Who Will Live and Who Will Die? by Marilyn Levinson

 Until recently, I've never given much thought to how I select the murder victims in my mysteries. I don't usually go along with the popular cozy trope of killing off the character everyone loves to hate because part of maintaining suspense is keeping readers wondering who will be the first victim. But I will confess I couldn't wait to do away with my most recent murder victim because he has harmed so many innocent people.

There are many reasons why characters become homicide victims. In some of my books, the murder has occurred before page one. The first victim in Death Overdue, the first book in my Haunted Library series, died fifteen years ago, and the second victim is murdered to prevent him from announcing the killer's identity. In Giving Up the Ghost, my ghost Cameron Leeds wants Gabbie Meyerson to find out who murdered him in the previous year.

Very often a murder victim has no idea why she's been targeted. In Death on Dickens Island,  Missy Faraday's killer hears Missy asking questions about her family background and feels threatened enough to murder her. 

Jealousy is often a reason why a killer offs his or her victim. In A Murderer Among Us, Claire Weill has no idea that her killer's in love with her husband. 

Blackmailers sometimes fall prey to their victims. That's what happens to Ilana Reingold in Checked Out for Murder, the fourth Haunted Library book, when she sees the murderer kill someone and tries to blackmail her.

Lastly, some victims are simply unlucky and are murdered by accident. Which is what happens in Murder a la Christie when poor Sylvia Morris drinks the poisoned refreshment meant for someone else.

A final word: I have killed off a few characters I'd grown to love, but I never murder my sleuth or anyone close to her. 

How do you decide who will be murdered in your mysteries?

Killer Questions - Favorite Home Improvement or Cooking Show

Killer Questions – Favorite Home Improvement or Cooking Show

You can tell a lot about people by the television shows they watch. Let’s see what you think about our respective favorite home improvement or cooking shows.

Martha Reed - Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown.

Susan Van Kirk – The Great British Baking Show

Debra H. Goldstein - Top Chef

James M. Jackson – Never watched; never will.

Annette Dashofy – Farmhouse Fixer. I want them to come to my house! Also, I want to move into one of the houses they’ve already fixed up.

Heather Weidner - Maine Cabin Masters, Motel Rescue, and a blast from the past, Trading Spaces

Sarah E. Burr - I will always have a soft spot for the original Fixer Upper with Chip and Joanna Gaines. Joanna has my kind of style, and I love how they design houses.

Kait Carson - House Hunters, Log Cabin Living. I have never watched the Great British Bakeoff, but it’s on my bucket list.

E. B. Davis - I watch cooking and home improvement clips on Facebook. My favorites, Ina Garten, Joshua Weissman, and Alton Brown. There are a lot of fixer upper shows, but Julie Jones, designer—space planner is my favorite.

Margaret S. Hamilton - Love it Or List It

K.M. Rockwood - Can't remember ever having watched one.

Korina Moss - The Great British Baking Show is by far my favorite cooking show. It’s so cozy and heartwarming.

Lori Roberts Herbst - Fixer Upper. I don’t watch often, but it always makes me smile.

Grace Topping - Nancy Birtwhistle's online posts. Nancy won one season of the Great British Bakeoff and gives terrific baking advice. She also features natural, homemade cleaning products for everyday use. 

Shari Randall - My favorite is the Great British Baking Show. So inspirational! How I would love a Paul Hollywood handshake!

Mary Dutta - I don’t watch any.

Centering and Focusing

by Paula Gail Benson

Lately, I’ve been facing days with a lot of tasks coming to me at once. I’ve had to clarify the order and set priorities. Unfortunately, I’ve often been told all matters are urgent and do the best I can. So, I do, and hope for the best.

After a flurry of activity, writing is a much stiller, calmer course. Its quietness in fact can be disconcerting and make me wonder, am I able to do this? Can I be alone with my thoughts and create when no one is imposing requirements upon me?

The empty page becomes a frightening thing because it makes no demands upon me. It simply reflects the demands I make upon myself: to produce, and hopefully to do so brilliantly.

When I dispel the feeling of possible failure and convince myself to write, I begin to recognize what a gift it gives me. The time and words are mine to explore. I can center myself on the topic I select and then focus on the elements as I uncover them.

Thanks to the Internet, I can stop briefly to look up definitions; historical, mechanical, or scientific facts; or verify that I’m remembering something correctly. Then I push myself back to my waiting page and develop what I’ve determined to create.

At this moment, I don’t let the pressure of finishing or summarizing make me frantic or turn to AI. These will be my words carefully considered, my discovery new and fresh.

I may be able to visit a place I’ve never seen or return to a familiar spot. Like an actor, I can walk around in a character’s shoes, focusing on what I might fail to notice in the hustle and bustle of everyday existence—maybe even regretting that I might not ordinarily see it.

With pen in hand, I feel the flow of the creative process through my body. I guess I feel it also when my fingers are poised over a keyboard, just in a different way.

I am centered. I am focused. I pursue the creative process alone, but hopefully I will share the results of that process with others.

How is it for you when you come to write after being involved in another experience?

