There’s More to Writing Than Just Writing by Annette Dashofy

Over twenty years ago, when I first decided to focus on my lifelong passion of writing fiction for publication, I had a vision of what my days as an author would look like. I would spend the mornings creating prose, then spend my afternoons with my feet up, reading the latest bestsellers to keep up with the trends. 

I confess, on rare days, this fantasy comes true. Maybe one day out of the month, if I’m lucky. 

All these years (and 19 books) later, it has struck me that a large part of life as a full-time novelist has very little to do with writing.

 Most days, yes, I write. Often seven days a week. But that’s only for an hour or two.

Unless I’m approaching a deadline, in which case I write until I’m unable to focus on the computer screen or spell even the simplest words. 

The rest of the day, my time is spent on the business of writing, but not necessarily the creation of pages or chapters. 

My mornings begin with checking and responding to emails. Or deleting and blocking the handful of AI-generated scams, which gush over one of my books while pointing out how crappy they are doing in the area of sales or reviews. And how THEY could help me with that. For a small fee. 

Then I switch to social media, where I create posts for myself on Facebook and Instagram, and for Sisters in Crime on SinC LinC and Bluesky. You see, I’m on SinC’s social media committee, which is one of my side gigs to support the organization that has been supporting me for most of my writing life. 

With my online tasks complete, I switch to drafting my current WIP until lunchtime. After lunch, my days are always full, but with a variety of chores. Because much of being a writer doesn’t involve writing. 

What does it involve? Researching podcasts or blogs where I might be able to snag a guest spot. Writing guest posts for blogs that have agreed to let me post. Researching topics involved in my WIP.  Attending writing group meetings, book club meetings, critique group meetings, etc. Speaking of my critique group meeting, during the week leading up to our monthly gathering, I’m reading and editing pages from my critique buddies. 

I’m always contemplating future stories, jotting down thoughts in a notebook, or plotting in my head. Yes, sometimes “writing” looks a lot like staring out the window. 

If I have a writing conference coming up, I’ll spend weeks working on my presentations. 

Some days, I put aside a few hours to watch a webinar or catch up on reading articles about either writing or a topic I want to write about. Or take an online course. 

Yes, I do read quite a bit, but I’m often reading a book that I’ve been asked to blurb prior to its release. Lately, I’ve had the privilege of being a conversation partner to an author who is visiting our city. (I was chosen as James Patterson’s conversation partner several years back!) This is always fun, but I do my homework. Not just reading the book but also checking out the author’s website and watching other interviews they’ve done on YouTube. 

Then there’s the chore of preparing marketing material for my books to help my agent shop them around the publishing world. I just love writing synopses (said no author ever!) 

And, yes, on rare occasions, I put aside an afternoon to put my feet up and read the hottest new release to see what trends I need to pay attention to. Hey, I never said I didn’t love my job. Overall, it’s pretty amazing and a lot of fun. 

Fellow Writers Who Kill, what non-writing tasks have I missed? And readers, what visions do you have about what a writer’s life is really like?

Hell Hath No Fury by Annette Dashofy

My nineteenth novel is coming out in just a few short weeks. Nineteenth. I never dreamed I’d ever reach that number. 

Hell Hath No Fury is the fifth in my Detective Honeywell series. Back when I had to come up with a proposal for the third, fourth, and fifth, I looked into my writerly crystal ball to give my publisher a paragraph summarizing the plots of each book. The third (The Devil Comes Calling) was no problem. The fourth (No Stone Left Unturned) drifted a little farther away as I put words on the page, but the basic premise clung to the proposed story.

 But this one? Not even close. The change was partly because of research I did on what I’d intended to write. Or more specifically, where it was to be set. I had proposed transporting Matthias and Emma out of downtown Erie, to a nearby wooded gorge for a romantic get-away, only to have murder interrupt their plans. 

A research trip revealed the location where the mystery was to take place was not the sprawling, secluded park I’d pictured. It was too small for anyone to realistically get hopelessly lost in. Nope, this wouldn’t work. I considered exploring the area further to find a better spot. 

Before that happened, I finished writing No Stone Left Unturned, which ended with a bit of a cliffhanger, providing the perfect location for the next book, although the romantic getaway was off the table.

 

Hell Hath No Fury picks up where Stone leaves off. Matthias and Emma are summoned back to Emma’s former home in Washington County. 

Washington County is where I live. The individual locations in the book are vague and mostly fictional, but the county is real. In fact, for those of you who have read my Zoe Chambers series, the fictional Monongahela County of Zoe’s world is based on Washington County. Not that I expect this tidbit to come up in any game of Trivial Pursuit, but there you have it. 

No sooner do Matthias and Emma arrive, than they manage to stumble across a dead body—someone with whom Emma has just had a very public argument. Being off his home turf, Matthias is limited as to how much investigating he can “legally” do. Keyword: “legally.” Plus, he comes face to face with an old nemesis, who is now the lead detective on the case. 

There’s a lot of history in this story. Not “history” as in historical fiction. History as in Matthias’s history with this investigator. Emma’s history with the victim, her sister, and a couple of her childhood friends. Their pasts are all coming back to bite them. 

I’m so eager for this one to be out in the world. I just received an email notice that my author copies have been shipped! Release Day is coming!

 

 

When You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know by Annette Dashofy

I’ve had an ongoing conversation with a friend of mine about inaccuracies in novels. She was pointing out little things that she knows about because of her past career. I, like the author, did not know about this particular inaccuracy. While she enjoyed the book in question, the error took her out of the story. 

