Merry Mistletoe by Annette Dashofy

“This is stupid.” 

Those three words had become the repetitive mantra of Lauren Sanders’s teenage foster son, Marcus, for the last few months. He was at the age where he knew more than anyone else, especially her. Today, he was dismissing her plans for the two of them to attend a Christmas party at the Marsdale American Legion. “It’s not stupid. It’ll be festive.” 

“It’ll be a bunch of little kids getting cheap presents from a fake Santa.” 

His description of the jolly old elf amused her. “As opposed to the real Santa?” 

Marcus made a sour face. “Right.” The sarcasm dripping from the word was thicker than refrigerated honey. “The only reason you’re going is because you’re doing a story on it.” 

Partly true. Lauren was an investigative reporter, so yes, she was going to write a piece about the community event, but there was nothing shady about it that needed to be investigated. “The reason we are going is because Abby Baronick invited us. You remember Abby.” 

“Cute cop. Works with Chief Adams.” 

The fact Marcus thought of Abby as “cute” had Lauren fighting a smile. Marcus was smack in the middle of his teens. Abby was close to ten years older and involved in a serious relationship with Seth Metzger, another of Vance Township’s police officers. Marcus was growing up. Too fast. “Abby is supposed to be one of Santa’s elves,” Lauren said, watching for a reaction. 

Marcus tried to act unaffected, but she spotted a spark in the teen’s eyes. 

“But you’re right.” Lauren opted for reverse psychology. “You don’t want to hang around with a bunch of little kids, a fake Santa, and Abby in an elf costume.” 

He huffed. “I don’t want to, but I’ll go.” 

Lauren chose not to say anything more. She had him where she wanted him and didn’t want him to reverse course. With Abby’s help, the fake Santa had a special gift with Marcus’s name on it in his bag of goodies. 

* 

Later that afternoon, Lauren strode from the packed parking lot into the American Legion Hall with Marcus at her side. He’d agreed to wear the black button-down shirt that went with his new suit, but that was as close to dressing up as he would go. Lauren called it a win when the jeans he insisted on wearing were clean and free of holes. 

The hall, like the lot, was packed. Young families with small children, some of whom squealed with delight as they thundered around the open space, mingled beneath red and green streamers and garland. Some gathered at a table covered with brightly decorated Christmas cookies and a bowl of red punch. In the center of the room, Santa occupied a red velvet throne surrounded by puffs of what looked more like pillow stuffing than snow. As far as “fake” Santas went, Lauren had to admit, this guy looked pretty darned authentic. 

Abby Baronick stood at his side in a short green dress with tights, a pointy hat, and elf ears. Lauren snuck a glance at Marcus, who’d clearly spotted the young cop and was wearing a smitten grin. 

Across the room, a half dozen other teens, who looked bored to tears, huddled together. Older kids, whose parents dragged them along while the younger siblings, played or waited in line to tell Santa what they most wanted to find under their tree on Christmas morning. 

Lauren pointed at the outliers. “See? You aren’t the only teenager here. You can hang out with them while I get what I need for my story.” 

Marcus grumbled something and sauntered away. Lauren watched the path he took as he veered toward Santa. No, not Santa. His “elf.” Marcus called to Abby and waved when she looked up. She waved back with a big smile. Then Marcus continued toward the other teens. Abby, however, searched the crowd until her eyes met Lauren’s. The elf’s grin turned conspiratorial as she gave a nod and a thumbs-up. 

Someone bumped Lauren’s shoulder. She looked up to see Abby’s older brother, Monongahela County Police Detective Wayne Baronick, holding two plastic cups of the red punch, one of which he offered to Lauren. 

“Thanks.” She accepted and took a sip. Too sweet for her, but the little ones probably loved it. 

“Are you ready?” Wayne asked. 

Lauren acted coy. “For what.” 

“Right.” He winked. “Big surprise. Does he know?” 

“Not a clue.” 

“Are you sure?” 

She took another sip. “Marcus is a horrible liar. Trust me. He has no idea.” 

“I’m surprised you got him here.” 

“Wasn’t easy. But I mentioned your sister would be here, and that swayed him.” 

“My sister?” Wayne appeared puzzled. 

“Marcus has a crush.” 

“On Abby?” Wayne chuckled. “Wait until I tell her.” 

Lauren elbowed him. “Don’t you dare. I suppose you don’t remember being fifteen, almost sixteen, and being enamored of an older woman.” 

Wayne’s gaze turned dreamy. “Miss Van Dyne. My high school algebra teacher. Long auburn hair. Wore these tight sweaters—” 

Lauren gave him a second elbow. “I get the picture.” 

Wayne smiled. “Marcus’s secret is safe with me.” 

From across the room, raised voices lifted over the happy jabbering of youngsters. Lauren looked toward the source and muttered an oath. Two of the teens were engaging in a shouting match with Marcus in the middle. One kid shoved the other. Marcus had a hand on the chest of the teen doing the shoving, holding him back. The other kid recovered and came toward them, swinging. 

Lauren launched in their direction. Wayne charged past her. Parents were running toward the teens. A few of the younger children started crying. 

Wayne plowed through the parents who were circling the melee. Lauren followed on his heels, clutching the back of his shirt lest someone try to hold her back.

By the time they reached the teens, the two doing the shoving were tussling on the floor, arms swinging. Marcus had an arm around one of them, trying to pull him off the other. A fourth boy jumped in and grabbed a handful of Marcus’s hair. Marcus yelped. A father joined in the fray, grabbing Marcus and the hair-puller by the arms. 

“That’s enough.” Wayne’s take-control cop voice drowned out all the others. Even the two combatants stopped throwing punches and looked toward him. 

In the midst of it, an elf in a green dress appeared and landed on her knees next to the fighters. Grabbing each by an arm, Abby stood and brought them with her, giving them a shake. Lauren could hear her tell them, “Shame on you, acting like spoiled brats in front of your little brothers and sisters. And Santa!” 

Lauren wondered if the boys knew Abby was a cop or if merely being scolded by one of Santa’s elves was enough for them to hang their heads in shame. 

Wayne joined her and snatched the pair by their collars. “I got this, Sis. Go back to being Santa’s helper.” 

