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How to Mix Romance and Mystery

Special for Femmes Fatales by Lois Winston

I read somewhere recently that Agatha Christie didn’t believe in mixing romance and mystery, even though (little known fact) she wrote a handful of romances along with her many mysteries. I’ve spent the last hour searching for her exact quote only to come up cold. So time to move on. You’ll have to take my word for it. I mention this only because much has changed in cozy and amateur sleuth mysteries since Dame Agatha’s day. Many authors now dip their cozy characters’ toes into the dating pool, while some even plunge them headlong into romantic rapids. Still others now dare to leave the bedroom door open a crack.

Once upon a time I wrote books that ended with an HEA (that’s romance shorthand for happily-ever-after), where the hero and heroine always wound up either married or at least planning to wed by the end of the book. These days you’ll find my laptop planted firmly in the mystery world, thanks to a reluctant amateur sleuth named Anastasia Pollack.

Once Anastasia took over my life, I stopped writing romance—sort of. (Keep reading for an explanation.) Anastasia is a very demanding protagonist. Since the first Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery debuted in 2011, I’ve written six others in the series, plus three novellas featuring her.

When I made the move from romance to mystery, I found I had to switch up my writing style. Romances are character driven. The story centers round the hero and heroine. Mysteries are plot driven. They don’t have heroes and heroines. They have protagonists, whether amateur or professional sleuths, and those protagonists may or may not have a love interest.

Even if there is a love interest, in the traditional cozy the love story plays second or third fiddle to the mystery. Sometimes the love interest is mostly off-camera, only referred to occasionally by the protagonist. A mystery is first and foremost all about the sleuth finding out whodunit. Of course, that doesn’t mean that the characters aren’t fully developed in mysteries. No one wants to read about cardboard characters, no matter what genre.

When Anastasia’s husband permanently cashed in his chips at a roulette table in Las Vegas, her comfortable middle-class life crapped out. Suddenly, she found herself juggling two teenage sons, a mountain of debt, a communist mother-in-law, and her dead husband’s loan shark. Add to that a mother who claims she descends from Russian royalty; Mephisto, the French bulldog from Hades; Catherine the Great Persian cat; and Ralph, the Shakespeare-quoting parrot. Toss them all into one small suburban ranch house, and you’ve got chaos galore. And that’s all before Anastasia suddenly finds herself tripping over dead bodies!

Did I mention I write humorous amateur sleuth mysteries?

However, I’m not a traditionalist. I wanted to mesh my romance roots with my newfound love of mystery writing. If I was going to write a multi-book series featuring the same characters, I needed to give Anastasia a character arc over the course of the series. I wanted her to deal with internal, as well as external, conflicts and experience emotional growth as the series progressed. That’s where her dysfunctional family and their assorted baggage come in.

But right from the start Anastasia began to rebel and refused to go along with what I wrote. I needed to dangle a carrot in front of her.

What better way to do this than to turn to my romance roots? Enter Zachary Barnes. I introduced him in the first book when Anastasia rents out the apartment over her garage to him. He claims he’s a photojournalist. But is he? Anastasia isn’t so sure. He also looks like someone dumped the genetic components of Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, and Antonio Banderas into a pan and baked up the epitome of male perfection. Anastasia wasn’t sure what Zack saw in her, but she decided to give me a chance and began cooperating.

I’ve recently released Book 7 in the series, Drop Dead Ornaments. Nearly a year has passed since Anastasia’s life turned upside-down, but some things are beginning to look up for her. Her romance with Zack is progressing nicely, and she’s promised younger son Nick that she’ll stop risking her life and leave the dead bodies to the police.

 

But you know that’s not going to last very long, right? After all, I am writing mystery.

 

Bio:

USA Today bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry.

 

Website: www.loiswinston.com

Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog: www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com

Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/anasleuth

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Anasleuth

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/722763.Lois_Winston

Newsletter sign-up: https://app.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/z1z1u5

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/lois-winston

 

Words Gone Wild

By Elaine Viets of the Femmes Fatales.

 

Even the biggest authors run afowl (or is it afoul? There's never a copy editor around when you need one.) with our complicated language.
Here's an error I recently saw in a book by a big name New York Times bestseller. In the novel, the hotshot hero "tossed his clothes down the laundry shoot."
That's how I feel about my laundry most days -– I'd like to blast it with a double-barreled shotgun. But my neighbors would complain about the noise. It's much better to use the laundry chute.
Here are some other words that have tripped up otherwise fine writers.

"This thriller is taught with suspense."
Don't know about you, but I was taught that thrillers were taut with suspense, as in "tense."

