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Most of our readers know about Whistling Woman, the book Christy and I wrote about our great-aunt’s formative years living in Hot Springs, North Carolina. In an effort to remain true to the history of the small town, we did tons of research both on-line and in books. Luckily, a cousin of ours, Jackie Burgin Painter, who grew up in Hot Springs had written several books about the area, including our most valuable research tool, The Season of Dorland-Bell, History of an Appalachian Mission School and An Appalachian Medley: Hot Springs and the Gentry Family, Vol. 1. In Jackie’s books we were able to see pictures of our great-grandfather (Papa in the Whistling Woman), John Daniels, as well as a copy of Aunt Bessie’s diploma from Dorland-Bell (Dorland Institute at the time) dated May 21, 1988. And we also learned about Aunt Bessie’s sure-fire cold remedy (warm moonshine mixed with honey and rock candy).
The books were a tremendous help to us but I think the one thing that really made us feel as if we were a part of what we were writing were the frequent visits to Hot Springs. Both of us feel a sense of “homecoming” whenever we go to there, whether for a couple of days to edit or for only a couple of hours to have lunch.
This past Wednesday, using the excuse of our mom’s birthday, we met in Hot Springs for lunch at what has become our usual place (so much so that the waitresses recognize us!), the Smoky Mountain Diner. The weather was perfect, sunshine, very little wind, and temperatures in the 60′s, so we took the opportunity to stroll around and take pictures (don’t ask me why we never thought to do that before) and we’d like to take you on a walking tour of our favorite town, Hot Springs.
Here we go! We’ll start at Smoky Mountain Diner where we usually eat. Best hot dogs in town (or anywhere else, for that matter) and they have a lot of options, everything from pizza to pot roast. All yummy!
Walking down the right side of Bridge Street (the main road) toward downtown the first thing we come to is a marker for the Appalachian Trail which runs the length of the town. Hot Springs is well known to hikers and they host a trailfest during the summer.
Also, along Bridge Street, you’ll see historical markers about happenings and places in the town. First is one about an English folklorist, Cecil Sharp, who collected ballads of the “Laurel” area in 1916 and the next one is about Dorland-Bell Institute which is where Great-aunt Bessie went to school.
Next up, is another favorite of ours, the Hot Springs Public Library. This was the first place we went when we started doing the research on the book. The librarians are friendly, knowledgeable, and very helpful.
After the library, it’s Gentry Hardware. The Gentry family is well known in Hot Springs and have been there almost since the beginning. Jackie’s book, An Appalachian Medley, is about the Gentry family.
And then we come to the Hot Springs Welcome Center. The welcome center used to be housed in a Southern Railway caboose, which they moved just down the road from the new building.
Next, we cross the bridge over Spring Creek. The creek played an important part in our Great-aunt Bessie’s life. It weaves throughout the story a lot like it weaves through the town of Hot Springs.
Next, comes the Hot Springs City Hall. No one could tell us if this is the actual location of the small jail we describe in Whistling Woman, but in our minds as we were writing, this is where we imagined Papa’s office was.
Cross the railroad tracks and cross the street and you come to the Hot Springs Resort and Spa, excuse me, the World Famous Hot Springs Resort and Spa (at least that’s what the gate says). This is where you can go to take the waters and cure whatever ails you. It’s not as grand as the Mountain Park Inn that stood there in Aunt Bessie’s time but it still is the focal point of the town.
Going back down the other side of the street, our first stop is at the Harvest Moon Gallery in a house that was built back in the 1800′s. We’d been told one of the houses our great-grandfather built was still standing and were hoping this was the one. Research showed it wasn’t, but it was so close to the house we described in the story it was a bit spooky when the owner allowed us to walk through as if it was our own home. (Why am I hearing the theme from Twilight Zone in my head?)
After that, it’s the Dorland-Bell Presbyterian Church which was built and opened in 1900. The chapel takes center stage in an important event in Great-aunt Bessie’s life. It’s a gorgeous building even though it’s over a hundred years old and the stained glass windows alone are worth a trip to Hot Springs.
Last but not least, behind the chapel we have the Hot Springs First Baptist Church which is where Great-aunt Bessie’s graduation ceremony from the Dorland Insitute was held (this was before the chapel was built). They used the Baptist Church because Dorland didn’t have a building large enough to hold all the people who came to see the graduation. Great-aunt Bessie was one of only seven members of the first graduating class but it was an event important enough to the town to have people coming from near and far to see it. As a matter of fact, it was so well attended they had to hold two ceremonies, one in the afternoon and another one in the evening, to accommodate everyone.
So there you have it, our favorite little town nestled in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, or as the sign for Madison County says, “The Jewel of the Blue Ridge.” We hope you’ve enjoyed walking with us through the setting of our book, Whistling Woman, and hope if you ever find yourself in Hot Springs you’ll stop in at the Smoky Mountain Diner for a cup of coffee and a slice of their scrumptious pecan pie or maybe a piece of their delicious German chocolate cake. And don’t forget to keep your eyes peeled for a glimpse of Papa, Bessie, Mama, Roy, Loney, Green, and Thee–we’re convinced their spirits are all there.
Whistling Woman is available in ebook at Kindle, Nook, Kobo, and on Smashwords. Print version coming soon!
- Whistling Woman by CC Tillery
CC Tillery has some big news to share! But first, a little backstory–toward the end of our book, Whistling Woman, the family celebrates Old Christmas, with Papa and Bessie telling Thee the meaning and the myths behind the holiday. The following is an edited section–no spoilers here!–from Chapter Twenty-one, Winter 1900, entitled, Breaking up Christmas:
Papa is talking to Thee:
“Ya’ see, boy, midnight tonight is when the baby Jesus was first presented to the world. That was when the three Wise Men arrived at the stables where Mary and Joseph had taken shelter so Mary could have her baby. The Wise Men had traveled for miles, following the light of a single star, because they wanted to honor the birth of their Savior. When they showed up and offered the gifts they’d brought, all the animals in the stables woke up, adding their praise to that of the three Wise Men and the angels singing up above. And to this day, they say if you go out right at midnight and stand quietly, you can hear the animals praying, and some say if you can get a look at them, you’ll see them kneeling, too. Don’t know how true it is, but I’ve heard tell that the wild animals out in the woods and up on the mountains wake, stand up, and then lay back down on their other side.”
I looked at Thee, his eyes wide and filled with love, and knew right then and there that not only could I forgive Papa, I had to for the sake of my family.
Loney, who loved Christmas, sat in the chair beside Papa with a nearly completed quilt top spread across her lap. She’d heard the story many times, but when Papa started telling it, she stopped sewing and listened as raptly as Thee. When the story was finished, she smiled and asked, “Have you ever seen the animals pray, Papa?”
“Can’t rightly say I have, but I’ve heard tell of people who sneak out at midnight and have seen it. ’Course, there’s folks who say it’s bad luck to go looking for the signs of Old Christmas, that if you do, something bad will happen to you. I don’t think that’s so, though, since the people I talked to that claim to have seen and heard it all looked hearty to me.”
“But if you just happen to be out and see a sign, then it’s all right?”
“Sure it is but why would a person be out in the barn at midnight?”
Playing along, Loney said, “Maybe they were late getting home and had to put their horse in the stable before they could go to bed?”
Papa laughed. “Could be, Loney, but we’re all safe at home, as most people are on a cold winter night, so I guess we’ll stay right here and let the animals and alder bushes do what they do without us.”
“The alder bushes?”
Papa winked at Thee. “Did I forget that part? Well, Loney, the animals aren’t the only ones who honor the birth of the baby Jesus. The alder bushes do, too. Right at midnight on Old Christmas Eve, no matter how cold the night is or how much snow’s on the ground, the alder bushes burst into bloom and some say they even sprout new branches. I’ve also heard it said that if you listen closely, you can hear the bees roar in the bee-gum, as if they wanted to swarm.”
Thee stood up, leaned on Papa’s knee and said, “Can we see the animals, Papa?”
“Maybe in a few more years, when you’re old enough to stay up until midnight but not this year, boy. This year, I’d say you’ll be fast asleep by the time midnight rolls around. Why, you already look like its long past your bedtime and here it’s barely gone dark. It’s a long time till midnight.”
Thee’s little face crumpled and Papa patted his head. “Tell you what, Thee, if you can keep your eyes open till then, I’ll take you out to the barn myself and we’ll see what we can see.”
Clapping his hands, Thee jumped up and down. Jack chortled and did her best to slap her tiny hands together, too.
“But Papa, what if it is bad luck?” Loney asked.
“Pshaw, girl, I’ve talked to lots of people who say they’ve seen just such a thing and they were all living and breathing when they told me.”
Loney picked up her needle and started working on the quilt top again. “Wouldn’t that be a lovely thing to see, all the animals honoring Jesus like that?” She looked down at Thee and smiled. “I think it might be worth taking a chance on some bad luck, don’t you, little man?”
Thee nodded and clapped his hands again. “Tell us some more, Papa.”
“Why that’s all I know to tell, boy. Maybe Bess knows more.”
Thee ran over to me where I sat on the sofa. “Tell, Bessie, tell.”
I smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “I’ll tell you what else happens during the twelve days of Christmas, Thee, but it’s about people, not about the animals.”
He looked doubtful but sat down at my feet, prepared to listen.
“There are some things you shouldn’t do, like lend anything to anybody during the twelve days of Christmas because if you do you’ll never get it back.” I pointed to the fireplace. “You see how the ashes are piling up in the hearth over there? That’s because it’s bad luck to clean them out during the twelve days. It’s also bad luck to wash your bed sheets until Old Christmas is over.” I leaned down and sniffed at Thee. “Good thing we only have one more day, else we wouldn’t be able to stand the smell.”
Thee giggled and dramatically sniffed the skirt of my dress, wrinkling his little nose.
“Tonight is Old Christmas Eve and at midnight people everywhere will be breaking up Christmas.” His face crumpled again and I went on hurriedly, “That’s not a bad thing. What it means is most people will drink sweet cider and burn a piece of cedar or pine in the fire as a way of saying farewell to the season.
“Do they have to break it because it’s old?”
I smiled. “No, sweetie. You see, some people believe the twenty-fifth of December is the day when the baby Jesus was born and the sixth of January is when He was first presented to the three Wise Men and to the world. But a long time ago, most people believed the sixth was the day when He was truly born and that’s when they celebrated so that day came to be known as Old Christmas. There are twelve days between the two dates, from December 25th, the ‘new’ Christmas, to January 6th, the ‘old’ Christmas, and that gives us the twelve days of Christmas. During those twelve days, people have what they call Breaking Up Christmas parties. Tonight’s party is at Aunt Belle’s house and there will be lots of sweet cider to drink and music for dancing.” I leaned down. “And I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to tell. Promise?”
He nodded.
I bent down and whispered, “Aunt Belle is planning on having a small fire in the street outside her house right at midnight so that people can burn a piece of cedar or pine to officially Break Up Christmas. Don’t tell Papa though, or he might have to arrest Aunt Belle.”
Thee laughed and whispered back, “I won’t. Can I go and see the fire?”
“If you do, how will you see the animals in the barn when they kneel down to pray?”
He frowned. Uncle Ned boarded his horse at the town livery stables so Aunt Belle didn’t have a barn or any animals he could spy on to see if they really did pray at midnight.
I took his chin in my hand and lifted it to give him a kiss. “Why don’t you stay here with Papa and Loney, and if you can stay awake, Papa will take you out to see the animals. You can see a fire in the fireplace any old time and Roy and I will be sure to burn a piece of pine in Aunt Belle’s fire to break up Christmas for you.”
Roy came in from the barn, bringing the crisp smell of winter with him. “You about ready to go, Bessie? I’ve got the horses hitched up and they’re champing at the bit.”
