christmas holidays. And it last fifteen days! You don't have to crowd all your celebrating into one night.

My favourite part is welcoming the animal of the year. In case you haven't heard (or seen the commemorative stamps), 2012 is the year of the Water Dragon.

There are many useful and interesting websites about the Chinese New Year. (I just got side-tracked on a Chinese New Year Quiz.) Most will tell you what your Chinese Zodiac sign is and an explanation of how you will do in the year that will range from a paragraph to a page in length.

Here is my down and dirty version:

Rat (2008, 1996, 1984, 1972, 1960, 1948)
You'll leap tall obstacles and be more creative than a son weasiling his mother.

Ox (2009, 1997, 1985, 1973, 1961, 1949)
The Ox is slow and the Dragon impatient. Don't let the flying lizard get you down.

Tiger (2010, 1998, 1986, 1974, 1962, 1950)
Diplomacy, not honesty, is the best policy.

Rabbit (2011, 1999, 1987, 1975, 1963, 1951)
Against all expectation, the Dragon protects the Rabbit. Lucky Rabbit!

Dragon (2012, 2000, 1988, 1976, 1964, 1952)
This is your year. Don't let it go to your head.

Snake (2001, 1989, 1977, 1965, 1953)
Beware bean salesmen and other dubious finacial offers.

Horse (2002, 1990, 1978, 1966, 1954)
Obstacles may look larger than in real life. Rein in your anxiety.

Sheep (Ram, Goat) (2003, 1991, 1979, 1967, 1955)
Fear of failure may paralyse you. Ram right through your fears.

Monkey (2004, 1992, 1980, 1968, 1956)
Monkey see. Monkey learn. Monkey profit.

Rooster (2005, 1993, 1981, 1969, 1957)

Go ahead, crow. Successful year ahead.

Dog (2006, 1994, 1982, 1970, 1958)
People will admire your hardwork, loyalty and ability to produce a blog on the Chinese New Year.

Pig (Boar) (2007, 1995, 1983, 1971, 1959)

The beginning of the year may be a "boar", but by the end you'll be happy as a pig in ... whatever pigs like best.

Where has the month gone?

2012-01-15T11:16:00.000-05:00

Salvador Dali knew about time slipping away.

ARGHH!!!!

It's mid morning and I haven't had my coffee yet. It's mid month and I still haven't caught up with the Priority-2 chores after the holidays. Where is the time going?

Priority-1 chores are things like making meals and meeting work deadlines. Priority-2 chores include the dishes and all those things that are important to your job but not urgent. They are the kind of things that will get you into big do-do if you ditch completely.

Priority-3 chores are the things you should do. You might even want to do them more than Priority-1 and 2 jobs, but they aren't as essential. Blogging is a Priority-3 task. No one is going to starve and I won't get fired if I don't blog. And yet, here I am blogging before making myself breakfast or meeting my deadline or... and this is truly shocking... BEFORE COFFEE.

Why not put the coffee on first, you ask? Simple. The coffee maker is in the kitchen. The dirty dishes are in the kitchen along with counters that need scrubbing (my son doesn't believe in wiping up spills when it's easy to do so) and a 1001 other mundane tasks ranging from Priority-2 to "only needs doing when guests are coming". I'll get caught up in the mundane (aka housekeeping) chores and then the Priority-1 jobs will demand my attention again.

Another day will go by and I won't have written this blog.

I like writing this blog.

I guess the blog just got bumped to Priority-1.5. Not as important as meeting deadlines, but important enough to me.

Now I'll go make coffee.

Happy Holidays

2011-12-24T17:28:00.000-05:00

Dear Reader,

Whether you've been popping by all year, or just showed up, thank you for your kind attention.

There's an old truism: "A writer writes." (I used to have that scroll by on my screensaver to remind me to get back to work.) It's even truer to say, "A writer writes to be read." Just because we can be antisocial when the muse strikes, doesn't mean we don't want to reach out and touch someone (even if its just a poke) with our words.

So, thank you. And while I'm at it, I should thank my kids who put up with me when I'm antisocial and, more importantly, take care of dinner when the muse hits late afternoon.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Yuletide Greetings and may you have health, wealth, happiness and peace in the New Year.

PS: I've put together the Countdown to Christmas - now 12 Days: A Christmas Stalking - in case you want to read the whole thing without scrolling backwards through blogs. I have variation on the theme in Special for the Season entered in the Holiday Short Story Contest. Also check out Blue Satin and Love, by Melodie Campbell. (Comments welcome.)

Countdown to Christmas 12

2011-12-23T19:26:00.000-05:00

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas...

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas My True Love gave to me,
Twelve drummers drumming...

Actually, what he gave me was a splitting headache listening to the soundtrack of Taiko Drumming.

It was almost midnight. I had tried getting him to stop for a pee break, a dinner break and for coffee to keep him awake. The drum music was his solution to staying alert; he packed sandwiches for dinner; and I won't share what I had to do about relieving my bladder.

I saw a sign telling us that Tim Hortons was 13 km down the road.

"If you don't stop and get me a coffee," I said, slamming the off button on the stereo, "I'll kick the door open and jump out. I want to wash up. I want coffee. And if you put that CD back on again, I'll ram it down your throat."

He grunted a suggestion that was anatomically impossible, but he turned off for the Tim Hortons. Of course, that might have had more to do with the R.I.D.E. checkpoint. ('Tis the season to reduce impaired driving.) If he went into Tim's, then out the far exit, he could avoid being pulled over.

"We're not going in if there're cops around," he informed me. "I'm not stupid."

I bit my tongue.

The huge windows made it easy to check out the interior. No uniforms in evidence. Not many patrons inside. Most people were using the drive-through.

He let me out and took my wrist in a lock grip. In his other hand he had hunting knife, let me see before letting his sleev mask it. "Play nice or I'll stick you."

"Okay," I said. "Buy me a coffee and I'll be good. Can I go to the washroom while you order?"

He rolled his eyes. I guess that meant no.

We walked to the counter, to all appearances hand in hand. Before he had a chance to speak, I started ordering.

"I'll have a chili combo with a large coffee - in a mug - and an oldfashioned glazed donut. No make that a sour cream glaze. I'll have a biscuit with that, not the bun. Black coffee." I turned to my ex. "Do you have enough cash? Or should I go get me purse."

Automatically, he let go of my wrist to get his wallet. I stepped back. A few seconds later, my ex noticed that the lady behind the counter was levelling a pistol at him. His wallet and knife dropped from limp hands and a wet patch spread across the front of his jeans.

Then he backed up into a plainclothes officer bearing handcuffs.

Many hours and coffees later, I was checked into a motel, being too tired to contemplate driving home. Thanks to my self-appointed True Love, I now had one day left to do all my preparations for Christmas. On the upside, I had a handsome and heroic New Love, with whose help me and my Christmas were rescued.

On the morning of Christmas, My New Love gave to me,
A commemorative charm bracelet with:
12 drummers drumming
11 pipers piping
10 lords a leaping
9 ladies waiting
8 maids a milking
7 swans a swimming
6 geese a laying
5 golden rings
4 calling birds
3 French hens
2 turtle doves
And a partridge in a *&%!!! pear tree.

Countdown to Christmas 11

2011-12-22T13:56:00.001-05:00

On the eleventh day of Christmas...

On the eleventh day of Christmas My True Love gave to me
Eleven pipers piping...

There is nothing like the sound of bagpipes in the morning.

It took me a while to figure out what they were playing. It's not often you hear "You're a Mean One Mr Grinch" with drones. I guess my ex wasn't pleased with my Christmas spirit.

On the whole, I thought I got off easy. This was less embarrassing than the ten lords a leaping; less work than the nine ladies weighting; less mess than the eight maids a milking, or the byproduct thereof; less intrusive than the seven swans; not as good as the five golden rings; only slightly noisier than the four calling birds; not as smelly as the three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in pear tree. Mind you, I still had a Partdoven with brandied pear sauce waiting for Christmas dinner, so the fowl was fine with me.

I stood on my porch with my morning coffee, listening to the music, when CRACK! Something hit me. The last thing I thinking before passing out was, damn, there goes my favourite coffee mug.

I came to, strapped into the front seat of my ex's SUV. I felt awful but my ex looked worse. He was a mass of bruises and abrasions. He looked so beaten up, before I demanded to know what he thougth he was doing, I asked if the dancers had done all that damage.

"Not all of it," he said, giving me a sidelong scowl before turning his attention back to the road.

We were headed north. I was pretty sure I recognized the highway and guessed we were headed for his grandparent's cottage.

Going for the "put him at ease" ploy, I prompted him to tell me about his injuries. Most of the abrasions were from the wild and domestic fowl wrangling. He had a couple of broken toes from trying to steal milch cows. The dancers got in a few kicks, but he had to fight off all the pipers when they realized he was kidnapping me. He only escaped because their bags got in the way.

I only hoped that one of the pipers got my ex's license plate because I was starting to get more scared than annoyed. Anyone who'd confront and escape eleven men in kilts was a psychopath capable of anything.

Since my ex was beyond reason, I gave up conversation and stared out the window. A small aircraft dipped low. My ex swerved, trying to get a better look.

"Relax," I told him. "It's not a police copter. It's a single prop plane."

"Since when do you know so much?"

I didn't dignify the question with an answer. Any moron would know the difference between a helicopter and an aeroplane. I knew a little more than that. It was a bright yellow Piper Cub, just like the one my detective friend promised to take me up in when the weather warmed up.

Countdown to Christmas 10

2011-12-21T12:05:00.001-05:00

On the tenth day of Christmas My True Love gave to me...

I almost put a restraining order on my ex. My new detective friend suggested it. Curiosity overcame good sense. Besides, would it have really worked?

On the tenth day of Christmas My True Love gave to me
Ten lords a leaping...

He outdid himself on this one. Every year, since I was a child, my mother takes me to see the Nutcracker. She loves ballet. I love the men in tights. My ex arranged a little entre-action with the male chorus leaping about the stage before opening a banner saying "Marry me."

Next, a couple of toy soldiers escort my ex to our box and the spotlights turn on my delighted mother and a mortified me as an oversized ring box is presented to me. This would have been very romantic if my ex weren't a Grade A fruitcake.

"Give the guy a break," one of the soldiers whispered.

"You do realize that this is the guy who tried to make seven dancers in the swan chorus swim in an icy pond."

The painted spots of colour on the soldiers' cheeks faded into their angry flushes. My ex discovered what I knew since childhood. Dancers are solid muscle. Soon my ex was leaping to make his gettaway.

Countdown to Christmas 9

2011-12-20T18:19:00.000-05:00

On the ninth day of Christmas....

On the ninth day of Christmas My True Love gave to me
Nine ladies waiting...

It was time to get proactive. When my ex showed up, trying to wheedle me into dropping charges and testifying on his behalf as a character witness (I'd already agreed to do that for the Crown Prostecutor) he was greeted by eight women from my gym.Just so we couldn't be accused of trying to threaten him, we were doing synchronized barbell reps in my back yard. (The front lawn was still a bit wiffy from the manure dump.)

He didn't stay long.

That evening I received a package from England, scheduled to be delivered December 20. It contain nine Royal Doulton figures form the "Pretty Lady" collection. He must have thought this one out months ago. They made nice gifts for my Ladies in Weighting.

Countdown to Christmas 8

2011-12-19T15:03:00.000-05:00

On the eighth day of Christmas...

On the eighth day of Christmas My True Love gave to me
Eight maids a milking...

This morning I received a note from my ex. He had the nerve to be calling me up for bail money. He was caught attempting to cattle rustle dairy cows. He had rounded up seven Holstiens and a Jersey from Mennonite farms in the next county. His reasoning was that Mennonites would turn the other cheek.

Right. They're peaceful, not stupid. They notified the police and had him arrested blitzschnell.

I tried not to laugh until after I got off the phone. Naturally, I didn't go bail him out. I don't know who did, but he managed to dump a half ton of cow manure on my lawn while I was out mailing cards. Fortunately, my neighbour (not the one who complained about the birds) is a member of the local garden club.

Next year they want him to dump horse shit. Nothing better for roses.

Countdown to Christmas 7

2011-12-18T08:15:00.000-05:00

On the seventh day of Christmas...

One week to Christmas! Ex or no ex, I had to go shopping. While I was out I heard the following report on the radio: "On the lighter side, dancers from local production of Swan Lake were invited to assist in a Twelve Days of Christmas montage. When it was revealed that they were to pose outside in icy water, they respectfully declined.

I rushed home.

On the seventh day of Christmas My True Love gave to me
Seven swans a swimming

Whew! My ornamental pond was full of half-submerged ballarina figurines and littered with feathers. I suspect he tried live swans first.

Countdown to Christmas 6

2011-12-17T09:00:00.000-05:00

On the sixth day of Christmas...

Silly me. I thought it was safe to go shopping for normal presents for normal people. I should have known my ex would make bail.

On the sixth day of Christmas My True Love gave to me,
Six geese a laying...

Not the geese. Just the eggs. All over my front porch. My new detective friend said they couldn't do DNA testing, but I bet six geese a laying were involved. I'm a little worried about tomorrow.

Countdown to Christmas 5

2011-12-16T11:19:00.003-05:00

On the fifth day of Christmas...

On the fifth day of Christmas, My True Love gave to me
Five golden rings.

No birds, fair or fowl, my ex showed up in cuffs and leg shackles. How he managed to escape custody is anyone's guess. The police were hot on his heels. It turned out he was stealing the livestock from a local farmer - the same one who bought my "presents" when the neighbours complained about the smell. (They don't call chickens fowl for nothing.)

Obsessed as he was, my ex wanted to deliver the five golden rings before skipping town. He also wanted to borrow my hacksaw. Unfortunately for him, I was giving my statement to a rather handsome police detective when he arrived.

Oops. :)

Countdown to Christmas 4

2011-12-15T10:42:00.001-05:00

On the fourth day of Christmas...

On the fourth day of Christmas "My True Love" gave to me
Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves
And a partridge in a pear tree

Having no idea what a "calling bird" was, my ex - oh yes he is definitely my ex now - sent me four CAWING birds. These being crows and my neighbours being superstitious, an argument ensued. Mrs Poppalov insisted that four crows meant I was going to give birth to a son. Mr Poppalov insisted that I was about to die. I'm not sure who made the most noise, the crows or the Poppalovs.In any case, one of my other neighbours called animal control.

"My True Love" is toast.

Countdown (up) to Christmas 3

2011-12-14T16:16:00.000-05:00

On the third day of Christmas...

I suppose I should mention that "My True Love" is how my sometimes boyfriend/mostly ex describes himself. My description of him varies.

On the third day of Christmas My True Love gave to me
Three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

Anticipating the chickens, I adapted a Turducken recipe for partridge, hen and doves. If successful, I have a contract poised to sign with a local restauranteur.

(To friends and family - yes, this is a fictional account.)

Countdown to Christmas 2

2011-12-13T11:01:00.000-05:00

On the second day of Christmas...

I just noticed the logical disconnect between counting up in a countdown. Oh well, logic was never my best subject.

On the second day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

First off, I can see where this is going and if he keeps going I'm going to have an orchard on my hands. On the other hand, dove = pigeon = squab = dinner tonight.

Countdown to Christmas 1

2011-12-12T11:45:00.001-05:00

On the first day of Christmas...

Yes, I know, the first day of Christmas is really December 25th. Twelfth night heralds Epiphany (with pipes, evidently). It's also the date decorations came down when I was growing up and a play attributed to Shakespeare. Regardless...

On the first day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A partridge in a pear tree.

You might think I made a great shot, but I was aiming for my ex.

On a related theme, I have a story appearing on Me and Reading called Special for the Season.

My Christmas List

2011-12-05T17:34:00.001-05:00

Everybody keeps asking me what I want...
and I have a hard time answering the question. Oh, I can think of stuff. I can think of lots of stuff. My kids just can't go out and buy any of it.

I'd like a little more sanity in the world and a lot less short-sighted greed.
I am deeply concerned about American governments dismantling of the Bill of Rights and almost as concerned that our own Prime Minister might follow suit. So, I'd like Obama to veto that bill officially making the world a war zone. That would make a lovely holiday gift.
Is it too much to ask to give peace a chance?
While we're at it, give small and mid-sized entreprenuers a chance. Economic wealth should form a pyramid not a spike on top of shallow mound.
Meaningful work for all those able to work.
A cure for Alzheimer's. It doesn't physically kill as many people as Cancer, AIDS or Heart Disease, but it destroys who you are.
Universal Empathy. If it doesn't drive us crazy, it might help us self-correct many of our destructive behaviors.

And then, because I'm no saint and I wouldn't mind an ereader or tablet under the tree. I have a backlog of ebooks to read.

Sands of Time

2011-11-28T23:07:00.001-05:00

Sand collected in Egypt, 1977

"Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;"
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

No one has left bigger footprints in the sand than the ancient Egyptians. With relatively narrow bands of arable land bordering the the Nile, they built most of their great monuments in the desert.

Reading Nighthawk's interview of Khasekh from Asenath (by Anna Patricio, Imajin Books) reminded me of one of the most memorable of our family trips.When I was eighteen, we took a cruise down the Nile. By "we" I mean my mother, father, sister, four cousins, aunt, uncle and Nana. The eleven of us made up about a third of the passengers on the boat. Maybe a half. It wasn't a big boat.

We flew to Aswan and cruised north to Cairo. It was the most amazing trip I almost didn't take. Foolishly, I considered staying home alone so I could assert my independence. Yeesh! Talk about young and foolish. I changed my mind - just in time - and got to assert my independence by sharing a cabin with a forty-something divorcee named Ursula. After the onboard Egyptologist lectured us on the temples and monuments we would be visiting, Ursula lectured me on the importance of moisturizers and what OLAY meant.

If you've ever watched The Mummy (1999), our boat looked exactly like the one they travelled on, minus the horses. All the places they visit in the Mummy Returns (2001) - excepting the oasis with the diamond topped pyramid - we visited. Watching the movies is like home movies with an adventure thrown in. When I'm old and senile, I'll probably tell my grandkids how I collected sand from Hamunaptra - The City of the Dead.

