Author Archives: Elaine Viets

About Elaine Viets

Elaine Viets has written 30 mysteries in four series, including 15 Dead-End Job mysteries. BRAIN STORM, her first Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery, is published as a trade paperback, e-book, and audio book. www.elaineviets.com

Starting a New Series: 5 Questions

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By Elaine Viets

Last year, I started a new mystery series. It’s been a long road to publication, including five rewrites.

My editor liked my Angela Richman, death investigator series. But I longed to write another series set in south Florida.

Here’s the new cover.

 

In Sex and Death on the Beach, Norah McCarthy owns the Florodora apartments. Plumbers repairing the pool discover the body of porn star Sammie Lant, notorious for having sex on the beach with a college football star. When more bones are uncovered, Norah is shocked to her core.

When I start a new series, I have to answer five questions: who, what, where, when and why.

Who is my main character? She’s Norah McCarthy, age 41. Norah owns the most exclusive apartment building in Peerless Point, Florida. The Florodora is more than a hundred years old, the first apartment building in this south Florida beach town between Fort Lauderdale and Miami.

You don’t need money or social status to rent an apartment at the Florodora. You must be a member of a more exclusive group. You have to be a genuine Florida Man or Woman. You’ve seen the headlines: “Florida Man Busted with Meth, Guns and Baby Gator in Truck.” Or: “Florida Woman Bathes in Mountain Dew in Attempt to Erase DNA after Committing Murder.”

Yes, those are real headlines.

Norah is descended from an early Florida Woman, her grandmother, Eleanor Harriman.

Grandma always had a soft spot for scapegraces, since she was one herself. She was a Florodora Girl, a superstar chorus girl a century ago. Grandma was in the 1920 Broadway production of Florodora, before she eloped with handsome Johnny Harriman, a millionaire, back when a million was real money. She was married at sixteen and madly in love.

When Norah was old enough, Grandma told her about poor Johnny’s accidental death, which involved a champagne bottle and a chandelier.

“I loved that man,” Grandma said. “I’m glad he died happy.”

Johnny’s death made Grandma a rich widow at seventeen. She moved to south Florida and built an apartment building right on the ocean in 1923, on a narrow barrier island.

What am I writing? A funny cozy mystery.

You’d be surprised how many mystery authors aren’t sure if they’re writing a cozy, a thriller, or a traditional mystery. Answering this question will set the tone and pace for your novel.

Where is it set? This Florida Beach series is set in mythical Peerless Park, a beach town between Fort Lauderdale and Miami, which has much in common with Hollywood, Florida, where I currently live.

When is it set? Right now in the present day, with occasional trips back in time when Norah’s grandmother was still alive.

Why write a new series?

Let me tell you about my latest walk on Hollywood beach, near my home. I was on the Broadwalk. That’s  not a typo, that’s what the city calls the wide walkway of pink pavers along the beach.

It was close to sunset on a sparkling bright day. The light was soft, the air was brisk, and the sky was smeared shades of flamingo pink and purple.

Against this colorful background, I heard German, English and Spanish. I saw a smiling shirtless man wearing earbuds dance the mambo on the Broadwalk. He followed the steps perfectly: Step. Pause. Other foot. Pause. And repeat.

Right after the mambo dancer, another man was loading a stunning macaw with long indigo tailfeathers into his van. A third man was rocking gently in a rainbow-colored hammock.

And last, but not least, four people were setting up for a beach wedding, assembling a five-feet tall rose petal heart as the backdrop for the couple’s seaside ceremony.

I wanted to write about Florida’s life and color. That’s how my Florida Beach series was born. Yes, I know there’s much to dislike about Florida, from the humidity to the hurricanes and more. Look at any news site, and you’ll find at least one story proving some residents of the Sunshine State are a little dim.

But Florida has its own brand of wackiness that appeals to someone with a slightly skewed sense of humor.

Like me.

Preorder your copy of Sex and Death on the Beach here: bit.ly/3W6Y2Rp

 

The Write Stuff: Holiday gifts for writers and readers

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by Elaine Viets

Stumped what to give your favorite writer or reader for the holidays? Here are a few suggestions, gathered from the four corners of the internet.

