More writings

Snow was falling softly as Damien left the car and entered the muni.  There was a nice crowd in the little place so he got a diet coke from the tall drink of water behind the bar and tried to slide unnoticed over to a small table away from the one Hodges and his cronies occupied in the far corner.  Boston Whitley noticed Damien enter the bar almost immediately.

“Hey,” he said to his friends at the table.  “Junior just came in.”  The others cast their faces to where Boston was looking.

“Well, well, well.  I think it is,” said Earl Mancoat.  “I’ll bet we can expect Miss Beautiful to come in any second.”

“Probably parking the car.  Jesus, I’ll bet he makes her drive the damn car everywhere.”

“Yeah, like a little chauffeur,” Seth Tryton added sneeringly.

“It’s plain to see who the brains of that outfit is,” huffed Mancoat, as Gerald Hodges sat silent.  Mancoat continued, “I got an idea, let’s invite Junior over and we’ll pump him for information.”

Hodges perked up, “Capital idea,” he said.

Whitley rose, hobbled over to Damien’s small, high-top table.  “Junior, come on over and join us.  We’re having good “man” conversations over there, and we figure you might learn something.”  Damien, who had been watching Whitley cross the bar to his table, didn’t answer right away and frowned.

Eyebrows raised, Whitley tried again.  “What’s the matter, too much testosterone for a young buck like yourself?  Come on, have a beer, er, uh, or a diet coke, and let us know what’s happening with your investigation.”  Whitley sneaked a peak at his compatriots at the other table and winked.

Gathering momentum to rise up and join the party, Damien rose and said, “Ok,  I’ll be with you in a second.  Gotta go to the bathroom first, though.” 

Whitley smiled a wide one,  “Great, kid!  Take a piss and come on over.  I’ll bring your diet coke.”  He picked up the drink and limped back over to the old mens’ table while Damien took his time walking over to the bathroom.  He entered, waited until the gentleman ahead of him used the facilities, took out his cell phone and texted Beth that he was joining the old guys.  He finished, washed his hands out of habit and went back out to join the old guys.

As Damien sat down in a chair that had been pulled out for him by Seth Tryton, Gerald Hodges extended his hand.  Damien grasped it and was surprised by the strength of Hodges’ grip.

“So good to see you old boy,” Hodges stated in his acquired English accent.

“It’s good to see you, as well Mr. Hodges.”

“Call me Gerald, please, or better yet, Gerry.  That’s what they all call me here.”

The others chimed in.  “That’s right, Gerry,” they said in unison while staring at Damien, making him distinctly uncomfortable.  Shifting in his chair, he wondered if the little group had an ulterior motive for asking him to join them.

“So, Damien, if I may call you that, could you share any tidbits of your investigation with us?” Hodges asked.

“Actually, there isn’t much to share at this point.  As you know, the police have some persons of interest they are doing some background work on.”  He delivered the words while staring at Hodges.  The others, except for Hodges shook their heads no.  Hodges smiled a half smile and concurred.

He looked at his friends.  “I regret that I did not inform my friends I have been told I am one of those persons of interest,” he said.   His “friends” were all silent for a moment until Earl Mancoat spoke up.

“Ha, good one, Gerry.  Why would they think a harmless old guy like yourself, hell, like any of us here, could be involved in a murder?”

“He’s not joking, uh, I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Mancoat, Earl,” he said forcefully.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mancoat, but he’s not joking.  The authorities think that Gerry might know more than he’s told them so far.”

“And what do you think, Junior?”  Boston Whitley asked.

“Me?  I tend to leave the thinking up to my boss.”

“Ah yes.  The beautiful Miss Reddy,” Hodges said.  “Speaking of whom, where is Miss Reddy tonight?”  Damien, who hadn’t planned to be sitting with the gang of oldsters and be subjected to questions, squirmed in his chair a little trying to come up with a plausible answer.  The old guys noticed his discomfiture and leaned forward to put a little more pressure on him.

Update on The Book Club Murders

I have been writing fairly regularly lately, between 750 to 1500 words per morning and am on target to finish the book by The end of March if I keep up this pace.   Gaps in my outline have been filled in and I am eager to write those parts of the book.

Rewriting and improving (in my view) some of my previously posted sections has occupied about a quarter of my writing time.  Generally I have been pleased with the direction of the story, but am most happy with development of the Gerald Hodges character.  Hodges has a smattering of OCD and Aspergers Syndrome, something that I became familiar with in my work as a Speech/Language Pathologist.

To my visitors, please feel free to comment and make suggestions to any sections of my writings posted on this blog.  I welcome any constructive criticisms or suggestions.

Book sale

I just wanted people to know that beginning November 26,2013, one of my Kindle books, Cassandra's Moon, will be on sale for  99 cents.  The sale will last until Dcember 2, 2013.  Thank you to everyone.

New writings from "The Book Club Murders"

Gerald Hodges's alarm blew-up at 6:15 am.  Not exactly blew-up, but made the sound of a building being ignited and imploded.  He loved waking up to the glorious noise of an explosion and the resulting crumbling and rumbling of a building being destroyed.  It sent him into an ecstatic, exuberant welcoming of the day ahead.

  Today he would be visited by a cadre of law enforcement personnel that would interview him, pick his considerable brain, and possibly even try to implicate him in the murder of Laura Walters.  He looked forward to the encounter.

