January 11, 2012

Welcome to Sue Perkins, author of Children's Fantasy, REVA'S QUEST

Today I welcome Sue Perkins, author of the intriguingly named children's fantasy, REVA'S QUEST. (And what a cool-looking cover!)

About the Book:

Reva and her garden gnome arrive in Fey to fight the evil, Malice. Joined by three quest companions, they travel across the land to Malice’s lair. Only Reva can rid the world of Malice, but their journey brings danger, and she wonders if she will survive. Malice’s evil has invaded many of the animals and these beasts try to stop them reaching their goal. One of the companions begins to act strangely, and Reva must consider the possibility of a traitor in their midst.

BUY: MuseItUp Bookstore




About the Author:

Thank you so much Chris for inviting me to your blog. Hope you had a nice Christmas and New Year.

Christmas in New Zealand takes place in summer and most people take the opportunity to combine it with their annual holiday. Camping is a favorite holiday for those with children but unfortunately the weather doesn't always stay nice. We've had a few floods recently, plus the continuing earthquakes in Christchurch but at present it's sunny and hot, hot, hot.

I love to read and write fantasy novels and some of my favorite authors are Anne McCaffrey, Terry Pratchett and Naomi Novik. Who would I like to emulate? I think Terry Pratchett. I have no idea how he gets so much humor in his books, but I'd love to be able to write in such a lighthearted way.

* Visit Sue's blog.


Excerpt

They walked through the trees for most of the day, but eventually the forest thinned out. Through the trunks she could see rolling meadows with another wooded area in the distance. Distant snow-topped mountains broke the horizon. The creatures of Fey might not be the same as her imagination, but the scenery certainly looked similar. Eager to leave the lurking leprechauns behind, she hurried out onto the lush grassy surface.\
“Come back you silly girl.”

Reva ignored Maura. With her arms stretched out to either side and her face turned upward, she spun slowly, enjoying the warm sunshine of late afternoon.

“What does she think she’s doing?” Maura’s voice held astonishment.

“Enjoying the warmth and light I think,” Jarin's words were thoughtful. “I thought she knew about Fey. Doesn’t she know how dangerous it is to rush out in the open?”

“Apparently not,” the female elf replied.

Reva heard their voices, but ignored the actual words. Eyes closed, she tilted her head back even more and lifted her face to the sky, enjoying the warm rays bathing her face. The sunshine wiped away the sense of menace and replaced it with a feeling of ease and contentment.

For several moments, she stood delighting in the sun before something passed across the sky, throwing a shadow on her face. Reva looked up, expecting to see a cloud crossing the sun. Her eyes widened in horror. A huge avian dived toward her at an amazing speed. The beak opened in a challenging scream which went right through her. Sharp talons on its feet stretched toward her as it swooped in for the kill.

The bird zoomed closer and closer. Reva stood open-mouthed, staring. Fear and disbelief pinned her feet to the ground.

January 06, 2012

2012 Zombie Book Reading Challenge



Since I've been reading zombie-themed books lately, I came across this: a zombie book reading challenge! Perfect!

Book Chick City's Zombie Book Challenge.



Need ideas? She has a Goodreads Zombie Books Shelf. (And there are tons more zombie-themed books out there!)

After finishing writing my own zombie-themed book, I did some reading. Interesting to see the various takes on the zombie theme (in no particular order):

Last year's reads:

1 Handling the Undead - John Ajvide Lindqvist. More about how the people "handle" the zombies.

2 The First Days: As the World Dies - Rhiannon Frater. First pubbed on the internet and picked up a big publisher. Focuses on two main women as they face the Z apocalypse.

3 Fighting to Survive: As the World Dies, Book 2 - Rhiannon Frater. The continuation.

4 Zombie, Ohio, Scott Kenemore - a man who becomes a zombie and retains his wits.

5 Zombies Don't Cry: A Living Dead Love Story - Rusty Fischer. A high school girl finds love after un-death.


Now reading or started:

6 The Dead - Charlie Higson, focuses on kids escaping zombies of teen to adult age.

7 Hollowland, Amanda Hocking - a girl searching for her lost brother and facing a Z-changed world.

On the List Next:

8 My Life as a White Trash Zombie, Diana Rowland. The title and cover pic alone are attention-grabbers.

9 Zombie Eyes, Bloodscreams 3 - Robert W. Walker - the prolific (40+ novels) Mr. Walker's psychic detective discovers an "unholy" pit and battles primeval horror.

10 The Undead: Zombie Anthology, DL Snell, Editor - anthology of Z stories.

11 Feed, Mira Grant - Just found this - 2014 and 20 years after the Rising, reporters Georgia and Shaun Mason are on the trail of the biggest story of their lives-the dark conspiracy behind the infected. The truth will out, even if it kills them.







January 05, 2012

A Perfect Read for Horse Lovers: A Horse Called Trouble by CK Volnek




A confession: I'm a sucker for horses and horse books, so when author CK Volnek mentioned her new book (eBook and print), A HORSE CALLED TROUBLE, well, she had me at the title!

It's a great story of love, redemption, hope, and renewal that'll connect with any horse lover, young or old. Be sure to check out the inspiring trailer at the end of this post -- and comment for a chance to win a FREE copy of A HORSE CALLED TROUBLE. Don't forget to read the excerpt and interview below.

