HOUSE — Pictured: Hugh Laurie as Dr. Gregory House — NBC Photo: Timothy White

By Elaine Viets

Dr. Gregory House is a creature of fiction. Real doctors aren’t that insensitive, are they?
Oh, yes they are. I had a brain surgeon who made Greg House look like Marcus Welby.
Dr. Jeb Travis Tritt is the brain surgeon who saved my life after I had six strokes, including a hemorrhagic stroke, in April 2007. That’s not his real name, and he doesn’t look or act like the brain surgeon in my new mystery Brain Storm. But Dr. Tritt, as I baptized him, was a real character. I couldn’t make up what he said – I’m not that creative.

In fiction and reality, Dr. Tritt is a brilliant surgeon with a lousy bedside manner. He saws open skulls for a living, so I expected him to be a little strange. But hey, so am I.

Brain Storm, the first Angela Richman, Death Investigator novel, is set in mythical, ultrawealthy Chouteau Forest, Missouri. Angela and I had blinding headaches and other classic stroke symptoms that sent us to the ER. There we were misdiagnosed by the neurologist on call, who said we were “too young and fit to have a stroke.” This comment is staggeringly stupid, though I didn’t know it at the time. Babies can have strokes. Dr. I. M. Incompetent told Angela and me to come back in four days for a PET scan.

We never got that scan. Instead, we had a series of strokes, brain surgery, and a coma, and encountered Dr. Jeb Travis Tritt. After brain surgery, Angela and I were in a coma for a week and spent three months in the hospital.

That’s where Angela and I parted company. When she came out of the coma, she learned that the doctor who nearly killed her had been murdered. The chief suspect was Dr. Tritt. Angela, still drugged and hallucinating, was determined to save the doctor who saved her. I can’t kill the doctor who misdiagnosed me. Except in fiction.

But I did experience Dr. Tritt’s midnight monologues, and put them in Brain Storm.
When Dr. Tritt got off work at midnight, he’d stop by my room. First he’d check my healing wound – a hideous cobblestone of a bump. Then he’d settle in for a monologue, talking nonstop for two or three hours. I was a captive audience – I couldn’t walk yet. He’d make jaw-dropping comments. I was heavily drugged and still talking to imaginary friends. But I knew I had a real find. Dr. Tritt’s visits were a gift. It took me nine years to use it.
One night Dr. Tritt said, “Do you remember anyone talking to you while you were in a coma?”
“No,” I said. “No tunnel of light, no relatives waiting on the other side. I didn’t see or hear anything.”
“Thank God,” he said. “I used to stop by every night and say, ‘Elaine! This is God! Wake up!’ But the nurses made me quit.”

Why did a surgeon spend hours talking to me instead of going home? He answered that question in another monologue.
“My wife is divorcing me,” he said. “She likes to shop and I don’t make enough money. She thought brain surgeons would be rich, but I don’t get that much. I only got three thousand dollars for your surgery. She wasn’t that good in bed, anyway. She just laid there, like you did, except you were in a coma.”
Huh? It didn’t occur to the doctor that perhaps his performance might have something to do with his wife’s lack of enthusiasm. The doc wasn’t coming onto me. My face was swollen, my skin was bright red thanks to an allergy to some medication, and half my hair was shaved off.
I’d always been proud of my long hair. I was shocked when I saw it had been partly shaved off for the surgery. Late one night, Dr. Tritt said, “I’m sorry about your hair.”
“In the grand scheme of things, it’s not the end of the world,” I said.
“I burned your hair because I knew you were going to make it,” he said. “If my patients are going to die, I save their hair because they like to look good in their coffins.”

I was speechless. But then I thought: What would he say if I was going to die? Would he come by one midnight, hand me my hair and said, “Elaine, you’re screwed. But here’s your hair. You’ll look great in your coffin.”
Good old Jeb Travis Tritt. This real life character saved my life. Now I hope he can help me pay off those hospital bills.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Brain Storm is on sale as a trade paperback, audio and e-book amzn.to/2awPsIe

Win an autographed hardcover of Elaine’s seventh Dead-End Job mystery, Clubbed to Death. http://elaineviets.com/index.php?id=contests

By Elaine Viets

THE CASE OF THE MISSING PAINTING is TKZ’s monthly First Page critique, submitted by an Anonymous Author. Congratulations, AA. You need courage to submit your work for evaluation, but it’s a major step toward publication. Here’s AA’s first page. My comments follow.

The Case of the Missing Painting

My cellphone startled me from a pleasant although dreamless sleep. The phone fell to the floor when I groped for it in the dark. Awake now, I grabbed the offending object. “Hello,” I said, sure someone had died.

“Jenna, it’s Toni,” my cousin’s voice rang out. “Someone stole Granddad’s painting,”

Granddad’s painting? Could she mean the Impressionistic landscape he’d painted long before I was born? I switched on the lamp and sat up in bed to the utmost annoyance of Stalin, who loved to sleep nestled against my back. The cat growled in protest.

