CHRISTMAS CODA 60 (and a fun puzzle for you to do!)

 

 

Michael and Len from REQUIEM FOR MR. BUSYBODY

 

The smell of coffee infiltrated my dreams.

My nose twitched.

Coffee and…pastries.

And, more faintly, aftershave.

I opened my eyes. That warm, spicy scent that meant Len had let himself into my apartment, poked his head in briefly, and then retreated to the kitchen to let me sleep my fill.

I had not been sleeping well lately, and Len knew it. A week ago Nico Tzara had been sentenced for Second Degree Manslaughter. Five to fifteen years.  He’d be out of prison before he turned forty.

Which would probably have made Maurice happy because, despite what he’d told me and his niece and even Nico, Maurice never had changed his will. Never had cut Nico out. Which I’d have bet Nico knew, but the prosecution had not been able to prove that to the jury’s satisfaction. Had not been able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Nico hadn’t accidentally killed Maurice.

So. Five to fifteen.  

It was hard not to be angry. Hard not to want…something.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Per Len. He had always been better at accepting the limitations of the justice system. But then he was a cop. He believed in God. And he hadn’t known Maurice.

I sighed, shoved back the blankets.

One of the things I liked about Len—and really, there were too many to count—was that he understood I needed time in the morning. Time and space.

 

 

By the time I wheeled into the kitchen, the coffee was ready and Len was sitting at the table eating warm walnut povitica and reading the Times.  

“Morning,” I said, pausing beside his chair.

He kissed me, tasting pleasantly of coffee and cinnamon, and said, “Merry Christmas.”

I grimaced. “Bah humbug.”

“You are a bad humbug,” he agreed. “Unless elves broken in last night and set that Christmas tree up.”

“Ha. The tree is for you, man.” I wheeled over to the counter and set about fixing my coffee.

“It snowed again last night.”

“Ugh.” I never liked snow, and I liked it even less now, snow tires notwithstanding. “How was work?”

Len’s sigh was heartfelt. “What I would like most for Christmas is for people to stop killing each other for one day.”

I threw him a sympathetic look, finished dousing my coffee in cream and sugar—a holiday treat; I usually took it black—and wheeled to the table. I took a big swallow and felt promptly better as all that sugar and caffeine hit my system. “At least you have today off. In theory.”

“In theory.” Len handed me a plate with pastry. “Bad night?” His shrewd brown eyes were soft with concern.

I shrugged, tore a piece of bread off. “Yeah. But that was as much about the new book as anything. It’s hard to turn my brain off right now.”

“Sure.” I didn’t fool Len.

I was excited about the new project though, an account of the 1943 Christmas Day murders in Bolt, Montana, and the subsequent manhunt and shootout. One of the principals had been James Jameson, a young newspaper reporter who later went on to win a Pulitzer prize. Jameson had come out as gay in the 1960s, at a time when it was not an easy thing to do. I thought he was a fascinating character and I only wished I’d had the opportunity to interview him.

Len said, “I know it’s not what you wanted, but fifteen years in Rikers is no picnic.”

“If he gets fifteen.” I met his eyes. “Sorry. Just not brimming with the milk of human kindness today.”

“Hey. You lost someone you loved. You’re allowed to be angry and sad and all the rest of it.”

“Maybe.” My smiled felt lopsided. “So much for my belief in criminal reform.”

“It’s a little different in this case.” He held his hand out and I clasped it, squeezed it, smiled. Len really was one of the good guys and I’d been wondering for the last seven months what I’d done to get so lucky.

We smiled at each other for a moment, then Len’s expression changed, grew…well, had it been anyone else, I’d have said he looked nervous.

“So. Listen,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t know if this is the right time or not, but I’ve been thinking a lot about this, about us.” He nodded at the cozy kitchen and crumb-covered table. There was a plaster gnome with red-glowing eyes in the center of the table, which was my half-assed effort at holiday décor; I think the gnome was actually intended as a Halloween decoration, given the manic glow of his beady little eyes.

“Okay,” I said a little uneasily. The sudden hectic color in Len’s face was alarming—and his eyes matched the gnome for manic glow.

“I don’t want to—things are good and I don’t want to-to jeopardize that.”

Suddenly his fingers felt ice cold. I squeezed his hand again, more in comfort than understanding.

“Things are good,” I agreed. I probably sounded a little insistent because I was afraid there was about to be a but.

“But,” Len said.

My heart flinched. I said warily, “But?”

“What if we moved in together?”

It took me a couple of swallows to get that lump of dry bread down. “I…”

“I know you’re probably not—I know you’re probably happy with this and it’s more than I expected, more than I thought we’d have—but I love you and I would like.” He swallowed the rest of it.

“You would like?” I repeated automatically. Meanwhile my brain was racing, trying to think this through. If I said no, would it be the end of everything? Did I want to say no? If I said yes, what then? Did I want to say yes?

No. I did not. The idea terrified me.

Nearly as much as the idea of losing Len.

“More,” he said huskily. “I would like more time with you. More of you.”

I was equally husky, but trying for humor. “I think—don’t you think that might be too much of a good thing?”