Abby brushed off the knees of her tights. “Don’t hurt them too badly, officer,” she said, giving her brother a wink. 

Her words had their desired effect as the boys’ eyes widened. 

As Lauren watched, Wayne marched the pair out of the hall with the fathers trailing behind. 

“Everything’s under control,” Abby assured the onlookers. “Have some more punch and cookies. Come on over and see Santa.” 

Lauren moved toward Marcus, who was casting apologetic looks at Abby. “I tried to break it up before they started throwing punches,” he told her. 

She stuffed her hands into her elf dress pockets. “I know you did. I saw you.” She glanced at Lauren before coming back to Marcus. “You’re a good kid, you know.” Abby brought one hand from her pocket, held a green sprig over the boy’s head, and brushed his cheek with a quick kiss before pivoting and hurrying back to the jolly old elf on the red throne. 

Marcus stood motionless, his mouth gaping and stars in his eyes. 

* 

A half hour passed with no more shenanigans from the older kids. Wayne had given the two rowdies a good talking to and turned them over to their parents before reporting back to Lauren. 

“Pete’s given Marcus a few come-to-Jesus talks,” she told him. “Next time, maybe I should give you the job.” 

Wayne grinned. “Marcus is a good kid. The only time he gets into mischief, it’s because he tries to play intermediary between two of the real troublemakers.” 

She was well aware of that but needed the reminder from time to time. 

The line for Santa was growing short, and Lauren caught Abby’s eye. The elf responded with a nod. 

“It’s time,” Lauren said to Wayne. She looked around. “Now, where did that boy get off to?” 

“I saw him heading for the men’s room. I’ll get him.” 

Alone except for the remaining families in her periphery, Lauren had a chance to think about her decision for the hundredth or so time. It was the right one. She’d given it a lot of thought and taken all the proper steps. But there was still one big hurdle in her path. A few minutes later, that hurdle approached her, escorted by Detective Wayne Baronick.

“You ready to go?” Marcus asked hopefully. 

“Just about,” she said. “But you need to visit Santa first.” 

“Aw, come on. I’m almost sixteen. I’m not gonna sit on some old dude’s lap and tell him I want a pony for Christmas.” 

“You don’t have to sit on his lap.” Lauren held up her phone. “Just stand by him. I want to take your picture.” 

From his expression, she might as well have asked him to eat raw liver. 

Wayne nudged him. “Humor her. Go do it.” He leaned down and whispered loud enough for Lauren to hear. “Abby will be in the picture with you.” 

Marcus flushed a brilliant red. “Stop it, you guys.” But he looked at Lauren. “All right. If I don’t, you’ll never let me forget about it.” 

“That’s right,” she said. “Think of it as my Christmas present.” 

He gave her an ornery grin. “Does that mean I can return the scarf and gloves I got you?” 

She shoved him gently toward the red throne. “Just get over there already.” 

Wayne moved with her, closer to Santa. She leaned against the tall detective, her knees suddenly weak. 

“It’ll be fine,” Wayne said softly. 

There was one little tyke ahead of Marcus. Once she’d received her gift stocking and candy cane, she scurried away, leaving only a very uncomfortable teen. 

Abby waved him forward, and Lauren got her phone camera ready. Wayne took it from her. “You need to be in this picture, too.” 

He was right. She hoped. “Just be sure to get one of him before I join him.” 

“It’s handled. Relax.” 

She tried to laugh, but it came out garbled. 

Abby turned to Santa. “This is Marcus Baker. I told you about him.” 

“Ah, yes.” Santa’s voice boomed. 

Not only did he look like the real Santa, he sounded like him, Lauren thought. 

Santa reached toward the dwindling pile of stockings and came up with a rolled piece of paper, a red ribbon tied around it. “Before you tell me what you want for Christmas, young man, I have a special gift for you.” 

Lauren wished Marcus’s back wasn’t to her. She wanted to see his face. 

He hesitantly accepted the scroll. “What’s this?” 

“Open it, silly,” Abby said, “and find out.” 

Marcus pulled the end of the ribbon, undoing the bow, and let it slide to the floor. He unrolled the paper and read it in silence. 

Lauren’s heart pounded within her chest. 

He looked at her, mouth open. It took three tries before he managed to speak. “You—this—” He held up the document. “Is this for real?” 

“It will be after we see the judge tomorrow morning,” Lauren said, her own voice sticking in her throat. “If it’s okay with you.” 

“I’m going to be your son? For real? Like? You’re adopting me?” 

She repeated, “If it’s okay with you.” She needed desperately to hear him say it. 

“Okay?” His almost-sixteen-year-old voice cracked, and tears gleamed in his eyes. “It’s all I’ve wanted since…” 

Lauren went to him before he had to say the rest. 

Since his mother went to prison. 

Lauren wrapped him in her arms. “Yes. For real. I’m adopting you.” 

He hugged her back, his tears dampening her shoulder. His voice was muffled as he said, “Thanks, Mom.” 

* 

The party was breaking up. Parents had taken their little ones home. Santa had unbuttoned the top of his red jacket revealing a matching red t-shirt and stood at the cookie table chatting with one of the ladies from the American Legion as she packaged the few remaining treats. 

Lauren watched from one side of the room, feeling as content as she ever had. She and Marcus had spent two Christmases together already, but this, their third, would be different. They would really and truly be mother and son. 

Marcus, she noticed, was helping Abby sweep the floor clean of crumbs and bits of wrapping paper. 

“Hey, Mom.” Wayne appeared from behind her and nudged her gently. “I would have to say that went well.” 

“It did.” She tipped her head toward her son and Wayne’s sister. “I can never get him to work like that at home. At least, not without complaining.” 

“He’s a teenager. What do you expect?” 

“Maybe I should ask Abby to stop by when there are chores to be done.” 

Wayne chuckled. “Seth might get jealous.” 

She smiled. “I wouldn’t want that.” 

They stood in silence for a few minutes before Wayne cleared his throat. “Do you guys have plans for Christmas Eve?” 

“Probably a quiet evening at home. Then over to Zoe and Pete’s for Christmas morning.” 

“How would you like to join me—and Abby—at our parents’ house?” 

Lauren looked up at him. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“You’re not. We’d love to have you.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I would love to have you join us.” 

