The Dames’ Hometowns

A question often asked to those interviewed by the Dames is “Where do you live? Tell us about it — we love to travel.”  We decided to ask that question of ourselves.

Laurel-Rain Snow:  When I think of the city where I now live, I remember how it all happened somewhat accidentally.

That’s how I saw it in the beginning.  It was the early 1970s and I had a new baby and two older kids to take care of…and my husband had just landed a job teaching in a small town in West Fresno County.

I remember driving there on that summer day when he had the interview.  Eight months pregnant, I felt truly helpless to direct my destiny.  Who has less power than a pregnant woman, barefoot or not?  Especially in the 1970s.

It would be a few months before I began working in that same town, for the County of Fresno.  Without realizing it, I had launched a career with that one defining moment.

Now, more than forty years later and after retiring from that career several years ago, I am thoroughly entrenched.  Yes, I could have moved elsewhere, but by the time I realized that I could, some of my grown kids were living their lives here and I had somewhat reluctantly attached myself to this place.

For awhile—actually thirteen years—I lived in a neighboring foothill community, but eventually found my way back to the city.  Not a small city any longer, with over 510,000 residents, Fresno sprawls outward into neighboring areas, like Clovis, a city of its own with 95,000 + residents.

Sometimes when I’m trying to justify why I still live here, I think fondly of former residences in San Francisco and Sacramento.  But then I realize, except for the downtown area of Sacramento, Fresno doesn’t feel that different to me.  And here’s where I’ve lived for more than forty years.

I like my current neighborhood of River Park, with restaurants and shopping centers surrounding me, like encircling friends.

And within a short distance, I can travel to places like Shaver Lake orYosemite.  Beautiful mountains are very close by, and that fact also reminds me that nature has a wonderful display at almost every turn.  Two-and-a-half hours away, I can navigate to the coast, with Pismo Beach, Morro Bay, and San Luis Obispo—all at my fingertips.

Maybe home is where familiar sights and sounds surround us like a warm hug.  LAUREL-RAIN SNOW’S CREATIONS http://laurelrainsnowauthor.com/

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CC Tillery is the pseudonym of two of the Dames of Dialogue who also happen to be sisters: Christy Tillery French and Cyndi Tillery Hodges (aka Caitlyn Hunter). Christy lives in Powell, Tennessee and Cyndi lives in Hendersonville, North Carolina but they came together in Hot Springs, North Carolina, the home town of their great aunt Bessie whose story they told in Whistling Woman.

The beautiful little town of Hot Springs is the home of their collective heart and they feel as if they’re walking in the footsteps of their ancestors, the characters of Whistling Women, whenever they go there. Though the town has changed, there are still remnants of Bessie’s time:

The Dorland Chapel which was built in 1899 is now home to Dorland-Bell Presbyterian Church.

The Hot Springs Resort and Spa (in Bessie’s time, The Mountain Park Inn).

The Hot Springs Baptist Church where the Dorland graduation was held.

Spring Creek which plays an important part in Bessie’s life.

To find out more about Whistling Woman, Hot Springs, and the people the book is based on, visit  http://whistlingwoman.wordpress.com/.

Christy Tillery French is a multi-published, award winning writer who usually writes suspense and thrillers. She is the author of The Bodyguard series and four stand-alone suspense novels. To find out more about her work, visit her website,  http://christytilleryfrench.com.

Caitlyn Hunter is the author of the Eternal Shadows series and Winds of Fate, all paranormal romances based on Cherokee legends. She has also written several contemporary romance short stories and a fantasy novella. To find out more about her work, visit her website,  http://caitlynhunter.com.

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Maggie Bishop:  Watauga County’s main town is Boone, North Carolina, where I’ve lived since 1993.  Boone is nestled high in the Appalachian Mountains at around 3200 feet; my home is at 3600 feet.  I truly live in the clouds on some days.  Deer and turkey are regular visitors who come up from the New River at the base of our property.

Grandfather Mountain, a biosphere and home of the NC Highland Games in July, is 40 minutes from my home, located near the Blue Ridge Parkway. Besides the long range views from the swinging bridge near the top, the profile trail is a challenge to hikers.

Appalachian State University is in Boone so the residents are a friendly mix of mountain families, professors, retirees, students, artists (home of Cheap Joe’s Art Stuff), Christmas Tree farmers and other merchants.  High Country Writers has encouraged writers since I started the group in 1995.  We currently have over 70 members, many are published.  Something about the clear mountain air, the forests, wild flowers and critters as well as the appreciation of craftsmanship that encourages music, painting, writing, woodworking, pottery, quilting and other creative endeavors.  Merle Fest is an annual event of mountain music which draws thousands of listeners.

Sugar Mountain Resort and Beech Mountain are two ski slopes in Banner Elk.  My parents ski patrolled at Sugar for over 20 years after they retired from the Air Force and I was a ski patroller for five years.  My second novel, Emeralds in the Snow, came from those experiences.  Lance Armstrong and other mountain bikers trained in the Banner Elk area.  Appalachian Ski Mountain is located closer to Blowing Rock.  Twice a year, the Blowing Rock  Charity Horse Show is enjoyed by riders and tourists.

Next time you yearn to travel, come on up to the High Country.  Bike, hike, canoe the New River, picnic and drive the Blue Ridge Parkway in warmer weather.  Downhill ski in winter.

Visit my website  http://maggiebishop1.tripod.com  and learn about my novels (mystery and romance), all set in these mountains.

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Betty Dravis:  Love from the Central Valley of California

I moved to the small Central Valley agricultural town of Manteca, California only three years ago. Manteca, known as the “Family City,” is charming in its quaintness and the people are very friendly. Since I lived in Silicon Valley for over fifty years, it’s more rural than I’m used to.

The bad news (for readers and writers) is that the only book store in Manteca is a used book store, but they have a lovely library…and the mandatory Target, McDonald’s, Foster’s, Penny’s and T. J. Maxx. J The good news is that it’s only 76 miles east of San Francisco and about an hour from Sacramento.
I’m fortunate to live in Woodbridge, an upscale Del Webb retirement community that has two pools, saunas, golf-course, tennis court and many more luxurious amenities, all surrounded by a picturesque man-made lake and activities 24/7. (Now that I’m too old to enjoy all of that. J ) But when I’m in the mood, I don’t need to wander too far from home for entertainment. In fact, with writing, reviewing and book promotion, I don’t take time to partake of the planned activities very often. This video will introduce you to my community. I hope you enjoy this sneak peek.

http://www.55places.com/california/communities/woodbridge

I love living here, but my heart is still in Silicon Valley because I lived there so long and most of my children still reside there. Luckily, the freeway goes both ways and it’s only an hour-and-a-half away.

