Genesis of a short story

 

A couple of days ago I blogged about creativity, writing, and inspiration, and I included how difficult it is for me to write a short story unless I have some sudden creative inspiration. So I thought some of you might like to read this short story, which was inspired by a recipe. It features Kelly O’Connell, the realtor/renovator at the center of my Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. Kelly’s office is in Fairmount, the neighborhood adjacent to mine in Fort Worth and one brimming with authentic Craftsman houses, many of which have been preserved. Long the single mother of two, by the time this story takes place, Kelly is married to police officer Mike Shandy. Keisha who appears in the story is her office assistant.

If you don’t know the seven Kelly O’Connell books, plus a novella, you might start with Skeleton in a Dead Space. The books are all available on Amazon.

A word about the short story: My son, Colin, met his bride, Lisa, when he was managing a dive resort on Grand Cayman, and Lisa came there to do underwater photography. When Colin and Lisa first returned from the Caribbean, they lived with Lisa’s parents in Sugar Land, Texas. Lisa’s mother, Torhild, was born and raised in Norway and came to this country as a soldier’s bride at the age of seventeen. She still cooks some of the dishes she knew as a child, and Colin particularly fell in love with these hamburgers (and I might add, with John and Torhild, as did we all). Torhild calls them Norwegian meat cakes, but we’ve all come to use the term hamburger.

I cannot tell you why those hamburgers inspired a short story, but they did. And it is the only time I’ve ever incorporated the paranormal into my writing. I hope you will be charmed by Annalise Nelsen.

Please note that this is a draft version (I seem to be unable to attach the PDF) so there are some typos. Here’s the story of “The Villlage Gaarden.” If you want the recipe for kjottkaker, I think it will be the recipe of the week in Thursday’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog. Happy reading.

 

 

 

 

 

The Village Gaarden

 

A short story

 

By Judy Alter

 

The Fairmount Neighborhood was once peppered with storefront businesses, many with residential quarters behind them for the owners. Today most of those picturesque buildings have been demolished, but one or two remain, now renovated into charming homes.

One day, on Travis Avenue between Hawthorne and Lilac streets, I found a storefront new to me—and still open. The day showed North Central Texas winter at its worst—a freezing mix of ice and sleet, wind howling. As Mike told me that morning, “Only a fool would go out on a day like this. Stay home.” I didn’t, and now I was hungry for hot comfort food.

Blue-and-white checkered curtains hung on rods three-quarters from the top of the windows, and the words “The Village Gaarden” were stenciled in black on the window. I wondered about the misspelling and the owners. A hand-lettered sign indicated that the small café would be serving from 12:00-1:00 p.m.

Old-fashioned sleigh bells, hung on a thick leather strap and looped over the inside door handle, sang out as I entered. There were only six tables but they gleamed as if just waxed. Small vases held flowers that looked like lilies of the valley. Blue-and-white china in a variety of patterns and serving dishes rested on a plate rack around the room. Steamy warm air, heavy with the wonderful smell of beef cooking, enveloped me.

A small woman welcomed me. Short and a little wide, she had white hair pulled into a bun at the back of her neck and curls escaping around her face, softening the severity of her hairdo. Her face was anything but severe. Brushing her hands on her apron, she held out both hands in welcome, and I took them gratefully.

“I am so glad to see you,” she bubbled. “I’ve been hoping you would come. I’m Annalise Nelsen. I love to have visitors.”

There were no other customers, but how could she be expecting me? I managed to thank her and then asked, “You’re only open for an hour?”

She nodded. “It’s only me, so I only open when I feel like cooking. Today I made Norwegian hamburgers—Kjøttkaker, we call them. You would like? With mashed potatoes and green peas?”

Of course, I would like. She bustled off, while I settled myself at a table. I tested the flowers—yes, fresh, as I thought—but lilies of the valley were certainly not in season now. In fact, you couldn’t grow them in Texas. Within seconds Annalise appeared with a crockery mug full of fresh, strong black coffee.

I asked about the flowers. “Lilies of the valley aren’t in season now.”

 “I grow,” she said. “We call them liljekonwall.”

Annalise ignored the problem of the flowers, and said, “Now, your dinner. Only one minute. It is all ready,” and she was gone again, reappearing seconds later with a plate of food that looked and smelled way beyond good.