Lauren gazed across the room at her son and the huge smile on his face. “I’m pretty sure Marcus would enjoy it. Thank you. I accept.” 

Wayne’s hands came out of his pockets, and he lifted one over her head. Before she knew what was going on, he’d slipped the other around her and pulled her in, pressing a quick but warm kiss to her lips. 

He released her, and she staggered, dazed. “What—was that?” 

His cheeks reddened as he showed her the sprig of mistletoe. “Too much?” 

Lauren gazed at the bit of green, her heart pounding once again. “No.” She took the sprig from him, stood on her tiptoes to hold it over his head, and returned the kiss, leaning into him. 

A whoop from the back of the room broke them up. Lauren turned to see Marcus and Abby yelping and catcalling at them, big grins on their faces. 

Lauren brought her gaze back to Wayne and mimicked, “Too much?” 

“Not on your life.” He tipped his head toward her. “Just be forewarned, my mom likes to hang this stuff everywhere.” 

Lauren nodded her approval. “I’m okay with that.” 

Killer Questions - Ways to Kill People with Holiday Related "Weapons"

Killer Questions – Ways to Kill People with Holiday Related “Weapons”

The holidays are time of joy and happiness. They also are a time when people commit murder. The Writers Who Kill members thought we would help by sharing ways to kill people with holiday related “weapons.”

Lori Roberts Herbst - Well, the easy and most obvious answer involves clubbing someone with a hard-as-a-rock fruitcake. Perhaps a victim could be suffocated with a Christmas stocking? Waterboarded with eggnog? Hmmm...interesting thoughts...

Molly MacRae - You can strangle your target with a string of lights. You can sabotage an upper rung of the ladder your victim will climb to hang outdoor decorations. You can include an inland taipan, deadliest snake in the world, in the beautifully wrapped package under the tree.

Sarah Burr - With a fruitcake, you can bash someone over the head quite effectively. Those things are like bricks!

Grace Topping - How about ground glass in the fruitcake or explosives in the Christmas crackers? They might work. 

James M. Jackson - Depending on who cooked the fruitcake and how many times it has been regifted, I can see clonking someone on the noggin could be fatal. Shoving a wad down their throat could suffocate anyone.

Debra H. Goldstein – Surprise gifts that explode, candles that are really firecrackers or rockets, and, of course, traditional fruitcake.

Connie Berry - Just wait a year or two. That fruitcake will become a hunk of cement to drop on someone’s head.

Margaret S. Hamilton - A very stale fruitcake could cause blunt force trauma. Raw eggs contaminated with salmonella could form the basis of homemade eggnog. Out of season shellfish or poisonous mushrooms work well too.

Nancy Eady - If the fruitcake came in a tin, you could bludgeon someone to death with it.  And I suppose someone could set up an elaborate electrocution scheme with Christmas tree lights or outdoor lights.  

Paula G. Benson - Didn't Barb Goffman have someone (an elf maybe) get caught in a chimney on Christmas Eve? Kinda gruesome for the victim and for those who discovered him. 

Teresa Inge - I would use a Christmas tree ornament to stab someone or strangle them with holiday lights. 

Korina Moss - If it’s fruitcake, you might be able to knock someone out with it. 

E.B. Davis - My victim slid on a blob of cranberry jelly and was electrocuted after he knocked into a TV, on which he was watching football away from the family dinner. He and the TV landed in a jacuzzi. 

K.M. Rockwood - Of course we could freeze the fruitcake and beat someone over the head with it. Then serve it so the murder weapon is nowhere to be found. I suppose Grandfather might fall asleep with his mouth gaping open and someone could shove a large hunk of fruitcake down his throat, then hold him down while he choked on it. Or include peanuts in it if a character had a serious peanut allergy. We could also moisten pieces of the fruitcake, making it very slippery, and coat the top of a steep staircase into the basement with the slippery substance. Once the victim fell, and was hopefully deceased, we could put a large, broken slice of it in his hand, clean up some of the top step, and maintain that he had dropped some of it and slipped on it.

Shari Randall - I can't say - I'm saving it for a short story! But I do think some fruitcakes I've had would make great tripping hazards. Or perhaps hiding places for incendiary devices.

Kait Carson - Almond allergy? Serve gin based cocktails made with Bombay Saphire gin. Talk about a killer cocktail. Or serve Harp Lagar. Many tropical drinks are sweetened with orgeat syrup. It’s made from almonds.

Lisa Malice- Impaled by reindeer horns. Tossed out of a flying sleigh. Squashed by a fat man in a red  suit. Strangled by gift wrapping ribbon. 

Martha Reed - What a topical and interesting suggestion. I can imagine someone falling off a ladder and getting impaled by a Christmas tree. Or rigging a gas log fireplace to explode. Or tripping over a cat and falling down the basement stairs to the cement floor. I’d better stop now. It's not healthy. I could noodle around with this idea all day. 

Susan Van Kirk - You could start a fire with candles, use the hatchet that chopped down the Christmas tree, secret away the sharp scissors used to open the ribbons on presents, run over Grandma with a reindeer (oh, that’s been used), or maybe have a present explode when opened.

Mary Dutta - Many old Christmas ornaments have mercury in them--that's a handy way to poison someone.

Marilyn Levinson - Your victim could always be bopped over the head with a fruitcake or electrocuted with holiday lights. Or strangled with a string a holiday lights.

Heather Weidner - Kitchens are dangerous places. You can always find a weapon handy. Sharp knives, cake cutters, and kebob sticks are easy ones. If you had a really big and well-preserved fruit cake, you might just be able to use that to konk someone on the head. (In my Mermaid Bay Christmas Shoppe mysteries, I once had someone strangled with a string of holiday lights.)

Annette Dashofy - A stale fruitcake could be used to bludgeon someone to death, I would think. How about strangulation with a string of Christmas lights? 

Family Holidays Made Me Who I Am by Martha Reed

I grew up bouncing around the country as a child. I love the holidays because one of the few fixed points in my early existence was grabbing my big green sleeping bag, piling into the back of our orange Country Squire station wagon, and heading to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to visit our Aylesboro Avenue relatives and celebrate the season.