After the three s's, shit, shower, and shave, Gerald dressed himself in the clothing he had laid out the night before when first informed that he would be visited by the "dynamic" team of investigators assembled by the local powers.  He had chosen a purple, long-sleeved shirt, cream colored, pleated khakis, tan dress socks, brown, suede loafers, and a tan sports coat with elbow patches.  God he loved his elbow patches.  He had even considered use of an accessory, the long, black pipe his father had smoked, but he didn't really care for the smell of smoke so he rejected the idea, although it was a difficult decision.  His father's well-used shiny, black pipe had been so elegant.  It had a large bowl and a perfectly smooth airway from the draft bowl to the end of the mouthpiece.  He could just see his father smoking that pipe in the evening, blowing smoke rings into the air and piercing them with the back scratcher that he carried with him in the evening.  Gerald could spend hours watching his father smoke that lovely pipe, enthralled with the entire process of smoking from beginning to end.

The only bad part of the experience was that he eventually realized he was allergic to the smoke, and try as he might, he could not overcome his abhorrence of ingesting it into his lungs. He considered a hat, but thought that a little too pretentious, and then a tie, yes, a bow tie.  He had a plethora to choose from.

He rushed to the bottom drawer of his dresser where they were kept.  Pulling out several at a time, he finally decided on the darker purple that he would have to tie himself.  The process of assembling a knot for his bow ties fascinated him.  First, he placed the bow tie around his neck, situating it so that the longer end was precisely two inches below the other, then cross the longer end over the shorter.  He would then bring the longer end up and under the loop  and double the shorter end over itself to form the front base loop of the bow tie.  He would then loop the longer end over the center of the loop just formed.  Holding everything in place, double the longer end back on itself and poke it through the loop behind the bow tie.  He would then adjust the bow tie by tugging at the ends of it and straightening the center knot until it was perfect.   It had to be perfect.

He straightened it as he watched himself carefully in the mirror.  He smiled at the vision he presented.  Walking gracefully to the kitchen table, he seated himself in a straight-backed chair and waited for his guests with a hot cup of tea resting between his palms.

Hodges did not have to wait long, for he had timed everything to the minute.  Of course the only event that could have spoiled his timing was an early or late arrival of his guests.  That didn't happen.  He smiled and rose from his chair when he heard the doorbell ring.

Derrick Hansen was the first to be cheerily met, then Chief Rue Shanahan, and lastly Sheriff Cooper Lewis and Deputy Dolheski.  Each was given a hearty handshake by Hodges and a so glad to see you greeting.  He then showed them into his abode, and sat each one into a specific chair he had decided upon earlier.

"Mr. Hodges," Hansen began, "First off, we'd like to apologize for not interviewing you earlier in the process, but-."

Interrupting, Hodges said, "No need to apologize, my boy.  I'm just an old garbage collector who doesn't get noticed much around the community."

Rue Shanahan seized the opportunity to speak.  "Mr. Hodges, we understand that you have some information that could help us solve this case rather quickly.  We'd like you to begin with the day Laura Walters was murdered and tell us what you had told Beth Reddy and Mr. George.  And if you have remembered any further details of that or previous days we would be very interested."

"Ah yes.  The pretty, young Ms. Reddy and the gentlemen with two first names."  He tugged at his bow tie a little.  "I remember them well.  Charming couple, wouldn't you say?"  The men collectively nodded, as did Lisa Dolcheski.  Gerald Hodges proceeded to relate the entire story he had told to Beth and Damien.  The four law enforcement personnel hung on every word.  Shanahan was recording the story with Hodges permission.

When he had finished, Sheriff Lewis asked, "How do you know so much about the book club and the women that meet?"

"Well, Sheriff Lewis, I am not acquainted with each woman who has attended the meetings, but they have been holding regular conferences at Ms. Walters' home for several years now.  During my wanderings around town, seeking garbage for resale you understand, I have become familiar with faces and vehicles that are different from the norm in Rose Creek.  Surely, you can understand that?"

Lewis graciously countered, "Of course we can, Mr. Hodges.  I like to think of myself as a phenomenal observer of people, myself."

Hodges was delighted with Lewis and hurriedly said, "Yes, in your profession you must have that bent to you.  I respect that."

Derrick Hansen asked, "Do you ever attach names to the women you have observed at the book club meetings?"

Hodges sat back and appeared to be puzzled by the question.  "I just don't know how I could ever know any of their names, unless I overheard them as they entered or departed, but I have heard a few first names, and I didn't tell Ms. Reddy this, but I did recognize her as one of the book club members when she interviewed me earlier with her Mr. George.  She is quite beautiful and hard to... not notice."  Again, the men nodded.  Dolcheski maintained a masked expression on her face.

"Earlier in the day you had noticed Ms. Pieson's car in town," Cooper Lewis stated.

"So that is her name.  Bravo!  You have tracked her down quickly.  I am impressed with your marvelous detective abilities, gentlemen," and lady, he added.

A visit to the municipal (from the Book Club Murders)

