Meet Duffy Dombrowski: The Man of Female Protagonists’ Dreams

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Tom Schreck was the director of an inner city drug clinic; he’s a black belt and a world championship boxing official. As an author he created the Duffy Dombrowski Mysteries, a series Publishers Weekly called “A Knockout!” Follow Duffy, the not-so-social-worker, as he moonlights as a bad professional boxer, drinks with his collection of lovable loser friends and somehow tries to exert a measure of control over his adopted Black Muslim basset hound Al. All this while trying to right the wrongs forced upon his vulnerable caseload.

“On the Ropes” was a Lovey and Crimespree Magazine nominee for “Best First Mystery” and an IMBA Bestseller. Tom is featured in the Echelon anthology “Missing” and his next Duffy Mystery is due out sometime in 2009.

First of all I’m honored to be a guest of The Stiletto Gang.

Any assemblage of women under that banner has to be a fun group.

And here’s a dirty little secret about me—my wife likes me to pick out her heels for her. She finds it only somewhat disturbing that I know more about women’s shoes than she does, but she does like my taste: at least 3.5 inches, (preferably sling backs), patent leather, black or animal print and with an obnoxiously pointed toe. Something tells me that’s all I should say on this topic.

I write the Duffy Dombrowski Mystery series. Duffy is a low level social worker whose caseload includes crack whores, addicts, small-time crooks and various other members of society that you’d find if you looked under enough rocks. At night he moonlights as a bad professional boxer, taking any fight he can for the extra cash. He beats the really bad fighters and loses to the good ones.

He’s also been saddled with a rescued basset hound named Al who flunked out of the Nation of Islam’s security force due to his personal hygiene challenges. Al has raised disobedience to a new level, prefers to have Duffy wait on him, and has a tendency to make the surrounding air unbreathable. He also has an uncanny knack of showing up at the exact right time and has saved Duffy’s ass on more than one occasion.

So a counselor with a repulsive caseload whose main hobby is a sport that involves assaultive behavior and a pet whose main traits involve flatulence, drooling, and the destruction of household furniture…

Just what today’s female readership is longing for, right?

Well, I think they should for several key reasons.

Reason One: Duffy is sensitive without being all Phil Donohue about it. He’s a Robin Hood for the little guy but he’s no bleeding heart limousine liberal—he lives it everyday. He also knows a manipulative con artist exploiting the system when he sees one.

Reason Two: Duffy can kick ass and think. He isn’t violent for the fun of it — except in the gym — but when someone is abusing the vulnerable, Duffy knows it’s going to take more than reasoning to get it to stop. Sure, he usually takes time to think things through before he throws a punch…usually, depending on how the rest of his day went.

Reason Three: Duffy isn’t a cliché. Sure, he can fight but he gets beat, he can’t cook, he lives in a trailer, not a 52-foot houseboat, he’s a counselor not a shrink, and he knows nothing about the law, forensics or science. He’s real and he’s genuine.

In other words I think Duffy would make a great boyfriend to all those frustrated female protagonists out there. All the loser men who fear commitment and intimacy and all the limp wristed wimps that our favorite female sleuths have to put up with would be refreshed with Duff’s company.

That is, if they could stand the trailer, the drooling, farting hound and Duff’s penchant for Schlitz.

Well… maybe.

Tom Schreck
http://www.tomschreck.com/

For an in-depth review of On the Ropes check out the following blog –
http://acmeauthorslink.blogspot.com/

Slippery Things

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Sometimes you lose them forever. Sometimes you just misplace them. Sometimes they aren’t real.

Memories are slippery, amorphous creatures that wiggle through our fingers and disappear under the bed with all the glowing eyed monsters, single rogue socks, and books that are never where you left them.

Unlike other people who profess to remember early life experiences, I’ve never been convinced that I have “real” memories of my life before age four. I have photographs implanted in my mind of events – images that come from actual photographs, home movies, or relatives’ retelling of events. But real memories at ages two or three? I don’t think so. Not me.

