Christmas Coda 49

MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD: Carter and John

First Christmas.

Kind of a big deal. Even when things are going really well, and they had been going really well ever since Scotland--but Scotland had only been about seven weeks ago—the holidays could test a relationship. The weight of holiday expectation could be heavier than six feet of snow on a flat roof. All those glittery commercials. All those Hallmark holiday specials.

John and I spent whatever time we could together, but he was busy, I was busy, and he lived—this time of year—four to six hours away in San Diego.  

I couldn’t help worrying, maybe inevitably, that maybe what we had was the lingering aftereffects of a holiday romance. We’d both had such lousy luck with relationships.

“So…Christmas?” I’d broached the idea cautiously on the phone one night. He’d been back East for Thanksgiving, so the topic of spending holidays together hadn’t really risen until then. “Do you celebrate?”

“Well… I’m usually working,” he’d admitted.

“Ah.”

He said cautiously, “I could try and get the day off. If you want to do something?”

Do something?

Wasn’t Christmas what one did on…Christmas?

One way Trevor and I had been alike was in our love for the holidays. We both whole-heartedly embraced, well, all of it. Trevor always decked the halls—from candy cane candles in the bathrooms to the tiny fake vintage Christmas tree in the bedroom (all of which—to the last thread of tinsel--he’d taken with him—like the Grinch robbing Cindy Lou Hoo on Christmas Night). I did the front and back garden in white lights so the 3-piece family of LED reindeer had a proper place to live during December.  Trevor ran our credit cards up and I tried every holiday recipe that caught my eye.

Our house had always been a happy home during the holidays. It was the other eleven months things weren’t so perfect.

But the whole point of spending the holidays with John was to be with John. And be open to perhaps starting new traditions.

“I’d like to spend the day with you, yeah.”

Reassuringly, John had responded, “I like spending all the time I can with you.”

“Come here and I’ll cook,” I said.

“You don’t have to go to a lot of trouble. I mean…” He didn’t finish what he meant, so again, I wasn’t sure.

“I like to,” I said. “I like to cook and I especially like to cook for the holidays.”

“Okay, you're a holiday person. Well then, let’s do it.” His enthusiasm sounded a little forced, but he was coming for Christmas. That was all that mattered.

*** 

In the end, John couldn’t get Christmas off. He’d waited too late to ask, and everyone else in the company had already put in their requests, but he managed it so we would be together on New Year’s.

I bought a smallish tree—a live tree I could plant in the bare area of the front yard—and my mom sent over a large box of old ornaments she insisted were no longer needed; she and my dad had decided to opt for an artificial tree that year since they were spending the holiday once again with my sister in Colorado. I bought an armload of white holiday lanterns in different shapes and sizes at Lowes, grilled a Cornish game hen, and had dinner in the backyard in the glow of soft light, with the illuminated reindeer for company.

I had other options, of course, but I was in reflective mood, a quiet mood, and it was actually a great little dinner. The food was delicious, if I do say so myself. I made orzo risotto with root vegetables and mushroom and chestnut stuffing which I served with a chilled bottle of Riesling. It wasn’t that cold out, and the stars were sharp and bright. The lights from my neighbors’ windows cast a pleasant gold sheen over the roses and succulents surrounding the patio. I was happy. I was content. And best of all, I knew it. I was in the moment. How often does that happen?

Sure, it would have been perfect if John had been there, but the truth was I was happier getting to spend even a little time with John than I’d been spending every day with Trevor.

Joy. To. The. World.

For real.

When the side gate chimed shut and I saw John walking toward me through the haze of snow globe-lantern light I thought I was dreaming.

“I did try to call ahead,” he said. “You didn’t pick up.”

I stopped gaping. “I think I left my phone on the counter.”

“I took a chance there’d be leftovers.” He reached the table and bent down to kiss me. His lips were warm and he tasted like those dis-solvable Listerine breath strips, so I knew I was not dreaming.

“There’s a ton of food. What are you doing here?”

“I get an hour for dinner, which I think I can safely stretch to two.”

"I didn't know you were working in the vicinity today."

"I didn't want to tell you in case I couldn't get away. I didn't want to disappoint you again." He met my eyes, his smile rueful.

I almost said, Don't worry, the bar is low, but caught myself. This wasn't about Trevor and the past. This was about John and the possibilities of the future. I smiled back and my own smile was probably rueful too. "You haven't yet. Not at all."