Sherlock’s Study Candle. What better way to write your historical novel – or read the adventures of the Master, than with a Sherlock’s Study Candle, scented with cherrywood, tobacco and rain. Fortunately, this soy candle does not have those less romantic scents of horse sweat and the Thames at low tide. Etsy. $9+ etsy.me/4ioTSxP

Book Nook Reading Valet. Park your book on the wooden triangle and  hide your cell phone under it. There’s room for your specs and a wineglass or mug. $50 Uncommon Originals. bit.ly/3ZOV32m

Always Check Behind the Shower Curtain. Hang this in your guest bath and I guarantee they won’t use all the hot water. For mystery writers and true crime lovers. $58. Etsy, etsy.me/3Dc98xM

The James Bond Vesper Martini Cocktail Shaker. For your favorite Bondophile, this stainless steel shaker has Bond’s Vesper Martini recipe from Casino Royale on one side:  “A measure of Gordons, 1 of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet, shake it over ice. Then add a thin slice of lemon peel.” The 007 logo is on the other side. It’s $39 at the 007 Store. The store has other Bond-themed gifts including Turnbull & Asser silk ties and pocket squares. https://bit.ly/3ZzonbP

Books! Book lovers never have enough books. Give one of your latest mysteries. Or if the person has them all, give them an author you admire. Better yet, give them a gift card to a bookstore.

 

Blind date with a book. Here’s a Goodreads-Rated Blind Date with a Book Gift Set. The set has a book in your favorite genre, and ways to enjoy this good read, including popcorn, a magnifier, a bookmark, tea, cocoa. Etsy. $13.49+ bit.ly/41pn0ik

Subscription box  for a blind date with a book. Give a three-, six- or twelve-month subscription. Each book bundle arrives at once, stuffed with books, bookmarks, stickers and drinks – coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. Just choose the genre. Etsy. Subscriptions start at $49. bit.ly/3ZLErIy

Whimsical cat with glasses handmade wrist rest. Purrfect for any cat lover. $28.95  bit.ly/3OQreYJ

Happy holidays, TKZers. I’ll see you next year.

Solving the Mystery of TOD

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By Elaine Viets

 Bowls of melting ice cream once helped solve a brutal murder. An entire family – father, mother and two small children – were shot to death at their dinner table. The neighbors heard a commotion and called the police.

When the police arrived, a death investigator determined that the family had finished their main meal, and the mother was dishing out ice cream when the family was shot.

The death investigator photographed the ice cream, and measured how far it had melted in the bowl. Then she bought the same brand of ice cream and timed how long it took for the ice cream to melt in the same type of bowl.

That gave the police a vital clue to the estimated time of death (TOD).

Estimated is the crucial word. It’s nearly impossible to determine the actual time of death, unless the person dies at a hospital or in front of witnesses.

I heard this story about the ice cream when I took the MedicoLegal Death Investigators Training Course, given by St. Louis University’s School of Medicine. I’m not a death investigator, but the course was helpful.

When you write your mystery, you don’t want your pathologist to check out a body just found in a field and announce, “The time of death was at seven-fifteen.”

The pathologist doesn’t know that.  There’s no way they can know for sure. There are too many variables, including these three:

Rigor mortis. A body stiffens, starting about two hours after death. Around 24 hours later, the rigidity starts to disappear.

Algor mortis. The dead body’s temperature decreases until it reaches room temperature.

Livor mortis. When the heart stops pumping, the blood settles and the skin turns dark. One way police can tell if a body has been moved is if it’s found face up, but there’s dark purple livor mortis on the chest.

Humidity, what the dead person is wearing, and the temperature are a few of the things that can affect the time of death.

Let’s say your victim is shot in their home. If it’s summer and the killer turns down the air conditioner, that can slow down the processes. In the winter, turning the furnace on high can speed things up.

Time of death calculators can help mystery writers estimate TOD. Here’s one: https://www.omnicalculator.com/health/time-of-death

If your novel has a person found dead in their home, here are some clues your investigator can use to determine their time of death:

Has the mail been taken in?

Are the curtains open or closed?

Are the lights on or off? In which rooms? This clue is less helpful now that some homes have door-activated lights that turn on automatically when the room door is opened.

Is anything cooking on the stove or in the oven?

What about the food in the fridge: Has the milk soured, the produce wilted, or the meat spoiled?

Are any food items on the counter? Butter? Ice cream? Is it melted? Is the bread moldy?

Can you still smell food cooking on the stove?

 

Pathologists will tell you that TOD is an art and a science. TOD is also German for “death,” but that’s another story.

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Book Lovers Special: MURDER BETWEEN THE COVERS, my Dead-End Job mystery set at Page Turners bookstore is 99 cents all month. https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Between-Covers-Dead-End-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B0D2R9NZ77

Words, Words, Words

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By Elaine Viets 

As I write this, Hurricane Milton is barreling, charging, barging, and otherwise on its way to wreak havoc on Florida.

The hurricane is supposed to go up the state’s west coast, but hurricanes are unreliable. Their paths can shift any moment.