Drive-in movie theaters populated the landscape when I was a preschooler. I have a distinct memory of a long car trip from California to Oklahoma. My family was moving home, back to Oklahoma, pulling a trailer, with only enough money for gas and not much else. My dad drove straight through. I lay on a mattress in the packed backseat (remember when cars were big enough you could put mattresses in the backseat?). Level with the windows, I had a 360 degree view of the sky. I remember a string of drive-in movie screens that I could see from my makeshift bed.

I know the trip was real. I know we drove at night. And I also know that no one took photographs and told me about the drive-in movie screens. The adults would have had no reason to talk to me about the flickering images seen from the highway. No one but a bored preschooler would have been fascinated by the quick peeks at scenes from movies as we passed by.

It’s strange to think that my first real memory might have been scenes from B movies. Images moving on a screen without sounds or endings.

That night I discovered the power – I could make up my own stories.

Other people claim to have memories of events at a much earlier age. Maybe they’re real memories. Maybe as a toddler I was just so self-absorbed that I didn’t pay much attention to what was going on around me. To some extent I’ve always lived in my head. From my enthrallment with my grandmother’s stories of talking mice families living in her house, to my discovery of entire worlds hidden in books, to the miraculous glory of movies, I had found a way to leave the here and now. I could be anyone, travel anywhere, and change anything that I wanted – whenever I wanted.

In my mind, I could rewrite the endings to those books, television shows, and movies so that the main characters not only rode off into the sunset together, but had lives afterward. I added scenes that happened after the credits rolled, after the last page was turned. In my mind I wrote the epilogue, the years after Shane came back, the rebuilding of Tara, and the marriage of Candy and Jeremy long after the cancellation of Here Comes the Brides.

About five years ago, with the encouragement of Marian, my co-author and friend, I began putting scenes on paper. The words I heard in my head became dialogue between people I created. The people did what I told them to do.

It was magic. It was powerful.

It was another form of what I’d always done.

Or at least that’s my memory of it.

Evelyn David

In Gratitude, Part I

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We at the Stiletto Gang have been in existence almost a year, by my accounting. It has been a lot of fun, blogging about this and that and learning about my fellow writers and all of you posters, who always let us know when we’re on the right track, and when we’ve ridden off the rails. We’ve prayed together, laughed together, and shared some excitement, like when new books come out. And we are all very grateful here that you take time out of your busy schedules to see what we have to say and how we have to say it and when you think we’re right on. Thank you for that.

I wanted to take the opportunity to acknowledge Marian, Marilyn, Rhonda, and Susan, who have become wonderful friends and sounding boards throughout the past year.

1. Marian, or the Northern Half of Evelyn David: Our Monday go-to girl, I remember back in January of this past year, we presented at a library in Vorhees, New Jersey, and had a fabulous time. Seeing her talk to some of the at-risk writers who came to hear our talk was inspirational, and although I already had met Marian once before, I was reminded of how special this woman was. It was at this event, as I shoveled pastry and coffee into my pie hole, that she asked me if I’d like to join the Stiletto Gang. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. Marian is a marketing force to be reckoned with. Me? Not so much. I was honored for the invite and I was not about to say no.

Marian has taught us the proper usage of “OY!” (my new favorite expression, peppered into ALL conversation), poo-poo-poo (correct my spelling, Marian…this is a catch-all and ward off for all bad things, I believe), and how to prepare Passover dinner correctly. (Not that I’ve done this yet. Maybe next year?) She has shared her thoughts on writing, family, and life and I for one, am extremely grateful for her insights.

2. Marilyn: Our friend to the Far West—thank you, too, for all of your marketing genius, but most of all for keeping us abreast of the goings on of your large, extended family. I don’t know how you keep them all straight! It has been a pleasure reading about your remembrances, hearing about your book signings and visits to writing conventions, and learning about the members of your family. I appreciate your “stop and take time to smell the roses” reminders every now and again; who of us don’t need those? And I enjoy learning from your vast experience. You are truly blessed, Marilyn, and we are lucky to have you with us on this venture and in the world.

