Tag Archive for: Murder 101 series

The Way Things Are

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Yesterday I attended a PTA meeting at a local coffee shop, where a few members gathered to hash out some details about an upcoming fundraiser for our high school. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the young woman working behind the counter, who happened to be the fifteen-year-old daughter of a good friend. We chatted for a minute about the long weekend we had just enjoyed and school in general.

When I took my place at the table that the early-arriving members had snagged, I ended up sitting in a seat facing the window of the coffee shop which just happened to face the driveway where deliveries for the stores in the strip mall are made. As we discussed a fundraiser that we’ll be sponsoring at the end of February, I noticed a young man walk over to a collection of bags, blankets, and other personal belongings, reach into one of the bags and take out a container of jam which he proceeded to eat with his fingers. I became completely preoccupied with the sight, missing most of the PTA discussion. I finally asked the other members of the board to look out the window and asked them if they, like I, thought he was homeless.

We all agreed that that was the case.

A few years back, while volunteering at a local soup kitchen, I had the occasion to try to help a young man who was completely without any sustenance or shelter. I spent a few minutes calling the local police department and then the Volunteers of America to find out where in our affluent community and county one could send someone who had no place to go. I was told that there was only one drop-in shelter in this county and that it was about twenty miles south of here in a very tough neighborhood in a pretty tough city. Our options limited, we opted instead to send the young man to a shelter north of here at a monastery, hoping that they would take him in even though the focus of the shelter was on rehab and recovery, not plain homelessness. We prayed that this would work out, because by the looks of him, he wouldn’t have lasted an hour in a rough shelter, besieged by mental illness and a host of problems we probably didn’t even know about.

Knowing that our options were limited, I approached my friend’s daughter at the counter and asked her and her coworker how long the man had been living outside; they thought it had been about twenty-four hours. They thought that the owner of the shop—who had gone home hours before and was not coming back—was aware of the situation as well. I asked them to give him a call to find out what, if anything, he wanted them to do upon closing. I was a little concerned about a fifteen-year-old and her not-much-older counterpart closing up shop and departing with someone living on the grounds in their path. I was jumping to conclusions, but my mind was racing at this point as to what to do or how to help this man. I didn’t want to call the police because truly, he wasn’t bothering anyone. I also knew that if the police got involved, he would end up in the rough shelter and that might not be the best thing for him. I wondered if I should talk to him to find out his story and help him find somewhere to stay. In the end, I decided to go home and get the wise counsel of Jim.

I left the coffee shop and noticed that the man was surrounded by a group of people, one of whom seemed to be sharing the food and shelter with him, bringing our current total of homeless up to at least two, if not more, judging from the group. They were young, happy, and seemingly having a great time; one of the group’s members had a laptop, I noticed curiously. I got into the car and went home, my first phone call going to my friend, the one whose daughter worked in the coffee shop. She was alarmed and immediately called the coffee shop owner to find out what was going on and what we should do, if anything.

Turns out that the homeless men were part of a group a young woman who lives in our town had befriended overseas while visiting a youth hostel. The men were from Brazil and headed there; she planned on accompanying them. She brought them back to town without telling her parents, promising them a place to stay while they regrouped before the next leg of their trip. Her parents, none too pleased with this turn of events, denied her request to put them up and told her to find somewhere else for them to stay. They’ve been camping out as well as couch surfing, and the makeshift set-up they had next to the coffee shop was erected for them to air out their camping equipment.

Ah, youth.

I travel into New York City on a regular basis and see so many homeless people that it almost absolves me from doing something for each and every person I encounter. I also know that the infrastructure in the city for dealing with homelessness exists in a far more structured sense than it does here, as evidenced by my quest to find a bed for a homeless man at the soup kitchen. But to see someone in my own town who may be without a bed and food was a new sight as well as one that I didn’t know quite how to deal with. The average age of a homeless person in the United States today is NINE. And I think we’re going to see more people in the places we live struggling for survival. I feel like yesterday’s experience was a test and has allowed me to figure out exactly what I will do when confronted with homelessness again. Because with the economy, joblessness, and poverty becoming more common-place, it will not be IF the situation happens again, but WHEN.

Maggie Barbieri

A Ghost Story

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Everyone I know loves a good ghost story. I come from a long line of believers in the other world, some of whom claim to have had visitations, dreams, or visions from the other side. As for whether or not I believe, I guess I’m not sure. I think I’ve decided that there is no harm in believing, as long as you don’t bet the house on it.

