The pitch for The Book Club Murders

A puzzling murder takes place in a small southern Minnesota town during the coldest spell of winter.  It's January, and Beth Reddy, newly certified private investigator, is hired by members of her book club to help solve the killing of one of their own.  Beth and her partner, Damien George, are supposed to be cooperating with the local authorities, but after deciding there's more to this than meets the eye, strike out on their own.

The reader is taken on a psychological journey into the minds of several suspects after the murder of another book club member occurs in a neighboring town.  Although one individual, a local odd fellow, emerges in the eyes of Beth and Damien as the main person of interest, local officials seem to be perplexed.                                                                                                   

The odd fellow possesses a mysterious past and a curious connection to the murder victims, but the logistics and motives just don't seem to add up.  The murders continue to pile up, further complicating the investigation and confirming the suspicions of some in the law enforcement community.  

Nothing is as it seems as Beth and Damien stretch the legal boundaries while desperately seeking the identity of the person eliminating members of the book club.

Some writings from, Brothers.

After stepping out of the river and onto the rocky shore, Slack asked Gabe, “Hey!  You got any cigarettes?”   They stood on the rocky shore of the river, dripping wet in their swim suits.   Slack lived a mile south of the Hula’s in the residential edition occupied by mostly packing plant workers.  He and most of the others from the edition came to the river near the Hula’s place and swam.  They usually brought cigarettes with them as well.  

Today, however, Slack was all out and stared at Gabe as he asked him the question almost accusingly.  “Well, you got any?” 

“Uh, no, Mom and Dad don’t smoke so I can’t steal any,” Gabe answered apologetically.

“Shit!  You river rats never have anything we could use.”  Slack gazed back at his buddies who had continued splashing in the river, enjoying the cool break on the ninety degree day.  Trying to be friendly again, he changed the subject and said,  “I see your dad finally got your new house done.  How do ya like it?”

“It’s great!   We’ve got a big bedroom for us three boys and Sydney gets her own bedroom with a built in make-up table and mirror,” Gabe said enthusiastically with a big smile planted on his face.  

Slack regarded him warily for a minute and then burst out laughing as he grinned and said, “God!  You sound like a damn little kid the way you talk.”  Sarcasm dripped from his lips as he said the words, “Make-up table.  Holy balls!  Did your dad build anything for the boys in the family?”   

“Well, yeah.  We’ve got dressers, a shelf, and a toy box built right in to the bedroom.”  Gabe smiled again, proud of what his dad had made for them.  Slack stood still with his hands on his hips, water dripping like a slow leak from his swimming suit.  His stare and silence caught Gabe by surprise as he had expected a little more of an excited comment about all the built-ins they had in the boys' bedroom. 

But the only thing that came out of Slack was another laugh and a derisive comment, “A toy box?"  He rolled his eyes.  “You’re ten years old and your dad built a toy box for you?  What are you a little baby?”  Secretly, Slack was jealous.  The houses in the edition he lived in were mostly small, cheaply made structures that did have indoor plumbing, but were nothing like the comparatively opulent Hula abode, and, their dads and moms hadn’t made them by themselves.

Gabe looked around, trying to spot his little brother and sister, who were still splashing in the river.  

He bit his lip and made a decision.  “I can get some cigarettes.”  Slack’s eyes widened a little.

“Okay.  What are you waiting for?  Go get ‘em.”  Gabe rushed up the  embankment and stopped just short of the neighbor’s house.  The Klippers smoked so they’d have cigarettes lying around someplace.  Sneaking toward the patio near the back door, he noticed a pack of cigarettes with matches lying on a plastic table.  He hesitated before making a quick dash to the table and scooped up the pack and matches.  His heart racing, he ran back down the embankment and showed his haul to Slack.

“Nice job, my man,” Slack said as he carefully took the pack and inspected it.

