I’ve lived in the Midwest
all my life. In case you aren’t familiar with the area, some people refer to it
as the flyover zone, and occasionally it is grudgingly granted three minutes on
the national news if there is a flood that wipes out entire towns or a tornado
leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Of course there is Iowa in an
election year, but that’s an anomaly.
Despite my Midwestern roots,
I have discovered small towns provide humor as well as dark moments for my
storytelling. You simply must know the neighborhood. For example, I told my
editor—who has lived mainly in huge cities—I was having a book-signing at a
local bank. I think the conversation went something like this:
“A bank? Why would people go to a
bank? I haven’t stepped in a bank in years. Everything’s done online these
days.”
“Actually, I sell more books at a local bank than at any bookstore or
library.”
“Seriously? How?”
“I’ve known the President/CEO of a local bank—Stan—since he was in high
school, and now he has grandchildren. He gave me excellent information about
bank vaults and how to set the timer or evade the alarm for my second Endurance
mystery. Of course, I didn’t mention to him that I planned to kill the CEO of
my fictional bank, a man who was a horrible person. I figured Stan would find
out soon enough.”
“So how does this sell books?”
“Stan figured out which day of the month the bank got the most foot
traffic—the last Friday when people show up to cash their paychecks. Once we knew
that, we also knew when to have the book-signing. It worked like a charm.”
Small Midwest
towns provide the humor in my Endurance mysteries. Like me, my protagonist, Grace Kimball, retired from teaching. But
she often saw students she once had—now adults—whenever she ventured forth in
the small town of Endurance. Like me, she often remembered the crazy things
they did when they were teenagers in high school. Here’s an example from Marry
in Haste when Grace sees a former student who is a waitress:
“Janice. I remember her speech on
how to make hand-tossed pizza dough. Cynthia Moore—self-crowned queen of
the cheerleading squad—was in the front row. Just as Janice was
tossing the dough into the air, the fire
alarm went off, the pizza dough went
flying, and it landed in Cynthia’s
blond, perfectly
coiffed hair. Janice never did have much sense of focus.”
My newest book,
A Death at Tippitt Pond, begins a new series of mysteries called the
Sweet Iron mysteries, named for their Midwest setting. This series has less
humor, more history. In A Death at Tippitt Pond, it takes no time at all
before everyone in town realizes the “new” person, Beth Russell, may possibly
be the last heir of the Tippitt family. Her unusual green eyes with gold flecks
are discussed all over town. A historical researcher and genealogist, she left
her Long Island home to meet with the Tippitt family lawyer, and soon she finds
herself sucked into the varying accounts of what happened to Melanie Tippitt
the day she was murdered at Tippitt Pond. Sweet Iron is a town
of 15,000, still small enough to have plenty of wrong rumors, long-buried
secrets, and people who’d like Beth to leave town—one way or another.
Small Midwest
towns have given me many ideas for my mysteries, and the nature of the towns
and their inhabitants lend themselves to wonderful narratives. Rather than a
desolate flyover area of the country as some people think, the Midwest contains
a wealth of sociology and history that appear in my stories through two series.