"He needed a good taylor to look professional" proclaimed another book. Maybe he did need Taylor Swift, but my guess is he needed someone to alter (not altar, oh please, not altar) a suit for him. In other words, a tailor.

"One drink was not enough to wet his appetite."
I suppose that true if he wanted to swim in his scotch, but more likely one drink was not enough to satisfy him. It was not enough to whet his appetite.

"She shoed him out of the kitchen when she was cooking."
That's a bit drastic, to call in a blacksmith and shoe someone. That touches your sole. Not soul. Or maybe, in this case, both are correct.
However, I'm guessing she really shooed him out of her kitchen – playfully told him to leave her alone. That extra O makes all the difference.

I'm not writing this to feel superior. We all make mistakes and for writers, our mistakes are there for all the world to see.

In another mystery a woman was chomping at the bit to get to dinner.
Aha! Another mistake. I was taught that the correct phrase was champing at the bit.
But I checked my trusty Webster's dictionary and both expressions are correct. Nowadays, it's correct to chomp or champ.
And speaking of Webster's, that dictionary has a wonderful free service. If you email them at [email protected] with a question about word use, their Language Research Service will answer.
My publisher insisted that the past tense for kneel is kneeled. The nuns told me it was knelt. Was my information outdated?
The LRS answered:
"Knelt is the more common variant for the past tense and past participle forms of kneel. You are not old-fashioned or out-of-date in your preference for knelt. In fact, knelt is a relatively new addition to the English language. While kneel has been a part of the language since before the 12th century, the past tense and past participle knelt does not appear to have been used until the late 19th century."
Despite Webster's excellent reasoning, my publisher stayed squarely in the 12th century.

    What words gone wild have you encountered?

 

Homicide for the Holidays

Now that our Thanksgiving food comas have worn off and the Black-Friday+Shop-Small-Saturday+Cyber Monday frenzy has died down, we Tuesday Femmes took some time to reflect on our favorite holidays and recommend some holiday reading with accompanying food and drink suggestions, in case you’ve ever wondered what pairs well with murder.

 

First off, what’s your favorite holiday?

Aimee:It has to be Halloween. It's fun, there's no gifting pressure, no overly intense meals to prep for, cute kids in cute costumes, and candy. :)

Alexia:My favorite holiday is Christmas. Not the secular holiday with Santa and elves and talking snowmen; the religious holy season that begins with the Feast of Christmas on December 25 and lasts until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. The Twelve Days of Christmas. (Actually, counting from Christmas Day, Christmastide ends on January 5. Epiphany begins a different season, but Twelfth Night parties are often held on Epiphany, so it’s treated as the last day of Christmas.)

I love attending the late-night Christmas Eve service with sung Eucharist and the church lit by candlelight and everything timed to end with a trumpet fanfare just after midnight Christmas Day, when the overhead lights come on and the choir and congregation sing, “Joy to the World”. I also love the Epiphany tradition of Chalking the Door, a way to ask Christ’s blessing on one’s home and all who come within. During a short liturgy (or after, if the liturgy is held at church and parishioners are sent home with blessed chalk) that includes a reading about the Magi and prayers for peace, love, and blessings, the front door is chalked. A cross and the first two digits of the year are written in chalk above the door, followed by the letters C, M, B, followed by the last two digits of the year and another cross. (This coming Epiphany, you’d write +20 C M B 19+) C, M, and B represent the initials of the three Magi—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar—as well as the Latin benediction, Christus mansionem benedicat, (May Christ bless the house).

Catriona: It’s Christmas for me too, but absolutely the secular holiday with Santa and feasting, Like Alexia, I think Christmas lasts until after twelfth night. The decorations come down on the morning of the 6^th of January and then, as we say, it’s back to old clothes and porridge. But between Christmas Eve and then, it’s my favourite time of the entire year. The fridge is full of food, the log box is full of walnut wood and there’s a pile of books to be read. This year, for a change, I’m going back to Scotland for Christmas so instead of the two week veg-out it’s long flights, jet lags, family parties, old friends, the insanity of a Scottish Hogmanay and a wedding just to put the cherry on top. We’re already planning the Martin Luther King three-day weekend to recover in.

 

Are there any holidays you think are overlooked?

Aimee: A holiday I love and think is maybe not as widely understood or appreciated is Dia de los Muertos. A Mexican holiday that has people gathering in the cemetery to visit with their departed loved ones, cleaning and decorating their headstones or mausoleums with flowers, brightly colored paper banners, and sugar skulls. The whole family gathers and celebrates the lives of their passed loved ones with food, leaving ofrendas (the special plate of food for the dead), and music. Some people think it's morbid but it's done out of respect and love for family. I think that's really beautiful.