In fact, I'm not sure where in Egypt I scooped up the sand that resides in the bottle above. It might have been after our camel ride. I would have been very appreciative of sand beneath my feet by then.

I Love a Parade

2011-11-21T09:55:00.001-05:00

November 20, 2011

I have many happy childhood memories of this season: riding the Queen streetcar downtown to see the decorations in the Simpson's window; throwing up in the street car; having a panic attack on the escalator. I was convinced I was small enough to fall down the slats. Yes, I was very young at the time.

Is it any wonder we always watched the Santa Claus Parade on TV? My mother could only handle so much excitement.

I didn't watch many parades, but I did march in them. I felt the cold wind blow up my kilt marching with the high school band. I played string bass in the concert band, which meant I got to play cymbals in marching band. With the bass drum, the cymbal players kept the beat. To this day I start walking in step when I hear the beat and I anticipate the music when I hear the snares go "ratta-tat, ratta-tat" followed by "clash-clash-clash".

November 1992?

Later I marched in the Guelph Santa Claus parade in a completely different uniform (that's me on the far right) as Captain Bruce of the USS Welfen. The parade finished up close to home, so my roommate (far left) and I would have the gang back for chili and mulled cider after the parade. Those times bring back many happy memories and a little residual gas.

It wasn't until my son joined cadets that I actually watched a parade from the sidelines. Remembrance Day Parade, Santa Claus Parade, Battle of the Atlantic Memorial Parade (he's a Navy League Cadet) and even the Fergus Highland Games Parade one year. Now Sam is in the Sea Cadet band. He plays the mellophone, not cymbals, and wears pants, not a kilt, but I feel a circle has been closed.

I still feel the beat (left, left, left-right-left) and still get that thrill of anticipation (ratta-tat, ratta-tat, clash-clash-clash). What can I say? I love a parade.

Cadet Band - November 20, 2011

BYOB

2011-11-13T18:07:00.001-05:00

Build Your Own Burrito

One of our favourite family meals is burritos. There’s just one little problem. Among the people who regularly eat at my home, I have a niece who is vegetarian, a son who doesn’t like vegetables visibly mixing with his protein, a good friend who can’t eat onions, garlic and bell peppers, and a daughter who would become a vampire except for the no-garlic rule. That doesn’t even count the spicy (me and my kids) and mild (everyone else) camps.

It started long before burritos. When I was taking care of my sister I learned to make build your own everything because I couldn’t make a meal to satisfy everyone. My older niece went through a foods cannot touch phase and was vegetarian for a while before her younger sister took over. My son would only eat plain noodle with soya sauce, peanut butter sandwiches and KD.

I went from being the queen of the one pan meal - a title I held throughout my pre-kid years - to being the master of the Do It Yourself dinner. Everything was cooked separately and served buffet-style.

Thank the hearth goddess that the kids grew out of that phase eventually. I can now make a pasta dish and only worry about keeping the meat separate - not even that if my nieces aren’t over. Still, smiles abound when I announce it’s BYOB night. On the off-chance it will bring a smile to your face, here are my super-simple recipes.

The Meat
I like getting a family-sized lot of hamburger meat and cooking it up all at once. Then we have leftovers for sloppy-joe and nacho lunches.

Cook hamburger at medium-high so that it browns as well as cooks through
Drain off any excess fat
At a medium-low heat, continue to cook hamburger while adding to taste: ketchup, tabasco sauce, soya sauce, cayenne, paprika, sage, chili powder. (I made my own barbeque spice so that there’s no onion or garlic in it) or use a bottled barbeque sauce your family enjoys.

The Beans

Saute finely chopped onions until brown and transluscent
Take a can of red kidney beans or bean medley, drain, rinse then add it to the onion.
Add barbeque spice (see above)
Smush the beans as they cook. (Sometimes I blend them so the kids don’t realize what beans I’m using. Mostly I don’t because except for my vegetarian, they won’t touch the beans.)

Garnishes

Grated cheese - Monterey Jack is best or mix Mozzarella and Cheddar
Guacamole - should be made fresh
Salsa - from the store or made fresh

You can find my recipes for salsa and guacamole at authorsandappetizers.com

Happy 50th Birthday Joey

2011-11-06T23:05:00.000-05:00

That's my sister on the left.

My parents gave me a 35mm camera for my graduation gift and I was going a bit nutsoid taking photos. Better to be behind the camera, is my motto. Obviously I had taken one too many of Joanne when she gave me that look.

That's her "big sister look:. Her daughter Sophie has it down pat. Joanne - or Joey as I called her - was technically my little sister. She was younger and shorter than me. That didn't stop her from taking over the big sister role somewhere around her second year of high school.

It was in her second year of high school that Joey joined the Drama Club and stage managed her first show. It was a farce - I remember that much. The next two shows were more memorable. She staged managed Charlie's Aunt and You Can't Take It With You. By then I was at Ryerson and didn't feel quite as immediately overshadowed by my sister.

At least we were never in Band together. I played upright bass in the Senior Band. She played alto sax in the Junior Band. I'm not sure if she was a better musician than me. She was better at performing though. And she loved her sax. By the way, a big thank you to Brooke McEldowney for his Sunday edition of 9 Chickweed Lane - not that I think he was aware of the tribute.

The big sister schtick continued after high school. I graduated from university first, but Joey married and had kids first. The big sister look had nothing on her "I'm your mother, that's why look."

Joey always gave the appearance of confidence that I couldn't match. I know now that she didn't always feel that sure of herself, but she could fake it 'til she could make it. I remember her teaching me how to schmooze at networking breakfasts we went to when we were starting to promote BelleFare Communications. She made it look so easy.

Even when she was flat on her back, cancer making bones increasingly fragile, Joey radiated strength. I was her caregiver and helped mother her children and well as my own. She still ruled the roost. Like any good "big sister" she felt she knew what was best for me. One thing she got absolutely right - I needed to be writing. So she organized time for me to do that and she insisted I had to be serious about it. This time I was going to get published.

Yesterday was the book launch for Under A Texas Star (and Rowena Throught the Wall and Cheat the Hangman). We had it at the Wooly. Ten years ago, we were celebrating Joey's fortieth birthday there.

My friend and current boss, Garry Ryan, was quoted in the Calgary Herald saying: “I set myself a goal to have a novel published by the time I was 40 and it happened when I was 50.”

I managed to have my first novel published in time for Joey's 50th birthday. She only made it to age 42, but I'm still counting the birthdays and this one was a landmark.

Midnight Ramble

2011-11-01T00:15:00.000-04:00

Shadows dance across the trees,
of things that you can not see.
The feeling of an evil power,
beware, it's now the witching hour.
From the Witching Hour by Makala Shay

Happy Hallowe'en

The midnight hour is almost upon me as I write this. My kids are snug in their beds with dream of Snicker Bars and Cheetos dancing in their heads. Somewhere, Linus is waiting for the Great Pumpkin. I'm contemplating the turning of the year.

In Celtic tradition, this is new year's eve. The old year has seen its harvest. The seeds of the new year are sewn in the frost. Winter isn't the death of the year, it's the gestation period before Spring is reborn.

Hallowed Evening is the crossroads and anything is possible at the crossroads. That's where ghosts of loved ones appear and demons can break through. Most of our Hallowe'en traditions stem from tricking or appeasing demons and evil spirits.

Ghosts have haunted me in the past. The ghost of my mother-in-law was the scariest - but only because her son was so sick and seeing ghosts under such circumstances is a little worrying. The ghost of my friend Allen was a comfort. I was at his funeral at the time and I felt he was satisfied. The first ghost I ever saw was my grandmother. I was six or seven at the time. She came to say good bye. When my mother told me the next morning that Grandma had died in the night, I already knew.

I've never seen a ghost on Hallowe'en... excepting kids in costumes.

The Witching Hour is upon me.

Some say the Witching Hour is three in the morning. That's the Devil's Hour. (I read somewhere that more people commit suicide at 3 am than any other time. All I know is that if I wake up at three, I have a devil of a time getting back to sleep.) Officially it's November 1. Generally I don't have a problem with midnight being the end of the day. Hallowe'en is different. The new day (and new year) awaits the dawn. Until then (and making allowances for the fact that I'm technically agnostic):

From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!

Deadly Legacy

2011-10-30T15:13:00.000-04:00

One More Landmark on the Horizon

It's official. The title of my next book is Deadly Legacy. As I write this, the cover is under construction. No, the image to the side isn't it. I just can't help playing around with graphics.

While Jennifer Johnson, the cover artist who worked her magic for Under A Texas Star, creates, I have another landmark achieve. It's time to do the back cover blurb.Somebody tell me why writing a novel seem easier than condensing it down to three paragraphs that will convince a reader to buy your book.

Well, it isn't going to write itself, so if you'll excuse me...

Public Relations Horror Story

2011-10-23T17:10:00.002-04:00

If You Can Read This Sign,

You Probably Don’t Need To

My kids are not wusses. They love graphic forensic content. They sing along to Repo Man and Sweeney Todd. Unlike me, they don’t startle at loud noises. So, when they said they wanted to go to the Haunted House in the Stone Road Mall parking lot (Guelph), I said sure. You go. I’ll go get coffee.

I just got settled with my pumpkin spice latte when they showed up. The attraction was too scary. My 15-year-old daughter thought she might be able to handle it, but her best friend (and fellow Repo Man fan) was too scared. My 11-year-old son was quiet. Too quiet. The haunted house had shaken his blossoming machismo.

No problem, I said. Did they refund your money?

No.

A bit irritated but not too surprised, we headed over. I fully expected that either my daughter had not asked for their money back, or they had been brushed off with a “come back later kid”. Instead I was told they don’t do refunds. Excepting purchases of intimate apparel and final sale items, who doesn’t give refunds? When my friend had to leave the cinema half an hour into movie because she was nauseous, they gave her a refund. My kids didn’t make it five minutes into the attraction.

No refunds “even for chickens”. It said so on a small sign above the window. I had to crane my neck to see it.

Next my attention was directed to a black sign with grey text. Somewhere in the small print it said that the attraction was not recommended for children under 12. None of this was verbally communicated to my kids. If it had been, I might have been better prepared to suck up the loss of $30.

Back at home, I checked out their website. Their policy, unenforced, is the following:

THIS HAUNTED HOUSE OF HORRORS FEATURES DEPICTIONS OF HORROR, GORE AND MINOR VIOLENCE. PROFFESIONAL (sic) QUALITY HAUNTED HOUSE PROPS, ANIMATRONICS, LIGHTING AND SOUND EFFECTS ARE USED. THIS IS NOT DISNEY WORLD! PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED. WE SUGGEST ONLY VICTIMS 12 YEARS AND OLDER PLEASE. HOWEVER ANY CHILD MAY ENTER AS LONG AS THEY ARE ACCOMPANIED BY THEIR OWN PARENT(S) AND THE PARENT(S) UNDERSTANDS THIS WARNING.

My son was not accompanied by his parent and yet was let in. A parent could hardly be counted on to go to an attraction’s website and signage, unless it's really in your face, is pretty useless where kids (and most adults) are concerned. Whatever was beyond the doors of the haunted house, professional quality and business practices were lacking outside.

Businesses thrive on building relationships. That's marketing 101. For the want of basic public relations practices, my word-of-mouth advertising is going to be negative - and I know a lot of people. All for $30.

Kat Flannery is Chasing Clovers

2011-10-16T20:53:00.003-04:00

Since I've always known I either wanted to be a writer or adventurer or both, I'm always curious to find out what motivates other writers. So, when I invited Kat Flannery, a fellow Imajin Books author, to do a guest blog, I asked her:

What in your life drew you to becoming a writer, and what in your life led you to write this book?

Thank you, Alison for having me on your blog.

I’ve always loved to write - to create a story and characters in my head, and bring them to life. I write because I have to. I cannot go a single day without dialogue, description, or plots running through my mind. When I was young, I was known for telling tall tales. I’d take a scene and add my own flare, which of course was always over exaggerated, and long winded. If my older brother fell off his bike, I’d put my own bits and pieces in the story to make it interesting. Soon all our neighbourhood friends would think my brother fell off his bike while being chased by a rabid dog that almost bit his leg off. I rescued him by throwing a rock at the dog. See, much more interesting than just falling off a bike.

As I got older I began writing poetry, short stories, and songs (which were no good. You should know how to sing if you’re venturing down that path) I’d watch people while at work and I’d wonder where they came from, or if they had a hidden and dark past. My mind would wander, and I’d have to write. If I didn’t write, the ideas seemed to intensify until I’d finally sit down, pick up my pencil and allow the muse to flow. When I began having children the urge to write remained. I did however, write less while the boys were young, but as they got older, and I had some time to myself the writing bug increased.

The idea for Chasing Clovers didn’t come to me right away. There was no epiphany or bright light. No one wacked me across the head with a shovel, or slipped me a note under my door. I wanted to write a story that would touch people’s lives.

My Grandmother lost two children a month a part in the 50’s and I often wondered how she survived such an agonizing ordeal. How she raised four other children? How she made it through each day without crumbling? This is how my protagonist, Livy Green was born. I took the scenario of losing a child, turned the year back to 1884 and placed her inside a saloon. Then I began researching mail order brides. What would make a woman marry a man she’s never met before? One word popped into my head...desperation. This was the meatballs I needed with my spaghetti! And soon the book emerged in my cluttered head, to flow freely from my fingertips and onto my keyboard.

The message in Chasing Clovers is simple: Hope.

Livy is grieving the loss of her child. She is angry and resents those around her. She doesn’t think she deserves a second chance at life, or at love. But John Taylor changes all of that. He demands that Livy, distant and cold, fit into his family and raise his two children.

John and Livy’s journey of pain, loss, and turmoil, is also one of redemption, as they learn to overcome their hardships. And with the beauty of the golden Alberta fields surrounding them, renew their faith, love, and happiness in their tale of Chasing Clovers.

Happy Reading!
Kat

Kat's website: www.katflannery-author.com
Kat's blog: www.kat-scratch.blogspot.com
Like Kat on Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Kat-Flannery/105465069558958
Follow Kat on Twitter: @katflannery1

Purchase Chasing Clovers here:
http://www.amazon.com/Chasing-Clovers-ebook/dp/B005UFQMWA
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/95336

Thanks for everything - except the burnt pot

2011-10-10T02:59:00.000-04:00

Twas the night before turkey

And this I did learn

Don't watch so much TV

That you let the pot burn

Whether it's the night before Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter, our family has certain traditions. My kids go to their Dad's and I spend the evening doing the prep work I couldn't possibly face first thing in the morning.

By this point, my daughter Kate will have baked up a storm and stayed up the night before cleaning up the kitchen. This year the bread didn't turn out but there's a pumpkin pie in the fridge and cookie dough waiting to be baked fresh. I stay clear of the kitchen while she works so I don't kvetch about the mess. By the time she lets me have the kitchen back, it's cleaner than when she started.

Now that's something to be thankful about.

My job is the turkey and stuffing - two kinds of stuffing. My niece Claire is vegetarian so I make a meat-free stuffing to fill a pepper that will be roasted for her lunch. I make a sage, onion, mushroom and sausage stuffing like my mother used to make - except that I like to saute my onions and mushrooms first. Also like my mum, I boil up the neck for the gravy. I also add the onion skins. They give the broth a richer flavour and colour.

Because I'm on my own, while I prepare food, I catch up on missed shows. Tonight I watched one NCIS, two Hawaii Five-O's, and a Criminal Minds. The stuffing was finished by the end of the first show but I wanted to give the neck a chance to cook. After all, if I went upstair to work, I might forget about the broth and burn the house down.

Instead, I just burned the pot.

I am thankful that my ex and I have a good system where both of us spend time with our kids on the holidays. I'm grateful that my nieces father and stepmother also do Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday so I can have all the kids together on Monday. I am especially thankful that there's a nice sized turkey in the fridge, washed and patted dry, ready to stuff and roast tomorrow. There are potatoes and brocolli ready to cook and a pie to be warmed for dessert. All fresh local foods. A bountiful harvest.

I'm not so happy about the burnt pot.

Night and Day

2011-09-27T07:39:00.000-04:00

My Lego stand-in

Who Am I?
And what did they do with the real Alison Bruce?

I Am Not A Morning Person! Yet, here I am, waking up at 6:45 and writing my blog. The REAL me would have done it last night when this ersatz me was falling asleep at her laptop.

If it was just the last couple of days, I'd blame Word on the Street. All that sunshine and bonhomie takes it out of a person. If I had been in Vancouver instead of Toronto, I would have got wet instead of sun burnt and the bonhomie and a cup of coffee would be keeping me warm.

No, this started at least a week ago. One day I just woke up and thought - maybe I can get a few things done before I go to my corner. (No, I'm not a hooker. I work as a crossing guard outside my son's school.) I looked at my cell phone/watch/alarm clock and was shocked to find out I could work for more than an hour before I had to don clothes, sensible shoes, orange vest and stop paddle.

The real me - the me I've know since I was a child - gets up at the last moment possible to get ready for school/work/whatever. She is the master of the two-minute shower and the zero to sixty start when her alarm doesn't go off.

The real me doesn't fall asleep before eleven. Last night I made it to midnight, but that's because I had a deadline to meet. I used old coffee and willpower to stay awake that long. Usually I don't have to resort to such tactics until 2 am at least.

Maybe it's Marly Lander's fault. My heroine of Under A Texas Star would, like most people in the old west, rise with the sun - not that I can see much sign of sun out my window. She's resetting my circadian rhythm in preparation for completing the sequel to her book. If so, I'd like to remind her that I wrote most of her story in the wee hours of the night.

Oops - time for the two minute shower.

PS: For more on the Real Alison Bruce and Under A Texas Star, check out Morgen Bailey's interview which I mentally subtitle "I can't believe I answered the whole thing."

Deadly Deadlines

2011-09-20T21:42:00.000-04:00

Have laptop... need coffee

I'm a little late with the blogging this week. I got this frightening email from my publisher asking me if my manuscript was ready.

