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

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:

          Barnes & Noble: https://tinyurl.com/bde2c7ks

          Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/yhtvzns7

          Target has the hardcovers here: https://tinyurl.com/5xnrx5n4

Sneak Preview

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By Elaine Viets

       
          Hey, there, TKZers. A Scarlet Death, my latest Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery will be published April 2, and I can’t wait for you to read it. This is what TKZ is all about: getting our writing published. It’s why we work to improve our plotting, pacing, even our proofreading. We put a lot of time and money into our work. Let’s not forget to celebrate our success.

It’s easy to become blase after we write multiple books. A Scarlet Death is my 34th mystery. When it arrived, I danced around the house, then showed it off to my friends and family like a new baby. Even my cat, Vanessa, came by to check it out.

Let me tell you a little about A Scarlet Death. Angela investigates the bizarre death of socialite Selwyn Skipton, found strangled on black satin bedsheets, with a red letter A stapled to his chest. Selwyn was a good man. He gave to charity, supported local causes, and was married to his wife for more than twenty years. What were his dark secrets? What did he do to deserve such a terrible death?

Also, what’s going on in Angela’s personal life? Will she be a new bride? Or a new widow?

Here’s a look at the first chapter. Enjoy.

         A Scarlet Death Chapter 1

Selwyn Skipton’s murder scene was one of the strangest, and I’ve seen a lot of them in my job.

The seventy-year-old CEO was buck-naked on a bed with black satin sheets. A silk tie, in a muted shade of blue, was knotted around his neck. There was nothing muted about the large, red letter “A” stapled to his gray-haired chest.

Yep, stapled.

 

I thought Skipton would be the last man to die on black satin sheets. He was a devoted husband who made big donations to charities – unfashionable causes that helped the illiterate read, the hungry eat, and the homeless find shelter. In short, a good man.

Selwyn was strangled in an apartment above the Chouteau Forest Chocolate Shoppe. My town is so rich, we don’t have shops. We have prissy shoppes.

I’m Angela Richman, a death investigator for Chouteau County, a fat cat community forty miles west of St. Louis, Missouri. Chouteau Forest is the largest town in the county.

Selwyn’s murder was discovered by Maya Richards, the chocolate shop owner. When she opened the store that morning, Maya smelled something that definitely wasn’t chocolate. She followed her nose up the back stairs to the apartment, where the door was unlocked, and poked her head in. One look at the strangled Selwyn, and she sprinted downstairs. When Maya recovered her breath, she wailed like an air raid siren, then called 911.

That’s how Detective Jace Budewitz and I wound up at the scene at eleven o’clock on a freezing December morning, an hour after the place usually opened. The chocolate shop was chaos. The front doors were locked, with the three responding uniformed officers inside. Mike Harrigan, an old pro, was guarding the back door. Scott Grafton was drooling over a rack of chocolate Christmas candy, and Pete Clayton, the new hire, was at the front door. Crazed chocolate lovers stormed the place, oblivious to the falling snow. Jace shooed them away, and had Pete string up yellow crime scene tape.

Maya Richards unlocked the door with shaking fingers, and let us in. I was familiar with the interior, thanks to my craving for sea-salt truffles. The decor hadn’t changed since 1890. Curlicued dark wood framed mirrors behind mahogany counters. The chocolates were displayed like jewels in beveled glass cases. The cases were empty today. Maya knew her shop wasn’t going to open for a while.

Maya was about forty, wearing a chocolate-brown suit, the same color as her hair. Her face was pale as paper and her red lipstick looked like a bloody slash. Maya was shaking so badly, I was afraid she’d collapse. She was clearly in shock, and could barely talk.

Jace was worried about her. He made sure Maya sat in a chair and called 911. I went back to find her a cup of coffee. I couldn’t find any, but there was plenty of the shop’s double-dark hot chocolate. I heated a mug in the microwave, and brought it to her. Maya wrapped her hands around the mug, and nodded. After a few sips, she recovered enough to talk. There were long pauses between her words, but she forced them out. Then the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I . . . get . . . here . . . about seven . . . to set up the shop,” she said.