I’m sure nostalgia colors my remembrance but I still smile when I recall the anticipation and the excitement of reconnecting with my many young cousins and overhearing (i.e. spying) on gossipy adult conversations.

This was back in the ‘seventies when children were still seen but not heard. It’s no surprise to me now that I developed into a mystery writer since once the elders spotted me eavesdropping, they started sharing significant looks and exchanging enigmatic verbal clues that I needed to somehow piece together and solve just so I could figure out who they were talking about (suspects, persons of interest) and what the forbidden topic (motive) was.

Looking back, I can see that my deductive and detective seeds were already very firmly planted.

I had two favorite parts to these holiday visits. Firstly, all of us kids were sent upstairs to the unheated third floor where we camped out in our sleeping bags and made rough beds from salvaged chair and sofa cushions. We would stay up so late, so past our bedtime giggling and catching up that my adorable Uncle Bill would eventually repeatedly flick the light switch from the base of the staircase, shrilly whistle and then thunder: “You kids upstairs go to bed!”

He wasn’t really mad at us. It was all part of the tradition.

My second favorite part of each visit was dangerous because getting caught spying on grown-ups was a punishable offense. But I couldn’t help myself. Adults shared the best stories. They discussed genetically inherited bad behavior and treasonous multi-generational sibling betrayals. Passionately overheated PG-13 rated sex scandals and dark Poe-like tales of plotted revenge. Of course, I had to listen in. It was intoxicating. Whenever I did get spotted my mother would warn everyone: “Martha's listening. Little pitchers have big ears.”

Eventually, I was clever enough to weasel my way into the conversational circle and into their good graces by learning how to serve a sausage and cheese board, mix cocktails, and become their step-and-fetch-it cupbearer. I was so efficient my grandfather nicknamed me Ganymede.

Sidebar: That older generation also matured during the Great Depression when no one had any money and they had nothing but board games, vocabulary, and wit for entertainment. To this day, I remember overhearing this exchange between my grandfather and his younger brother Jim fifty-five years ago:

Uncle Jim: “I’m going to become a lounge lizard singer when I retire.”
“You might get there,” my grandfather said, not missing a beat. “Keep practicing your scales.”

Do you have any fond family holiday memories? Did your family members help you become the writer you are today?

Take a Deep Breath

 Well, we finally made it to the last Monday in November 2024, the Monday before Thanksgiving, the last Monday before the December holiday rush begins in earnest.  Before we dive into that rush, I wanted to give you a chance to relax.  

Click on the video and breath for the next thirty seconds.  

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving! 

Nancy

Being Thankful by Annette Dashofy

Thanksgiving is a mere few days away (how did that happen?) and yet I find myself suffering from melancholy this year. I fear many of us are in the same proverbial boat, trying to shake off the last few weeks/months and get our sh… STUFF (and stuffing) together. 

So I’m determined to focus on what I’m thankful for this year: 

An extended family that still includes me and my husband in holiday plans. We’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner at my brother and sister-in-law’s home along with their four kids, those kids’ spouses, children, children’s spouses and kids. You get the idea. It’s going to be a lot of people in not a lot of space. But there will be plenty of food and laughs. I’m also thankful we all like each other! 

Our house that’s mortgage-free. We may not have a lot, but it’s all ours. 

A career I love even when I have a deadline looming. Like now. The next book is due to my editor on December 1. But I’m thankful that I have an editor and a contract and an agent. I’m grateful that I get to write books for a living. (Okay, not a very good living, but see the previous paragraph). 

Kensi Kitty, despite her heart issues, is still with us a year and a half after her diagnosis and is still being a loveable brat.

A husband who can tell when I’m overworked and drags me away from my office for a day out AKA Mental Health Day. Last weekend, we drove a couple hours to a “lake” that is so low right now that it’s back to being a river. The old bridge from the old town, which was flooded when the Army Corp of Engineers built the dam back in the early 1940s, is fully visible once again. 

Had my life gone another way, I might have been an archeologist, so this sort of thing fascinates me.

It’s even making me think I need to have an archeologist character in a future book. 

And I’m thankful for my fellow Writers Who Kill as well as my entire writing community. It’s a wonderful group to be a part of. 

You know, when I stop to think of all that I have in my life, the melancholy does drop away. For which I’m grateful. 

Do you have a person or a group in your world that you’re thankful for? Give them a shout out. 

An Interview with Jennifer K. Morita

This has been a busy week for Jennifer K. Morita. Her debut mystery novel, GHOSTS OF WAIKĪKĪ, released on Tuesday, November 19. Jennifer’s protagonist Maya Wong, an out-of-work journalist, has returned to Hawaii to ghostwrite Parker Hamilton’s, a controversial land developer’s, biography. When Hamilton dies under suspicious circumstances, Maya finds herself investigating with her ex, Detective Koa Yamada, the very person she was determined to avoid.

Welcome, Jennifer, and thanks for joining us at WRITERS WHO KILL!

                                                                                                                Paula Gail Benson

 

Jennifer K. Morita

Does your protagonist share any of your characteristics?

I drew bits and pieces of my own life to create Maya - my experience working in the newspaper industry and what I remember from the years my family lived in Hawaiʻi. A lot of her inner thoughts are similar to my own, which is why I chose the first-person POV. Maya has a perspective and opinions as an Asian American woman that she wouldn’t necessarily say out loud.

But she’s also more daring, more independent and less old-fashioned than I am. And she’s a runner, and I don’t run.

Have you ever been a ghostwriter? How is Maya drawn into that world?

Back when I first thought up the Maya character, I was a rookie reporter working for a weekly newspaper in Northern California. I was reading Naomi Hirahara’s Mas Arai series about a Japanese gardener in Los Angeles and Jan Burke’s Irene Kelly books featuring a city reporter in a fictionalized Long Beach. I really wanted to read a mystery series with an Asian American journalist, much like the real Naomi Hirahara herself.

By the time I sat down to plot my book, newspapers were dying off. I remember watching drone footage of an empty newsroom before the building was demolished. It was no longer viable to have a working journalist as a main character, particularly one who would come back to her home in Hawaiʻi.

Years ago, I wrote a profile story about an elderly man, who liked the article so much he wanted to hire me to ghostwrite a biography of his life that he would self publish. He wasn’t a rich developer trying to leave behind an Ozymandian legacy, but rather a man who wanted his children and grandchildren to know his story and their family’s history.

