If you are interested in blogging or want to promote your book, please contact E. B. Davis at writerswhokill@gmail.com

Our September Author Interviews--9/6 Kathleen Valenti, 9/13 David Burnsworth, 9/20 Jeri Westerson, 9/27 Frances Brody. Please join us in welcoming these authors to WWK.

September Saturday Guest Bloggers: 9/2--Anne Bannon, 9/9 WWK Bloggers, 9/16 Margaret S. Hamilton, 9/23 Kait Carson, and on 9/30 Trixie Stiletto.


“May 16, 2017 – The Women’s Fiction Writers Association (WFWA) today announced the finalists of the second annual Star Award, given to authors of published women’s fiction. Six finalists were chosen in two categories, General and Outstanding Debut. The winners of the Star Award will be announced at the WFWA Retreat in Albuquerque, New Mexico on September 23, 2017.” In the general category, WWK’s Carla Damron was one of three finalist for her novel, The Stone Necklace. Go to Carladamron.com for more information. Congratulations, Carla!

Congratulations to our writers for the following publications:

Warren Bull's new Lincoln mystery, Abraham Lincoln In Court & Campaign has been released. Look for the Kindle version on February 3.

Shari Randall's "Pets" will be included in Chesapeake Crimes: Fur, Feathers, and Felonies anthology, which will be published in 2018. In the same anthology "Rasputin," KM Rockwood's short story, will also be published. Her short story "Goldie" will be published in the Busted anthology, which will be released by Level Best Books on April 25th.

In addition, our prolific KM will have the following shorts published as well: "Sight Unseen" in Fish Out of Water, Guppie (SinC) anthology, just released, and "Making Tracks" in Passport to Murder, Bouchercon anthology, October 2017.

Margaret S. Hamilton's short story, "Once a Kappa" was published as a finalist in the Southern Writer's Magazine annual short story contest issue. Mysterical-E published her "Double Crust Corpse" in the Fall 2016 issue. "Baby Killer" will appear in the 2017 solar eclipse anthology Day of the Dark to be published this summer prior to the eclipse in August.

James M. Jackson's 4th book in the Seamus McCree series, Doubtful Relations, is now available. His novella "Low Tide at Tybee" appears February 7 as part of Lowcountry Crimes: Four Novellas, which is available for order.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Holiday Summons by KM Rockwood


