Operation Rudolph By E. B. Davis

I sat on my dock overlooking Pamlico Sound and contemplated the upcoming holidays. Why was the season always fraught with conflict?  My job as a Dare County Deputy Sheriff on Hatteras Island was always stressful but more so during the holidays. Was there a sign somewhere saying “Season’s Greetings—time to get your stupid on?”

 

Focus on your blessings, Sue. With a sigh, I counted my blessings. Our move to a larger house at the end of last year had helped ease the tension in our home. More bathrooms meant less conflict, especially between my new husband, Woody, also a Dare County Deputy, and his daughter, Cindy, who was thirteen going on nineteen. My son, Jared, had entered the “embarrassed by parents” stage. I missed those days when we were close, but I knew the separation was a natural and necessary development. He’d appreciate me when he turned thirty-five, maybe.

 

In the meantime, he wanted to go to Sea Turtle Camp this summer. It was on his Christmas list, and it only cost about three thousand dollars for a week. I wished we could afford to send him, but three thousand dollars! So, I applied for financial aid. When I called to confirm they had received the application, they said that over eight hundred financial aid applications were submitted, among mine. Too many to judge on merit. They decided to have a lottery. Each application was assigned a number, and the winner would be announced on Christmas Eve. I crossed my fingers and said a prayer.  

 

My supply miniature candy canes I munched on during the holidays was running low but getting up for a refill didn’t seem worth the effort to break my watch of the night’s stars twinkling above Pamlico Sound. Then, I saw a zip of light. It intensified and headed straight for me. “No, I made not a single wish!” But the stream of a lightning bolt pouring down from the sky told me Pam, the Sprite of Pamlico Sound, would visit shortly. “No, no, no!”

 

Her banana vehicle landed beside me on the dock. It unpeeled zipper by zipper from the top stem to the bottom in quarters. Out popped Pam. Dressed in a midnight blue velvet gown adorned with silver stars. She stepped onto the deck, looking every bit like a haggard Tinker Bell. I couldn’t help but notice her boots. Navy platform stiletto boots with matching silver stars.

 

I must have been staring at them because Pam said, “Nice, aren’t they? I won them fair and square in a
banana wrangling competition.

 

“Uh.”

 

“Are you losing your hearing already? You’re only thirty-four, Sue.”

 

“Sorry, I was trying to envision banana wrangling.”

 

“Not as easy as it sounds.” Pam pointed to her ride. “Them things are slippery. But if you get a hold of them at the stem before they can unpeel, it’s not hard.”

 

I looked away. Pam had a way of making me feel crazier than I must be to have conjured her in the first place. I faced her. “I made no wishes. Why have you come?”

 

“Isn’t that fine and dandy. Denial and lies!” She put her hands on her considerable hips. “So much for Southern hospitality. So much for needing the help of a friend.” She tapped her platform sole against the dock, crossed her arms, and looked away.

 

Contritely, I stood. There was only one thing that would pacify her. “I’ll get us some refreshments.” As I walked to the house, I wondered about “denial and lies.” Had I made a wish? I couldn’t remember. I knew I’d said a prayer. Whatever.

 

The house was quiet as I entered the back door. Woody was on duty and the kids were sleeping over at friends’ houses. I retrieved the Evan Williams bourbon from above the refrigerator. Grabbing a tray, I centered a shot glass for Pam and an old fashioned glass for me. Then, I cracked ice into both glasses and cut an inch off a straw for Pam’s glass. We had a pot of mint growing on the windowsill. Perhaps Pam would enjoy a mint julep? Stuffing a leaf into each glass, I found a box of crackers, a bag of grated cheddar, and refreshed my bag of mini candy canes. Balancing the filled tray, I tight-roped back to the dock. Pam still looked aggrieved. I poured bourbon into each glass and sat down.

 

She grasped the straw and took a long sip, smacking her lips. “Mint. How refreshing! Reminds me of a day long ago in Kentucky.” A little smile crossed her face and an eyebrow wiggled.

 

Nope, not going there! Although I didn’t mind indulging her, I was concerned about her needing my help. At least, that’s what I thought she’d said. “Pam, what’s the problem requiring my help?”

 

“Rudolph took off! Of all the times of the year…it was the reindeer games. I know he never liked those games. But it is that time of year, after all.” She looked at me as if I should know.

 

“Christmas?”

 

“Yes, Christmas.” She mimicked me and huffed. “But more like rutting season, of course. Late autumn, early winter every year. You should know that, Sue. Hatteras is full of deer.”     

 

We had lots of deer on Hatteras Island, but I wasn’t familiar with their mating habits. Although now that I thought about a randy buck named Buck from years past, perhaps the information explained his obvious attraction to me. But I wasn’t a deer! I suppressed the very idea and turned to question Pam. “What does that have to do with reindeer games?”

 

“They aren’t really games. Their rutting rituals among the males. Contest winners get to…well, they get to rut!”

 

“But why are you here? Rudoph could be anywhere in the world.”

 

“Nope, his GPS collar signaled from here.”

 

“Okay, then Santa or the head elf or whoever, can come and get him.” I reasoned aloud.

 

“What season is it, Sue?”

 

“Christmas.”

 

“And what time is the busiest of the year for the entire North Pole? Of course, at any other time, Santa would come, but he can’t, which is why he asked me. It is my territory, you know.”

 

“Okay, so what do you need to do? Lasso him or something?”

 

“Of course, not. It has to be his choice.”

 

I was stumped, flailing my arms through the air in front of her. “And how do we get him to change his mind and go home?”

 

“I have an idea. Let me miniaturize you, and we’ll fly to him.”

 

“No way.” I looked at the banana. “We’d never fit. Can you ride it with the peel down?”

 

“Too slippery.”

 

“Tell me where he is. I’ll take the Jeep and meet you.”

 

She smiled, which made my stomach hurt. Instant regret for agreeing to help engulfed me. She finished her snacks and chugged her drink. “Sounds like a plan. Here are the coordinates. Just off Ridge Road in the woods. Meet you there.” And then she zipped back up in the banana and disappeared into the night sky, leaving me to wonder what I had agreed to do.

 

***

 

Once on Ridge Road, the Jeep’s headlights picked up the trees edging the tarmac. The woods continued east until the beach started. Many a time, I saw deer leap out of the woods and romp up dunes while I was on the beach. The opposite side of this area was residential. No one planted ornamentals in their gardens because the deer would eat them before they had a chance to bloom. I hoped Rudolph stayed on the beach side away from the residents’ prying eyes. Stepping out of the Jeep, I saw a red glow through the trees.  