Maya takes the ghostwriting gig from Parker Hamilton out of desperation. It’s her last chance to salvage her writing career before taking a state desk job.

Tell us about some of Maya’s family and friends. Are they connected to the death? What advice are they giving Maya?

Maya has lost touch with her old childhood friends Lani and Willa over the years, but reconnects with them when she returns to Hawaiʻi. Lani — who was really fun to write because she doesn’t suffer fools and never shies from expressing her opinion — is struggling to keep her clothing boutique afloat amidst pressures from developers and big chain stores. She has a tangential connection to the case and helps update Maya on the current state of affairs in their home which has implications in the investigation. She also disapproves of Maya’s latest career choice, and frequently lets her know.

Prior to your novel, you had a short story published in the Capitol Crimes chapter of Sisters in Crimes 2021 anthology CEMETERY PLOTS OF NORTHERN CALIFORNIA. What is “Cranes in the Cemetery” about? What are some of the differences you found in writing a short story and writing a novel?

I wrote “Cranes in the Cemetery” while I was querying GHOSTS OF WAIKĪKĪ in the spring of 2021. I had just joined Capitol Crimes, which is the Sacramento chapter of the national Sisters in Crime organization (as well as one of the largest and most active SinC groups.) I wanted to beef up my bio because: (a) I didn’t have any published fiction to my name, and (b) I wasn’t expecting any success with the first round of queries.

As soon as I heard about the anthology’s theme - Northern California cemeteries - I knew exactly which cemetery I was going to use in my story. I believe it’s the oldest cemetery still existing in Sacramento, dating back to the Victorian age, and it’s kitty-corner from the Sacramento Buddhist Church.

“Cranes in the Cemetery” introduces readers to Maya Wong, who is visiting her baachan, or grandmother, in Sacramento. It’s the eve of the annual Bazaar, and Maya has been recruited to help make futomaki when a woman from the church is found dead in the old historic cemetery. The only clue is a trail of folded paper cranes.

I wrote the story after the Bazaar had been canceled because of the pandemic. It was inspired by one of my fellow Girl Scout leaders whose troop organized an origami paper crane “fold in” as part of Tsuru for Solidarity’s protest to end U.S. immigration detention camps.

“Cranes” is the only short story I’ve published, and I found it incredibly challenging to write a fully developed mystery in 5,000 words. I’m hoping to hone my short story writing skills and maybe publish more.

What are you writing now?

I’m currently about halfway through Book No. 2 in what I hope will be my Maya Wong series. Not gonna lie - it’s hard writing the second book. It was the pandemic when I wrote the early draft of GHOSTS OF WAIKĪKĪ, and so I had more time at home. But it was also easier psychologically because in the back of my mind I thought, “It’s not like anyone’s ever gonna read this.”

I also have ideas for other books, including a culinary mystery about a woman who runs a mochi shop with her grandmother in Sacramento’s declining Japantown, and a standalone about a San Francisco bartender in Chinatown whose customer reveals a terrible secret and ends up dead in Portsmouth Square the next day.

Many thanks, Jennifer, and best wishes to you!

BRIEF BIO:

Jennifer K. Morita is a former newspaper reporter, who juggled freelance jobs with being a stay-at-home mom for several years before becoming a writer for the communications department at a local university. She spent the first six months of the pandemic purging and baking with the rest of the world before giving her lifelong pipedream of being a mystery author a chance. She is a past president of her local Sisters in Crime chapter who continues to serve on the board and recently edited the 2024 Capitol Crimes anthology FARM TO FOUL PLAY. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters. Her website is Jennifer K. Morita, Author – mystery author.

Voice by Nancy L. Eady

Remember how I told you a while ago that I would be writing a short story from a golden retriever’s point of view? Alas, that will not happen. I can’t figure out how to explain that the golden retriever can converse with the cat and the parrot without the three making an ungodly amount of noise that would cause any normal pet owner to kick them out of the house. Nor can I decide how smart (or snarky) the animals will be. And if the animals understand each other, how realistic would it be for them also to understand humans when they are speaking? I’ve had several dogs over the years, and while I know each of them understood some things, each dog’s intelligence was different. Some were limited to words like “out”, “go”, “food” and “sit,” while there were others you could converse with. And how much would a cat or a parrot understand? 

A golden retriever wouldn’t be snarky? Would she? Most goldens I know of are simply dying to be told what good dogs they are. Unless chewing is involved – then they don’t care whether they’re good dogs or not. And potato chips. I’ve never yet known a dog that didn’t lose his or her mind over potato chips. Our first dog was a labrador retriever/cocker spaniel mix. She had snarky down pat. She used to gaze lovingly at my husband when he was eating a snack and looking at her. As soon as he looked away, her face would turn grumpy and you could hear her thinking, “Yeah, yeah, big man with the opposable thumb holding out on the little doggie.” You also would see her switch immediately back to “I love you!” as soon as he looked back at her. But, as I said, she was not a golden retriever.

Now a cat, I can see being snarky. Never having owned one, I am not comfortable even imagining the story from the cat’s point of view. African grey parrots, I understand, may come with a sense of humor, but I know less about them than I do about cats. 

So, alas, my story is now being told not from the point of view of the animals, but rather from the owner’s. At least the animals are still part of the story. Life without a pet or pets would be rather sad.  

What is the most complicated “voice” you have tried to use while writing?

Guest Blogger, Ellen Kirschman by Marilyn Levinson

Ellen Kirschman and I went to Great Neck High School together. Though we weren't friends then, we discovered each other on Facebook since we both write mysteries. Though she lives on the West Coast and I still live on Long Island, we keep in touch and occasionally zoom together. Since she has a new book coming out soon, I invited her to talk about it on Writers Who Kill. ~~ Marilyn

About my sleuth, Dot Meyerhoff: 

Dot is a younger, thinner, more daring version of myself. She’s a police psychologist. So am I. She works in a department that isn’t sure it wants her there, takes orders from no one including her chief and solves crimes when she should be counseling cops. Dot is fifty when the series starts. She ages slowly through the next four books. Recently divorced from her psychologist ex-husband she is learning to be single because, as she says in Book #1, Burying Ben: “The few blind dates I’ve had since Mark and I divorced have felt like therapy sessions. Middle-aged people have too much emotional baggage. Dumping it takes an entire evening that would be better spent shoving sticks under each other’s fingernails.” Things change when she meets Frank, but not quickly, it takes her three books to learn to trust him.