The meat cakes, served with caramelized onion and gravy, were soft and tender rather than chewy like a hamburger. The flavor was pure beef. I tasted the potatoes alone first—rich with butter and whole cream. Then I dabbed a bit of gravy on them—just as good. But the peas—they looked more like a thick green pea soup, with dried peas that hadn’t completely lost their shape. There was no ham taste. Instead, these were slightly sweet and somewhere, deep down, had a butter flavor. I savored a mouthful, while Annalise stood watching me, hands on hips.

“You like?”

“I love,” I said.

“Good. I leave you to enjoy in peace.”

And although I had a thousand questions for her, she disappeared behind the curtains again. I did eat in peace, savoring each mouthful of the hearty, soul-warming food. My feet thawed, and my disposition improved. I took out my cell phone to call Mike and tell him about the wonderful place I’d found. I could imagine bringing the girls here and seeing Annalise hover affectionately over them. But my cell phone said, “No service.” I shrugged and dismissed it as due to the weather.

Annalise came back to ask about dessert. She had made rice pudding she told me, again supplying the Norwegian name—risengryn. I was beyond full but then again, no one else had come in, and I was afraid she’d be stuck with a whole lot of risen-whatever-it-was. I tried to indicate by my hands I wanted a small serving; what I got, of course, was a huge bowl that I could not finish. Rice pudding with hints of nutmeg and vanilla and liberal amounts of currants—another thing one almost never found in Texas, unless you bought them dried.

I ate as much as I could and waited tactfully for the bill. It was well past one o’clock, Annalise’s closing hour, and I didn’t want to detain her. Finally, calling her name softly, I headed toward those curtains. After all, she was elderly, and she might have gotten tired and nodded off. I didn’t want to startle her.

When I got no answer I poked my head through the curtains and found a sparkling clean kitchen—cast-iron stove, empty cast-iron skillet sitting on the top and newly oiled, blue-and-white dishes, like those in which my meal was served, draining in the dish rack. But no sign of Annalise and no answer to my calls.

I had no idea what the lunch might have cost. I left a $20 bill on the table and headed back out into the weather, but by now it didn’t seem so bad. The sleet had stopped, the sun was out, and the ice was beginning to melt. No heart for going back to the office and so full I was almost but not quite uncomfortable, I called Keisha in my office and said I wasn’t coming back, headed home, and took a nap before I got the girls from school.

At dinner that night, I picked at the hamburgers Mike had grilled. His burgers were always great, but I was still full, and I was bursting to tell my story. As my account of lunch spilled out, almost without a pause for breath, the girls sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When I finished, Maggie said, “Gosh, Mom, what an adventure,” and Em piped up with “I want to go there!”

Mike was not so swayed. “Wait a minute, Kelly. I’ve never heard of this place and neither had you—and we both know every inch of this neighborhood pretty well.” Of course we did—I’m a real estate agent, and Mike, now a detective, was for years the neighborhood patrol officer. “You found a place you’d never seen; it was only open for one hour; there were fresh lilies of the valley on the tables—hey, I’m from Texas. I wouldn’t know them if I saw them. No menu, one dish. Your cell phone wouldn’t work, and the owner disappeared. Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?”

“I know it sounds strange, Mike, but drive over there yourself tomorrow. You’ll see it, and you should go for lunch.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

I didn’t say any more about my adventure. Mike’s skepticism put a damper on it, and the girls were clearly puzzled.

****

Mike called before ten o’clock the next morning. “Kelly, I just drove the length of Travis Avenue, and I didn’t see any storefront buildings, let alone The Village Gaarden” His voice dropped. “I don’t know what to tell you, except, sweetheart, have you thought maybe it was a dream when you had that good nap before the girls got out of school?”

“Did you tell any of your buddies at the police station about this?” My question was hostile”

“Swear,” he said. “You tell Keisha?”

“No,” and he knew it was serious, because I tell Keisha, my office assistant, almost everything. Had I imagined that? No, I most definitely had not! How would I have known about kjøttkaker and liljekonwallL?

I muttered, “I’ll be back” and slammed out of the office. But it wasn’t on Travis Avenue.  I drove nearby streets, weaving in and out of some that were only a block or two long. I saw two abandoned store fronts but no Village Gaarden.

