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Fast Living

By Elaine Viets

 
"Nice car," the mysterious stranger at my local gas station said to me. "What year?"

"Blackie’s an ’86 Jaguar," I said.

"He’s in good shape," the man said. "If you ever want to sell, here’s my card." It said "Miami Movie Cars."

He was driving a beat-up black Crown Vic police car. He said the film makers were going to shoot a TV show episode and a 1980's cocaine cowboy film in Fort Lauderdale and South Beach.

Sell Blackie? Never! Blackie is the second great love of my life after Don, and my husband’s not on the market, either.

Blackie and I were enormously flattered, though, and drove away trailing stardust. Blackie is short for Black Beauty. With his chrome and red leather interior, this Jaguar is one cool cat.

I’ve named all my cars, except one, because they have distinct personalities.

My first car was the Blue Bomber, an oil-aholic Plymouth Fury. I bought it for $450 dollars to drive to college. It looked like the blue Fury in this photo, except my Blue Bomber guzzled so much oil, I carried a case of oil in my trunk. We could usually make it to class and back on one refill. The Blue Bomber rode in a permanent cloud of stinky blue smoke. Someone gave me a "Have You Thanked a Green Plant Today?" sticker, but I was too embarrassed to put it on the bumper. No one could have read it through the smoke, anyway.

Don bought me a  burgundy red Thunderbird for our second wedding anniversary. Her name was Ruby Red and I adored that car. Her seats were sumptuous.

When Ruby had her day, I was in the throes of a corporate career at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. I bought a boxy Volvo to go with my boxy dress-for-success suits. The Volvo was as sensible as a pair of walking shoes, and about as stylish. This Volvo had one of the first catalytic converters and I drove it mostly back and forth to the repair shop. I never warmed to that car and never named it. Not officially, anyway. But I sure called it a lot of names when I waited for a tow truck.

Finished with sensible cars, I got a sporty Mercury Cougar named Kitty. Kitty looked like a gray tabby cat, but that cat tore up the road.

Then, in the 1980s, Ralph Ingersoll started the St. Louis Sun and tried to hire me as a columnist. My paper, the Post-Dispatch, gave me an outrageous bonus to stay. I bought suede and leather outfits and a 1986 Isis blue Jaguar. The rest I spent foolishly. (Did I mention I was through with sensible?) I named my blue Jaguar Ralph, in honor of the newspaper mogul who made him possible. 

Ralph (the car) and I had twenty-two happy years together, until he had a fatal car cancer – rust. The ’86 Jaguars were a perfect design plagued by rust.

I was cruising along I-95 in Miami one afternoon when the driver’s side footwell went clattering down the highway. It had rusted clean through and I could see the road between my shaking legs while driving 70 miles an hour. Fortunately, the brake and gas pedals were still there and I made it home. But Ralph’s last ride was nearly my last ride and I had to give him up.

I tried to like newer cars, but none of them had the same sleek style or the feel of the road. Then Peter, my mechanic, found another ’86 for sale. This car was white with a red leather interior. I had him painted black and Black Beauty was born.  

There’s just one problem. Some people insist on calling him "she."

Black Beauty is all man. Can’t you tell by the tail pipe?

What do you name your car?

***

Win JUST MURDERED, my Dead-End Job mystery set at wild South Florida weddng. Click on Contests at www.elaineviets.com

 

　

　

　

　

Appointment TV and Binge Watching -- TV Nirvana

by Toni L.P. Kelner / Leigh Perry

As readers of my "Where are they now?" series could probably guess, I'm a big fan of TV. And I have to say that this is probably the best time ever to be a TV fan. There are just so many options!

I remember when a big event of the week was getting the latest TV Guide, so I could decide which shows I was going to watch, figure out which were reruns, and guess at which "specials" would be special enough for my taste. (I was always a sucker for Christmas specials.) I didn't plan my entire life by TV, but I did plan many hours around it.

I was a particular fan of Starsky and Hutch, and really wished our Gran Torino were red-and-white rather than burnt orange. (In case you're curious, Starsky was my favorite of the two hip, young street cops. No offense to the Blond Cop, which is what all the villains called Hutch.)