I was thinking about this because I just read a story in our local paper about a house that was recently purchased from a local family to become the new headquarters of our EMT group. The house had belonged to a long-time Village resident, a lovely woman who went to my church. She was blind, yet ran the very hectic newsstand at the train station in town, and was known to everyone who commutes to New York City from this major hub. Sadly, two years ago this March, she stepped out from behind the newsstand, as she did every day, and lost her way during her trek to her usual break spot. The elevator that she normally took to go to the platform was broken so she took a different one, confusing her. She ended up on the tracks and was killed by a speeding Amtrak train on its way north. Her daughters, who worked side-by-side with her every day, were there when the EMTs and our pastor came to shepherd her body to the medical examiner’s office.

The family home sat vacant on a street not far from the train station and her children decided to sell it to the Village so that our brave and compassionate EMTs would have a new, state-of-the art building from which to conduct their business. Everyone was thrilled at this turn of events and the EMTs moved in recently, taking some time last summer to do some renovations prior to setting up shop.

One by one, they began reporting strange and inexplicable occurrences. First, there was the laughter coming from various rooms of the house. Somewhere, merriment was being made, despite the fact that nobody lived there anymore. Children could be heard giggling, as could the sound of a woman laughing. After that, things began moving. First a roll of paper towels, then a few other things. The wind was not an explanation during the still heat of an East Coast summer. Finally, there was the story of the EMT chief in the attic. While fixing the attic fan—which resided below him, it’s large, sharp blades turning as he worked—he grew dizzy and passed out, falling toward the blades of the fan and to his certain death. When he awoke? He was beside the fan with nary a scratch on him.

Once a skeptic, he’s now a believer.

The newsstand woman’s family is comforted tremendously by these stories of sprit interventions and goings on in their childhood home. Nobody seems frightened by the fact that something is going on there; from all accounts, the vibe is positive and good. No poltergeists or demons, just the laughter of a woman and her children and some prank playing in the form of misplaced paper towels. And one life-saving intervention, if all is to be believed.

It got me thinking: why is it that we love these stories? Is it proof that there is life beyond our death? Is it a comfort to know that the people we loved, or even knew tangentially, are looking out for us, resting on our shoulders, providing us with solace and safety? I’m not sure. For me, it’s all about the comfort. I remember, during a particularly difficult time during my cancer treatment, prone on the couch, sick as a dog, a voice spoke to me. I was somewhere between sleep and waking, that lovely calm place that brings us peace before we go into our dream space. As I lay there, I thought about my situation and how it was going to take nothing short of a miracle to get me well, when a voice inside my head said, “You’re going to be ok. You’re going to be ok.” It wasn’t my voice, nor was it a voice I had ever heard. It wasn’t male. It wasn’t female. It just was.

Maybe it was just my subconscious sending me a message I wanted to hear. Maybe it wasn’t. All I know is at that moment, I felt a spiritual intervention on my behalf. Does that make me crazy? Maybe. But I’m ok, just as the voice told me I would be. I’m ok just like the EMT chief who surely should be dead, if something hadn’t intervened on his behalf. So I’m going to continue to open my heart and head to the laughter of those who came before us. Because it doesn’t cost us anything to believe.

What do you think, Stiletto faithful?

New Year’s Resolutions, Part Deux

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Evelyn David’s post on Monday got me thinking about what I will resolve to do this coming year. I think it is an exceptionally good idea to take stock at the end of every year and vow to accomplish one or two good things in the coming year, even though I also know that most New Year’s resolutions are broken by the middle of February. There have been a few years where I have vowed not to make New Year’s resolutions and have stayed true to my word for the entire year, but this year is different. So, for all to see, this is what I promise to do:

1. Lose that 15 pounds. Thanks to a wonky thyroid that ceased working around May of this year, I have packed on quite a bit of poundage that no dieting has helped to erase. Your thyroid can go one of two ways: hypo, in which your metabolism slows to a snail’s pace, and hyper, in which it runs at the speed of a hummingbird’s wing. I, unfortunately, fall into the former category and had felt sluggish, lethargic, and slowed down. Way down. But all that changed when I found the delightful and brilliant mystery-loving Dr. K., who diagnosed and fixed the problem in a relatively short period of time. Things are stabilized and now I can focus on getting this rather doughy body back into fighting shape. Or at least the best shape one can be after several different types of cancer treatment have been administered and the dreaded middle age has set in. Check back for frequent updates on my progress. I’m looking to you to hold me accountable. And I promise not to turn on you. Maybe.