Back at the office, I sat in a slump until Keisha whirled around and demanded, “Okay. What’s the problem?” Keisha is young, African American, colorful, and the most amazing person I’ve ever met—maybe beside Mike. Among other things, there’s her sixth sense.

I told her the whole story and waited for the laughter, but it didn’t come.

“Okay,” she repeated. “We got to get to the bottom of this.  I can’t have you in this funk all the time. Worse than when you and Mike have an argument. Who’s the oldest person you know in Fairmount?”

“Mrs. Workman,” I answered without hesitation. “She’s in her nineties, and she’s lived here since she was a young bride. Still lives in the same house on Jessamine.”

“Let’s go see her.”

“You going too?”

“Yep, I am. I gotta get to the bottom of this too. Your mama’s cooking is pretty good, but I could eat some of that Norwegian stuff you’re talking about.” Keisha lived with my mom off and on when there seemed to be a reason.

I called Mrs. Workman and asked if Keisha and I could come for a visit.

“Of course, Kelly, dear. But you know I’m not going to sell my house.” No quaver marked that elderly voice. It was as strong and forthright as mine.

“Oh, I know, Mrs. Workman. I just want to ask about, uh, some neighborhood history.”

“Oh, my dear, I love to talk about that. You and your friend come right over. I’ll put the tea kettle on.”

Thelma Workman used a cane when she came to answer the front door, but her handshake was firm, and she welcomed Keisha as heartily as she did me. Clearly, she had worked quickly, for the tea tray sat on the coffee table complete with teapot, creamer and sugar, three cups, and a plate of sliced homemade banana bread.

Please, Lord, let me be like this when I’m ninety!

We chatted casually about the bad weather, the changing neighborhood, Mrs. Workman’s Persian cat. All the while, Keisha fidgeted.

“Mrs. Workman,” I began hesitantly, “do you remember a small restaurant called The Village Gaarden?”

Her eyes were bright, and she was instantly on the alert. “Over on Travis Avenue? I remember it well, because I enjoyed many good meals there. Annalise Nelsen could cook like no one else I ever met. She surely put me in the shadows.”

I also shot Keisha a look that said, “See? I didn’t make this up.”

Mrs. Workman continued. “That was years ago, though. In the ’40s, if I remember correctly. I was a young bride, and I even went there for help with cooking. She was so generous and loving—like a second mother to me. But then Annalise’s husband died, and she went back to Norway.”

“She went back to Norway?” I echoed. “What happened to her restaurant?”

“Her children sold the building, and it was demolished. Isn’t there a playground on the site now?”

I had seen a playground when I went back looking for the restaurant. I turned to Keisha, helplessly, but she didn’t laugh nor did she frown. She just reached out for my hand and held it comfortingly.

Mrs. Workman persisted. “How did you even hear about that tiny restaurant, Kelly?”

“Oh, I was examining some old maps, and it was listed on one.” I was surprised that I could lie so easily and quickly.

We chatted a bit more, thanked that lovely lady for tea and delicious banana bread, and left. In the car, Keisha sighed. “I sure wish that hadn’t been a dream, Kelly. Those Norwegian hamburgers, whatever you call them, sound wonderful.”

“They were,” I said. “I have the recipe in my purse. Annalise gave it to me. Want to copy it?”

I wasn’t telling Mike about that. Someday I’d make kjottkaker for him and claim I’d found the recipe on line, after that dream I’d had. But Annalise was real.

 

Some plans go awry

 

This started out to be a great cooking weekend, but somehow it went amuck. Okay, not somehow—I know what happened.

Last night Jordan and I welcomed Renee, a minister at our church and a good friend. We planned a girls’ evening, and I came up with an experimental light supper—I had the idea, and Jordan carried it out beautifully. She mixed flaked tuna with tabouleh, topped it with lemon, avocado, and good Greek yogurt. Then she put a dab of hummus on the side of each bowl. Delicious, looked gorgeous in the bowl, and so filling! Anyway it was the cooking success I hoped for. Tonight not so much.

Jacob came home from two weeks at Sky Ranch camp tonight. That is, Jordan and Christian drove to Van in East Texas to pick him up. He had been on a bus from Colorado all night. The plan was to have a welcome-home celebratory dinner, and Jordan chose carnitas for the entrée, because that’s something he likes. First mistake.