3. Rhonda: Our Southern Evelyn. Someday, we’re going to sit at one of our kitchen counters and eat that apple cake, which I have yet to make (slacker that I am). Somehow, I just know, despite having never met, that we are kindred spirits. Rhonda is our techno-goddess—you’ve got a Stiletto problem, Rhonda’s got a solution. And her solution comes with patience, and I think a smile (I can only guess). Never in a bad mood, always willing to help, always looking for ways to keep our site fresh and vibrant. Rhonda doesn’t disappoint. She’s got a full-time job, a full-time writing gig, and a busy life (she actually takes care of her yard, from what I gather…something I can’t do for the life of me) and manages to do everything with aplomb. I look forward to the day, as I know Marian does, too, when we can meet.

4. Susan: Our newest Stiletto girl but the one whom I’ve known the longest, despite having never met in person. Back when “Murder 101” was just a twinkle in my and St. Martin’s eye, my editor said we needed some blurbs. She told me that she was going to go to Susan McBride, who she proclaimed “one of the nicest people she knew” and who might be willing to read the manuscript and comment. Well, if you bought my first book in hardcover, you’ll see that not only did Susan read and comment, she gave me a rave. And I think that went a long way in getting the book noticed by a readership who loved Susan’s Debutante Dropout Mysteries (I’m a HUGE fan) and were looking for something similar. Thank you, Susan. I’ll always be grateful to you for taking the time to take a chance on a new writer and for lending your support. And I’m thrilled that we have you for the Stiletto Gang once a month. Your thoughts on life and living are in complete agreement with ours, but I always learn something new. We’re both survivors and we’re finding our way in that designation but together, I’m sure we’ll forge new paths. Best of luck with the new “Debs” series—I, for one, am loving the first one!

I have so much to be grateful for this year but only six hundred words (I’m over at almost 900). If you don’t mind, there will be more of these. In gratitude to all of you.

Maggie

Holiday Crunch

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Is everyone beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed like I am?

Some of what’s happening with me is my own fault. I say “yes” when I really ought to say “no.”

We did cut down on Christmas decorating this year because of our three cats. Last year they thought we’d brought them a new toy and they managed to completely denude the tree of all ornaments and broke a lot of them.

I’ve got a bunch of gifts on the bed in the spare room that need to be wrapped. Yes, I know, I said was giving everyone money, and I am, but for those who’ll be over here Christmas Eve, I want them to have a few presents to unwrap.

Saturday I was holed up in the back room of an antique store from 9 to 5 with my books, hoping for people to stop by, chat, have some cookies and hot cider, and maybe buy a book or two. That actually worked out better than you might think. A tour of homes decorated for Christmas was going on and many people stopped at the antique store between houses. There’d been a good article in the local paper about Kindred Spirits, my latest, and I also sent out some invitations.

Next Friday and Saturday I’ll be doing the same thing in the back of Porterville’s Art Gallery on Main St. Hopefully I’ll have some newspaper coverage for that too, I’ve taken the information to the reporter that I have a relationship with (she’s a friend) and a copy of the book. I’ve sent out invites to people who live down there, so we’ll see. But all day, from 10 to 5 is tiring and things pile up at home when I’m gone like that.

I just received an order via PayPal from a book that I just sold the last copies of on Saturday. I’ll have to go up to our local gift shop where I have my books on consignment and get one back so I can mail it since it’s for a Christmas present. (I have ordered more, but they won’t get here in time.) While I’m at the gift store, I’ll resupply what they are out of and give them copies of my latest.

I have a bunch of books I need to review for a writer’s organization I belong to. Truly, I don’t mind doing it, in fact I usually enjoy the books, but it’s going to be hard to squeeze it in with all that’s going on right now.

And guess what, hubby and I decided to play hooky this morning and go see Australia. We went to breakfast first then headed to the movie which started at 11:30 a.m. A warning, it lasts for three hours though I can assure you it doesn’t seem that long. It was a wonderful movie, like an old time epic Western. Watching Hugh Jackman take a shower was quite a highlight.

So now I’m home, trying to play catch-up while my chili-beans cook in the slow cooker. (Put them in early this a.m. before I left home.)