Almost, I said, not quite lying through my teeth.

I was doing so well with it until my laptop crashed. True, I do have a desktop computer I can work at. My work in progress resides on a flash drive just so I can go back and forth at will.

I prefer working on my laptop now. It isn't just that it's faster (excepting when Windows crashed and burned, taking all my other programs with it) - it's the portability. Even if I was willing to load my tower and monitor into the car, they wouldn't fit on a bistro table. If I did managed to get everything set up, there wouldn't be room for my coffee.

No coffee. No work.

Not that I can't make coffee at home. I have a drip coffee maker, a French press and an old fashioned, stovetop espresso maker. Sometimes when the need for caffeine outweighs my need to sleep eventually, I make the French pressed then pour a doppio espresso in it.

What am I saying? I can drink two four-shot Americanos and still have a nap in the afternoon.

It isn't the coffee that makes me go out... well not only the coffee. It's the chance to get away from household chores, junk calls and ennui. Writing doesn't have to be a solitary profession if you get thee to a coffeeshop.

So, fittingly enough, the last few chapters of "Deadly Legacy"/"Deadly Succession" (the title is still in question), were finished next to Chapters -- at my local Starbucks.

Speaking of titles, which do you think works better: Deadly Legacy or Deadly Succession?

Vote in the poll on the side bar and/or comment below. (Choices, choices.)

9 11 Memories

2011-09-11T17:10:00.000-04:00

This is where I came in...

I'm not an avid news watcher. I prefer reading the news. That makes my timing for turning on the TV, just as the second crash was about to take place, all the more remarkable.

A couple of seconds was all it took to glue me to the TV for the rest of the day.

Since then, I have discussed conspiracy theories and the issue of terrorism vs act of war. I have no more answers now than I did that clear September morning. Whatever was behind the attack, whatever came after, I can only claim one thing: my unshaken faith that there are heroes in the world. They are the men and women, professional and volunteer, who tried to help in a near helpless situation.

A veteran is someone who, at one point in his/her life, wrote a blank check made payable to "The United States of America," for an amount of "up to and including my life."

Subsitute "My country/communitee/fellow being(s)" for "The United States of America" and you have a fair definition of hero. It certainly applies to the veterans of 9/11.

BTS Book Contest

2011-09-07T07:52:00.000-04:00

Back-to-School Special

I used to manage a comic book sale. While other stores had back-to-school specials on supplies, clothes, or electronics, we had a half-price sale on back stock comics.

Feeling a bit nostalgic, I thought I'd do the same for eBook copies of Under A Texas Star.

It's time to get back to lessons and tests, so I have a pop quiz for you. Answer correctly in the comments and receive a half-price coupon for Under A Texas Star. Just to make it more interesting, if I get more than 3 entries, one commenter will receive a free book coupon.

Pop Quiz

Who is Adele Gumm?
Where does she live?
What subject does she teach girls in her school that boys don't need to study.

Hint: all the answers are in Nighthawk Talk

The Family Business

2011-08-29T09:38:00.002-04:00

Pictured left is the t-shirt my daughter Kate wanted to get made when Canadian Voices Volume 1 was published. I might actually have gone for it if we had the spare cash.

Sam, my son, offered to go door-to-door. I didn't allow that either, but I did let him take the book into school. He sold two copies.

When Under A Texas Star was released in eBook format, he took my postcards to school to hand out to teachers. His idea, not mine. Kate is at high school now and doesn't have that kind of relationship with her teachers - so she hit up her bf's mother instead - and her bf.

Whenever I start feeling overwhelmed by the amount of marketing an author has to do these days, I remember my children and know that I'm not alone. This is a family business.

It's not just Kate and Sam. My nieces Sophie and Claire are part of my support system. Nor is it just book promotion that they help with. Many's the dinner that has been prepared by Kate or Sophie when I've been working to a deadline - or just on a roll. All show great patience when I use them as a sounding board or need to have questions repeated because my mind is elsewhere.

There are days when I'm convinced I'm getting no where - "nobody likes me, everybody hates me...". Seeing Under A Texas Star on my bookshelf helps. I'm not just a published writer (been that for a couple of decades now), I'm a novelist. More than that, I'm a novelist with a Lego cowboy holding a Brickarms Colt Navy revolver, thanks to my son.

I've been the administrative manager of the Arthur Ellis Awards for a couple of years now. That is also a family enterprise. Sam helps with the hefting and unpacking of boxes. Kate is an able admin assist. Checklists are always easier with a second person helping.

I bring this up because both of them have asked if I'll enter my work in the contest. So far I've said no, partly because I am administering the contest. This was fine until Sam saw an Arthur in person. He loved the hanged man and wanted me to have one. For my birthday he came up with the next best thing...

I love my family!

A Moment in History

2011-08-24T22:31:00.000-04:00

On The Hill

We were on our way to Ottawa when we heard that Jack Layton died.

I won't pretend to know much about the man, but I admired his style. In a dirty profession, he seemed by a bit cleaner than his opposition. Also, NDP was the first party I supported. I haven't supported them all the time since that first election when I exercised my right to vote, but often enough. I have a sentimental attachment to the man who brought the party to the position of Loyal Opposition.

My condolences to Jack's family and friends... and even his enemies. He will be missed.

On Bank Street

Under A Texas Star - Character Sketches

2011-08-15T14:22:00.003-04:00

Fred

When other teenage girls were dreaming of a rich and/or famous and/or handsome husband, I dreamed of having my own butler. I wrote a story about him once. He would bring me tea and toast in the morning, make sure my clothes were clean and pressed, oversee the house and grounds keeping staff, be quietly in love with me, willing to stand up to me, and loyal to the death.

Movies like My Man Godfrey (and an intense dislike of house work) inspired my creation of the perfect butler/valet/lover. He was further influenced by a myriad of characters from Batman’s Alfred to Wooster’s Jeeves with a touch of Yoda for good measure.

George Victor Fredericks - known only as Fred in Under A Texas Star - is the result. One little wrinkle in the picture of the perfect valet cum major domo, Fred works for Jezebel the proprietor of Fortuna’s best saloon, casino, dining establishment and bordello.

In my dream cast, he might be played by the properly English Ralph Fiennes or Canadian Hugh Dillon. As a young man, he might have resembled one of the Saxe-Cobourg princes (like Albert Victor above). Fred’s past is murky and involves a violent crime which forced him to leave England and make his way in America.

In Under A Texas Star, Fred is the very model of a gentleman’s gentleman. Unfailingly polite, of service without being servile, he manages Jezebel and her staff with a velvet-covered iron rod. He has known Jase Strachan since he was a young, wounded soldier, rescued by Jezebel while escaping Richmond. A decade later, he still refers to the Texas Ranger as Master Jason and treats him accordingly.

“Sir?” Fred pointed to a chair.

“I can shave myself.”

“Please, sir. I've seen what happens when you shave yourself.”

Marly sputtered on a mouthful of milk.

Jase grumbled something unintelligible and sat down.

“I'm thinking I'll keep a moustache,” he said.

“As we well know, Master Jason, a moustache does not become you.”

“That was years ago.”

Marly watched in fascination as Fred lathered Jase's whiskers. Despite Jase's protests, the moustache was the first to go.

To Marly, Fred becomes a mentor and father figure. He helps her maintain her masquerade as well as teaching her useful skills like how to shave a man and how to make a decent pot of coffee.

As promised, Fred came over to the office so Marly could do the evening patrol. All was quiet and the chore was quickly accomplished. When she returned, Fred set out a sweet plate, then taught her how to make drip coffee.

"You might have better luck with this than the modern percolator from the office," he said.

After checking on her prisoners and making sure the back door was firmly locked, she put her rifle on the rack. Fred insisted that she take the more comfortable chair behind the marshal's desk.

When he had poured the coffee and trimmed the wick of the lantern, he sat opposite her and nibbled on a biscuit.

"Nothing is going on in town tonight," she said. "The only ones left are the hardened gamblers and the quiet drinkers. I might end up bringing in one or two of the drunks if the night gets cold."

"And the gamblers?"

"Any trouble they cause will be amongst themselves and over before I can do anything."

"You learn quickly. You and Marshal Strachan make a good team. But for two things, I would have your appointment as the town's lawmen become permanent."

"Two things?"

"One, neither of you would accept the appointment," Fred said.

She shook her head, bemused. It was difficult to shake the feeling that in his terribly stiff English way he was laughing at her.

"I suspect I know what you are thinking," he said. "If I have learned nothing else, I've learned that age does not always bring wisdom. Nor has my experience supported the idea that there is a weaker sex. I hear you've learned to play chess. Would you like a game?"

She suspected the game had already started.

All that and breakfast brought to me each morning? I still dream of having my own “Fred”.

Under A Texas Star is available in paperback at Amazon.ca, Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble on sale in eBook format at Amazon.com , Amazon.uk and Smashwords.

Meet Jase Strachan on Nighthawk.

Guest Blog: Sherry Isaac

2011-08-07T15:13:00.005-04:00

Welcome to guest blogger Sherry Isaac.
Sherry and I met in a church basement a couple of years ago. We both had stories accepted in Canadian Voices Volume 1. She got me involved with readings at Prana Cafe. I got her involved in Crime Writers of Canada. We've both come out with our first books in the same summer and now we've both guested on each others blogs.
Also check out an interview with one of Sherry's characters on Nighthawk Talk.

Life Scripted

Life isn’t scripted, but sometimes life makes for good script.

Or manuscript.

As the mother of four, I have oodles of fodder. Our dinner table talk is filled with stories. Some, admittedly, not suitable for print, due more to the amount of embarrassment to the protagonist rather than illicit content.

I started a tradition when I moved east and traded open prairie for Toronto skyscrapers. Tucked into Christmas cards a one-page letter, double-sided, narrow margins, 10-font type, encapsulated the past year of our busy lives.

I wasn’t writing for prosperity. I was keeping in touch, late at night, head bent over kitchen table, after the children went to bed. I always wanted to be a writer, a yearning I kept to myself because I was afraid to believe in the impossible. The letters were a secret indulgence in dreams.

And the letters cracked up my relations. Compliments rained in, along with comparisons to Erma Bombeck’s no-holds-barred, crayon-on-the-wall style. Compliments from friends. Compliments from critical family.

The spark was ignited.

Maybe I could write. Not that I would ever aspire to become the next Ms. B, but family anecdotes are fun. Bu maybe I could write fiction.

No matter the genre, life can’t help but trickle into fiction. Characters, conflicts, setting, relationships.

How could life not?

True life is as satisfying to write as fiction, and sometimes more. To take a real situation and massage it into pleasing prose, into storytelling art, and elevate it from dinner-table chatter to print, is a gift to my family. Recording family life is an honour. It is a labour of love.

If I Find It, Can I Hit You With It is featured in Storyteller (In Our Words, Inc., July 2011). An excerpt is printed here for your enjoyment. Only the names have been changed to protect the embarrassed.

If I Find It, Can I Hit You With It?

Mom, I can’t find my sweater. I can’t find my Frisbee. I can’t find my calculator, and I have a test today. I can’t find my lunch kit, my yellow shirt, my Etch-A-Sketch, my mood ring. Our days were riddled with missing items; the morning rush as we readied ourselves for work, school and daycare our witching hour.

One morning, big brother Jeremy was on the job while I took rare advantage of the unoccupied toilet. “Mom, Oscar can’t find his stop watch and he needs it for show and tell!”

“Tell him to look in his dresser,” I called from behind the bathroom door. “It should be in the top drawer, on the left, next to his Batman underpants and under his Joker pyjamas.”

“He says he’s already looked. I have to go or I’ll miss my bus.”

“It’s not there!” Oscar wailed, his campaign abandoned by his only brother.

“Then look again.”

“But I looked and looked and I still can’t find it!” My 7-year-old’s feet tapped a staccato rhythm on the carpet. From the tone in his voice I could tell he was on the verge of tears. It was a tragedy, to be sure.

Motherhood had induced me to become an expert at a variety of tasks: I could answer the phone and carry on an articulate conversation with a mouthful of toothpaste, I could nurse a baby as I folded laundry, and I could stop my urine in midstream for an indefinite period of time while I went in search of a missing stop watch. It was neon yellow and plastic, a give-away at a local store’s grand opening. Oscar was the store’s one-hundredth customer. The sentimental value was immense.

My son, glued to my heels, made wild accusations against his sister. “Savannah took it. She took it and she broke it. She took it and she broke it because I walked into the store before she did!”

Savannah popped her head into the hallway, dressed for school and armed with a blow dryer, her head still wrapped in a towel. “You shoved your way past me, you little twerp! And it’s a stupid prize, anyway. It doesn’t even work.”

I opened Oscar’s top drawer while he peered around my right hip. On the left, next to his Batman underpants and under the Joker pyjamas, lay the coveted stopwatch in all its fluorescent glory. I picked it up and handed it to him. “What did I tell you?”

“Well, it wasn’t there a minute ago!”

Of course not.

Winner of The Alice Munro Short Story Award, Sherry Isaac’s tales of life, love and forgiveness that transcend all things, including the grave, appear online and in print. Her first collection of shorts, Storyteller, debuts July 2011. For more information, or to order an autographed copy, click HERE.

Guest Blogger - Melodie Campbell

2011-07-29T16:45:00.004-04:00

Welcome to guest blogger (and good friend) Melodie Campbell. Melodie and I have been going through the first book process together... including doing readings together (check out the Pulp Fiction Night in the right column). Melodie is also on my Nighthawk Radio Blog with a character interview with Cedric.

Love that Villain

A very strange thing happened while writing my second book in the Rowena series… I appear to have fallen for my villain.

Yes, Thane is the hero, and Rowena is smitten with him, as she should be. But her literary creator has become more and more enamoured with bad boy Cedric – the villain of the piece. Cedric is determined to have Rowena to himself, and he will stop at nothing to get her, including selling his soul to Lucifer. Cedric messes with the black arts.

Cedric can mess with me anytime.

How the heck did this happen? I set out to write a fun and sexy adventure, with good guys and bad guys and spunky heroines. Love that Rowena. She’s everything I would like to be. Thane is a terrific match for her; strong, smart, loyal, handsome, and the King to boot. Arch enemy of Cedric of course.

And what about Cedric? He’s not as good looking as Thane. He probably isn’t as smart. His morals are questionable – maybe nonexistent. But he is cunning. He is dynamic. He is never, ever boring.

Cedric is the typical bad boy.

What it is about men who don’t fit the typical hero mode, but ‘bother’ us, somehow? That’s how Rowena puts it. “I didn’t like his looks – they bothered me.” Cedric has long red-gold hair. His eyes are green, and they have an eerie glow when he uses magic. He’s tall, broad and thoroughly masculine, with bands of muscles on his arms. And he draws her like a moth to fire…

Exciting, that’s the word. The bad boys in our past made us feel like we were alive. Living on the edge has its attractions…

So Thane may be the ideal man for Rowena, and for any woman. But Cedric will always be there, in the back of her mind, tempting…promising something that will take her beyond the ordinary, something delicious, enticing…

Damn, that’s attractive. I can’t kill him off.

ROWENA THROUGH THE WALL

Do you like comic time travel romance?

Meet Rowena Revel!

“Is that a broadsword on your belt, or are you just glad to see me?”

When Rowena falls through her classroom wall into a medieval world, she doesn’t count on being kidnapped – not once, but twice, dammit – and the stakes get higher as the men get hotter. Unwanted husbands keep piling up; not only that, she has eighteen-year-old Kendra to look out for, and a war to prevent. Good thing she can go back through the wall when she needs to…or can she?

“Hot and Hilarious!” Midwest Book Review

“Jack Sparrow meets Stephanie Plum” Former editor, Distant Suns Fantasy Magazine

Available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.

Follow Melodie’s comic blog at funnygirlmelodie.blogspot.com

View trailer and read opening scene at www.melodiecampbell.com/

Melodie Campbell has been a bank manager, marketing director, comedy writer, college instructor and possibly the worst runway model ever. Melodie got her start writing comedy, so it’s no surprise that editors have called her fiction “wacky” and “laugh out loud funny”. She has over 200 publications and has won five awards for fiction. She is currently the General Manager of Crime Writers of Canada, and has taught fiction writing for ten years.

Under A Texas Star - Character Sketches

2011-07-19T01:47:00.004-04:00

Jezebel Revealed

Hanging above the mirrors behind the bar was the biggest painting she had ever seen. Rendered in vivid oil color, a voluptuous, auburn-haired Amazon was draped and posed in a suggestive manner. It was so lifelike that Marly's jaw dropped and a deep flush rose in her cheeks.

"If the boy's like that over my painting," a deep, throaty voice said, "what's he gonna do when he meets the real thing?"

Under A Texas Star

When I first envisioned Jezebel - the proprietor of The Oasis, Fortuna's classiest saloon and bordello - I pictured a young Jane Fonda crossed with Mae West. Now I add Catherine Zeta Jones to that mix for the sake of visuals, but mostly Jezebel is her own woman.

In the beginning, Jezebel's sole purpose was to make my heroine, Marly Landers, jealous. Not only did Jez have a past with Texas Ranger Jase Strachan, she was unmistakably a woman while Marly was successfully playing the role of a boy.

"Marly felt sick. It wasn't just the smell of perfume. Jase was ruggedly handsome, regardless of trail-worn clothes and untrimmed whiskers, whereas she looked plain and dirty. The only consolation she had in seeing her image in the mirror was the knowledge that her masquerade was safe."

Jezebel was every woman who ever undermined my confidence by making me feel plain and unattractive.

The Jane Fonda connection was very specific. My first favourite western was Cat Ballou. Cat dressed to seduce the man who ordered her father's death was my first working image of Miz Jezebel. There's a line in the movie when she admires the artwork in her mark's rail-car boudoir: "It's a regular Tintoretto!" That inspired Marly's introduction to Jezebel via her painting.

Getting back to women who undermined my self-confidence, I learned a few things between drafts of Under A Texas Star.