I remember watching a lot of S.W.A.T. and Welcome Back, Kotter in those years. If you named a night, I'd tell you what shows I watched on that night.

You youngsters have to understand that life was different then. There were reruns, but they were hard to track; syndication didn't include every single show ever made; and the idea of DVD releases of entire runs of shows was far in the future. If I didn't watch Starsky and Hutch on its appointed night, there was no telling when I'd catch up. If it was a short-run show like The Quest, an obscure and short-lived Western that starred Kurt Russell and Tim Matheson, missing it during the first run meant missing it forever. (Again, my favorite was the brunette.)

Now it's different. Miss an episode of your favorite TV show? Record it with your DVR. Catch it on Hulu, Fios On Demand, or some other streaming service. Or find the spoilers online, even see key scenes on YouTube. Even TV Guide is online! (Excuse me, I mean www.tvguide.com.) And if a good show still sneaks past you, or comes on a network you don't get, wait for the DVD of the whole season and binge-watch that baby.

Still there are usually a few shows that we Kelners consider appointment TV, meaning shows we watch live. Currently, we have two: The Flash and Agent Carter.

Well, normally they're both appointment shows. But for some reason, last night's schedule gremlins put them on opposite each other. We adore both, but we watched Agent Carter because it was the series finale. As for The Flash, we'll catch him as fast as we can. (Catch the Flash? See what I did there?)

Once Agent Carter ends her run, we'll go back to watching Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. in that time slot--it's another Kelner favorite.

We have another show that was an appointment show for a couple of years, because it's great fun: FaceOff.

Unfortunately, it comes on opposite Agent Carter and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D, so we stream it at the first opportunity. (Since it's a competition show, getting spoiled is a real problem, so we try to get to it the next night if possible.)

Another change is the constant flux in seasons. I used to track the days of the week by the shows, as in Thursday was Cheers and Hill Street Blues. Now no schedule is set for long. Agent Carter was only six episodes, and filled the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. spot. Face Off has half-seasons, more or less. Doctor Who and Sherlock use the British system, and we have to watch for them. Gravity Falls seems to air a show once a month at best.

When there are no TV appointments to keep, it's time for the shows we binge watch, waiting for the DVDs to come out so we can wallow: Castle, Big Bang Theory, Once Upon a Time, and our latest, Arrow. (We've just started Season 2, so don't spoil me, okay?)

Then there are the shows we've already watched and will undoutbly watch again: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Torchwood, older Doctor Who. So many options. Other sets are on our shelves waiting, notably Game of Thrones. So many shows, new and old.

This is a golden age for TV watching. The only hard part is making myself step away from the TV once in a while.

Now how about you? What shows do you make appointments for, binge watch, or watch over and over again?

 

 

This too shall pass

by Donna Andrews.

I could tell you about our latest eight inches of snow--nothing by Boston standards, but pretty impressive for around here.  I could share pictures of snowdrifts and birds fluffed against the cold, waiting their turn at my feeder.  But who wants to see more of that?  So instead . . . 

They're coming.  Spring and summer.  Warm nights. Garden weather.  Beach weather.  Shirtsleeve weather. I'm not going to ask anyone to clap hands like Peter Pan trying to rescue Tinkerbell.  Just thought I'd share a few photos of things we've almost forgotten could exist.   But they do.  Or at least they will.

Br-r-r-r-r-riliant February Reads

 

from Mary Saums 

 

Holy moly, who turned off the heat? Usually we get a little snow in winter, like maybe one day. Today makes seven days straight of bone-chilling temps and one form or another of icky precipitation. Oy, the streets. I don't know how our Femmes and friends up north manage in the winter. I'd be Full Squirrelly and bouncing off the walls, no lie. Let's hope they get a weather break soon!

 

 

DEATH CLOUD by Andrew Lane is 1st in a YA series starring a very young Sherlock Holmes. He's a student at a boarding school for boys and is looking forward to returning home for summer vacation. However, Mycroft has other plans for him. Since their father is on his way to India, and their mother "needs rest" due to an implied mental illness, arrangements have been made for Sherlock to stay with an aunt and uncle whom he's never met. 