I stood, lifting Thee with me. “You keep those eyes open tonight, Theodore Norton. I want to hear all about what you see tomorrow.”
He put his arms around my neck and hugged me, whispering, “I will, Bessie,” in my ear. I squeezed him before kissing his cheek and setting him down on the floor.
Walking over to Papa, I kissed Jack on the top of her head first then bent further in to kiss Papa’s cheek. I turned to Loney who set her quilting aside and stood up.
“Have a good time, Bess.” She stepped forward and kissed my cheek, which surprised me. Loney wasn’t usually given to outward signs of affection.
I took her hand and squeezed it. “You sure you don’t mind staying home with the babies? I can stay and you can go to the party if you want.”
She smiled. “I don’t mind a bit. You know how much I enjoy taking care of them. You and Roy have fun.”
I hugged her goodbye. At the door, I turned and looked at my family and the strangest sensation washed over me, as if I stood far away, seeing them in a dream. I could feel their love for me, just as I could mine for them, but there was a distance there, a deep chasm keeping them from me.
Now for the big news, in honor of Old Christmas, and as a way of saying thanks to everyone who’s been involved with this book for the last four years, Christy and I decided to have a special 12 Days of Christmas sale. That means from December 26, 2011 until January 6, 2012, you’ll be able to download the Kindle version of Whistling Woman for only 99 cents!
Enjoy and a very happy holiday season to everyone!
Photo Montage Created by Author Daniel L. Carter
by Daniel L. Carter
Reprinted from “A Christian Man’s Perspective”
Daniel L. Carter: I am always pleased to introduce my readers to visiting authors but today is truly an honor. My guest today is not only a talented author but has been an interviewer to the stars for years. Ranging from Clint Eastwood to Jane Russell this talented woman could be categorized as a Hollywood schmoozer! Without any more introduction, I’m blessed to call Betty Dravis my good friend. Welcome to my website, Betty. Please introduce yourself to our readers.
Betty Dravis: Hi, Daniel, and everyone. Thanks for inviting me to “A Christian Man’s Perspective.” To start at my humble beginnings, I was born in Hamilton, Ohio, second youngest of seven children born to John and Felda (Crawford) Barger. I came to sunny California after I graduated from high school and liked it so well I never went back home to live. But, Go Bucks! (laughs)
Most of you know me as the quirky lady you bump into all over the Internet. You know, the one who’s always pushing her own books and books of her author friends. (laughs) In recent years, I’m best known for my celebrity interviews, including actors, authors and artists of all types, but during my career I was a journalist, newspaper publisher and hosted a TV talk show.
But first and foremost, I’m a mother and grandmother; my family is my “real” life. All else is just icing on my cupcake… I had six children, five daughters and a son, but two daughters are now angels in heaven, having left us too soon…too young. Those were the saddest times in my life, but I’m consoled that they’re in Heaven now and our family circle will be complete as each of us find our way to them when our time on earth is over. And rather than mourn our loss, I treasure their memories and the children they left behind. I have nine grown grandchildren, five precious great-grands and one adorable great-great grand. They are what keep me so young at heart and filled with energy.
Daniel L. Carter: You are amazing! Your most recent book Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons. Tell us about your book, Betty.
Betty Dravis: Well, Daniel, you asked the right question here. There’s nothing I like better than talking books with another author. As you know, I write in many genres of fiction and also write non-fiction. I actually have six books on the market; three still in print format, two that were print but now “e-incarnations,” and two more e-books.
My latest is a short e-book, Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons. In this book I share behind-the-scenes happenings of some of my favorite celebrity interviews. You know, Daniel, the usual: What led up to the interviews and my feelings and impressions during and after the meetings… Among those I was fortunate enough to interview were: Actor/Director Clint Eastwood, Senator Ted Kennedy, 40′s Star Jane Russell, Singer/Actress Tanya Tucker, Mayor Joseph Alioto and Actress Ann Sothern. Those were “heady” days for a young journalist just starting my writing career. As delighted as I was to land such coveted interviews back in the day, in this day and age, I’m crowing over the fact that John Locke wrote the foreword for Star Struck. I consider that a feather in my cap because John’s the darling of the “e-book crowd,” having been the first self-published author to sell a million books on Kindle. Wow!
Daniel L. Carter: Out of all the stars you’ve interviewed, which of them did you most identify with?
Betty Dravis: Of the six high-profile people in Star Struck, I more closely identified with Clint Eastwood because he was sought after by every writer in the world and I was grateful that he chose me. I was a bit in awe of him, but identified with him because he was so kind, complimentary and considerate to me during and after the interview. I admired what he’d accomplished before I met him, so followed his career with great interest. From that day forward, I strove to be as good a writer as he is an actor, so eventually turned to him as my role model.
Daniel L. Carter: You’re not just a great interviewer but you’re also a talented author. When did you know you wanted to be a writer?
Betty Dravis: At age eleven, I started writing poetry and little short stories–more like life observations, from this viewpoint many years later–but even though my family encouraged me and my high-school, creative-writing teacher marked my papers as “best in class,” it was years before I took it seriously. You see, Daniel, in those days we were trained and encouraged to be wives and mothers, so I didn’t take writing too seriously until after my first child was born. I started out in journalism, writing columns for local dailies in various cities and eventually worked up to publisher. I always wanted to write a novel–try my hand at fiction–but journalism was a more steady income, so with six children to raise, I stuck with newspapers. I didn’t have time to write my first novel until I retired at age 62.
Daniel L. Carter: You are my role model! (smiles) If you could give advice to other authors or aspiring authors what would say?
Betty Dravis: I would tell them to take as many classes as they can, read all the books on writing in their selective genres, and to keep at it. Write! Write! Write! Even if it’s just little thoughts that come to them from time to time, write it down. Practice is what makes us better at our craft. And never let life’s setbacks (or negative people) stop them. Of all the ultra-successful people I’ve interviewed, they have all agreed: Keep focused on what you really want to do and you’ll win in the end. Persevere!
Daniel L. Carter: Great advice, Betty! What source or sources do you draw from when creating a new story? Personal life, your faith, the world around you, all the above…?
Betty Dravis: That’s an easy question to answer, Daniel, but harder to describe. It’s all of the above! I truly believe that everything we’ve ever seen, heard, read or experienced becomes part of us at some hidden level and that all of our accumulated information and experience filters up through our subconscious when needed. Whether we need information for a book we’re writing or other circumstances in life, our cumulative life experiences are there for us when most needed.
Daniel L. Carter: If I asked you to pick one of your characters as your favorite who would it be and why?
Betty Dravis: I have many favorites, Daniel. In fact I like all my characters, for one reason or another. But in giving it deeper thought, I will have to choose David Wetterman, the weatherman-turned-prophet in my first-published novel, Millennium Babe: The Prophecy. Why? Because he’s such a funny, likable little guy… He’s definitely not the image of your average hero; he’s just an ordinary, kooky guy who always bungles things, but somehow manages to end up “smelling like roses.” He’s what you call a “real character.” On the order of Jim Carrey, I suppose…
Daniel L. Carter: What was your greatest challenge, personally, when writing Star Struck?
Betty Dravis: My current book, Star Struck, is non-fiction, so it came with a unique set of problems. Since these six celebrity anecdotes were previously published in Dream Reachers, I had to get permission from my co-author Chase Von to put them in this book. He readily agreed, so that problem resolved amicably. My second problem was that, in addition to photos I owned, I also wanted to publish a few photos of the celebrities from their public life. That entailed either getting their permission or finding photos in the public domain. Since some celebrities’ managers charge as much as $200 per picture and take too long getting back, I opted for the public domain. That took a bit of digging, but it all worked out. And finally, I had to sell my publisher, Wendy Dingwall of Canterbury House, on trying the 99-cents price. Thank God, she agreed.
Daniel L. Carter: That’s great that your publisher was willing to work with you on the pricing. What factors do you use that tell your book is done?
Betty Dravis: Daniel, I consider a story finished after I’ve answered all the questions (tied up all the loose ends), making everything clear to my readers. And I always proof-read my books several times, trying to catch all the “nits.” I believe what Stephen King says, though: He said (in so many words) that if he had waited until a book was perfect in his eyes, he would never have published a thing.
Daniel L. Carter: That is so very true! Tell us, Betty, why did you choose to write in different genres?
Betty Dravis: When I first started, I thought I would write in the horror and thriller genre because that’s what I love to read. However, life just threw particular stories at me and I ended up writing an epic romance about my beautiful older sister (faction, my word to mean it’s based on a true story but is highly dramatized for commercial reasons). Then The Toonies Invade Silicon Valley came at me in such an unusual way, I just had to write that young adult. Once again I lucked out with another “famous person” boosting me along. Steve “The Woz” Wozniak agreed to play a speaking role in my Toonies. And so it went…until I ended up with one romance, one YA, one supernatural fantasy adventure and two non-fiction celebrity interview books. And yes, Daniel, I finally wrote my thriller and a horror. (laughs) I have those in the wings, waiting for perfect timing to publish. I think you’ll like them.
Daniel L. Carter: I am so looking forward to buying my autographed copy! (grins ear to ear) Do you have any favorite authors?
Betty Dravis: Indeed I do, Daniel. In fact, I have many, but my all-time favorite author (living or dead) is Pat Conroy. He amazes me with his beautiful words, perfect phraseology, dialogue, plotting and everything. I absolutely adore his poetic, flowery–some critics say too flowery—prose and his similes are to die for. To me, he’s a genius…
I have at least a hundred authors that are friends on the Internet and many, including you, who are my new favorites. You have a surprising number of great writers on Author Central, your popular page on Facebook. Of the ones I’ve read, at least fifteen blew my mind with their powerful, entertaining stories. Wow! I wouldn’t want to offend anyone by mentioning my favorites; actually, there are too many to list.
Daniel L. Carter: (Laughing) That’s alright, Betty. I know where I stand in your heart… wink wink. Are you working on a book now, and if so, tell us a little bit about it?
Betty Dravis: In addition to the horror and thriller mentioned above–Evil Voices at Circle Lake and Dead Women Don’t Talk Back (both finished except for a final proof)–I’m trying to find time to finish a second in the young adult Toonies series: The Toonies Rock New York. It’s similar to the first Toonies, with good cartoon characters escaping out of a humanoid boy’s computer into the world. The bad ones follow them out and wreak all kinds of havoc as they try to destroy everything in their paths. It’s another story of good versus bad, with good winning in the end. (laughs)
Daniel L. Carter: Now that sounds fantastic! You could have them come out of their IPhone…hehehe. If you were stranded on a deserted island and could pick only two books to have with you, what would they be and why?
Betty Dravis: The first one is a no-brainer. I would choose The Holy Bible because it’s always been my inspiration and I need it to refresh me on a daily basis. I’d also like to take a book that I wrote, 1106 Grand Boulevard, because my family members are in it and it has special meaning to me; many fond memories of my parents and siblings. Since there are only two surviving from our family, I would most likely get the most benefit and enjoyment from that book.
Daniel L. Carter: Hopefully readers have guessed that I am very fond of you as a friend and a writer, Betty. I pray they caught of glimpse of what a special person you are. Before we say goodbye, I want to thank you for sharing with us today. I’m sure you have intrigued many today. Where can people go to get more information about you and your books?
Betty Dravis: Thanks for the opportunity to reach more people, Daniel, and for giving me a chance to share my links. I wish you best of luck with your amazing G-6 Chronicles trilogy. I’ve read the first two and they’re very exciting and original; love the children in your books. Can’t wait to read the third one.
My website: http://www.bettydravis.com
My Amazon Author Central page: http://tinyurl.com/7mqorjj
My DOD blog: http://damesofdialogue.wordpress.com/
My Orangeberry Books page: http://tinyurl.com/6t5khqy
Blessings,
Daniel L Carter
Author of The G-6 Chronicles
Chapter One
Fall 1895
A whistling woman and a crowing hen never come to a very good end.