One of the large murals in Manteca is on this building at the corner of Yosemite and Main.

Visit website:   http://www.bettydravis.com/

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What’s your favorite part of your own hometown?

Tourists? In Yellowstone? In 1877? By Meg Justus

Whenever I am asked to explain what Repeating History is about, this is the first thing people ask.  But it’s not all that odd, really.  For one thing, the American version of the Grand Tour was a well-established concept by the late 19th century.  For another, Yellowstone was created as the world’s first national park in 1871.  Of course, that was mostly a formality at the time — Congress allocated no funds to support the new park, and even the superintendent was a volunteer.  The only hotel was a sod-roofed log cabin where customers paid for space to throw down a bedroll while they “took the cure” in the Mammoth Hot Springs.  There were no roads.

But people did come.  A trickle at first, compared to the millions who visit every year now — in 1877, the year my fictional Byrnes ran into the Nez Perce Indians, roughly between 300 and 500 (The Yellowstone Story, by Aubrey L. Haines, p. 196 — this two-volume set is the definitive history of the park).  This does not count the over 500 Nez Perce, over half of them women and children, fleeing from the U.S. Army into Yellowstone, the most famous of whom was Chief Joseph, of “I will fight no more forever” fame.

They were on their way to asylum in Canada, a goal they would fail to reach by less than 100 miles.  They were running because, ultimately, they refused to move away from their homelands onto a reservation.  The army was after them ostensibly because of the actions of some of the young Indian men in retaliation for what the white people were forcing them to do.  But their path led across Yellowstone National Park, and, in spite of the odds (3000 square miles, less than 1000 people in total), straight into several parties of tourists.

The chance to replenish horses and supplies could not be missed, because by then of course, their own horses were becoming worn out and their own supplies low.  If some of the tourists had not resisted, the situation might have ended with simple theft.  But they did, and the encounters ended in kidnapping.  And murder.

Eventually the kidnappees were let go, but the damage had been done.  What amazes me is something that Emma Cowan (who was the basis for my fictional Eliza Byrne) said many years later.  “It occurs to me at this writing (in Reminiscences of Pioneer Life, published by the Montana Historical Society in 1903) that the above mode of trading is a fair reflection of the lesson taught by the whites.  For instance, a tribe of Indians are located on a reservation.  Gold is discovered thereon by some prospector.  The strong arm of the government alone prevents the avaricious pale face from possessing himself of the land forthwith.  Soon negotiations are pending with as little delay as a few yards of red tape will admit.  A treaty is signed, the strip ceded to the government and opened to settlers, and ‘Lo, the poor Indian’ finds himself on a tract a few degrees more arid, a little less desirable than his former home. The Indian has few rights the average white settler feels bound to respect.”  Quite a statement by someone in her circumstances.  And one reason I was drawn to write about her.

Repeating History is available on Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005E8S8UM), Barnes and Noble (http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/repeating-history-m-m-justus/1104728901) Smashwords (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/76672), and iTunes (http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/repeating-history/id454474620?mt=11)   To read the first chapter, go to my website at http://mmjustus.com/fictionRepeatingHistory.html.

Boats, Canals, and Locks, Oh My! By Norma Huss

The boats were ours, Sunset Cloud, a red-hulled American Tug, and our friend’s Carole H, a blue-hulled American Tug. The canals were the Erie Canal and Canada’s Trent-Severn Waterway (with several connecting rivers, lakes, and a bit of ocean thrown in). The locks were numerous and amazing.

On June 10, 2006, my husband and I left our slip in Chesapeake Bay and headed north with our friends for a grand tour. We were prepared with a full load of diesel, charts,  groceries, passports, lines, fenders, and a courtesy flag. And, of course, cash and a credit card.

Let me explain some of my terminology. Our boat used diesel instead of gasoline. (Most boats do.) The charts were both paper and electronic and included the maritime GPS installed on the roof that connected to our Plot Charter.  Lines, called ropes on land, were to attach ourselves to shore overnight and essential to traversing the locks. The fenders, also called bumpers, were inflated rubber or synthetic bladders (tied to the boat rail with more line) that kept the hull from rubbing the side of the lock (or other boats and similar obstacles as well). The courtesy flag was a small Canadian flag, the red maple leaf on a white field, necessary to fly from the bow of the boat while in Canadian waters.

 Since my purpose is to show (and tell) you about those amazing locks, I could say our trip from Chesapeake Bay into the Atlantic Ocean, then to New York Harbor, past the Statue of Liberty, and up the Hudson River was uneventful but that would be a total lie. We had Auto Pilot outages (forcing one of us to handle the wheel in mid-ocean umm, make that occasionally out of sight of land). We had photo-op views as we passed under bridges, watched commuter trains on one side of the Hudson and freight trains on the other, and all manner of oddities that included the back side of billboards. A few times we even saw that our position, shown with less than pin-point accuracy on the Plot Charter, would indicate that our boat was traveling on land.

Of course, with an average speed of six knots (nautical miles per hour – each one slightly longer than a mile by automobile) this all took several days. We stopped at various marinas along the way, met a mix of interesting boaters, walked into various towns for meals and provisioning, and tried the specialty of every ice cream shop we found. We encountered our first lock on June 16, Troy Lock, a federal lock that took us to the Erie Canal. Yes, that same Erie Canal of song and myth.

Our first day on the Erie Canal took us non-stop through five locks that lifted us thirty and thirty-five feet each, for a total of 150 feet. (Did I ever get used to deliberately going into a cavern with solid, mucky walls, looking up to the bit of sky while wondering if we’d really arrive at the top? Did I ever worry about what would could happen should the gates in front of us malfunction as they slowly opened by inches to allow torrents of water to descend and fill that cavern? Well, sure. But did it help to learn that was the most lift in the shortest distance anywhere in the world?)

Except for that flight of five, most locks were beside a dam, built to take advantage of the terrain to supply electricity. Usually our path was clearly marked so we wouldn’t absent-mindedly wander into the turbulant spillway. Since our speed was little more than the bikers we saw on the Canalway Trail, it took another two days before the locks began lowering us. After a day of that, we left the Erie Canal to head north. On one of our overnight stops, Sylvan Beach, we discovered a city-run year-round festival. (Tourist op.) That evening we also discovered we needed to find the closest full-service marina for essential repairs to the head. (Any non-boaters who don’t know that term? I’m not sure why the water closet/bathroom/loo is called a head. Backwards terminology, if you ask me.)