Sherlock begs to stay with Mycroft in London instead. But Mycroft's new job with the  government leaves him little time to properly attend to him. Instead he hires an unusual tutor to continue Sherlock's education during his summer in the countryside. 

I liked this story and believe both YA and adult readers would enjoy it. More complex than a Hardy Boy mystery, lots of action, relatives who are a little koo-koo, a strange housekeeper reminiscent of Mrs. Danvers, a great mad villain and just a shade of pre-steampunkery.

 

 

WHEN GODS DIE by C.S. Harris 

Oh how I LOVE LOVE LOVE this series. For a long time, I didn't think I'd like  books set in the early 1800's. No problem with ancient, medieval, Elizabethans, nor with late 1800's to present. That 1700 to 1800-ish period though just didn't ring any chimes.

But then, I ran out of books that met my British historical requirements. So began the search else-when. Whatever other time period I tried, the book still had to be a mystery, still had to have a strong lead character, still had to be well-written.

Thank goodness for C.S. Harris and her fantastic Sebastian St. Cyr novels. In WHEN GODS DIE, King George has finally gone mad enough to convince the government that his son should become Prince Regent in his stead. The Prince decides to celebrate with a huge party in Brighton. There, he receives a note from a particularly beautiful lady he fancies, asking him to meet her secretly in another room. When he arrives, he finds her dead and knows he's in trouble.

Wonderful characters, beautiful solid writing, lots of surprises throughout this book and the series. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LONDON: A SHORT HISTORY OF THE GREATEST CITY IN THE WESTERN WORLD was a fantastic audiobook from The Great Courses series. It contains 24 lectures by history professor Dr. Robert Bucholz of Loyola University. 

I can't say enough good things about this one. Dr. Bucholz does a great job of telling the story of London's history, from pre-Roman conquest to today. I enjoyed the way he described what the city might look like by taking a historical figure and imagining what he might see on entering the city during his own time. 

Highly recommended for everybody. :)

 

So what are you reading these days? If you have a good recommendation, please  share.

 

Stay warm out there!

 

The Bird Paparazzi

by Donna Andrews.

Confession time: I am not a bird expert. I write a series with birds in the title, but Meg Langslow, my heroine, is not a birder.  Her dad is--as my dad was.  You pick up stuff along the way. But when it comes to birds, I share my mom's philosophy.  She kept the feeder filled, and enjoyed watching whatever birds showed up, and didn't worry about keeping a life list.

Although these days, I do appreciate the birds as photo subjects.  I'm committed to doing this thing called the 365 project, where every day you post a photo taken on that day. Some days, especially if it's winter, and I'm working hard, the birds are about the only photogenic thing I see all day.

And I hate to admit it, but I'm particularly delighted when I get to photograph them in the snow, because the photos are that much more interesting. Sorry, feathered friends. I feel for you, I do.  And I promise to keep the seeds flowing.  But you're so pretty against a white backdrop.

So with the caveat that if you ask me what kind of bird something is I may have to retreat to my bird books for half an hour . . . here are some of my favorite shots from the last six weeks.

 

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

The news earlier this week that singer, songwriter, and activist Lesley Gore had died put me in a reflective mood. Though I was not quite four years old when she burst onto the scene with "It's My Party," she and her songs were part of the soundtrack of my childhood in the 1960s. I had a 45 of "Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows" that I played a lot as a kid, and I knew "It's My Party," too, though I don't remember having a record of it. 

Thinking about Lesley Gore led me to think about other memories from early in my life. They are pretty random, and I wonder whether I will, at some point, remember other things I've forgotten, as elderly people are said to remember the events of many years ago better than they remember what they had for lunch.

Among my random memories is seeing The Supremes on "The Ed Sullivan Show" and being fascinated by the puppet Topo Gigio --although at the time I'm not sure I realized it was a puppet. I remember my birthday party when I was either three or four. My parents bought me a plastic wading pool and put it around the back of our house near the well-house. While our guests were celebrating in the front yard, I stripped off my clothes and went to play in my pool. Evidently I was fond of water at that age; my mother told me I would sit in the tub and splash contentedly in the water for an hour if she let me.