Don and I live in a condo on Florida’s east coast near Miami, where the state is only 110 miles wide. We’re supposed to just get sideswiped by Milton.

Right now, a tornado is twisting down Alligator Alley, the main road across the southern part of the state. The tornado is currently 16 miles from my house. We’re also under a tropical storm warning and a flood warning.

The wind is gusting outside, and condo residents have been warned not to walk across the pool deck that joins our two buildings. At least one resident was knocked over by the wind.

And we aren’t even in the hurricane’s direct path. We weren’t ordered to evacuate.

Since there’s a chance we can lose internet service or electricity on Thursday, I’m writing a blog that you can jump in and add your comments. Recently TKZ’s Deb Gorman invited us to pet our peeves here: bit.ly/3U0gFoQ

I’d like to continue that thread with some of my favorite – and not so favorite – new words and phrases. Here goes:

Weather event:  Webster says an event is “something that happens.” Or, “a noteworthy happening.  A social occasion or activity. An adverse or damaging medical occurrence, for example, a heart attack or other cardiac event.”

          So yes, a tropical storm, a flood, and a freaking hurricane are definitely “something that happens.” But they’re not an event. Nobody wants to attend these events. Not when innocent people are killed. So call these disasters out by their proper names.

I was today years old: This translates as “I just realized.” Some of these observations are fun to read, like this one from Jay on X: “I was today years old when I found out California has a bigger population than Canada.”

But jeez Louise, that’s a clumsy phrase. Let it fade away soon.

“Clean” as a noun. Clean is creeping into commercials as a noun. Hucksters for various kinds of soaps tell us their product is “the best clean for my family.” Or the “best clean for my clothes.”

Stop this abuse. You’ve gone clean out of your mind.

Doomscrolling. Now that’s a new word I can embrace. It means “continually scrolling through and reading depressing or worrying content on a social media or news site, especially on a phone.”

I don’t know about you, but I’m doing a lot of doomscrolling right now. About the election, and the hurricane.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this blog. The hurricane that’s about to devastate Florida Wednesday night. If you want to help people, please check out the link below.

Meanwhile, wish me luck, and all the people in Milton’s path.

And tell me some of your words and phrases.

How can you help people hit by the hurricane? Here are some reliable organizations recommended by ABC News. bit.ly/3zVUvNR

Confessions of a Book Reviewer

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I’m rushing to finish the rewrite of my new novel.  Will the reviewers like it? Here’s a repeat of an interview with a reviewer.

Confessions of a Book Reviewer

By Elaine Viets

A reviewer for a major print magazine complained to me about a novel he was reading, when it dawned on me – this was news writers could use. If we know what’s wrong, we can fix it before the reviewer writes about it, for all the (mystery) world to read.
This reviewer is not some crank who looks for excuses to rip writers. If he has to give a book a bad review, he agonizes over that decision.
But here are some writing wrongs that upset this reviewer.

(1) Padded Middles. This is my reviewer’s number one problem – novels that slow down in the middle. “The padding doesn’t advance the narrative,” the reviewer said. “It’s pages and pages of the thoughts and feelings of people who aren’t very interesting. They offer no valuable insights. Sometimes, I wonder if editors make writers add this unnecessary information because big books are so popular. Most books I’ve read recently are 20 to 30 pages too long. Often, there’s a good book buried in that excess fat.”

(2) Switching names. “The character is introduced as Joseph Smith. Then the author proceeds to call him Joe, Joey, Joseph, and sometimes just Smith. It’s hard to figure out who the writer is talking about.”

(3) Who’s talking? “A character is introduced in the first 50 pages, and then shows up 200 pages later with no ID.” Take tax accountant Mary Rogers. She has a brief scene in Chapter 2 and then in Chapter 25 we see this line: “I think the suspect embezzled half a million dollars,” said Mary Rogers.
Huh? Our reviewer said, “I’m frantically pawing through the book, trying to figure out who Mary Rogers is and why she’s saying that.

“It would help if the author gave us a hint who Mary was. Something like this:

‘I think the suspect embezzled half a million dollars,’ said tax accountant Mary Rogers.’ That two-word take makes it easier for readers.”

(4) Writers who fixate on a certain word. “Like ass. I read an author who used ‘ass’ constantly. His character fell on his ass, showed his ass, got his ass kicked and had his ass handed to him. He dealt with asshats, ass clowns and of course, assholes.”

Cuss words are necessary for realism, but don’t overdo it.

(5) Dumb and proud of it. “Writers who want to assert their real-people identities trot out lowbrow snobbery. Their favorite phrase is ‘I don’t know anything about . . .’ Then you can choose one or more of these – opera, classical music, gourmet food, Shakespeare.”