“Oh yeah.  Marlboro’s.  About as good as it gets.”  He withdrew one of the eight unfiltered cigarettes left in the pack and popped an end between his lips.  It dangled there as he stepped over to the flat rock on shore, put the pack down, and then lit his cigarette.  He drew in too much smoke and hacked out a torrent of coughs.

Gabe laughed.  “Can’t handle the good stuff, huh?”  Slack took another drag and drew his breath in even more.  This time he took care and held it in comfortably before exhaling a voluminous cloud of curly smoke into the formerly pristine air.  A big smile appeared on Slack’s face as he nodded.

“That’s how ya do it, Gabe!  Have one.”  He reached to the rock, picked up the pack along with the matches and tossed them to Gabe.  They fell at his feet.  “Don’t let them get wet!”  Gabe quickly plucked them off the rocky beach and copied Slack’s actions.  He barely inhaled after lighting the cigarette, looking back at Slack with a satisfied smile on his lips as he deftly held the cigarette between two fingers.

Slack wasn’t his real name; it was Jim, but he liked the name Slack, and told everyone to call him that.  All the kids in the edition fancied themselves as tough guys.  Slack was the coolest and toughest of all, plus he was two years older than anyone else in the edition so everyone did what he said.

My oldest brother spent three tours of duty in Viet Nam during the late 1960s. The following is my brother's account of an incident in Viet Nam, 1967. I'll be using this at some point in my book, Brothers.

Hill 327

Tet of 1967.  My unit was sent out to take hill 327 during operation Cochise.  It was just another hill thought to be a VC encampment.  We were dropped from helicopters in the jungle about a klick from the hill and proceeded on foot to take it.  As it turned out nobody wanted the hill until we got there.

With no enemy in sight, we were ordered to set up a perimeter and dig in for the duration.  We dug two man fox holes using folding, entrenching tools and filling sand bags using the dirt dug out of the holes.  These holes were home for the next 31 days and nights.

The days weren't so bad.  We ate in our holes, kept watch, and went out on patrols.  Occasional firefights were the rule.  Constant heat, off and on rain, and poor sanitation contributed to body lice, diarrhea, and jungle rot.  Talk about a bunch of pissed off guys!

Then would come the nights.  It would seem as though everybody in the world wanted our hill.  Mortars, rockets, and hit and run tactics against our perimeter would happen sporadically throughout the night.

So much more happened here I just don't want to write anymore about; I'll tell you over many drinks sometime.

A sample from my next novel, Brothers. This will be a novel that uses many of the circumstances of my own life.

January 3, 1956

The three oldest kids were stuffed into the only bedroom of the little cedar shake house set back two-hundred feet from the Red Cedar River.  Frost decorated  the two walls of the bedroom that were opposite  the elements.  Jack was in the top bunk against the inside wall.  When he felt inclined, he could maneuver and stretch his body and arm across the narrow space separating him from the frost on the opposite wall and carve designs in it with his fingernails.  

Jack Hula was six years old.  His older sister and brother, Sydney and Gabe were nine and ten.  Gabe occupied the lower bunk while Sydney's bunk was set perpendicular at the feet of the others.  Kellan lay in a bassinet in the main room of the house next to their parents’ pullout bed.

A kerosene stove in the middle of the tiny living room provided the only source of heat in the winter, keeping a steady flow of warm air passing over the two year old, Kellan, lying in the bassinet.  Two lamps were situated strategically in corners of the living room and a bare 60 watt bulb was screwed into a receptacle in the middle of the ceiling.  The house had no running water or bathroom.  An outhouse was set in back next to a shed.  Gabe and Sydney, now that they were ten and nine, were often given the task of hauling two buckets away from the house and up the path leading to the railroad embankment.  From there they climbed the ten-foot embankment to the bridge, crossed it, and then followed a two-hundred yard path that lead to a spring bubbling out of the ground.  They filled the buckets and hauled them back to the house.