Duncan Montpelier flicked a nonexistent bit of lint from his deep rose shirt cuff and straightened the fiber
optic cufflink, the latest from Thomas Pink’s. He frowned at the letter on the brushed steel surface of the hall table.
The ivory parchment envelope was addressed to his companion, Jarrett Grayling, in a fine spidery script.
Embossed on the back were the name Agnes Dorothea Grayling and an address in Middle Falls, which Duncan knew to be Jarrett’s childhood home. The stationary was so vintage that the return address included
no zip code.
Why would the past—a past so painful Jarrett seldom mentioned it—be reaching out now? Duncan could see no good coming of it. Perhaps he should discard the letter before Jarrett arrived home.
But no. It had taken five long years before Jarrett was able to trust him. Could he ever look Jarrett in the eye again if he destroyed this letter?
If this were to develop into some sort of crisis, they would face it together. That’s how committed partners faced difficulties in life.
Duncan paced restlessly to the window and peered at the street far below. Tonight was Jarrett’s night to provide dinner. They alternated. Jarrett was late. Since he knew that Duncan had to return to the gallery where he worked for an opening tonight, Jarrett must have decided to stop at a take out shop. One could only hope a gourmet take out shop.
Jarrett’s job as an auditor with the city was boring and stressful at the same time. Duncan was grateful for the trust fund that had permitted him to choose a job he enjoyed managing an art gallery. He could not have kept it if he had to depend upon the income. He had offered to cover their basic bills, but Jarrett had insisted upon paying his portion. Duncan had never revealed the extent of their bills, just asked Jarrett for a set amount each month.
The alternating dinner arrangement might be unfair. Jarrett, already unnerved by his job, had unrealistic standards for himself whenever it was his turn to fix the meal. A curdled sauce or a fallen soufflé could bring him to tears.
Perhaps Duncan could once more suggest hiring a cook for weeknights.
The elevator whirred to a stop at their private foyer. Duncan heard Jarrett’s light footsteps on the marble floor. He hurried to open the door. He was met by the familiar aroma of Givenchy Pour Homme cologne.
Looking flustered, Jarrett bundled in with his arms full of bags with the logo of “Gourmet for Everyday” emblazoned on them. He turned a clean-shaven cheek to Duncan for a quick kiss.
“I was so going to cook tonight.” He hurried into the kitchen deposited the bags on the stainless steel counter. “I had planned to stop and get a lovely piece of beef to broil! But I was running late, and I knew you had to go to an opening tonight. So I stopped and got cordon bleu. I know it’s nothing special, darling. I do hope you’ll forgive me!”
“Nothing to forgive,” Duncan replied. “A perfectly presentable dinner. Shall I fix us cocktails, or would you prefer I just open a bottle of wine?”
“Whichever you think is best. You’re the one with the deadline!” Jarrett swept into the dining room. He began assembling embroidered placements, thin porcelain plates, silver cutlery, crystal stemware and arranging it on the polished dark surface of the dining table.
Duncan took a bottle of wine from the cooler and opened it.
“I got some of those dreamy au gratin potatoes,” Jarrett said. “And the asparagus rolls; I do hope they didn’t crumble on the way home. Chocolate mousse for dessert. And, of course, a salad and a loaf of the seven grain French bread. We do have butter, don’t we?”
Duncan smiled indulgently at Jarrett. “You’re babbling,” he said. “Everything will be fine. A lovely dinner. The excellent company would have made a much less impressive dinner a charming experience. Relax!”
Jarrett stopped his frenetic motion and smiled back at Duncan. “You do see through the non-essentials and put things into perspective. You are so good for me.”
“And you for me, my dear. Here’s to us!” Duncan held his glass aloft.
After dinner, Duncan ground beans for coffee while Jarrett cleared the dishes to the kitchen. Duncan poured Navan Vanilla Cognac, and they sat on the sleek grey couches, the city spread out before their window. The chocolate mousse in the refrigerator was forgotten. Duncan gazed fondly on Jarrett’s slight form. How fortunate he was. Many people went an entire lifetime without finding a partner like Jarrett. So kind, so loving, so grateful for the care and guidance Duncan could provide. And so attractive, with his flowing brown curls, his delicate bone structure and his deep, dark eyes. Even the thin, crooked nose was charming. Duncan felt he could gather him in his arms and shield him from the world forever.