When the Groove Comes Back or Being in the Zone

When the Groove Comes Back or Being in the Zone by Debra H. Goldstein

Since I moved to Atlanta on July 4, 2025, I’ve been busy participating in social activities that have allowed me to make new friends and spending quality family time with my little readers who live here. I’ve learned canasta, perfected my Mah Jongg, eaten out more than my waistline needs, worked with a trainer to balance the eating out, babysat, and also attended numerous lectures, musical events, theatrical performances, religious service and study groups, and participated in various volunteer opportunities. What I haven’t been doing, which has created quite a bit of anguish for me, is writing.

Oh, I’ve performed by post writing and other duties for the four blogs I am part of (Writers Who Kill, The Stiletto Gang, Booklovers Bench – Where Readers Are Winners, and my own, It’s Not Always a Mystery). I have faithfully gotten out my monthly newsletter (which you can subscribe to from my website, https://www.DebraHGoldstein.com … while there, you

can also download a free copy of the cookbook Kensington made from my Sarah Blair series – Simple Recipes for the Sometimes Sleuth) and responded to emails from readers. What I haven’t done is write.

Although I have several short stories being published this year, until the beginning of this month, I’d only written one new one since I’ve been in Atlanta. Two weeks ago, I stopped fretting about not writing. I took a week off to simply read for fun. I relaxed. When I decided to rejoin the real world, I saw an open call for a story. It sparked an idea. I spent days researching the background materials I would need to write the story and then I sat in my favorite chair, with show music playing, and wrote. 

The words flowed. I lost track of time. I was in that special zone. When I finished, I put it aside to edit the next day. Several re-readings and revisions later, I submitted the story. I smiled. My groove is back!

The Joy of Revisions by Sarah E. Burr

There is a particular kind of relief that comes with finishing a first draft. The story exists. The characters have made it from the opening scene to the final reveal. The clues are on the page, the body has been found, the suspects have been gathered, and the killer has been named. For a mystery writer, that alone feels like a triumph.

But for me, the real joy begins in revision.

I’m currently working on revisions for the next Glenmyre Whim Mystery, and it has reminded me how much I love this stage of the writing process. For me, drafting is discovery. It’s messy, instinctive, and sometimes a little nightmarish. Revision is where I get to take everything I uncovered during that first pass and shape it into something stronger, clearer, and more emotionally resonant.

With the Glenmyre Whim Mysteries, revision feels especially rewarding because these books are built on several layers at once. There is the central mystery, with all the suspects, motives, secrets, and red herrings that need to hold together. But there is also Hazel Wickbury’s personal journey, the history of the Glenmyre family, the magical rules of their “whims”, and the relationships that give the series its heart.

Those pieces don’t always arrive neatly in the first draft. Sometimes a clue appears too early. Sometimes a character’s motivation needs more pressure behind it. Sometimes a scene does the job mechanically but lacks emotional weight. And sometimes, the draft gives me a gift I didn’t fully understand while I was writing it. A passing line becomes important. A minor interaction reveals a deeper tension. A character says something that points toward the heart of the book before I’ve consciously identified it.

Revision is where I get to recognize those gifts and make them intentional.

One of the most satisfying parts of revising a mystery is tightening the structure. Mystery readers are wonderfully sharp. They notice details. They remember what was said three chapters ago, sometimes even three books ago. They follow the emotional logic of a character’s behavior and the practical logic of a clue trail. That means every scene needs to earn its place. During revisions, I look closely at what each chapter is doing. Is it advancing the investigation? Deepening character? Increasing tension? Revealing something about the world? Ideally, a scene does more than one of these things at once.

That process can be demanding, but it’s also deeply satisfying. There is a real pleasure in seeing the machinery of the mystery begin to work more smoothly. A clue lands better. A suspect becomes more layered. A twist feels less like a trick and more like an inevitable surprise. The goal is not simply to hide the answer from the reader. It’s to create a fair and engaging puzzle that rewards attention while still delivering a satisfying reveal.

Hazel’s adventures also ask me to think carefully about how the magical elements interact with the mystery. Her whim and her family lore cannot function as shortcuts. Hazel, Poppy, and Holden (the three living Glenmyres) need rules, limits, and consequences. In revision, I pay close attention to whether their magical abilities add depth and tension rather than solve problems too easily. The magic should complicate their lives as much as it helps them understand it.

That balance matters to me. I want whims to feel meaningful, but I also want Hazel’s intelligence, courage, and persistence to drive the story. She is not passive in her own series. She is a business owner, a niece, a friend, a partner, and an amateur sleuth learning how to carry the weight of what she knows. Revisions give me the chance to sharpen that emotional arc and make sure Hazel is not simply reacting to events, but growing through them.

There is something deeply rewarding about returning to a manuscript with fresh eyes and seeing not only what needs fixing, but what is already working. Revision is not punishment for an imperfect draft. It is an invitation to make the book more fully itself.

And with every pass-through, I get to understand Hazel, Poppy, and the Glenmyre legacy a little better. For me, that is the joy of revision: taking the raw material of inspiration and shaping it into a story that feels polished, purposeful, and alive.