“No.”

We were silent for a few moments, still holding hands, still watching each other.

Len said, “Are you afraid of the idea?”

I could have dodged the question, denied, delayed, but we’d come through too much, Len and I. “Yes,” I admitted.

“Me too.” I started to laugh and he finished hastily, “Not at the idea of living with you.”

Of what then? But I didn’t have to ask because I knew. Same thing as me. That if it didn’t work out, we’d lose what we had, and what we had meant everything to me.

Len said, “Seven months. I’m over here as much as I’m home.”

True. I thought it over. “Your cat doesn’t like me.”

Len said seriously, “He doesn’t know you.”

I nodded absently. “Are you thinking you’d move in here or I’d move in with you?”

“Neither. I was thinking we’d find a new place. Together.”

Ours. Our home.

It scared me. I can’t deny it. I had everything exactly as I wanted, as I needed. I was safe right where I was.

But was safety what it was all about? Was being safe the point of being alive?

Len’s solemn face slowly creased into a smile. “You haven’t turned me down yet, Michael.”

“No. Because I love you too. But what if—”

What if it doesn’t work out? What if we aren’t happy? What if someone gets hurt? What if…

What if we are happy? What if we are truly, honestly, happy?

I wasn't religious, but it turned out I did have an idea of heaven.

No guarantees in this life. We’d both learned that the hard way.

Len said softly, “What if--?”

Leap of faith. Sometimes you jump and you break your back. Sometimes you jump and someone is waiting to catch you, someone with a tender smile and love in his eyes.

I said, equally soft, “What if I say yes?”

We caught each other.

AND SOMETHING ELSE FOR YOU THIS MORNING!

SamSpayed has contributed a little jigsaw puzzle of the Requiem for Mr. Busybody cover. Just click this link and then choose PLAY AS (I picked 66--I don't know if it matters). It's quick and fun and relaxing. :-) 

New Release: REQUIEM FOR MR. BUSYBODY

 New short story out today.

Not the book I had planned for or originally intended to write, but... I can't lie. I'm hugely, HUGELY relieved to have broken through whatever that was. Burnout? Dry spell? Creative force field?

I don't know, because the last time I suffered from burnout, it was actually a really productive period. I did a ton of planning and reading and note-taking. This wasn't like this. This was like a prolonged blank. I wasn't interested in reading or watching movies--I could tolerate nothing fictional. After an initial burst of listing preorders and a few sales, I suddenly lost interest in...everything. Well, other than my dogs, my garden, my family. I've never felt anything like it.

Writing was an absolute impossibility. 

I'm not sure what exactly broke the spell given that the pandemic is spiking bigtime and my anxiety over the election is absolutely out of control. But something has changed. I feel calmer. Not optimistic, exactly, but calmer. Fatalistic? Whatever. I've started writing codas again for Patreon, I felt driven to complete this little story, and I'm actually looking forward to losing myself in the world of Cosmo and John.

That said, I don't trust myself right now. I have no idea how I'll feel after the election or in the coming months. But I'm writing right now and that's the good news.

BLURB:

“Maybe you’ll be next, Mr. Busybody!”

 

From well-respected investigative journalist to resident busybody.

When former crime reporter Michael’s elderly friend Maurice suddenly disappears, he fears the worst. But Michael is unable to investigate, and no one is taking his suspicions seriously—least of all Nico, Maurice’s too slick, too smooth, possibly guilty boyfriend.

The only person Michael can think of who might listen is Leonard Drake, now a Lieutenant Detective with NYPD.

In fact, this excuse to contact his ex might just be what Michael has been waiting three years for.

 

EXCERPT

The phone at the other end rang long enough that I started to count, and then it clattered off the hook and a deep, pleasant voice said, “Drake. Homicide.”

Never one to waste words, NYPD Lt. Detective Leonard Drake.

Given that we hadn’t spoken in three years, I was caught off guard by how familiar his voice was. The warm rush of memories? Equally unexpected.

I released the breath I’d been holding. “Hey,” I said cheerfully. “Your misspent youth is calling.”

A couple of very long seconds ticked by before Len said slowly, “Michael Woolrich. There’s a blast from the past.”

Not that I expected confetti and kazoos, but that total lack of emotion was hard to read.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Len added.

“I don’t know about honor, but I might have a murder for you.”

Maybe I imagined the creak of a chair in the background, but Len’s voice was definitely more cordial, more relaxed as he replied, “Do tell.”

Murder was what had first brought us together. Our mutual raison d’être. Murder had been the only thing we had in common, as it turned out. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

“The victim—possible victim—is Maurice Moreau. He went missing—appears to have gone missing—four nights ago. I think his partner killed him.”

“And you know Maurice how?”

“He’s a friend.” I corrected, “He’s a neighbor I’m friendly with.”

Len repeated thoughtfully, “A neighbor you’re friendly with.”

“Yes.”

“Where are you living now?”

“The Fontainebleau in Chelsea.”

“Swanky.”

I laughed. “Maybe once. Maybe in the forties. But yeah, great atmosphere if you don’t mind a few ghosts.”