Catriona: Not overlooked, so much as miraculous. Martin Luther King Day! And Presidents’ Day! Back in the old country, after New Year’s Day and the second of January (yes, Scots have an extra day off after New Year’s Day, because of our forty-eight-hour hangovers) there are absolutely no holidays at all until Easter, when we get Good Friday (a real thing) and Easter Monday (not a real thing). It still feels amazing to get MLK day in January and Presidents’ Day in February. Of course, we have to do without an actual holiday at Easter, but there’s Cesar Chavez Day at the end of March, at least in California. That’s another treat.

 

How about some favorite holiday mysteries?

Aimee: I doubt I could pick a definite favorite but I did love A Holiday Yarn, a Christmas-themed book in Sally Goldenbaum's lovely Seaside Knitters series. A long-time secondary character's inherited house is being turned into a B&B in the small coastal town of Sea Harbor, Massachusetts when her cousin is murdered. The Sea Harbor sleuths have to unravel the yarn and knit up a solution. *Uh huh, I just did that terrible pun thing* I love Sally's series because it's full of warmth and gentleness, kind people, and, despite the murders, the books feel like a safe place to me. They are the literary form of Sally herself, one of the kindest, most loving people I know.

Alexia: My favorite holiday mysteries aren’t, strictly speaking, mysteries. They’re ghost stories by M.R. James. James, a medieval scholar and Provost of King’s College, Cambridge and Eton College, entertained friends and students on Christmas eve by telling them ghost stories, which he later wrote down and published. James moved the ghost story from the Gothic realm to the contemporary but he was carrying on a tradition with ancient roots. Dicken’s A Christmas Carol is a ghost story. Shakespeare and Marlowe both refer to tales of ghosts and goblins told during long winter nights. Before that, the winter solstice was thought to be a time when the barrier between the living and the dead thinned and ghosts walked the earth. Early Christians selected December 25^th as Christmas Day because the date coincided with pagan holidays such as Yule, which celebrated the solstice. The pagan and Christian religions shared traditions as well as dates. Puritan buzz-killer, Oliver Cromwell, tried to abolish Christmas and its pagan associations but Mr. Dickens and his fellow Victorians resurrected the Christmas ghost story and it remained popular until the early twentieth century. The Yuletide ghost story tradition didn’t catch on in America, however, (thanks again, Puritans) and, eventually, Halloween took over as the preferred time for spooky stories on this side of the pond. But a hint of the ancient tradition remains in a popular Christmas song. Ever wonder why “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” mentions “scary ghost stories” right after marshmallows and caroling? Now you know.

Catriona: Someone had to do it! Or maybe no one had to do it, but I’m doing it. SCOT FREE opens on the Fourth of July. I love Independence Day! Even though I shouldn’t because we lost that one. On the other hand, celebrating failure with fireworks is part of my heritage: we have bonfires and bangers on the 5^th of November to commemorate the failed attempt by Guy Fawkes to blow up parliament. And besides, barbecue. Mmmmmm. (Incidentally, SCOT & SODA, the follow-up, opens at Halloween.)

 

And what will we eat?

Aimee: The Sea Harbor folks gather often with food and while I'd love to pair A Holiday Yarn with a specific food from one of the books like a lovely sea chowder, I think I'd like to offer the Seaside Knitters some pan de muertos (bread of the dead) which is a pan dulce (a type of Mexican sweetbread/pastry) decorated with bones or skulls and a teardrop then sprinkled with sugar. I feel like the ladies who live in Sea Harbor and are so caring of their friends would appreciate Dia de los Muertos.

Catriona: Here’s where I should make a bid for Burns’ Night (the 25^th of January) and give the recipe for haggis. But you know what? A recipe that includes pancreas on the ingredients list is a recipe no one’s actually going to make if they weren’t born to it. It’s like gefilte fish. In a spirit of friendship, I eat gefilte fish (disguised with a lo-ho-hot of horseradish) at Passover and my American friends eat haggis (washed down with a lo-ho-hot of whisky) on Burns’ Night and we’re all happy. Although, I would point out that the Burns Night prayer is four lines long in its entirety. Just sayin’.