Death first touched my life on an early fall night in 1895 when Papa came home carrying a dead man in his arms. I had fourteen years behind me and a good many more to go, though I didn’t know that at the time. Something else I didn’t know, and in the long run this one affected my life as much as, if not more than, living to an advanced age: Death would take two of my loved ones not long after it first showed up in my life. According to my Cherokee great-grandmother Elisi, that was the way it usually happened. “Death always comes in threes,” she claimed. I didn’t think much about it at the time because Elisi was as stuffed full of adages and little bits of wisdom as a tick on a hound dog’s back is filled with blood.
Mayhap if I’d been in the kitchen when Papa came in, I would have caught a glimpse of Death slipping in behind him, as if a member of the funeral procession. But then, probably not. The sight didn’t come clearly to me until I was older and even then the visions were more of an ethereal knowledge, things I knew but couldn’t see or touch. I could hear them on occasion but it was sometimes hard to put a picture with them.
This uninvited guest stayed with us for almost five years and finally went away in the summer of 1900, proving Elisi wrong. Death doesn’t always come in threes. That time it came in fours and for all I know the number might have been higher if Death hadn’t decided to go off in search of more fruitful killing fields. Perhaps It found them in China where the Boxer Rebellion was winding down or maybe It went off to Italy to help with the assassination of King Umberto. It might even have gone off to Texas to prepare for the bountiful harvest that was to come Its way in September when a hurricane and tidal wave struck in Galveston, killing 6,000 poor souls. No matter, it seemed like there was always a war or some natural disaster somewhere and Death wasn’t hurting for business back then, just as It isn’t now.
The oldest of five children, I often felt more like an adult than a child, but then, according to Mama, I’d been born old. Perhaps that was why she named me Vashti Lee—Vashti after Queen Vashti from the book of Esther in the Bible and Lee after Papa’s mother. I didn’t think either name suited me at all. Vashti, to me, being Biblical, implied a meekness of spirit or a good girl, one who follows all the rules. And Lee was just dull and ordinary. Women destined to live life on their own terms, as I felt I was, had light, carefree names like Bessie, which my little sister called me when she first learned to talk, or firm, no-nonsense ones like Bess, which Papa took to calling me when he tried to curtail my often inappropriate behavior. Bessie or Bess, both of them fit me like one of my proper Aunt Belle’s kidskin gloves.
Of course, if I’d known the kind of woman the original Vashti had been, that she had defied a king and stood up for her rights as a woman, I might have kept the name and been happy with it. As it was, I didn’t learn her full story until later in life and by then everyone, with the exception of Mama and Aunt Belle, called me Bessie.
In 1889, at the age of eight, I told everyone I knew to call me Bessie and refused to answer to Vashti by my friends or brother and sister. I even informed the teachers at school my name was now Bessie and signed all my papers that way. Once when my third grade teacher wrote Vashti on the chalkboard and told me to stand in the corner for sassing her, I calmly walked to the board, erased the offending name and replaced it with Bessie before I did as told. When I announced it at the supper table at home, Papa laughed but he listened and never called me that ill-fitting name again. But Mama, well, Mama, like me, had a mind of her own. She liked Vashti and, though that was how she usually referred to me, she did slip up sometimes and call me Bessie. When she did, I took this as a sign she might someday accept me for the person I was.
Because of Mama’s delicate health, I was often left with the responsibility of looking after my younger brothers and sister. A daunting chore at times but Mama had never been very strong, and after the birth of my youngest brother, the spirit and fire which Papa said first drew him to her, a fire I’d seen plenty of before Thee’s birth, seemed to dampen down and sputter out like a flame left unattended through a long, winter’s night.
On that night when Death came for an extended visit, Papa stepped inside with the dead man in his arms, walked over to the large wooden table in our kitchen and laid the body out there, arranging his arms and legs just so. I stifled a nervous laugh. His actions put me in mind of Mama fussing over the arrangement of her good silver and china when the preacher came for Sunday dinner.
Tall and lanky, the man stretched from one end of the table to the other. His scuffed boots hung over the far edge, dangling in the air above Mama’s chair, and his head, with the neat bullet-hole dead center of his forehead, rested at the other end where Papa sat when home at mealtime. As if we were all sitting there waiting to eat, Papa bowed his head and, his hand resting on the man’s shoulder, mumbled something I couldn’t catch—a quick prayer, an apology or admonition, I didn’t know what. Papa wasn’t the most religious of men but insisted on saying grace before each and every meal.
As Papa muttered over the man’s body, I suppressed another laugh. The whole scene, while strange and unusual to me, seemed to mock our everyday life.
“John? Is that you?” Mama’s voice, wispy and soft as the finest goose down, called from the parlor where she’d been giving my sister Loney a piano lesson.
I stood on the bottom step of the back stairway, peeking around the door jamb. From the window of my bedroom, I’d tracked Papa as he walked down the street to the house. I’d been banished there earlier that afternoon for bloodying my brother’s lip—a punch Roy richly deserved, though Mama didn’t see it that way. Mama, as usual, didn’t bother to listen to me and ordered me straight to my room. I’d spent the time in exile preparing my defense, hoping I could catch Papa before Mama did.
At Mama’s voice, he sighed, taking off his hat and hooking it on the back of one of the chairs. I pressed back against the wall of the stairwell, hidden but stationed where I could hear and get a quick glimpse of the show if I wanted. This was bound to be good. Mama would probably succumb to a fit of the vapors at the very least. At the most, she’d pitch a hissy fit that would have all the neighbors within shouting distance whispering behind their hands for days.
William Fore—I found out his name later that night from Papa—rested on the table, hands crossed over his chest, eyes closed, face serene, appearing to be taking an afternoon nap. Papa squeezed Mr. Fore’s shoulder as if in silent apology then turned his back on him, facing the door to the dining room. He leaned his hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest, the Silver Star pinned to his coat glinting briefly in the light from the oil lamps as the material bunched up over his arms.
“It’s me, Cindy.” He sounded tired and I could tell he wasn’t looking forward to Mama’s reaction.
Mama bustled into the kitchen from the dining room. The baby rested against her shoulder and Green held one of her apron strings in his chubby toddler fist as he staggered behind her in that flat-footed walk all babies have when they first take to their feet.
“John, you need to talk to Vashti Lee. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the girl, she—”
I hunched my shoulders but, other than that one defensive move, remained perfectly still. Papa hadn’t been home two minutes and already Mama was launching into a conniption fit about my behavior that day. She would, I knew from experience, lecture him for at least fifteen minutes about my actions, subtly suggesting it was his fault I acted the way I did, and then tell him he needed to punish me for hitting Roy.
Not that I minded her leaving the discipline to Papa because he would take the time to listen to me. He understood me far better than Mama ever would and we often ended up laughing about what I’d done to incur Mama’s wrath. Papa, in my eyes, was the best part of my life. I cared much more about pleasing him than I ever would about minding my manners or acting like a proper lady as Mama always said I must.
Mama gasped as she came into the kitchen, her hand flying to her chest, and I edged back a little further on the step. She’d surely squeal like a stuck pig if she saw me standing there. As it was, Papa and the dead man on the table held her attention.
“John Daniels!”
“Now, Cindy…”
The baby, reacting to Mama’s distress, opened his mouth, burbled and let out an ear-shattering cry. In an automatic maternal gesture, Mama jiggled him and swayed, something that usually ended the tantrum before it got started. Theodore Norton, or Thee as we called him, snuffled and quieted as Mama continued to bounce him up and down.
Green tottered over to Papa and held his arms in the air. Papa crouched a little and picked him up, tossing him over his shoulder and patting him on the bottom. Green giggled.
Mama stared at the dead man and inched her way back to the dining room doorway. Her mouth pursed and she shuddered before squaring her shoulders. She bounced Thee a couple more times and let her other hand fall from her breast. It came to
rest on her hip, her right eyebrow arching as she looked at Papa and waited for an explanation.
I clamped my mouth shut over the giggle bubbling in my throat. Oh, good, it looked like the neighbors would have a lot to talk about in the next few days.
Or so I thought until Mama surprised me by saying in a low voice, “Come into the dining room, please, John. I can’t talk in here with that…that.” She pointed at the table.
Propping Green on his hip, Papa looked at him and shrugged before following Mama out of the kitchen.
“You can’t leave a dead man on my kitchen table, John.” Mama’s voice, low and strained, held a touch of horrified disbelief that Papa would even consider doing such a thing.
In the parlor, Loney picked out the opening notes of some happy tune on the piano. I covered my mouth with my hand when I realized she was trying to play “Seven Drunken Nights.” Mama would surely throw a dying duck fit if she recognized the song. It wasn’t one she considered proper for a young lady since it was about a man coming home “as drunk as” he could be. It also didn’t sit well with her because Papa had been known to spend a few drunken nights of his own at the local saloon. I sighed, knowing I would be the one to pay the price for teaching it to Loney. Leave it to my sister to play Papa’s favorite song. She was forever trying to find a way to get Papa to pay attention to her.
I looked over at the dead man. I didn’t know him but figured he might object to having that particular song as his funeral dirge. Or maybe not; for all I knew, it was a fitting sendoff for him.
“Aw, now, Cindy, I couldn’t leave him at the jail. Norton’s got Hankins and Shepherd in the cell and you know how those two are, they fight over which direction the wind’s blowing. My deputy has enough on his hands without having to stand guard over a dead man. ’Sides, Fore there ain’t hurtin’ anything. He’s dead.” Papa, of course, didn’t see the need for making a fuss over such a simple thing as using our kitchen table as a makeshift coroner’s slab.
“I know he’s dead, John Warren Daniels. That’s precisely why you can’t leave him there.”
“It’s only for tonight. Norton and I cleaned him up a bit before I brought him home and I have some canvas in the barn that Roy can help me spread under him. I’ll take him to the courthouse in Marshall first thing tomorrow.”
“The courthouse? You mean to tell me he’s a…a…criminal?” The last word whispered as if Mama didn’t want the dead man to hear her less-than-complimentary description.
“Why else would I shoot a man? It’s my job to protect the citizens of the town, ain’t it?”
I stepped off the bottom step, checking to see if the coast was clear. The voices came from the dining room, Papa’s cajoling, Mama’s higher and a little desperate. Hiking up my nightgown, I tiptoed on bare feet into the kitchen. The argument might keep them busy long enough to let me explore the curiosity of having a dead man in the house. A dead man! Shivering with excitement, or more than likely fear, I held my breath and approached the old, scarred wooden table. Coming to a stop beside it, I stared. My eyes moved slowly from the tips of the man’s scuffed boots, up his legs and torso, and didn’t stop until they encountered the neat, circular hole in his forehead.
Papa shot a man in the head and killed him. This was another curiosity to be taken out and explored later. As Constable of Hot Springs, it was his job to shoot people if they needed to be shot just like it was his job to collect taxes from the people who lived there. As far as I knew, he’d never shot anyone before and he sure hadn’t ever brought a dead man home and stretched him out on our kitchen table like he was running a backroom funeral parlor.
I snickered then shook off the thought. Right now, I wanted to investigate the results of Papa’s action, examine the gruesome reality of death.
Holding tight to the edge of the table with one hand, I reached out with the other and poked at his arm. It felt like any old arm, maybe a little colder than most, but since he wore a long-sleeved coat and it was a chilly night outside, I couldn’t really tell. I trailed my fingers down to his hand but ran out of courage before I actually touched that dead flesh. I yanked my hand away and the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding rushed out of my lungs with a whoosh. I stilled, took a cautious glance over my shoulder just in case Mama heard, then focused on the hole in his forehead again.