 

With a zip and a bounce off the Jeep’s soft-top, Pam emerged from her banana. “Great landing pad, Sue. I’ll have to remember it for next time.”

 

I winced knowing there’d be a next time. “I think Rudolph is back there. See the red light?”

 

“Yep, that’s him.” Pam jumped on my shoulder. “Walk toward the red light,” Pam directed, “Now, stop behind this tree.”

 

Peeking around the tree, I saw Rudolph grazing on the outskirts of the herd. Pam turned to me, looked me over, and whispered, “Now let me summon Buck.”

 

“Whoa, there—why call Buck?”

 

“Would you keep your voice down? Don’t startle the deer or we’ll be hiking all over. Here’s my plan. Rudolph hates reindeer games. If he realized that he couldn’t get away from them, then maybe he’d give up his runaway act and head home.”

 

“What does that have to do with Buck?”

 

“Buck loved you! He’ll fight other bucks for your honor, so to speak.”

 

My hands went to my hips without any thought. I almost yelled but managed a whispered shout, “Do you mean that you want to use me as deer bait?”

 

“I guess if you look at it like that. You’re helping Santa and me solve a problem. He may need Rudolph this Christmas. We’ve had more fog and rain this year than snow.”

 

“I will not be used as buck bait! Don’t you have any other ideas?”

 

“No!”

 

“You know him from the North Pole, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can you talk to him? Ask him about his home, his family…maybe get him homesick?”

 

I shifted my gaze from Rudolph to Pam. Both of her arms were raised above her head. In one hand, she held her wand. “Eenie, meenie, minney, moe, change Sue into a doe!”

 

Shocked, I started to wobble on my feet, then sank onto the forest floor. Pam stood above me on a low branch of a tree. “What are you waiting for? Stand up and start bleating.”

 

When I tried to rise, I found two more legs than I was used to, and although limber, their support was like trying to balance on stilts. I propped the front two legs upright in front of me, then shifted my back legs, which conveniently were bent in the oppose direction I was used to, making getting on my own four hooves easier. Tottering back and forth, I stood. I meant to chew out Pam with vitriol, but instead I merely grunted. What mortification!

 

“Now Sue, walk over and mingle in the herd. Then, start bleating. It’s the way does attract bucks. I’m sure Buck will find you.”

 

I felt my long ears turn inward, and I tried to muster an indignant facial expression, but failed miserably. Stomping my hooves, I walked toward the herd. There was nothing I could do but go along with Pam’s plan. But once she had changed me back, she was going to get a piece or two of my mind!   

 

The does sniffed me as I neared them. They knew I wasn’t a member of their herd, and yet, they seemed to
accept my presence on the very outside of their group. As much as it pained me, I started to bleat in a call of nature. Two mature bucks started toward me. Involuntarily, I again bleated. One of the bucks I recognized as Buck, my old undercover boyfriend Pam had utilized for a drug bust.

 

Buck bellowed and charged the other male. I hoped the contender gave Buck a good fight, giving me time to get Pam to change me back. They went back and forth charging each other and bellowing. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Rudolph getting agitated. It was clear these jousts were the deer games he was avoiding. Walking toward him was a smaller deer, but distinctly a reindeer, not a regular doe. She nuzzled Rudolph.

 

Pam flew over and sat on my mane. “Dancer must fancy Rudolph. How fortuitous!” Rudolph and Dancer separated from the herd and strode toward the beach, just as Buck ran off the contender. I spotted his glowing eyes pinned on me.

 

I grunted and popped my eyes at Pam, trying to communicate. Now was the time to change me back—before Buck “claimed” me.

 

She looked over her shoulder at Buck. “Yes, yes, this would be the time. Alla, cado, alla, caboo, it’s time to change back to human form for Sue.”

 

I saw Buck’s eyes grow big as I changed back into myself. He snorted, stomped, and backed away…thankfully. “Not a moment too soon, Pam.” I started to formulate how I was going to chew out Pam, when she patted my arm.

 

“Let’s see what Rudolph and Dancer are up to.”

 

We walked toward the dunes. At the top, we looked down on the beach just as Rudolph and Dancer arose in the sky. In the moonlight, their silhouettes were backlit. I said to Pam, “Are they on the way back to the North Pole.”

 

She broke into a smile. “Yes, they’re on their way. Glad we could help Santa. You should feel really good about that, Sue.”

 

I glared and then said as sarcastically as I could, “Glad to be of service.”

 

“Mark my words, by Christmas day, you’ll be glad you did.” And then she mounted her banana and flew off.

 

***

 

Shopping, decorating, and baking filled my free hours off work. On Christmas Eve, I was parked by the side of the road waiting for speeders when my personal cell phone rang. The person on the other end informed me that Jared had been one of five children chosen to receive scholarships to Sea Turtle Camp. After the call, I wondered if Pam or Pam and Santa were responsible for the gift. Then I thought about being changed into a doe and figured maybe I’d earned the gift. Of all the things we do as mothers to try to fulfill our kids’ wants and desires, I never would have guessed being buck bait to be on that list.

 

 

That night, Woody and I sat on the dock. The stockings had been hung. The kids nestled in their beds. The stockings had been filled. And there were presents surrounding the tree. Instead of staring at the stars, we looked at our Christmas-lit house. I loved Christmas lights. Woody and Jared had done a great job. “Thanks so much for taking that chore on. I love them.”

 

“It was a male bonding experience.”

 

Thinking of male fights, like Buck and the contender, I said, “There will probably be a few fights in the future, too.”

 

“Without a doubt. My dad and I could mix it up when I was in high school.” He got a nostalgic look on his face and laughed. “I’d do anything I could to help him now, of course. Different ages and different stages.” He cocked his head. “Did you hear something?”

 

I listened for a moment and heard a snort and pounding hoof. “I’m getting cold, dear. Perhaps we should head inside.” After the door closed, I looked out the window. In the colorful glare of our Christmas lights, I saw Buck staring back at me. It isn’t true love, Buck—go find yourself a doe mate!

 

Although I was grateful for Jared’s gift, I also wondered if I’d ever best Pam. Maybe next year.

 

The End

 

Here is the Hatteras version of “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Pam Dawson, reproduced with her permission.

 

“‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” Hatteras-style *

With a nod to Major Henry Livingston, Jr. who wrote the Original Version

 

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all over the isle,

Not a creature was stirring, mile after mile.

The ghost crabs were snug in their holes on the beach,

Hoping that the high tides would stay out of reach.

 

The surfers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of gnarly swells danced in their heads.