Seems like I don’t ever really get caught up.

Though I’m putting the finishing touches on another Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery–still reading it to my critique group–I really need to start putting together another Rocky Bluff P.D. novel. Have some ideas, but that’s about it right now.

So, I’ll try to finish up a few things before dinner. Hope you all are more organized than I am at this point. But do take time out and enjoy yourself like we did today.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Where’s Bullwinkle When You Need Him?

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Anyone remember the cartoon Rocky and His Friends? I’m certainly not talking about that turkey of a movie that came out in 2000 with Rene Russo and Jason Alexander. Seriously Hollywood, there are some stories that don’t need retelling.

Anyway, I’ve gotten up close and personal with Rocky J. Squirrel – or at least his direct descendents. My attic has been invaded by flying squirrels.

It began three weeks ago. I awoke in the middle of the night to something. You know the sensation — although at the time, I assumed that it was Clio, our dog, trying to tell me that she needed to go out. Wonderful woman that I am, I ignored my first inclination – to wake my husband and tell him to take care of the damn dog. I sleepily accompanied Clio down the steps when I saw this little black animal half-flying, half-scurrying up the wall.

Forget wonder woman, I immediately headed back to the bedroom and screeched, “Get up.” I might point out that at this point, our faithful watchdog slid under the bed and was never heard from again that night.

My husband stumbled to his feet and headed for the door, when I, ever the Girl Scout leader, declared, “Put on your glasses.” No point in going into battle when you can’t see five feet in front of your face.

I resisted the urge to slide under the bed with Clio. After a few minutes, my husband returned and announced he had vanquished the intruder – or in this case, trapped what we thought was a baby squirrel in a paper bag and deposited him in the backyard.

Oh, would the story have ended happily right there.

Alas, over the next few days, we heard scurrying in the walls, although no more wildlife actually appeared where I could see them. A call to an exterminator informed me that squirrels were a protected species and couldn’t just be killed like rats. I wasn’t making such a fine distinction since my skin crawled at every sound. I needed a wildlife trapper. I had no idea that such a profession still existed. I thought trappers went the way of Daniel Boone and the beaver coat.

So now we have six traps installed in our attic, and the wildlife removal expert has promised to visit at least twice a week until the invasion has been definitively squelched. Then I need to hire a roofer to inspect our 18-month old roof to see where these squirrels are gaining entrance.

Cost? You don’t want to know, but let’s just say that Chanukah presents have been reduced to nuts for all.

I think I’ll move to Moosylvania.

Evelyn David

Shopping Can Be Murder

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Now that I’ve got a solid draft of the third Debs book done and to my agents who’ll use their eagle eyes to spot boo-boos, I can finally think of the holidays. Ed’s off today so we’re heading out to get our tree at some point, and I’ll dig out the Christmas decorations from the basement to make the house look semi-festive (I’m no Martha Stewart so “semi” is pretty much it). Then I’ve got to start pondering gifts; although with the tragic news of Black Friday incidents, I’m considering doing all my shopping online.

Um, might I ask what’s up with Black Friday and mayhem? A Wal-Mart worker was trampled to death in Long Island, two men shot each other at a Toys-R-Us in California, and two women were hit by a car in a parking lot in Kansas City all because of cheap electronics and talking Elmos?

Who thought of this Black Friday thing? I’d like to clobber them with a leftover turkey leg. Wouldn’t it be easier on everyone if they just had these super-duper deals starting at regular store hours on Friday and then extending through Christmas (or until supplies ran out)? Then people wouldn’t have to camp out in parking lots for 12 hours or more ahead of time, trying to be first in line. Instead, they could spend more time with their families, which is what the season’s supposed to be about after all. When did things get so crazy? Like worrying about nutball drivers (hello, hang up the cell, please!), the recession, terrorist attacks, pirates, and earthquakes (yes, St. Louis is on a fault line!) isn’t enough. Now I have to fear for my life when I’m Christmas shopping?