“Did you hear me? Granddad’s painting’s been stolen.” More hysteria.

“I heard you,” I choked out. “But…” clearing my throat. “I’m not sure if I’m awake or dreaming. Why the devil are you calling me at…” I glanced at my phone. “At two-thirteen in the morning? Besides, I thought Aunt Lucy had that painting, safely tucked in her Florida condo.”

“Mom gave it to my brother, Joey. He says it’s disappeared, and let me tell you he’s frantic. Mom’s going to kill him.”

“Why would anyone want it? It’s a copy, an artist’s impression of a master. Priceless to us but worthless to anyone else.” My mind cleared and my voice sounded almost awake. That painting symbolized everything I loved about my dad and his Italian roots.

“That’s what I thought. But, apparently there’s more to it than that. I really don’t want to go into it on the phone and anyway…Neal, quit that.”

“What’s going on?”

“Neal keeps trying to cut off the AC.  I’m calling from the car. We’re on our way to see you after we stop in Columbus to pick up Joey—”

“At this hour?”

“Joey can tell you all about it. We should roll in sometime this afternoon. Get the extra bed ready. I told Joey we could count on you. Cousins sticking together and all.” She clicked off.

Roll in to see me? This afternoon? Extra bed? What extra bed? This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.

I switched off the light and closed my eyes. Visions of my granddad’s painting floated across my consciousness—the muted colors reflecting on the surface of the water. The building sitting on the bank as if submerged. A cherished painting I hadn’t thought about in years. But why had Toni called me in the middle of the night? What couldn’t she tell me over the phone? I tossed, repositioned my pillow, tossed again and finally drifted off to sleep.

Elaine’s Critique: Your novel has an intriguing start, AA, but too much information is crammed into your first page. You can deliver that information throughout the chapter, even later in the book. Your work is clean and free of typos, which is important. Here are a few other points to consider.

There’s an overlooked opportunity for a more dramatic opening. We all fear late-night calls. They usually mean someone’s dead, as you mentioned in an aside. Make that your beginning and ratchet up the tension. You can still have the cell phone wrestling scene, but I’d pare it down.

Where is your novel set? Cousin Toni tells Jenna, “I’m calling from the car. We’re on our way to see you after we stop in Columbus to pick up Joey . . . We should roll in sometime this afternoon.”

That’s an easy fix. Toni can say, “We left MY CITY AN HOUR AGO. We should roll into YOUR CITY sometime this afternoon.”

Hysteria? You do a good job of moving the action forward with dialogue, AA, but the first time you mention Toni you write, “my cousin’s voice rang out.” Then Jenna thinks in italics, “more hysteria.” “Rang out” does not indicate “more hysteria.” If she’s hysterical, show us. Have Toni talking extra fast, sounding frantic, tripping over her words, using a high-pitched voice, or other indicators of hysteria.

Give a clearer description of Granddad’s painting. It’s the key to the novel. AA writes, “Could she mean the Impressionistic landscape he’d painted long before I was born?” And “Visions of my granddad’s painting floated across my consciousness—the muted colors reflecting on the surface of the water. The building sitting on the bank as if submerged.”

Do you mean “Impressionist,” a school of painting? Or “impressionistic,” with a lower case I? What is the “building sitting on the bank”? A church? A mansion? Granddad’s home? Something else? And the bank of what? A river? A stream? Where is the painting set? The US, Italy, Britain? More specifics will give your novel a vivid start. Also, the painting is “an artist’s impression of a master.” Which master? Tell us.

Too many people in the first page. This is a common reviewers’ complaint. Jenna, Toni, Joey and Neal are crammed into one page. It’s over-crowded. Neal is never identified. Is he Toni’s husband? Son? Another cousin?

What’s the season? Is it in the chilly winter? A sticky summer night? A phrase can settle that question.

Tell us a little more about Toni and Jenna.  How old are they? What kind of person is Toni? Right now, she sounds more impulsive than hysterical. Is she Jenna’s “crazy” cousin? Is she normally level-headed, so Jenna has more reason to pay attention to her alarm? A phrase or two can help us out. Somewhere in the first chapter, let us know what both these women do. Are they employed? Students? What are their last names? Are they married or single?

That darn cat. AA writes, “I switched on the lamp and sat up in bed to the utmost annoyance of Stalin, who loved to sleep nestled against my back. The cat growled in protest.” Don’t let your readers guess who Jenna’s sleeping with. Try this: “I switched on the lamp and sat up in bed to the utmost annoyance of my cat, Stalin, who loved to sleep nestled against my back.”

And do you really want to name your cat after a mass-murdering dictator? That’s like calling the cat Hitler. Not funny, and painful for some readers.

Do you need that last line? AA writes, “What couldn’t she tell me over the phone? I tossed, repositioned my pillow, tossed again and finally drifted off to sleep.”

Would Jenna really be able to go back to sleep if she got a worrisome phone call at two a.m.? I wouldn’t. Your first page will have stronger impact if you cut that final sentence.