So instead, I’ll give the recipe for shortbread. It’s particularly associated with Hogmanay in Scotland but I make it all holiday season from the craft night on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, through to Burns Night, where I serve it with lemon posset for pudding (=US dessert). It’s quite easy. 9oz plain flour, 6oz cold butter, 3oz sugar. Mix the flour and sugar, rub in the fat until it looks like breadcrumbs, knead it into a ball, divide the ball in two. Roll them out into rounds about eight inches in diameter. Mark out slices (like a pizza) and bake at 325F for half an hour or until it’s a pale golden brown, then dust with sugar while it’s still hot. Eat when it’s cool enough to have crisped up. Yummy.

Alexia: At the Epiphany/Twelfth Night parties are associated with green, gold, and purple decorations, mulled wine, rousing renditions of “We Three Kings of Orient Are,” and King Cakes. They’re not just for Mardi Gras. The ring-shaped, sweetened bread, dusted with green, yellow, and purple sugar, traditionally has a plastic baby baked inside. Whoever gets the slice with the baby is “King” or “Queen” of the party—and has to bring next year’s cake. So gather your friends this Christmastide. Serve King Cake and mulled wine and read a few of M. R. James’s ghost stories aloud. Or tell your own ghost stories, true or not. (You could follow the tip in the blog post, “How to Throw a Twelfth Night Party,” by The Daily Meal, and offer the Twelve Shots of Christmas—that should loosen up some tongues.) Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein grew out of an evening spent telling tales around the fire. Who knows what your party could lead to . . .

 

 

 

Busy, busy, busy— and ever thankful

by LynDee Walker of the Femmes Fatales.

The holiday season is officially upon us, y’all. Raise your hand if just the thought of December makes you feel overwhelmed. You are not alone. But I have a couple of simple, super-busy-mom tips that might help you navigate the next five weeks with a lower stress level and a happier outlook. 

If I could juggle fire batons like I juggle commitments, I’d be on a circus train somewhere instead of sitting on my sofa typing. I’m currently up to my eyeballs in copyedits on one book (my first Faith McClellan thriller) and revisions on another (Nichelle Clarke number 7). Plus, basketball season is starting—oldest little made her high school team as a freshman, not that mom is proud, and my son’s team starts practices this week—and ’tis the time of year for school volunteer needs (I’m room mom for both of the little littles) and social get-togethers. School projects, times three. A husband who travels about three weeks out of a given month. A household to run. A neighborhood battle with the local school board. Have I left anything out? Probably, but I can’t remember what it is in the midst of all that. 

There have been times when a week like this one would’ve found me standing in the kitchen bawling, overwhelmed by too much to do and no direction to start in. And the difference between there and here, where all I can see is how grateful I am to have my plate overflowing in all these directions, is a monster of a calendar and a whole lot of perspective. 

Back when I worked in the newsroom, things were hectic. We thrived on the unexpected, and I loved every minute of it. I also kept track of my schedule in my head. It took my stubborn self better than a decade at this mom gig to figure out keeping track of my schedule wasn’t the problem—it was being the keeper of everyone’s schedule that had me forgetting things left right and sideways and feeling like a failure a lot of the time. Darling, who has never been able to keep his days straight without multiple calendars going at once, told me for years I needed a place to write everything down because my brain doesn’t do the iPhone calendar thing well. About a year and a half ago, I finally listened, and now I don’t know what I’d do without my planner. It’s bigger than my laptop, but it has plenty of room for every appointment and practice and volunteer time slot, plus to-do lists and goal setting guides. I check it every morning before I make my coffee, and write in it every night before my head hits the pillow. 

While the planner is kind of a mini-miracle, it’s not solely responsible for the drop in my stress levels: planning and lists are wonderful, but it’s remembering why I’m busy that’s settled my blood pressure back to normal even on the craziest days. Last Thursday, most Americans took some time to reflect on what matters most to them. For me, daily gratitude has made my life much more fun to manage. Yes, I have a lot of work to do right now. But those edits mean these books are close to reaching readers, something I wasn’t sure would happen at all this time last year, and they also mean I’m getting closer to being able to start my new book, which is trying like mad to distract me from the work I’m supposed to be doing on these two. My kids have practice, not always at convenient times or in easy distance. But they have practice because they’re strong, healthy, talented athletes, and I love few things more than sitting in the bleachers watching them play. 

I have social engagements because I have friends. Cleaning to do because we have a lovely home. Laundry piles because my house is full and loud and happy. I could take everything on my to-do list and tell you why I’m glad it’s there, but I think you get the point. And focusing on the reasons that I’m busy instead of the list of chores, for me, has turned stress into…well, maybe not joy (I’m not a cartoon princess), but gratitude. And this and every other time of the year, that brightens my overfull days. 

How about you, Femmes: how do you handle busy times? Any tips or tricks to share?