Oy! As I’ve said many times to my hubby, I think I’ll just stay home and never go out. It’s a good thing I’m a full-time writer so I could actually do that if I had someone else to do all my errands. Unfortunately, Stephanie Meyer’s assistant is really busy at the moment, and Mary Higgins Clark’s staff won’t work for free. Rats.

I’ve decided I’m going to develop a realistic shopping strategy, one that doesn’t place me in the middle of crazy-busy malls with shopping zealots who’d doubtless slit my gizzard in a fight over a Wii. Last year, I did plenty of on-line and catalogue shopping, but I missed Cyber Monday entirely because of the book and I’m probably a little late for ordering from catalogues. What I want to do is print some of my gift ideas from the manufacturers’ websites, visit local stores that carry those brands, and see if they can order for me. I’d much rather deal with local retailers anyway, particularly ones in my ‘hood. We’ll see if that pans out!

I’m also planning to do some shopping at the area Humane Society (no, not for a new kitty…this time!). They have a cool gift shop, and I’m supporting the organization by spending money there. I’ve got other donation-related presents on my list as well. Last year, I gifted my pig-loving aunt with a three month sponsorship of Snortin’ Norton at a rescue farm. Linda loved getting the card with Snortin’ Norton’s photo, saying “thank you for feeding me–oink!” So if any of my family is reading this, don’t be surprised if you get a card saying you’re the proud sponsor of Chuckles the Chicken or Gouda the Goat. And you’re welcome already.

I’d like to hear from y’all about how you’re changing your shopping habits this year, whether it be because of tight times or mega-mall-phobia. Are you buying on-line more? Making more donations? Doing hand-crafted gifts?

Sometimes it seems we forget entirely what the season is supposed to be about, and it’s certainly not nabbing the lowest price on a flat-screen TV or a new Wii. Have any of you ever scrapped the commercial aspect of the holidays altogether? Or had a truly “green” eco-friendly Christmas? Let me know. I’m game for suggestions on how to enjoy the time of year without the busted budget and all the stress!

Susan McBride’s YA series debut with Random House, THE DEBS, features four prep school seniors in Houston clawing their way through their debutante season. A Fall 2008 Kid’s Indie Next Pick, THE DEBS has been called “Gossip Girl on mint juleps.” The second DEBS book, LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS, will be out in June of 2009; the third, GLOVES OFF, in March 2010. Susan has also penned five Debutante Dropout Mysteries for HarperCollins/Avon, including TOO PRETTY TO DIE, and has signed with HC/Avon to write a trade paperback beach book called THE COUGAR CLUB, about three forty-something women who date younger men. Visit her web site at http://www.SusanMcBride.com for more scoop.

Susan McBride

Computer Woes

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As I typed the title to this blog, I had to wait several beats for the letters to show up on the screen. My old laptop is not the fastest, but it’s all I have at the moment.

My desktop computer – a Dell Dimension E510 is up on blocks right now. About a month ago ….Okay I admit that several months ago I noticed a heavy fan noise that came and went. I figured it was just over heating. I’d open the door on my desk that houses the cpu and a few seconds later, the noise would go away. And yes, I’ve taken to leaving the door open to avoid that noise.

But back to my story – about a month ago I pushed the button to turn on my desktop computer and nothing happened. I thought perhaps the button was stuck, so I pushed it again. Nothing. I, of course, pushed it again, only harder. It started – the light on the button came on and the birds sang. No problem.

You’re saying something about heads buried in sand, aren’t you?

Yes, you are right, the same thing happened again a few days later. Then I unplugged the computer and replugged it. I also clicked my heels three times and spun in my computer chair. The cpu light came on.

At that point, I was unable to ignore it. I did have a problem. My computer with all my files, my writing, my emails, my life, was on borrowed time. So I did what everyone does now when trouble appears on their doorstep or desktop – I ran an Internet search.

“Dell computer won’t power on. Help.”

I found lots of advice and information. Who knew that the power light pulsed in different colors depending on status? An amber flashing light meant that power was reaching some parts of the computer but not all – I was advised to check for peripherals that might be sucking the life blood …uh power from my unit. I checked. Everything seemed to be plugged in properly.