Beth parked the car as close as she could to the front door of the municipal liquor store.  It was cold and she didn't want to experience the frigid air for any longer than she had to.  They exited the car and Damien followed her through the front door of the muni.  A blast of warm air greeted them as they entered the building and strolled to the bar and deposited themselves on a couple of stools.  Damien rubbed his hands together like he was trying to start a fire to keep warm.
A tall, beanpole of a man behind the bar quickly came over and asked what they needed.
They both ordered a non-caffeinated coke.  When Damien got his wallet out to pay, Beth stopped him.
"I've got this," she said.  Damien smiled as he returned his wallet to his back pocket.  The bar tender brought the drinks and scooped up the cash.  He returned about a minute later with the change.
"Say, what can you tell us about the murder last night?" Beth began.
"Are you the police?"
"Uh, no.  We're private investigators hired by friends of Laura," Damien answered.
The beanpole cocked his head a little and then said, "I guess it can't hurt.  I don't know much though, just what I hear in the bar."
"So tell us what you've heard," Beth said politely.
"Like I said.  It's not much.  People stop in, ask questions, say things.  They're all searching for answers, like you two.  I keep my ears open, but everything I've heard is just all speculation.  The people that stop in here tend to think it's the old guy that goes around collecting cans.  He's out and about all hours of the day and night, always peeping in windows, doorways.  He rummages in our trash and picks out all the cans.  We do our own recycling here and tell him to get the hell away whenever we catch him, but sometimes he's able to sneak in, get what he wants, and sneak out.  It's hard to watch for him all the time.  Besides, we don't make much off the stuff anyway.  At least somebody can crank out a living and clean up the environment at the same time, I guess."
"What do you think?" Damian asked.
"You mean about who did it?
"Yeah," Damien answered.
"Well I don't think it was the old guy.  He's just a harmless old man.  Anyway, I didn't even mention him to the police, but I imagine someone else has by now.  I really have no idea, probably an outsider."
"Did you know Laura?"
"She stopped in here every Tuesday night after work I guess.  She and a couple of other women would come in and always sit at that corner table right over there."  He pointed to a hightop, round table big enough for five or six people to sit around comfortably.  Damien gazed toward the table, observing three, older men dressed in parkas and wool stocking caps drinking Guinness Stouts.  They were talking quietly and nodding toward Beth.  They stopped looking and busied themselves when they noticed Damien watching them.
"Think they know anything?" Damien asked the bar tender.
The bar tender looked in the direction of the old men at the corner table.  "You mean them?"
"Yeah."
"I doubt it, but you never know."
Beth said, "Let's find out."  Damien admired this woman so much.  She was smart, confident, and strong.  She got up with Damien following and walked over to the three old guys who were trying mightily not to notice the two as they were approaching.
Beth stood with her hands on the back of the only empty chair around the table with Damien beside her.  The three old guys looked over at the same time.
"Do you mind if we join you?" Beth asked.
"Looks like you'll need another chair for Junior," said Earl, the oldest of the three.  The other two chuckled.  Damian grimaced a little, but swung around to the adjoining table and slid a chair next to Beth's.  They both sat down.
"Could I buy you a drink, Miss?"
"You could, but I won't be needing one, sir."  They introduced themselves and began asking questions.  The old guys didn't appear to know anything about the murder, but came alive when the questioning came around to Gerald Hodges.

More investigation writings from "The Book Club Murders"

Beth's hand wasn't out of her coat pocket to knock, when the door opened and Meghan Stroutmeier greeted them.  They stated who they were and what they did, and then asked if Meghan would answer questions about Laura Walter's murder last night.  The 72 year old widow of Arnold Stroutmeier told them she would help out as much as she could and invited them in to her living room, leading them to a beautiful leather sofa, which felt much too cool to the touch when they sat on it.
"Would you like some coffee or tea before we begin," Meghan asked.  "I don't get very many visitors so I'd love to make you some."  Damien started to decline, but Beth interrupted him.
"Coffee would be great.  Just black would be fine with me."
Meghan looked inquiringly at Damien who nodded his head yes and told her black with cream and sugar if she had it.
"Of course I have it; that's the way I drink it," she said pleasantly.  "You're a brave girl for taking it straight, ah, I'm sorry, what was your name again?"
"Beth Reddy and this is Damien George."
"Oh yes, that's right.  I have never done a good job of listening to names.  I should have remembered yours though, sir.  It's unusual to have two first names like that."  Damien shrugged as if to say, what can I do?
In a couple of minutes Mrs. Stroutmeir returned with three cups of coffee perched on a metal tray that looked as if it came from a nursing home.  She first served Beth and Damien, then herself, returning to a wooden rocking chair opposite the visitors.  After a little chit chat regarding background information that Mrs. Stroutmeir requested from them, Beth questioned her about the murder last night.
"So, please tell us what you know, if anything, about what happened last night."
"I can only tell you what I told the policemen last night, and then the sheriff who came this morning.  It's not much.  First of all, I have to tell you that I'm a bit of a night owl because I have trouble sleeping at night.  I watch a lot of TV, specifically HGTV.  I love that show Love It or List It.  Last night they were following an older hippie couple from Greenwich Village who told the designer...I can't remember her name...Oh, Jillian.  She used to be on the Bachelor show.  She's from Canada, you know.  She has a cute little accent, hey."  She waited for a reaction that didn't come.  "Well, anyway, I digress.  Last night I was watching that show and I guess it was around 10:30 when I got a little restless and started walking around the house.  I do that sometimes at night.  I happened to look outside, as I often do, and I saw what I thought was a person laying on the sidewalk.  I thought to myself that it's awfully cold to be out there...maybe the person slipped and knocked themselves out, so I put my coat and boots on to go help.  That's when I found out it was Laura.  I saw all the blood on the snow, and her head, her head was a mess, all caved in like that.  I, I didn't know what to do.  She was obviously dead, so I rushed back into the house, taking care not to slip on the ice, and call the police.  I did that and not long after, the police came with their lights flashing and knocked on my door.  Oh I tell you I didn't get much sleep last night at all.  Poor Laura.  I didn't think she had slipped and fallen.  There was too much blood and her skull wouldn't get crushed like that from just a fall.  I knew she was murdered right away.  I tell you I've lived here for forty-six years and there's never been a killing in this town, never."  She stopped talking and just stared at the two of them.
Knowing the answer, already, Damien asked it anyway, "And you didn't see anybody around who might have done this?"
"Not a soul," she said forcefully.

