Guilty!

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The mystery is how he managed to evade justice for 13 years.

It was a story with glamorous characters who hid nasty secrets. The red herrings were plentiful, but unbelievable. And it was only in the epilogue that you found a satisfying resolution.


Thirteen years to the day after he was found not guilty of the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman, “The Juice,” Orenthal James Simpson, finally heard a succession of guilty verdicts from a jury of his peers.

Most of us over 30 can remember with embarrassment the circus that masqueraded as a murder trial, that long summer of 1995. It was as if Warner Brothers had cast a remake of Judicial Animal House, featuring the wacky Judge Ito, the rhyming Johnnie Cochran, the frizzy-haired Marcia Clark, the freeloading houseguest Kato Kaelin, and starring as the romantic lead, but without a speaking part at this televised trial, the handsome football hero who couldn’t possibly have committed such heinous crimes.

And in the end, O.J. walked free, moving to Florida to escape paying millions of dollars in penalties when he was found guilty of these same murders in a civil trial a few years later. Over the last decade, we’ve seen OJ primarily on the front pages of the tabloids, as he continued his overindulged, entitled lifestyle, getting into brawls with new girlfriends and pirating satellite television to his mansion in Miami.

Like Al Capone who was finally convicted on tax charges, Simpson will spend time behind bars, not for the real crimes that most of us believe he committed, but for acting like a tough guy in Las Vegas. Like an Elvis impersonator who pretends to be the real thing, “The Juice” has fooled no one since that day 13 years ago in a California courtroom. He was a thug then; he is finally a convicted thug now.

May Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman rest in peace.

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/

The Mystery of the Vanishing Dollar

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I don’t have to tell you that the economy is in the tank. I think all of us know that everything from gas to milk to healthcare costs more; housing values have plummeted; jobs are disappearing. We’re all more nervous about our futures, unsure when, if ever, we can retire.

Though most of us think books are as vital as oxygen for our existence, a shaky economy means that there is less disposable income. Books sadly become luxury items. Book buyers are becoming a rare breed, with fewer dollars to spend. I think the big publishers are less willing to take a chance on unknown authors who don’t yet have proven track records. Even worse, public library budgets are being slashed. And here’s the conundrum: According to the American Library Association, in the face of economic hardship, visits to libraries and circulation are on the rise…and yet, budget pressures are forcing many libraries across the country to scale back hours or close.

Despite the fact that Wall Street and Main Street are both struggling, I think the case can be made that now, more than ever, we need cozy mysteries. As the wonderful Carolyn Hart, author of the Death on Demand series, explained, she writes traditional mysteries (she loathes the term, cozies), because in her world, the good guys always win. While we deal with the practical, often dispiriting, issues of life, we need escapes that capture our imaginations and make us laugh. We need heroes and heroines who make sure that good triumphs over evil; that wealth and power don’t trump honesty and hard work.

I can’t begin to fix this economy, but the Sullivan Investigation mysteries are Evelyn David’s investment in the future — our readers, ourselves. We believe that a world of books is the foundation of a strong economy – in dollars and sense.

Evelyn David

Sometimes a Great Notion

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Writers love good stories – and for me movies have been almost as important as books in shaping my outlook of the world.

I’ve been enjoying Paul Newman’s movies for almost as long as I’ve been aware of movies. My mother was a big fan. As a nine or ten-year-old I can remember staying up late with her and watching The Long Hot Summer on television. The movie, based on a couple of William Faulkner stories, debuted in theaters in 1958 and was aired on television often during the 1960s. I adored everything about it: the multi-layered characters, the Southern setting, and the wonderful use of words- the movie has great dialogue. It’s also packed with strong female characters. The Long Hot Summer introduced me to Paul Newman. It’s been almost a 40 year, one-sided love affair. I believe I’ve seen all of his movies. Some I’ve seen many, many times. All were worth the price of a ticket.

This past Sunday I learned of his death. I offer my condolences to his family, friends, and all the people his life has touched – whether through his movies or his charities. The world is a lesser place without him.