Round and small, the skin puckered around it as if the man’s brain had swallowed a sour lemon instead of a bullet. The hole looked to be about the same size around as my index finger and what little blood had leaked out had already dried to a rusty red-brown color. I leaned down, studying it closely. To me, that little hole didn’t seem to be enough to kill anyone, but I guessed it was since this man was lying on Mama’s kitchen table, his face pasty gray and most undeniably dead.
Still, just to be sure, I placed my hand on his chest, feeling for a heartbeat or the rise and fall of air going in and out of his lungs. I couldn’t find any sign of life, nothing at all. As I stood there, I wondered if he’d felt the pain of the bullet and how long he’d continued breathing after that tiny piece of lead invaded his brain.
My eyes moved up to his forehead again and I stared in fascination at the little round hole. Had Papa aimed for that spot or just plugged him dead center of the forehead by accident? Leaning down, I studied the bullet hole closer and marveled at its perfect roundness. What would happen if I stuck my finger in there? I reached out but drew my hand back when I heard Roy clomping down the back stairs
Perfect! Maybe I could get Roy to put his finger in there and tell me what it felt like. Two years younger than me, Roy liked to pretend he was all grown up, a man instead of a boy. I walked over to the stairs and grabbed his arm to keep him from jumping off the bottom step as was customary for him. With his big feet, there was no way Mama wouldn’t hear that. I pulled him into the kitchen, clamping my hand over his mouth.
“Be quiet,” I hissed.
His eyes widened but he nodded and I withdrew my hand. That was the best thing about Roy: he made a fine collaborator most of the time.
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
I leaned in close to his ear. “Papa shot a man in the head and killed him and,” I paused and lowered my voice even more, “he brought him home and put him over there on the table.” I pulled Roy over so he could see. “Mama and Papa are in the dining room and Mama isn’t very happy with Papa right now. She doesn’t think it’s proper to have a dead man on the table.”
Loney hit a sour note in the parlor and stopped playing for a moment. Seconds later, she resumed, starting at the beginning of “Seven Drunken Nights” again. The giggles came back and I slapped my hand over my mouth.
Roy bent over the table and looked at the dead man, much as I had a few minutes before, taking him in from the toes of his scraped work boots all the way up to the hole in the center of his forehead. He swallowed hard, threw a glance over his shoulder, turned back and reached out a hand to the man’s face. Also like me, he jerked back before he could touch that cold, dead flesh.
“Go ahead,” I whispered. “Touch him.”
“Uh-uh.”
I ran my finger down his spine and brought it forward, studied it before wiping it on his sleeve. “Your yellow streak’s showing. Go on, chicken, put your finger in there. I want to know what it feels like.”
He shook his head. “Nope. You want to know, you do it.” He looked me in the eye. “I dare you.”
I hated to back down from a dare, especially when it came from my younger brother, so I shoved him aside and moved closer to the table. Wiping my damp hand on my nightgown, I balled it into a fist with only the index finger sticking out and touched the man’s cheek. It was slightly rough, his whiskers stiff and bristly beneath my finger. I traced a path up the side of his face, across his forehead, skirting around the hole then moved my finger down the other side.
“Buk, buk, buk,” Roy taunted. “Go on, Bessie, do it.”
“Shh. I will.”
Moving my finger back up to his forehead, I approached the hole, stopped and prodded the flesh around it.
“His skin’s cold,” I said.
Roy nudged me with his shoulder. “You’re just stalling. Go on, chicken, stick your finger in there.”
Suddenly, this didn’t seem like such a good idea, but if I didn’t do it, Roy would never let me forget and would tell all our friends I’d backed off from a dare. It would be years before I lived it down.
Raising my chin, I moved my finger closer and touched the puckered edges of the hole. Roy leaned down, crowding me, and I jabbed an elbow in his stomach to get him to move back. He giggled before slapping both hands over his mouth.
It was that slightly frightened giggle that did it. I lifted my hand and slowly lowered my finger to the hole. The skin, when I finally touched it, felt rubbery, and as I pressed down into the hole, it seemed to close around me as if greedy for live flesh. I almost lost my nerve until Roy gasped out another nervous giggle and I shoved in deeper. I could feel the bone now, rough with jagged edges where the bullet had torn through to the brain beneath. There was a slight resistance before my finger sank into something that felt like cool jelly.
“Oh my goodness, Vashti Lee Daniels, get away from there! John, get her away from there!” Mama’s shocked voice rang out and I snatched my hand back. Without thinking, I wiped my bloody finger on my nightgown.
“Oh, Vashti.” Mama sounded like she was going to swoon.
I looked down at the streak of red running along the white skirt of my nightgown. Darn, I was probably going to have to pay for that by doing a plentitude of boring chores around the house for the next month.
Standing beside Mama, Papa put his arm around her shoulders, keeping her upright as he peered at me. His handlebar moustache twitched before he firmed his lips in a straight line.
“Damn, Bess, you can’t be playing around with a dead man.” He tried to sound stern for Mama’s benefit but I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes, even though he narrowed them in an attempt to hide it. Papa might pretend that some of the things I did annoyed and flummoxed him, as they usually did Mama, but I knew the truth. More often than not, he enjoyed my scandalous behavior. Not that he’d ever let Mama see it.
I ducked my head to hide the grin. One of my greatest pleasures in life came whenever Papa looked at me like that and said, “Damn, Bess,” in that exasperated tone of voice. It was his favorite saying when it came to me and my improper behavior. As a deterrent or reprimand, it didn’t bother me at all. In fact, it sometimes goaded me on. I loved to hear those two words come out of Papa’s mouth.
Every time I heard them, they reinforced my desire to be my own person though I didn’t have the words to describe my independent nature until Elisi gave them to me a couple of years after that night. We were foraging in the woods for wild herbs and talking about the goings on of a particular woman in our small town. Elisi, who swore she didn’t like gossip but was always willing to listen and offer the occasional comment, laughed and told me Miss Cordy was a whistling woman and didn’t care who knew it. When I asked her what that meant, she said, “A whistling woman and a crowing hen never come to a very good end, or so they say. Now, Miss Cordy spends a great deal of her time whistling and I’d say she’ll go on whistling until the day she dies, no matter what the outcome or what people think of her.”
I thought about it as we grubbed in the dirt for ʼsang, and by the time we headed back to the house, I knew a whistling woman was exactly what I wanted to be. A woman who lived her life the way she wanted no matter what other people said or thought about her. Lord knows, I’d already bucked so many of Mama’s prim and proper rules of etiquette where a young lady was concerned, and though I didn’t like doing so many extra chores to pay for my indiscretions, I dearly loved it when Papa looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, “Damn, Bess.” I cared much more about pleasing Papa than I did Mama—or society in general.
To find out more, visit the Whistling Woman homepage. Click here to purchase a copy for your Kindle.
And stay tuned for an upcoming contest to win a free Kindle copy of Whistling Woman!
CC Tillery
Perhaps some of our readers have noticed a new name showing up at the top of our page. Yes, that’s right, we have a new Dame…er, or maybe she’s actually the result of two of the original Dames who have split personalities that came together to form a new Dame; CC Tillery. CC is actually half Christy Tillery French (on the right) and half Caitlyn Hunter (whose real name is Cyndi Tillery Hodges is on the left) who wrote a book together about their great-aunt Bessie’s life growing up in the mountains of western North Carolina.
CC Tillery (see what they did there? Their first initials and their maiden name combined to give this new author a name. Slick, huh?) Anyway, Christy, as you already know writes suspense and thrillers and Cyndi (Caitlyn) writes mostly paranormal romance with some contemporary thrown in on the side. Whistling Woman, the book they wrote about their great aunt, is a whole ‘nother thing entirely (as they say in the South). About as far from suspense, thriller, or paranormal romance as you can get, although it does have a little bit of romance. It’s southern literature, women’s literature, a coming of age story, and historical faction (part fact, part fiction). It includes many of the family stories they heard from their dad and their great aunt when they were growing up and it also has bits of Cherokee folklore and medicine, not to mention quite a bit of historical data about the town of Hot Springs, NC and the surrounding area.
So why the new name? Why not just go with their real names on the cover of this book that comes from both of their hearts? Well, it’s because they’re both stubborn dames and while Christy wanted Cyndi’s name to come first on the cover, Cyndi wanted Christy’s name to come first. So, in an effort to avoid having their first argument since they were teenagers and realized that having each other for a sister was not such a bad thing, they decided to go with a pseudonym. They decided to use their first initials (since thir first names both start with C, there’s no way anyone would know who was actually first) and used their maiden name, Tillery. And that’s how CC Tillery was born.
So, there you have it, Cyndi Tillery Hodges and Christy Tillery French writing together and producing what they both consider the finest writing of their career.
Want to know more about Whistling Woman? Check out the Whistling Woman blog where you’ll find some tidbits about the writing process of the book, a table of contents (Southerners Speak Music…), the dedication, acknowledgement page, and the back cover blurb. Not to mention the buy link for Whistling Woman on Kindle and how they came up with the title. And check back here next Friday when CC will be sharing the first chapter!
I’m happy to announce that my latest e-book, Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons, will be launched in a few days. This is my sixth book, and I can’t wait to share the inside stories of how I met and interviewed a number of famous legends, including Clint Eastwood, the late Senator Ted Kennedy and four others.
Since these stories were published before in Dream Reachers, an inspirational “print” book containing thirty-seven in-depth interviews by me and my co-author Chase Von, I decided to “e-incarnate” them, thus making them available to the growing number of e-book readers. That’s how Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons came to be. And since it’s a short book, I set the price at 99 cents so more people could delight in my treasured memories.
As for the book’s description, a celebrated author described it well in this excerpt from her Amazon review:
“Dravis’s own accounts of some of her more colorful interviews… They include Bad Hair Day, a charming story about the day she met Clint Eastwood; A Treasured Moment in Time, which is about meeting Senator Ted Kennedy; Lobster Anyone?, an interview with Jane Russell; and recollections of the days she met San Francisco Mayor Joe Alioto, actress Ann Sothern and country singer Tanya Tucker… I recommend this book to all aspiring journalists for tips on conducting successful interviews. Well done…” – Michele Van Ort Cozzens, Arizona, author of Irish Twins and other best-selling novels
Another descriptive review: “Betty Dravis has lived quite an amazing life. Here she shares some of her most exciting interviews with famous legends, including Clint Eastwood, Jane Russell, Ted Kennedy and Tanya Tucker. As always, Ms Dravis’s interviews have a warmth, charm and delightful quirkiness that draw you in, fill you with enjoyment, and leave you wanting more. Ms. Dravis always adds that special personal touch that leaves the reader with a true sense of who these icons really are as people, not just as idols.” – Karen McCord Zabalaoui, Texas, Amazon Top Reviewer
Now for the BIG SURPRISE: You will never guess who I snagged to write the Foreword!
I asked a good friend who is the role model for all e-book authors to write the Foreword for me and was stunned when he accepted. I was so happy I just had to share it with a few close friends, but held my breath in case the news leaked out. I so-ooo wanted to surprise you, dear readers, with the fact that the renowned John Locke wrote the Foreword for Star Struck!
In case there is anyone on the planet who doesn’t know John Locke, he’s the first self-published author to sell a million books on Kindle and at one point had four books in the Amazon Top Ten simultaneously. Here is what The Wall Street Journal had to say about him:
“John Locke, the 60-year-old Louisville businessman turned part-time thriller writer, has now sold more than 1 million Kindle e-books, joining the ranks of such best-selling authors as James Patterson, Michael Connelly and Stieg Larsson.” - Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg
Now isn’t that exciting? Did I surprise you?