Assume your readers are intelligent – after all, they bought your book.

(6) The hero with the drinking problem. He – or sometimes she – “is haunted by the awful things they did when they were on the sauce. Yes, people drink. And some authors handle this well. But most of these characters are tiresome cliches.” Reading these novels is like getting your ear bent by the garrulous drunk at the end of the bar.

(7) Writers who don’t do their research. If you really want to frost this reviewer, have your hero open a Heineken with a twist-off cap – there’s no such animal. And Jack Daniel’s whiskey always has an apostrophe.

If you’re writing a thriller set in Nazi Germany, you’ll score extra points with this reviewer if you don’t say “Hitler was elected president in a democratic election.” You’ll find plenty of people who’ll write that, but the Website Mythfact.com says it’s complicated.
“In America we hear ‘Hitler was elected President in a Democracy’ a lot,” the website says, “but the sentence is so semantically wrong . . . In summary, the whole thing is almost too complex to apply the ol’ ‘Hitler was elected democratically’ quip to, but since it is important, perhaps it is best phrased as, ‘Hitler and the NAZI party seized power in a democratic system.’”
Got that? Good.

(8) Basic copyediting errors. “These are turning up in books by major authors,” our reviewer said. “I’ve seen ‘grizzly murders,’ when I’m quite sure the local bears are innocent. Clothes are tossed down a ‘laundry shoot,’ and people ‘tow the line.’” If you really want to see steam come out of this reviewer’s ears, mix up “it’s” with “its” and “your” with “you’re.” Granted, we all make mistakes, especially when we’re writing quickly. But somebody should catch those errors before the book is printed.

(9) TMI in the first chapter. Nearly every one of us at TKZ has written about this problem. Overcrowded first chapters slow the pace of your novel. Our reviewer said, “It stops a good book dead when the first chapter has an overlarge cast of characters and I can’t keep them straight.”

Reader, what stops you when you’re reading a novel?

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Enjoy A Scarlet Death, my new Angela Richman mystery. The hardcover is $4 off here: https://tinyurl.com/mts557z5

 

 

Reigning Cats and Dogs

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By Elaine Viets

          I’m writing a new mystery series set in South Florida. Here’s one of the hairiest problems I considered: did I want my protagonist to have a pet?

I like pets, and they’re popular with mystery readers. Especially cat and dog mysteries.

Many cozy readers are familiar with Laurie Cass’s Bookmobile Cat series. And that’s just the start of the good felines. There are series with Cat Cafes, Klepto Cats, Magical Cats, witches’ cats, library cats, bookstore cats and more.

Cats who talk and solve mysteries aren’t my cup of tea – my cats can’t even open a can of food for dinner. But what do I know? Readers love felines who can perform semi-human feats.

I could also give my new protagonist a dog. Dog mysteries are definite people pleasers. There’s a pack of them, including David Rosenfelt’s series, featuring work-avoiding, dog loving lawyer Andy Carpenter and his golden retriever, Tara.

Tara is a lovable companion. Other mystery series feature working dogs, such as FBI special agent Sara Driscoll and her search and rescue Labrador, Hawk.

Here are more good reasons to have pets in mysteries:

Walking a dog is a good way to meet people.

Animals are good judges of character. Dogs (and some cats) can rescue or defend you, warn you with a timely bark or hiss, even uncover a clue.

A pet in your mystery can be plus. Readers identify with pets. “Your cat reminds me of my orange tabby, Ginger. She loves to . . .”

But there are major downsides to consider. Pets need care. Your detective can’t be on the track of a killer and suddenly stop the investigation to make a phone call. (“Psst! Mark. I’m staking out the killer’s house. Will you walk my corgi? I just got a new living room rug.”)

Dogs also have to be fed and groomed. Cats are a little more easy care. Your detective can open a big bag of dry food and leave out a bowl of water, but sooner or later the litter box has to be cleaned.

Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series has a unique, easy-care animal, a hamster named Rex. Rex lives in a cage on her kitchen counter. Rex sleeps in a soup can and runs on his hamster wheel. Stephanie occasionally tosses him a grape for a treat.

But she’s such a good writer, Rex seems real. Once, some thugs held Rex for ransom, and I genuinely hoped the little critter would survive.

For this new series, I decided to go pet-free.

***

Many authors love animals. Here are some quotes you may enjoy from the masters.

“Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.” — Agatha Christie

“A boy can learn a lot from a dog: obedience, loyalty, and the importance of turning around three times before lying down.” — Robert Benchley

“A dog reflects the family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people have dangerous ones.” — Arthur Conan Doyle

“I would like to see anyone, prophet, king or God, convince a thousand cats to do the same thing at the same time.” — Neil Gaiman

“A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” — Ernest Hemingway

“Owners of dogs will have noticed that, if you provide them with food and water and shelter and affection, they will think you are God. Whereas owners of cats are compelled to realize that, if you provide them with food and water and affection, they draw the conclusion that they are God.” — Christopher Hitchens

“Once you have had a wonderful dog, a life without one is a life diminished.” — Dean Koontz

“When you feel lousy, puppy therapy is indicated.” — Sarah Paretsky

“Everything I know I learned from dogs.” — Nora Roberts

“All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.” — Charles M. Schulz

“Happiness is a warm puppy.” – Charles M. Schulz

“A dog…is a bond between strangers.” — John Steinbeck

“Ever consider what our dogs must think of us? I mean, here we come back from the grocery store with the most amazing haul—chicken, pork, half a cow. They must think we’re the greatest hunters on earth!” — Anne Tyler

“If you hold a cat by the tail you learn things you cannot learn any other way.” — Mark Twain

“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.” — Mark Twain

“The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven not man’s.” — Mark Twain

And in case this sounds too sentimental, consider these words from Winston Churchill: “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.”

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Bimbos, bustiers and Botox. The first book in my Dead-End Job mystery is on sale for $1.99. Buy it here: https://tinyurl.com/2wuvz4vp

Not My Type

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A 17-year-old gamer who goes by mythicalrocket holds the world record for the fastest typing speed – 305 words per minute for 15 seconds. According to news stories, rocket also typed “The Hobbit,” a tome with more than 400 pages, “in less than six hours.”

Rocket reached these supersonic speeds on an Apex Pro keyboard.

Pretty darn good, rocket. Now let me tell you what typing was like when I was in high school.

We used manual typewriters. In my touch-typing class, I reached the astonishing speed of 45 words per minute – with an amazing 47 errors. I didn’t have a lightweight high-tech keyboard, either. The keys on a manual were heavy and you had to pound them.

I used a Remington typewriter, a green tanklike beast. Talk about heavy metal – in the late 1960s typewriters weighed between 25 and 40 pounds. A professional typist could achieve 80 words per minute on these monsters, with no errors.

So why I am telling you about my pathetic 45/47?

I worked hard to screw up my typing. Back then, careers for women were rare. We were supposed to get married and have kids. Before the kids arrived, we could work as teachers, nurses or secretaries.

Nothing wrong with those professions, but they weren’t for me. I wanted to be a reporter. I figured if men didn’t have to learn to type, neither did I. Some part of my brain thought this was the way to equality.

After college, when I got my first job at a newspaper in 1970s, I was surrounded by men who could only type with two fingers, a process known as “hunt and peck.” I was proud to be one of these incompetent typists.

We typed our stories on cheap newsprint, the stuff that’s now used for packing.

Manual typewriters had a lot of disadvantages. There was no spell check, so if we made a mistake, we x-ed over it, or corrected it in pencil when we finished typing.

If we wanted to move a paragraph, there was no highlight and paste, or cut and paste button. We had to cut and paste for real, and we couldn’t use Elmer’s, glue guns or glue sticks.

First, we’d find the scissors (or steal our neighbor’s), then cut out the paragraph we wanted to move, grab the glue bottle with a brush, smear yellow glue on the paper, and glue in the new paragraph.

Since our news stories were often written on deadline, glue bottles could easily overturn, leaving yellow tumorous masses on our desks.

One more fun fact about manual typewriters. The only way we could get copies was with carbon paper, which got on your clothes and hands. Carbon paper was inserted between two pieces of copy paper, making a sort of sandwich. I was skilled at putting the carbon paper in wrong and carboning the back of my story.

No point in asking to use the office copy machine. They were expensive and restricted to upper management. I’d have a better chance of getting a pint of blood out of the managing editor than using the precious office copy machine.

On the internet, there are typing communities, and competitions for the fastest typists. Here’s mythicalrocket at work. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGwKCi4FX84

I love watching those fingers fly over the lightweight high-tech keyboards.

That’s impressive.

But I’d like to see a real old-school speed competition on manual typewriters: deft digits manipulating unmanageable metal.

That’s the key to a real competition.

NOW HEAR THIS: Many of my audio books are free with a 3-month Audible trial. Including my Angela Richman mystery, DEATH GRIP. https://tinyurl.com/393ywnj2

Sugar Daddies: Sweet Treats or Sticky Situations?

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By Elaine Viets

Long before “sugar daddy” was a popular term, rich, older men gave pretty young women money and expensive presents for companionship or sex.