I decided I’d better backup everything. I left my computer on for the next week while I purchased an external hard drive and used it to preserve all the details of my life.

More research yielded the information that I probably needed a new heart (new power supply unit) for my computer. I ordered one, plus a small battery that Dell recommended I purchase along with the power supply unit. I think it might be the pacemaker for the unit. Since I was going to be opening up my cpu for the heart transplant operation, I decided that I might as well add more memory and a larger hard drive.

The memory and hard drive arrived first. I was able to install them with a minimum of fuss with about a 90% confidence level.

While waiting for UPS to deliver the new heart, and feeling cocky with my recent success, I decided to clean the old power supply unit – just in case it was only dust causing the problem.

Taking out the power supply unit was fairly easy. But it involved a large number of wires being disconnected. After I had unplugged a half dozen or so, I realized I should have left bread crumbs so I could reconnect them later, but I had gone too far to stop so I didn’t.

I cleaned the power supply unit and then put it back in the cpu. Then I attempted to reconnect all the wires. I managed all but three. For some reason these three were now too short to reach anything. Not sure how that happened.

I stopped the operation, not willing to risk hooking up the heart incorrectly and killing the patient.

Today I got the new power supply unit in the mail.

Tomorrow I take the cpu and the new power supply to a trained heart surgeon. After all, my computer first aid skills only go so far.

And it is my life we’re talking about.

Evelyn David

p.s. Dell is having a sale. I might need a backup.

p.s.s. Anyone know why when I type on my laptop, sometimes the computer seems to lose its place and suddenly I’m typing on a previous line of text????

A Little Snippet from “Quick Study”

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Dear Stiletto Gang readers: I hope you don’t mind…I’m going to give you a little snippet from “Quick Study” the third installment in the Alison Bergeron/Murder 101 series that will be published on December 9. Alison’s journey begins at Madison Square Garden where she is celebrating her birthday with her best friend, Max.

If you want to read more of “Quick Study”, www.read-it-first.com will be posting excerpts all next week in anticipation of its release. Their copy, unlike this one, will be fully copyedited and proofread. 🙂

Enjoy! Maggie

****

“I don’t know who you are, but I love you!”

The voice was deep, rough, and heavily inflected with the accent of one of the outer boroughs, and it belonged to the guy sitting in back of me at Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Rangers, my favorite professional hockey team. And the comment, which was directed at me, was made even more interesting by the fact that I was sitting beside my best friend, Max, who had packed her one-hundred-pound frame into a size two slinky black cocktail dress, her cleavage prominently and proudly displayed for all to see. She’s tiny but she’s got a great rack. It’s a veritable “rack of ages.” Nobody, and I mean nobody, had ever noticed me when Max was around. And we had twenty years of friendship on which to draw on, proving this point. I was not in a cocktail dress, having opted instead to wear my new Mark Messier jersey (he was number eleven and the sole reason for the Rangers’ Stanley Cup win in 1994, thank you very much), a pair of jeans that I had purchased in the last millennium, and sneakers that had seen their fair share of painting projects. My hair was pulled back into a ponytail, I had a smear of ketchup on my cheek and now, after jumping up to take umbrage at a call, a glass of beer soaking my chest. I don’t even like beer, but when in Rome…you know the rest. But apparently, when I yelled, “Shit, ref, you’re killing us! That’s a bullshit call!” after a bogus hooking penalty, I had forever pledged my troth to Bruno Spaghetti, as Max had dubbed him when we arrived, seat 4, row D, section 402.

He ran his hands through his spiky black hair and grabbed me in an embrace, his silver hoop earring brushing my cheek. Max, who had been standing for the better part of the last period and who thus had incurred the wrath of everyone behind her—many of whom had missed said bogus penalty because their only view was the back of her well-coiffed head—fell back into her seat, her cocktail dress riding up on her yoga-toned thighs. But Bruno didn’t notice; he only had eyes for me. See, we were sitting way up high in Rangerland, a place that used to be called “the blue seats,” and in which only the hardest core hockey fans sat. Now they’re teal, which doesn’t lend them the same menacing air. A gorgeous woman in a slinky black dress with spectacular boobs had nothing on a five foot ten college professor with a pot belly and beer breath who loved hockey and who could curse with the best of them.

