Whatever, as Merry is wont to say. It all worked out as it was supposed to, and I managed to survive another harebrained scheme, as Gregory so charmingly described it later.
Later that night, after what seemed like an endless repetition of our stories that evening to various detectives from the big city as well as our own, Merry and I were finally allowed to go home. I was past exhaustion at that point, and all I wanted was an extra-large mug of coffee and a plateful of almond biscotti. And my husband, of course.
After we had watched Merry stumble tiredly across the lawn and into her house, Greg and I went inside our own domicile. My kitchen had never looked as inviting as it did just then. It was only after I was comfortably seated with the requisite java and sweets combo in front of me and Trixie on my lap that I began to tremble uncontrollably. In spite of the reassurances I'd heard from Officer Scott, I had truly felt threatened by Beatrice Lemon. And when I thought of the damage that small statuette had inflicted on Lucia's head (I just couldn't think of her as "Lucy") I had to set the mug down before I dropped it.
Thankfully, Gregory was still cognizant of my emotional state in spite of moving time zones. He gently lifted me to my feet and guided me down the hallway to our bedroom, Trixie leading the way. The last thing I recall before sinking into sweet oblivion was a feeling of utter contentment, Greg's arm around me and Trixie's small body nestled between us.
The next morning was sunny, only a few errant clouds in the sky to mar the blue. I'd slept long and well in spite of the close call of the previous evening, and Gregory's insistence that I relax in bed was sweet but unnecessary. I was rejuvenated and ready to hear the end of the story, provided I could convince Merry to join us.
Two quick phone calls later found me in the shower, allowing the warmth of the water to soothe my neck and back as I stood with my face averted from the stinging spray. And when I felt the shower curtain open and my husband join me, I smiled. At least one of us would get a good back rub out of this.
"You know," said Greg in my ear as he nuzzled my neck, "there are easier ways to do research for your books."
I chuckled. "Maybe. Maybe not." I turned around to face him. "I got a brilliant idea for killing off my antagonist, though, a la Beatrice Lemon." I rubbed water out of my eyes and added, "Can you believe that she actually kept the murder weapon? That was awfully cheeky of her."
"Well, some criminologists think that it's all about the memory that the weapon stimulates." He bent to kiss my nose. "And in case you hadn't noticed, there are other things getting stimulated around here."
Oh, I'd noticed. I'd definitely noticed. I just hoped we'd be out of the shower before Merry and Officer Scott showed up.
* * *
"These are fabulous, girl!" Merry's cheerful self was back in evidence, not a trace of the night's misadventures marring her smile. "Let me guess: Joey?" She licked the cream filling from her fingers, earning a stern look from Officer Scott. He, ever proper, was attempting to eat his pastry with a knife and fork. I grinned as the cream horn slid sideways and landed on the table.
"Yes." I looked at my own plate, empty of all but a few flaky pastry crumbs. You are not going to give in and have another one, I admonished myself silently as I nodded an answer. "He's almost as good as Mick was, don't you think?"
Merry's smile slipped a bit as we sat in silence, thinking about the senselessness of Mick O'Reilly's death. Maybe, if he'd not played games with the big boys, I thought, he and Merry might have…I shook my head to dispel the sudden melancholy. If there is one thing I've learned, nothing good can come of dwelling on the "what ifs" in life.
"So, Officer Scott," I began, "how did you all figure out that Beatrice Lemon was Lucia's killer? And have you gotten any further with the Mick O'Reilly case?" Gregory, Merry, and I sat quietly, anticipating the tell-all we'd requested from our pal in the police department.
He lifted a paper napkin to his lips and slowly blotted a few crumbs, stretching the silence out as thin as ice in April. I fidgeted, ready to come out of my chair, but a discreet nudge of Gregory's foot stopped me.
"When a crime is committed that smacks of a personal involvement, someone either close to the victim or who works in close proximity, we look at everyone around them." Officer Scott drew a series of circles in the air to illustrate his comments. "First, we looked at the inner circle, the family members that might have had an issue with her. The only thing we found was a sister who was plenty angry at the name change." He shook his head. "Somehow Lucia—Lucy—felt that she'd get further in life with a handle that sounded Italian."
I snorted. "That's a first," I said scornfully. "The last I heard the Italians were trying to change their names. Does Dean Martin ring a bell? Or Frankie Avalon?"
"Don't kill the messenger," Officer Scott said in a mild tone. "I'm just repeating what her sister told me." He looked around at the Keurig, a hopeful expression on his face. "Any chance of another coffee, Mrs. B?"
I nodded and got up, grabbing up his empty mug. "Anyone else?"
Once we all had another steaming mug of Dunkin' Donuts' blend in front of us, Officer Scott continued his tale.
"As I was saying, once the family members were eliminated, we looked at the next circle, the one where friends and close co-workers are." He did another looping movement with his finger. "In it we found Jetta, her secretary, and Bethany, her assistant. Neither one had a motive nor the means to carry out such a crime, so they were both eliminated as well." He paused, taking what seemed to be an overly-long sip of his coffee. "That sure hits the spot, Mrs. B. Now, where was I?"