And speaking of a story that feels alive, check out the book trailer Get a Candle on Crime below!

AI and Highways by Nancy L. Eady

The Florida Everglades are suffering from a surfeit of invasive Burmese pythons. Because the pythons have no natural enemies there—except maybe alligators, although pythons busily digesting alligators have been found—the snakes are destroying the already fragile ecology there. 

The state has tried many tactics to deal with them. I say “deal with them,” because Florida won’t let you shoot the things. Instead, they have to be caught and “humanely disposed of.” If you catch a note of skepticism in my tone, you’re not mistaken, but that’s a topic for another day. (I am not, and never will be, an ophiophilist.) 

One of the more unusual tactics was the dispatch of robotic marsh rabbits, solar-powered, designed to have the movements and heat signatures, and various other characteristics of live marsh rabbits. The rabbits, kept in clear pens, were to sense pythons drawing close and send out a signal to call a snake disposal expert (whatever one is called) to retrieve them.

It worked at first, but there was a flaw. The same rabbits that attracted the pythons also attracted alligators. The pythons weren’t able to destroy the pens the robots were in, but an alligator? When a six- to ten-foot alligator crashed into a pen, the pen became toast, as did the roughly $4000 robotic rabbit. 

But then a bright soul realized that even if the rabbits were toast, the data generated from them was not. The scientists fed the data to a powerful AI program, which discovered a hidden pattern. The pythons and other predators were following regular routes through the waters of the Everglades, slithering superhighways. Armed with this information, the python hunters have been able to find and remove more pythons than they were before. This doesn’t mean that the python problem is solved, but it is a step in the right direction. 

Now press pause. 

As you may remember, my family recently moved. My daily commute was cut down from two hours each way to one hour each way. My route is sixty-odd miles, straight interstate, between one small city and another medium-sized city separated by farmland. Piece of cake, right? 

Resume play. 

No. The interstate is two lanes in both directions and should have been three-laned on each side two decades ago. It connects Atlanta to I-65 and thus Birmingham to the north and New Orleans (via Mobile and I-10) to the south and west, all huge metropolitan areas. Like any other bottleneck, when more traffic squeezes through than the original design anticipated, strange things happen. 

Like many people, I rely on my phone to help guide me through the ever-swirling fog of traffic. Siri is exceptionally good at giving me alternate routes when there is a traffic snarl due to an accident or construction. 

The thought hit me this afternoon—with every user, Siri is collecting bunches of data points about travelers on my stretch of interstate, just like the robot rabbits in Florida. What kind of hidden patterns might an AI program sorting through that mass of data discover?

And then my brain tries to spin that idea into a story… 

Amanda Flower's Because I Could Not Stop For Death

 

 

 

By Margaret S. Hamilton

 

Amanda Flower’s historical mystery featuring the poet Emily Dickinson is the first in a proposed series. The book takes place in winter and spring, 1855, and is set in two locations, the Dickinson family home in Amherst, Massachusetts, and at a hotel in Washington, D.C., when Emily, her mother, and sister Lavinia visit Emily’s congressman father while Congress is in session.

 

The book is narrated by the household second maid, Willa Noble, an intelligent, diligent, and educated older teen, who is the guardian of her younger brother, Henry. Emily is twenty-four, an avid gardener and poetry writer, usually accompanied by her Newfoundland dog, Carlo. Emily selects Willa as the new family maid. Willa soon becomes Emily’s companion, and while solving the death of Henry, her confidant.

 

Willa’s narrative tone is perfect, walking a narrow line between mid-nineteenth century colloquial speech and modern English. Flower distills a veritable mountain of research into the sensory details of Amherst in the middle of winter, and then the hustle-bustle of Washington, D.C., as spring emerges.

 

Emily is not yet a recluse. In the book, Flower lays the fictional groundwork for her later poems. Emily is bright, well-educated, enjoys a correspondence with friends and relatives, and is an advocate for justice. When Willa is devastated by the death of her younger brother, Emily pounces on the uncertainty surrounding the events of Henry’s death. With Willa and Carlo at her side, Emily launches an investigation which leads to identifying the true culprit.

 

Flower focuses on three elements of Amherst society: class, status, and politics. Emily has enjoyed the best education offered to young women in the mid-nineteenth century, including attending what would become Mount Holyoke College. Mr. Dickinson is a prosperous lawyer in Amherst and a Whig representative in Congress. Emily’s brother, Austin, is a Harvard-trained lawyer, engaged to Emily’s best friend, Susan Gilbert.

 

In 1855, the Whig party is neither pro-slavery nor anti-slavery. Henry’s death is connected to the actions of local citizens assisting slaves fleeing north on the Underground Railroad. Complicating matters are the bounty hunters who routinely grab both escaping slaves and free Black citizens and sell them. Combined with the chaos of local residents thwarting the actions of the bounty hunters, the coverup of Henry’s death blows up.

 

I enjoyed Amanda Flower’s historic cozy and anticipate Emily’s next case in the Emily Dickinson Mystery series.

 

Readers, do you enjoy historical fiction, particularly fiction that focuses on real characters?

Writers, do you write historical fiction, and if so, do you include real characters?