The most eye-opening lesson was finding out that one of those gorgeous women was equally in awe of me. She was tall, slim, and always had flawless hair and nails. Her hair and nails were her vanities. She was convinced she was too tall and too straight to be really pretty. Most of all, she didn't think she was interesting. I doubt she would have traded her figure for mine - though we agreed that splitting the difference would work for both of us - but she envied my intelligence. She was about to start university classes part-time and was scared to death.

My most profound lesson was that projecting self-confidence is a survival trait. I started thinking about what Jezebel's past would have been like. She was the madame of a house in Richmond during the Civil War. Only a few years older than Jase, she would have had to been strong-willed and business-smart to rise to that position by her mid-twenties.

What did she have to do to survive when the war turned against the south? What connections had she forged that allowed her to not only survive, but flourish during the Reconstruction? I came to admire Jezebel. As I did, I allowed hints of Miz Jez's past to be revealed so Marly would respect her too.

As Cat Ballou would say, she's "a regular Tintoretto."

Under A Texas Star is now available in paperback at
Amazon.com and on sale in eBook format at Amazon.com , Amazon.uk and Smashwords.

(See Summer Sizzlers Sale)

Under A Texas Star - Character Sketches

2011-07-03T17:05:00.005-04:00

Marly Landers

Except that her dress is too new-looking, the model for Marly isn't a bad match. She's not too neat or too glamorous, and thanks to a little tweaking, she has the right coloured hair.

Is she how I originally pictured Marly? Not exactly. When I originally picture her she was more like me - albeit a younger me. In fact, Marly is based, at least partly, on a much younger me.

When I was ten, I was one of the tallest kids in my class. I reached my full five-foot-two stature by the time I was twelve. Times were different. My mother used to tell me, "Don't start a fight, but if you get into one, end it." By that she didn't mean walk away and report to a teacher. She meant win. My father - ever protective of his two daughters - taught us how to defend ourselves. My mother expected us to stand up, not only for ourselves, but the smaller and weaker kids.

As a result, I became something of a school yard vigilante, stepping between bullies and their prey. Even if the bully was bigger and stronger than me, I didn't back down. That got me a few bruises but no detentions as far as I can remember. Different times.

The tomboy who was tough enough to stand up to the big boys and had enough adolescent hormones running through her system to also be attracted to those boys, she's one of the inspirations for Marly Landers.

By high school, I'd gone from being one of the tallest kids in my class to being one of the shortest. I stayed five-foot-two (eyes of blue) until my doctor announced last fall that I was five-foot-one-and-a-half. Fortunately my negotiation skills improved because I didn't stop standing up for the underdog. There is one scene in Under A Texas Star that comes directly from personal experience. I got into a play-fight with my then boy friend. He had got my arm in a twist and was trying to force me to back down.

"If you're trying to break my arm," I said, "you're not being very efficient."

You'll have to read the book to see where that fits in with Marly, but like my boyfriend Dan, Marly's opponent backed down once he realized what he was doing.

The red hair, slight frame, and incredible endurance is all Marly. The stubborn streak and tenacity she gets from me.

Interview with Marly Landers.

If you haven't already, check out the Character Sketch for Jase Strachan.

Under A Texas Star is now available in paperback at
Amazon.com and on sale in eBook format at Amazon.com
and Smashwords. (See Summer Sizzlers Sale)

Guerilla Marketing for Books

2011-06-25T10:17:00.001-04:00

Writing for the Brand

If you’ve read Louis L’Amour, you might recognize the phrase “Riding for the brand.” Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings tell us that “They'll never stay home and they're always alone...” (Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys), but not all cowboys were drifters. Some stuck around, true to the ranch - the brand - that gave them a home.

In marketing it’s called brand loyalty.

John Locke, the author who has been dominating the trade news by being the first indie to join the million eBooks sold club, devotes pages of How I Sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months to the importance of brand loyalty. He tells us to “find your target audience and write for them” and to develop readers who will read anything you write for that brand (you can have more than one). Locke is applying principles to writing fiction and e-publishing that Jay Conrad Levinson shared with us in Guerilla Marketing. Find your niche and stick to it.

What about artistic integrity?

We aren’t cowboys - we’re the ranchers. We create the brand. Our loyalty is to what we’ve crafted and the readers who ride with us. Fortunately, loyalty doesn’t preclude variety. We can have more than one brand that can serve different target audiences.

Under A Texas Star combines mystery, romance and “accurate settings, genuine voice, and unexpected humour” (Amazon Reader Review). When you pick up its sequel (which will have “star” in the title) you can expect the same style of story.

My near-future mystery series, debuting next year, will have a different brand. You’ll know that you’re reading Alison Bruce as surely as I can tell whether I’m listening to Mozart or Beethoven, but the brand will be different. You might like my westerns but not this series - or vice versa - but I intend that if you like one book in the series, you’ll enjoy them all.

I’m writing for the brand.

Alison Bruce
www.alisonbruce.ca
twitter.com/alisonebruce

Guest Blog: Catherine Astolfo

2011-06-18T23:58:00.002-04:00

It's so nice knowing that you aren't the only one who subjects your family to forensic research...

The Weird and Wonderful Workings of the Criminal Mind

I am taking a lovely, summery day ride in the car with my husband. Our favorite rock and roll music wafts in the background. A fine cooling breeze lifts our hair and our arms are being tanned as we lean casually through the open windows.

Inside my head, it’s a different picture altogether. Down in a dark, dank basement, a man lies slowly bleeding to death from a shotgun wound. I am contemplating how long it would take him to die, when my husband asks me what I’m thinking. Unfortunately for him, I tell him. This is a scenario from Book One.

A large raccoon is splayed upside down in the slope of the ditch on my right. He is stiff and awkward on his back, lips pulled back in an angry grimace. Maggots crawl out of his mouth and flies swarm everywhere. I can hear their frenzied delight as we stop for a red light. I am fascinated. Book Two!

Next we pass a burned-out shell perched forgotten on a side road. I am thrilled to see it. I ask my husband to stop so I can get out and breathe in the scorched wood smell and the stench of furled plastic and dead things underneath the ash. Great experience for Book Three.

Forensics for Dummies, Until You Are Dead, Criminal Investigative Failures – these are the books which dominate my shelves during the writing of Book Four. Along with questions to which I find an answer through Sisters in Crime’s forensics specialist: Can you paint scenery on a dead body?

Lucky for me, my husband is not only tolerant but is actually enabling of my weird and wonderful way of thinking. He likes my books, helps edit them in fact, and isn’t easily startled or frightened. As the step-father of children who are involved in the film industry and grandfather to a budding musician, he is also used to the fact of fantasy: that my novels will be international best-sellers, that our films will make us Hollywood darlings, that our drummer grandson will be famous, and that we’ll walk the red carpet together some day. One perspective on all of this is: why you? There is a massive amount of competition in those industries. My perspective is: why not us?

If you are in the mood to traverse the book, film and music industry, here are some places to visit: www.catherineastolfo.com; www.sisbro.net; or check out Pocket City on Facebook. Enter my fantasy world. Enable my weird and wonderful criminal mind if you dare.

Catherine Astolfo is an award-winning author of the Emily Taylor Mystery Series and several short stories. The Emily Taylor Mysteries are available on Amazon: The Bridgeman, Victim, Legacy, and Seventh Fire.

Elsewhere... Remembering My Dad on Father's Day

Under A Texas Star - Character Sketches

2011-06-13T21:11:00.001-04:00

Texas Ranger Jase Strachan

Thanks to the beautiful cover that Jennifer Johnson designed, romance model Jimmy Thomas will be the image of Jase Strachan.

Of course, the real Jase (did I just call a character real?) won't look so clean clean-shaven on the trail. Marly notices the difference and bath and visit to the barber make.

"His beard was flecked with gray, which made him seem older. Clean, shaved, with his hair and moustache neatly trimmed, he now looked what he was, a man of thirty. Years had literally been washed away."

We won't get into the gritty realism of tan-lines and crows feet - the result of spending most of your daylight hours in the saddle.

After reading my first draft, an artist friend of mine did a character sketch of Jase Strachan. I dug it out expecting a world of difference between the old drawing and the new cover.

The sketch is whiskered and weathered but otherwise the two Jase Strachans are remarkable similar - especially when you consider that there are twenty years between the two pieces of art.

The beauty of books is that every reader can make their own mental sketch of the characters. Jen, Jimmy and (I kid you not) John have helped define my picture of Jase. It doesn't get more alliterate than that.

Character Sketch: Marly Landers

Apropos of my post, my next stop on the Virtual Blog Trail is Jennifer Johnson's blog Sapphire Romance Realm

Under A Texas Star is now available in paperback for $14.99 on Amazon.com. It will be available on Amazon.ca and other online booksellers soon.

Available on Kindle, Under A Texas Star eBook is $3.99 on Amazon.com or in other digital formats on Smashwords.

Everything I Learned About eBooks I Learned in Star Trek

2011-06-05T16:28:00.004-04:00

One of my favourite images from Star Trek: The Next Generation is Captain Picard taking some time out on the couch of his office. He has his tea (Earl Grey, hot) and a book (Collected Works of Shakespeare or maybe Under a Texas Star).

EBooks are cheap, convenient, and fun, but there is nothing like holding a Real Book in your hands. I'm looking forward to that moment when my author copies of Under A Texas Star arrive.

Once I started thinking about Captain Picard and his anachronistic love of Real Books, it occurred to me how much Star Trek predicted about the near future. While Picard may love reading a hard copy for recreation, all his reports come to him on electronic tablets that strongly resemble an iPad or Playbook. These Pads don't have the flexibility of a Tricorder, but they are perfect for reading and make notes on your First Officers crew evaluations. Just like an e-readers.

Tricorders are just smarter Smart Phones. We have hand scanners and sensors. All we need to do is combine them with the ubiquitous iPhone or Blackberry then add aps.

"Mister Crusher, can you scan identify the organic matter adhering to my boot?"
"Shit, sir. I have an ap for that."

Under A Texas Star is now available in paperback for $14.99 on Amazon.com. It will be available on Amazon.ca and other online booksellers soon.

Available for your e-reader or Pad... Under A Texas Star eBook is $3.99 on Amazon.com.

On the Virtual Trail for Under A Texas Star

As promised, my blog trail is posted to the right and will stay up for the duration (with TBA dates filled in as I have them). I hope you will drop by to each spot and leave a comment. (People who comment will be entered into a draw for prizes!)

Meeting Deadlines

2011-05-30T00:59:00.002-04:00

Come Hell or High Water

My life seems to be defined by deadlines these days. From me: "Send me your author events by..." "I need your book cover by.." To me: "We need to get this sent out by..." "The printer needs this by... " and the latest "Get your guest blog to me by..."

I'm not complaining. My head might be spinning as I try to figure out how to juggle everything, but no complaints. I love being a writer/editor/designer/administrator, even if I do suffer from multiple personality issues some days.

Deadlines are useful. For instance, if I had set a firm date for getting my car serviced, I wouldn't be getting my winter tires switched out at the end of May. I get the Crime Writers of Canada publications out on schedule and meet the deadlines of my publisher. Maybe the laundry and dishes would get done on time if I imposed a time limit.

Or not.

My catch phrase for impending deadlines is "Come Hell or high water, I'll get it done." Somehow, I have a feeling if I tried applying it to household chores, I'd happily let the laundry go to Hell and let the dishes soak in the high water.

Next week "On the Virtual Trail with Under A Texas Star" with a guide to the blogs on the trail. I'll have it all organized in time for my regular blog... come Hell or high water.

Under A Texas Star
by Alison Bruce, Imajin Books
www.imajinbooks.com
Now available at Amazon Kindle Store and Smashwords for only $3.99.
Trade paperback and other ebook retailers coming soon.
twitter.com/alisonebruce

Write What You Know

2011-05-23T03:42:00.003-04:00

Experimentation

There are three way to "know" something (setting aside the biblical sense). You can know by past experience - been there, done that. You can know by research - I read that somewhere. And you can know by experimentation.

Here are the results of my latest experiment.

I've been invited to do a guest blog for Authors and Appetizers. This is a natural fit for me as I often combine exposition with meals in my books. (That comes under the heading of knowing from past experience; all our family's important discussions happen around the dining room table.) Since Under A Texas Star takes place in Texas, TexMex food seemed like a good idea. I cook a mean chili con carne, regularly make quesadillas, burritos and tacos - favourites of my kids - but I don't use a recipe. My dishes never taste the same way twice.

I thought I better do some kitchen testing to get an idea about proportions. Here is a recipe you won't see on Authors and Appetizers.

Salsa ~~Fresca~~ Con Queso

Day 1

Look in the cupboard and realize you don't have any of the herbs and spices you need.
Go shopping. While browsing in the bulk spices, get this brilliant idea for a barbeque blend that satisfies the food allergies of all your family and friends.
Buy enough bulk spices to last a year.
Decide you're going to do it all by scratch, so you pick up a few fresh tomatoes instead of a large can of crushed tomatoes.
Buy Key Limes because they are so small and cute.
Pick up a couple of Jalapeno peppers
Set everything aside because you're too tired to tackle cooking after doing the grocery shopping

Day 2

While making up your brilliant barbeque spice, throw handfuls of coarse salt, mixed peppercorns, crushed chili peppers, crystal sugar and herbs to taste in a bowl with too few tomatoes. (Completely forget about the Jalapenos - which turns out just as well.)
Squeeze the juice out of three Key Limes because they are so tiny
Crush the ingredients and realize you should have pulverized the peppercorns first
Pull out the hand blender and pulverize everything
Taste
Drink a full glass of milk to rescue mouth
Add some more sugar
Taste
Drink a full glass of milk to rescue mouth
Pull out the package of cream cheese that you were going to use for something else and blend it into the mixture
Taste
Add the half tub of spreadable cream cheese that's left from your son's bagel and cream cheese breakfast, blend. No point tasting; your taste buds are fried.
Put in closed container and refrigerate over night.

Day 3

Tell everyone you meant to make Salsa Con Queso all along
Serve with nachos.(It tasted great.)

To find out what recipe will be in Authors and Appetizers, check out the blog in the second week in June. Check back here for the exact date.

Under A Texas Star
by Alison Bruce, Imajin Books
www.imajinbooks.com
Now available at Amazon Kindle Store and Smashwords for only $3.99.
Trade paperback and other ebook retailers coming soon.
twitter.com/alisonebruce

Fuelled by Coffee

2011-05-15T11:40:00.003-04:00

The Good, the Bad and the "You call that coffee?"

Evidently, every episode of Sienfeld had a Superman figurine somewhere. Everything I write has coffee. As I write this, I am drinking Free Trade coffee (whole bean, ground by myself and french pressed) out of the tin mug on the left and listening to that old classic: "Let's have Another Cup of Coffee" (the Glenn Miller version).

One of my favourite family memories is dawn on Tybee Island. It was the last holiday with my mother - taken after she recovered from her first course of chemotherapy. Mum, my sister and I were sitting on the hotel deck, sipping coffee in Styrofoam cups, watching the sun come up over the Atlantic.

I remember the first time I drank coffee and liked it. I was twenty-one, living in a cold, damp house in Drayton Valley, Alberta, with six other members of Katimavik (a Canadian youth program). I think it was Pierre that brewed the coffee, camp style, in a pot on the stove. It had a kick like a mule, but it cut though the damp and cold like a shot of single malt.

Before that, I was strictly a tea drinker. I attribute my being a late bloomer to my mother who made terrible coffee. It was either instant (shudder) or too weak. When I was going to Ryerson, I'd often get a ride downtown when my Dad took Mum to work. Mum and Dad would have instant coffee for the trip. I'd have tea. Sometimes Dad would give me his coffee by mistake - he couldn't tell the difference between my tea and his weak instant coffee. I could, but usually I'd check too late.

One of the many things I miss about my sister is that she could consistently make a great cup of coffee. Drip, press or espresso, Joanne never missed. I can't say the same. For one thing, there are mornings I need a cup of coffee before I can trust myself to make a cup of coffee.

It's all grist (or beans) for the mill as you can see in the following excerpt from Under A Texas Star. On the trail, Marly takes the first watch...

Just past midnight, Jase woke to the smell of coffee. As he stretched, Marly glanced up from the book and gave him a warm smile.

Coffee, company and that smile sure beats waking up alone, he thought.

Then he tasted the coffee. Good God.

He didn't mean to be rude. The expression on his face was a natural reflex.

"It's not very good," she admitted, "but if you sip it slowly, I guarantee you won't fall asleep."

Under A Texas Star
by Alison Bruce, Imajin Books
www.imajinbooks.com
Now available at Amazon Kindle Store and Smashwords for only $3.99.
Trade paperback and other ebook retailers coming soon.
twitter.com/alisonebruce

The Trail to Under A Texas Star - Part 4

2011-05-10T19:16:00.002-04:00

UNDER A TEXAS STAR is now available at Amazon and Smashwords.

Confessions of a Newly Published Author

Getting a publisher was the beginning of a new set of adventures. Fortunately, everyone at Imajin Books has been a joy to work with. This isn't always the case with new authors - or even well-established ones. In fact, getting published is a bit like getting pregnant. The moment people find out, you start hearing the horror stories.

First book and first baby are alike in other ways. When I was pregnant with my daughter, I was worried about doing the right thing all the time. Everything I learned from observing my sister and taking care of my nieces seemed to go out the window. It was only when I heard my own lessons repeated back to me that I accepted that I wasn't as much of a novice as I thought.

I have had short fiction and articles published before. I've been in two anthologies. Heck, I used to be a micro-publisher (Women's Work). Not to mention I've been publicizing other authors' books and events on the Crime Writers of Canada website. But, just as with babies, it's a whole other level when it's your own.

So, if I get a little over-enthusiastic, or start gushing about how my book is doing, forgive me. Think of me as a new mother.

Under A Texas Star
by Alison Bruce, Imajin Books, May 2010
www.imajinbooks.com
Follow me on Twitter and Facebook

The Trail to Under A Texas Star - Part 3

2011-05-02T15:36:00.002-04:00

Getting Back on the Horse

You have heard the old adage: "Write what you know." I will freely admit I am not, nor have ever been, a cowboy, a Texas Ranger or a war orphan. However, like Marly Landers, I have fallen off a horse and got back on - in more ways than one.