But the letter.
“Jarrett,” he said, rolling the snifter in his palms to warm the cognac. “You have a letter. I left in on the hall table. It’s from Middle Falls.”
Jarrett’s slender hands rose in an alarmed flutter. “I hope nothing has happened to my Aunt Agnes!” he exclaimed.
“Your Aunt Agnes?” Duncan frowned. He had not heard much about Middle Falls, and he certainly hadn’t heard about an Aunt Agnes.
“Yes. My Aunt Agnes. She’s my only living relative!” Jarrett’s nervous hands trembled, suspended in the air. “Unless something’s happened…”
Duncan arose and got the letter. He handed it to his partner.
“This is Aunt Agnes’s stationery.” Jarrett stroked the parchment. “She always said a lady should keep a good supply of quality stationery.”
“I have to go to work soon,” Duncan reminded him. “Would you rather wait to open it until I am gone?”
“No!” Jarrett loosened the flap of the envelope. “I wonder why she is writing after all these years.”
“How did she get the address?” Duncan asked.
“I get a lovely birthday card for her every year,” Jarrett said. “And a Christmas card. I used one of those wonderful winter scene ones you had made up last year. I don’t imagine she gets much mail these days.”
Duncan raised his bushy eyebrows. He felt his world spinning. What else did he not know about Jarrett? “I didn’t know you kept in touch with any of your family.”
Jarrett looked stricken. “I never tried to hide it from you. It just never came up.”
“I thought your family had disowned you.” Duncan moved stiffly across the room.
“Mostly.” Jarrett paused before he took the folded sheets from the envelope. “I don’t know if Aunt Agnes had much choice. She’s a spinster lady. She was always dependent upon my grandfather, who was very strict. She’s my father’s sister, much older than him. When I was a child, Aunt Agnes often took care of me. She’s the one who convinced my father to send me away to boarding school. She said I was too ‘delicate’ to go to the local public school.” Tears formed in Jarrett’s eyes. “I don’t know that I would have ever survived Middle Falls High.”
Duncan placed a comforting hand on Jarrett’s shoulder. “Let’s see what she wants.”
Jarrett skimmed the pages. “She is inviting us for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Us?” Duncan asked.
“Yes. She definitely says ‘you and your companion.’”
“You’re sure she knows our situation?”
“Of course.” Jarrett turned the page over. “She regrets not having made contact previously. She always felt my father and grandfather were harsh. She thanks me for the cards.”
“You’re not considering actually going, are you?” Duncan asked.
“I’m not sure.” Jarrett looked thoughtful. “I will have to think it over. But she is my aunt, and I have no other family.”
Duncan wanted to shout, “You have me!” but that would just upset Jarrett further. Instead he said, “I have to go. We can discuss it tomorrow.”
***
By the next day, Jarrett had made up his mind. “I would very much like to go, Duncan,” he said. “And I would very much like to have you come with me. But I will understand if you don’t want to.”
Duncan sighed. A recipe for disaster. Still, Jarrett’s desire to see his aunt was understandable.
He would probably fret for the rest of his life if he turned down this invitation. Much worse than having a disaster of a holiday weekend. He was so vulnerable; Duncan couldn’t let him go alone. “Shall we rent a car?” Duncan asked.
“We could take the train. I looked up Amtrak; it still stops in Middle River. Get there Wednesday night, leave Friday morning. The old hotel across the street is still operating; we can stay there. It was quite elegant in its day.”
“Good idea.” No point in having any awkwardness about whether they would share a room or not. “Will you call to tell her?”
“She says her phone isn’t working, so I will write. I’ll suggest that we take her out to Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel; I appreciate her invitation, but she must be nearing ninety. I don’t think we should expect her to cook.”
Duncan knew she would insist upon cooking.
***
Two weeks later the impatient passenger train paused just long enough at the Middle Falls station for Duncan
and Jarrett to disembark. As they gathered their belongings, the train pulled out in a flurry of snowflakes.