After a couple of days we rejoined Carole H and headed further north on the Oswego Canal/River. More locks. We were getting good at positioning our fenders for maximum protection from wet and dirty lock walls and slipping a line around cables, or looping the line over ballards or cleats on the land to keep us in place as our boat floated up or down. Finally, we reached Lake Ontario, where we crossed into Canada. Signing in was easy. We telephoned for permission, placed our document number in the window, and put our courtesy flag at the bow. In Canada, we turned into temporarily road-bound tourists. Our group of six (the Carole H crew included two young teen boys) rented a van and took a lay day (that’s boat for don’t move the boat but do something else, more usually involving rest or repairs). Those boys were ice hockey players and fans, so we visited the Toronto Ice Hockey Hall of Fame. (More photo ops and souvenir shopping for two of our grandchildren also into ice hockey.)

Finally, we were on the Trent Severin Waterway. We thought we knew locks. You motor into an enclosed space, loop a line around something, and keep yourselves in place as the gate closes electrically behind you, water flows in or out, then, when the gate in front opens, you steam out the opposite end at a new level. Piece of cake. Sorta. And, truth to tell, on many of the locks on the Trent Severin Waterway we followed exactly the same procedure. But some locks are engineering marvels of strange and beautiful complexity that prove an old adage Where there’s a will, there’s a way!

First, consider the hidden electrical connection that operates the gates those large pieces of structure that are mostly water-tight when closed and keep water from flowing through either end of the lock. Many of the gates in Canada were opened and closed with a combination of hidden gears and man (or woman) power. Think pre-electricity mills, grinding grain. Back then mills  were often placed beside a stream with water wheels providing the power. But without the water, did they have oxen, yoked to a bar so they could walk in a circle to turn the wheels and gears that powered the mill? That is exactly the procedure in several of the locks we encountered. There were metal bars in a V-shape with convenient hand-holds for the lock tender to push in a circle, a most efficient method to open and close a gate. (My hubby helped one day when there was only one attendant at the lock.)

One of our first locks was, according to the sign, fifteen miles from anywhere. The crew left in the evening using the only land access, a non-public road, after giving us the keys to their office so we could use the facilities inside. The next day we had our first experience with a joint lock. Looked like any other lock at first. We motored into the area, tied up, were raised, the gate in front of us opened to another lock. So we moved thirty feet into that to be lifted even higher. That was the day I discovered my new hooded jacket wasn’t really a rain coat at all—just looked like one!

We traveled through lakes dotted with mini-islands each one sporting a summer cottage, a tree or two, a boat mooring, and, if it was large enough, a lawn or perhaps even a tennis court. We followed connecting rivers and more locks. And arrived at Peterborough Marina on the last day of June. The marina adjoined the Del Crary Park, and excellent place to spend the next day, July 1, Canada Day. We watched the parade from the street in front of the marina, visited the festivities, lunched at the international food bazaar at the park, and, that night, watched fireworks from our boat roof (until the rain, thunder, and lightening chased the noisy crowd away).

The Peterborough Lift Lock is one of those engineering marvels. We took a second lay day to look at it and take pictures. We watched with great interest as a tour boat, full of tourists went up and other boats came down to go the opposite way. The next day was our turn. We followed Carole H into the U-shaped spot and were lifted, securely floating in our box of water, all the way up to find ourselves on top of the hill with the open river in front of us.

On July 4th several friendly Canadians wished us a happy Independence Day. At a Bobcaygeon bakery a man insisted on treating us to the local specialty, Chelsey buns. (They were similar to the sticky buns of Pennsylvania.) We went through more lakes, narrow canals and rivers. And more locks. Finally, we arrived at Big Chute. We took a lay day to check this one out as well. Big Chute had no box of water to float the transported boats. It does start with a U-shaped spot to pull into, but the boats are pulled out of the water by straps running underneath, lifted onto a platform and carefully positioned to remain steady and upright. The platform is big enough for large boats, or two or three smaller ones, so we rode along with Carole H. Our ride took us over a road (with the lowered gates keeping automobile traffic backed up as if they were at a train crossing). Then we were lifted over a hill and our platform was attached to something that looked like a boat launch, except that it was perhaps a hundred or more feet long and sloped rather quickly down into the water below. Rather strange to be traveling in the trees. But nothing spilled (although I didn’t go out of my way to position something tippy or spilly to test it out).

We had more adventures headed out into Georgian Bay (can you say “heavy winds,” or “banged the hull on a rock”). We stopped at Henry’s Fish Camp on a very rocky island (a must place where everything, and I mean everything including lobster tail, was deep fried). At Tobermory we were introduced to beaver tails, a large, flat treat made of donut dough and topped with your choice of almost everything. Yum!

Since we were in a lake we had no more locks for a while. We stopped at several places known for their beaches. We heard that rains had destroyed Lock 10 on the Erie Canal and we would have to leave our boat behind and return for Sunset Cloud after the lock was repaired. We continued much more of our trip, but as we were going a circle route in Canada, we wouldn’t return to those unusual locks. One highlight of our time in Canada was our stop at Kincardine. There we heard the story of a boat lost in a storm and the ship’s captain who decided to play his bagpipes as he went to his death. However, a piper at Kincardine heard and answered his pipes, and led him to safety. Now, every night at sunset a piper climbs to the top of the lighthouse and plays his (or her) bagpipes. We stayed there an extra day, taking sunset pictures of the waterfront from a high position in town while we listened to the bagpipes.

Norma Huss writes mystery inspired by her boating days and placed in Chesapeake Bay. Her latest book is Death of a Hot Chick. Naturally, it involves a boat, Snapdragon. The protagonist is Cyd, a young widow trying to survive, who is confronted with the boat owner’s ghost. “Find my killer!” the ghost demands. In exchange, Cyd will own Snapdragon. Not so easy to solve a murder with too much help from family and friends. Not too safe either, especially when Cyd wonders: Was the killer’s target his victim or her boat?

Norma’s website is http://www.normahuss.com

Murder at Blue Falls by Maggie Bishop, Free first chapter

"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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Appalachian Paradise by Maggie Bishop, free first chapter

“I started with romance …”  This is the first book I ever wrote and it holds a special place in my memory.  Appalachian Paradise takes you on a five-day backpacking trek in the mountains of North Carolina.  You get to take the hike without taking the hike.  Get it?  Rob Neufeld of the Asheville Citizen-Timessays “Maggie Bishop’s novel ‘Appalachian Paradise’ is a romance that gets off to a good start and maintains an exciting tension that manages to carry to the end. “

“APPALACHIAN PARADISE by Maggie Bishop is a beautiful and heartwarming hike down the path of finding true love. Wes is an outstanding hero who finds his soul mate when he least expects it and through his patience and love helps her discover what she really wants in her life. This story grabbed hold of my heartstrings from the beginning of the book and didn’t let go until the end. I was completely drawn into Wes and Suzanne’s life and it felt like I was there on the beautiful hike with them. If you are looking for a book that leaves you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, please pick this book up and be prepared to fill your heart with love and happiness.”  Char, reviewer for Romance Junkies.