His eyes warmed. Then he gazed around the garden in what looked like genuine awe. “This is beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Kind of magical, in fact.”

I beamed. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He tore his gaze from the reindeer and smiled. “Me too.”

I rose. “I’ll get you a plate. And a wine glass.”

“No wine glass. I’m on surveillance. Or will be again in two hours.” He made a face. “Hey, I want to say something.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry I forgot to ask for Christmas off. I’m not used to planning where I’m going to spend the holidays.”

“That’s okay.”

“Also, I left your present at home. I’m out of the habit of…being a boyfriend.”

I laughed. “Again, that’s okay.”

His smile was more confident. “But I’m a quick learner. And I’ve already asked for next Christmas off.”

We were planning next Christmas—and I was probably shining like the bright heart of one of those little lanterns. It was true about finding happiness in your own backyard--even if I'd had to travel to Scotland first. 

New Release MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD

In print, audio, and ebook!

MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD 

Librarian Carter Matheson is determined to enjoy himself on a Scottish bus tour for fans of mystery author Dame Vanessa Rayburn. Sure, his ex, Trevor, will also be on the trip with his new boyfriend, leaving Carter to share a room with a stranger, but he can't pass up a chance to meet his favorite author.

Carter's roommate turns out to be John Knight, a figure as mysterious as any character from Vanessa's books. His strange affect and nighttime wanderings make Carter suspicious. When a fellow traveler's death sparks rumors of foul play, Carter is left wondering if there's anyone on the tour he can trust.

(His strange affect... (Not something you hear every day) ;-) 

EXCERPT

“Hey, you’re back,” I said.

“Hey, you’re sneaking out of Rose’s room,” he returned.

I looked around, making frantic shushing motions. His eyebrows rose.

“Rhymes with gurgleyme?” he suggested.

“No! Of course not.” I was both charmed that he played charades and irritated that he thought I was the world’s worst burglar. “Can we discuss this elsewhere?”

He turned the doorknob to our room and made an after you gesture. I slipped inside our room and turned to face him. “Sally told me Rose’s journal wasn’t found among her personal effects. She suggested I have a look for it just in case Rose might have hidden it.”

“If Sally suggested you jump off a bridge, would y—”

“Funny. No. I wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t have done this either except…”

“You read too many mysteries?”

“That’s not possible. And no.” I admitted grudgingly, “I know it’s a crazy thing to have done. I’m not sure why I gave in to temptation.”

He looked taken aback. “This is your idea of temptation?”

“The opportunity arose, that’s a lot of it.”

“Other opportunities have arisen. I didn’t see you jump at those.”

At first, I didn’t understand what he meant, but as I gazed into his solemn—too solemn?—brown eyes, I remembered the night before and that very casual suggestion we strip naked and share a sleeping bag. Not even a suggestion. A joke.

Or maybe not.

Judging by the faint twinkle in the back of his eyes, it seemed not.

I felt a totally unexpected—and probably inappropriate—rush of elation. I’d figured after he’d blown me off that morning, I’d misread John’s invitation of the night before. I’d been, well, disappointed. And now I was…not.

I did my best to tamp down my revived, um, interest. “Ben confirmed at lunch that there was a mysterious death on the last tour. A woman drowned in the bath.”

The twinkle in John’s eyes pinched out. He scowled. “There’s hardly anything mysterious about it. It might interest you to know that deaths from drowning in bathtubs have gone up seventy percent in the last decade. Someone in the US drowns in a bathtub, hot tub or spa Every Single Day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I’m not kidding.”

“But surely most of those are little kids?”

He said severely, “The point is, drowning in a bathtub is not as mysterious or suspicious as you seem to think. Bathtub drownings are one of the most common causes of accidental death.”

It seemed he really did work for an insurance company. Not that I had actively doubted it, but I had started to wonder after the morning’s cloak-and-daggery.

“Did you find the journal?” he asked.

“No.”

He studied me for a moment. His disapproving expression relaxed. He seemed amused. “Do you really think Rose found some incriminating piece of evidence, and that piece of evidence got her killed?”

“No. Not exactly. I was curious though. The weird coincidences seem to be piling up. I feel like something is going on. I can’t put my finger on it, but… If I may say so, your own behavior is a little sketchy.”

“Mine?” There it was again. The wary look. “How so?”

“Let’s start with the midnight rambles. Insomnia or not, that’s not normal behavior. Most people read a book or have a glass of warm milk. I take half a sleeping pill when I can’t sleep.”