2. Focus on the positive. We’re going with only happy thoughts in ’10. Well, we’re going to do our best. I figure I have to take the advice I always give my kids: it takes far less energy to be positive than negative. And at my age, we need all the energy we can get.

3. Write more, procrastinate less. I learned a valuable lesson from Rachel Brady, fellow stiletto wearer, at Crime Bake this past November. Rachel participated in NanoWrimo, an exercise in which you write 50,000 words—any words will do—in the month of November. December is for revision. I figure if I can set a goal for myself of writing a certain number of words every week, regardless of whether they make sense or advance the story, I’ll be in good shape. October through December will be for revision, and by that time, hopefully, I’ll have what amounts to a reasonable first draft of book 6 in the Murder 101 series.

4. Avoid the United States Post Office at all costs. See #2 above.

5. See more movies. My husband loves movies. Me? Not so much. You see, you can’t talk during the movies and one of my favorite activities is talking. But in honor of the greatest man/husband/father who has ever lived, we’re going to do more of what he likes and less of what I like. Which is talking. Did I mention that I like to talk?

6. Laugh more, fret less. See #2 above.

What have you resolved, Stiletto faithful?

Maggie Barbieri

It’s only weather…

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This past weekend, all up and down the Eastern seaboard, we were under a “Winter Weather Advisory” or depending on where you lived south of us, a “Winter Storm Warning.” For the uninitiated out there, that means that we were getting a snowstorm. Interestingly, here in the Hudson Valley, we got less snow than say the Jersey Shore, but we had to shovel five or six inches. But the way the television news and their meteorologists (who used to be called “weathermen”) got all charged up, you would have thought that Armageddon was a-coming. Precipitation, even here in the precipitation capital of the world, is treated as a life-changing event. It’s not. It’s water that’s frozen and falls from the sky. Pretty magical when you think about it, but not cause for the alarm that was sounded here for two solid days prior to one flake falling.

I used to get worked up about the weather—both hot and cold—until I talked myself off the ledge and realized that one, we were not going to run out of food even if I didn’t go grocery shopping prior to the big “snow event,” as it was being called, and two, we would survive regardless of how long the storm lasted. According to the weather reports, I should have stockpiled enough food to last a week and one of us would definitely perish unless extreme precautions were taken.

There are a host of other pieces of advice. I list them below with my take on them.

1. Dress in layers. Needs no elaboration, you would think. Unless you’re child #2, who wears a short-sleeved tee shirt under an unzippered winter coat, and ankle sweat socks inside his boots. Are the meteorologists targeting child #2’s demographic, a group of 10-year-old boys who don’t feel the cold? I wonder about that all the time.

2. When shoveling, bend at the knees. I’ve been bending at the head. Is that wrong?

3. Don’t drive if you don’t have to. Unless you’re towing three hundred pounds of sand and wearing a DPW vest, I think this is very good advice.

4. Make sure you look in on elderly neighbors. Again, good advice. They’ve got all the stockpiled food. My grandmother, who died in 1981, was still using the sugar supply that she had stockpiled during World War II until the day she passed.

I made the mistake of going to a local drugstore chain on Saturday afternoon to buy Christmas lights. We were putting up the tree, and of course, only half of the lights were working. The snow hadn’t started yet, the start time being revised hourly as the storm passed us by and hammered our neighbors to the south and east. But the people at this local strip mall apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Driving through the parking lot to find a spot, the panic was palpable. Did I mention that this strip mall houses a gourmet grocery store, the aforementioned chain drugstore, the post office, and most importantly, the liquor store? Frankly, I saw more bottle-shaped bags being hoisted in the parking lot than bags containing groceries. Jack Daniels, it would seem, is a much better companion, and a much better stockpiling option, than disposable razors or paper towels. Hushed whispers about snowfall totals punctuated my long wait at the drugstore.

“Did you hear? It could be TWO FEET!”

“I know! I had to come out and buy milk! We won’t get out until Monday, if we’re lucky!”

People, we live on the East Coast. We have had snowstorms before and we knew for an entire week that this one was heading our way. We will not be snowed in, despite what the meteorologists tell us. If we’re stuck inside for twelve hours, it will be a lot. My guess is closer to eight. (In actuality, it was more like…two.)