Happy Thanksgiving!

From all the Femmes Fatales...

 

Happy

 

Thanksgiving!

 

 

And a Thanksgiving bonus from Donna: back in 2004, Dean James and Claudia Bishop co-edited a book of short stories called Death Dines In. They asked the contributors for "a meal, a murder, and a recipe." And we responded--we being (in the order that our stories appear in the book) Mary Jane Maffini, Parnell Hall, Lyn Hamilton, Marcos Donnelly, Elizabeth Foxwell, Claudia Bishop, Dean James, William Moody, Donna Andrews, Nick DeChario, Rhys Bowen, Jeremiah Healy, Meg Chittenden, Don Bruns, Carole Nelson Douglas, and Anne Perry.

In my story, "The Birthday Dinner," Meg takes a pumpkin pie to a family gathering. But not just any pumpkin pie! Here's the recipe for Mother's Sinfully Rich Pumpkin Pie.  Please note that Meg's mother has never actually made this pie. But she's very picky about who she recruits to make it for her. (And I think a pre-made graham cracker crust sets off the filling perfectly.)

Mother's Sinfully Rich Pumpkin Pie

Like Meg's mother, my mom found this recipe in the Newport News Daily Press about thirty years ago.  It's much more work than the average pumpkin pie, but the Langslow and Andrews families think it's worth the trouble.

1 9-inch pie shell, cooled 

(Mother will forgive you if you buy a precooked one.  Or if you don't tell her, she'll never guess.)

1 envelope unflavored gelatin
½ C praline liqueur or Amaretto
1 16 ounce can of pumpkin
4 egg yolks, lightly beaten
½ C packed brown sugar
½ C granulated sugar
¼ C butter or margarine, melted
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
4 egg whites
1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar
¾ C whipped cream.  Yes, real cream.

Soften gelatin in liqueur, set aside.

Heat pumpkin and all ingredients through cloves in a saucepan over medium heat.

Stir constantly until lightly boiling and slightly thickened.

Remove from heat.

Beat in gelatin mixture.

Cool, but do not allow to harden completely.

Beat the egg whites, cream of tartar and a pinch of salt until stiff peaks form.

Fold egg whites and whipped cream into pumpkin mixture.

Pour into pie shells, mounding in center.

(You may have to pour part in, let it harden a bit, and then fill the rest.  It makes a very full pie.)

Garnish with more whipped cream.

 

 

Thankful for Friends

As my now seventeen year old daughter was about to enter junior/high school (it’s one giant school here called a secondary school) we made plans to redo our family room to make it teen-friendly. Long comfy couches with washable covers, carpet squares to withstand spills and dirt (and if it can’t withstand the square gets yanked up and replaced), a big tv with a sound bar, lots of movie and games storage, streaming services up the wazoo (okay, those are for me but you’d be surprised at how into Acorn and Britbox the kids have gotten). There’s always snacks. Always. Every teen comfort.

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Right now I am planning a Friendsgiving celebration. I mean that literally. I am in my kitchen cooking the make-ahead foods so when they all arrive I’m not scrambling. Apple pies are America's favorite ... except the people who make them. ;)

My daughter's ‘besties’ jumped at the idea of me hosting a Thanksgiving for their group. They’re seniors so this time next year they’ll all be preparing to come home for their first college break and they’re getting a bit nostalgic. Plus, I have a bit of a reputation as a good cook and even better baker. What began as a little leftovers nosh has turned into a full-blown get together with board games, movies, pajamas (or sweats) and their own special menu of Thanksgiving food teenified. It’s a ton of work and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

I’ve gotten my creative juices flowing to plan a menu with chicken-fried turkey loin sliders, green bean casserole in phyllo dough cups, tater tot stuffing muffins (with the sweet Italian sausage swapped out for turkey sausage because one of the girls can’t eat pork for religious reasons), sweet potato casserole bites, and mini pumpkin and apple pecan streusel pies. All easy to eat with hands because they’ll be piled up on our twelve feet of couch together like puppies and carb-laden enough that they’ll be all asleep before the halfway mark in an episode of Midsomer Murders.

The home I grew up in wasn’t at all like the one I’ve made a conscious and sometimes herculean effort to create. I didn’t grow up with great parental role models. It wasn’t a home I felt comfortable hauling a passel of pals back to for movies and ice cream sundae parties. But I’m so fortunate and grateful that I get to be on the other side of the experience now. I’m, despite being a fairly strict parent, the Cool Mom and our house is where everyone wants to be.