I remember helping my grandmother wash dishes -- she had to pull a chair up next to the sink for me to stand on. I'm not sure how much help I was, but my grandmother didn't seem to mind. I also vaguely remember my grandmother giving me a banana one time, and I told her that when I had one banana, I always had two. She thought that was pretty funny, evidently, and gave me a second banana.

One time when I was about four or five, I decided to be helpful. My mother had a small tank of fish, and I had seen her feeding them by sprinkling something out of a small container. I must have thought the fish looked hungry, so I decided I would feed them. I pushed a chair up against the cabinet so I could reach what I thought was the fish food. What I actually sprinkled in the tank -- in a much too generous quantity -- was black pepper. The fish died, unfortunately.

Being back in Mississippi with family so much closer now has made me more aware of the lost memories and of family history. I find myself hungry for stories about my parents in the years before I was born, and for stories of my own childhood. Stories about my grandparents and my aunts and uncles in the years before I came along. Perhaps it is part of being an only child and being middle-aged now. Perhaps it's simply nostalgia. Or do we all reach a point in our lives when we try to reconnect to those earlier years?

Weather Watchers--tales from the road

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:(Cool huh?The cover of the first Killer Nashville magazine! But Love it! But that's not what today is about.)

Talk about "killer." I don’t have to tell you what we’ve all been going through, right? The New England Femmes are snowbound, and snow crazy. Dear readers, it is NUTS.  I just had to drag Jonathan off the second floor roof, where he had the “great idea” that he’d shovel off the four feet of snow. Not in this lifetime, bub. 

 In my days as a general assignment reporter, blizzards (and hurricanes and other weathers apocalypti) were the stuff of newscast ratings. And when there was a dire forecast, I remember getting out the most elaborate storm gear—for a blizzard: long johns, camisole, t-short, thermal shirt, down vest, down jacket, inner scarf, outer scarf, Hood. Inner gloves and outer gloves, and don’t get me started on the socks and  boots. We had those little shaker packets of magic chemicals that get hot—and we’d pack ourselves with them.

 You’re in the newsvan, chugging to whatever location, raising the mast to get a live shot. I remember many times, the microwave mast bending so acutely in the windy gales that I worried the van would tip over. We’d dash outside, get broll of the snow and the shovelers, and the wind in the trees, and the whiteout conditions, get sound bites with the poor residents of wherever—then dash back to the van, write the story, edit in the van, then beam it back to the station. (You need a pencil, too, for taking down names and notes, since a pen won’t write on wet paper.)

When the show started, we’d leap out of the van, do the five minute (or so) live shot, all bright and brave, and dash back inside. I remember afterwards, curling up in the backseat, cold to the core, SO cold, so cold I would think I’d never be warm again.

 We’d pray for coffee. And then for bathrooms.  The best possible assignment was the airport. The airport had never-ending stories—not only the conditions and the cancellations, but all those travellers, each with their lives disrupted by Mother Nature. I loved that, actually, hearing what each person thought, finding those who were stoic, or outraged—the ones who took it in stride and the ones who felt as if the universe was conspiring against them, personally. The airport also has food, coffee, and bathrooms. Heaven.

 There are more pitfalls than cold and ice for a TV reporter in a blizzard. You not only have to report the “news” of the storm—you also have to look good. Having warm boots is the key to survival, but having a good and flattering hat is also key. You can’t look like a goofball, and it can’t shade your eyes. Very high degree of difficulty.

One of my favorite weather live shot memories—well, I have two.

One was in a hurricane, years ago. We managed to get to Cape Cod, it was raining like crazy, torrential, and blasting wind, 90 miles an hour or more,  and I remember it was freezing, but that can’t be. Well, I think it was spring, so maybe.  We must have all been completely soaked. We had a crew of three—the live-shot engineer/vandriver, the photographer, and me, the reporter.  It was after the 11 pm news. We’d had several live shots, and we were exhausted, soggy, and starving. But wherever we were was deserted, locked down, everyplace closed. We didn’t have to be on again until the morning news—five am. So we had to get up at 3. We were going to sleep in the van, but we needed food! The photographer said wait—my cousin’s summer house is somewhere around here. We called the cousin. He told us where the key was. We got into the little cottage, put all of our wet stuff in the dryer—how did we do that? I can’t remember. I’ll find food! I said. Which was sort of a hollow promise, since what did I know?