And as for those meteorologists, I know that they’re supposed to be smart people. But the one who was rabble rousing on our local channel this weekend once did an interview with Miss Puerto Rico, who just happened to be marching in the Puerto Rico day parade in New York City, and was conveniently wearing a sash across her ample bosom that read “Miss Puerto Rico.” His question to her?

“Where are you from?”

If I’m going to get my panties in a wad about the weather, I’m surely going to trust someone who can read cues better than this guy.

Happy holidays, Stiletto faithful!

Maggie Barbieri

An Excerpt from “Final Exam” (Murder 101 series)

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In this latest entry in the Murder 101 series, Alison Bergeron, college professor/amateur sleuth finds herself living in a dorm on campus, taking the place of missing Resident Director, Wayne Brookwell. When she arrives at the dorm, she finds that the suite she was promised is really more than two tiny rooms accompanied by a decrepit private bath that has seen better days. We pick up with moving day, her devoted Bobby Crawford by her side, as they survey the premises and wonder how Alison is going to survive living in her new digs until the end of the semester or until she finds Wayne Brookwell, her main goal.

I leaned in and discovered my suite was basically a long, narrow room with hardwood floors and one window next to a twin-sized bed. The suite part, I surmised, was the small living area to the left of the bedroom that contained a desk, an old musty chair, and a book shelf that was separated from the bedroom by rather nice French doors. A bathroom was next to the bedroom and while I’m a fan of period detail, the subway tile that encased the shower looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed in what I guessed was the 1940s. I looked and Crawford and said, “Get me some Comet.”

“You’re not even in the door,” he said. “Let’s go in and see what else you need before I go to the store.”

“Besides a blow torch to burn this place down?” I asked, sitting dejectedly on the bed. A puff of dust flew up around me and I shivered in revulsion.

“Is there a laundry area in this building?” he asked, pulling me up off the bed and placing me in the doorway between the bedroom and living room. He pulled the bedding off and threw it onto the floor. “I don’t want you sleeping on Wayne Brookwell’s dirty sheets,” he said.

“That’s Wayne Butthole, to you.” I leaned on the door jamb. “Forever more, he’s Wayne Butthole.” I crossed my arms, and continued my visual reconnaissance of the area. “I hate him.”

“Laundry?” Crawford repeated.

“No idea,” I said. “I assume it’s in the basement but I can’t be sure.” Although I had parked outside of this building for the better part of a decade, I had never been inside, save for the lobby. The building was five stories high, with men housed on all but one floor, a floor that had been reserved for the overflow of female students in any given year. But Siena was still known as the men’s dorm and had been since I had been a student here, years previous. It looked pretty much the same as I remembered it—ornate, varnished mouldings; marble floors; heavy mahogany doors stained a dark, cherry brown. It smelled of Pledge and floor polish and decades’ worth of smelly gym socks and young adult hormones.

Crawford picked the pile of dirty bedding up and started down the hall, his sneakers making a squish-squish noise as he proceeded. I back went into the bedroom and sat down on the denuded bed, surveying my surroundings. I couldn’t imagine spending one night here, never mind five weeks, but that was my lot and I had to suck it up. I don’t want to suck it up! I wanted to yell, but I made an attempt at maturity and swallowed whatever feelings I had. The one thing I couldn’t ignore was my bladder, which obviously was past the point of no return. I got up and went into the bathroom, looking around as I did my business, taking in the rust stains in the porcelain pedestal sink, and the dirty ring around the tub. There were a few squares of toilet paper left on the roll and I made a mental note to tell Crawford to get toilet paper, too.

When I flushed the toilet, a torrent of water, toilet paper, and various other bits of flotsam and jetsam that had been residing in the toilet since the Mesozoic Age came spewing up at me from the filthy bowl, and I put my hands over my face to protect myself, a little too late. The front of my shirt and my jeans were instantly soaked, and water poured onto the tile floor and puddle around my feet. I spit a few times, wondering exactly what I had almost ingested. I grabbed a less-than-clean towel from the towel bar and wiped off my face and hands. I looked at the floating detritus on the floor and stifled a gag.

Crawford returned and knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Everything okay in there?”

“No!” I called back while attempting to open the door with the ancient door knob. I finally got it open and gave him a view of what the bathroom looked like.

“What the hell happened?”

“What do you think happened?” I asked and threw the soaked towel at him, catching him squarely in the solar plexus. “We are not off to a good start here.”