Wind whistled across the platform. Duncan tapped his fedora more firmly onto his head. He should have opted for a more practical hat; tomorrow they would have to walk to the ancestral Grayling home. He looked around for a porter. There were none. The only other person was a disheveled man—he looked like a bum—huddled against the wall of the now-closed station.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jarrett said, drawing black kid gloves over his delicate white hands. “I enjoy a train trip, although around holiday time it can be crowded! Infinitely beats traveling to an airport, going through security, waiting, finding transportation from the airport….”
Jarrett’s voice trailed off as he looked past Duncan’s shoulder.
Duncan turned to see the bum approaching them. “Shall we go, Jarrett?” he said briskly, turning to leave.
Jarrett didn’t move. Duncan reached over and took Jarrett by the elbow.
“Well, if it ain’t my old school pal, Jarrett Grayling,” the bum said. “You’re not gonna leave before you say hello to your buddy Benjamin, are you?”
Duncan could smell the unwashed body, the cheap alcohol, the clothes that had not been changed in weeks.
“How do you do, Benjamin,” Jarrett said, his shoulders rigid and his neck stiff.
“Fine, thank you, Jarrett. And this is your—what’s the word—fancy man? Life partner? ‘Scuse me if I don’t know the proper term.” Benjamin swayed slightly on his feet.
“We must be going,” Duncan said. Darkness was gathering; the well lit hotel was right across the street.
“Ain’t you gonna give your old buddy a couple of bucks, Jarrett? For old time’s sake?”
Jarrett fumbled with the buttons on his overcoat, taking out his wallet. “Here, Benjamin,” he said. “Here’s five dollars. Have a hamburger on me.”
A grimy hand with ragged fingernails reached out and snagged the proffered bill.
“Good start, Jerkhead.” Benjamin’s voice turned menacing. “But know how you used to give me all your lunch money? ‘Member what happened if you didn’t? I’d get it anyhow. Let’s cough it all up.” He held out his hand.
To his immense relief, Duncan saw a uniformed policeman approaching them. He hoped gay bashing was not an unofficially sanctioned pastime in this town. “Take what you’ve been given,” he said “and leave us alone. You’ll only buy cheap wine with it anyhow.”
The cop had switched on his flashlight, drawing Benjamin’s gaze. Benjamin laughed and dropped his hand. “You always was a kidder, Jerkhead,” he said, his rank breath reaching them. “Imagine your fellow faggot here’s the same way.”
“Not panhandling, I hope, Benjamin?” the cop asked.
“No, officer,” Benjamin said. “Just recognized an old classmate from school. Had to say ‘hi.’ Won’t say ‘old friend,’ since I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about me and old Jerkhead back in the day. Don’t swing that way. Never did.”
“We were just heading to the hotel, officer,” Duncan said, giving Jarrett’s elbow a nudge. Jarrett’s face was an unmoving mask, but unshed tears glistened in his eyes.
“Don’t want no trouble here tonight,” the officer warned.
“You won’t get any from us,” Duncan assured him. “We plan to eat in the hotel and stay in tonight.”
 “Good plan.” The officer nodded, tapping his long, heavy flashlight on his palm. “Never know what might happen at night.”
Duncan grabbed the handle of his suitcase with one hand and used the other to propel Jarrett down the platform.
“Oh, Jerkhead,” Benjamin called after them. “Tell your queer buddy there that I ain’t gonna buy no cheap wine. Gonna buy bourbon. A man’s drink!” He laughed. “See you around!”
Duncan steered Jarrett toward the brightly lit entrance to the hotel. As they paused for traffic to clear, he noticed an elderly lady standing by the end of the station platform. She was bundled up against the cold in a green tweed overcoat and her hand clutched a two-wheeled wire shopping cart. She watched them closely.
Jarrett glanced in her direction.
 “Oh, no! I think it’s my Aunt Agnes!” He ducked his head and turned panicked eyes toward Duncan. “I can’t let her see me like this!”
 “Just keep going and pretend we didn’t notice her,” Duncan urged. To his relief, the woman did not approach them.
Duncan got them into the hotel, registered, and into their room. Jarrett collapsed on the bed without removing his overcoat or shoes.
“Shall we get room service?” Duncan asked. “Or would you rather go down to the dining room?”
“The dining room,” Jarrett said from his prone position facing the wall. “Just give me a few minutes.”
“Certainly.” Duncan had been afraid of something like this.
“I can’t hole up here forever and not face the world.”
“Of course.” As if Middle Falls were the entire world.
But for his early life, it had been Jarrett’s entire world.
***
The old family house, a white frame Victorian, was a short walk from the hotel, at the edge of the town’s struggling business district.
They presented a bottle of this year’s Beaujolais Nouveau and a box of Godiva chocolates. Aunt Agnes accepted them gracefully, placing the wine on the table and finding a corkscrew after a bit of rummaging in
her ill-lit pantry.
Her eyes lit up at the box of chocolates. She started to open them, but Jarrett said, “No, Aunt Agnes. We’ll
spoil our appetites for Thanksgiving dinner! Save them for later.” She needed no more persuading to squirrel them away in the pantry.
Duncan had been dreading the Thanksgiving dinner, but was pleasantly surprised. The food itself was mediocre—the turkey was dry, the cranberry sauce a glistening cylinder shaped by its can, the soup unremarkable. But Aunt Agnes tried her best to be welcoming, and Jarrett positively glowed.
After dinner, Jarrett removed the dishes to the old stone sink in the kitchen. Aunt Agnes brought out distinctly inferior coffee and a homemade pumpkin pie. Delicate pie crusts took a practiced hand. Aunt Agnes was out of practice.
Aunt Agnes reached out her frail, withered hand and placed it over Jarrett’s equally frail but vibrant one. “It’s been so many years, Jarrett,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t want to come see me…”
“I’m glad you wrote.” Jarrett smiled shyly.
A touching scene. Aunt Agnes was elderly and eccentric, but Duncan had expected nothing different. He should give them some time alone.