The crab-pots were hung by the buoys with care,

In hopes that some blue claws soon would be there.

 

When out on the Point there arose such a clatter,

The Park Service sprang up to see what was the matter.

Away to their vehicles they ran with their lamps,

And began an ascent on all open ramps.

 

The moon on the sand made quite a reflection,

While waves were crashing in every direction.

When what to their wondering eyes should appear,

But a tricked out 4 by 4 and eight island deer.

 

With a little old driver hunkered down in the truck,

They knew in a moment it must be Old Buck!

More rapid than kite boarders the deer hurried along,

And he whistled and shouted and sang them a song.

 

“Now Buxton, now Kinnakeet, now Salvo and Frisco –

On Rodanthe, on Waves, on Hatteras – let’s disco!

To the edge of the Point, to the top of the Light,

Let’s have a great time and party all night!

 

And like dry leaves before a nor’easter did fly,

They hit Highway 12 and continued on by.

He was dressed in a wetsuit from his head to his feet,

And he smelled like Skeeter Beater with a hint of DEET.

 

A bundle of seashells he had in his pack,

And a bottle of Kill Devil Rum in a sack.

He spoke not a word but took special care,

To bring a gift to the island and all who live there.

 

It had been a tough year, this the old man did know,

So, his gift was one that didn’t require a bow.

He sprang to his truck and laid on the horn,

To make sure everyone knew it would soon be Christmas morn.

 

And we heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

NO MORE STORMS, NO MORE OVERWASH, LOTS OF FISH,

And to all, a good night!

 

*Old Buck mentioned in this poem is a fixture of the “Old Christmas” celebrations still held in Rodanthe. Old Buck is a part of the fabric of the island.

 

Written by Janet Morrow Dawson, Buxton NC, 2016 and revised as needed each year!

 

 

Surprising New World-Building Tools by Martha Reed

The kids are returning home to Pittsburgh for the holiday season, and one of my younger cousins very kindly invited Aunt Martha out to lunch.

She had an ulterior motive: she’s thinking about becoming a writer like me. After sputtering and outlining the multitudinous reasons why I thought that was a terrible idea and why I should never be used as any type of lifestyle example, she broke it down further and simply asked me: how do I write a book? She wasn’t looking for the ‘put your butt in the chair for four hours a day, everyday’ kind of advice. She wanted special and secret hints on how I construct my stories.

Coming fresh from the fray – I’ve just released and self-published THE SEVEN GATES OF GUINEE, my third Crescent City New Orleans Mystery, I was quick off the mark to say that I’m a pantser (meaning that I write by the seat of my pants), and that my stories spontaneously generate from the great universal consciousness. But even as I said it, I knew that’s not entirely true. While I can’t offer a magic writing pill, I have developed some unusual story structuring tools, and I’m willing to share the method to my madness.

1.      Catch the ideas that interest you. I keep a stack of lined index cards and a gallon sized baggie on the bookshelf next to my desk. When I hear or read of an interesting idea, event, or suggestion, I write it on a card and toss it into the baggie. That’s literally as much thought as I give it at the time, but I’m quite sure my active subconscious is quietly ruminating on it while I go about my day-to-day busy-ness. Then, when I’m ready to start a new project, I riffle through the cards to see what catches my eye. Is it something I can use in my new story? If the idea still interests me, it might also interest Dearest Reader.

For instance: Years ago a human anatomy exhibit rolled through our local Carnegie Museum. It caused controversy when it was revealed that the genuine human bodies that were being used in the exhibit had come from a supplier in China and that they may have been harvested from political prisoners like Christians and Uyghurs. That immediate horror initiated an index card. Further research indicated that 10% of U.S. donor organs come from unregulated sources outside the United States. When I noted these details I had no idea they would eventually develop into the criminal medical supply chain network outlined in UP JUMPED THE DEVIL, my NOLA Mystery #2.

2.      Although I’m retired now, I’m an unrepentant project manager and I will go to my grave using a calendar and dates to build an outline and develop my story structure. For instance, for THE SEVEN GATES OF GUINEE, I knew that I needed to fit the new story between two different New Orleans Mardi Gras seasons. Since New Orleans Mardi Gras (AKA Carnival) season starts about two weeks before Lent each year, that gave me my date bookends to create a general timeline. Then, during my draft research, I google to find out if major events like a hurricane or a tropical storm happened during that timeframe that would need to be included in the story to add a real-time element.

This critical timing can also impact the individual character level – for instance, if I’m drafting a scene on a Wednesday or a Sunday afternoon, I know that Aunt Babette Broussard can’t be included because that’s when she attends Noon Mass at St. Louis Cathedral.

3. Hand a secondary character the mic and offer them the stage. The first time I used this trick I didn’t know how powerful it would turn out to be as a developmental drafting strategy. In one of my early Nantucket Mysteries I was stuck in a room full of characters and yet my protagonist John Jarad had nothing to say. Desperately casting about for some forward momentum, I asked his sister Mary Rose – who up to that point had been a cardboard cutout on the edge of the cocktail party crowd what she thought. Mary Rose disgorged so much information that I had a hard time typing fast enough to keep up with her.

Now of course my characters have me so well trained that as the writer I’m being told before I even start a new book which character will be taking center stage. For THE SEVEN GATES OF GUINEE I knew that Aunt Babette Broussard and Cleo Duchamp would be giving me main character energy and boy, did they ever. Gigi Pascoe has been very patiently waiting in the wings for her turn in the next (and as yet unwritten) NOLA Mystery Book 4. Sigh. I'm being managed by imaginary people. It’s a writer’s life, and a good problem to have.

How about you? Are there any special tricks in your magical writing bag that you’d like to share?

The Vagaries of Time by Nancy L. Eady

The group of writers who create the posts for Writers Who Kill have assigned days when our posts go up. “Our” days are not dates on the calendar, but specified times during the month. For example, my assignment is to post blogs on the third and fourth Fridays of the month, and the fourth Monday of the month. In addition, whenever a month has a fifth Monday or Friday, I blog then. 

We also stop our regular blogs from Thanksgiving until New Year’s, replacing them with holiday stories that stay up about a week at a time. The stories are the group’s gift to you. 

Thanksgiving is on the fourth Thursday of every month (except for a while during the Great Depression when Franklin Delano Roosevelt announced it would be the third Thursday of every month, hoping to stimulate the economy with holiday shopping. It was not a popular move.)

Whether I have a Monday post for the week of Thanksgiving depends on how late Thanksgiving is. This year, Thanksgiving must be late, since the fourth Monday is arriving before the holiday. 