In the most literal sense, Marly's first riding lesson borrows heavily on my own.

I love riding horses except for a few small details. I'm short and they are tall. I get dizzy being that high up assuming I can get up on the horse at all. The one and only time I took a riding lesson, I hoisted myself up into the saddle and fell off the other side. I eventually made it into the saddle with the help of a chair - Marly uses a fence.

Once I was in the saddle, I did remarkably well for a first-timer. It was terrifying and exhilarating. I was pretty good at getting the horse to go where I wanted him to go - but he went so fast. He wanted to trot when I would have been comfortable with a speed more suitable for a funeral procession.

The other impediment to my riding career was my allergies. By the time I dismounted, I could hardly breath. The itchy eyes and throat I could handle, but my asthma had me to the point where I thought my next stop might be the hospital.

Figuratively, getting back to working on Under A Texas Star was getting back on the horse.

For several years, I gave up fiction writing in order to make a living and take care of my family. I was slowly but surely building a career as a copywriter, editor and web designer when everything fell apart. Within a month, my mother was diagnosed with aggressive, small-cell lung cancer; my sister found out she had breast cancer; and they found a malignant tumour on one of my father's kidneys.

By the end of the year, my mother had died, I was pregnant with my second child and my marriage was falling apart. The following year, my sister almost died of complications after her cancer started attacking her bones. Shortly after that, my father had a massive stroke. Meanwhile, I was the oldest extant member of a postpartum depression group. It got me out of the house once a week and included free babysitting.

It was when I was taking care of my sister and her kids so she could be at home, that I finally got back on the horse. My sister Joanne arranged time so I could write. She strong-armed our Dad into not making demands on me during those periods.

I not only wrote, but I started submitting my writing - unsuccessfully at first - and joined Crime Writers of Canada in order to network with other authors. I entered contests, sucked up criticism and kept getting back on the horse.

Under A Texas Star
by Alison Bruce, Imajin Books, May 2010
www.imajinbooks.com
Follow me on Twitter and Facebook

Concluded in Part 4

The Trail to Under A Texas Star - Part 2

2011-04-25T11:00:00.008-04:00

Chicken Blood and Orphan Computers

The first home computer I ever used was my roommate's Commodore Plus 4. That is the computer onto which I transcribed my longhand draft of El Paso Trail - now known as Under A Texas Star.

The memory on the computer was so small, I had to save files every two or three pages. I needed a box of floppy disks to hold that second draft. Worse, it was about to become an orphan. When the computer died, my ability to access those files died with it.

That was later. At the time, I was glad to have flexibility of a computer to edit my manuscript without retyping pages - and it needed a lot of editing.

My roommate Amanda was my first editor. An English Lit major, she pounced on my manuscript with kind words but gallons of red ink as she found spelling and grammatical errors, logical problems and places where more exposition was required. There was so much red ink on the pages, it looked like blood spatter.

We joked about it being chicken blood. If we hadn't joked, It might have been Amanda's blood because I wasn't as good at accepting criticism back then.

I look at it as a life lesson. Not long after that, I started my career as a freelance writer. I had to accept criticism and multiple changes from clients cheerfully and professionally. Establishing myself - and the death of the Commodore Plus 4 - put my book on the back burner, but the book and Amanda's red ink prepared me for my new career.

Continued in Part 3

The Trail to Under A Texas Star - Part 1

2011-04-18T21:48:00.009-04:00

The Origin Story

Under A Texas Star will be released next month by Imajin Books, but it's origins are practically ancient history.

My mother introduced me to Georgette Heyer when I was twelve. My father countered by giving me Louis L'Amour and Zane Grey to read.

Add to that my parent's extensive collection of classic mystery authors from Agatha Christie to Rex Stout, it should be no surprise that the first novel I completed was a mystery/romance set in the old west.

I started the story that would become Under A Texas Star - many years ago now - when I was recovering from surgery. I couldn't hold up a book to read, but I could hold a pen and prop my clipboard on my tray table. I needed something to distract me from the woman in the bed beside me. She made noises, nonstop, 24/7. When she was asleep during the day, she snored. In the evening, the night terrors started. Did I feel sorry for her? Of course. Was she driving me crazy? Absolutely!

Since I couldn't do anything for or about my neighbour, I escaped into another world. A few years earlier it might have been set on another planet. A few years later, when I was immersed in the Guelph Star Trek Club, I might have been fan fiction. At the time I was filling in my Louis L'Amour collection and had just discovered Bordertown on TV. So, I wrote a western.

As you might imagine, that first draft was sketchy and almost illegible. Opiates do not make for lucid thinking or accurate fine motor control. However, when I got home, I had another week off for recovery when I could decipher and expand on my scribbles. Finally, I let a my roommate and a couple of close friends read it.

My friend John said it was too short - he wanted more.

My friend Nancy said it had potential and did I have a spelling dictionary because I really needed it.

My roommate Amanda pulled out her red pen and covered that first printout with so much ink it looked like the pages were bleeding.

A novel was born.

Continued in Part 2

Under A Texas Star - The Cover

2011-03-29T18:48:00.000-04:00

THANK YOU!

In the Cover Poll, Cover A led the race with 73% of the votes on this blog and maybe a little more when the emailed votes were tallied.

On my Facebook Page Cover B was a bit more popular for a while. "Well, it looks like I'm in the minority, so far. I liked "A"." said Sheila Dalton. Hilary Van Welter said: "B with a horse somewhere! Good omen!"

The horse was very popular with the "A" crowd too. "Got to have the horse in the shot. Love the covers!" said Peggy Blair. But sex appeal was also a driving factor. As Robin said, "Cover A - much more steamy - I want to dive in and let him push me up against the rock."

"Steamy" came up several time in the comments. Sherry Isaac also commented: "The red tells me this book is on fire! WOW." I hope this means that Under A Texas Star will be a hot seller.

My thanks to everyone who responded. Though April 15 was the designated decision day, I can't wait any longer.

The envelope, please...

And the winner is...

...

Cover Poll

2011-03-12T16:16:00.000-05:00

Inquiring Minds Want to Know...

I don't know about the rest of you, but my excitement is mounting as Under A Texas Star gets closer and closer to publication. The contract is signed. My advance has been received. Now, after being consulted on the earlier versions, Imajin Books has sent me the two finalist for the cover art.

Which one do you think should be the cover of my upcoming mystery/romance/western?

After flipping a coin, this design was designated Cover A. Below is Cover B.

There's a poll in the sidebar of this blog where you can vote for your favourite. Get your vote and comments in by April 15, 2011 and I'll pass it along to Imajin Books. They'll make the final choice, but your input might sway their decision. If nothing else, this inquiring mind wants to know what you think.

Lego and the Well of Creativity

2011-02-27T16:07:00.000-05:00

David Winkler LEGO Angel

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."

~Michelangelo

Everything I have ever read, seen, or experienced - directly or vicariously - contributes to what I write. Every author I have read is my mentor (sometimes teaching me what not to do). Long ago, when I tried explaining that to one of my writing instructors, he told me that was derivative, unoriginal, uncreative. I wanted to throw my hands up in frustration.

Of course it's derivative - in the same way the gears are derived from the wheel. I was willing to accept unoriginal in the sense that all the best stories have their roots in universally held archetypes. (I was also being introduced to Joseph Campbell's work at the time.) Uncreative? Those were fighting words.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't excel in that class.

Stories often come to me at night, in my dreams, or in my attempts to unravel the cares of the day so I can sleep. That's when the bits and pieces of information, images, sounds, smells, emotions, jumble together and form new patterns. I liken it to dumping a bin of LEGO on the floor (an image my son inspired).

There are basic building blocks that vary only in colour and size, but not shape. Then there are the specialized pieces from sets. A few pieces from a Star Wars LEGO set, some Wild West and Batman pieces join the basic building block to create a new toy which - if I'm lucky - I'll be able to identify without too many clues. (A boy's ego is a fragile thing.)

In my case, I have surreal movies running in my head. The basic blocks come from who I am and what's on my mind at the time. The specialty pieces come from a favourite movie or book, last night's TV shows, childhood memories and random information I've picked up - like LEGO blocks underfoot. Most of the time the result leaves me thinking "cool but weird" (again, like my son's creations).

Sometimes I'll get a character or situation that becomes the seed of a story. Rarely, I get the shape of the story itself - like seeing an angel in a block of marble. Either way, the creative act is what you do with the materials, not the source of the materials themselves.

Self portrait with virtual LEGO

2011: The Year of the Rabbit/Year of the Cat

2011-01-30T13:08:00.000-05:00

"Cuddly, warm and affectionate are the attributes of the Rabbit. ...The Rabbit enjoys being the centre of attention once in a while... is occasionally over cautious and can be a bit boring. He is also one of the luckiest signs in the Chinese Astrology chart."

- from californiapsychics.com

I know two Peter Rabbits - that is two Peters who were born in the Year of the Rabbit. How cool is that? I wouldn't describe either as being exactly cuddly. No doubt their wives would disagree. I'm not sure either would describe themselves as lucky - too cautious to tempt fate.

My mother was a Rabbit. She certainly enjoyed being the centre of attention but also wasn't all that cuddly. She was affectionate and warm-hearted but I could see her fitting the image of the Cat better.

In Chinese mythology, the Rat tricked the Cat into sleeping in on the day the Zodiac was formed. As a result, the Cat missed the race that determined the astrological lineup. The Rat, meanwhile, hitched a ride with the Ox (who might have been slow but was as steady as a proverbial tortoise) then jumped off the Ox's nose to win the race and the first place in the Heavens.

In the Vietnamese mythology, the Cat stays in the race and takes the place of the Rabbit - who might have bolted because of the Tiger ahead of him and the Dragon on his tail.

Astrologically, it doesn't make any difference. Either way, the forecast for 2011 is one of peace, tranquility and diplomacy - at least comparatively speaking. Since this is a metal year, peace, tranquility and diplomacy may come with the help of a sword point.

Both animals are associated with luck. Yes, a black cat is supposed unlucky, but how lucky can a rabbit's foot be for the rabbit? The thing about luck is, it can cut both ways.

It's the image of the Cat that's different than the Rabbit. Cats conjure up a picture of pride, especially in appearances. They are well-groomed and dignified. At least they work hard at being well-groomed and dignified. Cats have style. That's my mother in a nutshell.

On the other hand, knowing two Peter Rabbits is still pretty cool.

Where to get your Year of the Rabbit forecast:

http://www.moonslipper.com/chinese.html

http://blog.californiapsychics.com/blog/2011/01/your-chinese-astrology-for-2011.html

Three Things I Learned from Star Trek Fans

2011-01-16T13:21:00.000-05:00

Neither guilty, nor secret

I am a Star Trek fan. Not only that, but I used to belong to the Guelph Star Trek Club. Not only that, I was Captain of the USS Welfen for about five years. This is not a guilty secret. Far from it. I learned a lot from Star Trek and Star Trek fans.

Like many Star Trek clubs, we were into role-playing. At parties, parades and fund-raising events, we'd dress-up and act in character. This is how I learned my first lesson.

Clothes DO make the Klingon.

They say "Don't judge a book by its cover." Tell that to marketing professionals in the publishing business. The fact is covers are an important tool for discovering what's inside. Costumes take it one step further. They influence what's inside.

Mild-mannered, soft-spoken people can become rude and boisterous with the simple application of a bumpy forehead and a uniform. If they've taken the time to learn some Klingon words, the transformation is nearly complete. Similarly, a rowdy preteen can put on a pair of pointy ears and pencil his eyebrows and become a calm Vulcan. (Maybe I'll buy my son some ears.)

Power-suits are given that name for a reason. Wear red and/or black and you will appear - and likely act - more confident. Dark blue makes us seem more trustworthy. Soft colours make us look and feel more approachable. Uniforms define form as well as function. We dress to blend in or stand out but always we make a statement about who we are and how we expect people to take us at that moment -- even when the message is "I don't care."

Whatever else you do, you can improve the world around you.

Star Trek clubs are primarily run for the entertainment of their members - or should be. If you're not having fun dressing up in costume and acting like someone you're not (or not quite) why bother? That doesn't mean we weren't a credit to the uniform.

The Guelph Star Trek Club collected food for the Food Bank and the Welcome Drop-In Centre in an annual drive we called "Guinan's Goodies". For the "Spock's Socks" drive, we collected clothing and bedding for disaster relief. (It started off with just socks because the doctor delivering the goods couldn't take bulky items.)

When I managed a comic book store, I ran the annual charity auction with the store owner. When I left, I kept the auction going with Star Trek collectibles for the club. Proceeds went to Action Read Family Literacy Centre plus either St Joseph's Hospital or the University of Guelph Arboretum.

Our club was hardly unique. Most Star Trek clubs do stuff for charity. Nor are Trekkies the only costumed do-gooders. Think Shriners.

Every commander needs a good crew.

You need a healthy ego to be a leader. That means being willing to share the power and kudos.

I was chatting with a new friend and discovered a mutual interest in Star Trek. She mentioned that her daughter had been photographed on the bridge of the Enterprise at a convention. A couple of questions later, I revealed with pride, "We built that!"

As I quickly assured her, when I said "we" I didn't mean "me". Our captain at the time, Frank Orlando, spearheaded that project for Stone Road Mall, and was the artist that created the trompe l'oile effects. He and his crew put in long hours in construction and painting. Meanwhile, as first officer, I kept the administration end of the club going and led the team doing the club's display for the event.

When I took over as captain, I had my own invaluable first officer in Frances Peate (now Nunn) literally my right-hand woman in the above photo. Amanda Bloss (now Maloney) took the role of Ship's Counsellor (that's her on the left). Neil Arnold (who is also the Klingon above) and Janet were two more of many stalwart officers that kept the club going. (The officers in the background are just standing in.)

As it is in a Star Trek club, so it is in the board room or task group. I couldn't have, and wouldn't have wanted to do it alone.

Captain Alison Bruce, commanding the USS Welfen NCC 9011, began her career as an acting ensign aboard the USS Schrodinger. Before transferring Star Fleet Academy, she was part of an unplanned exchange aboard a Klingon war ship. Her experience led to advance training and deployment to the USS Welfen during its shakedown cruise. After the sudden and mysterious disappearance of the Welfen's second captain, Bruce took command in time for the Dominion Wars.

(Still role-playing after all these years.)

Christmas Cat-killer Caper Finale

2010-12-25T00:38:00.000-05:00

December 24

Kate took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. For the first time in weeks, she felt energized. Her hand still hurt. She still missed her father. She still wished she could hibernate between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day. But today was a good day.

“Ms Garrett?”

It would have been a better day if she could have avoided Mr Koehne.

“Good afternoon, Mr Koehne.”

She wasn’t sure what else to say. She could hardly open the conversation with, “Sorry your sister turned out to be a psychopath.”

Koehne handed her an envelope.

“It’s thirty-days notice,” he said. “According to our agreement, for the first six months, either party can give thirty-days notice to terminate if the arrangement proves unsatisfactory.”

Kate nodded.

“Due to family obligations, I find advisable to go back to working out of my home.”

“Understandable,” Kate agreed, adding to herself, especially when your landlord is the cause of the family problems. Then, because she had to know, she asked, “Did you have any idea what your sister was doing?”
He stared at her, wide-eyed. He knew.

“Forget I asked,” she said quickly. “But between you and me, seek legal counsel. Your sister has confessed to killing the cats because they were watching her – just as her own cat had watched her. She will no doubt be found non compos mentis and be remanded to a psychiatric facility to get the care she has evidently needed ever since her husband abused her.”

Koehne dropped his gaze.

“Her husband’s disappearance will be re-examined,” Kate warned. “If at any time they discover that you knew that she was making cyanide out of peach pits . . .”

She let the sentence hang. He nodded and turned away from her.

“I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me . . .”

Jake didn’t make a dig about the Christmas song, he was just pleased to see Kate so cheerful. She was giving the wistful song a jaunty beat and seemed completely unaware that she had an audience.

“I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams . . . Yes, I know you’re there, Carmedy.”

“Making café au lait?’ he asked, pretending he hadn’t heard her.

“Coffee nogs,” she said. “We’re celebrating.”

“The solving of the Cat-killer Caper?”

She chuckled.

“You did a good job with that,” he added. “Though if Thorsen knew you downloaded information about Collin’s missing husband when you were supposed to be changing your bandage . . .”

“I did worse than that, I used his authority to request a second test of the poison used on the cats to look for organic traces. It occurred to me that if Irene was turning her pit shells into mulch, she might be finding a use for the kernels too.” she gave him a self-satisfied grin. “But that’s not why we’re celebrating.”

“Oh?”

“My tenant has given his notice. I should be sorry about the loss of income but mostly I am hugely relieved.”

While she steamed the eggnog and poured the coffee, he did some last minute considering. When she turned to hand him his mug, he broached the matter.

“Before you rented the suite to Koehne, I was thinking of making you an offer on the space. I thought I could convert it to an apartment.”

She leaned back on the counter as if it was the only thing keeping her from falling over in shock.
“Shit.”

“You don’t like the idea,” he said, trying not to sound hurt.

“No, I think it’s brilliant. The tax rebate for creating new residential space will cover a big chunk of the renovation costs, and I won’t have an annoying deadbeat for a tenant.” She grinned at him. “At least, you better not be an annoying deadbeat.”

“I also had an idea about Christmas,” he added, figuring he might as well try for the whole enchilada. “Come home with me. My aunt and uncle would be happy to have you.”

He could read her answer on her panicked face.

“It would be my way of paying back Joe for inviting me to the Thorsens’ way back when,” he added, hoping to make it seem like nothing more than a friendly invitation.

Kate fought for control over her emotions. For a moment she thought Jake wanted more from her than a working relationship and for a moment that was fine with her. Scary, but fine.

“Thanks, Jake,” she said, feeling that the occasion warranted the use of his given name. “Mum and David went and made plans for me to go skiing with them. I’m not crazy about skiing but they’ve made the reservations and . . .”