 

Margaret S. Hamilton is the author of forty short stories, the first two books in the Jericho Mystery series, and a novella, Erased, set in 1972.

 

Home - The Official Website of Margaret S. Hamilton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Libby Klein's Gimme Shelter: A Review by E. B. Davis

  

For Vader, my emotional support puppy. And Tony, my emotional support human.

I’d thank the cat but she’s really just in it for herself.

                                                                        Libby Klein, Gimme Shelter, Dedication

 

As the song says, you can’t always get what you want. Maybe that’s why, instead of fulfilling her youthful dream of being a rock star, Layla Virtue is living in a trailer park while playing third-rate gigs, including a stint at a seventies ABBA brunch. Given everything else she’s been through lately, she’s not complaining (much) about satin ruffles and go-go boots. She has a squad of supportive new BFFs, and she’s reclaimed a relationship with her famous rocker dad. His recent diagnosis has brought them even closer—sharing the trailer park’s lake house, which he’s had remodeled in typically over-the-top style.

Layla’s dad loves his new community and the feeling seems mutual. So, why is one of them blackmailing him? It’s a mystery almost as baffling as the assignment Layla receives from her former commissioner. Look into the brutal murder of a mild-mannered school teacher. Archie Wilkins was bludgeoned with a candelabra, shot up with drugs, and stuffed into a church confessional. Not the kind of outcome expected for a guy reputed to be the world’s nicest.

Perhaps Archie had secrets. Perhaps everyone does, including Layla’s one-time cop colleagues. She’s been blaming herself for a deadly ambush that destroyed her career and her peace of mind, but as her new friends help Layla regain her memories, a different picture emerges, and it’s one that forces her to question so much that she’s taken as truth . . .

Amazon.com

 

There’s something about Libby Klein’s humor that just hits my funny bone. I laughed through most of Gimme Shelter starting with the above dedication. I was happy to see that Libby had started a new series, although I was also dismayed that I missed the first book, Vice and Virtue, which was released April, 2025.

 

In this book, the backstory and plot intersect for character-driven mystery resolution and provides the impetuous for the next book’s plot. Because Libby has two other subplots, those are solved, but while the character-driven main plot comes to a head, the truth isn’t fully revealed.

 

Libby’s main character, Layla Virtue, is the daughter of a rock star, a former police detective, and she is an alcoholic—like her father. In Gimme Shelter, we get the backstory of how Layla was thrown off the force when her sting operation ended in disaster, an explosion that ended the lives of her team. Layla wasn’t killed because she was dead drunk in a bar during what was supposed to be the takedown of a drug syndicate. She’s down on herself big time—and yet—what she thinks happened may not be the truth. Her posse of gals she met at Alcoholics Anonymous prod her to find out the truth. In addition, her old police commissioner asks her to get information about the murder of an elementary school teacher who seemed to be everyone’s friend.

 

In her personal life, rock-star Dad has dementia and has moved from Malibu to the Northern Virginia trailer park that he bought for Layla. He fixes up the one real house on the property by bringing in his CA designer. She turns the house into a fairy tale/Hobbit house. His dementia is coming on fast, which is worrisome to Layla. But the other man in her life, an ex-marine fresh from three tours in Afghanistan suffers from PTSD. They are attracted, but the time is not right for fresh starts. Not until each of them can slay their demons. Hopefully, they will help each other’s conquests.  

 

Layla is a strong character, and the secondary characters display a variety of human pitfalls that beleaguer mankind from dementia, alcoholism, PTSD, drug abuse, criminality, and the frailty of human relationships. I hope this series takes off. Libby’s writing is superb. 

 

 

Should I Consider Self-Publishing? by KM Rockwood

The publishing world has changed dramatically from the days when “self-published” was shorthand for amateurish, poorly edited,

or couldn’t get a real publisher. Back then, even authors who poured care into their work often found themselves dismissed by peers and ignored by readers.

That era is gone.

Today, both debut and veteran writers self-publish. Many produce books every bit as polished and professional as those released by traditional houses. And readers—far more open minded than the industry once assumed—have embraced the idea that some of the most original, memorable, and enjoyable stories come from outside the Big Five.

Which brings me to the question I keep circling: should I consider self-publishing?

I have a backlog of previously published stories I’d love to gather into a collection, along with several nearly finished pieces that have never seen the light of day. My work tends toward the quirky, the off center, the not-quite-marketable—traits that don’t exactly thrill the major U.S. publishers. Agents, ever attuned to what sells, pass. Small presses, who are usually more welcoming of unusual material, have also declined.

I’d like to believe this isn’t a referendum on the quality of my writing—though of course that doubt whispers in the background. Are those “encouraging” rejections simply polite brush offs? Possibly. But that’s not the point.

The real question is: should I take the leap into self-publishing?

I write because I love it. I’ll keep writing whether anyone reads my stories or not. But sharing them—seeing them land in someone else’s imagination—brings a satisfaction nothing else quite matches.

Self-publishing is not for the faint of heart. Some authors thrive at it. Some earn real money. Some break even. And some end up with boxes of unsold books tucked behind the extra toilet paper in the back of the linen closet.