 I figured they’d have spaghetti, right? But no. The cupboards were incredibly bare. There was a can of tomato sauce, though. In their freezer, I found hot dog buns and some kind of cheese.  Hurray. I made grilled cheese on toasted buns, and put the heated sauce on top. It was SO delicious! We grabbed some sleep, and in a couple of hours ,we were out again.

 After that, I never covered a storm with out tons of food. Granola bars, almonds, and those little wax-wrapped bonbel cheeses. Which I think are good forever, somehow.

 Once at the airport—in a raging storm. We were outside, pelted with snow and sleet, but  I’d just done a live shot with a really good taped package, and a thoughtful and clever and newsworthy  intro and outro, I signed off, and then thought—wow. I am GOOD. I just did a terrific story, I know my stuff, I picked the right profession.  Just hen the producer called in from the control room. I took the call, ready to take my atta-girl accolades.

 Great job, she said. But next time—think about water-proof mascara. You kind of look like the guy in Kiss.

 Granola bars, almonds, bon bel—and waterproof mascara. Stay cozy—er, traditional—you all!  And do you watch the weather on TV?

ROMANCE, ROMANCE!

Valentine’s Day, preceded by Friday the Thirteenth, seemed like such an interesting juxtaposition that it started me thinking. Since I have had a heavy cold, that was a slow and creaky process, but eventually a thought emerged. Perhaps it was prompted by the controversial “Fifty Shades of Gray” movie.

Friday the Thirteenth is traditionally a day of ill-luck, a day when anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. It’s a black-cats-crossing-your-path day, a walking-under-a-ladder day.

Valentine’s Day, on the other hand, is all about the love . . . romantic love, specifically. It’s all red and pink, hearts and flowers, roses and candy.

I wondered about a blend of the two. Star-crossed lovers have been the basis for millions of plots, sure . . . but what about throwing in fear and disaster? “Wuthering Heights” was pretty suspenseful, right? “Gone Girl” is pretty nearly the perfect combination of fear and love in varying degrees.

And what about the movie “Fatal Attraction”? Talk about love gone wrong in a spectacular way. Or “Vertigo.” Or “Laura.” Or “Titanic”!

There’s something especially terrifying about the combination of love (or obsession) and bad luck (or malicious disaster). It’s irresistible and intriguing.

So as I wheeze and sneeze my way through box after box of tissues, I’m going to be devising the most perfect case of disaster and romance you ever read. A McCoy and a Hatfield elope and get married but their mountain gets hit by a forest fire started by a jealous lover . . . an illicit couple plans a rendezvous at the Bates motel . . . no, wait! It’ll come to me soon.

What’s your favorite combination of love and disaster?

Charlaine Harris

Old-school vampires and the horror of a New England winter

by Dana

    Decades ago, I attended an archaeology conference that got snowed in. There was plenty of food, and everything to do with the conference was located in the hotel, so we didn't have to venture out. It was fun for a while, an adventure. 

    Then people started getting a little fractious. 

    Too much of the same hotel menus, too little sunlight and fresh air. Folks started to worry about getting home in time for the start of semester, about the expense of getting stranded, about being done with the conference and wanting to go. Anxiety grew as people came up with plans to escape only to discard them just as quickly when flights were canceled. 

    After I'd turned to a life of crime fiction, I used the memory of that conference to write my fifth archaeology mystery, More Bitter Than Death, substituting a storm in New Hampshire for a snowbound English countryside, an academic conference for a hunting weekend, and my Professor Emma Fielding for Miss Marple. People liked (and were unnerved by) that book because it conveyed the feeling of being stranded and under stress. I've been told that graduate students like Mo' Bitter because the succession of murders opened up the job market for my fictional students.