He went into the bathroom and threw the towel on the floor, attempting to sop up the mess from the exploding toilet. I riffled through my suitcase, finding a clean pair of jeans and a tee shirt. I stripped off my clothes and put them in a pile by the door. Once I was redressed, I stopped by the bathroom. “I’m going to go down to the laundry room and throw these clothes in, too.” I watched as Crawford raised the toilet seat and stared solemnly into the toilet. I had no idea whether or not he was handy and I wasn’t sticking around to find out. “It’s in the basement, right?”

He didn’t turn around but put his hands on his hips, surveying the damage. “Right.”

I padded down the hall toward the grand staircase which led me to a laundry room that was much nicer than my new accommodations. Six new, state-of-the-art washers and companion dryers lined one wall, the other wall lined with vending machines with soda, candy, and snacks. There was a change machine, and a machine to buy bleach and detergent. It was clean, well-lit, and modern with signs advertising its wi-fi access. I looked around enviously. My basement was musty, dusty, and home to more than one mouse, I suspected. Okay, so things were looking up. A little bit.

I threw the dirty clothes into the wash that Crawford had started and returned to the lobby floor, which was still empty. I had forgotten to ask Merrimack if any students were staying on campus during Spring Break and made a mental note to send him an email once I unearthed my computer from the mound of my possessions in the middle of the little patch of floor between my bed and the dresser.

“Do you want to get Chinese food, Crawford?” I asked, back upstairs and going through items in my open suitcase. He didn’t answer. I guess I owed him an apology for biting his head off and throwing the dirty towel at him but I didn’t expect the silent treatment. “Crawford?” I went to the bathroom door and found him kneeling on the floor in his undershirt, the toilet off its seal, the top removed. His shirt was draped over the side of the tub and he was dirty and wet, his dark hair flopping over his sweaty brow. “Crawford?”

He leaned over and stretched out, ending up on his right side, his left arm disappearing into the gaping hole of the upended toilet. He came out with a ziplock bag filled with something that I knew wasn’t Mrs. Brookwell’s famous home-grown tea.

He looked up at me. “Call Fred.”

Maggie Barbieri

Final Exam at Amazon

Idle Threats

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I was making the bed one morning, the television tuned to a morning program on a national station, when James Patterson’s voice implored me to buy his latest book or he would “kill Alex Cross.” Oh, really? You would? This advertisement from the thriller-meister has generated a great deal of talk on DorothyL, a listserv that I and many of my Stiletto brethren subscribe to. People fall firmly into two camps when it comes to expressing their opinions about this ad: brilliant versus schlocky. I think I’m somewhere in the middle.

The first thing I wondered is exactly how much does it cost to get thirty seconds worth of air time during “Good Morning, America”? I’m sure it’s more money than I have but I wonder nonetheless. Second, I wondered how many people actually believe Patterson. Is there a contingent of die-hard Patterson fans out there who would trudge to the bookstore (or to their computer keyboard) to order the book just because he said so? Obviously, Patterson is being tongue-in-cheek. But I’m curious to know how successful an ad like that is in generating sales.

I don’t know that I’ve ever read an Alex Cross novel, so I don’t know whether to be chagrined or not that he might travel to the great unknown in Patterson’s next novel. Is Alex Cross the guy that Morgan Freeman always plays in the movies? If so, please don’t kill him, Mr. Patterson. I love Morgan Freeman and want him to have work well into his 80’s, some 50 years after it is unacceptable for women to have a decent leading role.

Let’s remember that Patterson began in advertising, something that’s been pointed out several times on DorothyL. According to one of the posters—our friend and fellow mystery writer, Chris Grabenstein—the sign on Patterson’s door to his band of ad copywriters was “Startle me.” I actually have a friend who worked for him, and by all accounts, he was a master at the game. So it’s not surprising that he would pull out all of the stops to sell books, which got me wondering (once again…I do a lot of wondering), “Just how far would I go to sell a book?”

Conclusion? Not far.

People know what they like to read and they are not usually persuaded to go outside of their comfort zones, in my opinion. I think back to one of the first book signings I ever did, as the guest writer featured during our middle-school’s Barnes and Noble fundraiser. I sat, all alone, at a table in the middle of the store, smiling and trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. A woman approached me and asked me what kind of book “Murder 101” was. I gave her a rambling synopsis of the plot, and she took the book over to where she was sitting to look through it to see whether or not it was worth the twenty or so bucks B&N was charging for it on that particular day. She walked back to me a few minutes later, her face stern. She handed me back the book. “I don’t think I want to read this,” she said. And instead of screaming, “Buy this book or I will kill Alison Bergeron!” I bid her a nice day and sunk a little lower in my hard-backed chair.

