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.

Interview With Douglas Quinn

My guest today is mystery, suspense and historical fiction writer Douglas Quinn. Welcome, Doug. Let’s start right in with some questions: JRL: Have you always wanted to write, or was there some transforming incident led you to it?

DQ: Actually, when I was a growing up I was more interested in art. But the one other thing I liked to do, which gave me background knowledge and ultimately the interest in writing, was reading. As a kid, I got hooked on Edgar Rice Burroughs, especially his Tarzan novels. In fact, I ended up collecting all of his books, including many first editions.
Early on, my interests gravitated toward science fiction. It wasn’t until much later in life, when I began to read Edgar Allan Poe, Rudyard Kipling and Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle (my personal favorite classic authors), that my interest began to shift toward mystery and suspense.

JRL: What was your path to publication?

DQ: I didn’t begin writing until 1994, when I was already 52 years old (do the math and you can calculate how old I am now–the secret is out), which was when I began working on my first novel, The Catalan Gambit. I finished the rough draft in 1997, then sent out queries to agents and to those publishers who accepted submissions without agents.
After three years of frustrating results, I laid the novel aside and didn’t write anything more until 2003, when I dragged the manuscript back out and gave it about six hard edits. Being over age 60, I wasn’t interested in subjecting myself to further disappointments. I had faith in the book. I figured if I could just get it out there someone would read it, they would like it. That’s exactly what I did. I signed up with iUniverse, a print-on-demand publisher whose primary stockholder was Barnes and Nobel. Long story short, the book received great reviews and encouraging comments from readers. So I began working on my next novel, the first book of the Webb Sawyer Mystery Series, Blue Heron Marsh. Since then, I have published seven more books, including two children’s chapter books.
In 2009 I turned to Amazon/CreateSpace, publishing under the White Heron Press imprint, for the first Adventures of Quinn Higgins: Boy Detective children’s chapter book. Since then, I have published two more books with them. I’ve been pleased with the distribution and sales results and hope to continue that relationship. I currently have three more books completed (two of them children’s chapter books, the other one being the third Webb Sawyer Mystery) and in the editing process, with publication dates on the calendar.

JRL: What was your first job, and did it have any impact on your future writing?
DQ: My first job was a four year hitch in the Air Force. After that I went into banking. Then, for almost two decades, I ran my own personnel recruiting company. Just like anything else a person has experienced during his or her life, when writing, all of it is drawn upon. I follow the old writer’s adage, “Write what you know.”
JRL: Writers are often driven by curiosity. Is there any particular subject that especially arouses your curiosity?

DQ: Human nature. While the plot and setting are important to story-telling, my novels are all character-driven. The characters are essential to my writing. I believe that if the character is unable to bring some emotional impact to the reader, the book fails. My time as a “headhunter” probably gave me the most insight into how people think and act under different situations.
JRL: We’ve both written mysteries and historical fiction. You’ve also been doing some writing for children. How difficult do you find the transition from writing for adults to doing it for youngsters?

DQ: Oddly enough, I don’t find it difficult at all. The reason being, I’ve spent a lot of time at my grandsons’ elementary schools, either volunteer reading to their classes or having lunch with my grandsons in the school cafeteria. The cafeteria is where I get most of my material. Outside of the school environment, my grandson Quinn is a very inquisitive kid and we’ve had lots of interesting conversations about every imaginable topic. Simply talking and listening to my target audience is the key.

JRL: Are you an outliner or a pantser? How do you actually go about writing a story or book?

DQ: By “pantser,” I presume you mean, do I write by the seat of my pants? I’m not a true outliner, but not necessarily a total pantser, either. When an idea for a novel or a children’s chapter book hits me, I start thinking about it. I begin playing out the scenes and the dialogue in my mind. I start thinking about the characters and what makes them tick, how they might interact with the other characters in the story. I also like to think about what plot twists I might be able to bring to the story line. By the time I sit down to write, I’ve already “seen and heard” much of what I translate to the document. Then, of course, I refine it as I go along, many times letting the characters and circumstances take me where they will. I suppose you could say I’m a mental outliner who writes by the seat of my pants.

JRL: What do you love most about being a writer?

