Tag Archives: Mystery

“Holly’s Corner,” part seven

[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 6.]

by David E. Booker

“Possibly not,” I said, then took a bite of my sandwich. I didn’t have much money left and if this case didn’t pan out, I was going to have to look for 9 – 5 work, which was something I loathed. But a recipe? Had I stooped so low as I need to chase down some family heirloom the world had not heard of nor was likely ever to?

She pushed up from stall seat, turned, and stomped out the door.

My charming personality was working wonders again.

It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly's Corner.

It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly’s Corner.

I pulled out my cell phone and was checking to see if I had any messages, any other potential clients. None. No text messages either. I was about to say something I probably shouldn’t in public when I felt somebody staring at me. I looked up. Standing near my table, casting a shadow like a greasy plate of cold fries stood Marc. Spelled with a “c” and not a “k.”

I looked up.

“Got my tip?”

“Tip means To Insure Prompt Service. Should be an E, but probably nobody would say Tep. Your service was neither prompt nor ensured. Go tell your rock climbing boss he’ll get paid when I get paid, assuming my client feels like paying.”

“That’s not the deal.”

“The original deal didn’t call for you to put my client on life support, either.”

“Not my fault.”

“Those hot chocolate burns didn’t happen by themselves.”

The tables nearest us were empty and not being refilled. Since Holly’s was a seat yourself place, I could only take that to mean Marc and I were being avoided and bad for business. I liked the place and wanted to be able to come back, but before I could think of some way to end this, Marc stepped forward, picked up the half of sandwich I hadn’t gotten to yet and brought it up to his mouth. He took a big bite.

I glanced over at the nearly empty hot sauce bottle. When Tricia left, I decided I’d have the other half the way I usually do. I looked up at Marc. His broad, dark face had an eerie placidness about it as beads of sweat popped out of his forehead and scurried down his face only to be followed by another one or two or a dozen.

I hadn’t refilled my drink and there wasn’t anything on a nearby table, so Marc dropped the rest of the Ricky Ricardo on the floor, turned and raced out of the restaurant.

Everybody’s a food critic.

#

(To be continued.)

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Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Story by author

“Holly’s Corner,” part 6

[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 5.]

by David E. Booker

Tricia slumped back in her booth seat. There was a slight frown on her face, which only served to make her look even more attractive. She was almost too pretty: blond hair, thin, big teeth, large blue eyes. The wrinkles made her look more human, more accessible, at least to a shlub like me.

“You’re right,” she said. She reached forward and fiddled with her paper napkin.

“Tell you what. I’ll eat the other half as is. As it was made by the chef.”

It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly's Corner.

It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly’s Corner.

She smiled, but there was no radiance in it. Something told me when she really smiled, lights dimmed in comparison. “Now you’re patronizing me.”

“I’m offering a compromise, which is what happens most often in life. Maybe not in politics.”

Her face wrinkled again. “You don’t know my family. They don’t compromise.”

“And you?”

She sighed and then shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Some things transcend genetics and even behavioral environment. They exist somewhere in between. Some habits fall from the family zeitgeist. Nature versus nurture was an old but simplistic dynamic.

“So, what do you want me for?” I asked.

“I want you to find a recipe.”

I stopped chewing on my sandwich. “The Colonel’s secret sauce?”

“That’s eleven herbs and spices. You’re mocking me.”

I guess I was. I had had a woman shake her rolling pin at me, driving me into the mud, and now I found out the woman was drunk and it was all over a recipe.

“You don’t understand….”

I hate that phrase, but let it go. Obviously, I was missing something. Or she was. I decided to spice up the second half of my sandwich. She saw what I was doing and stopped talking.

“You are obviously not the person for this case.”

“Possibly not,” I said, then took a bite of my sandwich. I didn’t have much money left and if this case didn’t pan out, I was going to have to look for 9 – 5 work, which was something I loathed. But a recipe? Had I stopped so low as I need to chase down some family heirloom the world had not heard of nor was likely even to?

She pushed up from stall seat, turned, and stomped out the door.

(To be continued.)

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“Holly’s Corner,” part 5

[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 4.]

by David E. Booker

I felt a little heat come into my ears.

“How cute,” Tricia said, her eyesight back to normal.