Paul Newman may be gone but his movies will be enjoyed forever. These Paul Newman movies are my particular favorites. The characters he plays are all very different – an outlaw, a con artist, a cop, a Cold War spy, a logger, a freedom fighter, an aging husband, a mobster, and a house painter. Can you match the job to the movie? How long does it take you? More than a minute – then you need to break out the popcorn and rent some DVDs.

1958 – The Long Hot Summer
1960 – Exodus
1966 – Torn Curtain
1969 – Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid
1971 – Sometimes A Great Notion (aka Never Give an Inch)
1981 – Fort Apache the Bronx
1990 – Mr. & Mrs. Bridge
2002 – Road to Perdition
2005 – Empire Falls

Answers in the comment section of this blog entry on Saturday.

Do you have a favorite Paul Newman movie? Tell us about it.

Evelyn David

The Mystery of the Not So Amazin’ Mets

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I’m going to talk about collapse, but not the one that you think. Because if I started talking about that one, I may never stop, and that would not be good.

Why do we root for sports teams who break our hearts? Are we masochists? (Or is it sadists? I never get that one straight.) Or are we eternally optimistic? “This will be our big year!”

Well, as a long-suffering New York Met fan, our big year—our moment of glory, if you will—preceded my marriage to my husband by three years, was when I still had bangs, wore shoulder pads and mini-skirts to work, was eight years before my first child was born, and about thirty pounds ago. It was 1986. We were at a wedding in Massachusetts for two people who we saw maybe twice before they got married and never after. We were there when Buckner let the ball roll through his legs at first base and wondered if we would get out of Amherst alive. (It’s not all Emily Dickinson and poetry, at least not when the Sox are involved.) But we went back to the safety of our hotel room celebrated like it was 1999, as quietly as we could so that we didn’t get killed. Little did we know that that was our big break; although we went to the World Series in 2000 and faced the Yankees in a rare thing known as the “Subway Series” our hearts would be broken again. (I’m looking at you Armando Benitez.) Our hearts would be broken time and time again, starting with last year’s historic collapse (seven games ahead, seventeen to play) and followed up by this year’s kind of whimpering close-out of Shea Stadium, not exactly hallowed baseball halls, but a landmark for Met fans nonetheless.

My husband and I sat on the couch on Sunday, me suffering from a sinus infection (ever had one of those? Me either. They stink.), him suffering from Met fan syndrome, commonly called “chokus perpetualis.” We watched as they had chance after chance to tie the score, pull ahead on the scoreboard, put the whole thing to bed. Oh, but the Milwaukee Brewers had to lose, too, to make our post-season dreams a reality, so we watched the score in that game with baited breath knowing that one win and one lose would mean success or curtains, two losses or two wins would mean one more tie-breaking game.

It was not to be. But this time, instead of abject disappointment, all we felt was numb. Because you know what Mets? We’re onto you! We know you’re going to let us down. Like the guy who says he’s going to call and never does, like the box of color that promises cinnamon highlights and leaves you with spaghetti-sauce colored streaks from root to temple, like the water from the fountain of youth that tastes suspiciously like it came from our tap. We will not be had.

We turned the television off and went about our business: me, buying more tissues so that we wouldn’t run out (sinus infections require a lot of tissues—just letting you know), Jim getting another refreshment. I made dinner. But before we put the whole thing to rest, I asked him when opening day was next year for the new, beautiful, not smelly like Shea, Citi Field.

“April 13,” he said. “You watching?”

Of course I am. I’m a Met fan. I was annoyed that he even asked.

Maggie

Surviving the Family Reunion

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That’s a misleading title, because except for the fact that I was worn out, it was a great reunion. Two granddaughters planned it and they did a super job. It was held in the middle of the desert in Barstow, CA which was about halfway for the Vegas clan and the those of us scattered around California. About thirty-two relations attended, mine and my sister’s many offspring. The youngest was seven-months-old and my husband had the title of the eldest at 78–and he also was the best bowler over all. That’s how the weekend began, with a bowling tournament.

My sis and I realized that had our dad lived, his 101st birthday would be the day this appears. He and mom would have so loved this event–they were crazy about family and always amazed at how many we were since they’d only had two daughters. (Amazing to us too.)

