A Sample Chapter

Chapter 1.
A blond young man in a suit and carrying a briefcase stood at Cutter’s door awaiting a response to his knock. Impatient, the man leaned forward, peering through the screen-door. It was too dark to see into the room beyond but he thought he discerned a low growl from within. Thinking Cutter might be ill and unable to answer, he tried the door. It was unlocked. He pulled it ajar and called out, “Captain Cutter?” Not getting a reply, he stepped inside.
A dog flew at him out of the darkness, snarling and snapping.
The young man flung himself back against the door. “What the shit? No…no!” he cried.
“Stay!” a stern voice commanded and the dog backed off with a final defiant growl.
With the scratch of a match, a lamp glowed up on a nearby table. A man moved toward him from around the table. A big man, rangy rather than heavy, clad in a ratty tee-shirt, patched and tattered chinos, both spattered with paint. The man moved fluidly, light on his feet like a boxer. His short hair and beard were bristly and neither appeared to have had the attention of comb or barber for some time.
The man raised a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that hung on a throng around his neck and put them on. He studied the intruder intently, his eyes curious, not menacing.
The other blinked, swallowed. “Captain Cutter?” he inquired again, hoping the quaver he imagined wasn’t apparent in his voice.
“Surname’s right, but I have no claim to the rank,” Cutter said in a deep, friendly tone. “Have you come for a painting?”
“No, sir.”
“Antiques then?”
The young man shook his head, eyes moving from Cutter to the dog which stood at his side, hackles raised, teeth still bared. Cutter hovered over him and momentarily he could not find his voice.
“What? Who are you?”
Swallowing again, he managed, “Flood. T. J. Flood.”
“I was in the back. Thought I heard a car pull up.”
“I’m with Edgecomb-Smythe Insurance. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Flood looked around him. They were in a sort of ante-room jammed wall-to-wall with antique furniture, clocks, china and glass, and a variety of maritime curios.
“Still might be disturbing me if you’re here to sell me a policy.”
“I’m an investigator, not a salesman.”
Cutter’s brow wrinkled. “Investigator? I don’t recall that I have a policy with your firm.”
“It’s not you I’m investigating,” Flood began. Then he glanced warily at the hound which now sniffed at his shoe.
“Don’t worry. She’s just checking you out. Curious. Like me.”
“Yes. Hum—you were one of the witnesses to the grounding of the Sandra Haviland, weren’t you?”
“Just getting around to that? Why, it must be—what—over a year?”
Flood nodded. “Nearly. The firm’s slow in paying off claims when a wreck is so—unusual.”
“That’s putting it politely,” Cutter said with a snort. “It was right up there with the Mary Celeste and Carroll Deering. No apparent reason for having abandoned ship. No sign of collision or violence. Yet the captain, the owner and two seamen gone without a trace.”
Flood nodded again. “A real puzzler. The Coast Guard searched for weeks; not a sign of any of them. The radio was working, yet no distress calls were made. Is this the dog?” he asked, glancing at her.
“The only survivor,” Cutter told him, stooping to pet the dog, which appeared to be some uncertain breed mixed with German shepherd. The dog, relaxed now, wagged her tail. “If only she could talk.”
“I was hoping you might tell me what you saw. I realize it’s late. I had a hard time finding your place. If another time…”
Cutter shrugged his shoulders. “I talked to the Coast Guard and police at the time. I suppose there are reports.”
“I have copies of those. I was hoping there might be something more, something that might not have seemed important at the time.”
“It was a long time ago. I’m not even certain what all I said then.”
“We could go over the reports to refresh your memory,” Flood said. He paused to check his watch. “It is getting late. If you’d rather wait until another time…”
“Time’s not a problem. I’m a night owl. But I don’t know how much I could add.”
“Besides the dog, did you remove anything else from the boat?”
Cutter scowled at him. “I may be poor, but I’m not a thief.”
“I didn’t mean…”
Raising a hand, Cutter gave him a thin smile. “I know. Just doing your job.” He shrugged. “Dog kind of adopted me. Couldn’t leave her behind. We took off the log, charts and instruments. I was afraid the spray coming over the side would damage the papers.”
“We meaning the men who boarded her with you?”
“Right. We took the wallet from the cabin, too. Turned everything over to the sheriff’s men—except for the dog. I assume they removed everything else. Say, would you like a cup of coffee? I have some brewing in back,” he said, gesturing toward a doorway behind him. “As long as we’re talking we might as well be comfortable.”