  Water had to be hauled daily, across all seasons during the nine years Jack’s family lived this way.  Jack’s mother, Anabelle, could hardly wait for the children to age enough so they could help with the hard chores that were necessary for maintaining their lives near the river.  This was the first year that Gabe and Sydney had been allowed to fetch water.  Annabelle had made sure they were up to it; they had accompanied her many times during the previous years, carefully negotiating the railroad bridge until she was sure they could walk it blindfolded if need be.  The children were always thrilled at the prospect of fetching water and looked forward to the opportunity to show Mom that they could do it alone.  

None of the  Hula’s closest neighbors lived this way, indeed, just about no one else did during the late 40’s and early 50’s.    All had running water and indoor bathrooms.  

Jack’s father, Brian Hula, had been discharged from the Navy following World War 11, found out he and his little family couldn’t live on the money the GI Bill provided for him to attend Aeronautical Engineering school in California so returned to Minnesota where he worked as a laborer at the packing plant in Austin.  It was a unionized plant that provided a decent, if not spectacular wage.  Brian and Annabelle Hula’s marriage meant that Brian worked full time while Annabelle took are of the household and children full-time.  They saved as much of Brian’s income as they possibly could and began building a  three bedroom rambler on the same site as the cedar shake house.  When they finished the house well enough to move into during the summer of 1956, they had indoor water, bathroom, and a forced air furnace.  And… They had no debts.  Except for laying the foundation block, Brian and Annabelle had done all of the work themselves.

Update

I, along with my usual editor and a couple of others, are in the finishing stages of editing "The Book Club Murders".   I have also started writing more on my next book, "Brothers".
This story will be a fictionalized account of the lives of three brothers, following them from their early years until well into their fifties.
 During the past year I've relied upon my memory as well as collected stories from my own brother and other sets of siblings in my quest to provide as many real happenings as I can within the book.  However, the story line will be mostly fiction with enough interesting actual events thrown in, as well as adventure, to satisfy my own wants and needs.
It's going to be kind of a tribute to my brothers (one living one passed away) told with love and affection for both, although it will still be a work of fiction.

As usual, I'll post snippets of it from time to time.

One more snippet before final editing and publishing.

Gerald Hodges left his house at precisely 7:17pm.  He carried his giant, black, heavy duty bags for the treasure he intended to acquire tonight.  He would scope out the sidewalks and streets on his way to the first stop on his list, the municipal, for any cans he would come across.  This was not making him rich, but it kept him in spending money.  Actually, he didn't need anymore money.  He just liked getting out and performing a service, as he liked to call it.  He was recycling something that needed it, and he was performing a community beautification service, for which most people in town were grateful.
He knew a lot of residents in this small town viewed him with either suspicion or contempt, or they just tolerated him, but he didn't care.  He had his little group of old men, where he was the youngest by probably a decade, to provide him with conversation and intellectual stimulation that he had craved ever since his work in the museum.
Boston Whitley was one he particularly enjoyed.  Seth Tryton and Earl Mancoat were window dressing for the intellectual discussions that he and Boston regularly maintained when they gathered at the municipal.
All three gentlemen had been curious about his background before he had returned to Rose Creek, and he had provided them with most of the details of his varied activities...most, anyway.  They really had no idea how he had really made his money or sustained his interest in life.  Indeed, they had no idea that he really didn't need any money at all.  He was, as he liked to comment to his imaginary friend, set for life.

Finishing stages of The Book Club Murders

I am within a couple dozen pages of finishing my latest effort and getting excited about sending the rest to my editor along with the usual self editing, which never seems to find and correct all of my mistakes, i.e., typos, punctuation, grammar, and spelling.  I might post one more snippet (which doesn't reveal anything, of course), but will hopefully have this wrapped up within a month and begin my book about Brothers.  That's what I'm really excited about.

Writing the Book Club Murders has been a growing experience as I've delved into a new experience---writing a murder mystery.  So far, I'm happy with the result, but I'm always striving to get better, hopefully, it shows.