 Because of the way my blogging schedule runs, I am more aware than I used to be about the vagaries of our calendar. Is it any wonder that I have to keep careful track of my post dates on a calendar? The key numbers on our calendar are 365 ¼, 7, and 28, 29, 30 and 31. The time required for the Earth to complete its trip around the sun is 365 ¼ days. A week is seven days. I didn’t know why until I Googled it. According to Google, the seven-day week started in ancient Babylonia because the Babylonians named the week after the seven “classical” planets, the planets observable with the naked eye. The Romans then adapted that seven-day week to their own needs by naming each day after one of their deities, which is where we get many (but not all) of our own names for the week. I do not know why we space months the way we do. Without getting too heavy into the math, given that 7, 29, and 31 are prime numbers, and the number 365 is made by multiplying the prime numbers 5 and 73, finding smaller units that all of them can go into evenly is nigh impossible. I can imagine the metric people, who tried to put as much as possible into multiples of ten, studying the calendar and finally throwing up their hands in defeat, leaving us with our current system.

I’m glad the current calendar iteration left me with a chance to visit with you one last time before the holidays. And wherever you are, and whatever you celebrate, I hope the time between Thanksgiving and New Year’s is filled with joyous events and happy thoughts. I’ll see you again starting January 16, 2026. 

 

Daily Gratitude by Annette Dashofy

It’s that time of year here in the US. Thanksgiving is only a few days away. Everyone is contemplating what they’re thankful for. 

(Granted, this can be a challenge when the entire world seems to be a dumpster fire right now, which makes seeking gratitude all the more important.) 

I think a lot of people love the holiday because of the feast. As a vegetarian, the turkey and gravy hold less of a draw for me, but I do look forward to getting together with family. And I enjoy hearing what everyone is grateful for. 

Years ago, I discovered the concept of the Gratitude Journal. I’ve journaled for decades, so starting a new one specifically for listing what I’m thankful for was easy. I filled a notebook over the course of a year or more. 

In more recent years, I’ve returned to my standard documentation of life events, good and bad. My journal tracks the highs and lows as well as mundane stuff like the weather. However, I never completely abandoned gratitude. Now, at the end of each entry, I add one sentence that begins, “Today, I am grateful for…” On even the worst of days, I find something to complete the sentence. 

Frequent subjects of my daily thanks include my husband and our life together, Kensi (my geriatric cat), a good book, lunch with a friend. Some entries are grander. But most are little things that make me smile. 

I confess, this week, I’ve been completing that sentence with stuff about my new book release. When the third Honeywell mystery was supposed to come out in the fall of 2024 and was pulled, I feared it (and any additional books in the series) might never see the light of day. I was writing the fifth, but the uncertainty dampened my usual enthusiasm. When I received word that both The Devil Comes Calling (Honeywell #3) and No Stone Left Unturned (Honeywell #4) would indeed be published back-to-back this winter, I definitely added the news in my daily gratitude post. And when the print version of The Devil Comes Calling hit the shelves last week, I was over the moon. Yep, another notation at the end of my journal entry. 

But I think the true balance in a writer’s life is to not focus solely on the big publication moments. Yes, I’m definitely grateful for a new book…and readers and reviewers…but I’m also immensely grateful for the not-so-little things that we too often take for granted. A roof over my head. Food in the fridge and pantry. A furnace that keeps us warm in the winter. My husband. My cat. 

So, Writers Who Kill and readers, how would you finish the sentence “Today, I am grateful for…”

 

 

 

Why Mysteries are Important By Judy L. Murray

The Queen of Mysteries Agatha Christie defined a mystery as a carefully constructed puzzle, typically a murder, a limited cast of suspects and clues, and a plot which allows the reader to try and solve the crime alongside the detective.

As a mystery author, I’m addicted to reading mysteries and look for one basic requirement above others. I want the story to be solidly devoted around a puzzle. Connie Berry’s Kate Hamilton Mystery Series, Lori Roberts Herbst’s Callie Cassidy Mysteries, and Susan Van Kirk’s Art Center Mysteries are great examples. Their pages include clues, hidden meanings, and twists and turns. These authors know their genre. Yet, I’m contemplating how all good stories in any genre incorporate key elements of mysteries. After all, every story leads readers through different characters’ myriad of problems, angst, and decisions that often lead to a surprise ending – with or without a dead body along the way.

Since my college years, I’ve stored a hefty collection of over sixteen hundred pages written by the master of short stories, none other than William Sydney Porter, his pen name O’Henry. His stories always centered around everyday struggles of down and out New Yorkers in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Every story, much like a mystery, had a surprise element that tied the characters’ lives together with hope. His characters routed misfortune, and his readers loved them.

Probably one of his most famous and treasured stories is “The Gift of the Magi”. It’s a story that especially comes to my mind during the holidays. Its first paragraph is masterful. “One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all… And the next day was Christmas.” A big problem laid out in a handful of words. O’Henry’s brilliance shines through. I hope I can learn how to wrap an entire story’s premise in such a few. Readers embrace the struggle of Della and Jim who both yearn to give each other a special Christmas gift. How this young couple manages to give gifts of unimaginable value from pockets of only pennies is the last scene and brings tears to readers’ eyes. It is also a mystery solved.

Which brings me back to why mysteries are a genre that impacts all others. Sisters in Crime member, author, and teacher Susan Breen explained the elements of mysteries that can help all writers create good stories. Mystery writers demonstrate how to build suspense. Their plots are intricate. They use clues that aren’t always centered around a crime but can illustrate characters’ differences and add depth to the storyline. Afterall, Susan reminds us, every character has secrets.

Perhaps mysteries greatest attraction is their resolve to, page by page, heighten the tension. In my mind, that’s definitely a skill every author, no matter the genre, needs to hone.

Can you remember a story you enjoyed in a different genre that incorporated the elements of a mystery? Was it historical, romance, fantasy, literary?

Judy L. Murray

Discover my award-winning Chesapeake Bay Mystery Series! www.judylmurraymysteries.com

STAYING ON TRACK by Nancy L. Eady

Today is the Friday before Thanksgiving. Since Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday, I tend to think of this Friday as the last quiet before the flurry of the holiday season descends upon us (unless you’re one of those incredibly organized people whose December holiday shopping is done by July 31, in which case I tip my hat to you as one of those people whose organizational skills reach an elite level to which I never can aspire.) While we’re rushing around trying to complete our holiday tasks, it is easy to let our writing time suffer. I’d like to share with you some ideas I had (probably most of them terrible) in exchange for you sharing your (hopefully much better) ideas in the comments below. 