“I have a very keen nose, and something didn’t smell right. I thought a squirrel might have gotten into the store and died. I checked everywhere, and finally decided the smell must be coming from upstairs.

“Mr. Selwyn Skipton has the entire apartment upstairs. I thought he kept it as a second office, or a pied-à-terre for when he worked late downtown. He owns the building, you see, and he’s a regular customer. He loves our bear claws.”

“Me, too,” I said. Jace frowned at me for interrupting.

Maya took another sip of hot chocolate and kept talking. ‘I’ve never been upstairs in the apartment. Mr. Skipton’s kept it for years, and he likes – I mean, liked – his privacy. I was afraid he might have had some kind of accident. He has his own entrance in the back of the building, and I need a special key to open it. I also need a key to open the door at the top. The upstairs door was left unlocked.

“I ran upstairs and knocked on the door. No one answered. I jiggled the handle and the door swung open. All I saw was this giant bed, covered in black satin, and Mr. Skipton in the middle of it. Dead. And naked. With bugs crawling on him!”

Now Maya’s teeth were chattering. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and her skin was clammy. She set her mug on the floor.

“Are you OK, Ms. Richards?” Jace asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, and fainted.

“See if she has any family, Angela,” Jace said. “I’ll call 911.”

I found her cell phone and ran back. It needed the owner’s fingerprint to unlock it. I grabbed Maya’s limp hand, used her index finger to unlock the phone, scrolled down to an entry that said “Sis,” and called the number. Her sister Anita answered, and once I calmed her down, Anita said she’d leave her office and meet Maya at the hospital.

“That’s the ambulance,” I told her, as the siren died with a squawk. Doors slammed. Pete opened the shop door, and four paramedics rushed in, bringing a blast of cold. Jace explained what happened. They checked Maya’s pulse. “Do you know if this has happened to her before?” the biggest paramedic asked. He looked like he bench-pressed Buicks.

“No idea.” Jace shrugged.

“It could be a panic attack,” the paramedic said, “but we’ll take her to the ER to make sure.”

Jace asked Pete to stay with Maya at the hospital until her sister showed up. The young crew-cut mountain gave Jace a sour look and stomped out the door.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Pete’s got a bad attitude,” Jace said. “He tried to get hired by a big force, and wound up here. Thinks he’s too good to do scut work.”

I nodded, and let it go. Some detectives wouldn’t have bothered taking care of Maya at a murder scene, but Jace had a kind heart.

Meanwhile Mike, the responding officer, had set up the crime scene log. Jace and I gloved up, put on booties and trudged up the dark, narrow private staircase. I dragged my death investigator’s suitcase behind me.

The apartment door was open from when Maya fled downstairs.

Jace looked in and said, “Good lord.”

******************************************************************

A Scarlet Death will be shipped April 2. Preorder your hardcover or ebook at: Barnes & Noble: https://tinyurl.com/bde2c7ks

          Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/yhtvzns7

          Hardcovers only:  Target: https://tinyurl.com/5xnrx5n4

          The Penguin Bookshop, https://tinyurl.com/67nvm4j9

          RJ Julia Booksellers, Madison, Conn: https://tinyurl.com/4drh288c

          Please note that prices may vary. Check before you buy. 

Good Reading

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By Elaine Viets

Reading is good for you.

That’s right. Reading is healthier than a bale of kale, according to the studies I’ve seen. Here’s a rundown on some:

Reading can help keep your brain sharp.

Can’t do Sudoku? Me, either.

But I do read. And a 14-year study of almost 2,000 people in Taiwan who were 64 and older, showed those who read one or more times a week had less cognitive decline at six-and 14-year intervals.

Wanna live longer? Read.

          Here’s a novel idea. Books are better for you than magazines and newspapers.

“Book readers also experienced a 20% reduction in risk of mortality over the 12 years of follow-up compared to non-book readers,” said a study published in 2017.  “These findings suggest that the benefits of reading books include a longer life in which to read them.”