Another book she was reading was riddled with mistakes. The kind where a reasonable person would know that wouldn’t/couldn’t happen in real life. I’ve heard authors use the excuse “It’s fiction!” Regrettably, I’ve used that one, too. 

The question becomes, just because it’s “fiction,” does that give authors free rein to create the world we need in order for our story to work? 

I would say, no. Yes, it’s fiction. Yes, we make sh… stuff up. But, to quote Lee Lofland, we’re creating believable make-believe. We need to do the homework and research the key topics we include in our stories. 

I have a support team that I reach out to when I have questions. Experts in various fields love to talk about their work (for the most part.) There are webinars and YouTube videos on virtually every topic under the sun. 

However… 

We still don’t know what we don’t know. I’ve been guilty of writing scenes, which felt relatively minor, without diving into the research rabbit hole. 

If you don’t know what that is, it’s when you start Googling a topic and spend the next eight hours reading up on something that will result in one sentence in your story. 

Anyway, in this particular book, I thought I knew enough about a topic, inserted the information into the story, and then had a beta reader point out that what I’d written was wrong. It couldn’t happen. 

The book was on the verge of being in print. Fixing it to meet reality would’ve meant coming up with a completely different method of murder. After gnashing my teeth for the next week, I finally came up with a believable workaround. I acknowledged the problem and gave a rational explanation for why things happened this way. 

No one else has ever called me out on that error. 

Readers need to trust that the author knows what they’re talking about. We have to sound authentic. That doesn’t mean writing 25 pages of detailed explanation on a topic. (We aren’t writing a term paper, after all.) The tidbit to give the reader faith in our knowledge is likely to be one sentence here, another sentence there. 

When I started the Zoe Chambers series, Zoe was a paramedic. I had worked as an EMT for several years, so I had a solid background to draw from. Pete, however, was a cop. I have never been in law enforcement. Granted, all these years later, I’ve done a ton of research into police procedure and psychology. But I know I get stuff wrong. 

Because I don’t know what I don’t know. If I did, I would ask! 

The point I’m trying to make is this: as a writer, do your homework. Don’t guess on the stuff that you know you don’t know. ASK. As long as you can draw your reader into your world with some level of authority and believability, they are more likely to give you a pass for those little mistakes that slip by. 

At least, I hope so. 

Fellow Writers Who Kill, how much research do you put into your characters? Or do you rely on your own know-how? Write what you know, etc. And readers, how much leeway do you tend to give to authors when you find a mistake in a story? 

Staycation Writing Retreat by Annette Dashofy

As I’m writing this, my husband has just left for a four-day fishing trip with his buddy. That leaves me at home with Kensi Kitty, who some of you know was very sick a few weeks back but is doing great now. 

This means I have four days with no meals to prep, no questions to answer, and no “Can you give me a hand for a minute” requests. Yes, I do have to eat, but I have a curbside grocery pickup this afternoon, consisting of microwave meals. 

My to-do list, beyond the grocery run, is simple: WRITE. 

I’m currently at 59,000 words of what I unaffectionately call my Frankenbook. It’s basically a hot mess. I’ve written, rewritten, copied and pasted scenes from one chapter to another, and slashed large chunks completely. Okay, not completely. I have a separate “clip file” where I stash those cut pages, just in case. I have high hopes of adding several thousand more words before my husband rolls back into the driveway. 

I’m not giving a solid wordcount goal because lately the Universe has been looking at my plans, only to laugh hysterically and say, “Hold my beer.” I will be happy with what I get. 

Some writers (myself included) go on writing retreats away from home. I’ve attended group retreats with my Sisters in Crime chapter at various rental houses. 

Pgh SinC Retreat House

I’ve also driven nearly nine hours to join writing friends, including the late Ramona Long, at a spiritual retreat center run by nuns, who didn’t seem to mind that crime writers were doing fictional dastardly deeds while holed up on their property. 

Spiritual Retreat Center near Philadelphia

Dinner at Ramona's retreat 
with Martha Reed & Edith Maxwell

My writing nook at Ramona's retreat

One big benefit of a staycation writing retreat is no travel time and no sticker shock from filling up the gas tank to get there. Another benefit is having my personal library of research books within easy reach. 

I do miss the camaraderie of sipping wine with fellow mystery authors after a long day of torturing our characters. The only living being I can discuss plot holes with is Kensi Kitty, who frankly doesn’t care about anything but getting pets and snacks. 

By the time you read this, my husband will be home, and I’ll be doing mountains of his laundry. And hopefully, I’ll be considerably closer to the end of the Frankenbook. 

Dear readers, have you ever taken a staycation? Did you enjoy it? And fellow Writers Who Kill, have you ever attended a writing retreat, either alone, with other authors, or simply holed up in your house? Did you find it productive?   

Why Writers Should Love What They Write by Annette Dashofy

One of those questions that tend to pop up during discussions with aspiring authors revolves around what genres are hot and which one they should write. 

For starters, I highly recommend against writing toward trends. It takes a while to write a book. Perhaps a year. Perhaps longer. If you read an agent’s wish list today, by the time you complete the draft, polish and revise the pages, and start to submit, a year or two (or three) could pass. By then, that same agent has been flooded by manuscripts in that trendy genre and don’t want to see another. 

A bigger reason is you might not like or understand the genre that’s trending. Example: Romantasy (romance/fantasy) has been the big seller recently. But I’ve never read it and would pull my hair out trying to write it. 