“I understand,” he said. “Maybe next year.”

He backed away from her and for a moment he was under the mistletoe. She wanted to take advantage, but she hesitated and the moment was gone.

Maybe next year.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Alison, Midnight, Christmas 2010

Christmas Cat-killer Caper Part 6

2010-12-23T23:23:00.000-05:00

December 23

Twas the night before Christmas Eve, and against the Gilchrist house,
Carmedy and Garrett were hiding, as quiet as a mouse.

If she had more time, Kate would have butchered the famous poem further.

A cat rubbed itself against the trunk of a topiary yew. It was a calico, slightly scruffy, but with large luminous eyes that looked upward with an expression that clearly said pet me, I’ll purr. As a hint of rewards to come, it let out a soft brrpp of pleasure. Then it sat, waiting expectantly.

Thwip!

The dart was thrown with lightning speed and deadly accuracy . . . or it would have been deadly if the cat was real.

Before the dart stopped vibrating, Jake and Kate were out on the sidewalk. Irene Collins was staring at the ‘Real Kitty’ toy in shocked horror. She was so taken aback, she hardly noticed the detectives until they laid hands on her. Then she started screaming and flailing about, like a woman fighting for her life.

Jake tried to calm her. Kate, who was cold, stiff and in need of painkillers, went straight to the taser and zapped her. Irene jerked, then folded like a rag doll. As Jake cuffed her, Kate bagged the dart and decoy. The cat was still purring.

Concluded tomorrow, or read the whole story at:

http://www.textnovel.com/story/The-Christmas-Cat-Killer-Caper/2323

Christmas Cat-killer Caper Part 5

2010-12-22T22:29:00.000-05:00

December 21
Kate woke up when the painkillers wore off. She was in her father’s bed. Her pills and a bottle of water were on the bedside table. She still had her underpants on and Carmedy’s shirt. Everything else, including her bra, was in the laundry hamper.

Interesting. She didn’t even remember getting out of the car.

When she got around to going downstairs, she found Carmedy on the office couch. On his open terminal, she could see the annual report was completed. Kate poured herself some juice and read his additions, tweaking his grammar here and there.

“We’ll proof it later,” he said, coming up behind her. “Tell me about Irene Collins . . . while you make coffee.”

“She’s the peach jam lady,” said Kate, heading for the kitchenette.

“No way.”

“Way.”

She brought him over the half-empty jar and showed him Irene’s name.

“Does that mean you’ve dismissed her as a suspect?” he asked, smiling. “After all, we don’t want to interfere with our supply of preserves.”

She shook her head.

“I’m checking on her missing husband. Maybe he’s come back and is trying to terrorize her.”

She told him about her interviews with the neighbourhood watch and her brief talk with Ms Collins. Irene confirmed the gossip that her husband abused her and she was afraid of him returning.

“She said her cat died just before he left.”

“That’s significant,” he agreed. “We’ll see what turns up tomorrow. Right now we have to get ready for dinner and for me, that means a trip home.”

A couple of hours later, clean, dressed appropriately, and inappropriately terrified, Kate stood in front of the Thorsens’ house.

Think of it as a business function, Kate told herself. You and your business partner are meeting a client and his family for dinner.

Right, except that the Thorsens were her family. She baby-sat the Thorsen kids. She was with Mama Maggie when Erica, the youngest, was born. Up until Jake Carmedy came along, Kate and her father spent every Yule at the Thorsen home. Then her father practically adopted Carmedy. After one very tense Yule dinner, Kate announced she’d visit the Thorsens with her mother and step-father from now on.

She knocked at the door. Obviously she was expected because she only got one knock in before the door flew open and Erica jumped out, throwing her arms around Kate’s neck.

“Katie!”

The girl was no featherweight. She almost knocked Kate off her feet. That would have been embarrassing: detective bowled over by ten-year-old.

“Erica! Settle down,” Thorsen shouted from the kitchen.

“It’s okay,” Kate called out. “I don’t mind.”

She set down her bags and flipped the girl over. Erica giggled so hard she started to hiccup. Kate put her down and handed her two of the three bags she brought.

“Here monster-girl, these are to go under the tree.”

Once the girl was out of sight, Kate hugged her bad hand to her chest. She was going to need more painkillers.

Thorsen greeted her with a scowl.

“Carmedy tell you about last night?” she guessed.

“Only after I grilled him. I got the initial report from Mohr.”

“Mohr called you?”

“No. I called Mohr when my daily reports flagged your name. Why didn’t you call me, Kathleen?”

There were a lot of answers to that question. Kate picked the least controversial.

“Too tired to think of it.”

He dropped his arm around her shoulder and guided her into the kitchen.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Jake looked up from the baguette he was slicing. Igor was looking better now that Kate was here.

“Almost done?” Maggie asked him.

He made the last few cuts and dumped the pieces into the bread basket.

“Done,” he said.

“Good, because you’ll have to do the job I reserved for Kate.”

“I can work,” Kate said.

“Someone needs to get the stuffing out of the bird.”

“Can’t do that,” Kate agreed. “How about stirring the gravy?”

“That’s Andrea’s job. Sonia and Erica are setting the table. Igor is preparing to carve . . . Can you set out the condiments and relishes? Or will the jars be a problem?”

Kate waved her good hand.

“I’m good.”

Jake split his attention between digging out the stuffing and watching Kate wrestle with jar tops. She was watching him on and off too. Finally she came over to him.

“You have to scoop out the other end too,” she whispered.

Jake rolled his eyes and turned the bird around.

When he was done, Igor shooed him away so he could carve. Kate now had everything out and was faced by a cluster of open jars. Jake washed up and offered to put the lids on while she ferried the dishes to the table.

Two varieties of pickled onion, three varieties of pickled herring, gherkins, bread and butter pickles, sliced dill pickles, tamarind sauce, fig sauce and peach chutney. He took the chutney out so he could steal a taste. It wasn’t as good as the jam, but it was pretty damned good.

“You like it?” she asked, catching him in the act. “Irene must go through bushels of peaches. You have to wonder how she maintains quality control when she hates dealing with people.”

“I just wonder what she does with all the pits.”

“Mulch. But that’s just the shells.”

She stared at him for a moment then announced, “ I need to check something.”

“Not work,” he hissed. “Not here.”

He followed her back to the kitchen, but she swept past him with her purse in hand.

“Got to check my bandages.”

He didn’t believe her, but there was fresh gauze wrapped around her hand when she returned – just in time to sit down with the family. There was also a self-satisfied smile on her face.

Now that she had solved the puzzle, at least to her satisfaction, Kate was able to set it aside and enjoy the family celebration. After dinner was cleared away, they settled in the living room with coffee and schnaps. Kate passed on the schnaps. She eyed an open place on the couch, but was pulled down onto the floor by Erica who then leaped back up again.

“Presents!” she cried. “I want to give Kate my present first.”

No one objected, so the girl dug through the parcels until she found what she was looking for. Finally, she handed over a homemade box with a recycled bow on top. Kate opened the box, removed the tissue and pulled out a coffee mug. It was a bit lumpy and included a perfect thumb impression where the handle was joined to the cup.

“I made it myself,” Erica said. “I painted this side.”

She pointed to the side nearest Kate. It was decorated with holly and mistletoe.

“But on this side,” she turned the mug in Kate’s hands, “I had them put a photo. See – there’s me.”

Mama Maggie was obviously trying to get her youngest to look toward the camera, but the baby was more interested in trying to get into Mama’s blouse. Papa Igor had Sonia on his lap. Beside him was her Dad with Andrea perched on a knee. On the other side of Maggie, Kate was trying to get baby Erica’s attention. Beside her, sitting on the arm of the couch was Carmedy. Their first and last Yule together.

Kate’s eyes welled up with tears. Sure, she had been with Erica every season since, every birthday, every significant event, but she had cheated herself out of nine Yule dinners because of pride.

“You okay, Katie?” Erica asked, her voice tremulous. “Don’t you like it?”

“I love it, honey. It’s the best gift ever.”

Jake was desperate for the washroom but Kate was asleep, leaning against his leg, using his knee as a pillow.

“Big change from last time you two were in this house,” Igor commented. “I take it you’re getting along now.”

“Except when we aren’t,” Jake replied.

“I’m going to want her back, you know. I let her have the time off because she would have quit on me if I didn’t, but she has the makings of a fine homicide detective. She won’t get that opportunity in private investigation.”

“Joe did.”

“Joe was Joe.” Igor’s brows furrowed and his mouth was tight. “There’s a lot of resentment towards private contractors. You don’t see it because Joe was practically legendary. In other cities there’s been trouble. Toronto’s given up the practice completely. They’ll refer qualified private investigators, but they won’t hire them.”

“Are you telling me that Carmedy and Garrett Investigations can’t expect much work from you?” Jake asked. “Or will you still send us the pet crimes?”

“No business tonight,” Maggie said, rousing from her doze. “Jake, Andrea made up the couch in the basement for you. I was thinking Kate could sleep with the girls but . . .”

“I can sleep on the couch too,” Kate said, without lifting her head. “It’s big enough.”

Jake had the satisfaction of seeing Igor blush. He guessed it had more to do with being overheard than Kate’s provocative offer.

Kate’s good hand crawled up his shin and braced itself on his knee. With a grunt of effort, she stood, using him for leverage. Once she was up, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on, partner,” she said. “Good night all.”

Jake followed her down to the finished basement. As promised, the couch was made up into a queen-sized bed. There was also a full bath so he disengaged from her grip so he could make use of the facilities. She was already stripped down to her bra and panties when he returned.

“Do you have a spare t-shirt?” she asked. “I didn’t come prepared to stay.”

He was prepared and his bag had been brought down earlier. He rummaged for a clean t-shirt and tossed it to her.

“Thanks.”

She put it on and took her bra off underneath.

“Is this a form of rebellion?” he asked.

She grinned.

“Partly. I heard most of my godfather’s diatribe. He’s right, of course. We can’t count on getting high profile cases. We’ll be called in for support, but we won’t get the kind of cases my father got.”

She slipped between the covers, staying to the edge, leaving him almost two thirds of the mattress. If he only took up a third, they’d have a decent buffer zone. That would work.

“The thing is,” she continued, “the first thing my father taught me was that most important thing about solving a case was solving it. If you can take the stand in court and present the facts clearly, so that no one can shake your testimony, then you’ve done your job – whether it was a high-profile homicide or a traffic accident.”

He wasn’t sure whether he bought her line, or even if she did, but he knew she wasn’t lying about the source. Joe had said as much to him.

He stripped down to boxers and undershirt and crawled into bed, careful to keep to his side. Obviously, she thought of him in platonic terms so this wasn’t a problem for her. It was a problem for him, but he’d deal with it.

Then the shoe dropped.

He turned over, putting himself in the middle of the bed.

“You’ve solved the case.”

She turned onto her back and grinned up at him.

Continued tomorrow, or read the whole story at:

http://www.textnovel.com/story/The-Christmas-Cat-Killer-Caper/2323

Christmas Cat-killer Caper Part 4

2010-12-21T13:35:00.000-05:00

December 20

Kate had just finished building two cream cheese and peach preserve sandwiches when Jake entered the office. He didn’t look particularly rested, but she didn’t want to rock the boat by pointing this out.

“It’s not as healthy as the meal you made me,” she said, handing over the waxed paper wrapped parcel, “but they should help you get through the night. I’ve also made a thermos of café au lait and given you the last two energy drinks. I’ll go shopping this evening.”

“Don’t get too much,” he warned. “Maggie and Igor will send us home with enough leftovers for a week and the office closes down in a couple of days.”

“Speak for yourself, Kemosabi. I’ll be around to eat. Even if there’s no work here, I have a ton of stuff to do upstairs.”

Carmedy slung his pack on his shoulder, and patted his pockets for keys and wallet, then checked the heavy-duty flashlight on his belt. No gun, Kate noted. No real need, she supposed but it didn’t stop her from carrying her Sig Sauer and a taser. Strict weapons controls only applied to law-abiding civilians and Kate didn’t count herself among the civilians.

“I’m going home tonight if you want to use the apartment,” she said.

He shook his head.

“It’s okay . . . I changed the sheets for you, by the way.”

Kate was surprised at his thoughtfulness.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

He gave her a shrug and turned to go. Over his shoulder he commented, “Yes, I did.”

Kate kept the office open for another hour before calling it a day and going up to change out of her day-wear. She had almost as many clothes in her father’s flat as her own apartment. She’d have to make up her mind where she was going to live soon. But not today, she thought, running through her own checklist. Wallet, cuffs, flashlight and shopping bags were in her large shoulder bag. Keys and personal alarm in her pocket. BlueBerry, taser and pistol in their respective holsters on her belt.

A couple of hours later, with a bag full of wrapped presents, Kate hailed a taxi and headed to the apartment. She asked the cabby to wait while she dropped off her parcels, then she directed him to take her to the east end. On the way, she called Carmedy.

“Hey, partner,” he said.

She smiled. He must be having a good evening if he was being so friendly.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Nice night for a walk.”

“I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m going to try to interview a couple of the people on my list. I don’t anticipate any trouble but . . .”

“Better safe than sorry. Update my PCD on your location so I can find you if you shout.”

She uploaded the addresses she would be visiting and established a quick link to his PCD in case she needed to ‘shout’ for help. Soon after, the taxi stopped. Kate filed the electronic receipt to recoverable expenses and bid the cabby a safe and prosperous evening.

Her first target was Irene Collins. No Christmas decorations, but a mulch covered path lined with solar lights led the way to the porch. Beside the door was a hand-painted sign advertising peach preserves for sale, by appointment only. Finally, Kate realized where she knew the name. Ms Collins produced that delicious peach compote that she and Carmedy had been enjoying for the last couple of days.

She rang the bell.

No answer.

She rang again, then knocked loudly on a panel of one-way glass set that decorated the heavy wood door.

“Who’s there?” came a voice through a speaker by the door.

Knowing she was in full view of the unseen woman, Kate adopted an open stance and a friendly – but not too friendly – smile.

“I’m Kate Garrett, one of the detectives hired by your community to find the cat-killer.”

“I don’t belong to the neighbourhood watch,” she said firmly.

“Understood, Ms Collins, but you do like to walk at night. It is possible you’ve seen something without realizing it and I am sure you would want to help keep your neighbourhood safe. After all, people who hurt animals are just as likely to hurt humans.”

There was a pause – long enough to make Kate wonder if she should knock again.

“That doesn’t follow,” said the woman on the other side of the door. “Being a butcher doesn’t make you a suspect for cutting up human bodies. Exterminators don’t become killers just because they destroy vermin.”

Actually, a butcher might become a suspect if the cadaver was cut up like a side of beef and an exterminator would be questioned if their poisons matched the cause of death. Kate didn’t argue the point.

“Your neighbours’ pets are being targeted, not vermin or meat.”

Another long pause.

“I never saw anything,” she said finally. “Now please go.”

“You make that wonderful peach jam, don’t you?”

“What does that have to do with cats?”

“Nothing,” Kate said. “I just noticed your sign. Your brother rents an office suite from me. My partner and I bought some of your peach compote from him. It’s delicious!”

“Are you going to evict my brother if I don’t talk to you?”

“Uh, no,” Kate said, momentarily derailed. “I would appreciate talking to you about your usual route when you walk, Ms Collins. You might have noticed something without realizing it. While I’m here, I’d like to pick up some of your peach chutney. Your brother doesn’t carry it. However,” now she laid on a tone of shocked affront, “I would never consider letting your lack of cooperation impact on a business relationship.”

Twenty minutes later, Kate walked away with a little more information and four jars of chutney.

Her next destination was Paulo Crabbe’s home.

Jake put away his PCD, wishing Kate had called to talk rather than sending a text message.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said his patrol partner, a no-nonsense Indian matriarch.

“My partner just reported she’s moving on to her second interview.”

“Suspect or witness or person of interest?”

Carmedy smiled. Mrs G watched crime shows in her spare time.

“Person of interest.”

“Ah,” she said, tapping the side of her nose, “lets hope it’s a person of great interest. My Sandy is suffering extreme cabin fever, but I’m not letting him out at night until this case is solved.”

“Sandy’s your cat?”

She shook her head.

“My husband. He is so high strung.”

Carmedy had no idea how to respond to this. They walked in silence until Mrs G pointed out the lights at number fifteen and the subject turned to holiday decorations. They had moved on to holiday plans when Jake’s panic alarm went off.

“Call the watch leader,” he said, checking Kate’s location. “Wait for her here.”

He was close enough to the car to make it a viable first target. As soon as Jake was within line of sight, he keyed the button to unlock and start the vehicle. He plugged his PCD into the dock and put 911 on standby.

He heard sirens as he pulled into Crabbe’s driveway. It seemed that Kate had already called in the cavalry. Even as he cut the engine, his PCD chimed.

“Carmedy?” said Kate, sounding out of breath.

“I’m here.”

He took the six porch steps in two. The front door was locked. He was considering whether there was any point trying to kick it in when it opened by Kate. She was covered in blood and lumpy goo. Behind him, an EMS truck pulled up.

Carmedy had a death grip on her shoulders and his eyes were wide – almost bugging out. Kate looked down at herself and grimaced.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not my blood.”

She stepped aside and let him see Paulo Crabbe, one arm handcuffed to his wrought iron stairs, the other holding a towel to his face. He was wearing an open kimono robe and a pair of silk boxers that were a little too large and a lot too pink.

“What happened?” asked the first of two paramedics coming up behind Carmedy.

“Mr Crabbe attacked me,” Kate replied. “I broke his nose.”

“What’s the orange stuff?”

“Peach chutney.”

“Ah.”

The paramedic nodded and turned his attention to Crabbe, who was already being checked by his partner.

“Peach chutney?” Carmedy asked.

She winced with embarrassment.

“I was reaching for my flashlight and came up with chutney.”

He bit his lower lip. He was trying not to laugh at her.

Flashing lights heralded the arrival of the police. One of them was a new hire but Kate knew the other guy from her time in community policing. He looked her over, head to toe and shook his head.