    Fast forward to a couple of years ago. Another snowy winter, a storm every weekend. We'd be out shoveling, nodding to the neighbors who were also digging out, and then retreat to the fire and whiskey. Which was lovely, for the first few weeks, and then we all started to feel the cabin fever. The lack of sunlight, the confined quarters, and the seemingly endless repetition of digging out just long enough to get groceries then getting snowed in again began to tell. Driving was risky and walking almost impossible. The jolly smiles of camaraderie faded and all we could manage was a weary chin jerk and a knowing sigh, before returning to our heavy, sweaty, freezing work of snow removal. We'd make weak jokes about the lowering levels of brown liquor in the neighborhood and whether we'd have to stage raids to find more.

    When Christopher Golden asked me to write a story featuring a vampire in the old-school tradition of horror, I started thinking about a farm property where we walk and how the landscape changes with the seasons. How isolated the farm would be when winter came. That reminded me of that earlier hard winter and the line “There was always too much whiskey and never enough light” came to me. That led to thoughts of what people desperate to stave off a predatory evil during a terrible winter might do. It's easy to joke about reviving the practice of ancient sacrifices to ensure survival when things aren't too bad; it's no joke at all when that's the only option left. My husband James was seriously spooked by “Whiskey and Light,” and I found myself curling up into a ball as I finished it, so be prepared: This has nothing to do with my heroic Fangborn vampires.  (Oh, hey, Zoe's adventures continue in Hellbender, available the end of March!)

    Seize the Night will be out next October and it is crammed with stories by some of the best horror writers out there (including shockers by our own Charlaine Harris and Toni Kelner/Leigh Perry).  I hope you'll run out and by it.  Just promise me you'll read “Whiskey and Light” before the snow flies again.

Shameless

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I enjoyed Diane Vallere's new cozy mystery, SUEDE TO REST. I'm delighted Diane agreed to guest for the Femmes today. Better yet,  she's giving away a copy of SUEDE TO REST to one commenter. Leave a comment and you may win an e-book or a paperback, winner's choice. --Elaine Viets

By Diane Vallere

In a recent interview promoting the upcoming movie Fifty Shades of Grey, Dakota Johnson said that she didn’t have trouble with the subject matter of the movie because she had no shame. I’ve certainly heard this claimed by people in the past, both famous and non-famous, but whether it’s because the movie’s promotions make it difficult to ignore or because I needed a subject for this blog post, I really started thinking about what it would mean to have no shame.

Me? I’m ashamed of lots of things. I’m ashamed that I have entire days with which to write and sometimes only manage a few hundred words. I’m ashamed when I finish more than half of a pizza by myself. I’m ashamed that I call myself a full time writer but have had to dip into my savings to make ends meet, and I’m ashamed that I’ve just admitted all of these things to you.
Shame is a built-in mechanism that guides most of us and keeps us in check. Sometimes we do things we know we shouldn’t do and are only ashamed when people find out. Shame can make us feel isolated and embarrassed by our actions, shunned by others and, ultimately, very much alone. Even so, I’m pretty sure none of us wants to live in a shameless society.

As readers and writers of mystery fiction, we want our characters to be human. To have emotions. To know right from wrong, to show loyalty, to believe that good will triumph over evil and to be willing to lay it all on the line to make it so. But we don’t want them to be perfect. Because if you hold up a mirror to the majority of us, we’re not perfect and we know it!
Shame—or rather, the lack thereof—is one of the main characteristics of sociopathic behavior. Sociopaths feel no remorse for their actions, which allows them to exist on a level most of us can’t understand. Exhibits of empathy, guilt, shame, or remorse are faked, acts learned because the rest of the world expects to see those emotions in certain unsavory situations.
For the purposes of this blog post, I’ll assume that Ms. Johnson was simply making a provocative statement intended to help move box office tickets and not confessing to something darker.
 And as for me? I’m okay owning my shame. It keeps me from finishing the whole pizza.
--
About Diane Vallere:
After two decades working for a top luxury retailer, Diane Vallere traded fashion accessories for accessories to murder. SUEDE TO REST, the first book in the Material Witness Cozy Mystery Series, has been nominated for the 2015 Lefty Best Humorous Mystery Award. Diane also writes the Mad for Mod Mystery Series, featuring a midcentury modern interior decorator who has modeled her life after Doris Day movies, and the Style & Error Mystery Series, featuring a former fashion buyer. Diane started her own detective agency at age ten and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since.