Disliking the genre or subject about which you’re writing is not good. Believe me, the reader/agent/editor will know you aren’t having fun. 

Is “having fun” important when you’re “working” on a book? Oh, heck yeah. 

Why? I’ll give you two reasons. One: unless you’re Stephen King or James Patterson, you likely aren’t going to make enough to live on. Ask a group of published authors, and most will tell you that we write because we love it. Passion is a requirement. We aren’t writing because that royalty check is paying our rent. 

And two: you need to love the story you’re writing… because you’re going to have to read it over and over and over again. 

The real world of writing doesn’t involve slapping down that first draft and sending it out into the world. After you type THE END for the first time, you need to go back and rewrite. And revise. And rewrite again. Even when the plot shines and the characters sing, you need to make multiple passes to check for overused words. Just for example. I keep a list of my favorites, which will be somewhat different than other writers’, but “just” seems to appear on everyone’s overused list. 

Next, let’s say you’re blessed to find an agent. That agent will send you edits to make your book more likely to please an editor. More rewrites, during which you will add 100 more “justs.” So, you have to go back and take them out. 

Then, your agent sells your book to a publisher. You’re assigned an editor… who edits. There will be story edits (often called developmental edits), when you’ll be asked to flesh out some threads and eliminate others. You’ll also need to make sure those changes don’t affect other aspects of the book, such as one line of dialogue 200 pages away from where you changed things. Continuity is important. 

After that’s complete, your copyeditor sends the manuscript back to you again. This time you have to add or subtract commas, make odd spellings consistent, and clarify terms the copyeditor didn’t understand. 

You think you’re now finished? Oh, no. Now, you have to proofread the entire manuscript, possibly more than once.

 Don’t think you get to skip all those revisions if you’ve chosen to indie publish. You still need an editor or two after your team of beta readers go over it. Trust me on this. If you try to bypass all those extra eyes on your work, some reader will email you and report every single typo you’ve made in the “finished” novel. 

You will ultimately read your book a minimum of seven or eight times. Minimum. 

So, you better write a story that you love, because you’re going to spend many hours reading and rereading it. 

Fellow Writers Who Kill, how many times on average do you read and revise a single manuscript? 

Readers, have you ever found more than one or two typos in a book you’re reading? (Please do not name the author if you have.) Do typos or continuity errors take you out of the story?

 

 

 

 

Heartbreak and Heros: Lessons from the Olympics by Annette Dashofy

Like many of us, I’ve spent a lot of time the last two weeks watching the Winter Olympics. 

With apologies to the hockey fans out there, that is the one sport I just can’t get interested in. Everything is very fast, but nothing much happens. I even prefer to watch curling, where everything is very slow. I don’t understand it, but all the plotting and planning fascinates me. It reminds me of pool mingled with chess. And with a little shuffleboard thrown in. 

Of course, the highlights always surround the Olympians themselves. Some come in with high hopes and expectations only to fall apart on the ice. 

Others are merely there for the experience with no thoughts of a medal and then skate the program of their lives and end up with gold. 

All of this makes me think of writing (because, let’s face it, everything makes me think of writing.) 

The Olympics are a prime example of how an otherwise ordinary story can become a page-turner with the use of high stakes and emotional investment. 

Take figure skating, for example. To some, the event is little more than people gliding around inside an arena, jumping and spinning, accompanied by music. And that may be the basis of the story. But pay closer attention to the skaters. Their expressions range from excitement to anxiety to effervescent joy. Dig deeper and we uncover the story behind the story. The recent death of a family member. The parents who were also figure skaters and who provided a lifetime of support, culminating in this moment. The skater who is known for having performed his heart out on a broken foot. 

Suddenly, there’s meaning behind the expressions. There’s heart behind the routine. We’re now invested in the results. Those skaters carry our own dreams and hopes with them. 

Even the music and choreography can offer lessons to the observant writer. Some skaters’ programs appear to only use music as a backdrop to the jumps and spins. A few, those who truly draw a viewer in, seem to sink into the music and the ice, taking us deeper. They don’t just tell us a story. They bring us along on the journey. 

I think writing an impactful novel is much the same. I’ve read some that provide a good story, like a skater who’s a skillful jumper, but it’s not enough. If they don’t add emotion to their performance—or to their novel—I don’t feel invested. I’m not compelled to keep turning the page. But when a writer takes the reader deeper into the characters’ hearts, lets us feel the longing to succeed and the fear of disappointing loved ones, I want to follow that character through all their trials and tribulations. I desperately hope they triumph. I weep when they don’t. 

This depth of emotion that draws us in and makes us connect on a heartfelt level is also why some stories stick with us days, weeks, sometimes months after we finish the book. Just like Ilia Malinin’s sorrow following his long skate continues to haunt me. Just like Danny O’Shea’s smile brings a grin to my own face simply by thinking about it.

 

So, fellow Writers Who Kill and readers, have you been watching the Olympics? Have there been any stories from the games that touched you deeply? If so, why?

An Interview with Annette Dashofy by E.B. Davis

When a local Erie vet is shot during a robbery, Erie City Police Detective Matthias Honeywell and his partner Cassie Malone are tasked with pursuing the perpetrators. But as they close in on the truth, a mysterious sniper targets those involved in the case.

Emma Anderson has seen more than her share of cases since becoming a journalist in Lake Erie, and with news of the shooting becoming local interest, her instincts kick in. What she didn’t expect to uncover was a secret that could cause an ethical dilemma between Matthias and Cassie.