It takes a certain amount of discipline to be a writer, doesn’t it? Especially when we work at other jobs during normal working hours to support our writing habit. If you write regularly, you’ve already developed the self-discipline to do so consistently. Staying on track during the holidays can be as simple as mixing self-discipline with a small dose of understanding as to the realities of the demands on your time during the next four to six weeks. If your calendar for the next six weeks has so many blacked out squares that it looks like the mouth of a six-year-old with ten missing teeth, accept you might not meet your normal quota—but then come up with a quota that you can meet until sanity returns on January 2. 

Another helpful tip is to remember that the word “no” is in the English vocabulary and use it. Pick the events that you truly want to (or must) participate in and give yourself permission to say “no” to others.

Something I suffered from for many years was the illusion that it was my responsibility, and mine only, to ensure that my family had the “perfect” Christmas every year. There is no such thing as a perfect Christmas, and to be honest, our best stories come from the years when Christmas was less than perfect—like the Christmas tree Mom put up in Louisville one year that slowly sagged downwards until it was at a 45-degree angle to the floor by Christmas Eve and held up with fishing wire. It was an artificial tree on its last legs, and my sisters and my husband and I have some of the best pictures of all of us laughing while we took our holiday pictures leaning at an angle to match the tree. Or the Christmas Eve when Kayla, my daughter, was six and Mark’s mother had to go to the ER. Mark, my husband, ended up getting back home about 5:45 a.m. Christmas morning, so we did Kayla’s Santa at 6 a.m. that morning before he went to bed to snatch a few hours of sleep. Her eyes were saucer-wide as Mark told her about seeing Santa driving away from the house as Mark was returning. So, ditch the idea of a perfect Christmas and give yourself permission to spend some of the time writing. 

Something that helps year-round is figuring out when you are at your most creative each day and then trying to structure your writing to take advantage of that peak creativity time. My peak writing time is NOT first thing in the morning. Getting up in time to see the sunrise is vastly overrated, and my brain doesn’t fully engage until I have been heavily caffeinated. So, 5 a.m. would not be my ideal writing time. Lunch is a good time for me, as are late afternoon and mid-evening. Others, though, are eager morning people, and to them, that 4—6 a.m. shift is just ducky. Choose what works for you.  

And remember, you can make astonishing progress with as little as thirty minutes a day if you use them consistently. There was a French author, whose name I don’t remember, who wrote a 400-page tome exclusively using the time he spent waiting for his wife to get ready for dinner. 

If you have a schedule that is interrupted for a day or two, instead of beating yourself over the head about it and losing even more time, simply accept that life happens and pick your schedule back up the next day. 

What ideas do you have for staying on track with your writing during the holiday season?

 

Not Everyone's Gonna Love Your Book by Marilyn Levinson

Releasing the first book in a new series gives one a new perspective on things. While I confess I don't get to read all my reviews, I did so as soon as the ARCS of Death on Dickens Island were released. I breathed a sigh of relief upon receiving some wonderful reviews from names I recognized. These were reviewers and readers who loved my previous books. They "got" me. I was happy that they liked the setting of Dickens Island and its residents as they ventured out on adventures amid murder and mayhem.

However, a few reviews included a different type of comment. "There's too much involving interpersonal relationships." Well, yeah, I thought. One of my main writerly themes is exploring my characters' relationships with one another. Someone else wrote "Every character has a problem." Sure, every character has an issue he or she needs to resolve. Other comments reflected that since Death on Dickens Island was the first book in the series, it was understandable that the author took the time to present the  characters in their setting. After all, starting a new series means creating a new fictional world for both writer and reader.

Why should everyone love our books? is a question I think a first-time published author needs to keep in mind. After all, we, the reading public have varied tastes. What I find hilarious, someone might find silly. I've read some popular books and wondered how they ever made The New York Times Best Sellers list. But obviously enough readers had enjoyed them and joined the word of mouth band wagon that put them there. 

I don't expect to become a household name, but I'm more than content that a number of readers love my books. They write to tell me so and post wonderful reviews. This spurs me on to continue writing, despite sometimes thinking I can never write another book. But that's a discussion for another day.

Killer Questions: Our Favorite Thanksgiving Foods

Killer Questions: Our Favorite Thanksgiving Foods

Sarah E. Burr: I love candied yams or any type of sugary yam casserole dish!

Paula G. Benson: I love having real cranberries on Thanksgiving. As a relish or just cooked cranberries, they are my favorite. Often in the South, we have sweet potato pie instead of pumpkin pie. That’s another great food for the holiday.

Marilyn Levinson: Stuffing with sautéed mushrooms and onions.

Heather Weidner: Turkey and gravy.

Shari Randall: Years ago, my family decided that we'd rather have lasagna than turkey. Although there's still a turkey and cranberry sauce (my second favorite)  most of the family are chowing down on a luscious dish of pasta layered with mozzarella, ricotta, and homemade sausage and beef marinara. Buon appetito! 

Judy Murray: My husband's homemade apple pie, a recipe handed down from his mother. It took years for him to perfect without tossing pie crust dough across the kitchen in disgust.

K.M. Rockwood: My favorite Thanksgiving food was actually a drink. Apple cider. It does need a bit of background explanation. My family never served water at meals. Except for the youngest tots, we got one glass of milk each. Years later, I learned I have a swallowing problem. I also have some health issues that tend to leave me dehydrated. On Thanksgiving, someone always brought a couple of gallons of apple cider. While we weren't permitted unlimited amounts, I discovered I could down the first glassful get a quick refill. Possibly several refills. I didn't have problems downing the rest of the food if I had the cider. It was the best meal of the year.

Lori Roberts Herbst: Thanksgiving food: pumpkin pie, with tons of whipped cream.

Kait Carson: My parents came from the generation where holiday food was a never-varying tradition. Despite being a self-taught gourmet cook, my mother served turkey, ham, mashed potatoes (yes, marshmallows were involved), broccoli cheese casserole (howdy, Campbell's) and corn pudding (another nod to the soup people). Dessert was pumpkin pie and three-layer coconut cake. The first thing I did when I broke away on my own was to toss any recipe that contained canned soup. When Mom passed away, my dad moved in with me for a while. That first Thanksgiving, he stood in the middle of my kitchen, took in the prep work an looked at the recipes with a sad expression on his face. I thought he was missing Mom, but I asked if anything was wrong. Where, he wanted to know, were the broccoli casserole and the corn pudding? The question stopped me cold. That's when I realized that my favorite Thanksgiving foods weren't foods. They were the tradition they represented. Hubs can't have broccoli, but corn pudding - howdy Campbell's - is still on the menu.