New York Times Best-selling Author John Locke
Although, absolutely delighted that John agreed to write my Foreword, I had another surprise when I read what he wrote about me. I had no idea he knew so much about me and I feel so honored. He’s a clever man whose sense of humor and outspokenness, I learned, match my own. But after all, he lives in Kentucky, the birthplace of my parents and ancestors, so we do have a lot in common. With the large family of Bargers and Crawfords I still have in The Blue Grass State, it wouldn’t surprise me if we were kissing cousins. 
Here’s a snippet from what he wrote; a teaser to whet your appetite to read the entire Foreword:
“This collection is special for another reason. It offers you a glimpse into the mind and character of the author herself. Make no mistake, Betty’s a charmer! High-spirited and full of energy, she’s a treasure, far as I’m concerned, and her wit, charm, and self-deprecating humor is evident in these unique and personal stories.” – John Locke, author of Saving Rachel and other Donovan Creed novels
Well, I’ve spent my life bragging about my interview and meeting with Clint Eastwood (not to mention Ted Kennedy and others) and now I can spend the rest of it bragging about John Locke. Two handsome, talented, dedicated men who touched my life in vastly different ways: One at the sunrise of my writing career, the other at the sunset. I’m a lucky woman…
For more about me, check these links:
http://www.orangeberrybooks.com/#!__celeb-interview-inspirational
http://talentspotlightmagazine.com/?p=832
Endnote: My publisher, Wendy Dingwall of Canterbury House Publishing informs me that Star Struck: Interviews with Dirty Harry and Other Hollywood Icons will be posted on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online sites in “twenty-four to forty-eight hours”…if SmashWords keeps on schedule. SmashWords has the irritating habit of posting it on their site before it’s available for purchase, but I’ll post an announcement the very day it goes on sale. You can count on that! While waiting, I will appreciate it if all who read this can go to this link and push the like button:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/103588
Other Books by Betty Dravis
Author Betty Dravis
Being as publicity conscious as the next author, it always delights me when I see a stranger reading one of my books. The publishing industry has changed drastically since my first novel was published in 2000. I’ve been pleased to see how creative authors have gotten in finding unusual places to hold book-signings…or actually, the places have probably found us (since we are normally invited to give signings).
Since I asked a number of authors to share a story about an unusual book-signing location, it’s only fair that I start this session off. And by unusual, I mean any signing not held within the hallowed walls of a bookstore. Well, here goes…
I must say, I got a rush when I saw a man reading my first book, Millennium Babe: The Prophecy, on the Capitola beach. It was all my friends could do to restrain me from trudging through the hot, burning sand, offering to sign it. But I didn’t…
That would have been a bit unusual, but looking back, I think the most unusual place where I held a signing was at a Trinity Networks Team (TNT) Christian luncheon in Modesto, about a half-hour from my current residence. I was invited to be guest speaker at the luncheon by TNT founder J.P. Hurlbert whom I met through Stan Countz who is a promoter, poet, publisher, etc. Countz is another high achiever featured in our book Dream Reachers II.
I truly enjoyed the luncheon meeting/signing because J.P. led the guests in opening prayer and Stan Countz sang and played a little Gospel music. It was, indeed, an unusual venue for a book-signing, but it was tons of fun. My joy was made complete by David Sings who videotaped my presentation for a lengthy YouTube.
http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=bettydravis#p/f/4/HQ9eF0VR87w
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Dr. Niamh Clune Has ‘Hit & Run’ Signing in the Irish Dail
When Betty Dravis asked me if I had any amusing book-signing stories to share, one immediately sprang to mind. In my capacity as an environmental campaigner, I was meeting the Minister for the Environment in the Irish Dail (equivalent to the Houses of Parliament). I was in serious mood, fired up for the challenges of the day, poised and ready to fight my corner.
Prior to the meeting, I sat in the Private Member’s bar, drinking tea with some friends. A little wrinkled, toothless man shuffled up to me and said, “Are you the Niamh Clune…” and trailed off, leaving the question suspended between us, a paused moment of seemingly tremendous importance.
He doffed his cap. I couldn’t help but notice his appearance. His trousers were folded over his belt. The legs of them were too short and riding up his calves. He looked incongruent in such a lofty place as the hallowed ancient building that housed the Irish Parliament.
But I was used to such things in Ireland. And nobody else seemed to think his appearance strange, so I answered, “I am Niamh Clune, but depends on who is looking for me!”
He looked up, nodded his head and remarked how that had been a wise response. He shuffled from one foot to the other. He placed his cap on the table, and like an Irish version of Columbo, scratched the side of his forehead slowly, then pulled on his earlobe and asked gently, “Are you the Niamh Clune from Co. Clare?”
“I am,” I said.
“And do you write books?”
“I do,” I answered.
“Now I have ya,” he grinned, and produced a scrunched-up serviette from deep within his trouser pocket. “Put it there,” he said, handing me the napkin and a chewed pencil.
I must have looked clueless. He urged, “Go on, go on… Put your signature there! Sure I’ll keep it as a memento.”
I did as I was bidden whilst struggling with the thick-leaded pencil on the flimsy serviette. I gave it to him. He looked very pleased, picked up his hat and wandered off. I called after him, “Which book have you read?”
He paused, turned slowly and said, ”Now I didn’t say I had read any of them, now did I? But I did know your mother, and very fine she was too!”
http://niamhclunewrites.blogspot.com/
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Slushie, Hot-dog…and Shane Moore’s book, please…
One of my publishers was friends with the owners of the 7-11 chain in Saint Louis. They were testing the market, so they asked if they could schedule a signing of his best-selling writer at their stores.
He volunteered my services, so there I sat in a 7-11 store, signing books from 11am to 4pm. These books were sold with slushies and hot-dogs… (laughs) I was pleased, though, because I sold ninety-six books. That has proven to be a retail record; no bookstore in my career has ever topped that. http://www.abysswalker.com
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Auto Dealer ‘Parties Hardy’ for Collette Scott’s Books
Okay, my most unusual book-signing was at an automobile dealership, Camelback Toyota in my town of Phoenix, Arizona. They were kind enough to have me out there with a DJ and a local restaurant to serve their customers. It was a huge PR blast for the customers. I signed forty books, with donations taken for a local children’s safe-house charity. It was so much fun. There are pictures on my website and Facebook page.
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Author Chris Thrall Surprised by Success…
I’ve got my upcoming launch in a nightclub. I often go to this club, but I never thought for a minute I would be signing my book in it! As for signing, it’s just a weird experience full-stop– signing a book for anyone! Perhaps the strangest place so far is in my workplace for colleagues… Sorry I haven’t got a funnier story!
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Jodie Brownlee Finds Fan While Traveling
You asked where was the most unusual place I signed a book. It was on a train in my hometown on my way to visit a friend. I hadn’t lived there for over twenty years and was unknown in the area so it was a surprise to see a nearby passenger reading my book. For a few moments I just enjoyed the sensation that comes when you see someone reading your book. Then I plucked up the courage to tell her that I was the author. She couldn’t believe it. I told her I grew up in her town (a small semi-rural suburb of Australia) and I signed her book. Then we arrived at the station and went our separate ways, both beaming. It was a lovely encounter.
http://facebook.com/jodie.brownlee
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Children’s Pirate Books Author Signs in 1874 Lighthouse
The St. Augustine lighthouse is the most unusual location where I hold book-signings. It’s an active lighthouse on the north end of Anastasia Island, within the current city limits of St. Augustine, Florida and was built in 1874. I also wrote a fair amount of the first draft of my first book in the shadow of that lighthouse in a grove of live oaks on the grounds. Also two chapters of Bad Latitude take place in that lighthouse and my books sell like crazy in their gift shop.
Re: another blog you wrote, Mark LaFlamme’s answer to your question about what authors wear while writing was pretty much what I would have expected. He’s a nut… (For the record, I wear t-shirts, cargo shorts and flip-flops most of the times, especially when I write.)
Now there’s a picture of me on my blog with my grandson that you might get a kick out of. He thinks I’m a pirate and tells his classmates that I’m famous, so in anticipation of his visit, I let my beard grow long…for the sake of the picture. Naturally, my wife Deb was happy to see it trimmed hours after the photo was taken. (Endnote from Dravis: I decided to use the photo that Dave’s referring to in the following montage. He does make a convincing pirate, doesn’t he?)
http://jackrackhamadventures.blogspot.com/
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Chapter 1 Monday Afternoon, early June
Detective Tucker had always heard that if you were going to sin, figure out who to tell or join the Catholic Church, even here in the Bible belt. Past sins denied were to the psyche like a web woven in the night poised to smack you in the face on that narrow trail.
Tucker headed back to his partner in the idling county vehicle. Tiny warning hairs on the back of his neck quivered, signaling danger. Thunder roiled loud and long, echoing a gut feel that something criminal was about to happen.
He looked back over his shoulder. Lightning crackled overhead then focused full force on a tree not a hundred feet behind him. Tucker stuck his fingers in his ears when the resulting boom reverberated in the nearby Blue Ridge Parkway underpass.
Acrid smoke from a newly blacked streak down the length of a large poplar snag filled his nose but no fire broke out. He bolted down the highway berm as the lightning-struck dead tree, not a hundred feet away, crashed down as if directed straight at him. Close call, he thought, as the jolt of adrenalin passed through him.
At least the rain held off, a relief after twenty-eight straight days of downpours in these North Carolina mountains. The official three-year drought was over. The unusually hot eighty degrees made the place feel dank and damp as a rain forest. Graves, his partner, answered a call and motioned Tucker to the county SUV.
Tucker punched the voice mail button on his cell phone while jogging the last few yards to the county vehicle.
“I swear I’m not involved,” Jemma’s message said. Tucker buckled his seat belt as Detective Graves drove the patrol car. He put Jemma’s message on speaker phone. “Someone keeled over in the game room at Blue Falls Ranch. I called 911 to get the ambulance. Come quickly. A nurse attending our photography club meeting is doing compressions. I’ll get the defibrillator. Something’s not right.” Her voice relayed an undercurrent of excitement Tucker had learned meant her CSI wannabe tendencies had kicked in. “He’s my age, in his 30s, healthy, friendly. We think it’s poison. Gotta go. I’ve moved everyone but the nurse out into the dining room.”
Jemma Chase had called his cell phone and left that message while he’d nearly been zapped by lightning. He concentrated to stop the grin that his partner said came on his face every time he heard her voice. Graves confirmed that dispatch directed them to proceed to the scene. The investigation of vandals painting the underpass could wait. Wish they’d grow up and find a real life, he thought as Detective Graves drove the steep winding Elk Creek Road down the mountain to Triplett Valley. The road dropped a thousand feet in three miles to the lowest point in Watauga County, around seventeen hundred feet in elevation. Another murder, suspicious death, according to Jemma. She’d had enough experience in that area to know. Tucker gripped the overhead handle to stabilize himself while Graves took the last three curves a little too fast. Luckily, no other vehicles approached on the narrow sixteen foot wide asphalt road.
Still no rain but lots of thunder and lightning when they drove on to the Blue Falls Ranch property, under the rustic sign supported by hand-hewn posts imbedded on either side of the gravel road. A couple of horses dashed madly toward the barn, tails high, within the white rail fence in the pasture on the right. A pond with benches and trees glistened between the corral and circular drive. The ranch road followed a fast flowing creek for the first quarter mile then veered to the right. A wide circular drive led to the two-storied log lodge, reminiscent of the national park lodges out west. Five rustic duplex cabins sat back from the winding creek. Tucker glimpsed Jemma’s own cabin on the far side of the creek, off by itself.
Tucker and Graves split up and quickly photographed all the vehicles parked outside the lodge, including the jumble of cars, with portable red lights attached to the roofs, belonging to first responders. Never knew which evidence was key in a suspected homicide. If it proved to be a natural death, all that was lost was some time and effort.