DQ: I love the process. I love creating something out of nothing; of coming up with an idea, thinking about it, visualizing it, getting it down on paper (via the computer printer, of course), then going through the editing process. I don’t do a lot of rewriting. I pretty much know what I want when I begin. What I do is tweak what I’ve written. Only once have I actually begun a story, then started over when I wasn’t happy how it was going. That one is/was the story for the Four of a Kind anthology, which I am a contributing editor, and for which (of course) you and two others are contributing a story.

JRL: Going to the opposite extreme, what do you hate most about being a writer?

DQ: Hard question. I don’t really “hate” anything about it. What does annoy me is when someone requests a review copy, then doesn’t bother reading the book or writing a review. I mean, if they actually read it and hated it, I’d rather they just tell me. I can take it. We now use delivery confirmation receipts to track time and place of delivery, then follow up after 90 days, then every subsequent 30 days. It’s a pain in the you-know-what but, unfortunately, has to be done.

JRL: Have you experienced an “I’ve made it” moment, or are you still waiting for it?

DQ: I made it the moment I actually finished the rough draft of my first book. People don’t realize how hard it is, and how much of a commitment a writer has to make, to accomplish even that first step toward publishing. It’s hard work, and I love it.
JRL: What was the last book you read?

DQ: I don’t have as much time to read as I used to before my writing became a personal illness. During slack times in my writing and publishing schedules (meaning I only have a couple of projects going), I tend to read other authors who are either self-published or published through small independent presses. I do this because there are a lot of great authors out there who don’t get the wide name recognition that they deserve. I like to both read and post reviews of their work. My most recent read was FireSong by Aaron Paul Lazar. I like his work and I like him as a person. Prior to that it was Fallen From Grace by J. R. Lindermuth (I think you may know him).

JRL: Do you have a favorite among the books you’ve written?

DQ: Yes. It is Cornelius The Orphan. Cornelius, which is historical fiction/adventure, is a departure from my usual mystery and suspense fare, although the book does hold elements of suspense. His character is more rich and more complicated than any I have created so far.

JRL: What is the next project for you?

DQ: I’m currently working on the next book in the series that follows Cornelius The Orphan. This one is called Samuel The Pioneer, and follows the life of Cornelius’ son, who was profoundly (in a negative way) impacted by his father’s life. I’m also currently writing the 4th book of The Adventures of Quinn Higgins: Boy Detective. This one is titled The Case of Blackbeard’s Treasure and takes place in Ocracoke Village on Ocracoke Island. The third book in this series, The Case of the Haunted House, will be released this October.

I’m also working on my memoirs. This will be for publication, but not for general sale. I’m writing it for the benefit of my grandchildren and future generations, so they will know and understand who I was and what I was all about. This is something I think everyone should do.

In addition, I am currently mind-planning the 5th Quinn Higgins book, a second book in the Charles of Colshire series, a fantasy children’s chapter book series. The first book in the series, Charles of Colshire Castle: The Purple Dragon, will be released this November. In addition, I’m in the editing process for the third book of the Webb Sawyer Mystery Series entitled Swan’s Landing, which has a background in the 9/11 tragedy. It will be released in the Spring of 2012. By the time this interview appears, there will probably be something else on the list.

JRL: Who are some of your favorite writers and have they influenced your style?

DQ: As I said before, I grew up on Edgar Rice Burroughs, then moved to Poe, Kipling and Conan-Doyle. At one point in my life, I was reading 125 books a year. When I was into science fiction, I liked Isaac Asimov, Larry Niven, Frederick Pohl and the like. When I moved to reading mystery and suspense, I grooved on (and still do, when I can find the time) James Lee Burke, John Sandford, Robert Kellerman, Kathy Reichs, Alex Kava, Walter Mosley and others. Everything I’ve read has influenced my writing, one way or another. Even so, I’m not very poetic. I still can’t turn a phrase the likes of James Lee Burke. Hopefully, readers appreciate the way I lay out a scene and develop my characters.

JRL: What are some of the things you enjoy doing when not writing?

DQ: For relaxation, I play golf and swim. I don’t have time for much else. I walk the dogs twice a day and I really like to cook. I’m really not all that interesting. Kind of a minimalist in my lifestyle.

JRL: Is there something about you that might surprise your readers to learn?