Call them protectors, benefactors or Santa baby, sugar daddies have been celebrated in operas, pop songs, movies, and television.

Puccini’s 1898 opera, La Boheme, has two sugar daddies. The Viscount is Mimi’s protector and rich, old Alcindoro keeps the brassy Musetta in fine clothes. Movies from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” to “Pretty Woman,” are variations on the sugar daddy theme.

Where did the term come from?

The Ginger website says, “The word ‘sugar’ has been slang for money and luxury since the mid-19th century, and defines the nature of the relationship between the couple. The word ‘daddy’ was slang among prostitutes for an older man since the 16th century, and refers to the age difference between the two.

“Sugar daddy” has been used since the beginning of the 20th century, supposedly when Adolph Spreckels, heir to the Spreckel’s sugar fortune, married a woman 24 years younger, who called him “Sugar Daddy.”

That’s one theory, anyway. In the 1920s, a candy called Papa Sucker, (no, I’m not kidding) was born. In 1932, the sucker was renamed Sugar Daddy to suggest “a wealth of sweetness” according to Tootsie Roll Inc.

Yeah, right. I’ll ignore the fact that a Sugar Daddy is a sucker

The company didn’t try to explain the smaller, chewy Sugar Babies.

By that time, it was pretty clear that sugar daddy and sugar baby had nothing to do with candy.

About ten years ago, sugar daddies went online, and there are many sites where wealthy, older men can meet sweet young things. It’s called sugaring, or sugar dating. Some young women claim they’re sugar babies to pay for college, or enjoy luxury travel.

Is sugar dating prostitution?

Depends. A Texas law firm says, “Dating partners of all ages often exchange gifts or help each other with financial obligations. This does not break the law. However, many sugar baby relationships do blur the lines between relationships and prostitution. In Texas, it is illegal to offer sexual conduct for money. It is also illegal to pay a fee for sexual conduct.”

I use this modern twist on sugar daddies in “A Scarlet Death,” my new Angela Richman mystery. Selwyn Skipton, a rich, respectable old man, is found strangled on black satin sheets.

Turns out Selwyn had a secret life. He was a sugar daddy. Here’s a section from “A Scarlet Death” where death investigator Angela Richman tried to explain sugar dating to a sceptacal Det. Jace Budewitz. They are in a Chouteau Forest coffee shop, reading the late Selwyn’s computer files.

Jace brought another round of coffee, and we read in silence for about half an hour until I hit pay dirt. “Jace, you won’t believe this. Selwyn was a sugar daddy.”

“You mean like in the movies? A rich old guy who buys diamonds and gifts for pretty young women?”

“Sort of. Sugar daddies don’t have to wait by the stage door to pick up blondes any more. Now they can find them on the internet.”

“Of course they can,” Jace said.

“Selwyn used a site called DatingDaddies.com. From what I can figure out, he’s dated several sugar babies. The website says, ‘Sugar babies are young, attractive women paid to provide “companionship” to their daddy.’

“That word, ‘companionship’ is in quotes,” I added. “Here’s the rest: ‘Daddies may give their sugar babies presents or help pay their rent. The degree of intimacy is between the daddy and his sugar baby.’

“I can almost see the wink,” I said.

“Here’s an ad Selwyn saved for a sugar baby named Tammi.”

I read it out loud:

‘“I am twenty-one, a sweet, fun-loving business major. I want a Daddy with a kind heart. I prefer mature Daddies. I don’t smoke, but I do enjoy champagne and good conversation. Color me passionate about art. I love to talk about it, especially nineteenth-century artists. Or, if you want to have a quiet evening, Daddy, I’m a terrific listener. I’ll do my best to make you happy. I would love to find a business-savvy Sugar Daddy. In my free time I like to read and go for long walks.’

“Get this, Jace. Her username is Clover Honey.”

“Is this for real?” Jace asked. His eyes were round.

“Definitely. There are a zillion sugar baby websites. Tammi uses a pretty standard headline for her bio. It says, ‘Let’s have a secret.’ I see that one a lot.”

“What’s the difference between a sugar baby and a prostitute?” Jace asked.

“Not much,” I said. “But I’m old-fashioned. Sugar babies who charge outright often have ‘P2P’ in their ads. That means ‘pay to play.’ Most just want gifts or rent money.”

“If those men give their sugar babies money, that’s prostitution in my book,” Jace said.

“I’m not arguing with you, but sugar babies seem to be good at rationalization. Supposedly, many of them are college students trying to avoid student debt.”

“Right,” Jace said. “And strippers have hearts of gold and only take off their clothes to help their sick old mothers.”

Jace was usually more open-minded. I shrugged and said, “Just passing on the information.”