Tucker photographed the dozen steps up to the main lodge then ran up them and into the lodge, heading to the game room. He nodded to Jemma’s parents, the ranch owners, standing outside the dining room. Tucker’s own heart thumped when the first responders applied the defibrillator shock to the man on the floor, someone he’d known for a long time. The upper body jumped inches off the floor with the jolt. He could have sworn he saw Scott’s haint hover above his body then float away. Too much coffee. Too many ghost stories told around the wood stove when he was a kid.
Tucker looked around the game room while the whine of the defib recharge filled the silence.
Photographs and papers littered three tables near the body. At Tucker’s glance, the first responder shook his head, confirming what Tucker already knew. The second jolt hadn’t restarted the heart. Too young to die. Scott Barker had gone to school with Tucker’s younger cousin. He’d have to call Scott’s parents once he was officially pronounced by the Medical Examiner at the hospital. The ex-wife should be told, too, he thought as he photographed the body. Years of experience had made the task familiar but not easier. He could hand off that job to someone else but he’d been friends with Scott. The photos might reveal information about who and why someone wanted Scott dead.
Then he joined Graves in the dining room. Smart of Jemma to clear the scene of unnecessary people. Jemma stood apart from the two quiet groups clustered over by the coffee pot. A nod in her direction was all he allowed himself. Couldn’t think about their last night together, had to focus. He’d sort out the “conflict of interest” argument with the Chief later. Jemma did have a knack for being around the only unnatural deaths in Watauga County lately. At least this time she’d called 911 immediately and then called him. She’d better leave the investigating to him. He was in charge. Tucker walked over to his partner, Graves. “You take the six in the group to the left. And Jemma. I’ll take the other group.”
A rotund man with a military stance offered his hand. “How Is Scott? I’m Harold, president of this photography club.”
“We would like to talk to each of you separately.” Tucker shook the hand then diverted everyone’s attention. “Please have a seat and refrain from talking.”
“Why? What’s happened? Is he dead?” Harold persisted.
“He’s not responding. This is routine. We’ll get to you as soon as we can. You, too.” He nodded at Jemma. The ambulance arrived, the paramedics consulted with the first responders then loaded the body onto the stretcher and carried it down the steps to the ambulance.
Tucker pulled aside the lead paramedic. “Be sure to have the M. E. take both cut and pulled hair samples and nail clippings. He’ll have to send his poison testing results to Chapel Hill.” Tucker frowned. “I’ll leave the choice of which poisons to request since I’m not sure.” The paramedic wrote in a notebook and left.
Graves wrote down the names of those who responded to the call. The first responders left at the same time since they had not been on site at the time of the possible crime. Jemma’s parents returned to work for the same reason.
Tucker called to update the Chief, request forensic and patrol assistance and have an officer meet the ambulance at the hospital to establish a chain of custody and collect the clothes and personal effects for possible trace evidence. The county force was small and underfunded for the area they had to cover, but they’d learned to work with what was available. Sending evidence to the state lab would take weeks, maybe months for results. Scott’s family shouldn’t have to wait that long. If the autopsy showed poison, or failed to show an obvious natural cause of death, Tucker’s investigative skills would be tested.
In the dining room members of the photography group grumbled but shuffled to separate tables. Tucker pulled out a sheet of paper from his pad and handed it to the closest person. “We appreciate your help and will get you out of here as soon as possible. Where was everyone sitting?” He drew the three tables and the chairs as they were currently arranged in the game room. The drawing was passed to a few people who filled in the blanks, others crossed off some of those and filled in different names, then the diagram was returned to Tucker.
Tucker returned to the game room. An incomplete jigsaw puzzle covered a table in one corner. Hundreds of books filled bookcases; DVDs littered shelves. An old fooseball game, a pool table and a ping pong table dominated the far end of the room. A large TV was behind the sheet used as a make-shift screen for the PowerPoint presentation. How many ranch guests had used this room over the years? He took numerous photographs, knowing they wouldn’t get much forensic evidence from the well-used room. He concentrated on the three tables used by the group then sealed the room behind him to preserve it for their forensic guy.
Jemma gave Tucker permission to use the ranch office to talk with witnesses. Graves used the front porch. Jemma must have alerted her aunt Alma because no one entered the dining hall from the kitchen. Alma was probably worried about delaying supper for the guests. He’d do his best to clear everything except the game room before the six o’clock supper time.
“Roger, would you like to go first?” At his nod, the two went into the small office next to the dining room.
Tucker shook the judge’s hand. He was Tucker’s height, a little over six feet, mid-fifties, sixty pounds overweight, and had gray hair at the roots indicating he was overdue for a dye job. Under that good ole boy exterior ran a man whose job had become too routine.
“How are plans for the re-election going?” Tucker asked as he and the judge settled into two chairs set at an angle to each other near a well-used wooden desk. Tucker dropped a writing pad on the corner of the desk.
“Fair. It’s a little early yet. The wife’s more excited about it than I am. She loves the dressing up and parties part of the election year. We’ll have to invite you to the next one.” The judge leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head.
Tucker catalogued the body language as puffing himself up, faking comfort and nothing to hide. “I went to one of your pig pickins last election. You had Elvis sing for us.”
“We’ll probably book Clinton again this year. He’s right fine entertainment.” The judge’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He probably evaluated Tucker as closely as Tucker did him.
“Tell me something about this photography club.”
The judge dropped his hands to his stomach and interlocked his fingers. “It’s been around for about five years. I’ve been a member for two. We usually meet at the Watauga County Library but some other group had signed up for the meeting room in this time slot.”
“How did it end up being held here?”
“Jemma Chase volunteered the place. She joined a few months ago.”
Tucker nodded slowly. To another investigator, such a scenario could have her setting up for a kill by taking advantage of a setting she knew well. Tucker knew she’d never do anything to harm her family’s guest ranch. “You never know about people’s hobbies. How’d you get interested in taking pictures?”
“The wife and I took a vacation to the Caymen Islands. When we got back, I realized I’d photographed every sunrise and sunset. Love those brilliant colors. I saw an announcement about the meeting in the paper and decided to keep taking pictures.”
Tucker jotted down a few notes, Caymen Islands, bright colors. “How well did you know Scott?”
The judge sat up in the chair, pulled in his legs and rested an arm on the desk. “I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that. He must be dead, and not from natural causes.”
Tucker looked down at his notepad then looked back at the judge. Silence many times worked well to get someone to talk. The Chief would want to know every word spoken here.
“I been knowing him for years. His daddy and I were friends at Appalachian State. We’ve been to a lot of the same events since he’s the newspaper reporter-photographer.”
“Tell me what happened in there.”
“We generally have a business meeting, take a short break, then have a presentation by one of us or a guest speaker. A half hour into the presentation, Scott threw up and started convulsing. Almost hit me with his spewing and I was two chairs down from him.”
“Was there anything else different about this meeting?” Sometimes he got more from casual conversation than hard questioning. People saw things without realizing it.
“Not that I noticed. At the break, some of us gathered around Scott to see his Best in Show trophy from a Grandfather Mountain photography contest.”
“Some?”
The judge nodded. “Those of us sitting near him. Jemma went to the kitchen earlier to bring out the coffee urn right before the break. I remember because I almost dozed off during the business part of the meeting. The smell of coffee tugged me awake.”
“Did you enter the contest?”
“Not this year.” A flicker of disgust crossed the judge’s face. “My wife forgot to put the application in the mail. By the time I checked on it, the deadline had passed. She’s a great woman but sometimes gets too busy with her volunteer work. I’ll send in the application myself next year.” The judge put his hands on his knees and sat up straight.
One Shot Too Many Amazon book http://dld.bz/oneshottoomany One Shot Barnes & Noble book http://dld.bz/bn-oneshottoomany One Shot Kindle http://dld.bz/kindleoneshottoomany One Shot Nook http://dld.bz/nookoneshottoomany
Like a lot of people in the mountains, Jemma Chase has a second job — she’s a carpenter. That leads to trouble brewin’ in the Property Owners Association.
Our State Magazine, here’s the review by Elizabeth Langfahl:
Boone author Maggie Bishop brings back carpenter, photographer, and unabashed “SCI” wannabe Jemma Chase in the second of her Appalachian Adventure Mystery series. In “Perfect for Framing,” Jemma finds herself entangled in a web of neighborhood intrigue after she accepts a custom cabinet-making job in an up-and-coming mountain development, Hickory Hills. At the same time, energetic Jemma is in pursuit of a job with the sheriff’s department, where the man she is “keeping company” with, Detective Tucker, is employed.
While installing cabinetry in the home of a local resident, Jemma learns that power-hungry, rich, and attractive Property Owners Association President Petula Windsor has made many enemies in Hickory Hills and beyond. Petula hires Jemma to build cabinetry for her guesthouse. Neighborhood intrigue escalates when Jemma discovers Petula’s body in the burning guesthouse.
Although Detective Tucker is understandably reluctant to include Jemma in the murder investigation, Jemma’s natural instincts and knowledge of Petula’s foes and friends prove to be invaluable, even as Tucker finds his own life threatened. Together, Tucker and Jemma begin to discern the true nature of Petula’s many relationships and discover the identity of her killer. In a surprising twist, Jemma also discovers what is really worth pursuing in her own life.
“Perfect for Framing” is a fun, fast-paced read with lots of local flavor. Although the mystery surrounding Petula’s demise will keep you quickly turning pages, what’s ultimately most satisfying is keeping company with the characters of Jemma and Tucker in this mountain adventure.
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Prologue
Petula rose from her lover’s bed, paraded naked to the vanity mirror, and finger combed her hair so it fell over one eye.
“Your bruises are almost gone,” the man said.
She smiled at him then studied herself in the mirror. “The lipo doctor did a thorough job. He took six pounds and three inches off my mid-section. I wish these numb spots would go away.”
“Give it time, Pet. Your face is almost healed.” He propped himself up with her pillow and reached for his cigarettes.
“I hope I’ll look better than this soon,” Pet said, still studying herself in the mirror. “I thought you gave up those things.”
“After this one. I’m down to a couple a day. Besides, you said the same thing after your face lift – no more plastic surgery.”
“A lady has a right to change her mind,” she called as she stepped into the shower.
By the time she was dressed and had put on makeup, he had his jeans back on. “I’m still mad you let someone buy that lot I wanted to build on,” he said as she emerged from the dressing area in her guest house. He pulled on a crumpled polo shirt.
“Don’t you worry. I’m in the perfect position to make their lives miserable. Didn’t I make it too tough for the last owners to build? I wasn’t President of the POA a couple of years ago when you wanted to put your modular on that lot. Now I have the other homeowners in my grip. If you can’t build there, no one can.”
He dropped the butt into the beer can and hugged her, resting his chin on her head. He said, “Revenge can be so sweet. Maybe you can bankrupt the POA with a lawsuit.” He let her go and sat down to tie his sneakers. then asked, “What are you doing with that situation with your husband? Any progress?”
“Don’t you worry about that either. I’ll end up with the house and a big alimony settlement. Then it’ll be just the two of us.”
Chapter 1, DECEMBER, THURSDAY
“That’s outrageous even for Madam President,” Karen said into the phone. “She’s going to get herself killed one of these days. Come to think of it, that might be a relief to a lot of us.”
At the mention of a murder, Jemma’s measuring tape clattered to the floor as she stared at her customer. Jemma Chase wasn’t eavesdropping, exactly.