“Glad I could entertain.”

I turned and walked up to bar to order a sandwich. Diving into the mud and straddling a 2×6 had left me wet and hungry. The wet part would have to resolve itself with time. The hunger part I could do something about.

“I’ll have a Ricky Ricardo,” I said. “Don’t tell Lucy.”

The young woman behind the counter had a rainbow of colors in her hair, and if perplexed could be a color, she had that one on her face.

I made my glass of tea and found where Tricia was sitting. It was in a booth that looked out one of the front windows. On the window was painted a pig carrying a rolling pin and words underneath about bacon being a salvation. Beyond the pig was the outside world, the sidewalk where I had taken my dive, and the rain that continued its drumming on the world. My client had had a front row seat to my brush with a rolling pin.

It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly's Corner.

It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly’s Corner.

Tricia already had a sandwich, something vegetarian and most of it eaten or at least nibbled into.

“That was my sister that threatened you.”

I didn’t bother correcting the second that. “She doesn’t look anything like you.”

“Well … technically she’s my step-sister. My dad remarried after my mom died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tricia shrugged. I was two when mom died. Don’t remember much about her. My step-mom was the only mom I really knew, and she was okay … when she wasn’t drinking. And I’m afraid my sister has inherited her predilection.”

I raised an eyebrow slightly. I was impressed that Tricia knew what predilection meant and wasn’t afraid to use it.

My sandwich arrived. I had snagged a bottle of hot sauce from the small round table nearby. The sandwich was cut into two pieces. I lifted the top off one half and added some of the sauce. Tricia winced.

“Don’t like hot sauce?”

“You’re ruining the chef’s work.”

“The chef doesn’t put enough heat on my Ricky.”

Tricia slumped back in her booth seat. There was a slight frown on her face, which only served to make her look even more attractive. She was almost too pretty: blond hair, thin, big teeth, large blue eyes. The wrinkles made her look more human, more accessible, at least to a shlub like me.

“You’re right,” she said. She reached forward and fiddled with her paper napkin.

“Tell you what. I’ll eat the other half as is. As it was made by the chef.”

(To be continued.)

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Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Story by author

“Holly’s Corner,” part 4

[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 3.]

by David E. Booker

Rainy day down on the corner.

Rainy day down on the corner.

I brushed my hands together and only managed to smear the mud in one palm on the other. My pants were wet. So was my rain jacket and baseball cap. I brushed my hands down the sides of my jacket and then stepped inside Holly’s.

Plans were for me to meet my new client here. We had only talked on the phone. I had no idea what she looked like. I stood inside the doorway, dripping on the concrete floor. Holly’s had once been a bar called The Corner Lounge, then a used bookstore with a poster of Cormac McCarthy and the words “McCarthy for President” underneath it. Rumor had it that McCarthy used to visit The Corner Lounge when he lived in Knoxville. Now all that remained of the Lounge was a dark, curved wooden bar where you placed your food orders. McCarthy probably didn’t hang out here on the infrequent occasions he came back to town.

“Hey, are you looking for me?”

I pivoted. Water flew off the bill of my ball cap and hit a woman squarely in the eye. She flinched.

“Are you—?”

“Tricia,” she said as she rubbed her eye. “It’s usually the second date before I let the guy poke me in the eye.”

“Technically, it wasn’t a poke.” Another rivulet of rainwater ran off the bill of the cap. This one fell harmlessly to the floor.

“You going to argue with a client?”

“I haven’t introduced myself.”

“I saw the rolling pin woman through the window. I couldn’t help but laugh when you dived into the mud.”

I felt a little heat come into my ears.

“How cute,” Tricia said, her eyesight back to normal.

“Glad I could entertain.”

(To be continued.)

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Crime fiction vs. thriller: left wing vs. right wing?

Why crime fiction is leftwing and thrillers are rightwing

Today’s crime novels are overtly critical of the status quo, while the thriller explores the danger of the world turned upside down. And with trust in politicians nonexistent, writers are being listened to as rarely before

Source: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/apr/01/why-crime-fiction-is-leftwing-and-thrillers-are-rightwing?CMP=share_btn_fb

by Val McDermid

I spent the weekend in Lyon, at a crime writing festival that feted writers from all over the world in exchange for us engaging in panel discussions about thought-provoking and wide-ranging topics. They take crime fiction seriously in France – I was asked questions about geopolitics, and the function of fear. I found myself saying things like “escaping the hegemony of the metropolis” in relation to British crime writing in the 1980s.

