My first novel—which unfortunately
went into the circular file by accident—envisioned the murder by poison of the
director of the Environmental Protection Agency. This was before the internet,
so my research was done at the library. Luckily, I happen to be a reference
librarian so it was fun and productive. Like most murder mystery writers, I’m
constantly searching for the impossible crime—the locked room, the body on the
top of the George Washington Masonic Memorial, the mysterious stranger found
shot on an empty train—and the perfect weapon—the untraceable poison, the
frozen leg of lamb. So it was that I found myself leafing through the
Physicians Desk Reference, and discovered that acetaminophen is actually
seriously dangerous. As my doctor said, “You can eat a truckload of aspirin and
need your stomach pumped; eat a bottle of acetaminophen and you die.” Whew!
I didn’t use it then. But I will
someday.
I actually want to write about
writers in my books. I have published twelve mystery/romantic suspense novels, but
so far I only have one story with both a writer as villain and another as hero.
Rancor Bass (Really! His father was peeved at having to welcome a sixth child
into the family) is a famous author of mysteries. He’s also a pill. He teams up
with another writer—Charity Snow, ace reporter—to solve a hundred-year-old
mystery in The Pit & the Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel.
Here’s the blurb:
Although his arrogance nearly exceeds his talent, Charity soon
discovers a warm heart beating under Rancor’s handsome exterior. While dealing
with a drop-dead gorgeous editor who may or may not be a villain, a publisher
with a dark secret, and an irascible forensic specialist, Charity and Rancor
unearth an unexpected link to the most famous circus family in the world.
Along the way Rancor enlists his
circle of author friends. He asks Charity to get in touch with them. Here’s his
description of them:
“First off is Atalanta L’Amour—
she writes shapeshifter vampire erotica. You’ll like her. Number is
212-555-6438.” He waited for her to write it down. “Got that? Okay, next is
Holdridge K. Wheelock, the essayist.”
“Wheelock. Didn’t he write that
parody of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle
Maintenance?”
“Yes and no. He didn’t mean it to
be tongue-in cheek, and when it was roundly criticized as not zany enough, he
took offense. He’s at Dontugetsatireumoron-at-HoldridgeKWheelock-dotcom. I’d
better spell that out.” He did.
“Is that it?”
“No, two more. I want to descend
on the French judicial system like an Ottoman horde. Besides, you may only pry
one or two of them from their nests.”
“Typical writers then?”
“Hey!”
“Names, please.”
“All right, but you better promise
to treat them with respect. And don’t forget the kid gloves. Third is Jemimah
Heartsleeve.”
“Oh, I read one of hers. Not bad.
What’s that genre of romance called? Something about steam.”
“Steamy. Or did you mean
steampunk? Yes, a reviewer back in the nineteen seventies told her she has a
voice, and she’s never let anyone forget it. However, when aroused, she’s like
a marmot with a bone, or whatever they gnaw. She lives in a hovel.”
“A hovel?”
“Atalanta’s assessment, not mine.
That dyspeptic snob looks down her imperious nose at a house with a mere twenty
rooms and only one indoor sunken garden. What’s worse, it’s in that bastion of
rebel resistance, Charleston.”
“A step up from a rusty beach
chair, I’d say.”
“Yes. Well. Her number is
843-555-2337…Ready? Last but not least is Bernard Guttersnipe (not his real
name). Styles himself a modern progressive. In other words, he writes
depressing novels with wholly unlikable characters and plots so vague you’re
not quite sure when the book is over. His email is
nihilism-at-Guttersnipe-dot-com.”
There’s nothing more satisfying
than making fun of writers that remind one of oneself, right? Now, guess which
(if any) of these quirky writers is the villain? Oh, by the way, the murderer
may be someone else entirely.
You can find The Pit and the
Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel, here:
A little about me:
