Have you ever known a murderer?

I met Jaki Girdner in the writer's critique group where she made the following confession:

I mentioned that I’d known two murderers during a mystery writers’ critique group meeting some years ago. There was a shocked silence among the other aspiring writers. None of them had known a murderer! I was as shocked as they were. I thought everyone had.

Was my predilection for knowing murderers just because I was a good listener and people told me their sins? Or was it because I’d worked in a mental hospital? She goes into riveting detail in her Lineup article

I joined the group a little later, but I probably would have made Jaki feel less alone if I'd been in it when the question was asked because I've known a few murderers as well. On the other hand, Jaki really IS the sort of person strangers share their secrets with.

When my late husband Charlie, worked in the law library while going to night law school, he amused himself by reading criminal case law. He was shocked to see the name of a mutual friend who was involved with and helped the police catch a murderer. Charlie mentioned it to me and I had to say, "Oh, yeah that guy, he used to hang around with [mutual friend's name omitted]."

Charlie adjusted quickly--after all, there had even been a murder in the apartment above us, though we moved in after most of the parties involved had moved on. Charlie soon learned to tease visitors by mentioning the crime when the weather got hot enough that flies circled around the apartment. No connection with the murder upstairs. We just didn't have window screens back then and the flies did that in all the apartments when it got too hot. But the homicide was real.

Celebrate Independence Day with Free Trouble...hmm, that sounds wrong...

From July 4th for a week, Pearlsong Press is offering free Kindle editions of Josephine Fuller's 4th Adventure, A Ton of Trouble, and Lonie McMichael's excellent examination of Acceptable Prejudice.

Here's what Pearlsong Press founder, Peggy Elam says:

FYI, in response to the American Medical Association's recent decision to declare "obesity" a disease -- against the recommendations of its scientific advisory committee -- we have decided to release the Kindle ebook of Acceptable Prejudice? Fat, Rhetoric & Social Justice by Lonie McMichael, Ph.D. a month early -- and give it away for free for five days starting July 4.

We had already scheduled a free giveaway during that period for A Ton of Trouble, Book 4 in Lynne Murray's Josephine Fuller mystery series, so we're combining the promotions. I've scheduled a blog post for tomorrow/Sunday morning announcing them, and just sent out a press release to the ASDAH, Show Me the Data and Fat Studies egroups, asking that word be spread. (A separate blog post just announcing the ATOT giveaway will be published Wednesday morning.)

Links to the blog post(s) will go out over Facebook & Twitter, so please like/share/retweet as you can. And spread the word whatever other ways you think of. The Acceptable Prejudice? ebook has been called "Fat Acceptance 101" and could be a great opportunity for someone unfamiliar with the issues to learn about them for free.

Read more about Acceptable Prejudice? at http://www.pearlsong.com/acceptableprejudice.htm . More about A Ton of Trouble at http://www.pearlsong.com/atonoftrouble.htm .

Book Tasting Menu - Josephine Fuller in A Ton of Trouble in the California wine country

Click on the link to try a little taste of murder in A Ton of Trouble featuring sleuth of size, Josephine Fuller.

Murder in the California Wine Country -- A Ton of Trouble, now it's an ebook!

Sleuth of size, Josephine Fuller's fourth adventure A Ton of Trouble has just been released in paperback and ebook form for the first time by Pearlsong Press. The earlier edition only came out in hardcover.

We decided to take the Amazon Select option, so the ebook version will be exclusive to Amazon for 90 days, but the trade paperback is available from many Pearlsong, Barnes & Noble, Powells and the Book Depository.

The book was partly inspired by what was probably the most fun job I ever had.

For several years I worked in the word processing department of a law firm whose founding partner owned a winery in Sonoma County. Each 4th of July, he invited the staff to a picnic where we could spend a day rambling through the vineyards and admiring his winery, stables, small lake, politically important guests, etc. in between competitive, picnic-style events. Alas, the job and the picnics ended with major staff cuts.

Knowing that I was writing mysteries, some of my fellow laid-off co-workers asked me to murder a particular manager who enjoyed getting rid of workers. He wasn't shy about what pleasure he took in replacing even the most loyal long-term employees. He did it with some glee.

Oddly, A Ton of Trouble is not the book wherein a character similar to the manager met his fate. But my former co-worker enjoyed that book so much she asked me to kill him again. This I could not do, one murder request per customer. She did suggest an interesting place to conceal the body though, and a wonderful line to accompany the discovery. These are in A Ton of Trouble. ,p. The winery in the book may be similar but its owner could not be more different from the lawyer who hosted us so long ago. No actual humans are ever harmed or even accurately portrayed in any of my books. I enjoy my fictional characters much more. In A Ton of Trouble, Wolf Lambert is a legendary horror movie director who has retired to indulge in his hobby--making porn films with plus-sized leading ladies. The research for that aspect of the book was interest too--but I'll talk about it another time!