I make carnitas the way a man who once worked in my office taught me—simmer cubes of pork butt until the liquid disappears and the meat gets crusty. That makes a simple boiled pork dinner, but if you season the water, you get carnitas. I add onion, garlic, orange peel, bay leaves oregano, cloves, a cinnamon stick—I guess that’s all. I’ve made it a lot before, and usually it turns out great, but tonight the liquid would not cook down no matter what we did. I figure I made two mistakes: too much liquid and not long enough cooking. Easy enough to correct next time, and there will be a next time because I ordered 2.5 lbs. of beef in cubes and got 4.35 lbs. So I have leftovers in the freezer. And to add to my discontent, the one-inch cubes I requested were big hunks of meat, so I spent a lot of time cutting them into one-inch cubes. Next time I will be firm in my request. Another lesson learned: my knives need sharpening, even my big, good chef’s knife.

And then Christian suddenly had to go to Plano for a memorial service for a high school friend. So that dinner for four planned for seven o’clock? Three of us sat down at almost eight-thirty, and I have to say our tempers were a bit testy from hunger. We do have good leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Jacob responded easily to questions about his camp experience—he loved it. No swimming, which astounded me. Why go to camp if you don’t swim? They did play soccer, football, baseball, etc. They also had Bible study—Ephesians, but he was a little shaky on the content when asked. That’s okay because I’m a bit shaky too. We both know that Ephesians is letters Paul wrote while in prison.

But for me the big disappointment came when he talked about group singing, which he apparently enjoyed. I asked if they sang “Kumbala,” or “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” and he looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know what those are.” They sang country songs, like “Country Roads” and others I’d never heard of. So I guess we’re even. But it makes me sad to think that those songs, which I always thought generations sang, are fading from memory. Jordan challenged me to sing “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” but I may just have to find a rendition online for her. And I bet Jacob has no idea who Joan Baez is. Travesty.

So tomorrow night, one more experiment: I read about baking potatoes the British way. Two hours in a 400^o degree oven. Instead of poking them all over with a fork, you cut a deep cross in the top. The long cooking time makes the skins really crisp. Then you take them out, cut the cross deeper, and return to the oven for ten minutes. This is supposed to make the potato meat fluffy. We’re having steak tomorrow night, so I’ll report on how the potatoes do.

My day was work—I wrote 800 words, which is really good for a nonfiction project—and I napped and made carnitas. And that sums up the day. I did finish a new mystery which I thoroughly enjoyed: Murder in G Major by Alexia Gordon. An African-American classical musician is stranded in a small Irish village and challenged with transforming the rowdy musicians of the local boys’ school into an award-winning orchestra. But along the way she shares a cottage with an absolutely charming ghost and uncovers a lot of old murders—and some new ones. Will hers be next? Good story. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

One never knows what tomorrow will bring. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Strange Requests, Free Books, and Golf

I go weeks without getting an email from a fan or stranger through my web page, but there must be a spot on the moon because today I got three. One was for help in tracking down a photo permission, and I’ve put out feelers about that. The second though was unusual, or so I thought. I guess this potential reader, a woman, read the blurb for the free Murder at the Blue Plate Café. She wrote, I have one question regarding the series Blue Plate Cafe Mystery. Is Kate really hearing her grandmother or is it all in her head? I'm only asking because I don't read books with any type of paranormal involvement in them. Thank you for your time.”

I wrote back that one never knows what is in an author’s mind, and sometimes the author doesn’t even know. She’d have to answer that question for herself. Her polite answer indicated she had indeed decided—that I meant voices from beyond, a touch of the paranormal. Referring me to a Biblical passage, she said that we all know the dead are dead and cannot communicate and therefore she’d try another of my series. Her view on faith is not mine, but I appreciated her candor and honesty and her willingness to try another series. I wrote and told her I hoped she enjoyed the books she tried, and she replied that she hoped so too.

The third email was an offer to list my free title on ebookdaily, a giveaway site. As of today, 5,652 people have taken me up on my free book offer on Amazon alone—I haven’t checked the other platforms. At the height of the free book craze, that would have been peanuts, but today I think it’s pretty good. Just think if a third of those people like the book well enough to move on through the series, my sales should look pretty good. I’ll probably leave the offer open another week and then shut it down.