 “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, rising carefully from the fragile dining room chair, “I will go out back and smoke.” He pulled a Cuban cigar from inside his jacket and brandished it.
“Certainly,” Aunt Agnes said. “The sun should be pleasant on the back porch this time of day. I’m afraid there is nowhere to sit, though.”
“I would prefer to stretch my legs, thank you.” Duncan let himself out and stood in the brisk November air, debating if he really needed to light the cigar.
Although the house had been painted recently, Duncan wondered if anything had been updated since Jarrett had lived here as a boy. He looked around the porch. It was well swept. A wire shopping cart stood by the door to the kitchen. A damp green overcoat hung on a hook. Perhaps it had been Aunt Agnes they had seen the night before. Duncan fingered the rough tweed fabric.
He frowned. The coat was not merely damp, it was soaked. After the weak winter sun set, it would freeze. How could it have gotten so wet, and why would Aunt Agnes leave it outside?
Duncan looked around the porch with new interest. A pair of wading boots, the waist-high kind used for fishing, was draped over the porch railing. A shovel leaned against the wall. He spied a garden hose coiled on the porch floor. Very late in the year to be gardening. He hoped Aunt Agnes’s eccentricities were not running to senility.
After a decent amount of time, Duncan reentered the dining room. Aunt Agnes and Jarrett were seated side by side, their coffee and pie untouched. Jarrett bestirred himself.
“Aunt Agnes and I were just talking about the house and all the memories it holds.” Jarrett’s face flickered between pain and pleasure. “I am to inherit it.”
“The town wanted to tear it down and make room for a commercial expansion,” Aunt Agnes said, “but I have managed to head that off so Jarrett can have it one day.”
“I appreciate that,” Jarrett said. “But I don’t think I could ever live here! Middle Falls isn’t a comfortable place for people like Duncan and me. And our jobs.”
“You don’t have to make a decision now.” Aunt Agnes’s face grew grim. “And if I have learned anything as I have grown older, it’s that the world is not a comfortable place for anyone. I have had to take affairs into my own hands more than once recently. You may need to do the same.”
“We should be going soon,” Duncan said. “I would prefer if we were not out walking after dark.”
Reluctantly, Jarrett got to his feet. “Let us clean up for you, Aunt Agnes,” he said.
“No, no. My pleasure. And your friend is right. You want to be back at the hotel before dark.”
“Perhaps your aunt will join us at the hotel for breakfast?” Duncan suggested.
“Thank you, no,” Aunt Agnes said. “I will always treasure this afternoon. I do hope you will come back. Perhaps for Christmas?”
Duncan looked at the hope in Aunt Agnes’s face and tried to keep the dismay from his own. “Christmas is a very busy time. The gallery where I work will be hosting numerous events. And Jarrett, of course, will have all the year-end accounting to handle. Perhaps later in the spring?”
***
A light sleet fell on the platform as Duncan and Jarrett awaited the Friday morning train to take them back home. Duncan huddled deeper into his overcoat, but Jarrett was so animated he seemed not to notice the tiny crystals of ice that cut into his face.
“Aunt Agnes says the will is all set up!” he said. “Back to the way it was before my grandfather disowned me. The income goes to Aunt Agnes as long as she needs it. And she has a life estate in the house. But I will eventually inherit.”
“I’m surprised your aunt could arrange for that,” Duncan said. “I would have thought your grandfather would have established a very tight trust that excluded you completely.”
“He did,” Jarrett said. “But Aunt Agnes said he always hoped I’d go straight and they left a clause in it I would be reinstated if I established a ‘suitable family unit.’ Aunt Agnes told the lawyer that she considered you to be a ‘suitable family unit.’ Besides, who would challenge it?”
“Interesting. But you wouldn’t want to actually move back into the house here, would you?”
“No. But Aunt Agnes would be pleased if I were to donate it to the local historical society. They could use it for offices; they might even be able to make part of it into a museum. Or I guess I could sell it.”
“I wonder what it’s worth,” Duncan mused aloud. He eyed a newspaper vending machine. “Perhaps the local paper’s real estate ads would give us some idea.” He took a few coins from his pocket and opened the box.
The approaching train whistled. Duncan grabbed a paper and shoved it in his overcoat pocket.
The passenger car was near empty. Neither commuters nor holiday travelers favored the Friday after Thanksgiving. They stowed their luggage and sat across from each other.
“Duncan, thank you so much for coming with me.” Jarrett said, unbuttoning his coat and removing his hat. “I know the food wasn’t wonderful. But it meant so much to see Aunt Agnes.”
Duncan smiled indulgently. “We didn’t come for the food. I’m glad we came. And I’m very glad you had a good trip.”
“I do hope she’s all right living there by herself.”
“She’s been living by herself for years. She would be offended if you were to question the arrangement
now.”
“I suppose you’re right. Still, I hope she isn’t turning to alcohol.”
“What would make you think that? She had only one glass of that excellent wine with dinner.”
“True. But when I took the dishes out to the kitchen, I saw half a bottle of Wild Turkey on the shelf. And another empty one in the trash.”
Duncan frowned. “If your aunt turned to drinking, I doubt she’d drink Wild Turkey. Perhaps she bought it thinking it was an appropriate for Thanksgiving. Or perhaps she used it to baste the turkey. I wouldn’t worry.”
“You’re right,” Jarrett agreed. “I didn’t sleep well last night, with all the thoughts churning in my head. Do you mind if I try to take a little nap?”
“You do that,” Duncan said.
Jarrett leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. In a few minutes, his breathing became slow and regular.
Duncan pulled the newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it. He stared at the headline.
“Homeless Man Beaten to Death” it said.
The newspaper shook in his hands as he read the article.