The first evening, besides a lot of yakking, we were given cards to write down the information of how we came about our first name, something no one else has done, and our most embarrassing moment. We chowed down on Nachos with cheese, carrots, celery and dip, fruit and homemade cookies. Then we settled down to play our family’s favorite game of Estimation. (It’s not everyone’s favorite, some of the men sneaked off to watch the debate.) The thing about this game that’s so much fun is anyone can play and thought there is some strategy, you don’t have to be particularly smart.

One of my great-grandson’s who is a Sophomore in high school would consult with me on his hand–saying he had to find out what the “wise one” thought he should do. That tickled me.

We were at a Holiday Inn Express with a great breakfast which everyone enjoyed. Some of us were ready to eat and gab at 7 a.m. despite staying up way later than what I’m used to.

My job was making the chili beans which I got started fairly early. The wonderful smell of it cooking permeated the hotel. The kids had relay races beside the pool and swam. Lunch was hamburgers and hot dogs. Some went to State Line to Gamble, a son-in-law and grandson-in-law went four-bying, others went shopping at an outlet mall (I found some great bargains for Christmas). Of course you know there was lots and lots of gabbing going on. When we got back to the hotel, it was time for a Triathalon for the kids, jumping rope, swimming two laps, and a race around the outside of the hotel. Then everyone paticipated in a sponge relay which meant we all got wet. We were great entertainment for other hotel guests who were relaxing around the pool.

The chili beans were the best I’ve every made. What was left we shared with the hotel staff who were very appreciative. We had a talent show, and we learned everyone’s secrets from the cards filled out earlier. The youngest kids crashed, the next age worked on craft projects while the rest of us went back to playing Estimation. And I was just as wise as the night before–though I didn’t win. We had a great time.

It was great seeing the newest addition to the family and getting better acquainted with one of my grandson’s girlfriend–and best of all, just spending time with relatives I don’t see often.

Oh, and I sold four books! Better than some book events I’ve gone to.

Now I need to play catch-up again–the one drawback to going off and having a good time.

Marilyn

Happy New Year

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While it’s 93 more days until the big, glittery ball drops in Times Square, tonight is the start of Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish New Year. We celebrate with prayers and a festive meal (except for Yom Kippur, there is almost always food associated with Jewish holidays). It’s no time for nouvelle cuisine. I go back to basics, with brisket or chicken on the menu, maybe even some chopped liver. We also traditionally eat apples dipped in honey to symbolize our hope for a sweet new year. As I read in one source, “sweet means dear, precious, enjoyable, satisfying, serene, secure and something most pleasing.”

The time between Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, is called the Days of Awe. They are a period for reflection, an opportunity to atone for sins in the past, make amends with those we’ve harmed, and decide to do better in the future. I know that this type of inner soul-searching should be an ongoing process, not something limited to the 10 days between the two High Holidays. So one of my resolutions for this new year is to take more time for spiritual inventory and spend less time on book inventory. I think both the professional and personal side of me will benefit.

So as we enter the Jewish year 5769, may I take this opportunity to wish each of you, a healthy, happy New Year.

Shana Tova Umetukah (Hebrew for “A Good and Sweet Year.”)

Evelyn David

Death and the Lit Chick

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G. M. Malliet worked as a journalist and copywriter for national and international news publications and public broadcasters. Winner of the Malice Domestic Grant (Death of a Cozy Writer) and the Romance Writers of America’s Stiletto Award, Malliet attended Oxford University and holds a graduate degree from the University of Cambridge.She and her husband live in Virginia. For a description of Death and the Lit Chick, see http://gmmalliet.com/

Several years ago, my husband and I belonged to a neighborhood book club. It lasted only about two years, then the group dissolved: attrition, conflicting and busy schedules, and all the rest made it too difficult to meet. What was slightly unusual about this club was that it was comprised of three men and three women. I don’t have statistics to back this up, but I imagine most book clubs are female only or predominantly female.