His face took on a bland look. “I do have a preferred method of dealing with it. However, you weren’t interested last night.”

I guess he’d given up on innuendo.

I’m too old to blush, but there’s something undeniably warming about flattery. I studied his face. Yeah, I did find him attractive. No question. I liked him. I wasn’t sure if I trusted him, but I didn’t have to trust him. This was the equivalent of a summer romance. Minus the romance.

I flipped the lock on our door, and said, “That was last night.”

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Book Trailer - MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD

New book trailer!

MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD - Playlist

I'm going to be honest here and admit this playlist is completely self-indulgent. I threw in some of my favorite Gaelic songs and a few odd things from my misspent past--they don't really have ANYTHING to do with this kooky, quirky cozy mystery about murder stalking a busload of tourists visiting the haunts and habitats of their favorite Scottish mystery author Dame Vanessa Rayburn. And yet they do.

Anyway, this music seems perfect for this book, for a number of reasons--which I hope will be clear once you've read the book. :-)  It comes out April 23rd from Carina Press.

Gabhaim Molta Bríghde -Aoife Ní Fhearraigh

Big Country - Big Country 

Eurythmics - Here Comes the Rain

Dark and the Rolling Sea - Al Stewart

Calum Sgaire - Christine Primrose

500 Miles - The Proclaimers

This Love Will Carry - Dougie Maclean

Black Water - Of Monsters and Men

When I Was Young - Catherine Ann MacPhee

The Lumineers - Hey Ho

The Cruel Sister - Old Blind Dogs

Why Does it Always Rain on Me - Travis 

Lament for Red-Haired John - Ishbel NicAsgaill

Island Moon - Calum Kennedy 

Another Update Wherein I Offer Excuses

It's not like I want to miss deadlines and make readers sad. But stuff keeps happening and I keep missing the ball. It's uncomfortable. It's awkward. It's...not like me. Or at least not the old me. The new me...not sure.


It's been a weird year. I can't pretend otherwise. In fact, I'm flabbergasted to realize it's already September.  Half of October goes to Montreal and Bouchercon and meeting the SO's famille. Not a lot of writing will happen until I get home. I'm currently in the midst of edits for Murder Takes the High Road (non-negotiable because this one is due at the publisher's) and cooking up a quickie short story to keep the cauldron boiling.

Anyway, everything is completely off track, but still mostly doable before the end of the year. And even if something runs into next year, it will get done. That was the point of dedicating a year to catching stuff up (oh, the irony -- I need a catch-up year for my catch-up year).

So here's what I'm still planning on for 2017:

"Halloween is Murder" (a short story)
Murder Takes the High Road (although it doesn't come out until next spring)
Blind Side
The Italian translation of The Monet Murders
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out (sequel to The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks)
In Other Words...Murder (the fourth Holmes & Moriarity)
So This is Christmas audio book (narrated by Kale Williams)
If Only in My Dreams - print collection of all my Christmas novellas

There is also stuff coming from publishers -- French, Japanese and Italian translations -- but I don't control that. Right now I'm just focusing on what I control. In theory.

I'm also starting to plan out next year. Again, the focus is going to be on catching up some of these long-promised stories like Ill Met by Moonlight (the sequel to This Rough Magic) and Haunted Heart 2 (Spring). There should be a good bit of audio too.  And there will be some surprises. No doubt for me as much as anyone. ;-)

Anyway, that's pretty much where we are as of now.

Sneak Peek - MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD

You will be amazed to hear I've had to do a bit of reshuffling my schedule once again. It's just that kind of year. We've got family visiting, I've got the usual big summer music gig at the end of the month, and a looming deadline for Carina Press. So I've jumped from Blind Side to Murder Takes the High Road in order to hit that deadline.

Blind Side is still going to happen, never fear. It's just being postponed a few more weeks. In the meantime, I'm enjoying reliving memories of my trip to Scotland a couple of years back. I'm using our tour itinerary, though changing names of hotels and so forth so as to not get sued by people with no sense of humor about murder occurring under their roof.

The unofficial blurb:

Vacationing librarian Carter Matheson must solve the murder of fellow tourists when someone begins picking off members of a mystery-themed bus tour traveling through the scenic highlands and islands of Scotland.

It's pretty much a classic cozy mystery with a generous dollop of romance and sex.