At 9 PM on Wednesday night, Benjamin Baker, 42. Of no fixed address,
 was found beaten to death in the alley behind City Hall.
Officer James Igman found the body and called for an ambulance, but Baker was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.’
“An official cause of death will not be released until we have the results
 of an autopsy,” a spokesperson for the police department stated.
“Baker had been reported drinking in public less than two hours
 before he was found. He may have been unconscious
 at the time of the attack. It appears that he had been struck repeatedly
 with a broad, flat object. This was a violent crime, and the perpetrator
 could not have avoided being splattered with blood.
 The investigation is continuing.


Duncan closed his eyes. Thank goodness he and Jarrett had decided on a leisurely dinner in the hotel restaurant. They had been seated in the restaurant by seven and had lingered with coffee and brandy before a fire in the elegant lobby until after nine thirty, in sight of hotel staff the entire time.
Perhaps Jarrett did need to be shielded from some truths. Aunt Agnes, who was also very fond of him, apparently felt that way. Duncan shoved the paper back into his pocket. He would discard it at the earliest opportunity.
He wondered how Aunt Agnes knew to offer Wild Turkey to Benjamin.


The End




Saturday, November 29, 2014

Guest Blogger Edith Maxwell


I’m so pleased to be a guest today on Writers Who Kill, which numbers several of my friends among its regular contributors.                                                                        -Edith Maxwell

What is a Quaker?
My protagonist in Bluffing is Murder, Lauren Rousseau, is a Quaker. I just happen to be one, too. This means I am a member of the Religious Society of Friends.

I have found over the years that there is a certain lack of common knowledge about who Quakers are. No, we're not the celibate Shakers, nor the Ludditely Amish or Mennonites. Or a guy who markets oatmeal in an old-fashioned hat.

Friends have a long history - over 350 years - and much has been written about them. George Fox founded the Society of Friends in England, and it soon spread to America. William Penn was one.

The branch of Friends that I belong to and the Meeting I attend features unprogrammed worship.
This means simply that we sit in silence together on pews in a beautiful and simple Meetinghouse built more than 150 years ago. We sit in expectant waiting, listening for a message from the Light.

Friends are a tolerant bunch and, while it is at base a Christian faith, no one is quizzed on their individual belief system. One might be listening for a message from God, another for a message from Spirit, another for a message from within, and another might be mindfully meditating. All are welcome. If someone feels moved to share a message, she or he stands, speaks, and then sits.

That's it. We have First Day School for the children, fellowship and refreshments, and a monthly business meeting. We hold peace vigils as well as social potlucks.


The five Testimonies guide our lives:

ñ    Simplicity
ñ    Equality
ñ    Integrity
ñ    Peace
ñ    Community

Quakers believe there is that of God in each person, which leads to the core and strength of the Testimonies. We have no minister because we all minister to each other. We believe in peace and non-violence because we are all equal. Living simply frees us to help others.

Historically, Friends have been rabble-rousers in the name of peace and equality. Mary Dyer was
John Greenleaf Whittier
hung on the Boston Common in 1660 for preaching Quakerism. John Woolman traveled the American colonies urging people to give up their slaves. John Greenleaf Whittier, the poet and abolitionist, was on the building committee of the Amesbury Meeting, where I am a member (and I’ve written an historical mystery that includes him!). Many modern Friends have been conscientious objectors in time of war.

I came to Friends as an adult. I find that quiet individual worship in community suits me, as do the Testimonies. Being a Quaker seems to suit Lauren, too. She often takes a moment to hold someone in the Light or to center herself before heading into a difficult or dangerous situation. Being a Friend is not for everyone, though. I knew someone raised as a high Episcopalian and he really couldn't handle all the silence. When I visited his church, I couldn't take all the busyness!

Did you know what Quakerism meant? If you have ever sat in silent Meeting for Worship, how was it for you? Or do you prefer to meditate alone?

Bluffing is Murder
Summer promises to be anything but easy for Quaker linguistics professor Lauren Rousseau in Bluffing is Murder. Still reeling from an attack by her student’s murderer, Lauren decides to brush up on her karate and finds herself drawn to handsome sensei Dan Talbot. During a run near the sea bluffs, she discovers the corpse of her insurance agent, Charles Heard, who is also a Trustee for one of the oldest land trusts in the country. Earlier that day, Lauren had a public argument with Heard over her policy―and is now a suspect in the case.
  
Determined to clear her name, Lauren sets out to discover the real story behind the mismanaged land trust, the dead man’s volatile sister―and a possible link to her own father’s mysterious death more than a decade ago. But a near miss with a car, snippets of strange conversations in French and Farsi, slashed tires, and finding yet another attack victim on the beach make it clear that Lauren is also a target―and the killer is closing in. Can Lauren discover the killer before she becomes the next victim?

“In this page-turner of a mystery, linguistics professor Lauren Rousseau
uses her smarts, her Quaker faith, and her summer vacation to bring a vicious
murderer, and a secret from her own past, into the light.”
Barbara Ross
Agatha-nominated author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries
Co-editor of Level Best Books

Edith Maxwell writes the Lauren Rousseau mysteries under the pseudonym Tace Baker, in which
Quaker linguistics professor Lauren Rousseau solves small-town murders (Barking Rain Press). The second book in the series, Bluffing is Murder, released in November, 2014. Edith holds a doctorate in linguistics and is a long-time member of Amesbury Friends Meeting.

‘Til Dirt Do Us Part is the latest in Maxwell's Local Foods Mysteries series (Kensington Publishing, 2014). Her new Country Store Mysteries, written as Maddie Day (also from Kensington), will debut with Flipped for Murder in fall, 2015.

Maxwell’s Carriagetown Mysteries series features Quaker midwife Rose Carroll solving mysteries in 1888 with John Greenleaf Whittier’s help. The series is in search of a publisher.