DQ: Probably, but I’m not going to let that one out of the bag.

JRL: People seem to enjoy learning what kind of pets hold a special place in a writer’s life. Do you have (or have had) any special animal friends you’d like to tell us about?

DQ: Ah, pets. I prefer to refer to them as four-legged family members. I’ve had critters around all my life, including an baby alligator, a flying squirrel, a raccoon, a pigeon and rabbits. I didn’t have my first dog until I was 13. Smokey used to follow me around on my paper route. What a sweet guy he was. My favorite cat was Basil. Unfortunately, a fox got him. He had more personality than some people I’ve known. I honor his memory by making him a character in the Webb Sawyer Mystery books. He’s Webb’s best bud; once, he even saved Webb’s life.

Currently, I have two dogs and five and a half cats. Snookie, a mixed sheltie, was a SPCA rescue special and Gracie is a tri-colored beagle who lives for her biscuit treats. The cats are Moustaki II (that’s Moustache in Greek) who, as a kitten, was rescued from the middle of the road; Swee’ Pea, a calico who was dropped on my doorstep with a mangled tail and in a family way; Funny Face, a tortoise-shell female, who came in from the swamp; Panther, a black male (who I also call Brutus Beefcake) who also came in from the swamp; Tommy Gray, who decided he liked my house better than my neighbor’s down the street, and the half-cat is a golden tomcat I call Theo, who hangs around the periphery because he likes Funny Face. It’s never dull around the Douglas Quinn ranch.

JRL: Where can people find more info about you and your projects?

DQ: You know, I’m kind of a lazy so-and-so when it comes to marketing and on-line sites. I hate taking the time away from writing. My publicist is on my case all the time about it. I had a web site for a while. It was designed by a fan. It was okay, but it never really seemed to work for me. Also, I wasn’t much for keeping it up to date. I have a Google blog site, where I don’t post much. I’m working on a new web site at Webs, Inc, which reminds me, I need to get back to that. Darn!

So, I guess the answer to your question is go to www.Gather.com (Douglas Quinn/obxwriter), where I post reviews, interviews, announcements and excerpts from my books, or Facebook (Douglas Quinn), where I make daily entries and post links about my activities, or, better yet, go to www.amazon.com, read the reviews of my books, get excited, and buy copies. I’ll announce on Facebook and Gather when my new website is up and running–maybe by 2015.

List of Books by Douglas Quinn:

The Catalan Gambit 2004
The Spanish Game 2006
Blue Heron Marsh 2007
Pelican Point 2009
The Adventures of Quinn Higgins: Boy Detective
–The Case of the Missing Homework 2009
Cornelius The Orphan 2010
The Capablanca Variation: The End Game 2010
The Adventures of Quinn Higgins: Boy Detective
–The Case of Bigfoot on the Loose 2010
The Adventures of Quinn Higgins: Boy Detective
–The Case of the Haunted House (October 2011)
Charles of Colshire Castle: The Purple Dragon (November 2011)
Swan’s Landing (Spring 2012)

How to Feed a Hungry Detective

Sylvester Tilghman likes to eat.

That becomes apparent early into my novel Fallen From Grace. Tilghman, sheriff of the small Pennsylvania town of Arahpot, is a bachelor who is never shy about accepting an invitation for a meal as he goes about investigating a couple murders that have shaken the normal tranquility of his town in the autumn of 1897.

His usual targets are his girlfriend, Lydia, and neighbors, the Mariners. But he isn’t inclined to turn down an offer of food or drink from most any of the citizens he encounters on his rounds.

Despite our difference in body structure and time period, I share Syl’s predilection for good eats. Investigating the type of food and menus most likely available in the time period and place was an enjoyable aspect of my research for the novel.

A primary resource was “The Latest And Best Cook Book,” published in 1888 by Hubbard Brothers of Philadelphia. The volume containing more than 800 “valuable” recipes had no single author but was compiled by a “skilled corps of practical experts,” according to the foreword.

The sub-title sums up the content of the volume: “A comprehensive treatment of the subject of cookery; ancient and modern cooking utensils, etc.; with abundant instructions in every branch of the art; soups, fish, poultry, meats, vegetables, salads, bread, cakes, jellies, fruits, pickles, sauces, beverages, candies, sick-room diet, canning, carving, serving meals, marketing, etc., etc.”