Here's an unedited excerpt:

 A gust of windy rain hit the small window in the corner. It sounded—and felt—like someone had thrown ice tacks at the glass. I opened my suitcase and dug around for the least wrinkled shirt I could find, and ended up selecting a black soft-wash long sleeve crew T-shirt. I remembered enough from my country dance days to know a ceilidh was not a formal event.

The door rattled noisily in its frame as someone banged on it.

“At this point the handyman's just going to be in the way,” I grumbled.

John leaned out of the bathroom and opened the door.

Trevor stood on the landing wearing a ferocious scowl and the blue cashmere sweater I’d bought him for his thirty-ninth birthday.

 “It’s for you,” John told me.

I gave him the look that speaks volumes, as we say in the librarian biz.

Trevor, too, was giving him a look. “Do you mind?” he said.

“Yep. I do,” John replied. “I’ve got thirteen minutes left to get ready for dinner and you’re about to take up way too many of them.” He withdrew into the bathroom once more, though the door remained open.

“Fine. Whatever.” Trevor swung back to me and realigned his glare. “How dare you go around telling everybody that Vance tried to shove you in front of a car?”

There wasn’t time to stop and argue. I hastily kicked out of the blue jeans I’d been wearing all day and pulled on a clean pair of black jeans. “I never said that.”

“Bullshit, Carter. Everyone on the bus was whispering about it.”

“I can’t help what people saw.” Okay, yes, I probably could have phrased that more tactfully. Trevor’s face got redder. I said quickly, “What they think they saw.”

“You sure didn’t try to correct them.”

I pawed through my suitcase for a clean pair of socks. It wasn’t that I didn’t have plenty of clean clothes, but from the state of my suitcase, you’d think Hamish had thrown our suitcases down a cliffside before stowing them in the bus’s luggage compartment. I threw a harassed look over my shoulder. “How do you know what I did or didn’t do?”

“I know you, Carter. I know how you operate. You’re doing everything you can to ruin this trip for me.”

That got my attention. I stopped digging through my suitcase, and straightened up so fast I’m surprised I didn’t throw my back out. “Explain how I’m ruining this trip for you?”

“Every time I turn around, there you are again with that accusing stare.”

“Really?” John said from the bathroom. I think both Trevor and I had forgotten he was still in there.  I certainly hadn’t thought he could hear us over the sound of running water. We both stared at him, framed in the bathroom doorway, slowly, deliberately drawing the razor across his square jaw. He scraped away another snowy drift of shaving cream and said to Trevor, “Because you’re the one who keeps showing up at our door.”

 “Our?” Trevor looked even more taken aback. “How does this involve you?”

“It’s my room. Half my room.”

I think it genuinely threw Trevor. In any event it was a second or two before he turned back to me. “Do you really want to do this here?” he asked in a tone I knew only too well.

“I don’t want to do it at all. Look, I’m not accusing Vance of anything. I don’t think he deliberately pushed me into the road. If you’d shut up about it, people would lose interest in the subject.”

“He’s right,” John said.

“Nobody asked you,” Trevor snapped.

“If you’re going to have this conversation in my room, then I have a right to express my opinion.”

It probably wasn’t funny, but somehow at that moment, it seemed funny.

Trevor opened his mouth but I cut him off.  “Okay, time out. In fact, game over. Trevor, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not leaving the tour. And if that’s going to ruin it for you, sorry. I have every much right to be here as you do.”

“This is just more of your passive-aggressive—”

“Uh, no,” John said, rinsing off his razor. “That’s aggressive-aggressive.”

“Will you keep out of it?” Trevor shouted. “This isn’t any of your business.”

The lights flickered and went out. 

It's Flu Season

And I got it bad.

Or maybe I'm mixing my songs up. But basically this last week -- last Friday thru today was spent under the weather. And heavy weather it was.

I'd forgotten how nasty the flu is. I used to get sick like clockwork -- a broken, smashed clock -- every flipping year. Right around the holidays, generally, but never did a winter pass (and rarely a summer) that I was not laid low by the extremely unsexy business of flu. My immune system is a lot sturdier now days because I actually went a bit over two years -- including traveling the world -- without catching much of anything. I think this new found healthiness is due to a more sane work schedule and things like juicing, walking, swimming...suppers with my husband. A life that stretched beyond my desk and desktop.

Still. As healthy as all that is, I am not impervious to germs -- and thus the horrors of the last week.