It was my birthday and my boyfriend had given me the jersey and the tickets. Crawford—Bobby to the rest of the world—was a detective in the New York City Police Department and working overtime that night, hence my birthday date being Max. He had stopped by school on his lunch break to wish me a happy birthday, appearing in my office doorway at around one; I was preparing for my next class, a two o’clock literature seminar, and was delighted to be distracted from the critical essay on Finnegan’s Wake that was putting me to sleep. I’m a Joyce scholar but even I recognize that obscure is not the same thing as exciting and that makes my relationship with the subject of my doctoral dissertation tenuous at best. I love a challenge, though, and had spent the better part of my academic career trying to figure out if Joyce was laughing with us or at us. I was slowly coming to the conclusion that it was the latter.

I could tell that Crawford was excited by the items in the gift bag he was holding behind his back. He leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek; although he is a seasoned detective and an all-around good guy, he gets really nervous around the nuns I work with at St. Thomas University, my employer. Whenever he visits me at school, he looks like he’s on his way to detention, even though I’m sure he’s never done anything more scandalous than passing a note in class. He took the bag from behind his back and set it on my desk, settling himself into one of the chairs across from me, a self-satisfied smile on his handsome, Irish face.

I love the guy but there’s one thing that bugs me: every time he gives me an item of clothing, it’s always extra-large. I’m extra tall but not extra fat, so this concerns me. Is this how he sees me? Or does he think women should wear tent-like clothing? I still hadn’t figured it out. I held his gift aloft and spread my arms wide to examine it, full width: a Messier jersey. Despite the size, I couldn’t have asked for a better present. “Crawford! I love it!” I said and came from around the desk. I kicked my office door closed so I could give him a proper thank you, sitting on his lap and putting my arms around my neck. “Now the best present you could give me would be your undivided attention tonight,” I said, hopefully, although I guessed this wouldn’t be the case.He shook his head sadly. “I can’t. I pulled an extra shift so I could go to Meaghan’s basketball playoff Monday night.” Meaghan is one of his twin daughters; she was banking on a basketball scholarship to get her through college. I had come to realize that basketball was like a religion in that family; what teenage girl would count former New York Knick Bill Bradley among her crushes if it wasn’t?

Maggie Barbieri

Quick Study is available now for pre-order at Amazon.com

Give Yourself a Holiday Gift

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Frankly, I don’t really want anything for Christmas. I love the holiday season and everything about it, but the older I get the less I like to shop for and receive presents. I have way too much stuff already. For my kids, grandkids, and greats I’ve decided to just give money rather than spending money on something they don’t really want.

For myself, I’d rather use the money for a trip. In fact, that’s more or less what I’ve been doing the past few years. Of course money isn’t as easy to come by nor does it goes as far as it used to.

When I go on a trip, I like to somehow combine it with promotion if at all possible.

What I’d like to suggest is whether you are a mystery reader or writer, that you consider giving yourself the gift of attending a writers conference or mystery convention. There are plenty out there to choose from. Last year hubby and I went to Love is Murder in Chicago and had a great time. We’ve already signed up for EPICon which is for electronically published writers. Mayhem in the Midlands is another favorite–we love Omaha and we’ve made lots of friends who come to that convention regularly.

Another, much smaller conference, is the Public Safety Writers Conference. I’m in charge of the program for this one and I’m proud to say we have a wonderful line-up of speakers. I won’t bore you by going over the whole list, but mystery author Betty Webb will be there, Steve Scarborough who is a forensic expert, used by both the Las Vegas Police and the FBI will tell us how to write it right, we’ll have a forensic handwriting expert, a retired arson investigator and many others.

Everyone who wants to will participate on a panel if they sign up before May 1. It would be best to sign up before May 30th March 31 when the price rises. If you have a book, you may bring it to sell at our bookstore. (10 % of all sales go to PSWA.)

Because a great number of our members are or were in law enforcement, there are a wealth of people to ask all your questions about crime and crime solving. Networking is definitely encouraged.