Hey, the Food Channel had nothing on Hubbard Brothers.

I guarantee you, it takes a good novel to match the entertainment value of a book like this one. For example:

“Dishes should suit the days of the week also. What can be furnished by one fire or wash-day or ironing-day is not the same as can be furnished conveniently on other days. The man who proposed dumplings for wash-day dessert because they could be boiled in the same kettle with the clothes was on the true line of progress, though his application was not a happy one. The idea is that harmony shall exist.”

The amount of food these people consumed at a single setting is enough to give the average diet-conscious modern person apoplexy. Consider this breakfast suggestion for summer—coarse hominy boiled; strawberries and cream; bread (fresh-baked, of course), butter, coffee and other beverages; broiled chicken, stewed potatoes, dried beef dressed with cream, radishes and muffins.

Or you might substitute oatmeal and milk, fresh currants and sugar, buttered toast, bread, coffee, broiled blue or white fish, stewed potatoes, minced mutton served on toast and shirred eggs.
Considering the lack of conveniences to which we’ve become accustomed, I can feel nothing but pity for the woman required to turn out these meals on a daily basis.

I am confident, though, if Sylvester turns up for another book (as a few readers are already urging) I’ll easily be able to come up with more dining suggestions for Lydia and others to tempt his appetite.

In Spirit, If Not Place

Can a story set in Pennsylvania be considered a Western?

Probably not, if you want to get technical. But my publisher Billie Johnson thought Fallen From Grace met the test in spirit if not place and decided to make it the first entry in Wild Oaks, the new Western imprint of Oak Tree Press.

I couldn’t be happier, because I love the genre. I grew up (and now live again) in a house reputed to have been built by a man who rode with Buffalo Bill. My mother said she devoured pulp Westerns while carrying me and I cut my reading teeth on the likes of Zane Grey (who, incidentally, began his writing career in Pennsylvania), Emerson Hough, Jack London and others from my dad’s well-stocked library.

All of this contributed to a lifelong interest in the history of the West and desire to trod in the footsteps of those legendary characters, both actual and literary, discovered in my reading.

As I’ve said before, Fallen was inspired by a character. I had written two short stories featuring a country sheriff named Sylvester Tilghman who asserted himself and demanded a book. Characters can be like that. They pop up, sometimes seemingly out of no where, in a writer’s imagination, develop personalities and go on to lead us into stories. Tilghman’s grandfather was in my first novel, Schlussel’s Woman, and his father has a bit role in Watch The Hour. Maybe he thought it was a family prerogative to be one of my characters.

Fallen From Grace is set in the 1890s. Tilghman is the third in his family to serve as sheriff in the small town of Arahpot, a generally peaceful place. Usually, his biggest problems are lack of a deputy and the refusal of Lydia, his girlfriend, to marry him despite many proposals. But that all changes when Conrad Runkle, a stranger in town, is fatally stabbed. Tilghman questions Valentine Deibert, an obese man with a wife half his age. Runkle's widow arrives in Arahpot and informs Tilghman her husband was in pursuit of a man who had scammed him, bankrupting his business. Suspecting a connection, Sylvester pays another visit to Deibert only to discover him dead of arsenic poisoning. Sylvester is plunged into a flurry of unusual activity and danger. And Lydia is pushing her obnoxious cousin on him as a candidate for deputy. Things go from bad to worse until Sylvester finally unravels the mystery.

Fallen From Grace is available from the publisher, http://www.oaktreebooks.com/Shop%20OTP.htm, from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other major booksellers.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering will I ever write a traditional Western, Oak Tree has the manuscript for another book, The Tithing Herd, set in the 19th century in New Mexico and featuring cowboys, bandits, Mormons and even an Indian or two.

Coming Soon

If you’ve read and enjoyed any of the Sticks Hetrick mysteries, you’ll be pleased to know Whiskey Creek Press soon will release BEING SOMEONE ELSE, fourth in the series.

If you haven’t read them, now’s a good time to start. The novels are available in print and electronic form, including Kindle. Other novels in the series are Something In Common, Cruel Cuts and Corruption’s Child.