What they are also deeply interested in is the place of politics in literature. Over the weekend, there were local elections in France, and a thin murmur of unease ran through many of the off-stage conversations with my French friends and colleagues. They were anxious about the renaissance of the right, of the return of Nicolas Sarkozy, the failure of the left and the creeping rise of the Front National.

As my compatriot Ian Rankin pointed out, the current preoccupations of the crime novel, the roman noir, the krimi lean to the left. It’s critical of the status quo, sometimes overtly, sometimes more subtly. It often gives a voice to characters who are not comfortably established in the world – immigrants, sex workers, the poor, the old. The dispossessed and the people who don’t vote.

The thriller, on the other hand, tends towards the conservative, probably because the threat implicit in the thriller is the world turned upside down, the idea of being stripped of what matters to you. And as Bob Dylan reminds us, “When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose.”

Of course, these positions don’t usually hit the reader over the head like a party political broadcast. If it is not subtle, all you succeed in doing is turning off readers in their droves. Our views generally slip into our work precisely because they are our views, because they inform our perspective and because they’re how we interpret the world, not because we have any desire to convert our readership to our perspective.

Except, of course, that sometimes we do.

Rest of the article: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/apr/01/why-crime-fiction-is-leftwing-and-thrillers-are-rightwing?CMP=share_btn_fb

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A counterpoint:

Thrillers are politically conservative? That’s not right

Val McDermid says that while crime fiction is naturally of the left, thrillers are on the side of the status quo. Jonathan Freedland votes against this reading

Source: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/apr/03/thrillers-politically-conservative-val-mcdermid-crime-fiction-jonathan-freedland

by Jonathan Freedland

Quickfire quiz. Identify the following as left or right. Big business? On the right, obviously. Trade unions? Left, of course. The one per cent? That’d be the right. Nicola Sturgeon? Clearly, on the left. If those are too easy, try this literary variant. Crime novels: right or left? And what about thrillers: where on the political spectrum do those belong?

Val McDermid, undisputed maestro of crime, reckons she knows the answer. Writing earlier this week, she argued that her own genre was rooted firmly on the left: “It’s critical of the status quo, sometimes overtly, sometimes more subtly. It often gives a voice to characters who are not comfortably established in the world – immigrants, sex workers, the poor, the old. The dispossessed and the people who don’t vote.”. Thrillers, by contrast, are inherently conservative, “probably because the threat implicit in the thriller is the world turned upside down, the idea of being stripped of what matters to you.”

I understand the logic. You can see how McDermid’s own novels, like those of, say, Ian Rankin – another giant in the field, whom she cited as an ally in this new left/right branding exercise – do indeed offer a glimpse into the lives of those too often consigned to the margins, those power would prefer to ignore. But does that really go for all crime writing, always? If it does, someone forgot to tell Miss Marple.

Still, my quibble is not really with McDermid’s claim that the crime novel leans leftward. I want to object to the other half of her case: that the thriller tilts inevitably towards the right. As someone who is both a card-carrying Guardian columnist and a writer of political thrillers, I feel compelled to denounce the very idea.

Sure, there are individual stars of the genre who sit on the right. Tom Clancy was an outspoken Republican (though even his most famous creation, Jack Ryan, was ready to rebel against a bellicose US president for meddling in Latin America). But Clancy’s conservatism is more the exception than the rule.

Consider the supreme master of the spy thriller, John le Carré. His cold war novels stood against the mindless jingoism of the period, resisting the Manichean equation of east-west with evil-good. In the last decade, Le Carré has mercilessly exposed the follies of the war on terror, probing deep into the web of connections that ties together finance, politics and the deep state. The older he gets, the more Le Carré seems to be tearing away at the establishment and its secret, complacently amoral ways.