Flood followed him back a hallway and into a large room bright with several Aladdin lamps and with a fire blazing on the hearth. Cutter gestured him to a wicker chair by the fireplace and disappeared through another doorway. The dog curled up in its bed near the fireplace, calm but still watching the stranger.
The room faced the sea and the surf vibrated the glass of two open windows whose curtains billowed in a slight breeze. Despite the ventilation, the air in the room was thick with the mingled odors of turpentine, linseed oil and paint. Flood dropped his briefcase and sank back in the chair, scanning his surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished save for bookcases running around the walls and paintings of varied sizes hung over and between them on every free space. An unfinished large painting of rocks and crashing surf stood on an easel by the window, a taboret table with a paint box and jars of brushes beside it. Flood was no connoisseur of art but he thought these paintings rather good.
The dog lifted its head once, a growl rumbling in her throat. But she didn’t move from her position and Flood relaxed, assuming the dog’s sensitive hearing had picked up something beyond human hearing.
Cutter returned with a tray which he placed on a table next to Flood’s chair. He handed him a mug. “There’s milk and sugar if you need it,” he said, pointing to the tray.
Cutter took his own mug and went to stand by the fireplace. “Now, where were we?”
The dog leapt up, grumbling, as they were interrupted by the banging of the screen door, followed by a clatter in the hallway. As they looked up, a girl barged through the doorway, shoving a large suitcase before her. The dog crossed the room to her, tail switching.
“When are you going to get electricity?” the girl demanded, letting the suitcase fall at her feet and kneeling to pet the dog. “I barked my shin coming down the hall.”
“When I can afford it,” Cutter said, moving toward her. “What are you doing here?”
“You don’t have a phone, you don’t write, you don’t come to see me. How am I supposed to know you’re all right?” She rose and stood, legs spread, feet flat, hands on her hips, glaring at Cutter.
“I just spoke to you…”
“A month ago.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Cutter stopped in mid-stride, arms slack at his side, head hung, nibbling at his lip like a scolded school boy.
Flood looked from one to the other, confused. He turned his attention back to the girl. Despite her brusque behavior, he thought her very attractive. Tall and slim with her dark hair short in one of those boyish cuts, she wore a white polo top and blue bike shorts that accentuated her long bronzed legs. Her big blue eyes blazed in the light as she tapped one sneakered foot.
“Dee,” Cutter said, starting toward her again.
“I don’t know how you can live like this.”
Cutter stopped. “Accommodations like these were good enough for Winslow Homer. I suppose they’re good enough for me.”
“…like a hermit.”
“I’m not a hermit. I have real friends here.”
“Hmph. Smelly fishermen. That woman.”
Somewhat irritated but more perplexed by her behavior, Flood squirmed in the chair which squeaked under his weight.
“Hello,” she said, seeming to notice him for the first time. “He doesn’t look like the others I’ve found hanging around here,” she said to Cutter. “Is he a dealer?”
Setting aside his cup, Flood rose.
“I’m sorry,” Cutter said. “This is Mr. Flood. He’s an insurance agent.”
“Investigator,” Flood corrected.
“Whatever,” Cutter said, swiveling his head to face him. “This is my daughter, Delia, who only acts this way when she wants to agitate me.”
“I don’t…”
“Normally she’s a pretty decent sort.”
“Really, I am,” Delia said, coming closer. “I hope you’ll excuse…” Then she saw the unfinished painting and halted beside it. “Say, this is really good.”
“You like it?” Cutter asked, starting toward her again. “I think I’m starting to get the feel of the place, seeing the light as it really is.” His eyes sparkled with excitement as he spoke.
“And—are you selling anything?”
He shrugged. “A few things. This isn’t exactly a tourist Mecca, thank God.”
“You need to show, Daddy. You’ll never get anywhere otherwise.”
Flood moved toward them. “If I could…” he started.
“No!” they shouted in unison. Then, seeing his shocked expression, both laughed.
“I’m sorry,” Cutter said, coming over and laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You seem to have got caught in the middle of our little brawl.”
“Please. Forgive my insanity,” Delia said, nodding.
Flashing her a smile, Flood told Cutter, “I was going to suggest I come back another time.”
“Suit yourself. I don’t know if there’s anything else I can tell you, though.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But there’s one more thing I need to tell you before I go.”
“What’s that?”
“Mrs. Myers wants the claim for the ship paid to you. Somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand.”
It was Cutter’s turn to look startled. “Dollars? What? Why me? I wasn’t the only one went aboard, and there was nothing we could do.”
“You were the one rescued the dog.”