Despite her fears of rejection and concerns about her aging body, Dot is uniquely persistent. She never gives up on anybody, not even the mastermind felon she worked with when he was a child (Book #2, The Answer to His Prayers). Too dedicated for her own good, her determination to do the right thing for her clients and get to the bottom of a mystery, gets her into big trouble. Using her brains and her training as a psychologist, Dot always lands on her feet. She’s the kind of woman you would want on your side. Tough yet empathic, she sees into the hearts of all her characters. Who cares if she hates to cook, drinks red wine with popcorn, and has impossibly high standards for herself as a woman and as a therapist? Who hasn’t tried to hide their flaws behind a façade of self-confidence?

 How I chose Dot and the connection between my work and hers: I've spent forty years counseling cops and their families. Their stories beg to be told. It was natural to use myself as a model for my protagonist. What better, or easier, than to mine my own experiences for her character, my husband's life for her romantic interest, and my mother and maternal grandmother's name for her own? Not that these books are autobiographical. Dot takes risks I would have lost my license over. I’m talking life-threatening, license-losing, job-ending, relationship-destroying risks. 

 Series summary:

Police psychologist Dot Meyerhoff is embedded in a department that isn't sure it trusts her. Determined to help her police officer clients cope with a never-ending stream of traumatic stress and tragedy, she often steps out of her role only to come face to face with criminals, putting herself, her family, and her job at risk. Inspired by real-life events, the series exposes the pain behind the badge: suicide, sexism, tragic mistakes, dysfunctional families, and the challenges faced by a dedicated psychologist with a too-big heart.

Call Me Carmela summary:

Police psychologist Dot Meyerhoff's caseload is usually filled with cops—which is why she's hesitant to help an adopted teenager locate her birth parents. The teen's godmother is Dot's dear friend Fran and a police widow to boot. How could Dot possibly say no?' Once Dot starts digging into the case, she's drawn into a murky world of illegal adoptions and the choices a young pregnant woman might make as a last resort. Soon, there's only one thing Dot knows for sure: the painful truth of what happened all those years ago might heal one family—but it's certain to destroy another. 

Bio:

Award winning police psychologist Ellen Kirschman is the author of three non-fiction books and the Dot Meyerhoff mystery series. Ellen finds writing fiction to be therapeutic because she gets to take potshots at nasty cops, incompetent psychologists, and two ex-husbands. She lives in Redwood City, California with her husband, the photographer, S. Hollis Johnson. She adores Zumba, dogs, cats and ice cream. A member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime and The Public Safety Writers Association. Sign up for her occasional newsletter at www.ellenkirschman.com. and receive a mini-memoir of her life as a dance hall hostess in Times Square. 

Buy links:

 

 

Killer Questions - What About Each of Us Would Surprise a Reader?

Killer Questions – What About Each of Us Would Surprise a Reader?

For fun, the members of Writers Who Kill decided to tell you something we think would surprise you. Let us know if we succeeded.

Sarah Burr - I love to sing. I did all kinds of performances in high school and college, and for a while, singing was a greater passion than writing.

Korina Moss - I started out wanting to write the next Nancy Drew, so I wrote a couple books in a young adult mystery series that never got published about a girl in boarding school, titled The Hillary Jones series. 

K.M. Rockwood - In my callow youth, I rode with a bike club for a while. Earned my colors and all. Decided it was not the lifestyle I wanted, especially for my daughters.

Kait Carson - I signed on as a cook on a cargo ship that transported fruit to see the Caribbean. That would have been fine – but I couldn’t cook. 

Lisa Malice - My first job was delivering newspapers for the Minneapolis Star and Tribune, which is neither unusual, nor surprising--except that I often made my rounds riding my unicycle.

Martha Reed - In my twenties I lived in Texas and built an Arabian horse farm. 

Susan Van Kirk - When I was sixty-two and teaching at a local liberal arts college, I played electric guitar in an outdoor concert with a fraternity rock band. One of my former students had given me guitar lessons in exchange for my famous chocolate chip cookies. The concert was my semester final, I had so much fun, and my grown children thought I had lost my mind. (Always good to keep your kids off-guard.)

Annette Dashofy - I’ve answered variations of this question on so many panels, I don’t think there’s anything left to surprise folks. 

E.B. Davis - I read few bestsellers, and enjoy HEA endings. But that probably isn’t a surprise. Even in mystery, I try to have an upbeat ending.

Debra H. Goldstein – I was a Jeopardy contestant.

Grace Topping - I am a Navy veteran, having served seven years in the Navy. Loved it.

Lori Roberts Herbst - I love horror books and movies. Not slasher flicks, but psychological horror. Think Silence of the Lambs, Misery, Cape Fear. Also, I love roller coasters. I imagine those two things have a connection somehow.

Connie Berry - I taught theology for 25 years. Not a natural segue into murder.

James M. Jackson - I've lost games to world champions in both chess and bridge.

Heather Weidner - I am a CK (cop’s kid), and my childhood was not normal, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. One of my first jobs was to pick up shell casings on the range after my dad practiced at the range. When he commanded the SWAT team (way before paintball), he and I melted down my old crayons and made dummy bullets for their practices. I thought everyone talked about murder and mayhem at the dinner table. And I had no idea that not every six-year-old knew how to make fake bullets.

Margaret S. Hamilton - When I create a character and situation, I use details from many people I’ve met: hair color and style, distinctive earrings, midwestern slang. I never put a real person on the page.

Marilyn Levinson - I procrastinate every day before I sit down to write.

Mary Dutta - I am a citizen of India.

Nancy Eady - I played the clarinet in grade school and high school because my parents didn't want to spring for a piano.  When they finally did break down and buy the piano (my sophomore year in high school), I dropped it like a hot potato.  But now that I spend a lot of time typing, I don't enjoy playing the piano quite like I used to, either.  The motions are the same, but different. 

