Then you’ll love The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster by Scott Wilbanks!
For more info and updates from this author visit:
http://www.scottbwilbanks.com/
Love Agatha Christie and Josephine Tey?
Then you’ll love Footsteps in the Dark by Georgette Heyer!
For more info and updates from this author visit:
http://www.georgette-heyer.com/
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. Vivian tells Charlie that she’ll do anything to succeed as an actress. Do you think that’s true? Why or why not?
2. A career woman, of any kind, was a fairly unusual thing in the late 1930s. Why do you think Vivian is so focused on being a radio star? Where do you think that drive comes from?
3. Vivian claims to be an independent woman, and she is to a point, but she also lives with her wealthy mother and doesn’t fully support herself. How do you think she justifies these dualities? Does she think about it at all?
4. Vivian certainly isn’t a shrinking violet, yet she’s mortified of her mother finding out what she’s been up to with Charlie. How do you think societal pressures were different in Vivian’s day? How were they the same as today?
5. Vivian and Charlie clearly come from different classes and backgrounds. How do you think this affects their relationship?
6. Compare and contrast Vivian’s relationship with Imogene to her relationship with Frances. Why do you think she relates to the two women so differently?
7. Radio has famously been called the “theater of the mind.” How do you think the medium of radio drama compares to that of novels or movies? How would a story be told differently depending on the medium? How would this story be told differently as a radio play? As a movie?
8. Vivian’s father died at a very impressionable time in her life (her late teens). How do you think his death affected her? How do you think it affected her relationship with men? With her mother? If you have experienced the death of either of your parents, how has it affected your life?
9. What do you think draws Vivian to Charlie? Charlie to Vivian?
10. What do you think draws Vivian to Graham? Graham to Vivian?
11. The murderer in this story turns out to be someone fairly unlikely. How do you feel about this character? Can you sympathize with the murderer in any way?
12. What traits do both Vivian and Frances share? Do you think Vivian is proud or ashamed of these? How do these two women differ?
13. Vivian has feelings for both Charlie and Graham. How do the two differ? Have you ever been in such a situation?
14. What does the author use to create realism in the story? How does she make the time period authentic? How would this story differ if it were to take place in present time?
15. What do you think is in the future for Vivian and Charlie?
Read on for an excerpt from book two in the VIV AND CHARLIE MYSTERY SERIES
December 23, 1938
Joy to the world and all that rot, Vivian thought. She tossed a handful of tinsel on the towering spruce in the corner of the den and sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was put on a happy face for her mother’s Christmas party, but that was precisely what she was expected to do this evening.
“You missed a spot.”
“Hmm?”
“Right there.” Vivian’s younger brother, Everett, nodded his auburn head toward a gaping swath of green near right front center. It was the only spot on the eight-foot tree that Vivian hadn’t managed to cover in gaudy silver tinsel. She dipped her hand in the box, grabbed a handful of the shiny strands, and tossed them haphazardly at the void.
Everett glanced sidelong at her, one eyebrow raised.
“Say, Mrs. Claus, who curdled your cream?”
Vivian sighed and dropped the box of tinsel to the floor.
“I don’t know about you, but this party is the last thing I want to be doing tonight. Especially when Mother’s invited her new…her new…” She flapped her hand as she searched her mind for an appropriate word for her mother’s new companion, Oskar. Stray bits of tinsel floated lazily from her fingers to the Oriental rug.
Everett watched her with a frown. “Boyfriend?” he supplied.
Vivian wrinkled her nose.
“I know,” he said. “It’s absurd.”
Vivian knew he meant both the idea and the term. Everett, five years younger than Vivian, was a sophomore at Northwestern. She didn’t see him often, but Vivian was glad he was home now. He was the only one who could possibly understand how uncomfortable this situation made her. Their mother expressing romantic interest in a man other than their father was awkward, and it seemed sudden, somehow, even eight years after their father’s death.
Everett shrugged, then leaned down to fit the plug into the socket. The blue, green, and red lights strung around the tree blinked to life. Everett swept his arm out in a ta-da motion. Then he stood back and eyed their handiwork with a critical air. “Well, what do you think?”
Vivian blew air out over her protruding bottom lip, ruffling her bangs.
“I think it’s a garish spectacle,” she said.
“Well, you know Mother’s motto—the bigger the better.”
Vivian laughed in spite of her mood. That was true. When it came to Christmas trees, their mother favored the grand. But this year’s specimen was frankly ridiculous. It had been delivered that morning by two burly men who’d dragged it through the house, trailing needles everywhere. They’d had to saw off the top two feet to make it fit, and it still brushed the plaster ceiling.
She leaned forward and inhaled deeply. It did smell heavenly, though: pine, and sap, and the earthy dampness of thawing mud. That smell brought every Christmas of her childhood to the surface of her memory in an instant.