Hope you enjoy the beginning of this story.

Prologue

“You want my daughter’s safety to depend on the outcome of a hand of poker?” Billy Bowers whispered to his brother.

John Bowers drained his glass and put it down, adding to the rings on the scarred game table. “Any better ideas? Wes doesn’t have a stake in her welfare. He’s got no reason to agree. This’ll give him one.”John shuffled the cards. “Damn that Suzanne. She may be my niece but I’ll still call her the most bull-headed woman alive.”

Billy craned his neck toward the stairs but saw no sign of Wes. “At least she’s talkin’ to you. She hasn’t spoken to me in ten years.”

The two of them turned and raised questioning eyebrows at Conard, Wes’s brother-in-law.

“I’ll play along,” Conard said. He was a round-faced guy with sandy hair and ready wit. Conard sported an Atlanta Braves t-shirt which he would sooner die than part with, though Wes’s sister had threatened to throw it away for years. “He’s pulled a few stunts on me over the years.”

Wes returned from the bathroom upstairs and settled in his chair. Tallest and youngest of the four, Wes wore jeans, a faded Appalachian State University t-shirt and leather work boots. “You guys finish stacking the deck while I was gone?”

“Who, us?” Billy said. He wiped his hands on his Hawaiian shirt, then realized Wes was kidding about the cards. “Would we set you up like that?”

“I’m innocent,” Conard said.

John dealt the cards, and the four men sat poker-faced, playing the hand. Wes added the winnings to his meager stack of ones and finished his Budweiser.

“Have you talked to Suzanne lately?” Billy leaned back from the scarred oak table.

John shifted in his chair. “A few days ago. You know she’s been working too hard since that promotion. Sounded like hell.”

“Gets that from her mother working hard I mean obviously not from me.” Billy sipped the last of his iced tea as John continued to shuffle. “I worry about her, you know. Wish I could do something to help her.”

Wes glanced between the two older men and shook his head. “You guys are just alike. I don’t care how different you look. Both of you determined to do all you can for little Miss Independent. From your stories, Suzanne doesn’t need or want your help.” Wes shook his empty can. “I’ve never met the woman but I know more about her than you to do. Leave her alone.”

These weekly poker games at Wes’s house might be the only way for Billy to catch up on his daughter, but enough was enough.

“That’s right, Billy,” John said. “Beat yourself up for something that happened a long time ago.”

“I need a refill.” Wes got up from his chair. “Anyone need something to drink?”

“I’ll take one.” Conard saluted his brother-in-law with his empty can.

“I’ll take care of my own.” John grabbed his glass, drained the ice into his mouth, and followed Wes upstairs to the kitchen sink. He pulled his own bottle of single-malt scotch from the cabinet.

Wes took two beers and a pitcher of sweet tea from the refrigerator. “That hard stuff’ll kill you, old man.”

“Not before my niece gives me a heart attack.”John wrenched the cap off the bottle. “She’s driving me crazy. Now she’s got a crazy idea to use my place for a week’s vacation.”

“Your place is a mite isolated, isn’t it? It’s practically inside Pisgah. I mean, it’s great for you and your consulting anywhere with internet will work or for me when I want to get away. What does she plan to do way out there?”

“That’s not the half of it. She’s only using my place for a jumping off point. She’s planning to hike for a week. Get this she plans to walk the city grime off her body,’ as she put it. Her therapist told her to get away for a while.” He poured himself a stiff one.

“Who’s she going with?”

“Herself.”

“Alone? You’ve got to be kidding.”

They returned to the card table, and Wes handed the sweet tea pitcher to Billy and the other beer to Conard.

John continued, “Trouble is, I don’t feel comfortable with her being alone in the mountains. Plus, it’s harder than she thinks. She’s can’t hike that long five days, six to eight hours a day, steep rocky slopes. It’s not like a jog around a track.”

“She could fall and break something,” Conard volunteered. “Then she’d be up a creek for sure.”

“Exactly my point!” John brought down his fist for emphasis, making the glasses and cards jump.

Billy poured tea into his glass. “Her mother was independent or started out that way.” He put the pitcher down and stared at the glass in front of him. “She should have left me, you know . . . I’m the reason she died early.”

John sipped his drink. “Worrying over that doesn’t help now. One day, you and Suzanne’ll have to settle your differences. I’m sick and tired of being in the middle of your father-daughter mess.”

Billy shifted in his chair. “She returns my letters unopened. She won’t answer my calls, probably has that caller ID gadget. Doorman keeps me out of her building. You’re more of a father to her than I am.” He swallowed hard. “But I still care about her.”

“I’d as soon you dropped that sensitive stuff, Billy,” Wes said. “You’ll have me cryin’ in my beer.”He turned to John. “I don’t like being alone on those trails anymore myself. I’ve got a friend who’s a park ranger at Pisgah. I’ll ask him to be on the lookout for her. When’s she going?”

“Next month. May is early in the season, so there won’t be many hikers out. I’d appreciate the park ranger being on the lookout. On top of everything else, the week she picked is the one I have to be in London.” John played with the cards, absently cutting them repeatedly. “Didn’t know how to say no’.”

Wes gulped from his beer. “You going to deal those cards or make love to them?”

John dealt slowly still talking. “She only visited a few times and doesn’t know the mountains. It’s just like her to go to extremes. Her therapist suggested some time off, and she decided on a solo hike. She went on and on about the great maps she’d downloaded as if maps are going to save her.”

They picked up their cards. John sized up his brother, cleared his throat, and said to Wes, “Where are you going while they finish changing your barn to offices?”

Wes considered his cards. “I’ll stay here for the barn changes; they start next week. I’ll spend a few days helping Conard here and Mary do some work on their house and hit a hotel for a few more days when they start on this place. The contractor swears he can do the kitchen and baths in two weeks. Can’t stay there then well, I guess I could bunk down here.” Wes glanced around at the basement game room. It had been added to his family’s home in the early 80s and was the one part of the house not involved in the remodeling. “But there’s no bath. I can’t get any work done while the computer equipment is being installed, it would drive me nuts to hang around and just watch.”

John tossed his ante into the middle. “Why don’t you stay at my cabin?” He maintained perfect dead pan as Billy and Conard, watched, fascinated. “Plenty of room. Better yet, you could go  hiking  with  Suzanne.  The  timing’s  right.”