Maxwell’s most recent short story of murderous revenge, “Breaking the Silence,” appeared in Best New England Crime Stories 2014: Stone Cold (Level Best Books), also featuring characters from the Carriagetown Mysteries.

A fourth-generation Californian and former tech writer, Maxwell lives in an antique house north of Boston with her beau and three cats. She blogs every weekday with the other Wicked Cozy Authors (wickedcozyauthors.com), and you can find her at www.edithmaxwell.com, @edithmaxwell, on Pinterest, and at https://www.facebook.com/EdithMaxwellAuthor.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Which Life?


Which Life?

Just for fun I googled my name and discovered that people named Warren Bull live in different locations and have a variety of jobs.  I might be interested in trading lives with the BBC reporter and Americas analyst.  That sounds fascinating and it probably involves a lot of travel.  Besides, a reporter who can stay employed these days must be really good at what he does.

Canadian Warren Bull makes interesting artistic photographs of Native North Americans. He was in law enforcement at one time.  I believe his life experience may be quite a change from mine.

I’m sure the Australian singing piano man lives to a different beat since I  am in the early stages of learning to sing and I don’t play any instrument.

I suspect that the Capetown South African Forex consultant is richer than I am. Forex is an over-the-counter currency exchange. I looked it up. (It didn’t say where the counter was or what is exchanged.)

I recently learned from a woman that a minister sharing my name convinced her to avoid church.  Apparently when she was younger she attended a church  where the minister (with my name) asked everyone to talk about a miracle that happened to them or a family member.  The woman brought in what she described to me as “sort of a miracle” that happened to a distant relative. She said when told him about the miracle the minister snapped, “That’s not a miracle and I don’t believe it even happened.”  I don’t want his job, but to me it sounds like the man who has it should either retire or seriously consider changing his attitude.

The president and CEO of special education facilities must be a busy guy.  Then there are Warren Bulls with different professions, i.e., groundskeeper, soccer club president, neurologist, janitor, astronomer and physicist. They live in Canada, England, New York state and Virginia among other places. 

I do wonder what the Alabama High School Football Hall of Fame player with my name is up to these days. How did he find life after high school? 

What about your namesakes?  Would you switch lives for a week with any of them? 

Thursday, November 27, 2014

The Story of Thanksgiving


Most of us picture the first Thanksgiving with Pilgrims and Indians meeting as friends and sharing a big feast - a happy time with the harvest in and everything positive about this day, and it did happen that way once. The Pilgrims held the feast to honor Squanto and the Wampanoags.

In 1863 during the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens,” to be celebrated on the last Thursday in November.  But Thanksgiving is a mixture of truth and myths that developed in the 1890s and early 1900s when our country was desperately trying to pull together its many diverse peoples into a common national unity. In 1898, the federal government declared the last Thursday of November to be the official Thanksgiving, and what started as an inspirational bit of folklore, grew to the Thanksgiving we know now.

It was in 1614 that a band of English explorers sailed home to England with a ship full of Patuxet Indians bound for slavery. They left behind smallpox which killed all those who escaped. By the time the Pilgrims arrived in Massachusetts Bay, there was only one living Patuxet Indian – Squanto, who we’ve all heard of. He had been a slave in England, who had been given his freedom so he knew their language. Because Squanto had a very real love for the English explorer, John Weymouth, who became a second father to him after he discovered his tribe had all died while he was gone, he considered the Pilgrims who arrived in 1620 to be like Weymouth. So that first year he taught them to grow corn, something they knew nothing about and how to fish, since they didn’t have the proper hooks. He also negotiated a peace treaty between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Nation. The Wampanoag Indians were not the “friendly savages” we learned about in school. Nor were they invited out of the goodness of the Pilgrims’ hearts. They were part of a widespread confederacy of Algonkian-speaking people known as the League of the Delaware. For six hundred years they had been defending themselves from other tribes, and they were suspicious of those early settlers.

As word spread in England about the paradise to be found in the new world many religious zealots called Puritans began arriving, and since there were no fences around the land, they considered it public domain and soon took control instead of the original Pilgrims, who were a mixture of people who weren’t Puritans or a moderate group of the Puritan movement. The Puritans weren’t simple religious conservatives persecuted by the King and the Church of England for their unorthodox beliefs. They were political revolutionaries who not only intended to overthrow England’s government, but radicals who planned to build this new country to their own religious beliefs and no other. They considered themselves the “Chosen Elect” and strove to purify themselves and everyone else, and by any means, including deceptions, treachery, torture, war and genocide to achieve that end. Does that make you think of another religious splinter group today in the Mideast? In 1691 the Puritans got their charter from the Massachusetts Bay Company. As other British settlers came, they seized the land and took strong young Natives for slaves and killing the rest. However, the Pequot Nation had not agreed to the peace treaty Squanto had negotiated and they fought back. The Pequot War was one of the bloodiest Indian wars ever fought.