“It was Father’s fault,” Everett said. “Indulging her like that with her very first tree. Set a bad precedent.”
Vivian followed her brother’s eyes to their mother, who stood on the other side of the room, fussing at the refreshment table. If Vivian had wanted any indication of how she would look in twenty-odd years, she need look no further than Julia Witchell. Vivian had inherited her mother’s petite stature, her strawberry-blond hair, and soft, brown eyes. It wasn’t a terrible prospect, honestly. People often said they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter—much to Julia’s pleasure and Vivian’s chagrin. But her mother’s outwardly pleasant face belied a fierceness of character and a tendency toward perfectionism that was most often aimed squarely at Vivian, though others often found themselves in the crosshairs. Vivian watched as her mother pointed an accusing finger at the tray of hors d’oeuvres. The target of her mother’s displeasure at the moment appeared to be the housekeeper, Mrs. Graves.
“The Christmas Tree Ship,” Vivian said, turning back to the tree. Their father had loved to tell that story. He’d taken their mother down to the docks on the Chicago River the first year they were married to pick out their tree from the decks of the famous ship. That old-fashioned schooner had trolled the waters of Lake Michigan every fall to make its way to northern Wisconsin to fill itself to bursting with Christmas pines. According to the oft-told story, their mother had roamed the deck for a solid hour before picking a giant tree that proved almost impossible to get home to the small apartment they were renting at the time. But their father couldn’t refuse her. He said he could never refuse their mother anything.
Vivian blinked away the tears that sprang suddenly to her eyes. She missed her father, never more than at this time of year. She reached out and brushed her fingers against one of the glass icicles hanging on the tip of the branch closest to her. It swayed under her fingertips, sparkling in the lights. She realized too late that her touch had been too forceful. The icicle rocked dangerously, then slid from the branch and fell to the floor with a crash. She flinched, waiting for a sharp rebuke from her mother.
&nb
sp; None came. Vivian slowly opened her eyes and unclenched her fists. She glanced over her shoulder, but her mother was no longer fussing with the canapes. She’d left the room before the crash. Vivian and Everett looked at each other in relief.
“Don’t worry about it, Viv. You know the saying: you have to break a few ornaments to make a Christmas,” Everett said.
She rolled her eyes at his lame attempt at a joke. “I believe that’s eggs and omelets.”
“I’ll get the broom,” he said.
“No, I’ll get it. It’s my mess.”
She strode across the room before Everett could dissuade her. Cleaning up would keep her mind off the party. But as she drew closer to the kitchen, she could hear her mother’s voice raised in irritation. Her mother was prickly at the best of times, but preparing for her parties always brought out the worst in her. And her mother’s worst was something Vivian didn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. Best to avoid the situation entirely, Vivian thought. She doubled back to the front staircase and hopped up to the second floor. I’ll just grab a broom from the second-floor utility closet. But she paused on the landing, her eyes falling on the closed door of her father’s study at the top of the stairs. Her heart clenched suddenly, and before she could think too deeply about what she was doing or why, she opened the study door and stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Her father’s study was dark and quiet. It smelled male, of tobacco and leather bindings. Vivian stood there for a moment, leaning against the door in the dark, intending to pause just long enough to gather her strength before the party began in earnest.
The only light in the room came from the distant streetlamp outside. It was faint, but her eyes followed it to what it illuminated: a picture frame sitting on the top of the bookcase. Her spirit lifted immediately at the sight of it, and she crossed the room to fetch the frame from the shelf. She smiled down on the contents: a tattered paper St. Nicholas ornament she’d made when she was almost five. Despite its homeliness, her father had loved it so much that he’d had it framed and placed where he could see it all year.
She touched her fingertips to the glass, remembering the day she had given him the ornament. The Christmas of 1918 when she was almost five, her father had very nearly died from the Spanish Flu, though she hadn’t known that at the time. She remembered handing her father the St. Nicholas shyly, afraid of looking straight at him. She hadn’t seen him since he’d fallen so ill six weeks before, and the wasted man lost in the bedclothes looked very little like the large, strapping father she’d always known. But he’d smiled weakly at that ornament, at her, and Vivian’s heart broke a little recalling it even now, almost twenty years later.
She wanted this reminder of him, of what they’d shared as father and daughter, back on the Christmas tree where it belonged. She turned the frame over, removed the pins, and pulled off the backing. As she did, something flashed in the dim light and fell to the floor with a clatter. Vivian crouched and squinted into the darkness. She saw nothing with the first few sweeps of her eyes, but then there it was—just the tip sticking out from underneath the radiator. A tiny silver key.
A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHOR
How old were you when you wrote your first story? What was it about?
I started writing stories as soon I could read. I used to have my dad haul out our ancient manual Underwood typewriter to the dining room table so I could hunt and peck out my stories about cats. My dad called me the Mad Typist. The first real story I can remember writing and finishing was called The Mouse That Didn’t Believe in Santa Claus in the third grade. I illustrated it as well. I still have it.