Korina Moss: The stuffing (with gravy)! 

Grace Topping: I absolutely love turkey. My husband, who hails from England, not so much. There, they had turkey once a year on Christmas, and he feels that's enough. So, I slip turkey into recipes whenever I can, hoping he'll think it's chicken. My favorite is turkey thighs, which aren't readily available except around the holidays. I find myself scouring grocery stores in search of them--most times without luck. Recently, when I asked an employee working near the meat section where I could find turkey thighs, he looked really puzzled—as if to say that it isn't Thanksgiving yet, and pointed me to the chicken section. This Thanksgiving season, when I hope to find packages of turkey thighs, I plan to stock my freezer with them. Even if it means taking every package that's on the shelf.

Debra H. Goldstein: Unfortunately, I don’t care much for Thanksgiving food, but there usually is a corn pudding or squash casserole that makes me happy. My mother also was big on the Jell-O mold with nuts, cream cheese, and red Jell-O. I don’t make it, but it brings back pleasant memories when I see it at someone’s house.

James M. Jackson: Homemade cranberry sauce.

New Books from Favorite Authors

 by Paula Gail Benson

As we are nearing the holiday season, I want to recommend some terrific books that have been or will be released soon by three of my favorite authors. If you are looking to add to your stack of “to be reads” or seeking wonderful gifts to share with friends, you can’t go wrong with these writers and their work.

Carla Damron

Carla Damron, retired social worker, who has her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Queens College in Charlotte, North Carolina, and is a former blogging partner at Writers Who Kill, has just released her latest Georgia Thayer novel, The Weird Girl. Georgia, a hospital social worker who navigates the complex responsibilities of her work while coping with her own mental illness, has taken on an additional role as foster mother to a teenager who has just escaped a horrific past. While trying to give her charge a chance at normalcy, Georgia is plunged into a search for a missing girl that leads her to uncover a dangerous fentanyl trade and secrets hidden by men in political circles. A review calls The Weird Girl “a fast-moving and emotionally charged novel that plunges into the dark heart of opioid addiction, teen vulnerability, and the long shadows of power and privilege.”

Saul Golubcow

Ever since I discovered Saul Golubcow’s detective Frank Wolf, a Holocaust survivor who with his newly minted lawyer grandson Joel investigates crimes in 1970s New York City, I’ve always been eager to read the next adventure. According to Saul, the title of his new Frank Wolf book, Were the Angels Wrong?, comes from “a millennia-old commentary on the creation story in the Book of Genesis. When the angels learn that God has decided to give humans dominion over the earth, they are flabbergasted and angry. As my detective hero, Frank Wolf, describes the angels’ reactions, ‘they shouted that such frail, confused, and selfish creatures were both not worthy of receiving such a gift and incapable of maintaining and retaining such a treasure.’ . . .In this case, Frank strives mightily to challenge the angels, for the origin of the crime emanates from the Holocaust—one of humankind’s greatest evils.” Another element that challenges Joel is that the person accused of murder, who Joel must now defend, is the man dating Joel’s widowed mother. Joel must reconcile his personal concerns with a reasonable approach to resolving what actually occurred.

Yasmin Angoe

Yasmin Angoe, who has written the brilliant and critically acclaimed Nena Knight thriller series (Her Name is Knight, They Come at Knight, and It Ends with Knight) and the intriguing, suspenseful stand alone Not What She Seems, will have a new thriller, Behind These Four Walls, released on January 1, 2026. In this novel, sixteen-year-old Isla, an orphan living in a group home, plans to run away to Los Angeles with her friend Eden, except Eden disappears. Ten years later, Isla goes in search of Eden and discovers she did not know Eden at all. This novel has been described as: “A thriller that explores revenge, morality, corruption, and wealth as a woman sets out to uncover the truth behind her friend’s disappearance and expose the powerful family behind it.”

In March, Yasmin’s debut young adult novel will be released. She Drinks the Light is set on a private island off the South Carolina coast. Addae, an island resident, goes to the mainland when her friend disappears and one of the island’s Kin is found drained of blood which looks like the work of the Adze, the Ghanian version of vampires. However, on the mainland Addae discovers secrets that affect her family and could change her life.

Which of you or your favorite authors have holiday or New Year releases?

Guest Blog: The Third Editor by GP Gottlieb

The Third Editor by GP Gottlieb

I’d started writing my first mystery and was searching for an editor. I researched online and finally submitted the story to two practiced editors plus one named Sonia with minimal editing experience who said she’d done time and knew “the ins and outs” of crime. That sounded promising, but I asked each editor to review my story and agreed to pay their hourly rates for the initial feedback.

My story was about a shapely young woman named Shannon, who has a sultry voice and is a waitress in a Midwestern diner. One night, Shannon is at work wearing a tight black miniskirt with a slinky crimson blouse and cheap dangling earrings. She constantly flings her long blonde hair over her shoulder and has long, cherry red nails. After a day in which she endured dozens of innuendos and come-ons, a muscled and tatted truck driver hits on her while she’s trying to clean the coffeepot.

Shannon is tired and cranky, forgot to serve toast or hashbrowns four times in the past hour, and has already been twice reprimanded by the fussy manager. When the truck driver grabs Shannon’s backside, she snaps, and before anyone can stop her, she stabs him in the arm with one of her stiletto heels. Later, we learn that the truck driver moonlights as a mob enforcer and was in the diner that night to strong arm one of the waitress’s best-tipping regulars. It also turns out that the FBI was trying to nab the truck driver for transporting illegal material over state lines, so ultimately, the waitress comes off as a hero.

The first editor I heard back from found a few grammar mistakes but neglected to ask why the reader needs to know how much Shannon’s earrings cost or why anyone would wear stiletto heels to wait tables at a diner.   

Neither the first nor second potential editor said anything about the cliches and incongruities. How many sultry blondes and muscled truckdrivers really exist, and how many waitresses manage the upkeep of a manicure? 

Only Sonia, the third editor pointed out that a normal waitress would wear rubber gloves rather than ruin her manicure while cleaning a coffee maker. Sonia had life experience that included, she admitted, a stint in rehab for meth addiction, a year in prison, and a few months in jail for attacking a police officer who was trying to cuff her. She didn’t hide her past but said that she didn’t like to dwell on it, and there was shockingly little info about her on Google.