A snippet from the investigation in "The Book Club Murders"

It was five o'clock in the afternoon so they were hoping that Mr. Hodges was home for supper.  They were not disappointed.  He came to the door dressed amazingly well for a person of little means.  He wore Docker pants, Gucci shoes, and a Ralph Lauren long sleeved dress shirt.  Pleasantly surprised at his appearance, Beth and Damien accepted his invitation to enter and were guided to the meticulously restored kitchen table and chairs.  Countertops were cleared and wiped.  The floor was sparkling.  Dishes were put away.  By all their observations, Mr. Hodges was a very neat man.
A copy of Tolstoy's War and Peace, lay on the table, with a book mark sticking out near the end.  After looking around the kitchen, Beth and Damien assumed a couple of chairs.
"So, you said you'd like to interrogate me in the matter of Laura Walter's death," he began a little testily.
"Not interrogate, Mr. Hodges, just ask if you happened to notice anything different the night of the murder," Beth quickly responded.  Hodges smiled.
"Would you believe you are the first to visit and ask anything?  The police or sheriff never bothered with me.  I gather they assumed that an old vagrant such as myself, would be of no use to them."  He bent his head a little as his face pondered his own statement.  "And I suppose they would be correct...in most instances."  Their interest heightened when he said the last part of the statement, like he had wanted. "Please join me in a cup of tea," he said as he instantly rose to fetch the tea pot.  Damien protested that they had just had two cups of coffee and needed no more liquids, but was waved off by Hodges, who busied himself preparing his most precious drink.
Following a few minutes of chit chat with his back to his guests, Mr. Hodges returned to the table with his favorite tea.  Sugar cubes were optional.  Beth and Damien accepted the cups and thanked him.
Stirring his sugar cube in his tea with a passion, Damien stopped for a moment and asked the first question.  "So, Mr. Hodges, exactly what do you know about the murder?  You hinted that you knew something."
"I simply said that the police would be correct in most instances that an old person like myself would have nothing useful to report to them."
It had been a long day and Beth let out a frustrated sigh before saying, "Mr. Hodges, we're not here to play games.  Laura Walters was a friend of mine and if you have any information about her death, you should share it with us and the police.  If you really have nothing, please don't waste our time."
Mr. Hodges beamed as he said, "My dear, I assure you that I am not playing games.  I may have something for you, but then again, I may not."  Damien placed his tea cup on the table.
"More games.  Beth, I think we should chalk this up to an old man who wants some attention, go back into town, and stop at the Municipal to see if anyone knows something there."
"My boy, that won't do you any good.  Interview a bunch of drunks who play pull tabs all day and all night long?"  Hodges sipped his tea as he eyed them both.
"All right, Mr. Hodges, then tell us what you mean," Beth retorted.
"Well, the information I have may be of use to you, but that is for you to determine.  I cannot do that for you, nor should I.  I travel around town every day and venture out onto the county roads and ditches in my never ending quest for treasure, uh, aluminum cans, if you prefer.  I may see things most people do not.  My mind is not encumbered by work, relationships, or petty jealousies of anything or anyone, so I remember things that I've seen.  I am focused."  He picked up his tea cup and daintily enjoyed another sip of his tea.

More about Claude from "The Book Club Murders"

Claude finished cleansing and drying off his body.  He had taken thirty minutes to accomplish both tasks.  He dreaded opening the door and still finding her in his bed, but  little choice was left to him.  Turning the light off first, he cracked the bathroom door slightly.  His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkened room revealing an empty bed with it's coverings cast aside.
  A flicker of hope that she was gone flashed through his mind and his eyes brightened as he contemplated the possibility.  Opening the door fully, he ventured into the room, looking carefully in every direction as he walked toward the ruffled bed.
The bedroom door was ajar.  He had closed it when he went to bed, but of course she had opened it when she entered later.  It was obvious to him that she was nowhere in the bedroom, so she was either in the living room or gone.  Moving cautiously, he passed through the partially opened doorway, entering the living room with some trepidation.  A creak in the flooring greeted him as he stepped into the opening.  Freezing in his tracks the instant he heard the sound, his eyes scanned the dark interior of the outer room.  A sigh of relief escaped him as he realized she was not in his apartment anymore.
Claude quickly moved to the entrance door and make sure it was locked.  It wasn't.  He turned the lock and this time, hooking the safety chain to the jam, he fully secured it.  Now he could breathe easier.
He flipped on a lamp light and pulled a notebook from a drawer in the desk.  He scrawled the words sloppily onto the paper, change locks tomorrow.  He would make sure that she never gained entrance to his apartment again.
Sleep appeared to be a commodity he wouldn't achieve tonight as he drifted into thoughts of how in the hell he had ever met and befriended Kristen, though he was sure that was not her real name.
They had first met at a bar on the outskirts of Rochester.  He thought the name was Whiskey Creek, but he couldn't be sure.  He, along with friends had frequented several drinking establishments that evening and he really couldn't be sure which place he had met "Kristen".  Once they had hooked up his friends had left him, believing that he would be involved for the evening, which he was.
"Kristen" was quite pretty, maybe a little older than he, and certainly as tall as he was.  She laughed easily and appeared to be very interested in him.  It was an easy pick up.  The more he thought about it, however, the easy pickup had been him, not the other way around.  It was like she had chosen him and he gratefully acquiesced.
They had ended up at his apartment where she practically tore his clothing from his body.  It was as if she had a thirst for him that could not be satisfied.  During their first weeks he totally enjoyed being her object of lust and obsession.
They saw each other on a weekly basis for two months.  As he came to know and expect what she was going to do to him, the red flags began standing out a little more clearly.  They didn't make love; it was animal sex with no kissing or foreplay.  Her demeanor was always calculated and the conversation was nonexistent, far different from the first night he had been picked up by her.
He began pulling away and not answering her calls.  A real fear within him had begun to take hold.  The feeling that crept up his spine couldn't be explained by just one experience or comment that she said or didn't say.  It was just...a feeling.  A general feeling that something was not right with her; that she was an unusually damaged human being who was fighting demons that she would never understand.  He cringed when he thought of her and what she might be capable of doing.  Tomorrow, tomorrow the lock would be changed; he would make sure of that, for he wanted nothing to do with her ever again.