As the search for the sniper continues and the investigation taking a dark turn, Cassie and Emma find themselves caught up in a kidnapping plot. As the women are forced to draw on their resourcefulness to survive, will they manage to escape or is time against them?

Amazon.com

What’s the sign of a great series? Wondering what happens next to the characters after you turn the last page. In No Stone Left Unturned, Annette Dashofy writes suspense in every page. Luckily for us, the book is now on Kindle Unlimited.

 

In the first three books in the Detective Matthias Honeywell mystery series, I’ve grown to love Honeywell’s partner, Cassie Malone, who is his senior, a black, female grandmother, which may make her one of the deadliest creatures on earth. Unfortunately, in No Stone Left Unturned, her family becomes the main focus when her veterinarian husband is shot in the chest for no apparent reason. It’s up to Matthias and Emma to solve the mystery as Cassie is sidelined from participating in the case.

 

Do yourselves a favor and download this book. It’s suspense at its finest. You care about the characters, who find themselves in a downhill avalanche trying to stay alive.

                                                                                                                                         E. B. Davis

 

Aw, thanks, E.B!

 

I forget. How did Matthias get from Oklahoma, where he was raised, to Erie?

 

When he was a young cop, he fell in love with a woman from Erie and followed her there when she moved home. However, when he proposed marriage, she turned him down and married an attorney instead. She and her new husband returned to Oklahoma. A heartbroken Matthias stayed in Erie and has been there ever since.

 

Emma is at the crime scene outside of Shawn’s veterinary clinic after the police have been notified. As a newbie photojournalist, why is she uncomfortable in her job?

 

Emma never wanted a career in photojournalism because she feels it’s intrusive, taking pictures of people on their worst days. However, she has this “fantasy” of being at crime scenes, working with Matthias. I put that in quotes because she realizes it isn’t going to happen. If anything, it puts them at odds.

 

Shawn and Cassie are fiercely loyal to Shawn’s employees, as they are to him. How does Cassie react when he questions her about them?

 

Cassie’s defensive because Shawn trusts his employees like family. On the other hand, as a cop, she knows Matthias is only doing his job, and his questions raise concerns of her own.

Shawn Malone, Cassie’s husband, is known for his kindness, especially when it comes to treating pets who have low-income owners. Because of this policy, when his office manager, Bethany, accepts a last-minute appointment with a man who can’t afford his dog’s care, it’s treated as routine. But before the conclusion of the appointment, three masked men raid the office for drugs and cash, and then shoot Shawn in the chest. Why does Matthias suspect that Bethany may have been in on the attack on Shawn? 

Since the men gain access through a side door that’s locked to the outside, and since Bethany had just let the dog and its owner through those same doors, she’s immediately suspect. How else could those gunmen have gotten in unless she’d left the door unlocked for them?

 

Finding a motive for the shooting is the hardest part of the case. No one disliked Shawn. The detectives on the case, Matthias, and his underlings, Frazier and Roth, wonder if it is Cassie that the shooter was trying to hurt. Why do they eliminate that motive?

 

Cassie doesn’t recognize any of the gunmen, although since they’re masked, it’s difficult for her to be 100% certain. Once the police identify them, though, she’s positive she’s not encountered them in any of her past investigations. And the Erie police can’t find any connections to Cassie, either.

 

Why is Emma’s friend, Eric Baker, who lives in their hometown in Southwestern PA, so interested for Emma to sell the land that Emma and her younger sister, Nell, have inherited? Does he get a commission? Shouldn’t he know she can’t approve the sale without her sister’s consent?

 

There’s more going on there than meets the eye. Emma did leave the care of her property in Eric’s hands, so it’s logical that any offers would come through him, and he definitely knows that Nell’s consent is necessary to sell the land. As to why he’s being such a pain about it, you’ll have to wait for the next book!

 

Emma has to make a decision about her living arrangements. It’s August and the campground where she is living in a mobile home will close in October. What is she contemplating?

 

It’s not a mobile home; it’s a 17-foot camper with no insulation, so even if the campground stayed open, she couldn’t survive an Erie winter in her current residence. She doesn’t really have plans, although she needs to give serious thought to the situation. The idea that Matthias might invite her to move in with him is appealing, but she’s afraid too much togetherness might sink their fledgling relationship. A lot of Erie homeowners winter over in southern locales and rent out their northern homes for the season. That feels like a better option, but Emma doesn’t have the time or inclination to give it a lot of thought right now.

 

Because Matthias is busy trying to solve the case, he relies on Emma to give Cassie friendship and company while Shawn is in and out of the operating room. Emma is put into a dual role. She’s on the inside of a journalist’s story and yet, because the two couples socialize, she’s also a casual friend. How does Emma resolve the two?

 

Emma tries her best to avoid being put in the position of spy, but her loyalties are sorely tested! We are talking about Cassie Malone, after all, and Cassie is a force of nature, so when she demands details of the case, Emma can’t really say no. 

After Cassie talks to Shawn once he is stable, Shawn tells Cassie about the shooter. They conclude it was a racially motivated attack, but as it turns out, it was not. Is this an emotional response? Do people overcompensate by blaming what is convenient rather than looking at the facts?

It’s a logical assumption for them to reach, and it goes beyond emotions. They’ve experienced racism all their lives. It would be naïve to ignore the possibility in this case.

 

Among the things on Matthias’s mind while trying to solve the case is his relationship with Emma. He’s afraid she will leave Erie after her lease is up at the campground. What is the basis of his fear?