In 1637 over 700 men, women and children of the Pequot Tribe gathered for their annual Green Corn Festival which is today our Thanksgiving celebration in what is now Groton, Connecticut. In the predawn hours the sleeping Indians were surrounded by English and Dutch mercenaries, who ordered them to come outside. Those who did were shot or clubbed to death while the terrified women and children who huddled inside the longhouses were burned alive. The next day the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony declared “A Day of Thanksgiving” because 700 unarmed men, women and children had been murdered.

A Thanksgiving sermon delivered in 1623 by “Mather the Elder” gave special thanks to God for the devastating plague of smallpox which wiped out the majority of the Wampanoag Indians who had been their benefactors. He praised God for destroying “chiefly young men and children, the very seeds of increase, clearing the forests to make way for a better growth”, i.e. the Pilgrims.

From that day on horrible massacres of the Native Americans and capturing all healthy men and women to sell abroad as slaves happened with each event being celebrated as a day of thanksgiving until George Washington finally set aside only one day of Thanksgiving per year instead of celebrating these horrible events.

Even though I grew up with the Thanksgiving story when I became older I found out the horrors the earlier settlers committed against the Native Americans whose land this was, and those injustices continued on with no stopping. What bothers me is the atrocities done in God’s name as is happening now in the Middle-east, and still happens in our country, too, if you stop to think about it. Laws like those that try to remove anything negative about our country instead of telling the truth as it is. Religious fanatics who think only they have God’s blessing and everyone else is a heretic bound for Hell.

In spite of its actual history, I love Thanksgiving.  It’s a time to get together with family over a good meal filled with fun and conversation, and at least with my family, no football game on TV so we fill the time after eating, the table is cleared, and dishes washed we gather together in the living room to talk, laugh and share memories. It’s one of those holidays that haven’t been taken over by big business – or at least until recently. It’s sad with employees required to work in the big box stores so customers who can’t wait one extra day to buy that gizmo or thing-a-ma-bob they just must have leave many people without the pleasure of sitting down with their family for a Thanksgiving dinner.

Although I knew these facts, but rather than go through the multiple histories on my shelf, I Googled Thanksgiving and chose these two articles out of many. I credit the above with “The Real Story of Thanksgiving” by Susan Bates and “Introductions for Teachers” by Chuck Larsen. Both will give you more detailed information than I could fit into one blog.



What does Thanksgiving mean to you?

How do you celebrate it?



Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Oh, Sweet Mysteries of Life



Last winter, after returning home from a particularly brutal physical therapy session, I found a box addressed to me on my doorstep. Inside were packages of lavender bath salts—six pounds worth.

I looked in the box for a card or receipt but found nothing. I asked my husband, but he hadn’t bought the bath salts.

The next day, four boxes of tea arrived. Again, without a card.

Puzzled, I called the company that sent both packages, but it was against their policy to divulge the sender’s name. I asked if it was a promotional gift. The customer service rep said they might send out small samples of bath salts, but not six pounds.

Being appropriately suspicious, I checked my credit cards and credit report to make sure someone wasn’t trying to create identity theft. Everything was fine. (Whew)

It seems I had a…da, da, da…mystery. What would Nancy Drew do?

First, I made a list of suspects. To my surprise and delight it was rather long.

I needed to narrow it down. It was probably someone who knew that I was tired of the bitter cold winter, my muscles were sore, and that I was having trouble sleeping since the bath salts were specifically for those problems.

To my embarrassment, I realized it could be just about anyone because (lowering my head in shame) I was a whiner.

So, I focused on the suspects who had the means, motive, and opportunity.

Was the perp my lovely niece? No, she was in medical school and strapped for cash. But was she in cahoots with my mother-in-law who did have money? They have made a formidable gift giving team in the past.

Perhaps it was my friend in Florida who had suggested that I visit and warm up at her beach house?

Or, could it have been a good friend who lives in England? I wavered. She was on a gift giving spree, but usually she ships her own packages that have "Royal Mail" stamped on the side instead of going through a company. Also, her modus operandi is to send chocolate in the shape of high heeled shoes and hedgehog tchotchkes.

After making several inquiries, with everyone denying responsibility, I was back to square one. Also, I was a little embarrassed for putting people on the spot. One friend laughed and asked if she should send bath salts and tea in the future.

At that point I realized that not all mysteries are meant to be solved. Some are simply meant to be enjoyed. While I’ve officially classified this as a cold case, I’m left with a warm feeling of gratitude for the generous sender who took the time and effort to send such a thoughtful gift.

What are you grateful for this holiday season?