Report on Austin Artworks Festival presentation

Hi, I suddenly remembered that I hadn't said anything about the Artworks Festival in Austin and my participation in it.  First of all, I really enjoyed walking around and looking at the paintings, photographs, craftwork, and pottery.  I also attended a couple of author presentations.

My presentation, with question and answer period went about 45 minutes.  About thirty people attended and I hope I entertained them.  I spoke about my writing process including layout and publication.

I sold twenty books with orders for several more.  To go back next year I'll have to finish and publish another book, which may happen, but I've decided that I'm going to take my time with the next one and polish it a bit ore than the other two, so we'll see what happens.

A little more from "The Book Club Murders

Claude had thought he would never see her again.  Fear seeped into his brain as he wondered how she had entered his apartment.  And the heat, the damn heat and sweat were driving him insane.  He was literally swimming in his own sweat soaked sheets and trembling as he watched her come closer.
"I thought we needed some time together," she said while removing her clothes and nestling close to his body, making the sweaty heat even more unbearable.
"I, I can't.  It's too hot in here.  Let me turn down the heat," he pleaded.
"You know I like it this way.  Stay in bed."   He felt her hand on his thigh.  She then began.
He felt himself involuntarily harden as her hand grasped him.
"No, no, no," he said, barely audible even to himself.
She continued as he gulped for air, almost not noticing she had mounted him, rhythmically rocking as he sweated and dreaded every second.  Her hair brushed over and back across her face as she moved, but he didn't see.  His eyes had closed when she had begun; he had not wanted to look at her.  Soon, however, their bodies were cooperating, moving in tandem to the rhythm dictated by her.
When he climaxed, she quickened her pace until she screamed and collapsed upon his chest.
Tears that he never saw rolled from her eyes, mixing with their sweat.
They lay like that for several minutes until, exhausted, she slid off him and rolled to the other side of the bed.  Claude gathered himself, noticed that the digital clock read 11:45 p.m., and slunk toward the bathroom, first stopping at the thermostat to turn the heat down.  He closed the door before turning on the light so she didn't wake.  He didn't want that.  He turned the shower on and kept it cool.  He stood, letting the cold water pelt his face, hair and body, turning so his back and buttocks could feel the refreshing, cleansing, spray.  Grasping the bar of soap, he scrubbed himself until his skin was red and tender to the touch.



Sheriff Cooper Lewis sat in his relaxed style, leaned back with his feet up on his desk in Spirit Grove.  He cradled a hot, bitter, cup of coffee in his hands and just sat, relaxing while he waited for Deputy Lisa Dolcheski to arrive for work.  At 8:04 a.m., the door swung open and Lisa popped in.
Lewis caught her eye and pointed toward the clock hanging above Lisa's head.  "You're late," he said amiably with a little smirk.
"I'm sorry, Cooper.  I got caught up with a marathon session of Star Trek episodes and stayed up too late."
"Never knew you were a Trekkie, Lisa."
"Oh yeah, big time.  I loved that show.  Anytime I see that it's going to be on I try to make sure I watch it."
"You should just get a DVR, record it ahead of time and watch it anytime you want.  Then, maybe you won't stay up so late and be late for work the next morning," he smiled when he said the last part.
"It won't happen again, Cooper."  She had said it while making clear she knew he was only joking.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, took a sip and grimaced.  "I'll make us a new batch," she said as she retained her grip on the pot and poured it out in the sink.  "So, anything new this early in the morning?"

Section from "The Book Club Murders"

Chapter 1


Claude lay in bed, eyes closed, but nonetheless, awake.  His bedroom was exceedingly warm causing him to sweat buckets until his sheets felt saturated.   Funny, it was winter and he thought he had turned the heat down to 58 degrees earlier in the evening.  He slept best when a chill was in the air and the ceiling fan delivered just enough of a gentle breeze to keep him comfortable.
It wasn't long before he couldn't stand it anymore and he threw the top sheet and light blanket off and his eyes sprang open.  Five seconds later, his eyes adjusted to the blackness, revealing her standing near the end of the bed.
"What are you doing here?  What time is it?"  he frantically asked.
Moving around the corner of the bed, she edged closer.  "Does it matter?"
Claude had thought he would never see her again.  Fear seeped into his brain as he wondered how she had entered his apartment.  And the heat, the damn heat and sweat were driving him insane.  He was literally swimming in his own sweat soaked sheets and trembling as he watched her come closer.
"I thought we needed some time together," she said while removing her clothes and nestling close to his body, making the sweaty heat even more unbearable.
"I, I can't.  It's too hot in here.  Let me turn down the heat," he pleaded.
"You know I like it this way.  Stay in bed."  She then began her special process.

A little more from "Brothers".


His brother Kellan and cousin Mitch were running on the path leading to the opposite side of the bridge.  They were yelling while pointing downriver at Stranger, Jack's family dog.  Stranger was trapped in the icy water, desperately pawing at the edges of the ice while yelping loudly, trying to free himself from the frigid grave that awaited him.
Running quickly, Jack ignored the danger of falling and made it to the other side of the bridge.  Slushy ice flew as his feet hit the pathway, and his instincts took over.  The dash to the area where the spring emptied into the Red Cedar took him only a minute.  Stranger continued yelping and pawing at the ice as Jack laid himself out headfirst on the thinning ice cap and grabbed a paw, pulling the dog out of the water and completely off the ice to safety.  The dog shook vigorously, covering Jack, Kellan, and Mitch with an icy shower before running in circles on the shore.  It was an anticlimactic end to Stranger's life threatening event.
As the memory faded, Jack smiled,  crossed his arms, and sat back on the stool.  He had probably saved his dog's life that early spring day forty-five years ago.
My God, forty-five years ago.  How could time pass so quickly?  It didn't seem that long ago, and yet, it did.
So many things had changed over the years: marriages, kids, grandchildren.  Thinking philosophically had never been his forte, but a strange mixture of melancholy and contentment filled his brain, and, as he resettled himself on his thickly padded stool, other memories began swirling in his head.