 

Matthias and Emma definitely have communication issues! From his perspective, he’s not had a lot of luck with women. He’s only been in love twice and both times, it ended badly. He built walls around his heart, and it’s been ages since he let someone get close. Now that he has feelings for Emma, he worries he’s going to lose her, too.

 

With one of the clinic’s suspected attackers found dead, they go after the second suspect who enters a warehouse area. While investigating, a sniper opens fire from an upper window. Unknowingly, Emma and her journalist partner enter the scene where Emma finds herself pinned down by the shots. Why doesn’t she dive for cover? Why does she hold the button on her camera down for automatic and continuous picture taking?

 

You get totally focused on that viewfinder and lose sense of what’s really going on. It happened to me. Well, not getting shot at, but I was photographing a wild coyote that was posing beautifully for me! I was so intent on getting the shot, I didn’t comprehend how close the coyote was getting until my husband shouted at me. I looked up from the viewfinder to realize it was very close! As for keeping the shutter depressed, when you’re dealing with action, you don’t try to compose the photo. You simply keep firing. If you’re lucky, when you go through a thousand images, you’ll find that one perfect shot.

When Emma allows Matthias to have a copy of her photos, she gets reprimanded by her boss at the online newspaper. Why? And what is Emma’s reaction?

The memory card Emma turned over to Matthias is property of ErieLIVE. The police may need those original source files when the case goes to trial, so they give her a copy to take back to the news outlet. But Emma’s boss sees it as a breach. Journalists don’t cater to the police, at least not without approval from management. Since Matthias saved her life, Emma doesn’t feel she could turn him down on the matter. It’s another case of Emma’s loyalties coming into question.

 

Why do guns and cameras have a lot of the same terminology?

 

I honestly don’t know. You aim both. You shoot pictures. Weapons obviously came first, but I’ve always found it interesting that photography stole so much of the terminology.

 

When investigating, secrets are revealed. But when the subjects of the case are friends, it is especially difficult to ask questions about them. Both Matthias and Emma dig up secrets of Shawn’s and those close to him. What is so hard about revealing the truth?

 

Some secrets are kept hidden to avoid re-opening old injuries. Haven’t we all made youthful indiscretions that we prefer stayed buried?

 

You chose to set your novel in the heat of August, which made for great January reading by your freezing audience. But as the motive turned out to be revenge, I question if you flaunt the quote about revenge being a dish served cold?

 

It wasn’t intentional. It takes the biggest part of a year to write a book, and I have no control over when it gets released. Believe me, having a mid-winter launch in snowy Pennsylvania would not have been my first choice!

 

Emma needs to go home and asks Matthias to accompany her. What’s next for them?

 

The fifth Honeywell mystery picks up right where this one leaves off, with Matthias and Emma headed back to her hometown to deal with Eric, Nell, and the land situation.  Watch for it in September!

The Perfect New Year's Eve by Annette Dashofy

The last time Zoe Chambers-Adams had worn a dress was at her wedding almost two years ago. That had been long and white. This one was short and red. And really really tight. 

Clutching a pair of brand-new red heels, she padded barefoot through her living room, pausing to check the mantle clock. Almost eight o’clock. She and her husband, Police Chief Pete Adams, were supposed to be at the New Year’s Eve party by nine. It was a good forty-five-minute drive to the hotel near the Pittsburgh Airport. 

And Pete wasn’t home yet. 

He’d texted her a half hour ago about a traffic collision. Compact car versus deer. The occupants were fine. The car and animal? Not so much. But Pete was helping direct traffic while the tow truck and fire department cleared the road. 

Don’t worry. I’ll be home in plenty of time. 

Zoe dropped onto her cushy sofa, let the shoes hit the floor with a thunk, and reminded herself it was a New Year’s Eve party. As long as they made it by midnight, all would be well. The friends they were meeting knew Pete was a cop and all that meant. And that Zoe was the county coroner, although she’d left the Coroner’s Office in capable hands tonight. She and her husband were rarely on time for anything. 

The crunch of gravel outside brought her to her feet. Good. Pete was home. Unlike the hour or more it took Zoe to get ready for a night out, Pete would be in and out of the shower and fully dressed within fifteen minutes. 

Merlin, one of her two ginger tabbies, streaked through the living room, away from the kitchen. His paws sounded like an elephant pounding up the stairs. Zoe tensed. Merlin would not bolt from Pete arriving home. Whoever had pulled into her driveway was not her husband. 

She moved into the threshold to the kitchen and waited. Footsteps stomped onto the porch followed by a sharp rap at the door. Zoe made out the silhouette through the sheer curtains hanging in the door’s window. A vaguely familiar feminine silhouette. She crossed the kitchen floor and unlocked the deadbolt. 

“Mom?” Zoe said, opening the door. “What are you doing here?” 

Kimberly Jackson burst inside attired in a lightweight trench coat and knee-high fashion boots—suitable for a “chilly” evening in St. Petersburg, Florida, but hardly appropriate for the twenty-two degrees Pennsylvania was experiencing. “My luggage is in the car,” she said. “Bring it in. Please.” 

Zoe leaned outside, looking toward the black luxury rental car parked next to her own Subaru. Looking for her stepfather. “Where’s Tom?” 

“I have no idea and, frankly, I don’t care.” Kimberly stood in the middle of the kitchen, taking in every detail before settling on Zoe. “Where did you get that outfit?” 

Zoe looked down at the form-fitting little red dress. “Online.” 

Kimberly scanned her, then shrugged. “It’s cute.” 