Consider changing:

• “a pleasant although dreamless sleep” to “a pleasant, dreamless sleep.”
• “to the utmost annoyance of Stalin.” Take out “utmost.”
• “I choked out.” Consider “I said.” “I choked out” doesn’t add drama. It’s a distraction.
• “My mind cleared and my voice sounded almost awake.” How does Jenna know what she sounds like? This can be cut.
• “This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.” Make it, “This had to be a nightmare.” Or consider cutting it.

Don’t be put off by these comments, Anonymous Author. This is a good story. Go forth and write.

Any comments, TKZ readers?

The Art of Murder, Elaine Viets’s new Dead-End Job mystery, opens at Bonnet House, a whimsical Fort Lauderdale museum with rollicking art, exotic orchids, carousel figures, and three squirrel monkeys who escaped from a bar. Elaine worked as a museum volunteer while she researched her fifteenth Dead-End Job mystery. The Art of Murder has been on the Pub Alley Mystery Bestseller list for nearly three weeks. www.elaineviets.com

By Elaine Viets

I love movie car chases. Nothing beats “Bullitt,” with Steve McQueen’s Mustang hurtling down the San Francisco hills. Michael Caine’s crafty Mini Cooper mixup in “The Italian Job” is another classic.

But traditional mysteries can have car chases, too. I wanted a car chase in The Art of Murder, my new Dead-End Job mystery. My private eye, Helen Hawthorne, doesn’t drive a muscle car. Good detectives have to blend in. In South Florida, that often means a white car. Helen has a white four-cylinder PT Cruiser.

Steve McQueen would weep.
But I got my car chase, thanks to an equalizer – speed bumps. The extra-wide ones, a.k.a. traffic calmers or “speed humps.” (Cue the risque jokes.)These speed bumps are in a lush Fort Lauderdale neighborhood known as The Landings, where residents dock their yachts out their back doors.

I can’t reveal the killer’s name, gender, or vehicle model, but here’s The Art of Murder car chase in The Landings. Watch that yacht. It will be in the car chase, too.

The Art of Murder Car Chase
The killer roared out of the driveway toward The Landings, blasting across Commercial Boulevard as the light turned yellow. Helen followed, accompanied by a chorus of car horns and upraised middle digits.

This wasn’t a fair race. Helen knew her trusty Igloo was seriously underpowered. The killer’s car had twice as many horses as the PT Cruiser. The killer floored the car and it flew over the north bridge into The Landings. Helen’s Igloo tried its best to keep up, but its workhorse engine was no match for the powerful car. Still, Helen floored her Cruiser.
And saw the speeding car slam on its brakes.

The speed bumps! Suddenly this pursuit was almost fair. The sports car raced forward again, then slammed on its brakes for a bump. Race and brake. Race and brake.
The odd stop and sprint chase continued for four speed bumps, with Helen’s intrepid Igloo managing to keep pace.

Helen struggled to push her car on the straightaway and spot the speed bumps in time to brake. The two cars lurched through The Landings.

After the fourth speed bump, the killer powered through a four-way stop to the angry blare of honking horns. Helen made a full stop.

She waited her turn for two cars, then crossed the intersection and floored the Igloo again. Her finger pressed SEND for 911. I should have called the police sooner, she thought. I can’t let the killer escape.

The killer was turning left at the next block. There were no speed bumps on that street. It bordered a canal. Helen was going to lose the killer.

She could hear the 911 operator saying, “Nine one one, what’s your emergency. Nine one one . . . ”

“Help!” Helen shouted into her. “I’m pursuing a killer in The Landings. I’m almost at Fifty-sixth. Get the police here. I can’t talk.”

Helen slammed the brakes again, and the Igloo jounced over the speed bump. Her cell phone clattered to the floor. Helen could hear the 911 operator and hoped the woman believed her plea for help.

Up ahead, she saw the killer make a screeching turn on two wheels, heading straight for a yellow moving van with its ramp down, parked in the street. The killer swerved to avoid it, and nearly hit a pony-tailed woman walking her fluffy white shih-tzu.

The killer swerved again, narrowly missing the woman and her little dog.

And the accident seemed to happen in slow motion.

The killer lost control of the car on the small humped canal bridge. It sailed over the bridge railing and crashed into the white yacht tied up at a backyard dock. The front end of the car smashed through the yacht’s pristine white hull. The car’s back end was on the dock, sliding toward the water.

A screeching, cracking sound split the air as several million dollars collided.

The Art of Murder is my fifteenth Dead-End Job mystery. Helen Hawthorne and her landlady, Margery Flax, tour Bonnet House, the whimsical mansion-turned-museum in Fort Lauderdale and admire an up-and-coming artist at a museum painting class. When the talented artist is murdered, Helen is hired to find her killer. She discovers the artist’s sketchy past. Was the promising painter killed by her jealous husband? A rival using her artful wiles? All that and a car chase-boat crash, too.

Pre-order The Art of Murder