Rest of the article: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/apr/03/thrillers-politically-conservative-val-mcdermid-crime-fiction-jonathan-freedland

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The (Still) Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe -- self-portrait

Edgar Allan Poe — self-portrait

Was the famous author killed from a beating? From carbon monoxide poisoning? From alcohol withdrawal? Here are the top nine theories

By Natasha Geiling

Source: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/still-mysterious-death-edgar-allan-poe-180952936/#vV6aWAfTgq8vGGWu.99
Give the gift of Smithsonian magazine for only $12! http://bit.ly/1cGUiGv
Follow us: @SmithsonianMag on Twitter

t was raining in Baltimore on October 3, 1849, but that didn’t stop Joseph W. Walker, a compositor for the Baltimore Sun, from heading out to Gunner’s Hall, a public house bustling with activity. It was Election Day, and Gunner’s Hall served as a pop-up polling location for the 4th Ward polls. When Walker arrived at Gunner’s Hall, he found a man, delirious and dressed in shabby second-hand clothes, lying in the gutter. The man was semi-conscious, and unable to move, but as Walker approached the him, he discovered something unexpected: the man was Edgar Allan Poe. Worried about the health of the addled poet, Walker stopped and asked Poe if he had any acquaintances in Baltimore that might be able to help him. Poe gave Walker the name of Joseph E. Snodgrass, a magazine editor with some medical training. Immediately, Walker penned Snodgrass a letter asking for help.

Baltimore City, Oct. 3, 1849
Dear Sir,

There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, & he says he is acquainted with you, he is in need of immediate assistance.

Yours, in haste,
JOS. W. WALKER
To Dr. J.E. Snodgrass.

On September 27—almost a week earlier—Poe had left Richmond, Virginia bound for Philadelphia to edit a collection of poems for Mrs. St. Leon Loud, a minor figure in American poetry at the time. When Walker found Poe in delirious disarray outside of the polling place, it was the first anyone had heard or seen of the poet since his departure from Richmond. Poe never made it to Philadelphia to attend to his editing business. Nor did he ever make it back to New York, where he had been living, to escort his aunt back to Richmond for his impending wedding. Poe was never to leave Baltimore, where he launched his career in the early 19th- century, again—and in the four days between Walker finding Poe outside the public house and Poe’s death on October 7, he never regained enough consciousness to explain how he had come to be found, in soiled clothes not his own, incoherent on the streets. Instead, Poe spent his final days wavering between fits of delirium, gripped by visual hallucinations. The night before his death, according to his attending physician Dr. John J. Moran, Poe repeatedly called out for “Reynolds”—a figure who, to this day, remains a mystery.

Poe’s death—shrouded in mystery—seems ripped directly from the pages of one of his own works. He had spent years crafting a careful image of a man inspired by adventure and fascinated with enigmas—a poet, a detective, an author, a world traveler who fought in the Greek War of Independence and was held prisoner in Russia. But though his death certificate listed the cause of death as phrenitis, or swelling of the brain, the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death have led many to speculate about the true cause of Poe’s demise. “Maybe it’s fitting that since he invented the detective story,” says Chris Semtner, curator of the Poe Museum in Richmond, Virginia, “he left us with a real-life mystery.”

Read more: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/still-mysterious-death-edgar-allan-poe-180952936/#vV6aWAfTgq8vGGWu.99

The nine theories include: beating, cooping (voter fraud), alcohol (related to cooping), poisoning (carbon monoxide or heavy metal), murder, and flu.

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Monday (morning) writing joke: “Laying it on”

A chicken and a detective-fiction writer waited in line to see Santa Claus.

When the chicken got up on Santa’s lap, it immediately laid an egg, which it gave to Santa.

When the writer sat on Santa’s lap, he also laid an egg.

“That’s amazing!” Santa said.

“Nah,” said the writer. “That’s just a copy of my latest work, a hard-boiled mystery. It’s pretty good, but it does tend to crack toward the end.”

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Tampa crime author sings praises of jazz great | TBO.com, The Tampa Tribune and The Tampa Times

Tampa crime author sings praises of jazz great | TBO.com, The Tampa Tribune and The Tampa Times.

TAMPA — Michael Connelly is no stranger to crime.

After all, he is the bestselling author of 27 crime fiction books that have sold 58 million copies worldwide, most featuring detective Harry Bosch or defense attorney Mickey Haller.