I used to work in college textbook publishing and one of my jobs was to support our sales reps in the field by traveling with them and making sales calls. I have to say, I was pretty good at closing the deal. And I will admit I once used the old “baby needs a new pair of shoes” line to a professor who was considering one of our books. I was eight months pregnant at the time, and he was so surprised by my cheekiness that he ordered 150 copies of a $40.00 book on the spot. Yes, that’s $6000 worth of business in a five-minute call. All this to prove that when necessary, I can sell. But there’s something different when it’s a book that you wrote, that your blood, sweat, and tears went into, that came from your heart. The hard sell just doesn’t seem to apply.

All this to say that I applaud Mr. Patterson. I won’t buy his book (“I don’t think I want to read this”) but I will probably buy a copy for a family member for Christmas. Because in a thirty-second ad, Patterson piqued my interest. People obviously care enough about Alex Cross as a protagonist that killing him off would upset them greatly. And that makes me wonder.

“Final Exam” came out yesterday. If you like my kind of mysteries, I hope you’ll buy it. More than that, though, I hope you enjoy it.

And in the interest of blatant self-promotion, commonly called BSP on DorothyL, what I will do is offer an excerpt of “Final Exam” here at the Stiletto Gang on Friday. Please check back if you’re interested in finding out what kind of trouble Alison Bergeron gets herself into this time. Let’s just say it involves exploding toilets, drugs, aliases, and one very hot and bothered Crawford. Interested yet?

Maggie

So You Want to Be in Pictures?

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I read an article in the New York Times this weekend in which the writer estimated that in any given year, ten thousand reality-show contestants (actors?) grace our television screens. Ten thousand? I think that’s a conservative estimate.

As you faithful Stiletto readers know, I have partaken of a few reality shows myself. My son and I enjoy Survivor immensely and look forward to sitting together under a blanket (it’s almost winter here and I refuse to put up the heat until absolutely necessary) and criticizing each contestant’s game play. Then we talk about how long we would last on the show. (Me? One episode. Him? He’d win.) And I admit, I do enjoy the “Real Housewives of Whatever City They’re In” if only to bask in the glory that is my own lack of self-absorption and over-spending. The entire family enjoys The Amazing Race and have a new-found love for the Harlem Globetrotters after watching Big Easy and Flight Time run a very nice race against some very nasty competitors. We were sorry to see them go this past Sunday night because Big Easy couldn’t rearrange five letters to spell “FRANZ.” Oh, well.

By the way, if I ever make the Harlem Globetrotters, I would like my stage name to be “Paperback Writer.” I know—not original. But it’s better than “Can’t Make a Foul Shot” which is probably more appropriate.

All kidding aside, I have never had an urge to be a reality-show participant, but from what I glean from the Times article, I’m in the minority. That’s why it wasn’t a shock in one sense to read about the State Dinner crashers, a former Redskins cheerleader (if the wife is to be believed—no one on the Redskins’ cheerleading staff remembers her) and her equally fame-hungry husband. On what planet is it acceptable to crash a dinner at the White House? I guess if you’re dying to be recognized or to exploit your fifteen minutes of fame, it would be this planet.

There is so much wrong with this scenario that I hardly know where to begin. Breach of security? Check. Possible international incident? Check. Complete lack of class? Double check. In my humble opinion, I hope they are roasted like my Thanksgiving turkey when they sit before a select group of representatives tomorrow. And then, I hope they go to jail.

You want to be on television? Shoot a video and stick it on You Tube. Then, tell all of your friends to watch it and help you make it go “viral.” I assure you, some nightly news program will pick it up and televise it. Then you can live your lifelong dream of seeing yourself on the tube and we can all go back to our daily lives, secure in the knowledge that the Secret Service can focus on their job of protecting the President from the true crazies, not just the ones who think it would be a hoot to get on tv.

I wish I had something more cogent to say about these two knuckleheads, but as I am sitting here writing this, I realize that their actions raise more questions than I can answer in six hundred words. What has become of our country that people are so focused on achieving some kind of fame—however dubious—that they would put the President of the United States in jeopardy, not to mention his family and guests? They are an embarrassment to our country. I know that heads are going to roll for this stunt—and I’m not saying that they shouldn’t—from members of the Secret Service to select White House staff. I wonder how that makes the party crashers feel. You got your fifteen minutes of fame, but someone is going to lose their job during the holidays.