“She must be getting a kick out of playing god again, lording over your land, teasing you with delays. The power-hungry little demon. Murder by hanging would be too easy for her.” Karen Harmon grinned into the telephone. After a moment she laughed, then said, “Maybe she could be in a horrible car accident, complete with head through the windshield, destroying the doctor’s latest work. Would serve her right for using a Florida plastic surgeon who gave her that uneven hair line.” Karen glanced at Jemma who quickly closed her mouth. Karen winked before continuing her phone conversation. “She deserves a spike through her heart, if she had one. She has the sculpted look of a cemetery angel and the attitude of a pit bull. There’s not enough Botox and filler in the world to plump up her shrunken heart.”
Karen snapped her gum as she hung up the phone. “Our illustrious POA President is at it again,” she said to Jemma. “Honey, give a petty person a little power and they’ll abuse it
every time.”
Jemma nodded and retrieved the tape measure, her dream of playing CSI faded. Her fantasy of being a Crime Scene Investigator wouldn’t bring in money, only trouble, as Detective Tucker was so fond of pointing out. This energetic little lady wanted more cabinets and a breakfast bar in her kitchen and Jemma was eager to use her carpentry skills on something besides decks and porches.
“You don’t live in Hickory Hills so this doesn’t matter to you,” Karen dropped her wrist and snapped her gum, “but Mrs. POA Windsor has started to make building a new home in our subdivision a nightmare. Just living near her sets my pulse racing like Junior Johnson with a load of moonshine, or like Ringo on steroids.” She laughed at her own joke.
“Ringo Starr?” Jemma re-measured the space to re-direct attention to the work at hand. She chomped at the bit to get on with the task at hand. Carpentry and photography had been occupying her time during the ranch’s off season, but she still managed to ride her horse Brandy most evenings.
“They were before your time. Come to think of it, they were before mine.”
“What’s a POA for anyway?”
“Property Owners Association. This one started at fifty dollars a year to plow the roads after snow storms and for re-graveling in the spring. We’d have a pot-luck lunch in the spring and a quick budget review in December. That was it.”
“What changed?”
“When the original president died and the treasurer moved away three years ago, nobody wanted to do the little work that was involved, including me. We had a house plan review board but the only things we enforced were minimum square footage and no trailers. Later that was expanded to keep out modular homes. Petula agreed to be president and we were happy thatsomeone cared enough to volunteer.”
“And now? How did she get elected more than once if she’s so hard to deal with?”
“Petula charms the men and talks of increasing home values. They love being on her board and don’t miss a meeting. She’s the only woman on the board, a mistake we women hope to remedy at the meeting coming up. She turned our friendly mountain into her own soap opera, starring herself. Maybe she was never in charge of anything before and this makes her feel powerful. Honey, even her husband stays out of her way in POA matters. He’s never even attended a meeting since she took over. My guess is that things are calmer at home if he lets her loose on us. Of course I don’t let my husband attend the meetings, either – our home is certainly calmer if he stays away. Anyway, lately she’s been pushing for a special assessment of seven thousand dollars per owner to pave the road. That’s a shopping trip to her but a lot of cash to most of us.”
About twice that of her own savings account, Jemma thought. “The road is fine to me even with the couple inches of snow we got yesterday.”
“Right, honey. She claims safety issues, as if the fire department or the sheriff couldn’t travel almost as fast on the gravel we have. We have snow plowers on contract. Her latest focus is for houses in here to befit her image as mistress of the mountain.” Karen emptied an ash tray with a single butt into the trash can. “My husband still has one after we cuddle, if you know what I mean.”
Jemma nodded and tapped the paper with her pencil as a signal she wanted to get back to work. As she looked down at the tiny woman, she wondered if Karen knew her hair had a flat spot right on top.
“She’s turned down Ann’s plans again claiming they don’t meet the square footage – but they do. The plans are for twenty-six hundred square feet and the POA minimum is for twenty-two hundred. She can’t change the requirements until they are voted on at the meeting in two weeks.” Karen opened the refrigerator and pulled out a diet soda. “Want one?”
Jemma shook her head. “The romance of living in these mountains includes live and let live, rugged individualism and all that. How does she get away with playing with people?” Jemma tugged on the flannel shirt she’d found in the men’s section of the thrift shop. Blouse sleeves were always too short, same with pant legs.
“You’ve never met Petula Windsor, have you?” Karen poured the soda in a glass and took a big swallow.
“No, the name’s not familiar.” A development had to have a strong grapevine. Doing a good job for Karen could boost her reputation for carpentry work.
“Her husband is Ward Windsor, the Executive VP at Allgoode Bank. They moved to town fifteen or sixteen years ago. This’ll be her third year as POA President. She’s an agitator, likes to keep things stirred up. She treats us like we’re her hive and she’s queen bee. Honey, she’ll get stung one of these days.” Karen’s eyes widened at her own pun, then she tittered. “Anyway, she complained about people dumping grass clippings and leaves in the woods behind their own houses, oh, and a man walking his dog on a leash before eight in the morning. Now she’s bugging an owner wanting to build on the lot across the street. That’s my friend, Ann. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Jemma gave up on rushing her customer. Karen led Jemma to a picture window in the living room, which had a view of the neighboring snow covered ridge through the leafless trees. That view could disappear if a house were built directly across the road. If the house were set to the left, though, where there was already a clearing, Karen would still see for miles.
“See where they’ve cleared the trees? Madam President even complained about that. She ran off the contractor and slapped a law suit on the owner. That law suit could cost the POA tens of thousands of dollars if it goes to court.”
“Can’t the other property owners do anything about her?”
“Short of murder?” Karen again snapped her gum. “I’ve been making good use of talking while shopping with some of the wives. Surprises may be coming Petula’s way at the meeting.”
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"An established must-read romance author, Maggie Bishop has crossed into the mystery genre with finesse. Her latest novel is packed with suspense around a tightly-woven plot which begins with the poisoning of dogs and escalates to the murder of a local man. Throughout, she deliciously teases the reader with the bristly attraction between the investigating detective and the woman who found the dead man's body and who just might be a suspect. Set against the beautiful backdrop of Boone, North Carolina, with engaging characters, red herrings at every turn, and a galvanizing story line, this is a must-have, must-read. Highly recommended." Christy Tillery French, Midwest Book Reviews
Chapter 1
Who poisoned the dogs? The words repeated in Jemma Chase’s head as wrangler Bo dropped her off at the Watauga County Sheriff’s office, located at the jail on Queen Street in Boone, North Carolina. On this October Monday, errand day, high clouds scuttled across an otherwise clear sky. Cool breezes blew in from the northwest to this Appalachian mountain town. Why would someone do that to an animal? It’s one thing to poison a person – but a dog?
Jemma trudged up the cracked cement steps and into the grey concrete building. The small waiting room floor was covered with peel and stick vinyl tiles. One vending machine, one pay phone, a tiny table with two plastic chairs, and a small bulletin board with three bail bondsmen’s business cards thumb tacked – all illuminated by a fluorescent ceiling fixture that blinked dim every few seconds. She swallowed hard and spoke through a metal-grated window to the two armed guards.
One of them emerged to lead her down a barren hallway, past four jail cells – one with a man sleeping on a bunk– and into a back office crammed with two desks and two chairs. One desk held papers stacked in distinct piles, pens at attention in a coffee mug. Citations and certificates of achievement were propped three deep on top of a bookcase mounted on the wall above the desk. A boxy CTR monitor displayed a screen saver of intricate puzzles being filled in; the keyboard was free of the grime on the other desk’s keyboard. In contrast, the other work space’s paper stacks defied the laws of gravity. The guard brought in a folding chair and indicated as he left that she sit on one of the desk chairs. She sat with her back to the disheveled pile. Her senses were on alert; her heart beat loudly in her ears.
Two men walked in carrying cups of coffee.
“Would you like some coffee, Miss Chase?” The younger one sat at the next desk and swiveled his chair to face her. He looked to be in good shape, tailored shirt, tie, pistol in a holster at his hip. He had dark hair, cut short, and a quick, ready smile.
“No. Nothing, thanks.” Jemma sat up straighter with both feet firmly on the floor.
“I’m Detective Tucker, and this is Detective Graves.”
Graves settled into the folding chair and crossed his leg, ankle on the opposite knee.
Detective Tucker leaned forward. “We appreciate you coming in here and talking to us. I know there’s a ton of things you’d sooner be doing –”
Mucking out the stables seemed more appealing at the moment, Jemma thought. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“So I’ll get to it. You’ve heard about the dog poisonings out your way. We wondered if you could shed any light on what’s happening.”
“Nothing more than what my parents told you.” Jemma sat tall to keep from shaking.
“I see.” Detective Tucker sipped his coffee. Detective Graves doodled on a legal pad propped on his leg. “Let me back up a bit. Is the Blue Falls Ranch your official address?”
“Yes.” Jemma clasped her hands together on her lap.
Detective Graves wrote on the legal pad.
“Where did you move from?”
“How is that relevant?” She glanced at the other detective, at the progressive puzzle on the computer screen, then focused on Detective Tucker.
“Now, now, Miss Chase,” Graves interjected, “no need to be jumpy. We’re fillin’ in a report.”
His obvious attempt at sounding fatherly irritated Jemma. She opted to let the irritation go. “Colorado Springs, five years ago. My parents moved here fifteen years ago. Dad wanted horses; Mom wanted a bed and breakfast–and me, I just want peace.” She looked at her hands and resisted the impulse to pick at a ragged cuticle.
Detective Tucker asked her a few other simple questions for his report. He seemed to be studying her every move, so she willed herself to be calm. Police interrogation wasn’t new to her.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I work at the ranch, lead trial rides, help in the kitchen. I also do carpentry.”
Detective Tucker’s eyes widened. “Bet that comes in handy. You’ll have lots of work around here with all the new construction going on.”
She nodded. “I mainly fix things at the ranch. I’m rebuilding the old house I stay in.” She unclinched her fingers.
“I understand you had a run-in with your neighbor.”
Jemma licked her lips. “Not really. I asked Rhonda Lea to stop her son from driving his four-wheeler on our property. He was tearing up our horse trails.”
“You want to tell me about it?” Detective Tucker put his cup on his desk. Detective Graves stopped doodling.
“There’s not much to tell. When she started to deny it, I asked her to meet me at the trail that runs near her property so I could show her. They own a couple of acres next door. She works for DOT, Department of Transportation. She and her twelve year old son came. I don’t know where her daughter was. I showed them where he had worn a trail from her property to meet up with our trail. Twenty or so yards of the trail was rutted so deep that water stood in the tire tracks. Our horses now have to avoid those areas. We don’t want their legs to be injured walking in that muck. The son had spooked a group of riders a few days before and I had trouble calming down our guests as well as the horses. You have no idea how hard it is to reassure twenty-six horses.”
“I understand he’d been on those trails before, and no one had said anything.”
“That was because he used to walk the trails, not spin wheelies on them. I wanted to put a stop to it then, but Dad didn’t want to annoy the neighbors. You know how folks around here can hold a grudge.”
“You got that right,” Detective Graves said. “Part of the old mountain ways.”
“Her family’s been here since the 1800s so she takes every slight as a major offense.”
Detective Tucker leaned back in his chair. “So, then what happened?” He nodded in encouragement.
“Rhonda Lea’s son grabbed her hand and tried to get her to leave. Rhonda Lea’s almost as tall as I am but wiry, thin as barbed wire. Her face got red and she started screaming like a wild cat – accused me of hating her.” Jemma paused to bring her voice back down to normal. “I have no idea where that came from. I barely know her. I went over once for coffee at her invitation but we didn’t hit it off. She’s got a family to take care of, and I don’t. We don’t have anything in common. I thought she was a nice enough lady, but I’m not looking for high-maintenance friends.”
“What do you mean by that?” Detective Tucker asked, his tone friendly.
“Rhonda Lea’s one of those people that recounts all the moments in her life, no matter how minor the event or small the detail. She’s a drama queen. She likes to know what all the neighbors are doing; she wants regular visits. I hear she’s on medication, but her temper is not under control.”