Zoe staggered. “Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?” 

“I’m just overjoyed to see you in something other than jeans and a sweatshirt.” 

And there she was. 

As if to reinforce her identity, Kimberly snapped her fingers. “My luggage. Go.” 

Zoe opened her mouth to argue but another realization struck her. “Luggage? You plan to stay here? In my house?” 

Kimberly sashayed into the living room and stood before the unlit fireplace. “It’s freezing in here. Why don’t you have a fire started?” 

“It’s not freezing.” Zoe followed her mother. “You just have thin Floridian blood. And we never have a fire lit when we aren’t going to be home.” 

“You’re not going to be home? Where are you going?” 

Zoe again looked down at her little red dress. “Uh, Mom, it’s New Year’s Eve. Pete and I are going to a party for county officials.” At Kimberly’s blank stare, Zoe added, “Of which I am one. I’m the coroner. Remember?” 

Her mother fluttered a dismissive hand. “You deal with dead people. Hardly a career worth bragging about. And I don’t think it counts as a county ‘official.’” 

Zoe pressed the heel of her hand into her forehead in an effort to keep her brain from exploding. 

Kimberly was on the move again, heading into the dining room where the staircase led to the second floor. “Nevertheless, you go on to your party. I know where the guest room is.” 

The guest room, which wasn’t made up and contained several pieces of furniture that Zoe and Pete had moved to make room for the tree and other decorations. “I didn’t know you were coming,” she called from the foot of the steps as she watched her mother disappear down the hallway at the top. 

“Bring in my luggage,” Kimberly called down. 

As Zoe backtracked to the kitchen, she calculated options. The nearest hotel was twenty miles away, but there were a couple of bed-and-breakfasts within five. What were the odds they’d have a room available on New Year’s Eve? 

She reached the door, pulled her Muck Boots on over bare feet, and shrugged into her barn coat just in time to see headlights turning into her driveway. 

Pete. 

Zoe stepped onto the porch and waited, pulling her collar up against the stiff winter breeze. The coat didn’t cover her legs, and she wondered how long before unprotected skin developed frostbite in twenty-degree weather? 

Pete parked on the far side of the black rental and was eyeing it as he came around it. He spotted Zoe and pointed. “Whose car is this?” 

“My mother’s. Can you grab her luggage out of it?” 

He stopped cold. Zoe could tell he was asking all the same questions as she had. Unlike her, he didn’t waste his breath putting them into words. Instead, he opened the trunk and dragged out two large suitcases. 

Holy crap. How long was her mother planning to stay? Zoe stepped inside the kitchen, shivered, and picked up her phone. She found Tom’s number and hit the green button. The call went directly to voicemail. Zoe swore. 

“What’s going on?” Pete asked as he banged through the door with the luggage. 

“I wish I knew. Mom showed up without Tom. He’s not answering his phone.” 

“And where is she?” 

“Last I saw, she was on her way to the guest room.” 

Pete’s gaze shifted over Zoe’s shoulder and from his expression, she knew Kimberly was back. 

“You can’t expect me to stay in that room the way it is,” she said before spotting her suitcases. “Oh, good. Thank you, Pete.” She gestured toward the ceiling. “Please take them upstairs.” To Zoe, she said, “And get all that junk out of my room. I hope the sheets are clean.” 

“Yes, they…” 

But Kimberly was ambling away again. 

Zoe looked at her husband. Pete was a cop who faced criminals on a daily basis—who had been shot and nearly died—but who looked utterly shellshocked. 

Kimberly had that effect on people. 

* 

Pete delivered his mother-in-law’s suitcases. What the heck did she have in there? A pair of baby elephants? Bellmen usually received tips for such service. He was ordered to remove the boxes and a pair of tables stored in the guest room. Once he had, the door slammed. 

“Happy New Year,” he grumbled. After shoving the stuff into his and Zoe’s room, he plodded downstairs to find his wife slumped on the sofa, a cat curled up next to her and her phone in hand. 

She looked up. “Tom still isn’t answering. I’ve left messages and texts. Nothing.” 

Pete took a seat beside her, opposite the cat. “You look amazing.” He’d taken notice of the sexy red dress and Zoe’s sexy long legs as soon as he’d gotten home, but the time hadn’t been right to say anything. 

“Thanks.” She sighed. “So much for the party. Maybe next year.” 

“Why? Your mother showed up unannounced.” And uninvited. “She’s a big girl. I’m sure she can manage on her own for the evening.” 

Zoe cocked an eyebrow. “This is Kimberly Jackson we’re talking about. She couldn’t be bothered to bring her own suitcases in from the car. You seriously think it’s safe to leave her alone in our house?” 

“In her defense, the suitcases weigh a ton. Plus…” He held up a finger. “She did manage to save your life during a blizzard a couple of years ago.” He held up another. “And she’s the one who gave us this house.” Granted it had taken months and months and many paychecks to make it livable. 

Zoe considered his words. “I admit, the way she rescued me in Erie during that snowstorm was amazing. And badass.” 

“It earned her a lot of extra brownie points where I’m concerned.” 

“But alone? Here? With no room service and no Tom? I don’t know.” 

Pete wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I do. I’m going upstairs to get a shower and put on my suit. We might be a little late, but we’ll be there well before midnight.” 

“Okay.” She smiled at him. “While you’re doing that, I’ll keep trying to reach Tom.” 

“Deal.” Pete gave his wife a quick kiss, rose from the sofa, and headed upstairs. 