Flu is a streaming, steaming and generally disgusting business. There is nothing romantic about it, and it really makes it difficult to function. I don't think flu is captured accurately in fiction. No one who has flu wants sex. And no one who has flu is desired by any sane person. That's the first thing writers of romance often get wrong about flu.

The second thing is how long it takes to get over flu. Even when I was a hale and feckless twenty year old, flu used to lay me low for at least a week. And now that I am a hale and not-so-feckless not-twenty year old, flu lays me low nearly as long. I will say this, I don't get AS sick nor stay sick as long. Which is kind of interesting. Or maybe not, given that I was teaching for many of my early years and children are designed primarily to carry deadly germs.

That is their main purpose in life.

I JEST!!! I AM A JESTER. A JESTOR.

Anyway. Today, for the first day in what feels like a month (but is only sevenish days), I am much improved (although the SO informs me that I still sound like an escapee from Sea World) and will soon be back at work on Murder Takes the High Road.

Murder has been lying low these last few days, engine idling while I blearily watched documentaries on things like Hitler of the Andes (I KNEW it!!!), Murder of anything moving (I concur!), Walt Disney (Awww...my childhood!!!), the Paleo diet (Rarraw!!) and the Dead Sea Scrolls ( I KNEW it!!!!).

This was the first time in history Nyquil failed me. I mean EVERYTHING failed me. Nothing could stem the fountain of my head. Ugh. So today the question is...favorite flu remedies? When was the last time you had the flu -- and what did you do about it?

The Quick Brown Fox

It's that time again.

The starting-work-on-a-new book time. I don't like to dramatize writing. Yes, it is work. The amount of focus required to produce a decent mystery novel is pretty intense. And, weirdly, the longer you've been writing, the more difficult it is.


That saying about pride going before a fall? I was aching with the impact of my landing as I stood in the bar area of the Caledonian Inn, trying not to watch Trevor and his new boyfriend meeting and greeting our fellow tour members that first night in Scotland.


Well. Sort of. I mean the technical parts of writing--how to construct a plot, how to write believable conflict, how to create real-seeming characters--all that kind of thing, how to stack the building blocks of fiction, is obviously, after *cough*-many years no longer a giant question mark. What is a giant question mark, remains forever a giant question mark, is coming up with a fresh take, a fresh angle, figuring out how to use the old words in new ways.

Because...that's part of the test for all writers who last any length of time. Eventually you use up all those first ideas, those initial ideas you were burning to write for so many years. Eventually you've used all the good words a million times. I mean, there are only so many ways to say it -- whatever "it" might be -- and some words and phrases are just more effective than others. Yes, you could say it a different way. But can you say it a better way?

I've held all kinds of jobs, and though writing has its challenges, it's sure as hell not as difficult as teaching. Even my rule as an evil corporate overlord was tougher in some ways than writing for a living--despite the fact that I always knew I was going to walk away from being an evil overlord the minute I saw a crack in the wall. But a successful writing career is still a demanding profession/sentence. The pay is irregular, there are no health or retirement benefits, no safety net at all really, because the industry is always, always in flux.

I honestly don't think that's what makes writing so tough though. I think a large part of the reason I dread the start of a new project (and I do) is because it's almost like willingly sinking yourself into a manic state--BRING ME THE HALLUCINOGENS!! Or like a medium submitting herself to a dangerous trance. However cerebral and rational the writing of a new project feels at the start, it always reaches that point of complete immersion, where the imaginary world becomes more real than the real world...and every disruption is enough to send me into fury, like the Wicked Witch of the West shrieking for her flying monkeys.

Oh, those first few painful pages...


Vance leaned over to whisper in Trevor’s ear and for a second I couldn’t remember what Rose was talking about. Oh, right. This ten-day tour of the Scottish Highlands and Islands specially tailored to fans of famed mystery author Dame Vanessa Rayburn. Every stop and every stay was planned around settings in the Rayburn books. The high point of the tour were the four days to be spent at Vanessa’s own castle on the island of Samhradh Beag.


Even after all this time the first, say, third of a new book leaves me feeling like...how does this work? Is this how I do it? It's like reinventing the wheel Every. Single. Time. There is nothing so flat as the first words of a new story landing on a blank page.

I might as well be writing The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs a hundred times. That's pretty much how it feels. In fact, those are probably the opening words to my autobiography.

The start of every new book is an act of faith on the part of the author. However it feels--and it always feels like what am I doing here?!--eventually the story takes over and it's all you can do to keep up with it.