I’m a golf orphan, which doesn’t have much effect on my routine except psychological. Jordan and Christian are involved, as spectators, in the annual PGA tournament at Colonial Country Club. I remember when it was just “the tournament” or “the Colonial.” In recent years, it’s had a lot of different sponsors and borne those names. This year, it’s sponsored by local donors and is the Fort Worth Invitational Tournament. It’s one of the highlights of the year for Jordan and Christian—for him, it’s partly work, entertaining clients, etc.; for her, it’s sociability, see and be seen which is always good for her growing clientele of travelers. They really won’t settle down at home again until Sunday night.

I’ve done my best to fill my schedule so I either get out of the cottage or have someone in each day. But there’s something different about knowing they’re beyond reach except in an emergency. I feel a little set adrift, though I’m really not. Glad I have projects to keep me busy.

Ended my day with a delightful dinner with Betty and Jean at the Star Café. Nothing better than savoring their chicken-fried steak with a view of the doings on Exchange Avenue.

Violent Dreams

I almost didn’t post about this because it was so disturbing to me, but I decided writing about the experience was the best way to explore it. I had uncharacteristically violent dreams last night. If you know me at all, you know any form of violence is not my thing. I don’t write thrillers because I don’t want to write violence—my one book with a serial killer had no violence because everything took place off-screen. I haven’t ever thought about writing paranormal for the same reason. Yet last night, both elements were in my dreams.

I am one of those people blessed or cursed (depends on your own experience) with total recall of my dreams. I have a son who shares that, and I laughed when he first married because they would wake up of a morning and share their dreams. Last night was one of those dreams I couldn’t shake. I would wake up, look at familiar surroundings, assure myself it was all a bad dream. But when I closed my eyes, I was back in it again. Finally broke the cycle by concentrating on things I want to do in the novel I’m working on.

The dream—was it two or one that segued into another? It began with a young boy who was violent, like a sociopath—he killed a cousin and kidnapped another. I don’t know whether I woke and could banish that or not, but suddenly I was in a world where people were randomly and suddenly vaporized, even whole buildings. You walked along the street and the person ahead of you might suddenly disappear. People were afraid to go into buildings for fear the whole building would go. There was, of course, mass panic, with crowds pressing to get I don’t know what—there was no immunity.

As I said, that’s where I left it. I reconstructed the evening. I had not watched violence on TV nor read anything but an innocuous cozy mystery; I had a turkey burger and Brussel sprout slaw for supper (that needs rethinking, but it didn’t lead to nightmares). I looked at violent dreams on the web. Seems, generally, that they do not mean you harbor a hidden violent streak (thank goodness) but that you are troubled, dealing with some conflict.

That led me down a blind alley. I have really thought about this, but I can’t imagine anything even in my subconscious that would cause me to want to destroy the world as I know it. And as for the young boy? Nope, not a clue.

Towards morning, when I slept again I had one of those lovely dreams about being young and in love again, courted by a wonderful considerate man. Now that I can identify with. I’m just going to forget the violence and hope it doesn’t come again. People vaporized?

Poltergeists and other creatures of the night

Do you believe in ghosts? I've always said I do and I don't, but I sort of alarmed two of my grandchildren Saturday on the drive from Tomball when I said I thought there were ghosts in my house. Are they scary, they asked. No. They're friendly ghosts or as I like to call them, using an old country term, "haints." My very first novel had a scene about haints and a dark cemetery, and I guess that's stayed with me. But in at least two houses I've lived in I've felt the presence of other spirits, and sometimes, just for a fleeting moment, I think I see a figure lurking around a corner or peeking through a doorway. I never feel threatened, and often at night I wake with the sense that someone's in the house watching over me. Sometimes it's my mom, gone almost thirty years now.
When I lived in the big house I refer to as my doctor's wife house, two good friends told me they saw people. Winston, the shirt-tail uncle who helped raise my children, once sat in the dining room, looked across the large entryway into the sunken living room, and asked, "Judy, who are all those men in  your living room?" Alarmed, I asked if they were threatening, and he said no, they were friendly. Then a friend who stayed in our upstairs guest bedroom for a while reported that figures walked in and out of her room at night but all were friendly. So, don't count me as a disbeliever. Jacob keeps wanting me to show him a haint, but it isn't as easy as that. They don't stand still for a viewing.
A week ago yesterday, my hot water heater just flat quit. Nada. Not a drop of hot water, once I'd used what was in the tank. The plumber came first thing the next morning and declared he could find nothing wrong. Just to be sure, he blew it out, cleaned it, and said "Call me if it goes out again." It hasn't, so far.
Yesterday my furnace quit, and I woke to a cold house, as I wrote last night. First thing this morning, the furnace guys were here. When I got up this morning, it was 61 in the house; by the time they got here, about 9:30, it was 72. Go figure, because they couldn't. They spent well over an hour (with dollar signs going round in my head) checking out everything they could possibly check out. No problems at all, so they left saying, "Call us if it does it again."
Coincidence? I don't think so. I think there's a poltergeist in the house. A poltergeist (noisy ghost in German) is a ghost responsible for loud noises (okay, I did hear some things go bump in the night last night) and for moving objects around. I think of poltergeists as mischievous, sort of like the Christmas Elf (do you think he hung around?).
I think a poltergeist is responsible for my water heater and furnace troubles. I just hope he doesn't get into a battle with my friendly haints.
What? Me read a paranormal novel? No thanks. I'm not interested. But I suspect in reality the paranormal is all around us.