Is that where mine would end up?

The considerations feel endless.

Establish a small “private” press? Plenty of writers have found success doing exactly that.

Editing is non-negotiable. Nothing screams “incompetently self-published” like sloppy line editing. Weak content editing may be less obvious at first glance, but it still undermines the work. I don’t want to release anything I’ll later be embarrassed to claim as my own.

Fortunately, I do have a network of people who can help with that. And I know some very capable editors whose rates are not totally outrageous.

Would I contract someone else for formatting? Many people quite successfully format their own work. My tolerance for that type of work is limited. After the fiftieth “What did I do wrong this time?” incident in the past hour, I’m likely to seriously consider tossing my computer through the window. Which would not bode well for the computer, the window, or the piece on which I was working.

I know I’m totally incapable of coming up with illustrations, either for a cover or to accompany text. Some of my stories cry out for illustrations. Definitely an area where I would have to contract out anything I needed.

Whether a work is published by a press or not, marketing in today’s world falls directly on the shoulders of the author. Some people excel at marketing. Some people even enjoy it.

Since childhood, I have always had a deep innate dread that any attention is a direct prelude to being in serious trouble, so my inclination is to fly under the radar as much as possible. Not the best basis for establishing a successful marketing campaign.

And beyond those considerations lie other steps: ISBNs, distribution, copyright, metadata, reviews, discoverability—the whole ecosystem that traditional publishers handle behind the scenes.

It’s a lot.

But maybe it’s time to explore it seriously.

Reading for the Day After Mother's Day

 by Shari Randall

Romantic Outlaws: The Extraordinary Lives of Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley by Charlotte Gordon.

If you're expecting the story of two prim and proper ladies of the late 1700s and early 1800s, look elsewhere. This mother and daughter were passionate trailblazers who continually pushed against the limits placed upon them by society. And the drama! Romantic Outlaws reads like an opera (and even a soap opera), with heightened passions, life and death stakes, and a cast of characters that's a who's who of Enlightenment and Georgian Europe.

Mary Wollstonecraft was a philosopher and author of the groundbreaking A Vindication of the Rights of Women. She died in 1787 after giving birth to daughter Mary.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin grew up to become Mary Shelley, wife of the Romantic poet Percy Shelley and author of the groundbreaking 1818 novel, Frankenstein. 

The biography's dual structure, with one chapter about Mary Wollstonecraft alternating with one about Mary Shelley, underscores the similar challenges each woman faced in her unorthodox personal and professional life. Though Mary Shelley never knew her revolutionary mother, her mother's writings were a North Star she followed, for better or worse, all her life. Far from being a dry biography, Romantic Outlaws reads like a juicy and surprising historical novel. 

Highly recommended.

Have you read a good biography lately?

Shari Randall is the author of the Lobster Shack Mystery series and, as Meri Allen, the Ice Cream Shop Mystery series. She loves biographies.

STIRRING MY MUSE by Korina Moss

In last month’s blog post, My Full Circle Journey, I wrote about the Malice Domestic Fan Convention I was about to attend and how it would be different for me this year going as a dual cozy mystery author/ freelance editor. I hadn’t written in a while, and my personal goal for the conference was to stir my sleepy muse. Whether that would happen or not, there was so much to look forward to.

Author Leslie Karst & SinC president Raquel Reyes
showing their love, lol 

I watched like a proud auntie while a client of mine, Megan Gerig, looked like a pro on her first author panel to talk about her first novel, Beatrice Ophelia is Flickering Out. 

I chatted with another client at her first Malice, Faith (pseudonym Tanzy Kohl), readying herself for the submission process. 

I got to watch my dear friend, Ellen Byron, charm the crowd as toastmaster, and my friend and our fellow Writers Who Kill member, Annette Dashofy, give her heartfelt speech as Guest of Honor. I cheered when my close friend Mindy Quigley won the Agatha Award for Best Contemporary Novel for At Death’s Dough. 

And I jumped out of my chair next to my friend and client, Adrian Andover, as he won Best First Novel for Whiskey Business. (Click here for the full list of honorees and Agatha Award nominees and winners.)

Of course, getting to spend four days with dear friends and new friends always lifts me up. Among the laughs and the personal catching up, one-on-one or in small group settings, it’s no surprise that we talk a lot about writing and publishing. It’s encouraging to hear everyone’s stories—where they are in their journey, how they’re feeling about it, and what’s changed. We have real talks—it’s not all rainbows and unicorns, as most every writer knows. But it’s still our common passion. There are writers who are just getting their careers started, while others are taking a break. Some writers are busier than ever, and others are changing course. It doesn’t matter. Our shared goals and challenges are what bond us. Celebrating and supporting each other no matter where we are in our journey is what makes the mystery writing community so special. 

Back L to R: Jackie Layton, Rosalie Spielman, Korina Moss, Annie McEwen
Front L to R: Daphne Silver, Tiffany Krieg (The Beachbum Bookworm), Tricia Maniaci, & Holly Pirtle (Short, Sweet, & Cozy)

It’s been two weeks since I dragged myself and my luggage home from those whirlwind four days. As for my personal goal? I left inspired with my muse awakened. 