As he reached the top step, he heard the unmistakable hiss of the shower running. The guest room door was open, and Kimberly wasn’t inside. 

He shook his head. They might be considerably later than he originally thought. 

* 

Zoe had her shoes and good coat arranged next to the door. Pete had let her know he had to wait until Kimberly cleared out of their lone bathroom before he could get his shower. That was almost an hour ago. 

The sound of footsteps on the upstairs floor and muffled voices filtered down to Zoe. She assumed this meant her mother was finally done in the bathroom. After yet another call to Tom went to voicemail, Zoe decided it was time to find out what the heck was going on. Steeling herself, she climbed the staircase. 

The guest room door was closed. She knocked lightly. 

Kimberly, wearing a fuzzy baby-blue robe, had her hair wrapped in a towel. Her face was barren of makeup, leading Zoe to realize she couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen her mother bare-faced. She also realized her mother’s eyes were red. She’d been crying.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” 

Kimberly puffed out her chest and lifted her chin. “Nothing. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to be alone.” 

“I do mind.” Zoe brushed past her into the room and turned to face her mother. “You show up unannounced at my house on New Year’s Eve. I feel I deserve an explanation.” 

“There’s nothing to explain.” Kimberly closed the door. “I’m getting a divorce.” 

Zoe’s knees weakened, and she dropped onto the bed. “What? Since when?” 

Kimberly’s shoulders drooped. “Since this morning.” 

This morning? “Okay. What happened?” 

Eyes gleaming, Kimberly crossed to the bed and sat next to Zoe. “Tom doesn’t love me anymore.” 

“He told you that?” 

“Love is a verb.” 

Zoe mulled that one over. It wasn’t the quote—she agreed with it—but the source was another matter. “What did he do? Or not do?” 

“He told me I was a spoiled child.” 

Zoe caught her lower lip between her teeth, biting down a little too hard, to keep from laughing. When she could speak without snickering, she asked, “What made him say that?” 

“He was insisting we go to an intolerably boring party tonight with some of the people he used to work with.” 

“Other than the boring part, what’s wrong with him wanting to go to a party with his friends? You’ve been married for almost thirty years. Surely you’ve spent time with them before.” 

“Exactly. I have. And I did not want to do it again. They were meeting at a restaurant. A casual restaurant.” 

Zoe remained silent. Casual sounded pretty good to her right now. 

Kimberly huffed. “It’s New Year’s Eve. A time to celebrate with Champagne and lobster. Not beer and fish and chips.” 

Which also sounded good to Zoe. 

Kimberly waved a hand at her. “Look at you. My beautiful daughter and her husband know what New Year’s Eve is all about.” She lowered her voice. “That dress is stunning, dear.” 

And yet here Zoe sat, in her guest room, watching her mother sob over life not going her way on this one evening instead of mingling with county politicians at the kind of party Kimberly would love. 

She must have read Zoe’s mind. “I’m keeping you from your night out, aren’t I? I’m sorry.” 

Kimberly rarely noticed or cared about anyone else’s feelings, even Zoe’s. And she never apologized. “It’s okay, Mom.” Zoe draped an arm around Kimberly’s shoulders. “To be honest, I’d rather stay home with you and Pete.” 

“Nonsense. You need to show off those legs.” Kimberly nudged Zoe and offered a hint of a smile. “I’ll be fine here alone.” 

Kimberly’s tone dropped on the word alone, and Zoe wondered if her mother would want to tag along with her and Pete. No one at the party would care. She was about to ask if Kimberly had perchance brought appropriate New Year’s Eve attire with her when the house echoed with a loud rap on the kitchen door downstairs. 

“Who on earth?” Zoe jumped up and padded out into the hall where Pete was coming out of the bathroom wearing his best suit, his salt-and-pepper hair still damp and slicked back. 

“More company?” he asked. 

“I don’t know.” She thumped down the stairs, her husband on her heels. At the kitchen door, she peered through the curtain-covered window before yanking it open. “Tom?” 

Her stepfather stood there, tall and ruggedly handsome as ever. His scowl softened into a smile at the sight of her. “Hi, Sweet Pea. Don’t you look beautiful.” He crossed the threshold and swept her into a hug. Once he released her, he faced Pete and shook his hand. “Clearly, I’ve interrupted a night out for you two.” The scowl returned. “Or, I assume, my wife did. That black car in your driveway is her rental, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” Zoe closed the door. “I’ve been trying to call you.” 

“Ah.” Tom pulled his phone from his coat pocket. “It’s been on airplane mode. I forgot to change it back once we landed.” 

Pete took Tom’s coat and hung it on the hall tree next to the door. “Do you mind telling us what on earth is going on?” 

“I was talking to Mom. She said she left because you wanted to go to a smaller New Year’s Eve party than she did.” Zoe crossed her arms. “I have to think there’s something more.” 

Tom lowered his head. “There is.” His face came up, but his voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t let on that I told you this, but your mother is having trouble coming to terms with…age.” 

Zoe kept her voice low as well. “She doesn’t like getting older? As a coroner, let me tell you, it beats the alternative.” 

Tom grinned, a dimple he’d had in his younger days now lost in a ripple of creases. “I agree. But she has a birthday coming up—a big one—and she’s not handling it well.” 

Zoe did some quick math. “Sixty? But she looks amazing. She could still pass for forty any day of the week.” 

Tom flung both hands up in exasperation. “I’ve told her that. But my desire to have a more relaxed, casual New Year’s Eve this year triggered her into thinking I didn’t want to show her off anymore.” 