Well done, White House party-crashing wannabe reality stars. You’re famous. Or infamous…not that you care.

Thoughts?

Maggie Barbieri

Of Turkeys and Traffic

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Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and we’re flung far and wide this year, people on the move. We’re the stay at home people whereas my parents are the flung-far people. Here at Chez Barbieri we are hosting Jim’s side of the family, which makes us a nice, even dozen. Fortunately, that number represents the maximum occupancy capacity in the house and in particular, around the dining room table, so just one more person and we’d find ourselves elbow to elbow while enjoying my brined turkey.

Mom and Dad have headed south to see my sister who lives in Georgia. In typical Mom/Dad style, they planned on leaving for the South at six in the morning to “beat the traffic” but decided, after a spirited discussion at two in the morning that they would leave then. When my mother called me at two o’clock in the afternoon on the day they were supposed to arrive at my sister’s (their original e.t.d. had them arriving around dinner time) and told me that they were fifteen minutes from her house, I was surprised. Our conversation went like this:

Me: Didn’t you leave at six this morning? Doesn’t it take thirteen hours to get there? (I had visions of my father doing 120 miles per hour down 95 and was wondering how they were still alive. I’m bad at math, as we all know, but even I can figure out that the trip not taking thirteen hours means that they were traveling at very high speeds.)

Mom: Well, Dad got up in the middle of the night and I was watching television so we just decided to leave then. Oh, and by the way, we were supposed to start back the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, but we’re going to leave the Saturday after Thanksgiving instead. You know, to beat the traffic.

Me (incredulously): You haven’t even arrived at your original destination, but you’re already talking about when you’re coming home?

Mom (through gales of hysterical laughter): We’re old! That’s what old people do!

Newsflash: they’re not old. And they shouldn’t be doing what old people do. They’ve got at least ten years before they need to start doing that. But it provided us some good laughs when Mom realized that indeed, they are mostly retired and have nothing to rush back here for. We’ll be eating leftovers for weeks, so surely they’re not anxious to get back to have dinner at our house.

Now, I’ve taken a poll and apparently, many people of retirement age are alternately fascinated and horrified by traffic and will do anything they can to avoid it. A friend’s father begins his trek from Florida at nine at night and drives until he hits…you guessed it…traffic. Only then will he stop to eat and/or go to the bathroom.

I’m thrilled that we’re staying home because the only traffic I will have to contend with will be the backup at the bathroom door as several Barbieri’s attempt to shower and look presentable for the day in the only bathroom with a shower. I’m absolutely positive that “bathroom rage” will ensue. But there is no way that I’m getting up any earlier to “beat the traffic.” I’ll just wait at the back of the line until I see a break in the action and then I’ll make my move. Just like any good driver.

Happy thanksgiving, Stiletto faithful.

Maggie Barbieri

Crime Baking

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This past weekend, approximately 200 hundred mystery fans and writers gathered together in the Dedham, Massachusetts, Hilton to participate in Crime Bake. It was a horrible weekend in New England, weather-wise, but that didn’t dampen the spirits of the attendees, all enthusiastic mystery lovers. We were treated to a lunchtime talk by Sue Grafton, creator of the “alphabet” mystery series and the fabulous sleuth, Kinsey Millhone, in which she listed ten things writers shouldn’t do in their writing. I was dismayed to find that I am guilty of oh…all ten.

But that aside, it was a great conference. Great panels, lots of interesting conversation, and a boxed lunch (my all-time favorite mode of food delivery). I met some great people at the banquet Saturday night including Dana Cameron, Paul Tremblay, and Jedediah Berry, where we all participated in trying to solve two murders that took place right before our very eyes when we weren’t growsing about how our dinners were being interrupted by the aforementioned murders.

I’m a newcomer to conferences, having only started going this year. I went to Malice Domestic in May with the northern half of Evelyn David, and now have gone to Crime Bake, which I most certainly will attend again next year. I’m not sure how much selling goes on at these conventions; remember, I come from a college textbook background and selling at conventions is what we do. But I do know that it’s great to meet other writers and fans (I fall into both categories), and to hear about how other people navigate the stormy and lonely seas of writing. I know that after having attended these two conventions, I have been spurred to write more and complain less. I always get inspiration from talking about writing and mysteries and I write more words that sound better together when I come home. (This post may not be an example of that, but hear me out.) I learned about fellow Stiletto blogger Rachel Brady’s participation in Nano Wrimo, where in you write 50,000 words in the month of November, no editing allowed. I was exhausted just listening to her talk about trying to reach the goal of writing 50,000 words in a month—most of my books run from 80,000-90,000 words when they are finished so 50,000 is no small feat—but then I remembered who I was talking to: writer, mother, rocket scientist, and all-around fabulous stiletto-wearing gal. Who, if not Rachel, would be able to undertake this task successfully?