A guest...and a new book

Please welcome Joyce LaVene, my Wednesday Guest. She and her husband, Jim Lavene, write award-winning, bestselling mystery fiction as themselves, J.J. Cook, and Ellie Grant. They have written and published more than 70 novels for Harlequin, Berkley, Amazon, and Gallery Books along with hundreds of non-fiction articles for national and regional publications. They live in rural North Carolina with their family. Visit them at www.joyceandjimlavene.com  and www.jjcook.net

****

A new book is like a new baby. Everyone fawns over it, and fusses about it. If you’re lucky—there is more cooing than mudslinging at the parents. Its arrival is always exciting, full of promise and wonder. You can’t feel the birth pains anymore because you’re too overwhelmed by the glory of having done it. The end result is pretty much the only thing that gets most authors through the process.

Not surprisingly, since I’m here today, I have a new baby/book that came out at the beginning of January. The title is Playing with Fire. It’s the second book in the Sweet Pepper Fire Brigade Mysteries.

The protagonist is a little different than most cozy mystery readers are used to. Stella Griffin is a ten-year veteran firefighter from Chicago who comes to the small town of Sweet Pepper, Tennessee to jumpstart their new volunteer fire brigade. She’s strong, professional, and able to lead her small band of men and women in and out of danger. She doesn’t plan to stay after the fire brigade is up and running.

Then she meets Eric.

Eric Gamlyn is the former Sweet Pepper fire chief. He was killed in a fire forty years ago and ended up back at the log cabin he built. He’s been there ever since. His main source of enjoyment has been frightening away people who want to live in his cabin, and watching the Little Pigeon River run by his deck. When Stella shows up, the situation changes. He wants her to stay in Sweet Pepper and rebuild his fire brigade.

And he finds out that he didn’t really die in the silo fire he thought had claimed his life. His bones were found in the walls of the firehouse he’d built, along with his badge and his uniform.

Stella and Eric met for the first time in That Old Flame of Mine, book one in the series. Hero’s Journey is a novella between the two books that tells the story of the fire brigade’s mascot, a Dalmatian named Hero. He’s training to be a rescue dog so he can work with the team.

In Playing with Fire, Stella has to make a decision about staying in Sweet Pepper or going home to Chicago. Her job there won’t be on hold forever. Her parents come to Sweet Pepper to convince her that she shouldn’t stay. But Stella is determined to figure out what really happened to Eric, no matter what it takes. She’s also more than halfway in love with the small mountain town. It’s not an easy decision. She knows she’ll never be fire chief at home, another factor that weighs in Sweet Pepper’s favor.

And there’s the Pepper Festival. It’s the town’s yearly celebration of all things pepper. Sweet Pepper gets its name from growing, packaging, and selling the hottest, sweetest peppers in the world. The festival is three days of pepper-eating contests, pepper-recipe contests, pepper hats, and pepper games.

A lot of research went into creating Sweet Pepper, which is close to the Smoky Mountains National

Park, Pigeon Forge, and Sevierville. Even more research went into what it would take to set up a small volunteer group. Writing about fighting fires was easier. There are firefighters in my family, both volunteers, and professionals in Chicago. Creating the volunteer firefighters, who race into fires and learn as they go, was fun and exhausting at times.