A Different Place

Setting is an essential feature of many mystery novels. Think Sherlock Holmes and you’re immediately transported to Victorian London. James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux series and you’re off to Louisiana. Tony Hillerman—the Four Corners country. You get the point.

My Sticks Hetrick series is set in a fictional community near Harrisburg PA and my faithful band of readers has become as familiar with the streets of Swatara Creek as they have with the regular cast of characters.

The Limping Dog, my standalone mystery coming next month from Whiskey Creek Press, ventures into a fresh territory. Though I don’t identify the specific place, it’s clearly the New England coast. The rugged setting was inspired by a visit to Cape Ann in northeastern Massachusetts some years ago.

The place appealed to my imagination and when I began writing this story I recalled images that fit my needs. I warn you now, though, don’t look for any of the towns mentioned in the novel—they exist only in my imagination.

In my tale, Gavin Cutter is an artist living in an isolated village. He’s among a handful of witnesses who see a yacht crash onto a reef. The first aboard the wreck, Cutter rescues a dog, the only living creature on the vessel. Ron Myers, wealthy owner of a growing computer firm, and the crew of the ship have disappeared without a trace.

T. J. Flood, a former detective now working as an insurance investigator, questions Cutter and the other witnesses and learns Myers is alleged to have developed a radical and valuable new microprocessor system. Some assert the system was lost with its creator. Others believe it exists and have devious plans to profit from the invention.

Flood is attracted to Dee, Cutter’s daughter, a newspaper reporter. They join forces in investigating the ship incident and strange coincidences that seem to surround it, including a break-in at Cutter’s house and mysterious concerns about the dog. The result is threats, danger and, ultimately, several murders before the case is resolved.

The Ford Test

Ruth Rendell, one of my favorite writers, recommends that all who aspire to write read Ford Madox Ford’s “The Good Soldier.” Rendell says she reads this novel, which is ranked among the greats of the 20th century, annually.

Ford, an English novelist, poet and editor, was a champion of new literature and experimentation. He aided early careers of Ernest Hemingway, Joseph Conrad, James Joyce and other notables.

One of my favorite quotes by the man concerns his close friend, Jack London, another of my favorites: “Like Peter Pan, he never grew up, and he lived his own stories with such intensity that he ended by believing them himself.”

Though his own work is less known today, many will be familiar with his advice to select a book by opening it and reading page 99. His conclusion was by reading that one page “…the quality of the whole will be revealed to you."

Marshall McLuhan, the Canadian scholar known for the expression “the medium is the message” and who predicted the World Wide Web three decades before it was developed, made a similar recommendation, though his suggestion was to read page 69.

I’ve tested both theories on a variety of books. Personally, I give the edge to Ford.

Here’s Page 99 from my novel, “Fallen From Grace”. Based on the Ford theory, I believe there’s enough mystery suggested for a reader to want more of the tale. What do you think?