“Now what, Garrett?”

“Same old, same old, Mohr. You met Carmedy?”

Mohr held out his hand.

“Yeah, I think Joe introduced us once.”

Carmedy shook the hand and nodded his head. Kate could tell neither man remembered the other.

“Any of that blood yours?” Mohr asked.

Kate shook her head.

“I don’t think so.” She flexed her hand and winced with pain. “Maybe. I might have a cut. Definitely have bruises.”

Carmedy took her hand and examined it.

“It should be washed with running water just in case there’s glass left in the wound.”

“Not yet,” Kate told him. “It’s not life threatening, so Mohr needs to establish if there is evidence on my hand to preserve.”

Mohr rolled his eyes.

“Don’t teach your grandpa how to suck eggs, Garrett.”

The senior constable turned to his partner.

“See if you can free up one of those paramedics and take ‘em to the kitchen with Garrett.” He turned back to Kate. “You can tell my rookie how to do her job while she takes your statement.”

An hour later, Paulo Crabbe was on his way to the hospital under police escort and Kate was finally allowed to leave the kitchen. Her sweater, t-shirt and shoulder bag had been taken in evidence, but she was allowed to keep the bag’s contents, including two of the remaining jars of chutney. Mohr kept one intact jar “for evidence”.

“Here,” Carmedy said, passing her his shirt.

She took off the paramedic’s blanket and put on the still-warm garment. Carmedy wrapped the blanket around her shoulders holding it while she awkwardly fastened the buttons.

“She needs to go to the hospital,” the paramedic announced.

Kate opened her mouth to protest, but Carmedy spoke first.

“I’ll take her.”

Weary but resigned, Kate agreed.

En route to the hospital, Jake stopped for coffee. He picked a drive-through even though it meant paying extra for the convenience. Except for asking what she wanted, he maintained a tactical silence until she had her first sip.

“So?” he asked, pulling out of the parking lot.

“The whole evening or just the part with Crabbe?”

“Start with Crabbe.”

He heard her take another sip before she started.

“I approached Paulo Crabbe with the same spiel I gave Irene Collins, but he was a lot friendlier. He invited me in, made a show of trying to remember his routine . . .”

She heaved a sigh.

“I could tell he was stringing me along,” she continued. “He wanted attention and for a little while I thought we might have our cat-killer, but then he revealed himself.”

“And?”

“He revealed himself,” she repeated. “He opened his kimono and dropped his shorts. I guess he wears them loose on purpose.”

“Pervert.”

“Oh yeah. I stood up, one hand on my taser, the other hitting the panic button. I asked him to pull his pants up . . .”

She took a ragged breath. Startled, Jake glanced sideways and saw that she was holding her travel mug in a death grip. When she finally spoke, she sounded so shaken, it was all Jake could do to keep both hands on the wheel.

“I was caught off guard. He lunged at me, throwing me off balance. I couldn’t get my taser free, but my bag was handy so I reached into it for my flashlight, to use it like a cosh. I came up with peach chutney instead. I didn’t mean to smash it into his face, but the guy was getting rough, so I didn’t have much choice. Even then, I had to kick him away from me.”

“That’s when you broke his ribs.”

“That’s when I broke his ribs." She gave a harsh laugh. "To be honest, I was a bit pissed off by then.”

This time she caught him looking and answered his concern with a poor attempt at a reassuring smile.

“I was an idiot,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t have gone into his house alone.”

It was a stupid reckless thing to do, but he wasn’t going to point that out now. He wouldn't offer sympathy. That would only make her feel worse. But he wouldn't kick her when she was down either.

“Then you cuffed him to the railing,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’s the cat killer?”

He glanced toward her and saw she was shaking her head.

“I figure if he were to kill anything, there would be a sexual component to the crime.”

Jake gave an involuntary shudder.

“Yeah,” said Kate, “that’s how I felt about it too.”

Continued tomorrow, or read the whole story at:

http://www.textnovel.com/story/The-Christmas-Cat-Killer-Caper/2323

The Christmas Cat-killer Caper Part 3

2010-12-19T14:17:00.000-05:00

Chapter 2: December 20

Kate crawled into bed at five o’clock in the morning, and stumbled back out at nine. She could have used more sleep, but she knew Carmedy would be on tenterhooks, waiting for her to finish the annual report.

Showered and dressed, she came down the inside stairs to the office to find her partner looking much more cheerful than usual. In deference to the season, he had broken up his unremitting khaki colour palate with a red sweater.

“Good morning,” he said, looking up from his terminal. “How did it go last night?”

“Same old, same old,” she reported, automatically going to the kitchenette to start the coffee. It was already made.

“I figured you’d be down soon, so I started a pot.” Carmedy grinned. “I also brought bagels and cream cheese to go with the peach compote.”

Kate took a second look at the counter and noticed the bag of bagels, the tub of cream cheese and six mason jars of peach preserves, one of which was half empty.
“Evidently, Koehne’s sister has a cottage industry producing peach preserves,” Carmedy said, answering her unspoken question. “Peach jam, peach syrup, peach chutney . . . you get the idea. He’s marketing the stuff for her. He has a display set up on his front counter.”

She poured coffee and made up a bagel with cream cheese and jam.

“This is good!”

“That’s why I got six jars,” said Carmedy. “Oh, and Koehne asked me to deliver an envelope to you. It’s on your desk.”

Kate set her breakfast on the desk and opened the envelope. It was the rent cheque.
“Did you lean on him?” she asked.

When he didn’t answer, she narrowed her eyes and stared at him until he admitted, “Maybe a little.”
She nodded. Putting the cheque to one side, she sat and took a sip of coffee.
“Carmedy.”

“Yes.”

“Never, ever make coffee again. I don’t know how you managed it, but this is awful.” She pushed her mug away and picked up the cheque again. “About this, thanks.”

“Jingle bells, jingles bells . . .”

“Jingle all the way.”

Jake blushed, he hadn’t realized he was singing aloud until Kate joined in. He had been generating invoices all morning and the knowledge that they had enough money coming in to cover January and part of February had cheered him immeasurably. In less than four days, he’d be going home for Christmas. If they could catch the cat-killer, he’d go home with a clear conscience.

“I was just thinking that we might be creating too much of a presence in the neighbourhood.”

She looked at him blankly.

“East Hills,” he said, “the neighbourhood we’ve been staking out for a week. Maybe we should make it look like we’ve given up; draw the cat-killer into the open.”
She shook her head as if to clear her mind. He had come out of left field, from her point of view.

“Into the open where?” she asked. “There’s no pattern to the killings except for being within the East Hills development.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “We need to narrow the field.”

East Hills was a nice place to live, but a nightmare to survey. It was built around land reclaimed from the city dump. The dump had been turned into a park with trails winding over man-made hills, through formal and natural gardens and past two playgrounds. A wide avenue surrounded the park from which streets extended like bent spokes.

The neighbourhood had its own watch. Members took turns patrolling the area in pairs. Jake had soon learned that each pair had their own routine so that a clever observer could count on which streets were patrolled at what time. That was the first thing Jake changed.

“If we went back to the original routine,” he said. “Maybe we could lull the perp into a false sense of security.”

“Okay,” Kate agreed, “but I think we need to close off the park.”

“Close off the park,” Jake repeated. That wouldn’t be easy.

“Consider,” Kate continued, “since no suspicious vehicles appear in correspondence to the killings, we can assume the cat-killer lives in the neighbourhood and hunts on foot. If we cut off access to the park – the shortcut to everywhere – we might limit his or her territory.”

“Assuming we could close the park, we’d have to let him strike again to narrow the field.”

She heaved a sigh.

“Yeah, that’s the problem. We need a few suspects.”

“We need lunch,” said Jake. “I’m feeling the need for pizza. Do you want to get it, or shall I?”

“You go,” she said. “I should get back to this report. You’ll be happy to know, I’m on the home stretch.”

Kate stared at the screen, humming carols. She had compiled the statistics for November. Now she had to summarize reports.

“Coffee,” she said aloud, when she was done. “I need more coffee.”

What she really needed was time out. The ritual of cleaning the machine, measuring the beans and water, then washing the cups as the coffee brewed gave her that. Because it was infinitely preferable to going back to the report, she thought about the cat-killer.

They had been concentrating on the pet owners. Leaving a dead animal on a door step is a pretty personal message, so the assumption that the cat-killer had an issue with the families seemed reasonable. That didn’t make it correct.

The cat-killer probably used a microchip reader, a commonly available piece of technology, to identify the cat owners. Either that, or he was freakishly aware of his neighbours’ pets. All the victims had good homes and carried subcutaneous tags, as per animal control bylaws.

Maybe, Kate thought, returning the animals was a courtesy, not malice. Maybe it was all about the cats.

She called up their case notes and started making phone calls.

Knowing how long he’d been gone, Jake started his apology before the door closed behind him.

“I ran into Vince at Mario’s. We got to talking about the upcoming Eldridge trial.”

He handed her a piece of pizza and watched her take the first bite. It was a sensual pleasure that made the walk and the wait worthwhile. Neither hunger, stress, nor shortage of time stopped Kate Garrett from getting the most out her first taste. Jake was one of those people who looked on food as fuel, yet her enjoyment fascinated and delighted him.

She sighed and he quickly looked away. Her terminal caught his attention and he frowned.

“Finished the report?” he asked.

“Almost. I was following up on a few ideas about the cat-killer while you were gone. I don’t think the pet owners are relevant, only the cats. My guess is that there are more dead cats that didn’t have tags to identify their homes.”

“And you’ve corroborated this how?”

“I talked to the Humane Society about missing animals. It isn’t proof, but it is suggestive. If we look for a dumping ground, or fresh burial locations, we might be able to narrow our focus. Also,” she added, becoming more excited, “I thought we should look at who hasn’t been coming out since we were called in, so I called some of the members of the neighbourhood watch.”

Without much enthusiasm he prompted, “And?”

“I’ve got a short list of people who we might have driven inside for one reason or another.”

“Good, I’ll follow up on it this evening.”

“I can help,” she said.

“I’d rather you finish the report. I want to have time to go over it before I go home for the holidays.”

She stiffened, looked down at the piece of pizza in her hand and set it aside. It was as if she suspected him of poisoning her.

He replayed their conversation, looking for the reason for her sudden chill. Whatever it was, the report was now up on her terminal. He was trying to think of a conciliatory remark when his computer told him he had an incoming call. With a key stroke, Igor Thorsen appeared on his screen.

“Hey, Chief.”

“Hello, Jake. Is Kate with you?”

Kate appeared at his shoulder. Jake pushed off from his desk and let his chair roll to one side so she could step closer to the audio-visual pick-ups.

“I’m here, boss. What can I do?”

“This isn’t business,” Thorsen said. “I’m out shopping for gifts and I want to know if your mother is currently on a diet. I want to get her some handmade chocolates but . . .”

Kate giggled. Jake had never heard her giggle before. It was weird.

“Mum’s not dieting.”

“Well, it’s not like she needs to, but . . .”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “She tries out every new diet anyway – but not over the holidays. Or maybe she goes on a turkey and blintz diet, who knows.”

Thorsen gave a bark of laughter causing Kate’s smile to widen.

“One other thing,” Thorsen said. “Maggie made me promise that I’d remind you that tomorrow night we celebrate the Yule. You are both expected at the house by six o’clock.”

The smile disappeared. Her expression gave Jake an unwelcome emotional lurch.

“I can’t,” Kate said. “It’s my night on the stakeout. The felines of East Hill are depending on me.”

“I’ll take the stakeout,” Jake said. “You go to dinner.”

Thorsen heaved a sigh so heavy, Jake half expected the news flimsy on his desk to be ruffled.

“I’ll assign an extra patrol car to the area,” Thorsen said. “Both of you are expected tomorrow night. No excuses. Maggie is counting on you. The girls are counting on you. And I will send out a posse to detain and deliver you if need be.”

Kate sighed and the paper was ruffled.

“Don’t disappoint me, Kathleen. This time, of all times, we need to be together. Getting through the holiday will be hard enough as it is.”

Shit! Of course. No wonder she went all stiff when he mentioned getting away for Christmas. She spent Christmas with her father. No matter how much he missed Joe on a day-to-day basis, his holiday wouldn’t be affected by Joe’s death.

“I won’t disappoint you,” Kate told Thorsen.

“I know you won’t. Got to go.”

Jake cut the connection and watched Kate go back to her desk. She stared at her screen, but didn’t seem to see it.

“You know,” Jake said, carefully casual, “there’s no reason I can’t start going over the beginning of your report while you finish up.”

She nodded. With a few keystrokes, she sent the document to his terminal. He skipped to the end to see how far she got.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Why hadn’t he anticipated this?

She was up to the Gage-Proctor murders – the case that was tied to Joe Garrett’s death. No wonder she was having trouble finishing.

“You know,” he repeated, “we haven’t got a lot of time to wrap up the case of the cat-killer. Thorsen offering a patrol car made me think, if we made the perp think the police were taking over and that they were limiting themselves to the park, we might be able to set a trap.”

She looked over at him, brows furrowed.

“That means,” he continued, “that you’d have to follow up on the leads you have between now and tomorrow evening. After that, we have to look like we’re stepping back.”

Her head cocked to one side, questioning.

He made a show of checking the report’s page of contents.

“I see you’re almost done and . . .” He did a double take. “This is really well set up . . . Anyway, why don’t I finish this up? Then you can concentrate on the East Hill case.”

She hesitated. Jake held his breath and crossed his fingers. Then she sighed and nodded.

“Okay,” she said.

He let out his held breath as softly as possible.

“Just show me how you’ve indexed this first. I don’t want to screw it up.”

That was weird, Kate thought, sitting back at her desk after giving Carmedy his referencing tutorial. She was a trained detective, yet, what seemed to impress him the most was her facility with a data management macro. Giving her head a shake, she went back to her forgotten pizza and munched on it while she went over her notes.

So far, neighbourhood watch members had identified five people who they regularly saw on patrol but hadn’t been out since Carmedy and Garrett had been called in. She still had to check with the rest of the watch list but she decided to organize her notes so far.

Accessing her BlueBerry, she called up her chronological case notes. In a new window, she started a table with the names of the five people. For each, she indicated who suggested the name and why.

Everyone knew Mrs Djohns, an octogenarian who regularly took evening walks with the aid of her cane. She had recently had to switch to a walker and had been noticed strolling in the afternoon, before the watch patrolled. Kate couldn’t see the woman carting cats around in her walker basket, so Mrs Djohns went to the bottom of the list.

Paulo Crabbe was a suspected peeping tom. The watch hadn’t been able to catch him at it yet, but the presence of professional detectives would probably be enough to keep him in at night. Voyeurism was usually the first step to more serious crimes, just as felinicide might be the first step to homicide. Kate put him at the top of the list and started a search for priors.

Mr Theo Konstantin didn’t like new people, she had been told by several people. Kate had almost met Mr Konstantin on her first patrol. When hailed by the watch member escorting Kate, Konstantin crossed the road and turned down a lane, going out of his way to avoid them.

Marc and Evelyn Chauvelin walked their cat nightly, but not since the cat-killings became common knowledge. Safety probably kept them inside. Kate put them just above Mrs Djohns on her list.

Irene Collins had been pointed out to her a couple of times. Her neighbours looked out for her, but always at a distance. When she moved to the neighbourhood as a newlywed, she was reserved but not shy. Gradually she withdrew from the community.

“I think her husband abused her,” said Flavia, one of Kate’s contacts. “He seemed okay at the time, but after he deserted her it was like she was afraid he might show up again. She stopped going out except late at night.”

“No obvious signs of abuse?” Kate asked.

“No bruises or unexplained trips to the hospital, if that’s what you mean, but there are other forms of abuse.”

Kate didn’t need to be told that. She’d encountered her fair share of mental and emotional abuse victims. At least with physical abuse it was easier to collect evidence against the perpetrator.

“There are a few of us that run errands for her,” Flavia continued. “She won’t talk to us directly, but she leaves little presents for us and is very pleasant and polite in her notes.”

Irene Collins. The name was familiar. Kate had seen it somewhere recently. On the basis of a niggling feeling of familiarity, Ms Collins got bumped up the list and Kate initiated a search on her name.

At three, Jake announced that he was going to take a nap.

“Want to use Dad’s place?” Kate offered.

“I’m okay on the couch.”

“It’s just that I’m about to make some phone calls.”

She gave him an apologetic grimace.

“I can work upstairs if you like,” she added quickly.

She seemed determined to please, so he took her up on the offer of Joe’s bed.

“Shall I call you in a couple of hours?” she asked.

“Just in case I don’t wake up?”

He grinned. Not bloody likely. He had a near-infallible ability to sleep for exactly as long as he gave himself, and no longer.

He used the inside stairs feeling the weight of loss with every step. Maybe Kate would move in properly and make it her own, but right now it was Joe’s place and being there reminded him Joe was gone.

He was falling into melancholy. He needed to fall into bed. Putting action to thought, he hitched up his backpack and headed for the bedroom.

The bed was barely made, covers pulled up hastily. Jake smoothed them out and stripped down to his boxers. It wasn’t until his head hit the pillow and he breathed in the lingering scent of Kate Garrett that he had second thoughts about using the office couch.

Maybe he should have his nap on one of the recliners.

Maybe what he needed was a hot bath . . . or a cold shower.

Continued tomorrow, or read the whole story at:

http://www.textnovel.com/story/The-Christmas-Cat-Killer-Caper/2323

The Christmas Cat Killer Caper Continued

2010-12-12T13:01:00.000-05:00

Chapter 1: December 19 (Part 2)

Coffee in hand, Kate returned to the case reports.

She was glad Carmedy had given her the job. It gave her a chance to delve into the minutiae of private investigation. Her father had only discussed the highlights, never the day-to-day routine. For instance, eighty percent of the case files never took them out of the office. They were background checks and skip traces performed for a handful of regular corporate clients, a couple of lawyers and the occasional private citizen. Fortunately, they could be summarized with statistics for each month.
Insurance cases accounted for about fifteen percent of the files and sixty percent of the income. The summaries for these only had to be detailed if the case involved criminal action. Most of the remaining five percent of the files was taken up with police cases.