Writers: What stirs your muse? 

KORINA MOSS is the author of the Cheese Shop Mystery series, which includes the winner of the Agatha Award for Best First Novel, as well as two novels short-listed for Best Contemporary Novel. Listed as one of USA Today’s “Best Cozy Mystery Series,” her books have also been featured in PARADE Magazine, Woman’s World, and Writer’s Digest. Korina is also a freelance developmental editor specializing in cozy mysteries. To learn more or subscribe to her free monthly newsletter, visit her website korinamossauthor.com.

Enjoy a Little Courage of the Heart

Hello there! I ran out of time to get my blog post ready this week--life got in the way. Don't worry! Everyone is fine. So, today I'm offering you, dear reader, a short story I wrote fifteen years ago, a paranormal romantic suspense!  I hope you enjoy it! -- Lisa

COURAGE OF THE HEART

 Calvin's grandmother had always told him that his ability to foretell the future was a "gift from the heart" passed on to him from her side of the family. To Calvin, however, it was a white elephant, something he would have readily returned or re-gifted long ago, if only he could have. In his experience, being clairvoyant was a meddlesome burden with far too many costs and too few benefits. The worst drawback was how people reacted after learning of his supernatural powers--folks either shunned him out of fear or harassed him for help with every little life decision.

But it wasn’t until one fateful Saturday morning that the reluctant seer saw his psychic skill as something worse—an insufferable curse, an affliction that would kill his spirit, if not his body. The prophetic vision that came to Calvin as he flipped open his cellphone that day was devastating, dashing long-held hopes and dreams for his own future. In panic, he bolted out the door in a race against time with only an hour to figure out how to change the future, if he possibly could.

Calvin’s apartment was only a few minutes’ walk from the small, red-brick house his Grandma Helen lived in, but that morning he covered the distance between them almost as fast as a world-record sprinter. As he burst through her front door, Calvin was greeted by the sweet smell of vanilla and coconut—his grandmother had baked his favorite cookies. Obviously, she’d seen him coming even before he decided to seek her advice. This wasn’t anything new. The far-sighted old woman was often a step ahead of her grandson.

"Hello, Calvin dear. I'm so happy you're here." The petite, white-haired old woman pulled her only grandchild inside and kissed him on the cheek. "I had a dream last night that you'd stop by today, and here you are. I baked coconut macaroons just for the occasion." She sat Calvin down at the kitchen table and set a plate of cookies in front him. "Would you like some milk? Lemonade?”

"No thanks, Grandma," he said, pushing aside the cookies.

"I can tell that something is bothering you, something big. It would have to be to turn you away from my macaroons. What's on your mind, sweetie?"

Calvin struggled through his heartache, trying to find the words to explain his predicament. The oven timer beeped loudly, offering him a startling reminder that time was running short. His panic returned, causing him to tremble uncontrollably then burst out in a loud, incoherent babble.

"Calvin honey, I can't understand a word you're saying,” Grandma Helen shouted over her grandson’s frantic gibberish. She pulled the finished batch of cookies out of the oven then took a seat next to Calvin and hugged him tightly. “Oh, my! You're quivering like a canary in a roomful of cats.”

With a booming groan, Calvin threw his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

"Just take a deep breath, dear. Think through what you want to say and start over—slowly this time."

Calvin pulled his head up, did as instructed but struggled to get out his first sentence. Finally, he spoke.

"Grandma, you know that Kate is my best friend, has been for the last fifteen years," he said, still trembling. "I'm crazy in love with her. Have been since the day we met during our freshman year of high school. I've always wanted to tell Kate how I feel about her, but now it may be too late. When she called this morning and asked me to lunch, I had a vision. I was sitting across from Kate at Al’s Diner, and she was showing off a large diamond ring on her left hand."

Calvin paused to wipe away the wetness forming in the corners of his eyes. He took another deep breath and found the strength to continue. "Grandma, Kate's engaged. She's going to tell me at lunch and then ask me whether she's making the right decision in marrying Jake, the man she's been dating. I want nothing more than for Kate to be happy, but I don't want her to be happy with Jake, I want her to be happy with me. I want her to marry me."

Calvin's fear kept him from asking his grandmother if she saw his fate differently than he did. Instead, he looked into her eyes, hoping to see the future he wanted reflected back at him, but all he saw was compassion and concern.

"I'm afraid to look into her future. What should I do if I see a happy marriage for Kate and Jake, or worse, if I don't see it for Kate and me?"

"It pains me to see you so brokenhearted, my dear," Grandma Helen replied as she took his hands in hers. "The whole family loves Kate. She's always been so sweet and kind to everyone, especially me. I think of her as the granddaughter I never had. I always hoped you two would end up together, but neither your desperation, nor an old woman's wish can change Destiny. What will be will be. You must summon up the courage in your heart to accept what you see with your special gift."