“Could they have been…”
“No. They weren’t together long enough and they left separately. I couldn’t make up my mind should I follow him or her when they parted. I still feared for her safety, but I was curious about his identity. The man saved me the bother of deciding. As Lizzie walked away, the man came flying out of the alley on horseback. Since I was afoot there was no way I could follow him.”
“And the girl?” Lydia asked.
“She came straight back home. Who do you think she might have been meeting and why, Tilghman?”
“That’s what I’ll be asking directly,” I told him.
****
This proved more difficult than expected.
“Gone? What do you mean?”
“Just what I said,” Matilda told me. “Packed her bag and left this morning without a word of explanation.”
“Well where do you think she went?”
“She didn’t tell either of us,” Barbara said. “I think it’s all my fault.” I saw tears brimming in the girl’s eyes. She sighed heavily and plopped down on the bench by the backdoor of the boarding house.
Tillie and I both glanced at her. “What does that mean?” I asked.
Barbara sighed again and dabbed at her eyes with an edge of her apron. “We had a fight last night. She snuck out after we went to bed. I heard her go and I was afraid. I waited up until she came back. She wouldn’t tell me where she went and we had a row.”
“A customer I didn’t know about?” Matilda asked.
“No,” Barbara said, shaking her head. “Nothing like that. She would have said if that were the case. This was something secret and she didn’t like me prying. She never got mad at me like that before.”
“Humph,” Matilda said and she scowled.
“What?”
The woman stood with her hands on her hips and grunted again.
“Do you have an idea where she went?”
“He probably promised her more money, that’s what.”
“Who?”

Some Favorite Reads Of 2011

Let the trumpet blare and the drums resound—Some favorite reads of 2011 (in no particular order).

Not all were written in 2011. That’s when I read them. For more information on the titles see my reviews at http://www.amazon.com/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A2VTAR3P8C0LBD/ref=cm_pdp_rev_all?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview or http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1005496.J_R_Lindermuth

Small press/Indy
1.Hard Trail to Socorro—Wayne Dundee
2.Dangerous Enchantment—Margaret Blake
3.Kansas Dreamer—Kae Cheatham
4.Camp Follower—Susan Adair
5.Sugar And Spice—Saffina Desforges
6.Mediterranean Grave—William Doonan
7.In The Blood—Steve Robinson
8.Snakeskin—C J Lyons
9.Bestseller Bound Anthology No. 1
10.The Righteous—Michael Wallace

Trade mystery/thrillers
1.Feast Day of Fools—James Lee Burke
2.Nightwoods—Charles Frazier
3.The Most Dangerous Thing—Laura Lippman
4.Long Gone—Alafair Burke
5.Bad Intentions—Karin Fossum
6.Thirteen Hours—Deon Meyer
7.A Question Of Blood—Ian Rankin
8.The Snowman—Jo Nesbo
9.Medicus—Ruth Downie
10.The Way Home—George Pelecanos

Trade fiction
1.The Second Son—Jonathan Rabb
2.The Orphan Master’s Son—Adam Johnson
3.Death Of Kings—Bernard Cornwell

Non-fiction
1.Kingdom Under Glass—Jay Kirk
2.Winged Obsession—Jessica Speart
3.Finding Everett Ruess—David Roberts
4.The Unconquered—Scott Wallace
5.Bull Canyon—Lin Pardey
6.Floor Of Heaven—Howard Blum

Happy New Year and good reading.

Sans GPS

Do you outline your stories?

While considered essential for most non-fiction projects, writers of imaginary works are divided on the necessity of an outline for fiction.

Some sketch out a plot so thoroughly it might almost be considered a book in itself. Others belong to the school now jokingly referred to as Pantsers (i.e., they fly the seat of their pants), those who devise as they go along.

Some create a detailed tome describing every step before they even consider starting the actual book. P. D. James, for instance, spends up to a year planning a book before writing a single page.

Others plunge right in with a mere image in mind and no idea where it will lead them. William Faulkner, for instance, claimed to put his characters on a road and walk beside them, listening to what they had to say. Despite this claim, Faulkner did outline (though he may have called it something else), as evidenced by the scribblings for “A Fable” on the wall of his study at Rowan Oaks.

John Fowles said The French Lieutenant’s Woman began with a mental image of a woman standing alone at the end of a causeway. James Lee Burke has said he usually doesn’t know what’s going to happen beyond a scene or two.