Wes yelped and slapped down his cards. “Oh, no you don’t. Kindly leave me out of this. The way you tell it, she’s no fun, always has a schedule, and has definite opinions on all subjects. Not my type at all. I’d rather stay longer with my sisters. No thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” John shrugged, rearranging a card in his hand. “Still, it seems like you’d be willing to help out with something this important. Since you’re not doing anything that week anyway.”

“It would only be a few days, and you like to hike,” Billy chimed in.

John added, “Suzanne’s not unpleasant, exactly, just prefers computers to people. She wouldn’t be bad company. I’ve seen you with your three sisters. You know how to gentle and kid women to get your way.”

Wes groaned. “Don’t ask me to do this. She aims to go by herself, she doesn’t want company, she doesn’t like you interfering in her life.”

“You’re right. We’ll have to make it look accidental.” John’s face lit up as he warmed to the idea. “You’ll just happen to be there at the same time. She won’t have a chance to say no.

“Yea, that’s a super idea,” Wes muttered. “Hi, Suzanne. I just happen to be here, so let’s go camping together! Yeah, she’ll love that.”

“It could work,” Billy said.

“Forget it, guys. Get somebody else to . . . Suzanne-sit. I’m out of it.”

“Who else could I get?” John said. “You know your way around the mountains. You’ve that southern respect for women. I trust you.”

“That’s not what I meant. She won’t like it no matter how you put it. Right, Conard?” Wes looked to his brother-in-law for support. “Right, Conard?”

“Uh. . . . Sure.” Conard glanced from one man’s face to another. Then he inspected the tabletop in front of him. ” Of course, she might come to be glad you’re there. I mean if she gets in trouble.” He snuck a glance at Wes who glowered at him.

“I’ve got it!” John’s eyebrows shot up. He squinted at the younger man across the table from him. “Let me sweeten the pot a little. Double or nothing. You win, I pay you double. You lose, and you take a hike.”

“The pot’s not that big.” Wes squirmed in his chair. He wanted none of this. “Look, I understand both her need for independence and your desire to protect her. But . . .”

John dealt the cards. “At the end of the week, you could bring her to your Mother’s Day cookout. Billy will be there. You could help pull them together.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything. You’re trying to push me the same way you do Suzanne. No wonder she doesn’t like it.” Wes took in Billy’s hopeful expression and smothered a groan.

“It’s a good way to re-introduce them,” John continued. “You could talk to her during the hike and smooth the way. Great idea! Glad I thought of it.” John grinned at Wes. “Place your bets, boys.”

Chapter 1

Suzanne unloaded the groceries, checking each bag as she hung the plastic handles over her hand. She snagged the Mast General Store bag from the trunk of her Acura, and surveyed her uncle’s cabin.

Disgraceful.

A rampant wisteria vine, heavy with purple blooms, was trying to devour the porch, and giant rhododendrons loaded with fat pink buds threatened to take over the entire property. Though it was springtime, and everything was fresh and green, there was something creepy about the place. Anything or anyone could be concealed in all that mess. It really was a burglary waiting to happen. She listened but heard only soft forest sounds. She was being silly. It was just the constant fog that made the forest seem forbidding, that made the surrounding mountains seem to loom threateningly on all sides. Still, this place needed the civilizing influence of a chain saw and weed whacker.

Just another depressing day in paradise.

She stuck her nose in the Mast Store bag and inhaled the rich odor of new leather, then tramped up the steps to the porch. The beginning of success is having the proper equipment. Her new hiking boots were almost two hundred dollars, but cross trainers wouldn’t give her feet enough support for a five-day hike. Might as well be pampered, since she was following doctor’s orders. Mid-weight Italian boots with Perwanger leather upper.

Inside the front door, she hung a left to the kitchen and set the bags on her uncle’s kitchen table. Carefully selected groceries for the hike included freeze-dried entrees, trail mix, instant coffee Ugh pancake mix, instant oatmeal, granola, hot cocoa mix, whole wheat bread, peanut butter and zipper baggies. She glanced around the spacious kitchen with its pine cabinets. No need to put most of this stuff away, as it was going into her backpack.

Creak!

Suzanne froze. What was that noise? Had she left the radio on?

A chill traveled the length of her frame. A quick look around the kitchen revealed nothing unusual.

Waiting for another sound, she held her breath. The spring wind whistled through the trees. There were bound to be noises she wasn’t used to hearing in her apartment in Baltimore. Probably just all those bushes brushing against the house. After all, she hadn’t spent time alone in this house before, this way-back-in-the-woods place. Day two by herself and already she was jumpy. No doubt about it, she needed a vacation. Some independent woman you are.

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Haggis . . . and more, by Judy Alter

I travel on my stomach. The first thing I do in any new city is look for restaurants, preferably those that specialize in the local cuisine. Naturally, I was full of anticipation when I flew to Scotland recently. I looked forward to the salmon, venison, lamb, and beef. As it turned out, I ate salmon every which way—fresh, smoked, in salad. I also came to love mussels, which I’d always shied away from. Lamb and venison didn’t appear as frequently on menus, though beef and ale pie was a staple. I tasted my son’s one afternoon in a pub, and it was wonderful. But every time I got ready to order red meat, something else called to me.

One night in St. Michael’s Inn I meant to order the beef and ale pie but commented that I hadn’t seen as much sausage as I anticipated. My son pointed out that bangers ‘n mash was a menu item, and I switched to that. A generous serving of Cumberland sausage and mashed potatoes, served with a roast onion and whisky gravy. Delicious. We consistently found that the best food we had was at pubs in small country villages.

I also went to Scotland with a question in my mind about haggis. I’d eaten it once at a St. Andrew’s Day dinner and didn’t care for it. Friends assured me it was much better in Scotland, and I thought I should try it. On our third night I ordered a chicken breast stuffed with haggis and served with that roast onion and whiskey gravy. I loved it.

The next day, in a pub, I ordered haggis for lunch. This came in the traditional way, with neeps and tatties (mashed turnips and mashed potatoes). I was served three sculptured towers—one each of haggis, neeps, and tatties. And again, there was that gravy, which for me made the dish.

One other thing piqued my curiosity: black pudding. It was on the breakfast menu at our first B&B in Edinburgh. Our host described it as oatmeal mixed with dried pigs blood and laughed when I said I’d stick with bacon. But black pudding followed me all week—it was on menus for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, often combined with lamb or beef in dinner entrees. Finally the last morning, back at the same Edinburgh B&B, I asked for sausage and black pudding for breakfast. With visions of pudding in my mind, I said maybe just a teaspoonful. What I got was a round pattie that was truly black. It reminded me of a black version of the corned beef hash patties my mom used to slice out of a can. This tasted of oatmeal, maybe a bit sweeter or a bit saltier, but oatmeal. I asked our host the point of the pigs blood, and he said he assumed it began as a way to use every part of the animal.