Daniel ‘Sticks’ Hetrick is the retired police chief of rural Swatara Creek, Pennsylvania, and serves as consultant to his less experienced successor, Aaron Brubaker. Other regular characters are Hetrick’s protégés, Corporal Harry Minnich and rookie officer Flora Vastine.

As a note of interest, Hetrick—a longtime widower—has a new woman in his life in this novel and is offered a new job.

And, in case you’re wondering, I’m already at work on the fifth in the series.

Here’s the back cover blurb from Being Someone Else:

Some believe violence foreign to our nature. Dan ‘Sticks’ Hetrick, retired chief and consultant to the Swatara Creek police department, knows better. We put a lid on our natural tendency to violence when we started living in groups, devising moral codes to hold it in check and allow us to live in harmony with others. But, deep down in the Id, there’s always that tendency to violence.

When an out-of-state reporter is found murdered at a disreputable bar, the tendency to violence spirals in the rural Pennsylvania community, and the investigative trail keeps bringing Hetrick and his team back to the family of a wealthy doctor who has come back to his hometown in retirement.

Hetrick and his protégé, Officer Flora Vastine, are joined by an old friend from his State Police days as they unravel old secrets and mysteries in a tale with as many shocking twists as a country road

Sample Chapter

1.
Neil Kehler pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and squinted at his watch. Blurry. But it looked like past midnight. Past midnight on Friday. He should get home. Ruthie would be pissed. Shit! Nothing new in that. Lately she was always pissed. Neil swallowed the last dregs of his beer. All he’d wanted was a couple beers and a game of pool. A little sport. Nothing that had anything to do with how he felt about her. Hell, they’d been together since high school. Did she really think he was looking for someone else after all this time?
Despite the hour, the place was still packed as it always was on a Friday night. Raucous, too-loud voices droned in his head. Country music on the juke box added to the din. The floor vibrated beneath his feet. Clouds of tobacco smoke stung his eyes and the stench of spilled beer, nicotine and unwashed bodies cloyed in his nostrils.
Well, he might as well go home and face her wrath. The couple beers had turned to too many after Earl took his money again. Nothing new in that either. Bastard must be cheating. But nobody had caught him yet. And who would dare accuse the man anyway?
Neil placed his hands on the bar and pushed off from his stool. Better hit the john first. He knew he couldn’t make it all the way home without emptying his bladder. Neil staggered around to the hallway.
His shoulder bumped against the wall on one side and propelled him across to the other. Neil staggered on. Dark. Overhead light was out again and Vinnie was too damned cheap to replace the bulb. Well, he’d been back here often enough to find his way without light. The ammonia stench of the urinals was enough to guide him. He figured he was almost to the restrooms when another hurrying figure bumped against him, knocking him up against the wall. “Watch it, buddy!” Neil squawked. The other person kept on going without a word of apology.
Neil might have had another retort but the urgency of his need made that less impelling. Just ahead he saw the dim glow of the restroom lights through a crack in the doorway. Neil pushed on.
As he stepped up to the urinal Neil noticed, from the corner of his eye, someone sitting in one of the toilet stalls. Jeez. He liked privacy when tending to business and this guy didn’t even have sense enough to pull the stall door closed. Neil unzipped, flipped out his penis and breathed a sigh of release as his stream flowed. Aaah! He leaned forward, hands against the wall. “Needed that,” he said aloud. There was no response from the guy in the stall. Shit. Probably passed out.
Finished, he zipped up and moved over to the sink. As he turned on the faucet he glanced into the mirror. What the…? Oh, shit!
Neil staggered out into the hall. “Vinnie! Vinnie! Get your ass back here,” he screamed. The noise from the barroom drowned out his voice.