"You were hanging out in some friends and family circle," offered Merry. "Sounds like a cell phone advertisement or something."
Officer Scott smiled, and I noticed a small pastry crumb in the corner of his mouth. So much for perfection, I thought with a grin.
"Yes. Well, that took us to another layer of relationships, those who were acquainted with her in the business world but might not have had friendly dealings with her, shall we say."
"Like Bea and Mick," I said.
He nodded. "Exactly. So once Mick was, ah, eliminated from the investigation"—I heard Merry take in a sharp breath as he said this —"we focused on Beatrice Lemon." He stopped talking and lifted his mug, enjoying the coffee with his eyes closed.
"And?" I couldn't help my impatience. When nothing else was forthcoming, I added, "And then you followed us to Bea's shop, where I managed to get her to confess and you made an arrest."
Officer Scott nodded. "Yep. That about sums it up."
The three of us stared at him, waiting for the punch line. Finally, Greg spoke.
"How was it, if I might ask, that you settled in on Bea as the killer? There's a vast difference between fencing stolen goods and murder." He shifted in his chair, shooting a quick glance at me that tacitly warned me to let him do the talking. I returned his look with one of my own that said get a move on it or I'll get the info my own way. Greg cleared his throat and went on, "Surely you had to have an idea of motive and means, officer. Did you know where to look for the weapon?"
"What better place to hide something than in a second-hand store?" He waved his hands expansively then paused, the very picture of a criminal with his hands in the air. "And could you please call me Scotty? I think we've known each other long enough to dispense with the formalities, don't you think?"
His words were for all of us but his smile was for Merry. She blushed, of course. Before my mind could get too far down that path, he added, "Being the souvenir collector that she was, I—we—figured that she'd be holding it close for easy access."
"Souvenir collector?" I was baffled at his description of Bea. I hadn't seen any souvenirs in her home, and I hadn't been in the mood to look for them during our little visit in her office.
"Sure," Scotty replied. "She was one to save things that meant something. I noticed her ticket stub collection right away, the day she was arrested."
"What ticket stubs? I've be
en in her house many a time and never saw any such thing, Officer Sc—Scotty," said Merry, the color deepening in her cheeks as she said his name. It was duly noted by yours truly and filed away for perusal at another time.
"And unless you had dug through that ginormous handbag she carried, you wouldn't have." Scotty took the last sip of his coffee, wiped his lips neatly with a swipe of his forefinger, and continued. "The day she was arrested, the contents of that bag were thoroughly documented. She was carrying around one of those coupon saver envelopes, the kind with the elastic fastener, and it was chock full of stubs of all kinds: movies, concerts, you name it, some dating back to her high school days." He shook his head. "Most of the guys laughed, but I felt kinda sorry for her. It was like she had to haul around those memories in order to make the good times real. It had to have been awful for her to have a friend like Lucia."
The four of us sat silently, considering his words. I understood that type of thinking. My own childhood, as mentioned before, did not give me much in the way of tangibles, but I had my self-taught mannerisms as my own collection of ticket stubs. I sighed deeply. Poor Bea. Poor me…
I nodded my head toward the last cream horn that sat in solo splendor. "Anyone want to split the last one with me?"
Life's too short to skip dessert, I thought. Live in the moment, smell the roses…and devour the pastries. That's my new motto, and I'm sticking to it.
Until the next diet, that is.
WRITING TIPS
Don't be so Cliché!
Sometimes overly-used comments lean toward the hilarious…especially if you've channeled these words before: Just wait until your dad gets home. Beds are for sleeping, not for jumping. Eat your vegetables. Don't sit so close to the TV. Your face is going to freeze that way.
In a book, though, a cliché can be downright irritating. While imitation may be a symptom of admiration, it can also be a sign of an under-developed plot or character. Here's a tip: If you can recognize your story in another's book or dialogue, take a step back and consider why this might be. Sometimes it's a case of admiration for another's work, and that's not a bad thing. But if it's because there is no inspiration on tap, lay down the pen and take a break.
Yes, I said it: take a break from writing. Get outdoors and enjoy nature. Gather with friends and get a game of charades going. Watch your children at play. Listen to whatever music inspires you. Soon the inspiration will come again, and you'll find that the words will begin to flow. And they'll be your own words, from your own imagination.
And isn't that why we write?
* * *
Why Can't You Be More Like…
We've all done it. We've read about a character or watched an actor and thought, "Now why can't so-and-so act like that?" Or—and this is even more telling, "Why doesn't s/he treat me that way?" Here's a hint—they are not real. They were created from the mind of the author or the scriptwriter and were given the characteristics that they'd like to see in others. In other words, they really don't know folks like that at all.
On the other hand, we've all had a reality check of sorts when reading a book or watching a film. We've recognized others and ourselves with amusement, guilt, distaste, and sadness. Why? The characters have been given "real life" attitudes. Whether we like it or not, these are the characters that we bond with. Bummer.