The one thing I didn’t find was lamb kidneys. My mom used to serve lamb kidneys with bacon, and I loved them but can’t find them here. The Scottish cookbook I brought back has recipes for several versions of kidneys, but I didn’t see them on any menu. Kidneys or no, I really liked Scottish food.

Judy Alter’s forthcoming mystery, Skeleton in a Dead Space, is due from Turquoise Morning Press in September. Alter has written extensively, fiction and nonfiction, about women of the American West. She is also the author of two cookbooks, Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books (http://www.amazon.com/Cooking-through-Books-Stars-Texas/dp/1933337338/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1306524377&sr=1-1) and Great Texas Chefs (http://www.amazon.com/Great-Texas-Chefs-Small-Books/dp/0875653774/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1306524475&sr=1-1). Keep up with her doings at “Judy’s Stew,” (http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com) and follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

Il Bel Paese And Italian Dolce Vita Rituals by Barbara Conelli

Il Bel Paese – The Beautiful Country. Italians don’t doubt that their country is truly special, and just one short trip to Italy will convince you that you could spend the rest of your life in any of the villages or cities, enjoying your Dolce Vita, eating ice cream on the piazza, kissing in the streets and dancing through worries.

Although Italians are curious adventurers and travelers, I believe they could happily stay in their country without ever exploring any other place in the world. Italyhas the highest mountaintops of theAlps, over 5300 miles of Mediterranean coast, and hosts sixty percent of UNESCO world heritage. You won’t find a country with a better cuisine, stronger sense of community and more intense joy of life. You won’t find a country with a longer creative history, more handsome men and sexier love songs.

No matter where in Italy you happen to find yourself, you can be sure to find the same, very Italian rituals everywhere you go. After years spent in Italy with family and friends, and after very thorough lessons on the Art of Dolce Vita from my Milanese Grandma Lily, I take these little rituals with me everywhere I go, always trying to keep their spirit alive in my heart.

Italian mornings begin quietly. Lazy cafés are starting to open, old gentlemen accompanied by little dogs walk to the newsstand and back, housewives run to bakeries to get fresh bread and sweet treats for breakfast. The city is slowly waking up, and so is the noise. Cars, scooters and the usual morning rush soon fill the streets and the bustle is deafening. Bars and cafés are filled with people who hurry to drink their morning cup of coffee before heading for the office. However, the first hour of the morning with its peaceful rhythm and smell of strong espresso is priceless. Just hold the little warm cup in your hands, savor its smell and flavor, and watch the new day unfold in front of your eyes.

At about five, Italians start leaving offices and gathering for aperitivo – a pre-dinner drink that gives people the opportunity to relax and socialize. Italian aperitivo is more than a tradition, it’s a ritual and a habit that Italians couldn’t live without. It’s easy-going, full of chatter, laughter and gossip. Gather your friends, sit down at your favorite outdoor café, order a Campari cocktail and soak in the lively atmosphere.

Italian nights belong to the piazza – the main square. It’s a place to see and be seen, without the necessity of setting up dates with anyone. Everybody’s here, and you can be

sure that your friends will sooner or later show up. Men talk about politics and football, and admire the curves of female passers-by. Women flaunt their new shoes, dresses and haircuts. Teenagers joke around and don’t give a damn about anything. Lovers flirt, kiss and seduce. Kids and dogs run around freely until late hours of the night. Everybody drinks, eats and just lives.

The joys of the Italian Dolce Vita are simple, yet magically powerful. Although experiencing the Dolce Vita spirit is easier and more fun in Italy, who says you can’t have your own Dolce Vita back home? Invite friends, cook some pasta, open a bottle of Italian wine, and for a little while, just be.

Barbara Conelli is the author of Chique Books filled with Italian passion. Barbara’s new bestselling book “Chique Secrets of Dolce Vita,” subtitled “Put on your Borsalino and swing those hips, baby”, contains charming, poetic, delightful and humorous travel and life stories about extraordinary Milanese women, men who have succumbed to their temptation, and the art of living your own dolce vita no matter where in the world you are. For more information about the author and the book, please visit http://www.barbaraconelli.com

Marina Mustafa, children’s book author, interviewed by Maggie Bishop

1. Tell us about “Little Asha’s Adventure: A Girl’s Journal of Malaysia,” your latest book.

Firstly, as a first time writer, I am truly honored with this interview opportunity. I also never thought surrounding myself with such talented writers of the High Country Writers can be such a wonderful and educating experience.

This book is about little Asha and her parents during their trip to the beautiful tropical country of Malaysia to visit her grandma and grandpa. Through its colorful  illustrations and the stories behind it, this book will expose little readers, and their parents, to the kind of adventures and experiences they will have when visiting another country with different culture. The friendly people, the delicious food and mouthwatering fruits, the colorful clothing, the warm sunny beaches and the festivals are all worth exploring.

2.  Why did you write this book?

The idea came after coming home from a vacation to my homeland of Malaysia. I come from a country that has a strong multi-ethnic, muti-cultural and multi-lingual society. Raised in such environment, I grew up to be someone that respects, acknowledges and most important understands the different values, customs and beliefs practiced by many Malaysians. Because of this, I would like my daughter, Asha, as well as the children that she shall be associating with, to develop such sensitivities to everybody around them, especially everybody that are so different from them. Realizing that children learn about other cultures and people through books, the internet, media sources and even from the school, Little Asha’s Adventures was written to educate young readers, and their parents as well, about the people and the cultures of countries so different from America. If Euro-American children find only people like themselves represented in literature, they could easily get the impression that they are somehow better or more worthy as a group than others. They need to learn that they can always learn something new and different from other group of children.

I strongly believed that by exposing children to people of different cultures, they will be better prepared to function in this diverse global society that they live in. I am a product of such exposure.

3.  The illustrations are lovely.  How did they come about?

Some of the pictures illustrated were based on actually events that Asha witnessed and some were events that I experienced myself as a child. Interestingly, many of the things told in the book still remain the same until today. For example, the way the lion dance festival and the wedding celebrations were conducted remain unchanged until today.

4.  Where do you write?  

I started writing the book early last year, when I was going through my breast cancer surgeries and treatments. My parents were here assisting and helping me during that time (they were here for almost five months) and having them around, it helped me to reserve some time for myself to do my writings and drawings. But my favorite time to do my work was at night after 10p.m, when my daughter is asleep. For 4-5 months, I would stay up until 2.00-3.00p.m. in the morning sketching my drawings. My favorite place is sitting on the couch with my sketching book and my drawing materials watching Late Night Shows. It makes me think better! You just do not know how many sketches that were discard before finally deciding with the right illustrations.