If you are interested and would like to learn more, go to http://www.policewriter.com/ and check it out. The conference is held June 18-22 at the Sun Coast Hotel in Vegas. If you want to bring the kids, there’s lots for them to do at this hotel–swimming pool, movie theaters, and video arcade, flat screen TVs in every room.

On the Sunday afternoon that the conference concludes, those who would like to will meet at Cheesecake and Crime Bookstore in Henderson from a booksigning.

Since I’m the program chair, naturally I’ll be at this conference. From having attended this particular conference for about five years, I can tell you that it is indeed one of the friendliest around. Hubby and I manage to have fun at everything we do–but this one is right up there at the top when it comes to a good time.

For me, this is the best kind of holiday gift there is. I hope that some of you will consider this for a gift for yourself.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Fàilte (or Welcome as they say in Scottish Gaelic)

/in /by

I’ve just returned from the land of Highland Coos – those adorable shaggy cows that look like over-sized Shih Tzus. My husband and I spent a week visiting our daughter who is spending the semester at the University of Glasgow. Don’t ask me what time it is — my internal time clock is on the fritz.

My husband is a Scottish history junkie. So for days we wandered from Cathedral to battlefield to castle ruins, he examining old relics, me sipping tea and holding an informal scone contest (which the café at St. Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art won hands down).

Our first stop was Rosslyn Chapel, a small fifteenth century exquisite stone church, every single inch of which is covered with ornate and detailed carvings. You probably recognize the name because it’s the site of the big reveal in Dan Brown’s thriller, The Da Vinci Code. With the publication of the book in 2003, visits mushroomed from 30,000 per year to 30,000 in a single month! By the way, talk about the power of the Internet for research – our guide told us that until they filmed the movie, Dan Brown had never actually visited Rosslyn Chapel. As a mystery writer, I was more intrigued by the whodunit our guide shared. One of the stone carvings, completed in the early 1400s, was of maize. Keep in mind that new world corn was unknown in Europe at that time, was not cultivated on the continent until several hundred years later – and Christopher Columbus had yet to sail the ocean blue! Hmmm.

My personal favorite was Paisley Abbey, built in the twelfth century, with magnificent stained glass windows. While my husband was studying the role this old abbey played in Scottish history, I was enthralled by the romantic story our guide told. Marjorie, daughter of Robert the Bruce (think Braveheart with Mel Gibson), married Walter Steward, a local nobleman. Pregnant, she was on her way to the abbey when her horse stumbled and she was thrown. The monks desperately tried to save her, but alas she died. In a twist worthy of the best of the tearjerkers, her son survived to become Robert II, the first of the Stewarts (later to become “Stuarts”) who ruled Scotland until 1689.

I found great ideas for mysteries everywhere I went (does this mean I can deduct the trip as research?). We spent an afternoon at Scone Palace (which incidentally had only mediocre scones in their teashop). This is the crowning site of Scottish kings. I loved the ornate rooms and the absolutely phenomenal collection of porcelain which dominates the bookshelves of the wood-paneled library. The owners, who still reside at the palace, made the pragmatic decision that visitors would be more interested in looking at their huge collection of china than at old books. As an author, I feel honor-bound to protest. But the unsolved mystery, which perhaps could be the storyline of the next Sullivan Investigations book, is what happened to the Stone of Destiny? Also known at the Stone of Scotland, upon which the Kings of Scotland were coronated, it was stolen by the British in the 13th century and held in Westminster Abbey until Queen Elizabeth II returned it to Scotland in 1996. Sounds good except that the stone now residing in Holyrood Chapel in Edinburgh isn’t the original, according to experts who have studied its composition. So what really happened to the Stone of Destiny? Did the Scots, knowing the British were close, hide the Stone? If so, where? What happens in a whodunit when all the major players have been dead for more than eight centuries?

Sadly, even the best of vacations have to end – otherwise, what would you be vacationing from? Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving, full of cheer, love, and good food (haggis, nothwithstanding).

Slàinte (or bottoms up as we say here in the colonies!),

Evelyn David