The original idea behind private investigators working for the police was to make use of senior detectives forced to retire because of age, physical disability or financial cutbacks. Consulting fees worked out cheaper than paying ongoing benefits and they could be hired on an as-needed basis only – a plus in smaller cities that didn’t have the infrastructure to maintain a large pool of detectives. One major crime could severely stretch their ability to investigate the daily influx of crimes against persons and property. Yet, every victim wanted their case to be given top priority.

Because Thorsen trusted her father, his former partner and mentor, Garrett Investigations had preferential status. In theory, Carmedy & Garrett Investigations maintained that preferential status but Kate had to wonder, would her father have taken a cat-killer case?

At four Carmedy sat on the edge of her desk until she finally gave him her attention. Although not particularly tall compared to the men she was used to working with, it wasn’t his lack of presence that caused the delay. He was built along square lines, broad shouldered, deep chested, muscles designed for strength, not speed. He was an immovable object and he was casting a shadow on her notes, but she was determined to finish her current summary – determined to show that she was taking the job seriously. When she turned to him, he was almost smiling. He seemed to approve of her diligence.

“Are you going home or upstairs before the stakeout?”

“Upstairs,” she replied. “I brought everything I’d need.”

She shared an apartment with an old friend and ex-boyfriend. Though only a few blocks from the Downtown, these days, she spent less time there, and more in her father’s attic flat above the office.

“If I tell you to go upstairs, will you take a quick nap, or will you go back to packing up your father’s stuff?”

She shrugged. If she decided to move into the flat, she needed to make it her own. If she let Carmedy take it, as she had offered, or put it on the rental market, it needed to be cleared out. Either way, there was a lot of work to do and Kate couldn’t find the energy to do it.

“I’ll have a shower,” she said. “If I nap I might not want to get up again.”

“Then go,” he said. “I’ll call you in an hour if you haven’t returned.”

Kate smiled and nodded. He could be autocratic at times, but this was an order she didn’t mind following.

She locked down her terminal and disengaged her BlueBerry from its docking port. Flipping Carmedy a salute, she bypassed the inside steps and used the main entrance accessed from the fourth floor foyer – the location of her father’s personal mailbox. It was stuffed with the usual junk mail and a utility bill.

“Ms Garrett!”

She suppressed a sigh and slapped a smile on her face before turning to greet her new tenant whose pinstripe suit was marred by a flashing Santa Claus lapel pin.
Kate had inherited her father’s share of the building which included control of the fourth and fifth floors. The business didn’t need all the space available on the fourth floor, but her father had never had much luck renting out the second suite. When the financial advisor from the third floor asked if the space was available for his son’s new business, Kate figured it would be a good way of generating additional income – income she might need if she decided to stick with private investigation.
Jake hadn’t been too happy about her decision, but at least he had the grace to say he wished she had consulted him, not that she should have done so. Now she wished she hadn’t acted so hastily.

“Good afternoon, Mr Koehne,” she said, taking his outstretched hand.

“Always a pleasure to see you,” he said. “I was wondering if you had a chance to consider my offer.”

“I already considered it, Mr Koehne,” she replied, pulling her hand free. “I declined, remember?”

“Ms Garrett . . . Kate . . . may I call you Kate?”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

That put a small road bump in his pitch, but didn’t slow him long enough for Kate to make her exit.

“The thing is,” he continued, “Outreach Dating has plenty of men on its lists, men who are looking for Ms Right – or at least Ms Right for now – but we don’t have many women. I’ll throw in a hair and face make-over before your interview. Not that you aren’t lovely as is, but the fashion is for up-dos and forties-retro is in, so if you have an appropriate outfit . . . Wouldn’t you like a date for New Year’s? All we have to do is book a time . . .”

“Time is one thing I don’t have,” Kate said pointedly. “I’m also short on money, specifically the money you owe for last month’s rent.”

It was better than a boot in the rear for getting rid of the pest. He exited, with a hearty “Happy Holidays” before she had a chance to extract another promise he wouldn’t keep.

Jake phoned Joe’s flat a half hour before Kate had to leave. He woke her up. Despite her best intentions, she had fallen asleep on her father’s bed, wrapped in one of his over-sized bath sheets. Jake appreciated the view until she woke up sufficiently to turn off the phone’s video.

Thirty-five minutes later, feeling like a mother hen, he sent her on her way with a bag of sandwiches and fruit, and the keys to the company car. He knew if he didn’t pack her a dinner she’d pick up coffee and empty calories. The damned woman might irritate the hell out of him, but he also felt protective of her. It was as if Joe’s death had put her into his custody.

Joe would just love that, he thought.

Jake was only ten years Kate’s senior, but Joe had put a three-metre fence between them. On Jake’s side was a ‘do not trespass’ sign. The fence started coming down soon after Joe’s death. Not that romance was the issue. She made it clear the fence had to go for the sake of developing a good working relationship. Jake bought into the plan – albeit a little reluctantly. He stopped calling her Miss Kate but he couldn’t make the leap to calling her Garrett, or Detective Garrett, as protocol dictated. Joe was Garrett. She was Kate.

Bored with administrative work, fatigue catching up with him, Jake closed down the office shortly after Kate left. The dating service across the hall was just starting to show some activity.

Perfect.

He knew she’d make him regret acting on the knowledge, but Jake had watched the conversation on the security camera between Kate and the new tenant, and he knew the guy was remiss in meeting his financial obligations. Not only was he a deadbeat, but he kept hitting on her every chance he got. Jake figured he could bust two chops with one punch.

Continued next week, or read the whole story at:

http://www.textnovel.com/story/The-Christmas-Cat-Killer-Caper/2323

Deck the Hall with Holiday Mysteries

2010-12-05T16:39:00.000-05:00

Characteristics of a Serial Killer
...They are involved with sadistic activity or tormenting small creatures.
Source: Internal Association of Forensic Science, an article written by FBI Special Agent Robert K. Ressler
"The Serial Killer," Harold Schechter

The Christmas Cat Killer Caper

Chapter 1: December 19

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly . . .”

“I thought we agreed, no holiday songs in the office.”

“We agreed no holiday music in the office,” Kate said, hanging fresh holly over the last window. “I didn’t think that included me singing.”

“Well it does,” said Carmedy, scowling at her.

She turned and her eyes were large and luminous; her lips were pulled down in an expression of wounded sorrow.

He sighed.

“Or it should,” he temporized.

Her lips quivering, she managed a sad smile.

“Oh give it up,” he said, laughing. “The pouty-face was one thing, but I don’t believe that quiver for an instant.”

But I got you to laugh, Kate thought. These days, that’s victory enough.

Things had been pretty grim around the office of Carmedy & Garrett Investigations – with good reason. A month ago, Joe Garrett had been killed. Jake Carmedy lost his business partner, but Kate had lost her father. He owned the majority share of Garrett Investigations. By the terms of his will, Kate and Carmedy became equal partners. She took a leave of absence from the City Police Services to involve herself in the business.

She knew Carmedy disapproved of her decision. He only told her once or twice a day. She thought that adding the ‘Carmedy &’ to ‘Garrett Investigations’ would help. Instead, he complained about tampering with the company identity.

But that was yesterday’s news. Kate was determined to reduce the tension between them. She knew she wasn’t finished grieving, but she was tired of being sad all the time and walking on eggs around Carmedy was getting old.

Irritated, Jake watched her hang holly over the door to the lobby. She was supposed to be working on the annual report, a tedious job that used to be Jake’s. The report, which probably would never get read, had to be filed with City Police Services by December 31, but since Jake planned to be out of the office between Christmas Eve and New Year, he wanted it delivered by December 23 and he wanted to check it first.

Failure to report could lead to them losing the certification that allowed them to be contracted by the police as investigative consultants. Since a sizable chunk of the agency’s income came from police contracts, they couldn’t afford to miss the deadline and Jake didn’t want to miss his family Christmas.

“How’s the report going?” he asked, hoping the question would nudge her back to work.

“It’s going,” she said, looking around the room and checking her handiwork. “I’m making coffee. Want some?”

He looked at the half empty bottle of flat cola on his desk.

“I’ll make you a café au lait,” she prompted.

He didn’t want to encourage her, but she did make a delicious café au lait.

“Yes, please.” Then, hoping he sounded generous, not concerned he said, “I could help you finish the annual report.”

She stiffened. He had offended her. Damn.

He was so tired of having to walk on eggs around her.

“Then how about if I take your turn at the stakeout tonight?”

She laughed and he was amazed, not for the first time, how quickly she could shift moods. Must be the red hair.

“Miss prowling around in the cold and damp? No way!”

Their current client was a neighbourhood association. The case had come to them via Igor Thorsen, the City’s Chief of Detectives. Someone was maliciously poisoning neighbourhood cats with cyanide-dipped pub darts, then leaving the bodies at their owners’ front door. Disturbing as it was, Police Services did not have the time or manpower to pursue the case. Carmedy & Garrett Investigations was referred. Since the cats were always attacked at night, they had been taking turns staking out the area with one or more of the residents.

She handed him his café au lait with something close to a condescending smile.

“Don’t worry Carmedy, I’ll get the report done . . . in time for you to make sure I did it right.”

He nodded. That’s what he needed to hear.

“Now that I’ve cleared my head and have fresh coffee,” she continued, “I’m good to go. But first . . .”

She picked up the paper bag and climbed on top of her desk.

“What the hell?” Carmedy yelped.

She pulled out a bunch of fresh mistletoe, wired into a ball and tied with a red ribbon. Carefully stepping over her keyboard and police-standard BlueBerry, she hung the ball between their desks. For a moment, Jake hoped that she’d jump off the desk into his arms. That would place them both under the kissing plant. Instead she backed down the way she came.

“Before you tell me it’s unprofessional to have mistletoe in the office, the plant was originally hung to bring peace.”

“I knew that,” he replied.

Continued next week, or read the whole story at:

http://www.textnovel.com/story/The-Christmas-Cat-Killer-Caper/2323

Always take a book to Emergency

2010-11-28T12:46:00.000-05:00

Dodging a Bullet

First and last, I have to thank Nicola at the Guelph Community Health Centre for raising the red flag and sending me to the ER last Tuesday (November 16, 2010).

When she called, I was just forcing myself to get up for breakfast.

“I was checking back in your chart,” she started.

I missed some of the lead up because I was groggy, something about my asthma being under control up until recently. The phrase pulmonary embolism woke me up. She told me there was a test.

“You need to go to the hospital emergency department. Oh, and take a book.”

“I should go right away?”

Not one of my brighter questions.

“Yes. Right away.”

As soon as I hung up the phone I received a text from my friend John, asking me how I was. I called back.

“Got your text.”

“How are you?”

“I need a big favour. Can you drive me to the ER?”

Never let it be said I didn’t have a flare for the dramatic. I had about ten minutes to prepare.

Shower.

Brush teeth.

Dress.

Gather medications.

Put health card and some cash in my card case so I wouldn’t need to take my wallet, credit cards etc.

If I had been doing this for my father – which I had done many times before - I would have added a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste to the bag. My sister Joey had her own hospital pack, always ready to go. I just had to add her meds.

I considered and dismissed taking an extra book. I’d only just read the prologue of the one I was taking. I meant to take a banana, but forgot at the last moment.

That’s me in a nutshell. I can be too freaked to remembered food; I am rarely too freaked to forget my book... or coffee.

When I had to do the 911 for Dad or Joanne, I always swung by Tim’s for and extra large English Toffee Cappuccino and a snack for later. There was no point rushing to hospital right behind the ambulance. They wouldn’t let me in until the patient was in observation. Besides, once I was there, I never knew how long I might be staying. Naturally, I also always brought a book or two for myself.

En route to the hospital, I considered asking John for a coffee stop, but I got babbling about the test really not being anything to worry about. Then I remembered that it was roughly this time last week that my brother-in-law was driving this same route to take me of the day surgery that started this imbroglio.

I forgot the coffee.

The week before, I had arthroscopic surgery to repair a complex tear of the medial meniscus. (Not only could I just write that without the help of Spell Check or a dictionary, I could say it after my surgery. Almost everything else I tried to say came out a bit garbled.) Blood clots are one of the many risks with surgery, but they are very rare with arthroscopic procedures. It turned out I was one of the unlucky few.

Pity the fool that goes to Emergency without a book.

I was a quarter of the way through the one I brought before I was seen. The doctor, a very charming young man (ye gods I’m showing my age now) explained the implications of taking the test.

If it came out negative, YAY! But false positives were common. If the test was positive, even by just a little bit, they’d have to follow up with a CT scan. That meant radioactive dye would be shot through my system. You didn’t do that lightly. On the other hand, Leanne had a hunch and I certainly had no desire to check out early on my kids.

I said yes to the test.

As it turned out, I had a blood clots in my left lung and maybe a small one in my right. After being calm, patient and good-humoured all day (it was close to five now and I was in the last quarter of my book) I had a meltdown.

All I’d had all day was an ER sandwich box around elevenses and a few cup of water. I was tired, hungry and my head was splitting with a headache. I wanted to go home and see my children.

“It’s okay,” soothed the specialist. “You’re where you need to be. You’re safe.”

I knew that.

My big issue with going into hospital wasn’t me, it was my kids - my daughter, son and nieces. They’d hung out in too many hospitals already. My sister was in and out of hospitals for three years before she died of cancer. My father had a major stroke followed by a series of heart attacks. He was the miracle man and recovered, but we had several near misses until, at age 85, he had his last heart failure. Between my sister and my dad, we lost my aunt, who was more like a grandmother to my kids, especially since my mum had died when I was pregnant with my son.

But it wasn’t like that was it, I told myself. It might bring back sad memories, but I was going into hospital before anything dire happened.

With my asthma and being on post operative painkillers, the symptoms of pulmonary embolism weren’t obvious. If untreated, the clot might have expanded, multiplied or moved to my heart or brain. That’s heart attack or stroke time.

I dodged a bullet.

Thanks Nicola!

This blog was written in hospital a few days after my big scary day. I'm out now and recovering slowly but surely. I'd like to add my thanks to the staff at Guelph General Hospital, 4 West. In particular I'd like to thank my nurses Martin, Natalie, Gaye, Donna and a couple of others who didn't write their names on my board.

Remembrance Day

2010-11-11T00:05:00.000-05:00

Eileen George

I remember Eileen (Nash) George...

I have many happy memories of my Auntie Yang (her little sister, my mum, couldn't say Eileen). A lot of those memories involved sitting around the table after dinner, drinking tea and talking. When my little sister and younger cousins escaped the table to play, and my older cousins disappeared to be with their respective boy friends, I would sit with Mum, Nana, and Auntie Yang and listen.

I don't remember exactly when I first heard about my aunt being in the ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service), but over time I gathered bits and pieces of her experience. She was a driver mechanic, just like Princess Elizabeth. In fact, in uniform my aunt and the then princess looked a lot alike.

Elizabeth drove a lorry. My aunt drove an ambulance.

Princess Elizabeth

Live patients went in head first; dead went feet first. Or maybe it was the other way around. I'm not sure now. What I remember, what I empathized with so strongly was her descriptions of the smell and the sounds and the knowledge that some of the men who entered the ambulance breathing, wouldn't arrive alive.

Patients and bodies delivered, the women would hose out and service their vehicles and go back for more. Again and again.

My aunt had a mental breakdown from that experience. Now we would call it post traumatic stress. She continued her trade as a driver mechanic, but she switched to driving officers.

After the war, Auntie Yang was one of the few and far between not immediately demobilized. She went on to do officers training. However, the climate had changed and women were expected to go back to doing "woman's jobs". Auntie Yang felt that if she was going to be a clerk, she might as well be one with civilian wages.

Bruce, Alison, Pvt K.

I had a similar experience when I was in Katimavik and did the military option. For three months we trained at CFB/BFC Valcartier - home of the Vingt-deux (22nd Regiment). I experienced some of the camaraderie and the sense of belonging that Auntie Yang talked about in her happier stories. If I could have joined up and continued my training in the infantry or even transport, I might have considered it. At the time, women were still either clerks or nurses and I had a taste for neither.

Instead, I went back to university. Because of my aunt, and the help she gave me tracking down other women veterans, I did my undergraduate thesis on Women in the Allied Armed Forces in WWII. I didn't get a brilliant final mark, but my research was highly praised.

In addition to the usual readings, I interviewed a dozen women who served in the woman's auxiliaries of the British, Canadian and US armed forces. For some, it was a great adventure. For others, it was a patriotic duty. Their stories all shared the common thread of connection with most of the other women they served with, and exasperation at the lack of respect they received from most of the men. In fact, one of the reasons I didn't get as high a mark as I could have, was that I wrote more about the women than the historical context.

My aunt is gone. Probably most of the women I interviewed have passed on by now to -- since most were older than Auntie Yang. But they are remembered. Especially today.

Hallowe'en Night Blahs

2010-10-31T17:17:00.000-04:00

I've got those pumpkin-flavoured, midnight-coloured, Hallowe'en Night blahs.

Last night I dropped my daughter off at her best friend's for Hallowe'en. This morning I dropped my son at his best friend's. I have lots of work to do so this is a good thing, right?

Blech!

Usually I love Hallowe'en. I dress up - or at least apply a little blood for the occasion. Not this year.

I would have been munching on treat-sized chocolate bars by now. This year I bought Double Bubble Gum. I just can't get into the spirit.

In my lay psychological opinion, I'm suffering from the inevitable separation anxiety that parents have to go through when their children no longer rely on them for their entertainment. I'm happy my kids have friends to hang out with -- friends I don't have to worry about. That's a bonus. But I'm also a bit bummed out.

Maybe next year I'll put on my dead face and dripping blood to scare the next generation of kids.Or maybe I'll don my Starfleet uniform, pin my Captain's pips and communicator pin on and tell them to live long and prosper. Or I could pull out my wizard's garb and magic wand.

Tonight, I'll put a bowl of Double Bubble on the stoop and a sign on the door...