What do you love most about writing?
I love world building and doing historical research. I got really involved in figuring out the particulars of what Chicago looked like in October 1938—how it would have felt to walk down the street; how it would have sounded, smelled; what was playing at the movie theaters. It’s a way of time traveling. Writing is also a way of living vicariously through my characters. I can make them do anything…to a point.
What inspires you the most as a writer?
I’m a curious person by nature. I’m always on the lookout for interesting stories (especially historical), and I love learning. I never really know what little tidbit of information will strike my fancy or spark a story idea.
Who are some of your favorite authors? Why are they your favorites?
My Antonia by Willa Cather was the first real grown-up book I read. It had a major impression on me since it’s not a romance and it doesn’t have a (completely) happy ending. I read Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried during a short story writing class in college. It has such perfectly specific detail you’d think it was a memoir and not fiction. In the historical romance genre, I love Anya Seton. Then, on the complete other end of the spectrum, I really love a good Stephen King book. I read It as a twelve-year-old (likely way too early in the grand scheme of things), and it thrilled and terrified me. The setting/world he created is so intricately detailed. Basically, I just like to be entertained, no matter the genre.
When do you know the story is finished?
I think the mystery genre is a little easier than others—the bad guy/girl gets caught or the mystery is solved. But in my head, the story is never really over. The characters keep going, keep interacting, keep having adventures. But I suppose, in a story’s structure, you just feel that the time is right to wrap this particular chapter up.
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Write what you want to read. And let yourself get bored. My best ideas are born from boredom, when I just let my mind wander and I’m forced to entertain myself.
What is one thing you know now that you wish you knew when you started your writing career?
Patience is required. Getting published is not a quick or easy process. If someone had told me when I started to write this book that it would take seven years for it to be published, I may have quit then and there. There were so many times in this long process that I could have given up, but I didn’t. It’s not the published book that I’m most proud of—it’s not quitting.
Did you always want to be a writer, or did you start off in a different career?
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but by virtue of having to pay the bills, I’ve found myself in a career completely unrelated to writing. The reality of it is that very few people are lucky enough to make their living as a writer. I’ve never wanted to be a starving artist. I like to eat too much, and health care is a nice thing to have.
If you could spend one day with an author, dead or alive, who would it be, and why?
Probably Dorothy Parker or Mark Twain—someone who doesn’t take themselves too seriously.
What are your favorite genres to read?
I love historical suspense/mystery with a touch of romance (obviously). But I also love horror, YA, historical fantasy. Really, I’m just a sucker for good storytelling.
How would you describe your writing style in one word?
Light.
What is the most challenging part of being a writer?
Keeping at it and not getting discouraged by failure or rejection. Writing is a very solitary thing, and it’s easy to convince yourself that no one will like what you’re putting down on paper. Letting people read what you write and getting feedback is terrifying, but necessary.
What research or preparation did you engage in before writing this book?
I’m a huge fan of old-time radio shows. I have been since I saw Woody Allen’s Radio Days in the eighth grade, but it was hard to get access to them back then. Then a little thing called the Internet came around, and I realized I could listen to old radio shows whenever I wanted, which meant at my desk at work. The time period and the speech, I think I learned through osmosis from all that listening to old radio shows and w
atching old movies. I also really delved into how radio shows were produced and the radio scene in Chicago, trying to find firsthand accounts if I could. I found old Radio Guides on eBay and poured over the gossipy articles—“The Tattler” in the Radio Guide was a real thing! I learned so much from those about what things were like for actors and actresses, as well as listeners. I also researched what Chicago was like in 1938. The Loop was a much more vibrant and lively place then. People came downtown to go shopping. There were movie palaces everywhere. There were streetcars clanging down State Street. Chicago 1938 is very much alive in my head.
Which character do you feel most closely connected to?
Vivian. She’s everything I’d like to be myself—sassy and confident…and petite. I’ve always wanted to be petite.
Are any of your characters inspired by the people around you?
Not overtly, but I suppose I subconsciously use the personality traits of people around me for my fictional friends.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Trupin-Pulli, for believing in this little book in the first place. Thanks to my editor, Anna Michels, for molding my story into something better than I ever thought it could be. Thanks to my entire extended family—but especially to Barak and Kate for understanding and giving me the space to write…and just stare off into space sometimes. Thanks to Kerri Ricker and Julie Shaner Jones for always encouraging me in this writing dream.
Thanks to all of those who put together the fantastic Nostalgia Digest, whose back issues were instrumental in my research of radio and the prewar period. Thanks to the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) organization, which lit the fire under me to start this book so many years ago. (This book was the only time in three tries that I “won.”) Thanks to the RWA Kiss of Death chapter for sponsoring the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense, which, at long last, helped me find my people.
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