A third book will be out in 2015, In Hot Water, which continues the story of Eric, Stella, Hero, and all the others. A new book is only as exciting as the feelings and characters we create for it. This story has been a wild ride. I want to thank all of the readers who have written such nice letters and reviews. It’s only because of you that the story goes on.

Thanks for reading!

 

 

Ghosts--to believe or not

I've done it again. Out of habit I posted a blog last night and forgot my guest blogger, so once again, on Thursday morning, please welcome my Wednesday guest. This week my guest author is Nancy Lynn Jarvis, who left a real estate career to become an author and writes, naturally, about a realtor.  Nancy says she doesn't really believe in ghosts....but I'll let her tell you about it.

****

 

I don’t usually write about ghosts, but I had to for this mystery. My books, with the exception of Mags and the AARP Gang, a book about a group of octogenarian bank robbers — which you may have guessed from the title and description, is more of a comedy than anything else — feature protagonist Regan McHenry, a realtor who gets sucked into playing an amateur sleuth because of her clients, friends, and because she and her husband bought a house with a partially mummified body in it.

I’ve dealt with bodies buried in the backyard, Wiccans, séances, a sociopathic killer, a murder involving an old Woodie during a car show…even so I didn’t expect to write a mystery that may have ghosts in it. That’s because I don’t believe in them, you see, except that I’ve seen one, which really plays havoc with my nay-saying. And I’m willing to go to just one degree of separation and listen to people tell of their first-hand experiences with ghosts--oh boy.

It was from this ambivalent perspective that I wrote The Murder House, the fifth in my Regan McHenry Real Estate Mysteries series. Like me — a twenty-five year veteran of the real estate business— and many realtors I know, Regan has had the experience of walking into a house and having the hair stand up on the back of her neck . She knows what it’s like to be hit by a wave of cold and experience an overwhelming sensation of evil when previewing a house.

But also like me, she clearly states that she doesn’t believe in ghosts, not when there might be a rational explanation for what seems like a spectral presence. Her certainty made it great fun to write a book in which Regan, convinced the only thing that might cause a house to be haunted is its past reputation, sometimes wonders if she is right.  

It was also fun to write the book because during the writing process, I began asking people if they believed in ghosts. What I discovered is that most people have a ghost story or two to tell even if they aren’t into the paranormal. And ghost sightings aren’t predictable based on the witness’s educational level, occupation, religion, culture, gender, or age.

I was able to share my favorite ghost story in the book’s dedication, too. If you like, go to http://www.amazon.com/Murder-House-McHenry-Estate-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B00HO114IA/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1391550549&sr=1-1&keywords=Nancy+Lynn+Jarvis and click on “look inside” to read it.

I used my personal ghost sighting in the book, as well. The ghost in the woods in The Murder House is what I saw at the Wayside Inn in Massachusetts before I knew many others had reported seeing such a ghost. In The Murder House,  there may be a rational explanation for what people are seeing in the woods, though, and at the Wayside Inn, there isn’t.

After writing The Murder House and living with its alleged ghosts, did I change my mind and become a believer? As Regan says at the book’s conclusion when asked if she’s seen the ghost, “I think that’s too personal a question for you to ask.” Let’s just say that one thing is clear: I have developed a love of swapping ghost stories and would love to hear yours.
Realtors are known for baking cookies for open houses and such, and Nancy has developed her own recipe for mysterious chocolate chip cookies. She generously shares it on her website:

 http://www.goodreadmysteries.com
 

About The Murder House:

 

Every community has a house that people walk by hurriedly, nervously peeking at it out of the corners of their eyes. Bonny Doon is no exception. A bloody double homicide occurred in the Murder House almost twenty years ago and the killer has eluded capture ever since. Recently the house was inherited and the new owner wants to sell.

The problem is no one wants to buy a house with a reputation and everyone reports that it’s home to ghosts. The seller thinks realtor Regan McHenry would make a perfect listing agent ― after all, with her penchant for playing amateur sleuth, she’s no stranger to murder.

This is the perfect mystery to read if you don’t believe in ghosts — and an even better mystery to read if you do. http://www.amazon.com/Murder-House-McHenry-Estate-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B00HO114IA/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1393523018&sr=1-1&keywords=The+Murder+House