I love my house full of hungry teenagers, laughing and smiling, being fed, filling it with life. I don’t care what a kid’s sexual or gender identity is, what color their skin, what religion they practice (or don’t), I don’t care what language they speak at home, what kind of clothes they wear, I don’t care if they cover their hair or shave it all off … Chucks, ballet flats, combat boots, Uggs, spike heels are all welcome under my table. My home is judgement-free and agenda-free. I’ll feed you and love you because being a teenager is hard enough without wondering if you’re accepted. My house will always be a safe place to land. With pie. And ice cream. And cookies. Lots and lots of cookies.

 

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The bald cardinal

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales

My dad was an avid birdwatcher, rarely far from his binoculars, a mainstay of the local Christmas bird counts. Mom just enjoyed watching the birds that showed up at the feeder. She had a particular fondness for chickadees, because while small, they were also feisty, and would chase larger birds away from the feeder. “If you throw some sunflower seeds on the feeder,” she would say, “you don't have to wait long for a chickadee to show up.” She also liked the blue jays and cardinals for their bright colors. Juncos were about the only bird she wasn't overly fond of, and that wasn't the juncos' fault—she had learned from many years of observation that in our area having posses of juncos show up at the feeder was a pretty reliable indicator that snow was on the way.

One winter she noticed a birds she'd never seen showing up at the feeder over several days—a bald cardinal. Don't run for your Peterson's Guide and tell me there's no such species. I'm talking about a regular northern cardinal, Cardinalis cardinalis. Perfectly ordinary in every respect except that his head was completely devoid of feathers.

The weather was exceedingly cold—there may even have been juncos lurking menacingly at the feeder, those unwelcome harbingers of snow. Mom worried about the bird. Particularly when, after quite a stretch of being a regular at her feeder, he disappeared.

Worried, she called a nearby neighbor--a woman who not only had a feeder but considered herself quite an expert birder—and asked if she'd seen the bald cardinal.

“There's someone at my door,” the woman said “Let me call you back.”

Which she did, an hour or so later.

“There's no such thing as a bald cardinal,” she said with great indignation, and began suggesting other birds that could have been what Mom saw.

“There definitely is such a thing as a bald cardinal,” Mom retorted. “He's completely lost all the feathers on his little head. I haven't seen him for a few days and I wondered if he'd moved over to your feeder.”

Silence on the other end. My mother has always suspected that her neighbor had spent the hour between the two phone conversations frantically searching every bird book in her house. I have always suspected that Mom got a kick out of proving the local expert wrong.

A little present-day research reveals that baldness in birds whose heads are normally covered in feathers is not that unusual a phenomenon, particularly in northern cardinals and blue jays. Bird experts aren't sure what causes this. Birds normally molt their feathers gradually throughout the year. Perhaps some birds have an abnormal molt that makes them lose all the head feathers at once. Or perhaps feather mites or lice are to blame—the head is the one part of a bird it cannot preen with its bill to remove the mites.

Removing the feathers lets you see how small a bird's head really is--and why "birdbrain" is such an insult And while Mom didn't mention it, bald cardinals aren't a very pretty sight. They kind of look like a cross between a cardinal and a vulture. And not just any vulture, but a vulture so ugly that he was rejected by his own kind and led a sad and solitary life until he met a blind female cardinal. That ugly. Imagine taking a plastic toy dinosaur—not a brand-new one, but one that has been knocking around the toy box for a while, and possibly been chewed on by a teething terrier. Cut off its head, stick it on a cardinal, and voila! That's what a bald cardinal looks like.

But you don't have to take my word for it. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology has some photos of them on its Unusual Birds page.

Probably the right time of year to throw a few seeds into my own feeder and hope for my own interesting bird sightings.

 

My Grandmother's Boots

By Joanna Campbell Slan for Femmes Fatales

My uncle was a shoe salesman and a good son to his mother, my grandmother. When he married a girl from Boston and moved there, it nearly broke Grandma Marge’s heart. She lived for his infrequent phone calls. His gold-framed photo held a prominent place on the maple side table in her living room. There it was close enough that she could grab it from her recliner and look him in the eyes. The few times he flew her out there to Massachusetts, he treated her like a queen. She would come back to Indiana and brag about the fine restaurants where they ate, the important people he introduced her to, the gorgeous house that he owned, and how successful he was. Even though Uncle Dick lived hundreds of miles away from his mother’s house in Indiana, he was still a constant presence, even in his absence.

Because he traveled the world attending shoe shows, he’d often pick up a pair or two of shoes and send them to Grandma Marge. Most of them were unremarkable, but one gift in particular sticks out in my mind. A pair of black suede snow booties with faux sheep skin lining and a zipper up the front. The soles have just enough tread to grip slick surfaces securely, but not so much as to make them look like they belong in Herman Munster’s closet.