“In the John?”
“Yep. Shot dead while sittin’ on the pot,” Aaron Brubaker said.
Sticks Hetrick was just crawling into bed when he got the call. He was filling in for Brubaker who was down with the flu. Somehow the dispatcher on duty hadn’t got the word and contacted the chief.
“Where’d it happen?”
“Out at Vinnie’s.”
Hetrick grunted. Vinnie’s Bar was a dive out on the highway that should have been closed down long before. It was a blot on the community and its owner and his premises were no strangers to trouble.
“Who’s the victim?”
“Dunno. All I know is what Fred told me. Sorry about this Sticks. If it wasn’t for this bug…”
“No sweat. I volunteered, remember? Get some rest. Talk to you later.” It would have made no sense to be irritated with Brubaker. Hetrick, who had retired as chief, now served as a consultant to his less-experienced replacement. Filling in now gave him a taste of the old days and he was enjoying it—probably a lot more than Brubaker who just yesterday had given him a litany of the gruesome aspects of his illness.
Hetrick swung his feet out of bed, sat up and reached for his glasses. He wiped them clean with a Kleenex and put them on. Then he pulled himself erect, took off his pajamas and got back into his clothes.
Yeah. Just like the old days—getting called out of bed in the middle of the night to clean up some other person’s mess. Well, he’d asked for it, hadn’t he.
It wasn’t far from his house on Plum Street out to the highway junction where Vinnie’s Bar was located. As he pulled onto the gravel parking lot he saw two Swatara Creek cruisers and an ambulance with motors running and lights flashing pulled up close to the entrance. A scattering of other vehicles, including Vinnie Nungessor’s Lexus, were still in the lot. Not many for a Friday night. Hetrick anticipated a number of the regulars had taken off as soon as they were informed of the discovery. Nungessor’s customers included a number who might be suspect in whatever transgression arose.
Repressing the smile that thought prompted, Hetrick got out of his pickup, hitched up his trousers and entered the tavern.
Nungessor, leaning on the bar and nursing a mug of beer, glanced over as Sticks approached. “How long your guys gonna keep me shut down this time?” he asked.
A few customers, owners of the vehicles outside he surmised, lounged at tables back in the shadows. None of them spoke. Brent Taylor, a Swatara Creek officer standing watch over them, raised a hand in greeting. Hetrick nodded back.
“It’s past two Vin. Closing time anyway.”
“Yeah. I’m thinkin’ about tomorrow and the days after that. Youse closed me down for a week that time we had the stabbin’ here. And nobody died that time. Haint my fault some guy gets hisself shot.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Vinnie chugged his beer. “Can I go home?”
“Not yet. After I talk to my people. I might have some questions for you.”
“How ‘bout us?” a raspy voice Hetrick recognized, asked from the shadows.
“Might have questions for you too, Fingers.”
“Yeah. You usually do—even when I haint involved,” Earl Schurke responded. He earned his nickname long before because of his propensity for putting his digits where they didn’t belong.
“Christ. I already answered their questions,” Nungessor said. “It was Friday night. Busy like always. Noisy. Nobody heard nothin’, seen nothin’.”
“Somebody did,” Sticks said, strolling on by him and going down the hall to the restrooms.
Standing at the doorway he saw Fred Drumheiser talking to Arnie Templin, the coroner. “Hey, Chief,” Fred said, spying him. “We’re just about to haul him out. You wanna have a look first?”
Hetrick nodded and they made way for him to pass between them and into the restroom. The corpse had been zipped into a body bag. An EMT kneeling by the carrier unzipped the bag to let Hetrick have a look at the victim. Sticks leaned over, hands on his thighs. It was a young man, mid-twenties with straight, recently barbered hair. A plump face, smooth-shaven. There was a small hole ringed by powder burns between his closed eyes.
Hetrick stood straight and waved a hand for the tech to re-bag. “Anybody know him?”
Fred shook his head. “Not Vinnie’s usual clientele. Clean-cut, wearin’ a suit. None of the regulars would admit to having seen him before.”
“Any ID?”
“Wallet with a driver’s license, press card, couple credit cards and about sixty bucks in cash.”
“Press card?”
“Yeah. Name was Christopher Bachman. From down in Maryland.”
“Any idea what he was doing here?”
Fred shook his head. “Might have been a drug deal gone sour. Course he couldn’t have bought much with what he had on him.”
Hetrick turned to Templin. “Cause of death, Arnie?”
“I expect the bullet between his eyes. I’ll know better in the morning.”
“Found a casing on the floor,” Fred said. “Twenty-two short. Wouldn’t have made much noise and with the normal commotion out there don’t expect nobody would have heard it.”
“Who found him?”
“Neil Kehler. You know him?”
“Yeah. I think so. Lives over on Cherry, near Roger Steinbauer.”
“Right. That’s the guy. Have him coolin’ his heels out front with a couple other guys. None of them claim to know anything, though. Half the crowd was cleared out by the time I got here.”
“You came alone?”
Fred nodded. “Yeah. We’re short. Half our people are out with this damned flu or whatever it is. Harry’s at the station, Flora’s out on patrol. Harry sent Brent over here in case I needed him. Don’t even have a regular dispatcher tonight. One of those auxiliary police types fillin’ in.”