“And you think your friendly neighbor Maurice has now joined the celestial choir?”

I felt myself smiling at Len’s turn of phrase. You don’t expect metaphors from a cop, at least not outside Chandler, but Len was not your ordinary cop. For one thing, he was no-bones-about-it gay, and while yes, every police force in the country is trying to be—or appear that they’re trying to be—more diverse and less discriminatory, in my experience, openly gay officers are still a rarity.

“I’m afraid so. Yes.”

“Maybe he’s on vacation,” Len suggested. “Maybe he’s visiting relatives. Maybe he and the boyfriend are on a second honeymoon. What makes you think Maurice is dead?”

I didn’t really want to go into the Rear Window aspect, didn’t want Len to know how much time I spent observing my neighbors, didn’t want him to think I was developing voyeuristic tendencies in my old age. Although, Talese was right—all journalists are voyeurs at heart.

I said, “Partly because of the way Nico, Maurice’s partner, is behaving. Partly because Maurice once said if anything ever happened to him, look no further than Nico.”

Silence.

Len said in his slow, considering way, “That’s quite a revelation from someone you describe as a neighbor rather than a friend.”

“I know. And he was joking—mostly—when he said it. But…”

“But now that Maurice has ‘disappeared,’ you think maybe he was serious. You said something about the way Nico is acting. How is Nico acting?”

“Evasive, in my opinion.” Also dismissive, patronizing, bored, annoyed—but that was Nico’s usual attitude toward me, so I didn’t place undue importance on it.

Len’s tone remained neutral as he suggested, “Maybe Nico feels that Maurice’s whereabouts are none of your business.”

“Maybe.”

I waited. If Len was the Len I remembered… But three years is a long time. Len didn’t owe me any favors. And no one knew better than me how far-fetched my story sounded.

Len said finally, “I’ll be blunt. This is so thin, it’s transparent. Anyone but you, Michael, I’d be tempted to tell you to butt out of other people’s relationships.”

I winced, opened my mouth, but Len wasn’t finished. “You always had a nose for trouble, so unless you’ve changed a lot, I have to assume you’re maybe onto something.”

We could take it for granted I’d changed a lot. Physically, for sure, but also mentally, emotionally, and probably spiritually. Not that I’d ever been very spiritual, unlike Len, who was a practicing Episcopalian and sang in his church choir every Sunday.

“I could be wrong,” I said. “I hope I am. But if I went missing, I’d like to think someone out there might notice and at least ask a couple of questions.”

“And that’s about all I can promise,” Len said. “We’ll ask a few questions and see what the boyfriend has to say.”

Relief washed through me. Not just the relief that here was help for Maurice, help I couldn’t provide on my own. The relief of being believed, of being taken seriously again. I missed being taken seriously.

But the last three years had taught me to be cautious.

“If my name could be kept out of it, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Len.” I meant it. “I owe you one.”

He said crisply, “No. You don’t owe me anything. I quit keeping score a long time ago.”

I was still trying to think of a reply when he hung up.

----

It's not listed everywhere yet, but I'm getting there.

 

Amazon

Smashwords

Kobo

Google Play

B&N 

Apple

Baby Steps, Baby

Secret at Skull House is out in audio at all the usual places!

Audible
Amazon
iTunes (eventually, I guess)

After his former flame disappears following their loud and public argument, Ellery seems to be Police Chief Carson’s first—and only—suspect.

I think Matt Haynes does a terrific job with these. I have a feeling his is a voice you either love or hate. I happen to love it and think he's the perfect narrator for these slightly quirky, unexpectedly gentle mysteries.

So that's the first bit of news.

The second bit of news is  as I'M WRITING AGAIN.

I mean, I was still writing, but without any real focus or aim. For example, drowning is technically a kind of swimming, but it's not typically what we're going for when we jump in a lake.

So yes, I'm writing. It's just a little oddball short story. I was going to put out the next collection of short stories--oh! Look at my nice cover...

And I realized I was about two stories short. A couple of stories I had been counting on are actually novellas. So. I asked my patrons for some ideas and they came up with a number of possibilities, several of which I'm folding into a story called Requiem for Mr. Busybody.

“Maybe you’ll be next, Mr. Busybody!”

 From well-respected investigative journalist to resident busybody.

When former journalist Michael’s elderly friend Maurice suddenly disappears, he fears the worst. But Michael is unable to investigate and no one is taking his suspicions seriously—least of all, Todd, Maurice’s too-slick, too-smooth, possibly guilty boyfriend.

The only person Michael can think of who might listen is Leonard Drake, now a Lieutenant Detective with NYPD.

In fact, this excuse to contact his ex might just be what Michael has been waiting three years for.

What I like about short stories--what I find helpful in my current state of mind (or lack of state of mind)--is the tight structure. There really is no wiggle room in a short story. There is no waffling. You have to stay precise and on point. And that's really good for my agitated cricket brain right now. 

So we'll see what happens. I'm not putting it up for preorders. If I finish in time, it will drop at the end of the month. And if I don't, it won't. 

Fingers crossed.