We met at a random, mostly empty bar on Chicago’s west side. Sonia said it would be safer if I didn’t know where she lived. She warned me in her flat Chicago accent that we’d never meet twice in the same spot. Sonia looked like a sweetheart, with a heart-shaped faced and a winning smile, but she was shady. She deflected questions about her past and I already knew that she had a murky internet presence. She also insisted on cash payment and used burner phones, so her phone number kept changing.

But Sonia’s advice was spot on. She said that no matter how hard the waitress tried to stab the burly guy with the heel of her shoe, nothing would happen unless there was a stiletto knife hidden in the heel. Sonia suggested that Shannon either stomp on his foot with all her strength or pull out a 4.25 mm “Liliput” pistol and shoot the guy in the foot. Another option was to bash him in the head with the coffee pot because, Sonia patiently explained, unless the waitress was a trained killer, neither stabbing nor stomping would slow the guy down. 

Sonia assured me that she knew more than most about how to inflict pain, but I was sold when she started raving about the little gun, which turned out to be the exact model she carried around in her purse. And she had other solid suggestions.

 “If that waitress stabbed the truck driver,” she said, knowing whereof she spoke, “she’d be hauled to court, and suddenly she’d be fighting a dull, drawn-out legal battle that nobody wants to read about.”

I was blown away. An editor who doesn’t see beyond what’s on the page is not worth the money, but Sonia was a little scary. She liked the crime aspects of the story, but wanted me to round Shannon out, maybe have her bring slices of pie home to her grandmother or sing folksongs to her baby niece.

“Nobody should be only one thing,” she said the second time we met. “Give everyone some depth.” She told me that she fires clients who don’t make the corrections she suggests and added, “I’m used to people listening to me.”

She was a little intimidating, but Sonia taught me that nothing I write is sacred. At our third meeting, I gave her a new version of the story in which the high tipper who gets stabbed is a Federal agent. 

“Making the story more interesting is good,” she wrote in red, “but adding clichéd characters and a convoluted plotline is not.”  Then she told me a story about how stupid she’d been to transport drugs across state lines. She cautioned against letting my characters come off as idiots.

As disappointing as it was to see a thick red line crossing out an entire paragraph, Sonia taught me a lot about writing. “If your stories are boring and trite,” she said, “nobody is going to want to read them.” 

Much as I admired Sonia, appreciated her edits, and enjoyed the stories about her trajectory, I ultimately ended up hiring a different editor. It wasn’t her fault, but Sonia screwed up because she’d never worked as a waitress and didn’t know that restaurant employees are required to tie their hair back in most states. Nobody wants hair in their hashbrowns.

GP Gottlieb is the author of the Whipped and Sipped Mystery Series (Battered was re-released September 2025 in Paperback, Kindle and Nook). She’s a member of the Blackbird Writers, on the Sisters in Crime Chicagoland Board, and a member of SinC Colorado and SinC Wisconsin. She likes posting on Facebook, reads voraciously, and has interviewed over 260 authors for New Books in Literature, a podcast channel on the New Books Network. Her stories have been published in Pure Slush, Another Chicago Magazine, Grande Dame Literary, and other journals and anthologies. Over 250 of her essays on travel, music, culture, writing, and things that annoy her are available in various publications at Medium.Com.

“Off the Page” with Delia Dickens by The Wren (Sarah E. Burr)

 

A Note from Sarah Burr: I'm handing over the blogging reins to none other than Winnie Lark, the savvy sleuth and bookish brain behind my Book Blogger Mysteries series. Winnie runs What Spine is Yours—a literary hub often dubbed “Metacritic for Books,” but with a delightfully cozy twist. Under her secret blogging identity as The Wren, Winnie dishes out captivating content while keeping her true self under wraps. Her favorite way to spotlight authors? Interviewing them through the voices of their very own characters. And that’s precisely what’s in store for today’s feature. Settle in and enjoy the bookish fun!

Greetings, Writers Who Kill! It’s your friendly neighborhood book blogger, The Wren, here to crack open the pages of a brand-new cozy mystery series from Allison Brook. Today, I’ll be chatting with her protagonist, Delia Dickens, from Death on Dickens Island.

Thanks so much for coming “Off the Page” with me, Delia. Your family name is practically synonymous with storytelling! How does being a Dickens shape the way you see mystery and the way you uncover it?

Thank you so much for having me as your guest. Alas, as far as I know, my family is not related to Charles Dickens, though my family name is well known because one of my great-greats bought and settled on the island that bears our name. Being a Dickens, I have a sense of responsibility to maintain peace and tranquility among the island residents.

I can imagine that being attached to the founding family comes with its own expectations. What about Dickens Island drew you there in the first place? Why did you decide to leave your life in Manhattan behind?

I grew up on Dickens Island, but never thought I'd end up living there, as my grandmother believed I would. I moved back to live with my fifteen-year-old son, who had been living with my parents for the past twelve years. You will have to read DEATH ON DICKENS ISLAND if you want to know why I agreed to have them care for Connor while I continued to live and work in Manhattan.

Sounds like there might be some family drama for readers to discover! Turning to your amateur sleuthing exploits, what made you want to or feel that you had to get involved in solving a young woman’s murder?

I am very close to my aunt and uncle. Uncle Brad was the last person known to have seen Missy Faraday before she was murdered. Soon, he and Aunt Reenie were considered suspects in the case. I knew neither of them was capable of killing anyone.  Naturally, I did my utmost to clear their names.

Your uncle and aunt are lucky you were willing to go to bat for them! Not everyone would have the courage to do so.

Every great sleuth needs a grounding presence, be it a loyal friend, a furry companion, or a cup of strong tea. Who or what keeps you steady when things turn perilous?

I do like tea, and I'm fortunate to have people I'm close to who help steady me--the ghost of Helena, my grandmother; my boyfriend Jack; my mother. And Riley, the bearded collie, who followed Connor home one day and ended up living with us.

Um, okay, there’s a ghost?! That’s something you don’t come across every day!

Cozy mysteries often reveal as much about a community as they do a crime. What makes the residents of Dickens Island so deliciously suspicious or irresistibly endearing?

We are a small community. Every islander is rather unique and has his or her own strong opinions that he/she is eager to share anywhere and anytime.

Oh boy. “Strong opinions” makes it sound like there are quite a few testy relationships at play. Without giving too much away, can you share a moment from your first case that changed you the most?

So much of what I read in my grandmother's journals and learned from Helena in ghostly form showed me how much island history impacted the two murders. It made me realize that living on Dickens Island was the right place for me.

What a fantastic way to connect with your heritage. Are there more adventures in store for you and your author, Allison Brook?

Yes, indeed.