So this is where we are. MURDER TAKES THE HIGH ROAD destined for Carina Press and a first week in December release. Watch for it!  And by "watch for it," I mean don't fall across the tracks because this train has no brakes...

2016 in Preview

Regular subscribers will note that I'm late with this morning's post. I did totally forget today was Friday, which is what happens when the writing is going very well--which it is.

I've changed up my creative process this year -- well, actually I started last year with A Case of Christmas. The first big change is I'm giving myself loads of time to write everything. "Loads of time" translating to charting out a writing schedule that requires no more than 1500 - 2000 words a day. This is a very comfortable pace which leaves time for research, rewriting, chortling over Donald Trump's latest bon mot and staring blankly into space.

 Secondly I'm writing the way I used to -- this is a bit trickier -- and doing a lot of skipping around and writing out of order. You can't do this if you're pressured for time because you lose emotional continuity. But because I have plenty of time, I feel comfortable sketching out scenes and conversations out of order, as inspiration occurs.  What I like about this, especially when writing mystery, is it allows me opportunity to go back and plant clues -- both physical and psychological. Plus it's just a way more enjoyable way to work. Like popping pieces into a giant puzzle.

I'm not saying that everyone should work this way -- actually, that reminds me. What is it with all these defensive posts about NOT TAKING WRITING ADVICE FROM ANYONE ELSE!!! Good heavens. There are actual memes on the topic of not taking writing advice. :-D Speaking for myself, I love books on writing, books on craft. Heck, I'm planning on taking a screenwriting course this year. Not because I think I'm going to sell a screenplay. But because I am wholeheartedly in favor of anything that stretches and tests my writing brain. My writing muscles. I've been writing professionally a long time. As in selling my writing to publishers since I was sixteen. I've forgotten more about writing than some of my contemporaries have yet learned. :-D  But that forgetting, is why I'm all in favor of refresher courses and writing books and so forth. Why do people get angry at the idea they may have more to learn. OF COURSE YOU HAVE MORE TO LEARN. Unless you are Yoda, you have more to learn. About everything. We ALL do. Until the day we die.

Anyway, I think that defensive, huffy attitude is at odds at becoming the writer we all eventually hope to be.

But I digress.

I don't have a lot set in stone for this year. Partly that is because I have a ginormous mainstream project that I'm doing with the SO. MR AND MRS MURDER: HUSBAND AND WIFE SLEUTHS IN DECTECTIVE FICTION is due to McFarland Press at the end of the year. We have a zillion books to read and one hell of a lot of essays to write. So that is pretty much my year.

Ground-breaking stuff, I assure you. (Actually, I sound like I'm kidding, but I'm not -- this is a big deal.)

In addition to that, I've got The Mermaid Murders (Book I of the Art of Murder trilogy) due out March 1st.  What do you get when you combine a special agent from the FBI Art Crime Team with the top profiler/manhunter from the BAU units? A lot of art-loving serial killers. No, I'm kidding. Partly. Partly not. I think I will write this series pretty fast, with a book out each year.

Then there is a little bitty surprise project which I am superstitiously not going to talk about yet.

Officially next up, Murder Takes the High Road. This is an amateur sleuth standalone for Carina Press. A lonely librarian finds murder and love on a tour bus wending its cumbersome way through the Scottish Highlands. Also the secret cache of whisky in the back of the bus. NOT BASED ON TRUE INCIDENTS. Except the whisky part.

Then there is a lot of room--about three months?-- to do some other projects and I am leaving that stretch of boundless possibility blank for now. Because that's part of the fun, part of the excitement of  being a self-employed artist. (The flip side is never knowing if you will be able to pay the bills.) What should I write? Since I'm reading all these historical mysteries, maybe it makes sense to write historical. The sequel to Snowball? The sequel to This Rough Magic? I need to finish Slay Ride... What? What should I do?

Not knowing is kind of luxurious.

Then, final contracted project (again to Carina Press) for the year, Fair Chance. This is the third and final book in the All's Fair trilogy. We'll be talking about that one quite a bit more I have no doubt. This is the farewell to Elliot Mills and Tucker Lance. Elliot must confront jailed serial killer Andrew Corian -- who may have picked up an apprentice or a copycat killer in the interim.

So that's what we know for sure. The rest of the year is wide open to opportunity and possibility. And that is just the way I like it.