As time, and ex-husbands go by....

Josephine Fuller's third adventure, At Large, has just been reissued as an ebook and in trade paperback. The first line is a nod to Casablanca: Of all the women's job skill centers in all the towns in all the Pacific Northwest, he walks into mine. To read the first two chapters click At Large sample

From At Large--Bad News on the Home Front

From At Large, Josephine goes home after a rough day at the Women's Job Skills Center. Looking for her straying cat, she knocks on the building manager’s door.

Maxine answered the door. She was a short, full-breasted woman in her sixties with wildly cut gray hair. Today she wore a mauve sweat suit and hoop earrings.

"Hi, Jo. You're back early."

"I finished up. Thought I'd come home. Where's the bird? He's awfully quiet. Is he okay?" Groucho, her green Military Macaw had a shriek that could be heard blocks away and he usually made some sort of preparatory shrieks when he saw that Maxine's attention was focused into the hallway, rather than on him where it properly belonged.

I blinked in surprise when a face popped up behind her shoulder. A man squeezed up behind Maxine and wrapped his arm around her substantial middle so that her breasts flowed over his forearm, nearly but not quite covering the crude tattoo that snaked up from his wrist to curl around his elbow. Without meaning to, I took a step backward into the hall.

"I've been threatening to put him on a spit for dinner, but Maxine won't let me. Her daughter took him down to her place, the noise was driving me apeshit," the man said with a gravelly voice. "Don't worry—Bird lives!

"Can you believe I've hooked up with a literate jazz buff?" Maxine said in tones more appropriate for baby talk.

"Hope took in Groucho?" I said in disbelief.

"Oh, she was glad to take him." Maxine's new friend grinned broadly. "She hustled that cage outta here in ten minutes flat, once I told her I liked him a lot and I'd like him even better fried with biscuits and gravy."

Meeting the "Other Woman" in the Worst Possible Way

From At Large, Josephine goes to the apartment her ex-husband is sharing with the woman whom he left her for...but a stranger rushes out the door and calls out as she runs off, "Don't go in there! Call the cops, she's dead!"

I turned back to confront the polished stairs leading up into the townhouse. I took out my cell phone. The top autodial button was programmed for 911. I didn't press the button though. Instead, I kept it in my hand as I cautiously went up the stairs. Confronting me at the top of the stairway was a larger-than-life, beautifully framed print of a color photograph of Francesca. It dominated the entry. It was clearly Griff's work, and he had done her justice. It showed her hanging from a wall of sapphire ice, supported by two ice axes and the crampons attached to her boots. Her hair had been shorter in that picture, and the hood of her parka had fallen back a little to show a spiky halo around her determined face. The sun that illuminated the blue ice reflected in her blue eyes. She looked great. It was easy to see why Griff had fallen for her. She looked like a snow goddess—the petite version.

At the top of the stairs I saw a series of huge prints of Griff's pictures hanging along the back wall. Every one showed Francesca in climbing gear. From the massive peaks in the background, I guessed that these were taken during the early days of their relationship in Nepal.

The condo had high ceilings and hardwood floors. The cathedral effect was heightened by the sparse furniture, which gave the place a cavernous empty quality. The place seemed deserted except for the persistent buzz of a fly. The main room was blocked from view as you rounded the top of the stairs by a glass cabinet that must have been seven feet tall, filled with sports trophies and climbing memorabilia.

I went around the trophy display, and tripped over a black leather case that had been unceremoniously dropped at the edge. I went down sprawling on the hardwood floor, cursing myself for awkwardness. I lay for a second, assessing any damage, cringing in expectation of laughter and expecting to look up and see the petite and athletic Francesca sneering at my huge awkward self, complaining that I had scuffed the waxed floor.

Instead, cautiously getting to my feet, I saw a long oak table with a new canvas tarp half pulled off it, and what appeared to be a dummy, submerged in a welter of climber's gear—harnesses and rope, caribiners, crampons, pitons. I had never climbed a day in my life but I'd watched enough people pack and unpack their gear to easily commit it to memory. I didn't see any ice axes, although I saw the harness with the holster from which most climbers hung a couple of axes with their claw-like heads for climbing ice, the way Francesca had in that huge photo.

I went a little closer, puzzled. Mountaineers are usually very particular about their gear. After all, their lives depend on it. Someone had scattered Francesca's stacks of pitons like matchsticks. Her ropes were tangled into a spider's nest, hanging half off the table.