Uncle Dick died of a misdiagnosed case of peritonitis shortly after I graduated from college. He was only in his forties. After the funeral, his widow quit calling Grandma Marge. I’ll never know why or what happened. All I know is that the estrangement broke Grandma’s heart and turned her bitter. We had all moved away from Indiana by then. Grandma seemed to close in on herself, the way a roly poly bug does when you touched it.

Now she lived for my visits, infrequent as they were. I’d pack my young son in the car. Then I would drive the three-and-a-half hours from a western suburb of St. Louis, across Illinois, and over the Wabash River into Indiana. This trek of mine caused her no end of agitation. “I want you to be careful when you drive, honey. Watch out for those damn deer. It’s rutting season. You don’t want to hit one with your car. Why they can’t rut on their own damn side of the road, I’ll never know.”

“I’ll be careful, Grandma.”

And I was. The drive was long and boring, but I owed her that. She’d been a good grandparent and she was the only grandparent I had left. Visiting her took on a sense of ritual. My son enjoyed seeing his great-grandmother. The full day away from my regular life was a mini-vacation. I was happy to spend time with her. I knew my presence meant a lot. She’d greet me with a hug and those watery blue eyes. She’d offer to feed me. Bologna sandwiches with thick slices of Velveeta. Butter mints. Sara Lee frozen brownies. Food with absolutely no nutritional value, but still… It was the thought that counted. I knew the offer of “a little something to eat” was her attempt to take care of me, to be my grandma once again, and that’s what counted.

One brisk autumn day, she reached down from her recliner and hauled up a plastic grocery bag. “This is for you.”

I peeped inside. “Your black boots?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve got no use for them. I don’t get out much anymore.” She didn’t go out, because she couldn’t go out. She was dying from lung cancer, although she still insisted on smoking her cigarettes. Why not? What the hell difference did it make anyway? Besides the nicotine addiction, there was this whole persona she’d cultivated. There was this jaunty way that she held her plastic cigarette holder with her wrist cocked just so. In silhouette, her pose was a tangible reminder of the glamour girl she’d once been. A looker. A bombshell. A seducer of married men. A girl who’d won a beauty contest, after being put up for it by a group of local boys, only to get disqualified after the judges learned she was seriously underage. With her lush breasts and her heart-shaped behind, her dimpled chin and blazing blue eyes, her wavy blonde hair and her high-cheekbones, my grandmother had been quite the siren. A man who had known her in her prime once told me, “Your grandma, Marge…man, she was something.” The lust in his voice turned us both bright red with embarrassment.

“If you can use them, take them.” She urged me to take the boots.

I set the bag down on the old beige carpet, halfway between us. “You sure, Grandma? What if it snows?” I didn’t want to take her boots, but I understood that Grandma liked the idea of giving me something, a small gift, each time I visited. This was her way of showing her love. Taking the boots was my way of saying, “You are still my grandmother. You can still take care of me.”

It was also a way we could both pretend that she wasn’t destitute and facing the end of her life. We both knew she’d never get up out of that recliner and go outside for a walk, especially not in the snow. The farthest she walked these days was from her front door to her kitchen, and only then when the mailman delivered a package. Grandma Marge no longer went out into the world; the world came to her. She took it as her due.

So I kissed her, thanked her, and took the boots home with me.

That was twenty years ago.

Yesterday it snowed in Northern Virginia. A wet, slippery, slushy snow.

My dog had to go out.

I wore my grandmother’s boots.

How to Survive Thanksgiving

 

 By Elaine Viets of the Femmes Fatales.

Green bean casserole, sweet potatoes with little marshmallows, creamy mashed potatoes and gravy, four kinds of pie, and Aunt Mildred's cranberry-orange surprise. All these delights are waiting for us next Thursday, along with a full day with our family on Thanksgiving.
For some reason, people find encounters with their relatives stressful. Consider Chloe, our hostess, trying to juggle her family, which ranges across the political spectrum.
There's Uncle Billy, wearing his MAGA hat at the table. Our hostess hopes he won't mention the T-word, but it's the first thing out of his mouth. "Pass the turkey," he says, and Chloe cheerfully hands him the platter. "You like dark meat," she says. "Take a drumstick. In fact, take two." Uncle Billy spends the rest of the dinner gnawing on his prize like King Henry VIII.