Shari Randall - A few years ago, I walked the Camino, the pilgrimage trail through Spain to Santiago de Compostela. I highly recommend it, especially if you're going through a time when you need to switch gears, come to terms with a change in your life, or just want to say you walked a way that's been traveled by seekers since medieval times.

Teresa Inge - Growing up was much like American Graffiti since I cruised with hotrodders as a teenager. A few years ago, I bought my high school dream car, a 1955 Torch Red, Ford Thunderbird. 

Paula G. Benson - I've really enjoyed watching the Amazon Prime series THE BOYS. While there are many gross scenes, I've been intrigued by the multi-faceted characters and the storylines, which touch on some serious topics.

Molly MacRae - I saved a cow’s life. Did I know the cow? No, but it was the right thing to do.

The Attitude is Gratitude by Kait Carson

This will be my last post until the New Year, and I want to say thank you. To all of my readers, and to my blogmates. To my friends and family. To people I know and to those that I don’t. To those that like me and those that have…well, let’s say the opposite viewpoint. I am grateful to every one of you. You have all taught me so much and enriched my life in so many ways. Thank you.

This coming Thursday I’ll be sitting at my Thanksgiving table with my husband (and closely attended by four cats and a dog because, well, food) and reflecting on all the wonderful, crazy, breathtaking experiences of 2024. Our traditional Thanksgiving dinner is simple. Roast turkey breast, Hasselbach potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, stuffing, ambrosia, and steamed asparagus. Dessert will be pumpkin pie. We’ll talk about crazy past Thanksgiving events. The time my dad smoked a turkey, and it was so cold only half the bird cooked. The time his uncle showed up in a new Corvette and the brakes failed. The hay bales in the barn stopped him. The time we invited neighbors to Thanksgiving dinner, they showed up with their second pitcher of something pink and very alcoholic, and passed out in their plates like synchronized divers. The fun, weird, wacky stuff that makes memories. Then we’ll talk about our plans for Christmas and the years ahead. After dinner, we’ll light the Christmas houses display that my husband inherited from his mother and we’ll watch Planes, Trains, and Automobiles for the twentieth time. 

What does this have to do with writing? Nothing and everything. It’s moments like these that fill the well and sometimes provide scene fodder.

What are your holiday traditions? Have any of your holidays been blessed with outlandish events? Will you dish?

Hope that all have a very wonderful holiday season, and for those who don’t celebrate, may the balance of 2024 bring all you desire.

Kait Carson writes the Hayden Kent Mysteries set in the Fabulous Florida Keys and is at work on a new mystery set in her adopted state of Maine. Her short fiction has been nationally published in True Romance, True Confessions, True Story, True Experience, and Woman’s World magazines, and in the Falchion Finalist Seventh Guppy Anthology Hook, Line, and Sinker. She is a former President of the Guppy Chapter of Sisters in Crime, a member of Sisters in Crime, Guppies, and of Sisters in Crime New England. Visit her website at www.kaitcarson.com. While you’re there, sign up for her newsletter and receive a yummy, authentic, key lime pie recipe.

An Interview with Saul Golubcow

by Paula Gail Benson

I became a Saul Golubcow fan when I read his first short story. Finding three of his stories compiled in The Cost of Living and Other Mysteries was a lovely gift. Now, Saul has written a full-length novel with his detective Holocaust survivor Frank Wolf and the narrator, Frank’s lawyer grandson, Joel.

You have said that Frank is based upon your father-in-law. Did you base your female characters on people you have known?

Paula, the emergence of Aliya as a central character in Who Killed the Rabbi’s Wife? owes a great deal to you. In one of our conversations, you complimented me on the way I drew the characters of Frank Wolf and his grandson Joel. “But,” you added, “you don’t do much with female characters.” My reaction in that moment was to be defensive, and I mumbled some lame explanation. But then, I said, “I will give it some thought.” And I did. I admitted to myself that I come out of the boys’ locker room, and I had been more comfortable drawing male characters. I committed myself to challenging myself to get out of that comfort zone and incorporate more central and more involved women. Thus, Aliya joined the team in investigating the murder of her best friend’s mother.

Did I base Aliya on anyone I knew. Yes, indeed—my wife. She has helped me in these ways throughout our marriage. Like young Aliya, she valued tradition and family, but was the first in her college to protest curfews for women, an early member of NOW who decried the plight of women in the 1970s, and advocated for women’s equality in all spheres of their lives.

Not wholly, but that’s Aliya, including the temper when offended. So, based on Frank’s gentle counseling, Aliya has to separate her anger at Detective Carlucci’s male chauvinist behavior towards her from the positives he offers the team as they investigate.

In Who Killed the Rabbi’s Wife?, another female character, Joel’s mother Molly (Malkeh), is in the chrysalis stage of emergence—which, in my drawn out of full cloth formulation, will have limitations. After all, she was a 20-year-old girl who came to a new country after six years of hiding with her father in a cellar during the Holocaust, doesn’t speak the language, yet obtains a college degree and runs a successful jewelry store. She is not plucky like Aliya. But though she is somewhat stunted, fearful, is hard on herself, she is fiercely protective of her family and proud of her religion and culture—shared values with Aliya allowing them to be not only good in-laws but also good friends. Readers will see a fuller emergence of Molly in my next book.

Aliya seems to blend seamlessly into the mix with Frank and Joel. How did you use her abilities to complement those of the existing duo?

One of my objectives in continuing a Frank Wolf mystery series is to make Joel, as narrator, interesting in his own right as part of a coming of age progression. Besides his grandfather’s loving, gentle guiding hand, he needed a helpmate, not only for a case, but to help him grow into adulthood, to care for him, to boost him when deserving, but also to put brakes on young male arrogance and emotional denial. Joel loves Aliya, and so his care and respect for her allows him to set aside momentary piques and grow, which, in turn, I hope, from a plot perspective, helps the “team” unravel the mystery.

And Frank loves his grandson’s kallah (bride/wife) because she loves Joel, and more so because they share values such as family and a drive for justice. Frank also sees the work a psychologist does in helping an individual unravel personal mysteries similar to the work of a private detective unraveling the societal, cultural, and interpersonal webs entwining certain violent crimes. Reciprocally, shared values on a team transcend age and bolster teamwork.