“Any photos of this Tammi sugar baby?”

“Yes, but her face is either hidden or in shadow in all three photos. In one photo she’s hugging a big chocolate Labrador, and all I can see is her long, blonde hair. In another, she’s wearing a teeny red bikini, and her face is shadowed by a big straw sunhat. In the third photo, she’s peering through palm tree fronds. About all I can see in any of the photos is long blonde hair, long legs and a big bust.”

“How can a sugar daddy make a decision, if he can’t see the woman’s face?”

“From what I’ve read, if a daddy is serious, the sugar baby will send photos so the man can see her face.”

Jace shook his head. “Sounds dangerous for both parties.”

“It is,” I said. “Sugar daddies have been blackmailed and some were murdered when they quit forking over cash. Sugar babies have been raped when they didn’t put out, and even killed.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jace said. “So these sugar babies have the same risks as hookers.”

“Seems like it. The sugar babies are paid well for it,” I said. “This file says Selwyn paid Tammi $85,000 in six months.”

Jace whistled. “I bet none of the women in the Forest are sugar babies.”

“Ha. You’d be surprised. I’m guessing some are. Sugar babies can be rich, bored, young women who want a short walk on the wild side, or their real daddies have cut off their allowance and the women want designer clothes.”

“That’s just greedy,” Jace said.

“May I ask why you seem to hate sugar babies?”

“I don’t hate them,” Jace said. “I have more respect for women who just say they’re sex workers. They don’t play games.”

What do you think about Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies, TKZers?

 Reviewer Cynthia Chow calls my new Angela Richman mystery, “an outstanding procedural that depicts Angela’s death investigations while also delving deep into class structures and the behavior of the entitled.” Win a copy at Kings River Life. https://www.krlnews.com/2024/06/a-scarlet-death-by-elaine-viets.html

 

The Case of the Bird-Brained Witness

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By Elaine Viets

   The witness to the murder could repeat every word the killer and the victim said during the fatal confrontation.  The witness was alive, but not human.

          What was the witness?

          A parrot. An African grey to be exact.

          While researching A Scarlet Death, my new Angela Richman, death investigator mystery, I learned about parrots as murder witnesses. This information has been compiled from news stories.

          Consider the 2017 case of the woman in Michigan convicted of her husband’s murder, thanks in part to his parrot. Police first thought someone had murdered the husband and tried to kill the wife. The woman survived being shot in the head. But the parrot repeated the husband’s last words. The parrot said, “Don’t f—-ing shoot!” in the husband’s voice. Turns out the woman murdered her husband and then tried to kill herself. The details of the shooting were remarkably vivid, as reported by the parrot. It was an African grey.

          In 2018, another parrot witnessed the rape and murder of a woman in Argentina. Her parrot repeated the whole terrible crime, saying, “No, please. Let me go,” which investigators believe were the last words of the woman.

          My favorite case was the parrot who knew too much. In the mid-1990s, Echo was put into witness protection. The New Orleans parrot belonged to a crime boss who was suspected of child abuse, among other crimes. Late at night, the bird would sometimes cry like a child, then sound like it was moaning in pain, and then make a noise like whack, or thwack! as if someone was being hit. The bird had to be hidden because it knew too much and wouldn’t shut up.

        When an animal seriously harms or kills a person, it’s often put down. But in past centuries, the beast was given a trial.

          Pigs for instance. Whether you think pigs are cute little animals, or pork chops on the hoof, they have a bad reputation. People who live in farm country know the stories of farmers who had heart attacks out by the pig pen and were eaten by their animals.

          In the Middle Ages, pigs were tried for murder. In 1386, a sow mauled a child so badly, it died. The pig was arrested, imprisoned and stood trial for murder. The homicidal hog was found guilty and executed by hanging.

Weirdly enough, the sow was dressed in men’s clothes when it was hanged. There’s no record if the defendant was eaten.

          In my new book, A Scarlet Death, Buddy, a murder victim’s African grey parrot seems to recount details of its owner’s brutal death.

          Chouteau Forest death investigator Angela Richman and attorney Montgomery Bryant are discussing the parrot’s testimony over dinner.

          “Let’s go back to the parrot,” Angela said. “Any chance that talking birds will be allowed to testify in court? They’re very smart.”

          “Too many problems,” the lawyer said. “How do we know Buddy the parrot actually heard the victim being murdered?”

          “Because of what he said. And Buddy’s words match the facts.” Angela speared a tender piece of chicken breast.

   “But what if we don’t know the facts?” Monty asked. “Or what if Buddy is imitating something he heard on TV? People could be convicted on the word of a parrot that watched CSI.”