Then there's Cousin Nick, the gun nut, who believes that everyone has the right to bear arms. Our hostess is terrified he'll use the N-word. Sure enough, he says, "Any nuts in the squash?"
"Absolutely not," Chloe says, spooning mounds of his favorite vegetable onto his loaded plate.

Aunt Mildred is anxious to discuss her friends' latest operations. "You remember Edna, my neighbor, don't you?" she says in hushed tones. "She collapsed the other day. The doctors opened her up and found a tumor the size of grapefruit in her liver."
"Grapefruit!" says our hostess. "I forgot the grapefruit avocado salad!" Chloe runs for the kitchen. She comes back with a platter of that cool delicacy.

As the meal goes on, compliments are heaped on Chloe's cooking, and bowls and platters are emptied. Nedra, the family liberal, is anxious to discuss the Blue Wave, but so far she hasn't had a chance. "What about the blue . . ." she begins.

"Blueberry pie?" the hostess says, interrupting her guest. "I knew it was your favorite. Here's a big piece, with vanilla ice cream."
Soon the entire family is munching the pie of their choice: lemon, pumpkin, blueberry and mincemeat.
And Chloe is extremely thankful that it's not polite to talk with your mouth full.

 

Marriage is . . .

. . . now there's an opener, eh? The end of this particular quote is nothing to do with Groucho Marx or institutions, though. Robert Louis Stevenson, one of Edinburgh's most illustrious and beloved writers, said marriage was "a step so grave that it attracts light-headed, variable men by its very awfulness". I couldn't believe the quotation had never been used to form the title of a crime novel before.

But it hadn't, until now. This Thursday sees Dandy Gilver Book 13 (thirteen?!) hit the shelves and I'm claiming my publication day right to a bout of shameless promotion here at Femmes Fatales.

The title was one of the few easy things about this book. It had a troubled gestation with a humbling sting in the tail. I started trying to write it in 2014. I went to Applecross in Wester Ross where it's set and did what I laughingly call research:- I stayed in a B&B and walked around in the landscape, sitting on rocks and staring into space, waiting for a story to form like a pearl around grit greasy fluff on a straining extractor hood.

Here's how far I got. The Gilvers (Dandy, Hugh, Donald and Teddy) go to meet the family of the girl Donald is to marry. While they're there someone dies in the snow in the middle of a knot garden.

Now, that's actually more than I sometimes know when I start a book and there was no reason to foresee problems. But when I went back home and tried to truffle up the plot, sniff out the herrings and land the twists I got myself in the biggest mess I've ever been in as a writer.

Long story short, I scrapped the book and wrote about a murder in a Glasgow ballroom instead. No wedding, no Wester Ross, no way to write off that B&B as a business expense.

So imagine my surprise last year when the corpse under the dovecot in that knot garden started calling out to me telling me who she was and asking for her killer to be tracked down and brought to justice. Back I went to Applecross, staying at the hotel this time (highly recommended; have the fish and chips) and once again sitting on rocks and staring into space. 

But as well as the sitting and staring I did some bugging of locals. I parked myself in the Applecross visitor centre and just about drove Ruaridh and Kate, who work there, demented with questions about the estate, the village, the people, the weather, the church, the saint (of course there's a saint, St Maelrubha) and the Gaelic. I struck gold asking about the Gaelic as a matter of fact and spent a wonderful tea-time at the home of Donald and Ishbel Ferguson who could pitch Gaelic lessons perfectly for me, since they usually teach toddlers at the local playgroup. (And by the way, I now know that the best time to visit Highlanders at home is the day after a massive meeting of the Women's Rural, when all the scones, buns, cakes, muffins and shortbread need to be used up. I waddled away from the Fergusons' equally full of linguistic knowledge and sugar.)

And the Fergusons shared something else with me too. I'm not generally too amazed by my own wonderfulness as a rule. (I've got battalions of sisters and honorary sisters primed to knock it out of if they see it starting.) But I'll admit I thought maybe the residents of Applecross (population:544) might be interested or even pleased to know that there was going to be a novel set in their little corner of the world. Not so much. Here's the conversation I had with Ruaridh at the visitor centre.

R: Ah, you're writing a book. Yes, we just had a book set here.

Me: Oh yes? a memoir? A travel guide?

R: No, no, a novel like your one.

Me: Oh yes? A romance? A YA?

R: No, no, a crime novel like your one.

Me: Oh yes? A gritty type thing? Tartan noir?

R: No, no, historical like your one.

Me: Oh. Right. Well. What's it called? I wonder if I'll be able to get a hold of it.

R: Och yes, you'll not have any trouble getting it. It's shortlisted for the Booker prize.

 

And so it was too.