Pete mumbled something that Zoe couldn’t hear. 

Her mind started whirling, building on her earlier thought. “I assume you brought luggage.” 

Puzzled, Tom aimed a thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “Just an overnight bag.” 

“So, you don’t have a suit.” 

“No.” 

She glanced from Tom to Pete and back. “You’re about the same size as Pete. Mom has two suitcases that, from the weight of them, must contain half of her wardrobe.” 

“Or they’re packed with bricks,” Pete said. 

“This is Mom, we’re talking about. If anything, they’re gold bars.” 

Tom snorted. 

“Anyway, assuming she has something dressy to wear, and one of Pete’s suits fit you, you’re both going to join us at the county government party.” 

“It’s ten o’clock,” Pete whispered. “By the time they get ready, it’ll be ten-thirty. Another half hour to drive to the hotel…” 

“Half hour to get ready?” Tom said. “Have you met my wife?” 

Pete shrugged. “As long as we get there by midnight, we’ll be fine.” 

* 

Zoe and Pete sat on the couch bookended by orange tabbies. Tom had gone upstairs twenty minutes ago. Raised voices filtered down through the floor to them at first, but for the last ten minutes all was quiet except for the soft thud of footsteps. 

Zoe kept watching the old mantle clock’s hands marking off the time. Making it to the party by midnight seemed optimistic. She would be perfectly happy ringing in the New Year right here—provided she could slip into her pajamas first. 

The footsteps moved to the stairs and started down them. Zoe watched the doorway, expecting to see Kimberly in a ball gown. Twenty minutes, though? That would be a new world record. 

Tom led the way, still wearing the long-sleeve polo shirt and khakis he’d arrived in. Kimberly, wearing an off-white tunic-style sweater over leggings, entered the living room behind him, her blond hair in a ponytail, her face still bare. 

Zoe couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother like this. She looked young enough to pass for Zoe’s sister instead of her mom. 

“We want to apologize for ruining your New Year’s Eve,” Tom said. 

Kimberly slipped her hand into his. “Let’s be honest. I was the one who ruined your New Year’s Eve.” She looked up at her husband. “Yours too. I’m sorry.” Her focus returned to Zoe and Pete. “I’m sorry to all of you.” 

“No apologies necessary,” Pete said. “But I gather you’ve decided against joining us at the party?” 

“We…I appreciate the offer.” Kimberly lowered her face. “However, we’ve decided we’d rather spend a quiet evening in.” 

Tom cleared his throat. “Provided you two don’t mind putting us up for the night. I’ve booked us a flight home for tomorrow.” 

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Zoe said and meant it. This was a different side of her mother—one she would like to get to know. 

“I don’t think our old bones could tolerate the cold that long,” Tom said with a grin. 

Zoe looked at Pete who gave a nod. “This quiet evening in you mentioned,” she said. “Would you object to some company?” 

“Oh.” Kimberly appeared surprised. “I don’t want you to miss your party.” 

It was Pete’s turn to clear his throat. “I’m pretty sure I speak for both of us when I say we would prefer that quiet evening over a noisy party. We’re both always on call. Tonight, for once we’re covered at our jobs.” 

“You definitely speak for both of us,” Zoe said. 

Kimberly pointed at her. “But your dress. You look so beautiful.” 

Zoe shrugged. “I’ll save it for next year.” 

Pete leaned closer. “It’s red. You could wear it for Valentine’s Day.” 

Kimberly clapped. “Perfect, since that’s also your anniversary.” 

“Then it’s settled.” Zoe stood. “I’m going to put on my pajamas.” 

* 

Zoe snuggled against her husband on one end of the couch while Kimberly and Tom claimed the loveseat. Flames crackled in the fireplace, and the cats occupied the chair closest to it. Above the mantle, the television broadcast Times Square in New York where revelers packed to watch the ball drop. Two minutes until midnight. 

A bottle of Pinot Grigio and four wine glasses—wedding gifts from Kimberly and Tom—waited on a side table. 

“Hadn’t you better pour that?” Kimberly said, pointing. 

“You’re right.” Pete moved to the edge of the seat and reached for the wine. 

Zoe slid forward on the couch as well. “If I’d known this is what we’d be doing, I’d have bought a bottle of Champagne.” 

“Nonsense.” Tom rose and moved to help. “Sometimes simpler is better.” He shot a look at his wife. “Right, darling?” 

Kimberly smirked. “I’ve already admitted you were right. Stop pushing.” 

With the wine poured and glasses in hand, they all stood to watch the countdown. 

“Five…four…three…two…one,” they chanted in unison. “Happy New Year!” 

After clinking glasses and sipping, they exchanged hugs. 

Kimberly held onto Zoe longer than usual. “Thank you,” she whispered to her daughter. 

“For what?” 

Kimberly gently grasped Zoe’s arms, drawing her away but not releasing her. “For letting us have this time together instead of turning me away at the door.” 

“I would never—” 

Kimberly cut her off with a shake of her head. “I know you wouldn’t, but you had every right to. I truly am sorry.” She looked at Tom, who was smiling at them. “Well, maybe not too sorry. To be honest, this is the nicest New Year’s Eve I can remember.” 

“Me too,” Zoe admitted. She held up her glass. “To a quiet, simple New Year for all of us.” 

“Cheers to that,” Tom said as they again clinked. 

Kimberly leaned over and pressed a kiss to Zoe’s cheek. “Happy New Year, Zoe.” 

“Happy New Year, Mom.”

 

The End