What was also unusual was that, about eighteen months into our monthly meetings, we realized we had read only books by male authors. I don’t remember the books now, except for Peace Like a River (lovely writing) and some god-awful attempt at imitating the Travis McGee books. My point is: We may have come a long way, baby, but somehow, without even realizing it, the women had gone along with choosing the more muscular books they thought the men might like, rather than making the men struggle through something like Sex and the City. I guess we knew they would flat-out refuse and that would be the end of that.

This is a pathetic confession to have to make; to this day I can’t believe we women behaved like this, without even realizing we were doing so. The whole episode has been in my mind now that the ramp-up to my second novel in the St. Just mystery series has begun. A key–nay, a crucial–part of this ramp-up is the unveiling of the book cover, which, rightly or wrongly, can raise or sink a book. The first book was called Death of a Cozy Writer, and it was beautifully illustrated, I thought, by a fountain pen dripping blood (trust me, it sounds awful but it looks great). The second book is called Death and the Lit Chick, the cover for which appears above.

My first reaction on seeing this cover was that I loved it–I thought it was clever and impactful, looking like the spilled contents of a woman’s purse (although it did portray many items not mentioned in the plot–a subject many authors over the centuries have ranted about so there’s no need for me to repeat the rantings here). But my husband took one look and declared that no man would be caught dead buying that book unless it came supplied with a brown paper wrapper.

Worriedly, I reported the findings of my two-person survey to my editor, fearing I was going to lose the male audience that I knew existed for the first book. The second book was in the identical, traditional British mystery vein (there is nothing chick litty about the plot). But would I lose the men forever with this one? She told me that my audience would largely be female, anyway, and female was the target audience.

Is this true? I hate to lose the guys over a cover. Perhaps Death and the Lit Chick can be a litmus test, the way my book club was. If challenged, will “real men” buy a girly looking pink-and-red book with lipstick on the cover?

We shall see come April.

G.M. Malliet
http://gmmalliet.com/

Chocolate Milk, Lack of Sleep, and Parenting

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My three sons have always maintained that by the time I had their baby sister, I had no parenting standards left. They love to give as proof the carton of chocolate milk they discovered in the refrigerator, something they insist had never been purchased in their entire collective childhoods. “Look,” they whine, “the kid asks for it, and voila, it’s bought.”

In my defense, I point out three things. First, it was a one-time purchase. Second, it was chocolate milk, not heroin. And third, and probably most important, they’re assuming I had standards when they were living full time in the house. Truth is: I’m a softie when it comes to my offspring. I repeat, who took them to see the World Wrestling Federation? And the answer is: not my husband who is still shell-shocked that I ever agreed to that outing.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about my standards (or lack thereof) as I work my way through this book on baby’s first year. Since this is a mystery blog, I’ve been trying to find a way to tie the subject to a whodunit. Best that I can come up with is the victim is a mother who declares in a park full of other new moms that her baby, at the age of three weeks, is sleeping through the night. I figure there would be plenty of suspects because the last thing you want to hear when you haven’t slept in 4000 hours is some woman, dressed in her skinny jeans, telling you how rested she feels.

I’m working on the sleep chapters and discovered a whole industry devoted to getting your baby to sleep through the night. One expert, Dr. Richard Ferber, has become a verb. Have you Ferberized your baby? Sounds vaguely like pasteurized milk. Anyway the basic concept is that babies need to learn to soothe themselves back to sleep. Parents are instructed to let their infant cry (for longer and longer periods over the course of a week) until he falls back to sleep. By that point, of course, the mother is up all night consumed by guilt, but that’s another story. Dr. Ferber believes that it will be a rough few days, but that most babies learn self-soothing mechanisms and are sleeping like, well, babies within seven days.

At the other extreme is Dr. William Sears. He promotes attachment-style parenting and a family bed. Sears believes that it’s more important that babies get the reassurance and intimacy of parental soothing, than learn independent sleep habits.

Reminds me of the quote from John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester: “Before I got married I had six theories about bringing up children; now I have six children and no theories.”

Most parents, I think, find something in the middle that makes them comfortable. I tend to err on the side of parental soothing. I could no more listen to my child cry for 25 minutes than I could stand hearing my dog whimper that long. On the other hand, I have no interest in routinely sharing my bed with anyone other than my husband. I do acknowledge, however, that by the time I had my second child (those firsborns are just one big learning curve), I no longer jumped at the first squawk, and was more than happy to not-so-gently nudge my husband to attend to the kid.