Reading can improve your brain’s health.

          According to Bustle. The newsletter said, “Scientists looking into a six-month daily reading study at Carnegie-Mellon discovered that the volume of white matter (that stuff responsible for carrying nerve impulses between neurons) in the language area of the brain actually increased.”

Stay connected.

Business Insider says reading strengthens the connections in your brain.

According to Sabrina Romanoff, an NYC clinical psychologist, “reading creates neurons in the brain, a process known as neurogenesis. Neurons are cells that send messages and transmit information between different areas in the brain.

“Reading material that requires thought, consideration, and effort to metabolize what’s being described leads to the creation of new neurons in your brain,” Romanoff says. “These neurons also increase new neuronal connections, both with each other and older networks, which accelerates processing speed.”

Six minutes.

          Is all it takes to reduce stress. That’s according to researchers at the University of Sussex. They said, “People who read for just six minutes had reduced muscle tension and a slower heart rate.”

Tired of being told to eat your veggies?

A study of more than 15,000 Chinese age 65 years and older who didn’t have dementia were followed for about five years.

The study wanted to find out if intellectual activities could lower “the risk of dementia in older adults, independent of other healthy lifestyle practices such as regular physical exercise, adequate fruit and vegetable intake, and not smoking.”

The good news?  “Daily participation in intellectual activities was associated with a significantly lower risk of dementia several years later, independent of other health behaviors, physical health limitations, and sociodemographic factors.”

In other words, “Active participation in intellectual activities, even in late life, might help prevent dementia in older adults.” And yes, intellectual activities include reading.

Pass the zucchini, please. To someone else.

***

          Stay smart and healthy! Enjoy The Dead of Night, my seventh Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery. http://tinyurl.com/mr33sc8e

The Christmas Rescue

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By Elaine Viets

 This is my last blog before the holiday break, and I wanted to tell you about my favorite Christmas memory.

When I was growing up in St. Louis, I waited for my grandfather to bring home the Christmas tree. Grandpa had a real knack for picking them.

Every year, he had the worst tree on the block. It was skinny, scraggly and bald. The needles fell off when he brought it through the door.

It looked like a bottle brush.

Grandpa didn’t buy a tree. He rescued it.

He’d wait till the last minute on Christmas Eve. Then he’d stop at the local tree lot and buy one for a buck. He overpaid.

Grandma would take one look at the homely thing and burst into tears. “Just once, I’d like a real tree, like normal people,” she’d say.

We kids would burst into laughter. You had to work had to find a tree that ugly.

Grandpa looked bewildered. After all, he’d saved a poor little tree from a cold lot. And now everyone was mad at him.

Operation Tree Rescue kicked into high gear. Dad would get extra branches from the tree lot and try to drill holes in the spindly trunk to make the tree look fuller. He had to be careful. The tree’s trunk was skinny.

He strung the tree with lights, which made the branches sag. Now we had a bald, round-shouldered tree, like a bad blind date.

Grandma would Christmas cookies and Christmas cards in the wide-open spaces. She brought out the colorful glass ornaments. Then she’d fill the biggest holes in the branches with popcorn strings and beads.

The tinsel went on last. That covered a lot of problematic places. Grandpa’s tree ended up looking like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family.

Meanwhile, Grandma’s normally pristine carpet was knee-deep in needles. The tree shed needles we didn’t even know it had. Grandma vacuumed twice a day, and there were still needles.

Every holiday, Grandpa would surpass himself. No, considering what those trees looked like, he’d outstrip himself. “Next year, just bring home a broom handle,” we’d tell him, as we tried to rescue his latest find. He’d sit in his recliner, looking pleased with himself.

Year after year, the saga of the rescue tree continued. Until it didn’t.

My grandparents are long gone, and I can have any tree I want. Big, beautiful trees. Perfectly shaped trees. Trees that are decorator delights.

But none of them are as good as Grandpa’s rescue trees.

Happy Holidays, however you celebrate.