This was a cruel joke surely. I went a little closer, my steps echoing on the hardwood. The tarp had been partially pulled off the gleaming oak table. The climbing gear made a disorderly still life.

My stomach lurched when I realized that the totally still figure at the center of the disorder was no dummy. Francesca Etheridge, a rope around her neck, her red face distorted, lay among her gear, one of her ice axes planted in the soft base of her throat. The bloodied rips and tears in her thermal undershirt showed where she had been hacked before dying. She was clearly lifeless. The blood long clotted. Twisted where she had fallen like a broken doll, her arms were trapped by the ropes and frozen at an awkward angle, not by cold but by death.

Seven Paragraphs from At Large

Now that I'm not constricted to prune an entry to six sentences, and yet I'm still in the habit of weekendly posting here, what to do? I happen to be editing/correcting the scanned text of At Large, the third Josephine Fuller book, to be re-issued in ebook and trade paperback soon. I've no reason to impose a sentence count or even a paragraph limit, so here are seven paragraphs from page 1:

Of all the women's job skill centers in all the towns in all the Pacific Northwest, he walks into mine. It had been a rocky week already, and it wasn't Friday yet. In fact Thursday morning was moving so slowly that if I hadn't personally witnessed each second tick off on the big black schoolroom clock across from my desk, I would have sworn that time was standing still. It didn't help that no one was buying my best impersonation of a mild-mannered receptionist. As a woman who has never weighed less than two hundred pounds in my adult life, you might not guess that I can be inconspicuous, but if I keep my head down and my mouth shut, I can usually pull it off. Unfortunately the earnest blue silk pantsuit, pearls and expression of well-bred naiveté weren't working.

Something about this job skill center wasn't quite right. I needed to find out what it was for Mrs. Madrone, so that my wealthy employer could decide whether to award the place a grant. Maybe I had asked too many questions.

By the time Ted showed up, I was already on Delores Patton's radar. The center director was an African American woman who commanded respect with an attitude that could clean brass at twenty paces. She knew I wasn't your usual do-gooder. She just hadn't decided how to deal with it. Ted's arrival made up her mind, and managed to get me fired from a volunteer job—not as easy as it sounds.

Teddy Etheridge was the first male who had entered the office in the three weeks I had been volunteering there. The center was located in Bremerton, about an hour's ferry ride southwest of Seattle. I'd stayed in town during the week answering phones, helping out and nosing around.

For a split second when Teddy walked in the door I thought he might be a potential employer who had strayed in without an appointment. Not that I'd ever seen an actual employer on the premises. Though they did call from time to time to get cheap labor. then I recognized him. "Teddy!" It was always Ted or Teddy to his friends. Never Theodore, not even on his book covers. He wrote humor books for a living.

When he realized it was me, his bearded face lit up in a huge grin. "Josephine Fuller!"

"Ted Etheridge. The last of the hopeless romantics."

Six Sentence Sunday: When Fools Rush in...

From Large Target, Jo has found the kidnappers’ hideout. Now what?

I drove a few blocks and parked on a side street. I wasn't sure what to do next. Getting killed seemed like the next logical step. The lack of sleep was catching up to me. I took a deep breath and then someone tapped on the glass. I looked up and nearly hit my head on the mirror flinching backward.

A florid face with bristly white hair and a weeks' growth of beard appeared crouching outside my window.

Dozens of other writers share sentences on Sundays. For a good time in many genres check them out at Six Sunday. If you are a writer who wants to share a snippet of your own work, the simple instructions are on the site. It's free and fun and you can meet some great people!

Six Sunday -- out of the line of fire, into another danger zone

From Large Target, Jo escapes from an ambush scene where the kidnapper has shot one person and incinerated a car. She has guessed the kidnapper's identity and tricked his father, who knows nothing about the crime, into giving her directions to the kidnapper's workshop.

I heard sirens, and a fire truck raced past headed for the fire that had been Zane's car with an ambulance and a police car following soon after. I started to feel very conspicuous. I got back on Foothill Boulevard and began to follow the instructions my lie had earned me.

The old man hadn't been exaggerating about needing a bodyguard in that part of town. A small detachment of marines would have been appropriate. The warehouse sat at the end of a block that was occupied by a junkyard on one side and a dirt lot ringed by several deserted buildings on the other, chain-link fences featuring razor wire on top set the dominant motif in exterior trim.