Michael Connelly says he generally knows “whodunit,” but “wings it” from there. The late Tony Hillerman insisted he didn’t want to know too much in advance, less he become bored with the story and unable to proceed.

Personally, I’m on the side of these pantsers. My idea of an outline is generally so scant—the mere jotting of a few words, comments or descriptions I don’t want to lose in the midst of the project. To someone else I’m sure it would have no more meaning than hieroglyphs in a language they don’t understand.

In fact, though they may vehemently deny it, most writers do outline—though they may not consciously realize it.

How is that possible, you ask.

Larry Brooks (see www.storyfix.com), a strong proponent of outlining, points out that stories have an architectural structure and the purpose of outlining is to insure the writer includes all the necessary elements. There’s no denying this is true. Miss one or more of those elements and you have a failed story.

Though pantsers do not incorporate all those elements into a written sort of GPS format it does not necessarily follow that they ignore them. Rather pantsers choose to integrate the elements internally, or perhaps I should say, intuitively—a kind of magic rhythm.

The story is present in the mind, sometimes for years, being mulled, considered from every angle and, eventually, our characters provide direction after conscious thought is more systematically organized in the subconscious.

Fact In Fiction

Recently someone criticized one of my favorite historical fiction writers for not sticking with the facts in a novel.

Obviously the critic didn’t understand the primary function of a novel is to entertain.

In a historical novel, the writer has an obligation to make the reader accept his setting and characters as appropriate to the period. That doesn’t prevent a writer from twisting facts to suit a creative purpose.

As Alistair MacLean so aptly put it, “The key to the willing suspension of disbelief on the part of readers is a good mixture of real things and things fictional.” The formula seemed to work well for him in 28 novels, many of which were made into films.

There is a vast difference between fiction and fact. Webster defines the former as “the act of feigning or inventing; a literary production of the imagination.” And fact is clearly designated as “reality; event; truth.”

Naturally the two definitions are often confused.

Shakespeare’s dramas, for instance, are fiction. Yet generations of readers and playgoers have mistakenly accepted them as factual portrayals of persons and events. Clearly the evidence shows Shakespeare mined historical accounts for plots but doctored them with his imagination and personal impressions. That’s what we call creativity.

If it’s history you seek, then read a historian.

Then again, as Thackeray reminds us, “Fiction carries a greater amount of truth in solution than the volume which purports to be all true.” I’ll wager more people who were bored by the subject in their school days have been brought to love history through fiction than by any other means.

Carpe Diem

What time is it?

Daylight Saving Time ended and we returned to standard time Sunday morning. With the change, some of us complain how these changes play havoc with our system while others accept it with a resigned shrug of the shoulders.

This business of toying with time was first proposed by Pennsylvania’s remarkable philosopher-inventor Benjamin Franklin. It wasn’t instituted until 1916 by the Germans, those connoisseurs of precision, and then by the British as a wartime measure intended to save fuel and energy.

Daylight Saving Time wasn’t adopted in the U.S. until 1918, where Congress repealed it a year later. It was an on again, off again feature in various states until Congress made it a permanent feature of our lives in 1967. Even then, the law left instituting it to the discretion of individual states.

The practice always had its advocates, but there’s a certain fallacy to the theory it actually saves energy—if darkness comes an hour later at one end of the spectrum, then artificial light is necessary at the other.

Man is the only animal obsessed by this thing called time.

As Thomas Mann put it: “Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunderstorm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.”

So, what time is it?

Even St. Augustine couldn’t answer that. “If no one asks me, I know what it (time) is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks me, I do not know.”

Dr. David Park, former president of the International Society for the Study of Time, confesses he has similar problems. Park theorizes there are actually two times: Time One, the invention of man, which is measured by clocks and moves constantly from past to future, and Time Two, which considers that the Eternal Now contains both the past and future. I like this latter concept, which eliminates the possibility of ever being late.

Man in his arrogance thought he had the idea of time figured out until the theorists of quantum physics illustrated the fallibility of a perception of the world based on direct experience.

What we have in the end is an invented “time” made accurate by universal agreement. It would appear the best advice of all is carpe diem (seize the moment).