The novel is set in the late twentieth century. Did you have to research to verify what investigative methods were available at that time?

Oh my, yes. I sometimes have trouble falling asleep in fear of anachronisms invading my mind. For instance, I had played out one scene in the book where Joel needs to get in touch with his grandfather quickly so he picks up his cell phone and …Well, as I might write nearing the point of the call, “Saul slapped his head as he realized …” So next step was to add change to Joel’s pocket and place him near a pay phone.

Police work and investigative methods have been particularly challenging. I never was an investigator, nor an attorney, nor a criminologist. Of course, there are Google searches upon searches with checks and cross checks of what has been checked. Of great help, my friend Merrill was a police officer back then, my friend Michael, a pathologist who has helped me with forensic questions, my friend Larry who has helped me on lawyer questions, and you’d be pleasantly surprised how calling different university departments garners generous assistance from faculty.

I hope my readers smile when Frank lauds the Polaroid camera as “a great advance in the technology that supports our private investigative profession …” And there is Frank’s ability to foresee coming changes in investigative methods (advances in fingerprint detection, DNA) which he uses at times to bluff information out of suspects. Easy for me in my back to the future capacity.

How is writing short stories different from writing a novel?

I discovered writing freedom in the novel. When writing a short story, one looks at what the word limit is for a particular placement. So to sound dramatic, a sword of Damocles, would hang over me when writing a short story—word count at the bottom of the screen threatening me as I wrote.

Though I always took the advice of instructors to write early drafts with as many words as I wished, the cutting process was somewhat unpleasant. Yes, from a craft perspective, there was an aspect of satisfaction in cutting “non-essentials” to focus on the narrative (meaning plot), but for me, from an art perspective, cutting worried me that some nutrition of the “wheat” may have been thrown out with the chaff.

Who Killed the Rabbi’s Wife? took me two years to complete. And not to sound masochistic and with no comparison of talent, I enjoyed every moment of the “agony” of writing the book as Irving Stone described Michaelangelo lying on his back for a few years lovingly painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I would not have taken two years to write a short story. But for all I know, Herman Melville took as much time writing Moby Dick as he did writing his magnificent short story, Bartleby the Scrivener.

My intent is to write mysteries that are not only page turners because of plots and twists, but more so because I wish to explore the surrounds, the histories, the cultures, the interpersonals that frame the mystery. The novel format offers me the freedom to accomplish this end.

What did you find most challenging in writing a novel? Did writing the short stories help you with those challenges?

A few challenges stand out.

 Keeping track of the narrative. As in real life, over a two year period one forgets what has been said and even done a while back. So, even though the events of Who Killed the Rabbi’s Wife take place over an eight-day period, what happened on Monday, what was said on Monday, must align to what’s happening on Thursday. A challenge to memory even if I were younger. But Control-F is my everlasting friend.

2.      With the book taking place in the 1970s, getting locale (street names, banks no longer in business, subway stops back then different from today, synagogues and their structures) right is critical. So are signs of the time such as types of stores, movie houses and what they were showing. Speech patterns that have changed including New York’s polyglot resonance when walking a given street. And others. Again, Mr. Google is helpful. So are New York newspaper archives.

3.      Not boring the reader. There are many more interactions among the same characters in a novel than in a short story. I was challenged trying to make each interaction interesting not only for the newness of information and plot that is provided, but also in maintaining the relationships’ dynamics  without making them into a shtick. Think well done sitcoms versus duds—how to execute the similar differently. For instance, Frank has a certain sense of humor. He quips a few times that first he and Joel and then adding in Aliya, they would make a good private investigative firm. How often to make this quip, and how is the context and pronouncement of each different?

4.      At times, I found it difficult to extract myself from the world of Frank Wolf and the 1970s. Everyday life has multitudes of distractions. Added to them was my other life to which I wanted to return as soon as possible, at times to the disregard of some of those everyday demands. I was guilty of a version of daydreaming I called “lost in writing space.”

5.      The shorter Frank Wolf mysteries preceding my novel gave me the characters and histories of the main characters in the novel. They also establish background for why Frank is hired to work the case. But it also causes a problem in not only did I have to remember what happened narrative-wise a few days ago, but now I must remember references to events and characters that populated the stories that occurred three years earlier.

Did you always know you would write a series?

No, not in the least. As I write in the acknowledgement section of Who Killed the Rabbi’s Wife?, I had intended to write “a” story about an elderly Holocaust survivor named Frank Wolf who becomes a private detective in Brooklyn and solves “a” case. It was to be part of a series of short stories about Holocaust survivors who come to the United States. But after publishing the short story version of The Cost of Living, I discovered how much I enjoyed spending time with Frank and his family. So I continued writing about how he, with his grandson Joel, solved additional mysteries in the 1970’s New York Jewish communities. The result was a compilation of three novella length stories in The Cost of Living and Other Mysteries released in 2022. Now, two years later, Aliya is part of the team.

 

Please tell us some more adventures are planned for Frank, Joel, and Aliya. What are you working on now?

Yes, there are more adventures planned. I am at work on another novel that involves the murder of a Holocaust survivor, with the roots of the murder going back to the Holocaust. Even though the four previous Frank Wolf mysteries involve violent crimes, this book is darker. But a book I feel I must write. Probably 15-18 months away from completion.

And while Aliya will always be part of the “team,” her involvement in the upcoming book will be less for reasons I cannot reveal to you without “spoiler alerting.”

What advice would you give to writers?

Wow, the hardest question of all. I think to give advice, one needs to know the particular individual to whom the advice is directed. So imagine the young William Faulkner and his personality who is planning to take three weeks locked away in a cabin with some food and a case of whiskey, and you say to him, “Son, write, write, and re-write.” He might look at you and respond, “Yes sir/ma’am,” and come back three weeks later with 100,000 words and a final version of The Sound and the Fury.

And of course, one needs to know the writing genre of the advisee—different keystrokes for different folks.

If there is one piece of global advice, get yourself draft readers (preferably not family or friends) who will be honest with you. Then, with your defensiveness constrained, re-write.

Thank you, Saul. I appreciate so much your fine writing and kind friendship.

If you haven’t already, please add Saul’s books to your “to be read” stack. You’ll be glad you did!