5.  What was the biggest challenge in writing this book?

I think I underestimated the difficulty of writing a children’s book and I am sure many people out there feels the same. Firstly, using and choosing the correct and proper words fitted for a child ages between 6-12 years old can be very difficult. You must put yourself in the shoes of these children to understand their thinking and their minds. Then, there is the issue of selecting the right pictures and the choices of colors.

Normally, when finding a children’s book, what attracts readers at first glance are the illustrations. Other than parents, our most important target audience are the children. With striking illustrations , a children’s book would be even more interesting.

It is something like an adult telling us about his/her vacation to a particular destination. By showing us photos of the vacation, we can understand and grasp their explanations better.

6.  Why did you pick a journal format? 

A journal format reflects a self story of a person. It is like a diary that the child would like to share personally with other children. It eases a child’s understanding of the Little Asha’s experiences.

7.  What advice do you have for first time authors?

Do not be afraid to write something that is very close to your heart. As far as publishing and marketing your book, talk and get advice from as many established writers as you can. When going through my cancer diagnosis, I learnt that sharing information is of utmost important. Writing goes the same way too. You will always learn new and informative information from other writers, even writers that are writing genres different from you.

8.  What impresses you most about Malaysia, your home country? 

Often described as “Asia In Miniature”, Malaysia acknowledge and celebrates quite a number of religious holidays and festivities throughout the year. Located in Southeast Asia, Malaysia is located between Thailand and Singapore. On the map, you will find Australia and New Zealand located underneath Malaysia. Flying to Malaysia from America would take a total of between 20-28 hours, depending on the airlines you are taking and the route you are going through. There are three major languages spoken in Malaysia. The national language is called Malay, and then there are the Indian and the Chinese languages. The Chinese population in Malaysian mostly speaks Cantonese. Most Chinese in China however speaks Mandarin.

Last year, Martha Stewart visited Malaysian and I think her visit to Malaysia was even featured in her television show.

The most impressive thing about my country? That has to be the food! The nearest place for you to sample a true Malaysian delicacy is in Charlotte at a restaurant called Cuisine Malaya.

9.  What surprised you about your new home in the United States?

Well, I am actually not new to America. The first time I came to America was in 1992, when I was sent by my Government to pursue my degree in Economics at the University of Missouri in Kansas City. I was there for five years. In fact, I have travelled to more than 20 states in America during my student years. I even went back to Kansas City in 2007 and some things still remain the same there!

10.  How did you meet your husband? — we love a romance.

Have you ever seen the movie The Terminal, with Tom Hanks and Catherine Zeta Jones? Of course I do not look like the beautiful Zeta Jones but my husband was most certainly better looking than Tom Hanks! Well, I met Brad, my hubby, at the terminal at Newark Airport. I was waiting for my flight to go back home to Malaysia (I was on a business trip in the States and my flight was delayed) and Brad was waiting for his flight to Charlotte. I was bored but was in the mood for conversation. Then, I saw him, siting next to me. Well, I am very proud to say I started the conversation first and the rest was just history!

My favorite all time book has always been Jane Eyre. I thought I would find my Mr. Rochester somewhere in England. But I guess I found him in America!

11.  What’s your favorite Malaysian saying?

My most common used Malaysian phrase is “sayang”, which means honey/baby/sweetheart/darling. I used that to both my hubby and my daughter!

12.  Is there another book in the works?  Tell us about it.

The main reason I wrote a book about Asha’s experiences in Malaysia was because her mother is a Malaysian. For her to respect me as her mom, she must also understand and respect my ethnic background and my heritage.

Brad’s family was originally from Dundee in Scotland. I too, would like Asha to meet and understand the Scottish culture. We are planning a trip soon to Scotland and that would be my second book, Asah”s Adventure: A Girl’s Journal of Scotland. In Dec  this year, we are planning to go back to Malaysia again for vacation and since Bali island is just an hour by flight from Malaysia, I would like to take Brad and Asha to Bali as well. Hopefully, that would be my third book, about Asha’s trip to Bali.

To understand the culture and lifestyles of other group of people, a child must first learn that at home.

The best place to purchase the book is at www.authorhouse.com because they have the latest edition of my book.

You can also visit my website at www.ashaadventures.com

If you are interested to know more about Malaysia, please visit my blog at www.visitmalaysia.blogspot.com

Thank you Maggie for this opportunity!

Slowly But Surely, Heading South by LISSA BROWN

My home state of New Jersey is fertile ground for a mystery writer. Look what years in the state capital,Trenton, did for Janet Evanovich. After living in Jersey for nearly 40 years, I decided to try out the rest of the world. All of my writing to that point had been for business, labor, and political honchos, and some of it was so boring that I could easily have become addicted to No Doze.  Since I’ve always appreciated people who have a good sense of humor, I figured it was a good idea to head south.

My first stop after Jersey was the Washington, DC area. I lived inside the beltway, as locals describe it, in an interesting town that was a throwback to the sixties. The place was filled with aging hippies and others who found it difficult to play by generally accepted rules. Takoma Park was lovingly referred to by its antagonists as The People’s Republic of Takoma Park for its left-of-center politics. It lived up to that name in a variety of ways. I recall the time when the council passed an ordinance prohibiting doing business with firms that had links to anything nuclear. That worked until they needed new police cars and discovered that only Volvo met the test.  Scratch that policy.

Animal rights activists had an inordinately large impact on city policies. When several residents objected to the influx of rats from neighboring DC, the town debated for months about a humane solution to the problem.  Someone on the council must have been reading The Pied Piper of Hamelin during the meetings.  They came up with a plan to capture all the long-tailed creatures and gently invite them into a large van.  Mercifully, I was not witness to the process.  Once the van was full, they drove it west to the area around Frederick, Maryland and dumped the rats.  They got caught, and I’m sure they’re still apologizing to Frederick officials for their poor judgment.

Amusing as life could be at times inTakoma Park, the crime rate increased, and my aging legs couldn’t outrun muggers at night. Traffic was so horrendous that rush hour began at 6 a.m. and didn’t end until after 8 p.m., prompting a bevy of creative solutions to get anywhere.  So, I picked up stakes and continued my southward trek, landing in the Blue Ridge Mountains of western North Carolina.

People say New Jerseyans talk funny, if they’re being polite.  When they’re not watching their manners, you might hear terms like ‘dead-end kids’ or Mafia slip out.  But at least if you’ve watched James Cagney movies, most people can understand us.