Thankfully, November is half over so I don’t have to participate in Nano Wrimo. But something tells me that next year, Ms. Brady will be knocking at my door.

Marilyn’s post yesterday says it all: treat yourself to a conference. I was nervous about attending my first conference but I’ve learned that the mystery community is generous, accepting, and wonderful. You may meet one of your favorite authors, or find out that you have a fan or two. Going to a conference gives your solitary writing life a context and a purpose. There are more of you out there than you ever imagined and it’s nice when you can all come together to celebrate and discuss what you do and love.

Hey, Stiletto Readers: what are your favorite conferences and why?

Maggie Barbieri

A Good Babysitter Is Hard to Find…

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Child #1 has become quite the in-demand babysitter around these parts. She’s mature, responsible, and actually plays with the kids, not to mention that in-between age where she’s too young to drive and have a really major social life, but is old enough to stay up late and be responsible with other people’s precious cargo. All of this adds up to the fact that she’s got a lot of steady jobs and that people fight for her Saturday-night services. Even Jim and I have to get in line if we want her to babysit for her brother, the boy known affectionately as child #2. Her clients treat her very well, stocking their refrigerators in anticipation of her arrival, pre-ordering pizza and anything else she might want to eat for dinner, and warning their children that they’ll be going to bed early and without fuss, lest they incur the wrath of the babysitter. To top it all off, she makes a small fortune, often getting upwards of $70 or $80 for a weekend stint.

Makes me want to reconsider my career path. But then I remind myself that I really don’t like kids, can’t stay up late, and am not that responsible. Better to leave it to the professionals.

But as she was taking off for one of her most recent gigs, I got to thinking about my days as a babysitter. A few things came to mind:

1. There were no television shows on after the 11:00 news with the exception of Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert, and the Late, Late Movie on ABC which was always a movie about a babysitter who gets killed after the 11:00 news and Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert ended.

2. Nobody ordered me any food. I was usually left with a brick of Velveeta, some “macaroni” (what pasta was called before it became fancy), and a jug of apple juice and told to wing it. One night, I ingested so much Velveeta that I proceeded to throw up the instant I walked in the front door of my own house. I have not eaten Velveeta since and just typing the word Velveeta makes me queasy.

3. The pay stunk. I was paid a dollar an hour, regardless of the number of children involved. That meant that sometimes, several families in the neighborhood would dump all of their kids on me at the same time, meaning that they each only paid about .33c an hour for me to watch their little darlings, none of whom were potty trained. One time, I had eight children. (Remember, this was in the day when people had more than 2.3 children per family.) They all needed to be fed, bathed, and put to bed. Oh, and there was a dog. Who also wasn’t potty trained. I went home with $4 that night, even though the house was cleaner than when the parents left and I had taught one of the kids French. But only the curse words.

4. It was the early days of Saturday Night Live. That means that I saw every classic skit, the first time it aired. I watched Dan Ackroyd play Julia Child, and John Belushi do “chee-burger, chee-burger.” And I saw Elvis Costello play his first American gig, singing “Watching the Detectives” in all of his skinny jeaned, pigeon-toed glory. I was in his thrall. When I wasn’t worried about getting slaughtered by a babysitter-killing axe murderer.

5. I kept the house dark. I thought it would be a good idea to turn all of the lights off while babysitting. You know, to let the babysitter-killing axe murderer know that nobody was home so don’t bother to come looking for the babysitter to kill. I didn’t account for the robbers who would love to let themselves into a vacant house and steal all of my aunt’s estate jewelry.(I babysat for my cousins on a regular basis.) No, that didn’t cross my mind.

6. I wasn’t allowed to use the phone, touch the thermostat, or fall asleep. That made for a conversation-starved, freezing and/or overheated, sleep-deprived teenager. Ever met one of those? They’re not much fun to be around.

Sound like hell? It was. That’s why I’m so glad that people nowadays, in their quest to live normal lives outside of their children and have relationships with their significant others, have come to value the services of a good babysitter.

So what are your babysitting stories? Please share.

Maggie Barbieri