A rough, rough draft from my book on brothers..........



Jack rummaged in the tall, wooden cabinet his father had made eons ago, trying to find the folding saw his children had given him for Christmas.  He was gathering items he always took for the annual trek to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area with his two brothers.
After several fruitless searches into the back of the cabinet, he gave up and returned to sit on the high stool he left by the window that framed a view of his wooded backyard.  Comfortably ensconced on the stool, he gazed into the trees fifty feet away.
After staring for twenty seconds or more, the trees slowly blurred as his mind wandered.  He soon immersed himself in a memory of when he was eleven walking on the old railroad bridge behind their family home.
Straddling the long, wooden planks, separated by three-inch gaps, the walk across the bridge had always frightened him.  The drop was forty feet to the Red Cedar River below, and the water rarely froze as it flowed quickly through the narrows squeezing through the mini gorge it had cut out long ago.  Ancient stumps could be seen hiding just below the water's surface along with the occasional flash from a rock bass as it flipped sideways while swimming through the thigh deep water.
He stopped his progress and looked up when he heard frantic yelps coming from the direction of the still semi-frozen river two hundred yards away.  The thirty-foot river banks, which sloped gently to the water's edge on both sides of the river, were still mostly covered in snow.  On the river, slits in the ice revealed tiny ripples on the water's surface that had been manufactured by a cold, ten knot breeze whistling through the miniature gorge.

Well, my hiatus is over, tomorrow morning I begin writing again on a regular basis.  I'll set aside three hours every morning and have at it.  I've got a bunch of ideas swimming around in my head again and have gathered some technical information that I need to support one of my stories, The Book Club Murders.
I've also gathered several stories to support the other novel in my head, tentatively titled, Brothers, so as soon as I've written something acceptable I'll post samples.

I recently had some great news!  I have been selected to be one of the presenting authors in Austin's Artworks Festival, August 24th and 25th.  I will be talking about my books on Sunday, August 25th, 2013 at noon for about 45 minutes.  My presentation will cover why I began writing, the process I use, reading a couple of selections from my books, and a question and answer portion.

I'm very excited about this opportunity and looking forward to it.  My books will also be on sale at the event.

The Austin Artworks Festival will take place in the old Utility Building in downtown Austin.  Please stop in and visit.

The Book Club Murders (tentative title of my next mystery novel)

This is the prologue for my next mystery, tentatively titled, The Book Club Murders.



The Book Club Murders

Carin, Jenny, and Mary investigate two murders of their book club members in Rose Creek and Austin, Mn. They are assisted by Beth and Lisa Dolcheski, deputy sheriff of Spirit Grove.


                                                             Prologue
                                                  Rose Creek, Minnesota


She watched and waited, shielded from view by the protective shadows across the street.  It was 10:08 p.m.  The porch light had flicked on and the door had opened.  Laughter permeated the air as women filtered out of the house, saying their goodbyes and then getting into their cars and driving away.
Laura Walters was the last to leave.  She stood clearly illuminated in the porch light as she shared laughs and final words with the host of the monthly book club meeting. Laura said her last goodbye as she turned, exited the porch, and began the four block walk to her home; it was a neatly kept two story colonial on the north side of County Road 4.
The four glasses of wine she had drunk during the "meeting" seemed to warm her innards, although she still pulled the collar tighter against her exposed neck.  She wore no hat as she braved the winter chill and negotiated the icy sidewalk guiding her to her house, slipping and sliding a little as she proceeded.  A wordless, ephemeral melody flowed from her lips, guaranteeing that she would pay little attention to her surroundings.
Nightstick in hand, the stalker inched closer to her target until she was only a few steps behind.
The night was quiet except for Laura's singing and the crunching sound made when their boots mashed chunks of ice on the sidewalk.  Both figures stopped when Laura ceased vocalizing the wordless melody and turned to see the one behind her.
Her eyes brightened, losing the dull sheen of inebriety.  "I thought-."  Before Laura could finish the sentence the nightstick crashed into her skull several times, sprinkling the sidewalk and snow with spatters of blood.
Breathing heavily, the stalker removed a glove and felt for a pulse in Laura's neck.  There was none.  "One down," she said to no one and then quickly returned to her vehicle two blocks away.

Gymocha books

I've been busy with a basement renovation project and left with little time to write, but did manage to sketch out a very iffy outline for a novel about brothers.

My current idea, and I say current, because my brain was in flux when I formulated it, is to begin with a scene that involves all three brothers in a life altering event.  However, I am fairly certain that will change a couple of times before finally settling on what I might consider a beginning that could have potential.

 I have two other stories begun with rough prologues and another one with a simple idea written down and saved.  I may take a longer time working on all of these as I flesh out plot lines.

 So, oh well.  I'll keep plugging away with ideas and frameworks for a story about brothers.  I have a feeling that I'll be wrestling with this for awhile.

Oh, I almost forgot my main reason for posting today, and that is, both of my books, Trust Me Now and Cassandra's Moon, are now available at Gymocha.

I attended an author presentation last night at the Austin Public Library.  Peter Geye talked about the two books he had written and published.  The first was Safe From the Sea.  His second novel, which he had to be asked about by an attendee, was The Lighthouse Road.  Although I haven't read either one, my wife has and highly recommended both to me.  I will be reading them.

I was struck by the humble and honest presentation from Mr. Geye.  I was also impressed by his reading of a short section from his first novel, Safe From the Sea.  Mr. Geye, I think is an honest to goodness fine human being who has an endearing interest in becoming a good writer.  Based upon what I heard, he's already there.