A television series “Bosch” is under production by Amazon Studios, and Matthew McConaughey played Haller in the 2011 film “The Lincoln Lawyer.”

Once upon a time, Connelly also covered the crime beat for the Los Angeles Times.

Yet even Connelly admits he was uncomfortable attending a jazz concert in California’s San Quentin prison in 2012.

“Everyone in that audience was pretty much a murderer,” said Connelly, who has lived in Tampa since 2001. “The night before the concert a sergeant from the prison spoke to us about precautions and how there is a no-hostage policy.”

But once the music started, Connelly noticed a change in the room full of hardened criminals.

“You saw it in their faces — how the music affected them,” he said. “It showed that there was still humanity in them, and where there is humanity there is a possibility for redemption.”

The concert, in fact, was filmed and now is featured in the documentary “Sound of Redemption: The Frank Morgan Story.”

Connelly is executive producer.

The name Frank Morgan may ring a bell to fans of the Bosch series. His real music emerges as a character in the books, bringing solace to the troubled fictional detective.

The film tells the story of the man behind that music.

To read the rest of the article: http://tbo.com/arts_music/tampa-author-sings-praises-of-jazz-great-20140726/

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Crime and Science Radio: The Art and Science of Law Enforcement: An Interview with Robin Burcell

Still a chance to listen, and links to additional information.

D.P. Lyle, MD's avatarThe Crime Fiction Writer's Blog

robinside

Saturday 6-14-14 at 10 a.m. PDT, join DP Lyle and Jan Burke in conversation with Robin Burcell, who is the author of award-winning crime fiction — including this year’s The Kill Order, featuring FBI Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick.  Robin also spent nearly three decades working in law enforcement: she has worked as a police officer, a forensic artist, a hostage negotiator, and a detective.

killorder

LISTEN: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/suspensemagazine/2014/05/09/crime-and-science-radio-with-robin-burcell

LINKS:

Robin Burcell’s Website: http://www.robinburcell.com

HOSTAGE NEGOTIATION:

How Stuff Works: Hostage Negotiation: http://people.howstuffworks.com/hostage-negotiation.htm

PoliceOne.com: Hostage negotiations: Psychological Strategies For Resolving Crises: http://www.policeone.com/standoff/articles/1247470-Hostage-negotiations-Psychological-strategies-for-resolving-crises/

International Association of Hostage Negotiators: http://www.hostagenegotiation.com

Time: 6 Hostage Negotiation Techniques That Will Get You What You Want: http://time.com/38796/6-hostage-negotiation-techniques-that-will-get-you-what-you-want/

Hostage Negotiation: Psychological Principles and Practices: https://www.psychceu.com/miller/Miller_Hostage_Neg.pdf

Psychology Today: Active Listening Techniques of Hostage & Crisis Negotiators: http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/beyond-words/201311/active-listening-techniques-hostage-crisis-negotiators

FORENSIC ART:

International Association for Identification: https://theiai.org

ForensicArtist.com: http://www.forensicartist.com

Crime Library: Forensic Art: http://www.crimelibrary.com/criminal_mind/forensics/art/1.html

History of Forensic Art: http://www.forensicartist.com/history/

You Tube: Forensic Art: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4T_2YCpZMyA

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Eleanor and Rose, and “The Case of the Fleaing Colors,” Credits

Cartoonist: Lauren Booker

Cartoonist: Lauren Booker

This has been a Talltalestogo presentation of The Case of the Fleaing Colors.

Starring: Eleanor and Rose
Special appearance: Kali

Drawings by Lauren Booker

Coloring by Lauren Booker

Non-coloring by Lauren Booker

Story adapted for the blog screen by David E. Booker from a story told to him by Lauren Booker.

Editing by David E. Booker

Layout by David E. Booker

Concept by Lauren Booker

Any resemblance to dogs or monkeys real or imagined may not be completely coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by Lauren Booker and David E. Booker

Thank you for reading The Case of the Fleaing Colors

A Talltalestogo presentation.

To re-view any or all of the mystery strong>The Case of the Fleaing Colors, click on the links below, especially the one that reads: “The case of the fleaing colors”.

Story by: Lauren Booker and David E. Booker

Story by: Lauren Booker and David E. Booker

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