The words stung Calvin to his core, but he knew his grandmother was right. Only a fool ignored the wisdom of the prescient woman who spoke those words. Whether it was predicting something as minor as a fender bender, or something as lifechanging as a surprise pregnancy, Calvin had never known his grandmother to be wrong about what the future held in store. No matter how hard people tried, nothing they did ever kept the future, as Grandma Helen had seen it, from coming to pass.

Al's Diner wasn't a big place or a fancy one. It was a small neighborhood cafe that served satisfying home-style meals atop plain, white restaurant china on brown Formica tables. It was known for its homey atmosphere, the kind of place where customers were treated like family, and everyone felt instantly comfortable being on a first name basis, sharing personal stories and life events. The walls were covered with thirty years of photos displaying Al and his best customers as they celebrated birthdays, engagements, anniversaries, graduations, and other special moments in their lives. Like many of Al's other regulars, Calvin and Kate had fallen in love with the diner on their first visit. To Calvin, it was "their place.”

As he slid into their booth, his eyes fell upon a faded photo hanging on the wall showing short, gangly, plain-faced eighteen-year-old Calvin standing next to Kate--tall, curvaceous, stunningly beautiful Kate--as she proudly displayed her letter of acceptance to Stanford University to study Biotechnology. The look of relief on his face reminded Calvin of the uncertainty and worry he'd put himself through with that letter. With a straight-A transcript, a near-perfect SAT score, and numerous science-related awards in his academic record, Calvin had easily won early acceptance and a full four-year scholarship to study Computer Engineering at Stanford.

But Kate hadn't been the shoo-in he was. Calvin couldn't bring himself to look into the future where the woman he loved was concerned. He’d lived for nearly five months in dread of her receiving a letter of rejection from Stanford. If that had come to pass, he would’ve abandoned his dream of attending Stanford to follow Kate to her second pick school, Georgia Tech, where she’d already been accepted. Calvin knew it was a desperate, clandestine effort on his part to stay near Kate. It wasn’t really a choice for him. She was like oxygen to Calvin, a life-giving breath of air that he needed to stay alive.

Calvin sighed and continued gazing at the photo of the woman he adored more every day.

 "Waiting for Kate?"

Calvin turned his head and nodded in response to the question asked by the wiry, black-haired waitress standing next him. "I could really use a cup of Al's coffee, Betty." After realizing his heart was already racing with anxiety over Kate's impending announcement, he added, "Better make that decaf."

The coffee the diner served was on the bitter side, but Calvin had grown to love its taste because with every drop he saw himself sitting across the table from Kate, sharing her life over a pot of the dark brew. He stopped by the restaurant for a cup every morning on his way to work just to start his day with pleasant thoughts of the woman he loved.

Betty soon returned with two white porcelain mugs, a carafe, and a small pitcher of cream. “Anything else I can get you, hun?”

“No, thanks, Betty,” Calvin said, as he quickly poured the hot brown liquid into his cup and added a splash of cream. With his first sip of the comforting brew, he recalled the day he had met Kate.

Fourteen-year-old Calvin had been on his way to the school cafeteria when he nearly tripped over a chubby, pimple-faced girl frantically scampering across the crowded floor of his high school’s English hallway. Dozens of students had walked by the girl, laughing as she chased after the contents of a backpack that had spilled all over the floor, but not Calvin. He had come to her rescue without even a chuckle. As he helped Kate to her feet, his eyes had met hers, so soft and blue, mesmerizing. Then, as if under some kind of spell, Calvin had done something he had never done before--he asked a girl to join him for lunch. Kate had said yes, and it had been a magical meal for the shy teenage boy. Kate had turned out to be different than the other girls Calvin had approached—sweet, attentive, and easy to talk to. He found they had a lot in common, from the classes they liked best (Science and Math), the foods they preferred (Thai and Mexican), to the books and movies they enjoyed (Science Fiction and Fantasy).

"Hey, Cal!"

Calvin's heart skipped a beat when he heard the familiar voice. He turned around. The sight of Kate coming towards their booth took his breath away. She always had that effect on him, even bare-faced and dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, as she was now. Kate had emerged from her pubescent cocoon in their junior year as a rare beauty with everything that made a man drool from a block away: a silky mane of chestnut-colored hair; clear, ivory skin; a face that Da Vinci would’ve called "perfectly, classically proportioned"; and a lithe body with ample curves and long, slender legs. But even if Kate had remained the plain, awkward girl that she was at fourteen, Calvin would still have thought her the most beautiful girl in the world--that was how much he loved her.

The two friends hugged then sat down. Betty quickly appeared with silverware, napkins, and menus. After setting everything down on the table, she proudly announced the birth of her first grandchild, a girl weighing in at seven pounds nine ounces named Olivia.

"I have big news, too, Cal," Kate said after Betty left with their orders. "Jake asked me to marry him last night.”

Calvin’s eyes darted to Kate’s left hand. There it was, the engagement ring, just as he’d seen it earlier that morning--a glistening teardrop diamond set with two smaller rubies on a platinum band. As he grasped Kate's outstretched hand to examine the ring, another vision thrust itself upon him--Kate and Jake, old and gray, dancing with each other, smiling as a crowd of people, young and old, applauded. The image was more than Calvin could bear, and reflexively, as if he had just burnt his hand on hers, he pulled away, and the vision vanished.