          “But Buddy said the killer’s name.”

          “He did. How do we know the parrot didn’t just drop that name in there because he heard his owner say it on the phone?”

          “OK, I get it,” l said. “But I wish we knew what animals were saying to us, don’t you?”

          “Some of them, like cats and dogs.”

            Monty finished his last bite of burger and said, “However, I’d just as soon not know what this cow was saying on the way to the slaughterhouse.”

           So, did Buddy the parrot help the police solve his owner’s murder? You’ll have to read A Scarlet Death to find out.

Enter my contest to win a free ebook of A Scarlet Death. Send your name and email address to WinEVbooks@aol.com. Contest closes midnight, May 31.

 

 

Our Secret Language

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By Elaine Viets

We writers learn many specialized words. Words for our craft, including point of view, story arc, and pacing. Legal words such as subpoena, defendant, and waiver. We learn forensic words, sports language and many more.

But we all speak a private language, though we may not realize it. I’m talking about family words.

I first learned about family words from Paul Dickson, the author of  “Family Words: A Dictionary of the Secret Language of Families.” If you can get your hands on this book, grab it.

Dickson describes family words this way: “Every family has them. The words that only you use, your own secret language. For instance, one family has coined the word ‘lurkin’ for any sock that has lost its mate because ‘you know the other one is ‘lurkin’ around somewhere.’”

My personal favorite from Dickson’s book is “Grabacabbage,” someone whose name you don’t know or can’t remember. As in, “I saw that Grabacabbage kid from Cedar Court skateboarding through traffic. He’s going to get hit.”

My family also had their own words. Many centered around food. Here are a few:

Mustgo. Leftovers. As in “must go today or you’ll eat it tomorrow.”

Bread sandwich. My grandfather’s scornful name for a sandwich with only a thin slice of meat. Grandpa liked to pile on his meat and cheese.

Sunday ham.  When unexpected guests dropped in around dinner time on Sunday, Mom would serve up an informal spread of potato salad, chips and lunchmeat. The cold cuts were the everyday stuff packed in our lunchboxes: baloney, pickle loaf, salami and braunschweiger, Swiss and American cheese.  One of us kids would be sent to the local convenience store for ten cents’ worth of ham – usually about three slices. The Sunday ham would be draped on top the platter. Only the guests could eat it. If they didn’t, Dad got the Sunday ham in his lunchbox. We kids weren’t allowed to touch it.

FHB. (Family Hold Back). Used when we had voracious visitors, and there was a sudden shortage of hamburgers, steaks, or pork chops. The meat was reserved for guests. Once they were served, we kids could eat. If there were two chops or burgers left, they went to the guests under FHB rules.

My family gatherings had their own special words.

Organ recital. When my great-aunts visited my grandmother, these formidable women would repair to the kitchen for coffee cake and what my grandfather called the organ recital. Grandpa would flee to the living room and watch the ball game.

The organ recital was for women only. Kids like me were banned, but I found a place where I could eavesdrop on the gruesome details.

My aunts were permanently upholstered in black and wore Enna Jettick shoes. During the organ recital, my aunts would discuss their aches, pain and operations in loving detail.

Better yet, they talk about other people’s operations. Especially the hopeless ones. Aunt Marie would say, “The surgeon opened Eddie up and found a tumor the size of a grapefruit. There was nothing they could do, so they sewed him back up and sent him home.” I don’t know why, but tumors were always the size of a grapefruit.

As the afternoon wore on and the coffee cake disappeared, the labor contest would commence, and the women would one-up one another with horror stories about how long they were in labor during childbirth.

Is it me or is it hot in here? A euphemism for hot flashes. No woman would ever admit she was in menopause, much less suffered hot flashes. Instead, she’d ask this question. The other ladies would declare the heat was getting to them too, and fan themselves dramatically with napkins and magazines. The hostess, who was usually the same age, understood what that question meant, and adjusted the room temperature to December in Iceland.

Mutton dressed as lamb.  An age-shaming remark aimed at an older woman dressed like a young girl. Today, Kris Jenner, Charo and Madonna are often sniped at as mutton dressed as lamb. I doubt they care. They’re laughing all the way to the bank.

Short arms. My grandfather’s term for someone who avoided reaching for a check. As in,  “I’m not going out with that short arms and get stuck with the dinner check again.”

Tuberoses. My grandmother’s nickname for any mournful chiming clock. Apparently, when she was younger, tuberoses were a popular funeral flower.

Pasture pool. A golf game.

What are your family words, TKZers? Do you use them in your writing?

***

It’s here! A Scarlet Death, my new Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery. Buy A Scarlet Death hardcovers and ebooks at:

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