Sticks frowned. The auxiliary had been formed just this year by the township supervisors. To him it indicated a lack of confidence in their police force and not any effort to be helpful. Sure crime had increased here—just like everywhere. A factor of the times and the economy. The problem wasn’t an inefficient department but rather a lack of sufficient funding to provide manpower for increased patrols. Hetrick was a big believer in both foot and cruiser patrols as a means of curtailing crime.
“You about wrapped up back here?” he asked Fred.
“Yep.”
“Good. I’ll see what Kehler and the others have to say.”
A light had been turned on over the pool table and Earl Schurke was shooting a game with one of the other customers. Kehler and another man were watching. Fingers looked over his shoulder as Sticks came up. “Haint no gamblin’ going on,” he said. “Just passin’ time waitin’ on you.”
With a little chuckle, Sticks nodded. He knew pool hustling was one of Schurke’s sources of income. “Get to you shortly,” he said. “Mister Kehler.”
Kehler turned to face him. “Yeah?” Fully sober now, the tautness of his nerves revealed by the twitch of a muscle along one cheek.
“Need a word with you.”
“Hey,” Nungessor said, “what about me?”
“In good time.”
“Whadya want me to do, Chief?” Taylor asked.
“You can head on back, Brent. Harry might have other need for you. Let’s sit down over here Mister Kehler,” he said, indicating a nearby table. “You live out by Roger Steinbauer don’t you?” he asked as they pulled up chairs and sat.
“Right.”
“Work out at the chicken plant?”
“No. That is, my wife does. I’m a USDA inspector. The poultry plant is one of my sites.”
Schurke gave a coarse laugh. “Makes you really feel secure, don’t it—knowin’ a twerp like him is makin’ sure our food is safe.”
“Shut up, Earl. Mind your game before I have to bust you for interfering in an investigation.” Schurke laughed again, turned back and racked up the balls. Sticks wrinkled his nose. Even this far away and over the other powerful odor in the room he smelled the stench of the restrooms. “Now, Mister Kehler, why don’t you tell me how you came to find the body.”
Kehler squirmed. The seat squeaked under his weight. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes darting at Hetrick. “Think I could call my wife? She’s probably worried I haint home yet.”
“In a few minutes, sir. First…”
“I already told the other fellow. Don’t know what else I can add.”
“Humor me.”
Kehler was quiet a moment longer, the only sounds in the room the clinking of the pool cues, the ticking of a clock on the wall behind the bar and the hum of the coolers. Then, like rote, he reeled off his tale.
Sticks leaned toward him, listening intently, taking a few notes. At the end, he asked, “And you’re sure it was a man bumped into you?”
Kehler shrugged. “I don’t know. It was too dark to see but—based on the weight of the body struck me—I guess I assumed it must be a man. Could have been a woman. Can’t say for sure either way.”
“Thank you, Mister Kehler. I know where you live if we need to talk to you again.”
“I can go?”
“You’re free to go.” He swiveled in his chair. “Fingers.”
“Damn it, man,” Nungessor squealed, “when’s it to be my turn?”
“When I’m ready. Come on over here, Fingers.”
Hetrick made Vinnie wait until he’d talked to Schurke and the few others who had stayed on. None of them had anything worthwhile to add. None admitted to knowing the victim and all said they didn’t remember seeing him earlier in the evening. Most confirmed they had made a trip or two to the restroom but didn’t notice anything amiss. Schurke was certain the stall in question was empty the last time he’d visited which he thought might have been in the neighborhood of 11:45. “Can’t be sure about that, though,” he said. “You know how it is when you’ve had a few. Hell no, you probably don’t Sticks. Can’t remember I ever saw you enjoying a beer.”
Hetrick didn’t reply to that. He liked a beer now and again as much as any man. It was company he was particular about.
“Bout time you got to me,” Nungessor grumbled as he finally walked up to where the owner sat.
“I don’t suppose you have anything worthwhile to add.”
Vinnie scowled. “If I did, don’t know I’d be inclined to tell you.”
“That would not be wise.”
“Yeah. Well, truth is, I don’t know that I can tell you anything helpful.”
“So you didn’t know Christopher Bachman?”
“Who?”
“The victim.”
Nungessor shrugged. “Can’t expect me to know everybody that comes in here. I know my regulars. But this is a business. My doors are open to anybody wants to come in.”
“Even the police?”
Nungessor gave him a little smile. “Even the police. I got nothin’ to hide.”
Hetrick had his doubts about that but he let it slide. “You on your own here tonight?”
“Ronnie was helpin’ out as usual,” he said. Ronnie Huber was his barmaid and lived in an apartment above the tavern. “Complained of a headache. I let her go early.”
“How early?”
“I dunno. The place was busy. I wasn’t watchin’ the clock.”
“Make a guess.”
“Maybe ten-thirty, eleven.”
“We’ll have to talk to her, too.”
“Now?”
From the corner of his eye Hetrick saw Fred coming toward him, loaded down with his evidence case, camera and other paraphernalia. “All done back there, Sticks.”
“We’ll be on our way then.” His gaze swung back to Nungessor. “You can shut down now. Ronnie can be interviewed later. We’ll escort you out and you can lock up.”
“Hey! Can I open tomorrow?”
“We’ll let you know.”