Take a quick peek at what you like more: fantasy or reality. And let that answer be the starting point for your character creation in your own writing. With that you'll have figured out what it is you do best.
And keep writing.
* * *
Better Readers and All That Jazz
As an educator, I have often heard—and said—that better readers make better writers. And it's true. According to research, those who consistently score highest on the SAT's critical reading, writing, and vocabulary portions are confirmed readers. They were read to as children, had access to books at home, and chose to read for pleasure rather than turn to technology for entertainment.
I mention this because of something I was asked recently by an acquaintance: "How can I become a better writer?" I asked him how much he read, and he laughed. "Just the back of the cereal box and the instructions for my video games." You can imagine my answer.
If you want to write something that others want to read, you need to read as well—and something more than game instructions. Start with a book that you might have missed in childhood. I recommend those written by Lois Lenski and Laura Ingalls Wilder and Beverly Cleary. Try Maude Hart Lovelace as well. Check out the series written by Madeleine L'Engle. I could go and on—the amount of wonderful books waiting for you out there is almost infinite.
Start reading. Move on to writers such as Ernest Hemingway. Or James Michner. Then you can write. And it will be worth reading. I promise.
* * * * *
FREE BOOK OFFER
Want to get an email alert when the next Proverbial Crime Mystery is available?
Sign up for our newsletter today
and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dane McCaslin, author of the new Proverbial Crime mystery series, resides in the state of Arizona with her very patient husband. She has been writing all of her life: poetry, short stories, journals, letters (yes, those old-fashioned epistles that require pen and paper), and now she brings her talents to the cozy mystery genre.
In addition to being an author, Dane McCaslin is an educator. She currently teaches advanced language arts classes for grade 11; additionally, she teaches beginning writing classes at the local university. Being an educator is an important part of her life, and passing on her passion for reading and writing is one of her great joys.
To learn more about Dane McCaslin, visit her online at: http://www.danemccaslin.co
* * * * *
BOOKS BY DANE MCCASLIN
Proverbial Crime Mysteries:
A Bird in the Hand
When the Cat's Away
The Pen is Mightier (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
Other works:
Murder at the Miramar
Becklaw's Murder Mystery Tour
Legend
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Proverbial Crime Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
A DOSE OF DEATH
by
GIN JONES
CHAPTER ONE
If there was anything that annoyed Helen Binney more than people who tried to help her without waiting to be asked, it was people who were cheerful and efficient while they were providing that unwanted help.
At the moment, it was Helen's nieces who were irritating her. Laura Gray, the younger one, was cheerfully fluffing the sofa's pillows, while her older sister, Lily Binney, efficiently collected the used mugs from the coffee table and carried them to the kitchen sink. The two young women puttered around the cottage's great room that encompassed both the living room and kitchen/dining areas. They tidied things that didn't need tidying, put away things that Helen preferred left out, and just generally turned the comfortable space into a sterile box.
Helen watched her nieces from the safety of her recliner. "I like living here all by myself. It's a nice change for me after twenty years of running the governor's mansion. Go away and leave me alone."
"You don't mean that." Laura's response was as emphatic as her pillow-fluffing and rug-straightening. "We just got here."
Lily returned from the far side of the kitchen island. "She does mean it, Laura. But it doesn't matter. It's obvious that Aunt Helen can't live here alone, so she'll have to move in with one of us, where we can take care of her."
"You're talking as if I'm old and decrepit," Helen said. "I may be retired, but it was early retirement. I don't even qualify to join AARP."
"You're old in spirit," Lily said, coming to a stop behind the sofa, where she could star
e down her aunt. "You always have been, according to Dad. And you admitted you were decrepit when you started to use a cane."
It wasn't her mind that was betraying her, it was her body, ravaged by a stupid, unpredictable disease. She could still count on her clear skin, thick brown hair and sharp brown eyes, but the rest of her was falling apart. Helen automatically glanced at the front door, where her cane hung from the knob, so she wouldn't forget to take it with her whenever she went out. It was a practical solution, but she hated the constant reminder of her limitations. Ever since she'd hit forty, her lupus had been taunting her, inflaming her joints, ruining her mood and stealing her independence.
"That's no way to talk to your aunt," she said, "calling me old and decrepit."
"It's the truth." Lily was naturally slender, with model-sharp cheekbones and an equally sharp mind that never forgot anything. "You're the one who told us always to tell the truth, never to hide behind the social lies that you were so good at before you decided to become a hermit."
"I was wrong." Apparently there was something worse than receiving unsolicited and unwanted help: having her own lectures quoted back at her. "Lies are good. You should tell more of them."
Laura, as soft around the edges as the pillow she hugged to her chest, sank onto the sofa. "It would be so nice if you came to live with me and Howie. I've always wanted an extended family for my children."
"You don't have any children yet," Helen said. "And when you do, you won't want me anywhere near them. Children hate me."
When the Cat's Away Page 18