This event lures dozens of writers to share sentences on Sundays, this weekend I saw 173 signed up to play. For a good time check them out at six Sunday

A Second Year of Six-Sentence Sundays--when the dominoes start to fall

I'm starting my second year of Six Sentence Sundays with something from the part of Large Target that I personally refer to as “when the dominoes start to fall.” I’ve never been able to outline, so it was a great revelation to me when I finally got to the last few chapters of my first mystery and realized that all the loose ends from earlier in the book started coming together in a fast and furious way. This is one of my favorite parts of novel writing because I'm often as surprised as anyone by what happens.

In this scene Jo is delivering ransom money for the admiral and one additional victim whom the kidnappers grabbed to raise the stakes.

The next thing I heard was a scream from in front of the car. I moved the door open farther to look, and caught a glimpse of Zane on the ground a few feet to the left of my front wheel, one hand still resting on the heavy backpack. The door jerked in my hand from the impact of another shot and the dashboard lights went out.

The motor was still running. I kept down but slid back behind the wheel, jammed the car into gear and gunned it, steering sharp right around where Zane lay with the heavy backpack and his parked car. I drove as fast as I could, half looking out the side window to steer and hunching down to look under the spiderweb crack on the windshield.


For more small doses of fun from dozens of other writers in many genres check them out at Six Sunday.

Six sentence Sunday week 50 - sometimes it's hard to be a kidnapper

From Large Target, Jo is at the home of the missing admiral’s daughter when her husband, Ivor, reports that the kidnappers have called Colleen, the admiral’s daughter-in-law, with detailed demands about the million dollar ransom.

"She turned them down."

"What?" Amy was horrified.

Ivor shook his head and reached out for his beer bottle and upended it, without getting more than the dregs. "Colleen said we don't have the money," he concluded.

I was fascinated and had to ask, "Did Colleen make a counteroffer?"

For more fun in six-sentence snippets, check out the writers at six Sunday.

Six Sentence Sunday Week 48 - a family encounter while waiting for the police...

From Large Target, Jo Fuller and the missing admiral’s daughter Amy find a murder victim. They call the police and wait in outside the cottage when Amy hears someone coming out of the main house.

Amy's brother Brad, the young man with the pigtail, had just exited the sliding door to the rec room in midargument with Amber, the young woman he had dragged out of the way of the admiral's prying minicam at the party the night before.

Today they were both clad in shorts and T-shirts and clearly hadn't seen Amy and me. "You said he'd been on the scene of abductions," Amber said accusingly.

"I honestly believe he has," Brad said, "but you know that stuff is classified."

"I only just asked about the Bermuda Triangle. He said he'd get right to it and he put his hand up my ski-i-irt," she wailed.

For more fun in six-sentence snippets, check out the authors (186 at last count) sharing work in a wide variety of genres at Six Sunday.

Six Sentence Sunday - Week 47- Missing: one admiral and something else...

From Large Target, Josephine and the admiral's daughter find a defense contractor dead in the floor of the admiral's cottage. Jo checks around...

I made a quick circuit of the cottage looking for signs of another victim. There were no obvious signs of struggle or a search effort except in the farthest corner of the bedroom where a Mosler GSA Class 5 Security filing cabinet stood—all four drawers open and empty. I recognized it as identical to the one in my father's home office, part of his ties to the civilian portion of the intelligence community. The Navy might do things a little differently but the admiral's security clearances must be functional.

On the floor in front of the cabinet was a single sheet of paper with Top Secret printed on it in red letters two inches high with a paper clip on it. Nothing was clipped to it.


For more fun in six sentence segments check out the many writers in many genres at Six Sunday.

44th Six Sunday - from Large Target, an encounter with Genghis Ron

A pivotal moment from Large Target, just released last week. Investigator Josephine Fuller has a special assignment looking for an admiral’s daughter who may be in the grip of a fanatical organization. Unfortunately Jo walks into a family house party and runs into the admiral himself, drunk, grabbing at women guests and living up to his nickname “Genghis Ron.” He tries to aim a minicam up her skirt but Jo shakes him off:

"Thinks she can get coy," he brayed, gripping my skirt for purchase and holding out the minicam with the other hand.

"No," I said as I shook the can of soda with a thumb over the hole and aimed it at his eyes. The spray at close range startled him enough to send him back on his rear while I jerked my skirt from his grip.

"Whoa!" the admiral exclaimed, shaking his head and looking around as if he weren't quite sure how he had landed wet-faced and back on the living room floor.

Several guests applauded as I retreated into the kitchen where a woman handed me a dampened dish towel and took my dripping soda can with a smile, "Here, honey," she said, "we all enjoyed that."

To party on with six sentence servings from dozens of authors in many genres check out the action over at Six Sunday.