The Power of Imagination

My second oldest grandson can’t understand how I survived a childhood without television. Ethan thinks I was really deprived because we didn’t have TV until I was in high school.

There were many outdoor pursuits, of course. A major indoor solace at the time was reading and listening to radio, pursuits enjoyed then and now by many of my generation. Those who didn’t experience it can’t imagine how exciting it was to hurry home from school and tune in a favorite show or, at night, gather around the radio with family to listen to a popular program.

One of my favorites at the time was “I Love a Mystery,” which followed three adventurers, Jack, Doc and Reggie, as they went around the world fighting monsters and solving mysteries. I think it was one of the factors leading to my choice of writing genre. I was thrilled when my son found 57 episodes of the show available free on line: http://www.otr.net/?p=ilam They may not be as great as I remembered, but I’m still listening.

We also went to a lot of movies, particularly the Saturday matinees where you got a feature and a serial.

That wasn’t the last time I went without TV, either. While living in Korea I made do again with reading, radio and film when not involved in other activities. And, when my own children were young, there was a long period when we had no TV. I couldn’t afford it at the time. They occasionally remind me and their children of those days. During that same period I also made a practice of reading stories and poetry to them after dinner—both to compensate for the lack of television and in hope it might inspire in them a love for reading. Since they do read when they have time I may have succeeded in the latter goal.

While Ethan might not agree I believe people who’ve grown up with television have been deprived of something we had. Reading and listening to radio requires more use of the imagination. A lack of imagination is a prime reason why there’s so much drivel on present-day TV. Reality shows? Don’t get me started.

As Conrad so aptly put it, “Only in men’s imagination does every truth find an effective and undeniable existence. Imagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art as of life.”

Shakespeare knew it even earlier:

“And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”

New Release Coming

I just signed with my publisher, Whiskey Creek Press, for the fourth novel in my Sticks Hetrick mystery series. I don't have a publication date yet, so I can't say more about that at this point.

There are few things a writer likes more than a new contract. Need I say I'm thrilled to have a new book in the offing.

BEING SOMEONE ELSE begins with the discovery of an out-of-state reporter found murdered in the restroom of a sleazy bar. Most of the patrons scatter before police arrive on scene. Of the few who remain, none is willing to admit having seen or talked to the victim. When contacted, even the man's wife can't answer why he was in Swatara Creek.

Later the team learns of the murder of another out-of-stater in an adjoining county and the disappearance of a popular Catholic priest. Is there--as Stick's friend State Police investigator Reuben Riehm suspects--a connection between the cases?

More later.

For those who haven't read the series, now would be a good time to read SOMETHING IN COMMON, CRUEL CUTS and CORRUPTION'S CHILD.