Bottom line: I accepted sleep deprivation as a parental fact of life, part and parcel of the job. But may I add that while I was crazed from all the nocturnal wakings when my kids were babies, it was nothing compared to the lack of sleep I got when they were teens.

Parenting is amazing, wonderful, fulfilling. It can also be a treacherous field of landmines through which we’re all trying to navigate safely. While we can learn from each other, we also need to learn to trust our instincts about what works best for each of our own families.

And as for that carton of chocolate milk? Here’s a confession. It had nothing to do with a lack of parenting standards. The better question is: who said it was for my daughter?

Evelyn David

Calling the Dead! Calling the Winners!

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The winners of the autographed copies of Marilyn Meredith’s mystery, Calling the Dead, are: Susan Draco and Helen. Both have been contacted off line and should receive their books next week.

Calling the Dead is the sixth in Marilyn’s Deputy Tempe Crabtree series. For the latest novel featuring Tempe, check out Marilyn’s “just released,” Kindred Spirits.

Thanks to all who left comments or sent emails!

The Stiletto Gang

Live a Little

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I’m actually leaving town next week and I couldn’t be more excited. It has been a long time since I actually took a business trip—actually, the reason I left my publishing job all those many years ago was to stop traveling. But be careful what you wish for; it was close to eight years before I got back on a plane and traveled anywhere and I can safely say that I’m ready to get back in the saddle. The kids are bigger, my time is more my own, and I don’t have to worry about expressing milk, making bottles, cooking five dinners in advance of my departure, or anything else regarding kith and kin before I leave. Because you know what? The family they can take care of themselves!

But those vestiges and responsibilities of motherhood don’t go away easily. The reason I’m traveling is to present, as the keynote speaker (very exciting!), to a group of English instructors in Tennessee in a town called Dickson, Tennessee. I’m fortunate to be traveling with a very good friend and former coworker who herself has three children, a dog, and a husband to take care of before she hits the road. She planned our trip and booked us into a Hampton Inn in Dickson, Tennessee, for the two nights that we’ll be away, because that was our ultimate destination, and why not? We’re women; we do the most convenient and least expensive thing when given the choice.I got to thinking. Dickson is probably lovely and probably small, which is fine; I live in lovely and small and am very happy here. But we fly into Nashville, a place I’ve never been. Why not stay by Opryland the first night, treat ourselves to a steak dinner and a couple of martinis, do a little shopping, and then head off to work the next day? I was afraid to broach the subject, because in all honesty, I’m not paying for the trip and didn’t feel like I could make demands. So, I broached lightly. Me: Would you consider meeting me at the airport on Thursday and staying at an Opryland hotel that night?

Her: (without pause) YES! I’M ON IT! WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?!

My friend immediately got on line and found the following hotel for the two of us, conveniently located next to a Nashville shopping mecca: http://www.gaylordhotels.com/gaylord-opryland/index.html. Guess who’s coming back with cowboy boots? And something with denim and rhinestones?

But this whole thing has gotten me thinking: What is it about us women that make us choose the most sensible and tried-and-true path? (Or am I alone here?) Granted, staying in Opryland and going to a honky-tonk (maybe, if we’re not too tired after the steak and martinis) is not wild and crazy, but the thought that it never occurred to either of us right off the bat gives me pause. What has happened to the two of us that we would get into a rental car, drive to our destination, work on our presentations until the late news came on, and then go to bed at a reasonable hour? What happened to living a little?

So, Stiletto Gang readers, especially those of you who have a) been to Nashville, b) live in Nashville, or c) just love the thought of being by Opryland, what do you suggest for two fancy-free middle-aged women without enough denim and rhinestones in their collective wardrobes? What should we do? (After our afternoon nap, that is.) What should we see? And just how ridiculous will cowboy looks on an East-coast mom who walks her West Highland Terrier through the center of her village every day?

Your honest assessments on all accounts, please.

Maggie