If more mystery is afoot, it must mean you’re settling in quite nicely on Dickens Island. Perhaps you really can go home again. Delia, thanks so much for coming off the page with me. Readers, if you’d like to enjoy Delia’s first mystery, you can find purchase links and more down below!

 

Death on Dickens Island:  https://bit.ly/PRHDickensIsland

Death on Dickens Island on Amazon: https://amzn.to/3QeMB6Q

Author Website: http://www.marilynlevinson.com 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marilyn.levinson.10?ref=ts&fref=ts

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/161602.Marilyn_Levinson

X: https://twitter.com/MarilynLevinson 

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/marilyn-levinson

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marilynlevinsonauthor/

Memories of Thanksgiving

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. You all have taught me so much and enriched my life in so many ways. I am so very grateful. They say everyone needs a crew. I’m lucky to have found mine. Thank you.

2025 has been a helluva ride. On November 27^th, I’ll be sitting at my Thanksgiving table with my husband (closely attended by three cats and a dog because, well, food) and reflecting on all the wonderful, crazy, breathtaking experiences of 2025. Our traditional Thanksgiving dinner is simple. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, stuffing, and pumpkin pie. If we’re lucky, a light snow will be falling. We may dream of a white Christmas, but I’m here to tell you that a white Thanksgiving has a charm all its own.

We’ll talk about Thanksgivings past. The days when I worked with law enforcement as a civilian volunteer and issued an open invitation for anyone working the holiday to stop by for a bite. A police car occupied every bit of lawn and parking space at my house. My newly moved in next-door neighbors, understandably concerned that something awful had happened, called in a panic. When I explained what was going on, they came over to join in the fun. Turned out they both worked for the District Attorney’s Office and knew a lot of my guests.

Then there is the indelible childhood memory of watching the turkey go up in flames. I grew up in apartments, and they had tiny galley kitchens with even smaller appliances. My mother had a big family. Dad would cook the bird outside on the grill when he could, but some years, that didn’t work out. As a religious devotee of Gourmet Magazine, my mother spatchcocked the bird, baked it, and intended to finish it under the broiler. It went well until a wee bit of the skin got too close to the flame and ignited. Still would have been fine, except Dad reached for the first glass that came to hand. Scotch. Yep. Turkey Flambé. I liked it, but I think I was alone in my preference. Sometimes it pays to be seven.

While we eat, we’ll talk about our plans for Christmas and the year ahead. After dinner, we’ll light the Christmas houses display my husband inherited from his mother. Then we’ll watch Planes, Trains, and Automobiles for the twenty-something time and debate whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. I’m a no. Hubs is a yes.

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 that the balance of 2025 brings all you desire. See you in 2026!

Kait Carson writes the Hayden Kent Mysteries, set in the Fabulous Florida Keys, and is at work on a new mystery series set in her adopted state of Maine. Her short fiction has been nationally published in the True Confessions magazines and in Woman’s World. Kait’s short story, “Gutted, Filleted, and Fried”, appeared in the Silver Falchion Award nominated Guppy Anthology Hook, Line, and Sinker. Her nonfiction essay was included in the Agatha Award-winning book Writing the Cozy Mystery. She is a former President of the Guppy Chapter of Sisters in Crime, a member of Sisters in Crime, and Guppies.

 

Teddy Roosevelt, Elvis Presley, the Smithsonian, and a Cozy Mystery

By Heather Weidner

Today is National American Teddy Bear Day. I have collected teddy bears in all shapes and sizes since my uncle sent me my first one from Vietnam when he was stationed there in the late 1960s.

The beloved toy was created to honor President Theodore Roosevelt, who while on a hunting trip, refused to shoot a bear cub that was tied to a tree. Clifford Berryman captured the event in a political cartoon that caught the attention of Morris Michtom and his wife Rose. They created a stuffed bear, and after getting Roosevelt’s permission, they marketed the Teddy Bear, and the rest is history. It was such a success that Michtom eventually founded the Ideal Toy Company. The teddy bear has been a part of everyday life since.

In 1921, A. A. Milne, who also wrote The Red House Mystery, introduced the world to Winnie-the-Pooh, a collection of stories that he wrote for his young son, and later the famous bear became a beloved Disney character with the animations of Milne’s stories.

The teddy bear became a part of a popular culture craze again in the 1950s when a rumor spread that Elvis Presley liked the toy. Thousands of his fans mailed him stuffed bears to declare their adoration. Several song writers who also heard the rumor, wrote the song “(Let Me Be) Your Teddy Bear” that Elvis eventually sang in the movie, Loving You. In 1957, Elvis donated the thousands of teddy bears to the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis.

To commemorate the anniversary of the creation of the teddy bear, the Michtom family donated one of their original creations to Teddy Roosevelt’s grandson, Kermit, and the family eventually donated it to the Smithsonian where it is still on display.

The loveable stuffed toys have been a part of our iconography for over the past hundred years, and they take center stage in my upcoming Jules Keene Glamping mystery, Teddy Bears and Ghostly Lairs. In this cozy, the town of Fern Valley, in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, has overdosed on cuteness for its first teddy bear and toy festival. Adorable bears have taken over every inch of the town, and Jules Keene can barely keep up with all the guest check-ins at her glamping resort. To add to the fun, a team of paranormal investigators set their sights on her vintage trailers and the new treehouse as they investigate the local haunts. It quickly becomes evident that things aren’t all sweet and cuddly when someone absconds with collectible toys. Then to make matters worse, Jules and her friends trip over something not so other-worldly at an abandoned motel during a paranormal investigation. Jules has to calm frayed nerves and solve the mystery before there are any other thefts or grisly murders.

Do you have a favorite bear? Mine are Winnie-the-Pooh, Paddington Bear, and Gentle Ben.

Resources:

·        The Story of the Teddy Bear - Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace National Historic Site (U.S. National Park Service)

·         History of Teddy Bears

·         The History of the Teddy Bear

·         https://www.mprnews.org/story/2017/08/24/elvis-not-fond-of-teddy-bears

Through the years, Heather Weidner has been a cop’s kid, technical writer, editor, college professor, software tester, and IT manager. She writes the Pearly Girls Mysteries, the Delanie Fitzgerald Mysteries, The Jules Keene Glamping Mysteries, and The Mermaid Bay Christmas Shoppe Mysteries. She blogs regularly with the Writers Who Kill.

Originally from Virginia Beach, Heather has been a mystery fan since Scooby-Doo and Nancy Drew. She lives in Central Virginia with her husband and a crazy Mini Aussie Shepherd.