His presentation actually inspired me to write a story about brothers and explore the interactions, differences, inconsistencies, and love that exists among them.  Since I have two brothers I have some background to drawn upon.  Although my younger brother died in an ATV accident several years ago, memories never seem to fade, and he is as alive today within me as he was when we were young.

My older brother has lived a colorful life and I would certainly draw upon some of his experiences as I try to weave a story that would allow people to laugh, and maybe even shed a few happy tears, hopefully in recognition of similar interactions with their own siblings.

 It will be a different type of writing for me, but I'm excited about trying something like this.  Hopefully, I will be able to turn out a good product, because, in the end,  I, like Peter Geye, would eventually like to be known as a good person, father, husband, and...writer.

Cassandra's Moon

My second book, Cassandra's Moon, is finally ready and published on Amazon.com.  It is available as either a Kindle ebook or paperback.  It completes the first book I wrote, Trust Me Now, but in a strange way can stand on its own.  I believe you could read the second book and get the feeling of what fundamentally happened in the first book through my use of flashbacks at two or three different points along the way.

I'm quite happy with how it turned out and am now turning my attention to writing a murder mystery involving a book club and a few of the characters from my first two novels.

New section of Cassandra's Moon

About half the action in my second book (Cassandra's Moon) takes place in Italy.  I've based much of the descriptions upon my memories of the areas in Sorrento and Capri that we visited.  The brief section I've posted here relates the background of one of the characters who plays an important role in the Italian portion of the book.  All of the characters in the book have Minnesota connections.

JUNE 1947   MARSHALL ANDERSON

Marshall tightly gripped the railing of the ferry as the view of Sorrento flanked by cliffs and hills appeared in his view.  It was a beautiful, blue sky encasing the world he was in.  In fact, Mount Vesuvius could be seen clearly in the distance across the bay from the charming city, a rare sight.  Usually, it was covered in clouds swirling around the top one-third of the mountain.

  During his tenure in Sicily, only four years ago,  he had been a soldier in the American army.  Now, he was just a twenty-two year old civilian on the proverbial quest to "find himself".  He had been greeted as a hero after the war when he returned home to Beaver Bay, Minnesota.  He hadn't felt like a hero.  He had done his job, even though he was scared out of his wits most of the time.  Most of them had been scared, scared beyond their grossest childhood dreams. Many who had come back were damaged, not just physically.  That was the easy part.  Emotionally, the scars would last for decades.  He hoped to erase his memories of the war and what he did, or didn't do, here, where he sought a new life.  A quieter, simpler life.  

Marshall wanted justification for continuing a life that seemed without meaning.  He wanted to atone for what he wasn't, and find what he wanted to be.  Although, he had no idea what that was right at this moment.  

He had finished high school, but in reality, his skills were limited.  His greatest skill had been thrust upon him by the army.  It had taught him how to fire the M1 Garand, officially designated as United States rifle caliber 30M1.  It was the first semi-automatic rifle to be generally issued to the infantry of any nation.  It had a metal clip containing eight rounds.  The rifle fired one round each time the trigger was pulled.  After the eight rounds were shot, the clip automatically ejected, causing a ping noise to occur.  He learned to hate that damn noise.   It clung to his brain like a tick on a dog.  It wouldn't let go, along with every memory he had of firing the gun.  

So, here he was, ready to start over doing whatever he could.  He needed to put it all in the past.  Through a bit of circumlocution, the reasoning going on in his brain gave him the idea of coming back to Italy and facing whatever demons he needed to exorcise.  Marshall didn't know if it would work, but he was willing to give it a go.  He had chosen Sorrento because a buddy had told him it was the most beautiful place in Italy.

The ferry entered the Marina Grande, port of Sorrento.  It's speed had slowed perceptively when they approached the protected harbor.  The refreshing breeze he had been basking in earlier diminished to nearly nothing as the boat slowed and approached the main dock.  His Boston Red Sox cap took its place on top of his head while his eyes soaked in the the stunning view before him.  

The position of Sorrento, which was known as Surrentum more than two thousand years ago, was very secure.  It was naturally protected by deep gorges.  Old walls, forty feet high, defended a 300 metre section on the southwest side of the city.  Those walls dated from Roman times.  The arrangement of the modern streets remained the same as the ancient town.  No ruins were preserved in the town, but, part way up a cliff, underneath the Hotel Victoria, an ancient rock-cut tunnel descended to the sea.  In future days, Marshall would learn its location and follow its pathway with Sarah.

A member of the crew called out something in Italian to similarly dressed men on the dock.  Ropes were tossed from the ferry and caught by the men below.  The ferry captain threw the engines into reverse, gently bringing the boat to a halt as he swung it around and kissed the side of the dock.  When the boat was securely tied, streams of people poured from the ferry onto the dock.  He waited patiently till the others lined up and filed past him.  He kept his gaze upon the city and the mountainous backdrop.  He had heard of a road built along the cliffs paralleling the sea.  He had caught the tail-end of an American couples conversation; Amalfi coast he had heard them say.  Something about a breathtaking, beautiful drive they were going to take from Sorrento to the south and then back again.  Heights and sheer cliff drop-offs did not excite him.  

The crowd thinned until only a few passengers, including him, remained on the ferry.  Picking up his lone duffle bag, stuffed with everything he could pack into it, he walked with some trepidation to the steps arranged for disembarking.  A lively, young man sporting a sailors cap waited at the bottom of the steps, ready to catch anyone that might stumble as they descended.  Marshall nodded and then stepped onto the dock.  

"Buongiorno," said the dock-man just as cheerily the last time as the first.  Marshall replied with the same "good morning" greeting while he disembarked.  His eyes cast down to the clear waters of the Mediterranean slapping the posts sunk deep into the bottom below.   Pausing, he watched fish darting between rocks and in and out of hollows.  They reminded him of the herring caught in Lake Superior, but he had no idea what kind of fish they actually were.  He knew that sea bass, salmon, and swordfish inhabited the waters, but probably not this close in.  Not having anything else to do, and being intensely interested in the scene below, he kept watching.  