“Would you tell me about the morning you learned about the dogs?”
“In detail?”
“Tell us everything,” Detective Graves added.
Jemma looked from face to face. The detectives looked open and friendly, like the guests at morning breakfast at the ranch. Curious but not concerned. Jemma let her mind set the scene. She thought about coming in from greeting the dawn. Nothing stirred–no breeze, no bees–on that foggy morning. Brandy’s whinny floated in the mountain air. The valley fog was so thick it surrounded and concealed all living things. It was one of those mornings you had to roll down the window if you drove to an intersection and listen for oncoming vehicles. You couldn’t see ten feet. It had been an unseasonably warm week.
“Early morning the phone rang. It was Rhonda Lea. I said no, I hadn’t seen the dog, but that I’d take a walk around and look. I walked to the creek and headed toward the Thompson place. It made sense that an animal would head for water if it didn’t head home. Eventually I came to their driveway. Rhonda Lea was there, at the culvert.
“‘We found him,’ Rhonda Lea said, glaring at me. Rhonda Lea’s husband rushed the bundled up dog to his truck.
“‘Is he okay?’ I asked, even though she scowled at me.
“‘I don’t think so. We’re heading to the vet,’ Rhonda Lea said.
“Rhonda Lea called the next day. The dog’d been poisoned by an antifreeze-laced hamburger, or it could have been Christmas tree poisons, she managed to get out between sobs. The vet couldn’t be sure which it was without an autopsy. She said they found a half-chewed fast food wrapper on the border between her house and Blue Falls Ranch. Within days, the dead dog count in the valley was up to twenty-one. Both of our dogs were fine.
“Speculation abounded. Everyone had antifreeze. Was it a hunter prepping for deer season? A neighbor tired of driving through packs of dogs? That crazy kid who had an aneurism years ago?–he hasn’t been the same since.
“Thank goodness horses are vegetarians, I remember thinking. And that the guest ranch horse barn is so far off the public road. A few hours later, my parents told me that detectives had stopped by and talked to them about the dog poisonings. They’d said it was a puzzler and asked if I’d mind dropping by the office next time I went to Boone. So here I am.” Jemma remained more relaxed than she expected. Detective Graves now reminded her of a kindly uncle she didn’t have.
Detective Graves cleared his throat. “That was a fine rendition, almost like you’d practiced it.”
Jemma sat up, alarmed at the potential behind his words. “I’ve been thinking about that morning. I’ve been haunted about the cruelty to the dogs. It was a mean thing to do.”
“It was that.” Detective Graves tapped his note pad. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Thompson since?”
“Rhonda Lea has problems I don’t need to get involved with.”
“I understand you’ve had some problems yourself.” Detective Tucker cocked an eyebrow.
“Don’t we all.” Jemma shifted in her seat. “I wasn’t guilty that time either.”
“Oh?” Detective Tucker’s eyes flickered with interest.
“Picked up for DUI. I only had two drinks. That skunk with me jerked the wheel.” Jemma’s heart sank. They hadn’t known. “That’s when I came East and moved in at my parents’ ranch.” Detective Tucker’s face froze. What had she said to cause that?
The detectives glanced at each other. Detective Tucker looked directly into Jemma’s eyes. “Did you poison those dogs?”
“No! Why would I do that? I love animals. I even move spiders from inside the house and not kill them … Did Rhonda Lea accuse me?” Blood drained from her face. “You think I poisoned her dogs and the others in the neighborhood as revenge for her son riding on our land?” Jemma willed herself calm and lowered her voice. They were trained to read body language, and she had nothing to hide. “Doesn’t that sound weak to you?”
“Why weren’t your ranch dogs poisoned?” Detective Tucker leaned forward.
“They stay away from the road, spend more time with the horses, I guess.” Jemma’s hands curled into fists on her lap.
“How come you knew where the dog was?”
“I live and work with horses and dogs. I know how they react. If I were hurt, I’d head for water.” Oh, no, it’s happening again. Stampeded into looking guilty.
Detective Tucker leaned back and let the silence drag out. “Would you take a polygraph test?”
“Yes.” Jemma met his stare. “You must be desperate if you think I harmed those dogs. Revenge is not my style. It just makes things worse.” Her mouth went dry. She should have asked for water.
Detective Graves said, “Miss Chase, we are not accusing you of anything. You came in here of your own free will. We appreciate your wanting to help. I gotta tell you, this is upsetting to all of us. Can you tell me something about the other neighbors?”
Jemma shook her head. “Not really. Look. I keep busy at the ranch. This is our high season. The fall leaf-lookers book early. I can keep an ear out. There aren’t any stores or regular restaurants in the valley, so our ranch has morphed into a place where locals come for breakfast.”
“I’ve stopped in for coffee and pie of an afternoon,” said Detective Graves.
“Alma will serve up whatever is available to eat to anyone at anytime. It makes us rumor central for Triplett. Rhonda Lea and Junior had a guy living with them for a while; it was rumored that he sold drugs. Maybe he was mad when he moved out. He lives further up the valley, comes in to the ranch for breakfast sometimes. I’m sure she mentioned him.” Jemma looked at Detective Graves, not trusting herself to look at Detective Tucker. He may not have it in for her personally, but his manner changed dramatically when she’d mentioned that stupid DUI. It’s not like she’d stolen something or killed anyone. Her crime was in a choice of friend. “Be careful of Rhonda Lea’s temper. She’s the type of clannish woman who brings out the worst in people. Picture yourself yelling at the top of your lungs and finding out she can yell louder.” Jemma shook her head at the memory. “There’s a rage burning in that woman. I feel sorry for her daughter and son.”
“If you think of anything, you’ll let us know?” Detective Graves asked.
“Sure. This has to be a hard one to investigate.” Jemma accepted his card.
“Thank you for talking with us.” Detective Tucker stood and held out his hand. Jemma stood and shook it. He was her height, six-feet. Firm handshake. That much registered as an officer escorted her back to the front door.
Tucker stared at the door after she left. “She’s guilty, has to be.”
“What makes you say that?” Graves rearranged the chairs so he could belly up to his desk. “The odds of solving this one are about as good as clearing all the copperheads out of the valley of Triplett.”
Tucker half-smiled and sat in his well-worn desk chair. “She handled the whole thing too well, as if she’d rehearsed it. Why, she barely reacted to my direct question about doin’ in the dogs. She didn’t even cry. Half the women we bring in here tear-up before we even get started.”
“You want to build a case because you didn’t shake her?” Graves shook his head. “I saw your eyes blaze when your old enemy DUI came up. Don’t deny it.”
Tucker stretched to work out a kink in his shoulders. “We’ve been working together too long.”
Graves shrugged. “When do you want to talk to her again? We need to cruise down that way, the petty thieves are back in business.”
“You don’t suppose she’s involved with that?”
“Dog killings, stealing in broad daylight – she could be a one woman crime wave.”
Tucker saw the smile Graves tried to hide. “Cut it out. You have to admit, it would be convenient.” Tucker tapped a pen on the desk. “She was hiding something even though she didn’t cross her arms or legs. Her eye movements didn’t indicate any answers she had to make up.
“Carpenter, huh? She’s used to working around men and has access to lots of homes and businesses. She’s already made an enemy out of her neighbor. She’s definitely not from around here. We need to check deeper into her record.”
Graves pulled out the incident report. “We’ve interviewed most everyone in the valley that are full time residents, including the Chases who own the dude ranch, the Bishops who work at Sugar Mountain, the Tates who are friendly neighbors, and now Jemma–hated neighbor, the Thompsons. Sheriff’s already grumbling that we’re spending too many man-hours on this.”
“We still have the Sheets brothers and Randy Kincaid to interview.”
Graves tapped his pen on his desk. “For all we know, Rhonda Lea Thompson or her husband did it themselves. Maybe their dog was too hard to handle.”
“That doesn’t fit. It’s such a vicious crime. Poor defenseless dogs. It’s heartbreaking to the dog owners.” Tucker had considered having a dog himself but figured it wouldn’t be fair to the dog. He’d fallen into the habit of working more hours than necessary. “Sheriff’s right, though, we’ll have to move on soon.” Tucker wrote his report but left out that Jemma was tall and lanky. She had to be strong from carpentry work and riding horses every day. When was the last time he had ridden a horse? Granddad told stories about building the Tweetsie Railroad in the late 1920s when horses and mules were the only power they had. He needed to visit the farm more often. Dad always had a horse or two around.
Walking tall on the outside, Jemma exhaled and drooped as soon as the door closed behind her and she was again in the free air.
The shakes set in. She glanced to her left toward the library, the meeting point with her ride, wrangler Bo. She reached the bottom of the chipped cement jail steps and her feet took her ahead one block to King Street where some of the college town bars were. She stopped in front of Murphy’s – not for their barbeque, even though it was good. She stared at the glass door, feet rooted on the sidewalk.
Characters who spent their days around old town Boone barely registered in her mind as they walked by her. Seventies college students who never left, never moved beyond their hippie days. A white boy with dreadlocks and bare feet said “excuse me” as he sauntered around her. Those earth biscuits had kids, and got food stamps and free medicine, courtesy of Jemma’s taxes. They were American gypsies without the charm. Jemma had worked on a rental house where the owner had to evict the original three people plus the other six they had invited to live with them. All in all, it was four kids, five adults, three big dogs and a rabbit that had the run of the house. Jemma’s job was to rebuild doorways, install new windows and replace counter tops. The house stank for days, even after the carpet was ripped out.
Jemma felt like one of those bronze statues set in public squares. The shaking had stopped but her mind had been elsewhere, nowhere. What was she doing here? How had she arrived? More important, why would someone want to kill all those dogs?
An elderly couple walked by and looked away. The bar wasn’t what she needed.
She turned east but jerked her head at the honk of a horn. Bo pulled over, and she stepped up into the pickup.
“You look sadder than that Coon Hound I was talking to down town.” Bo shifted a package on the seat between them.
“I needed to hear that.” Jemma fastened her seat belt.
“Man, I would have joined you in Murphy’s. I could use a beer about now. I hit three stores before I found all the stuff your dad needed. Sure miss Farmer’s Hardware.”
“It’s too early for me to drink. I’m down to drinking only a couple of nights a week.”
Bo glanced at her before turning into a break in traffic. “No skin off my nose. A little drinkin’ never hurt anybody.”
“I know why you drink. Broke every bone in your body in your rodeo days. Closin’ in on fifty, drink every night.”
“Hey, don’t take it out on me. I didn’t make you talk to the cops.”
Jemma reached over and tugged his seat belt. “Sorry ’bout that. Guess I didn’t fare as well as I’d hoped.”
“What do you mean?” Bo stopped at a red light.
“They act like I killed those dogs.”
“No way. They must be desperate. No wonder you headed for a bar.”
“But I didn’t go in the door.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll drink one for you.” Bo grinned and crept along in the slow line of traffic. October town traffic was heavy with leaf-looking tourists and fall semester college students.
Jemma snorted. “Like that’ll help. What am I gonna do if the real bad guy isn’t caught?”
“You’ll have to figure out who did it.” He stopped and let an ASU student jay-walk across the street.
“Right. I’ll ask Rhonda Lea if she did it just to blame me for it. Then she’ll burn my cabin down for spite.” Jemma couldn’t believe she’d uttered those words.
“She’s not that bad. You two are like two bears with one trash can–each complaining about the other.” Bo stopped again to let a car with Florida tags pull out from a parallel parking space.
“That’s not true. I avoid any contact with her. She called me.”
“Correction–she called the ranch and you answered.” Bo had a self-satisfied smile when Jemma dropped her head. “I could ask around to see if anyone knows anything. Not much though. I don’t want them to haul me in.”
Jemma nodded. “Thanks.”
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