"You know I've never asked you to see my future, but I need to be sure that Jake is my Mr. Right. Please, Cal, please tell me if Jake and I will be truly happy together.”

The anxiety Calvin saw in her eyes couldn’t be more than what he was experiencing himself. He had always feared the future where Kate was concerned, dreaded it for years, but it had been inevitable that she would ask this favor. He’d never mustered the courage to find out if Kate loved him like he did her, and it didn’t take a sixth sense to foresee that eventually some other man would capture the heart of the sweet, lovely angel sitting with him now. Now that the future was finally here and the request made, Calvin realized he had no choice in the matter. He had to be honest with Kate, not because of his grandmother’s advice, but because he loved her too much to lie. So, after feigning a smile, Calvin looked deeply into the eyes of the only woman he ever loved and choked out the truth of the unbearable vision forced upon him moments earlier.

"When I touched your hand a few seconds ago, I saw you and Jake at a big party celebrating your fiftieth wedding anniversary. Congratulations. You two will have a long, happy life together."

Across the table, Kate took the news seemingly without joy. "Cal, I've always suspected that you loved me more than just a friend."

Calvin was stunned. Not knowing what to say, he turned away, trying desperately to figure out what to do. Was it too late to tell her how he really felt? He had wanted to tell Kate during their junior year of high school, but by the time he had worked up enough courage, she was the object of desire by nearly every boy in school. Now that she was engaged to a handsome, successful lawyer who was destined to make her happy, what good would it do to tell her? How could he tell Kate, gorgeous Kate, the love of his life, that she was passionately loved by a scrawny, four-eyed nerd who hoped she loved him the same way? "Beauty and the Geek"--it was an impossible fairy tale. Even if she didn't laugh at him, it would certainly jeopardize any future he had with her. He wouldn't risk losing Kate, even if it meant never being more than a good friend to her.

Suddenly, Kate lunged toward Calvin from across the table, embraced him hard and kissed him even harder, a kiss that lingered on his lips even after she pulled away. The very public display of passion between two of Al's best customers drew hoots and whistles from the diner's regular crowd and staff --You go, girl! Atta boy, Cal! It's about time!

With a blush rushing over him, Calvin turned away from the crowd and caught a glance at Kate. Her eyes betrayed her distress, but though he longed to face her, the awkward revelry of the gallery kept Calvin from returning her gaze. When a grand slam home run that played across the diner’s TV screen finally diverted the crowd’s attention, Calvin knew he couldn’t hide behind his cowardice anymore.

"Tell me what to do, Cal,” Kate pleaded again. “Do I give this ring back or not?"

Calvin thought it would be so simple to tell Kate that he loved her, but his gift had cursed him again. She would be happy with Jake. He had seen it. Kate wanted an answer, and he was ready to give it to her, but he had to be certain--for her sake and his sanity.

Trembling, Calvin reached for Kate's left hand. He slowly closed his eyes, forcing a return to the image he had choked off in despair only minutes ago. Willingly embracing the prophecy this time, he lingered over each frame of the silent movie playing in his mind, looking for any sign from the elderly Kate that could betray a veiled truth that she wasn’t happy in her marriage—a slight rebuff, a cold shoulder, a strained smile, or a melancholy look in her eyes. He saw none. When the vision finally faded away, Calvin was confident in his answer for the woman whose welfare meant everything to him. Recalling his grandmother’s sage words, Calvin now had the courage to accept that he’d seen the future as it was meant to be, one in which Kate was truly happy with her choice of life partner.       

Later that afternoon, as they sipped lemonade and nibbled on coconut macaroons at Grandma Helen’s house, Calvin and Kate announced their engagement. After a round of hugs and kisses, Calvin regaled his grandmother with story of how his visions gave him the nerve to confess his love to Kate.

"Grandma,” he continued upon finishing his tale, “I've been negligent in thanking you for my 'special gift,' as you have often called my psychic ability. It was a gift from your heart, so now I thank you from the bottom of mine because it brought Kate and me together."

"There's something that has been bothering us both about all this, Grandmother Helen," Kate interjected. She glanced at Calvin.

On cue, Calvin asked the question that had puzzled the young couple all afternoon. "Yes, Grandma, we don't understand what happened. We're not trying to tempt Fate, Destiny, or whatever people call it, but how could the future change so dramatically from one vision to the next? I really did see Kate and Jake together when I touched her hand that first time. But the second vision, the one after Kate kissed me...," Calvin paused, looked into his fiancée’s deep blue eyes and saw her love reflecting back at him. "I mean, after we kissed, I was in the picture. I was Kate's husband at that anniversary party fifty years into the future, and I could tell that she was truly happy with me as her husband--we both were. It was clear from my vision that, even after five decades of marriage, we were still crazy about each other.”

A knowing smile spread across the wise, old seer’s face. "That kiss did the trick. With it, you two finally declared your true love, which is the only thing in this world powerful enough to alter Destiny. But you never needed psychic powers to see the future as magnificently blissful as it could be--just the courage to express your undying love for each other when you felt in your hearts."