"Don't fall in," he heard from a female voice speaking English.  The most beautiful woman in the world stood twenty feet further up the dock.  Her thick, dark hair cascaded well below her shoulders.  The features of her face definitely identified her as Italian, at least, in his view.   A dark complexion and angular cheek bones caressing a Roman nose, filled his vision.  Her expressive eyes appeared to reflect the sailboats gliding across the sea behind him.  While standing slightly turned towards her, he quickly decided that he wanted to find out more about the girl who had just warned him.

"I was just watching the fish."  He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Instead of watching them, you should try catching them."

"I would, but, as you can see, I don't have a fishing pole.  She smirked a little and walked close, stopping a perfect, socially acceptable distance away.

"Well, there are other ways of catching fish."  Without elaborating, or waiting for him to respond, she walked towards the ferry, and then she turned and shouted, "My name is Sarah."  The sound of her shoes clapping upon the wooden planks of the dock floated to him like music in a great outdoor theater.  His eyes followed the young girl in the loosely fitted dress.  He was a bit flustered, but intoxicated by her presence, which was now leaving.  She hopped gracefully up the steps and onto the ferry.  

A passage from the sequel to "Trust Me Now"

She finished her drink, climbed into her tan Focus, and began to drive west on I-90.   Before she reached Dexter where she would turn onto old highway 16 and wind her way east to Lanesboro, the giant wind turbines came into view.  Dotting the countryside while rising a hundred feet into the air, the turbines, with their huge blades turning in majesty always filled her with a sense of awe.  While staring at the individual blades attached to the hubs, the steady, never changing circular motion of the blades around the nacelle near the top of the tower had a hypnotic effect on her.   To her, they almost seemed like the man-made equivalents of the great Redwood trees along the California coast.  Shaking off the the effects of the slow, twirling blades, she watched for the exit.   There, a sign for the turn, two miles down the interstate.  She left the highway, taking the offramp to Highway 16 east.  

She drove the speed limit as she passed through the town of Grand Meadow and its hallmark domed school.  Continuing further, she passed Spring Valley.  And further on, she entered the city limits of Spirit Grove.  Gripping the wheel tightly, Beth tried not to look at any of the buildings or citizens as they went about their business.  Her breathing became irregular as memories of her tormented childhood years came rushing back to her.  Surprising herself, she turned onto the county road that would take her to Uncle Archer's old house.  She passed the fields where years ago, Mark and her had become lost when they had walked in circles for hours in the dark of night.  Their feeble attempt to escape had been a failure.  

The ten minutes it took her to reach the house seemed like hours.  The white, story and a half house came into view.  When she reached the long driveway, she paused, but finally turned in, drawn toward the house, not really knowing why.   She was shaking her head while the car dipped in potholes and sent her lurching from one side to the other.  Why was she doing this to herself?  She didn't know, but something called her forward.  

The old house stood as empty now as it had been for the past two years.  A few windows had been broken; probably neighbors taking out their own frustrations with the demise of their church and cult.  No one from town had ever been prosecuted for the atrocities they had committed against multitudes of innocent children.  The rage still burned within her at that imperfect outcome.  

She stopped the car near the front porch.  The wooden rocking chair remained in the same place she had last seen it.  Stepping out of the Focus, she almost stumbled before shutting the door and moving haltingly toward the steps to the front porch.  Beth paused before placing her foot on the first step.  Taking a deep breath, she moved without purpose to the porch and then the door.  It was unlocked as she twisted the knob in her hand.   The living room was the same.  Furniture had been stripped from the area, however.  Walking softly and with hesitation, she stopped by the front hall closet where Uncle Archer had locked her and Mark when she was ten and he was nine.  That night had marked another turning point in their lives.  It had brought everything into vivid focus and defined the remainder of their childhood.

Her eyes latched onto the closet door.  A shaking hand worked its way to the knob and turned.  The door was stuck.  She pulled hard, but it didn't budge.  Bracing herself, she yanked on it.  With a dried, screeching noise the door opened.  Taking a deep breath before entering, she straightened and boldly walked inside.   It was empty, except for old, cracked  coat hangers that dangled from the bar.  Beth stood while her eyes moved around the tiny room that, long ago, when she was young, seemed so large.  Her body shivered as her mind flashed back to that night when Uncle Archer threw her and Mark inside and locked the door.  Marks head had bled from where he had been slammed into the railing while they were being dragged down the stairway.  Beth, although physically uninjured at the time, bore the emotional pain of being raped earlier by her uncle.  

She unconsciously backed out of the room.  Gathering herself, Beth continued her journey to the stairway and then up the stairs to the bedrooms.  Creaks and groans had followed each footstep as she made her way to the top landing.  Walking confidently now, Beth steered herself to her old room.  Her bed remained, along with a few dolls left scattered on the floor.  She picked up an almost perfect Raggedy Ann doll and hugged it.  Her feet took her to the bed where she lay down clutching the doll, and stared at the ceiling.  She fell asleep dreaming of her mother and father who had been killed in the auto accident.

I'm about 20,000 words into the sequel to "Trust Me Now"  I'm calling it "Cassandra's Moon".  It's fairly challenging (for a novice writer such as myself) to write a story covering four days, but I'm enjoying it.  In a few days I'll release another snippet onto this blog.  So far I'm happy with the results and believe I'm on target to have it in book form by the end of March.
Usually I'll write between a thousand and fifteen hundred words a day.  I took several days off because we had our belated Christmas celebration with my family.  We'll have another celebration with Cindy's family on the 19th.  Work schedules for your kids can be difficult to work around.