I spent the better part of my first two years in NC trying to understand people.  Not only did I have to contend with southernisms like ‘fixin’to’; there was the extra layer of mountainese with phrases like ‘you’uns,’ on top of that.

As a writer, I’ve grown to love the colorful descriptions inherent in southern speech.  As a humorist, I find it’s a treasure trove.  Where else can you hear things like, “He couldn’t win a piss-off in a brewery,” or “Scratch where it itches?” I have nearly mastered such convenient phrases as ‘all y’all’ instead of the cumbersome ‘each and every one of you.’

During the six years I’ve lived here I’ve learned that speaking southern involves much more than words and accent. One is actually expected to speak to strangers.  Imagine that.  And southerners have been doing that since way before blogging or Facebook. I do not go into any store, including department stores, without a list of appropriate topics for idle chit chat with clerks. Weather’s still the best one. A good second is the prowess of local sports teams, and a current one is whether the rumors about Home Depot moving into the former high school property might be true. If I’m experiencing a creativity block, almost anything will do as long as it’s followed by ‘Bless your heart.’  I’ve come to appreciate the sentiment on local bumper stickers, “We don’t care HOW you do it inFlorida,” and have decided that this is as far south as I’m going.  Y’all come visit, y’hear?

Thanks for reading.  http://lissajbrown.tripod.com

Interstate 5, here I come. Again. Carola Dunn

Carola Dunn is the author of the Daisy Dalrymple series, set in England in the 1920s, with 19 titles published; two Cornish Mysteries; and 32 Regencies.

For the past month, I seem to have spent a good deal of my life on I-5, with and without dog. For those of you who are not familiar with the West Coast, it’s the highway that runs all the way from Canada to Mexico, crossing mountains and valleys, rivers, forests, and near-deserts. I live just a few miles from it, and so do my son and my agent, at the southern and northern ends respectively. Several mystery bookstores are also scattered along its length if you zig and zag here and there.

Trillian and I drove south on April Fool’s Day. No joke. Usually by April one can count on 5 being clear of snow over the Siskiyou and Black Butte passes, but the forecast was dismal. Snow level down to 3500 feet, and the Siskiyou Summit is 4300. This is what crossed my mind: 

OK, it did rather more than cross my mind. Here in Eugene, we rarely get more than a couple of inches of snow. I’m not used to driving in the stuff. At least, I thought, I’d have Trillian to keep me warm if we got stuck in a drift.

However, the road was clear, though there was snow piled along the side at Black Butte. The drive through the mountains is beautiful if you don’t have to worry about the weather.

[photo credit: Trip Advisor]

All was sunny and bright. Of course, that brings up a problem related to travelling with a dog: What do you do if there’s no shade to park in at a rest area? (After many years of buzzing up and down I-5, I know the best rest stops, but sometimes other people selfishly take all the shady spots.) The only answer is, leash her to the head-rest, open the windows wide, and hurry. Then try to persuade her that the stinky water you’re offering, that’s been sitting in a plastic bottle in the hot trunk, isn’t pure poison.

When we stopped at a friend’s house in Redding, prior to a signing at Barnes and Noble, the bowl of water she was given was straight from the faucet. She didn’t believe it. The water in the garden pond—fortunately devoid of fish and lilies—looked far more appetizing, so she jumped in to get a drink. 

Next day, off 5 at last, to San Mateo and M is for Mystery. Drove round and round the parking garage, only just avoiding going down the up ramp, and found a free inside space. After the signing, back to I-5, via the windmills of the Altamont Pass, a surreal sight. California had a wet winter, so the rolling hills were green for once instead of the usual golden-yellow.

Another new day, and still on I-5. Two signings in the Los Angeles area—Book ‘Em Mysteries and Mystery Ink—both welcomed Trillian. At the latter, in the middle of my talk, she suddenly developed a sore ear and started shaking her head, with accompanying jingle of tags. Luckily I had an audience of dog-lovers, all very concerned. The owner, Debbie, sat on the floor with Trill, trying to soothe her.

All the same, I was glad to get back on the road, and soon I-5 delivered us safely to my son’s house. Paradise for a dog after days on the road. Just look at the inviting jungle beyond the trampoline:  

And the “garden art” waiting to be studied:

My deceased mama-in-law’s deceased Chevrolet. Don’t ask me why it’s sitting in my son’s yard, but as you can see, the jungle is taking over and I should think it’s probably inextricable by now.

Trillian was less certain that she enjoyed the company. She had never been around kids much, just occasional encounters in the street and watching kids on the school field playing soccer. I wasn’t at all sure how she’d react to my grandkids, aged 6 and 8. But in no time she was on her back waiting for a tummy-rub.

She loved my daughter-in-law, too, but my son was a different matter. For a start, he was large and male. (She’s a rescued dog from the county shelter, and I’m pretty sure at some point in her earlier life she must have been mistreated by a man.) Also, he kept messing about with power tools. She didn’t approve of the noise. She never did take to him.

Another question was  how she would behave with their three cats. Again all was well. In fact, one of them gave her such fierce glares that she’d make a big circle around him if she wanted to get past.

A few days later, we were back on I-5 and heading for Mysterious Galaxy. This time my daughter-in-law drove, and my granddaughter came too, the third time she’s come to one of my signings there. It was Trillian’s third signing, as well.

After a wary while, she actually let Patrick, the store manager, rub her tum– Books are so much quieter than power tools!

Time to hit the 5 again… 600 miles the first day and 350 the second. Home at last! For 24 hours or so. But the next I-5 journey was a short one, just 19 miles to Creswell library. Without dog. Trillian didn’t come two days later, either, when I set out once again south on 5, to Ashland, Oregon, and its famous Shakespeare Festival. Thanks to Ashland Mystery, I had a night at the theatre, not to mention talks at three libraries, and a local public-access TV recording.

Portland was next, 110 miles north—on 5, of course—to sign at Murder by the Book. I managed to combine it with afternoon tea with my cousins.

As I write this, I’m preparing for the next trip, 300 miles north, with Trillian again. We’re going to Seattle Mystery. Surprise, surprise, it’s just off I-5…

Support independent bookstores!

You may possibly be wondering by now what all this dashing about was in aid of. The answer is, my 19th Daisy Dalrymple mystery, ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH. Yellow US edition cover reflects Kirkus‘ review: ”amusing and sprightly.” 

UK’s cover is more appropriate for Mysterious Women‘s

Publishers Weekly: “The aristocratic but very modern Daisy makes a formidable amateur sleuth…”

Booklist: “Dunn’s striking portrait of Daisy continues to remind readers that there were strong women with careers in England during the 1920s—and women who successfully balanced work and parenthood. As always, Dunn combines an entertaining story with fascinating historical material.”