About the Book:

Abandoned by her mother at a young age, Tara Cummings has been passed from foster home to foster home; not wanted anywhere by anyone. At 13, she’s skeptic and suspicious, with no family, and no friends.

Horse therapy “will teach trust, perseverance, respect, and the value of teamwork,” or so says the program’s instructor. Tara is unconvinced. Trust only broke her heart, perseverance meant more failures, and no one respects or wants to team up with the misfit foster kid.

Then Tara meets Trouble, an angry and defiant horse, bent on destroying everything and everyone around him. Tara is frightened of the enraged horse, until she realizes Trouble is as misunderstood and untrusting as she is. Pushing aside her fear, the two form a special bond, with Tara also finding hope, acceptance, and the will to love and trust again.

But a bigger challenge lies ahead as Tara tries to save Trouble from the mean, manipulative Alissa - her nemesis and Trouble's owner. Will Tara be able to save the horse who saved her, or will Alissa destroy them both?

BUY:
* MuseItUp Bookstore
- or Amazon:



Interview with CK Volnek:

Greetings, Chris. Thanks for allowing me to visit your blog today. It is such a treat to be able to visit. I’m so excited to be here and announce my newest tween novel, A HORSE CALLED TROUBLE! I would also love to offer a FREE copy of my eBook to one lucky reader who leaves me a comment! (I hope you love free stuff as much as I do.)


Where did the concept for the book come from?

I have always loved horses. Such marvelous creatures they are. Proud, elegant, powerful yet gentle, compassionate. And I was fortunate enough to be able to call several of them my friend and confidant as I grew up.

I knew I wanted to immortalize some of my treasured equine friends but I never expected to write the story of Trouble in such a fashion as I did. It was after visiting a horse farm that also entertained a horse therapy program for troubled youth that the story sky-rocketed. Tara came to life and shared her entire sad story with me and I couldn’t help but oblige and put it down on paper. And Trouble? He’s a mix of several of the horses I knew. Full of spunk, spirit, trust and devotion. It’s a horse story, full of conflict, with antagonists you’ll love seeing get what they deserve.

Why did you choose to write for tweens?

I think I was most at my element in reading when I was in middle school. I loved reading and escaping into the adventures with my characters. I still love reading books for this age. They are so interested in the world and what it takes to make it a better place.

I also write for this age because I know it can be a struggle to get them to read. My middle son hated to read. So I grabbed the challenge to come up with stories that could grab his attention and pull him into the adventure while teaching a subtle lesson along the way. So far, he’s one of my fans.


Do you have any new projects that you're working on?


I am excited to have two other books to chat about. The first, GHOST DOG OF ROANOKE ISLAND is a tween ghost story and is already available in both print and e-book. It’s a ghost story with a twist of Native American folklore and based on the Lost Colony of Roanoke Island.

In April, THE SECRET OF THE STONES debuts. It is the first of a series called "The Lost Diaries of Northumberland." It is a lighter story, a Harry Potter meets Merlin the Magician kind of story. A Merlin-loving tween is thrust into magic mayhem when the gift he’s been entrusted to protect turns out to be the enchanted object detailed in a mysterious prophecy.

EXCERPT of A HORSE CALLED TROUBLE:

The massive barn towered up, into the Midwest sky, a prison of whitewashed boards, sunlight glinting off it. Might as well be barbed wire. Tara Cummings blinked, momentarily blinded.

So this was her punishment—horse therapy?

She shook her head, letting her mousy brown hair fall over her face. Another time she would have been thrilled to be here, to see a real horse, to actually touch one, not watch it on TV or the internet.

Her fingers tightened into a fist. This time was different. This was a sentence of shame—for something she hadn’t even done. She didn’t steal Alissa’s purse!

Tara struggled to swallow the lump in her throat, the dryness in her mouth refusing to release the knot. Alissa had set her up—she was sure of it. She’d planted the purse in her locker. Why? What had she ever done? Because she wasn’t cool…or popular…or wear designer clothes? Because she was a foster kid?

Resentment and desire burned as one in her chest. She’d never have money or popularity. She’d been born a have-not and the world was making sure she would always stay a have-not.

A cool morning breeze blew across the farmyard, cold fingers reminding the world that despite the sun and the absence of snow, it was only early spring and summer was still a long way off. Tara shivered and withdrew into her shabby sweatshirt, wrapping her skinny arms up in its scratchy fabric. She should have tried harder to prove her innocence to Principal Jackman. Should’ve made him listen.

A long breath whistled through her teeth. It wouldn’t have made any difference. He wanted to be rid of her, like everyone else in her life. Teachers, foster parents, her own mother. All too happy to wash their hands and dump her onto someone else. No one cared. Why would Jackman be any different? He couldn’t wait to ship her off to Marvel’s, the east side’s alternative to regular school. Marvel was, after all, the best place to dump all the 8th grade scum no one wanted.

Tara gazed from the barn to the crisp, white fences and luscious green pastures surrounding them. Marvel was known for its unusual methods in dealing with problem students. But she had totally not expected this. It had to be some kind of mistake. The other kids had moaned and groaned, certain they were headed for a work-camp, cleaning up horse crap, hauling hay, painting, and all that stuff. Listening to them, Tara had envisioned smelly, peeling barns, and broken-down fences. This was quite the opposite. The farm was actually quite tidy. Nice. Peaceful. Not the kind of place she’d expected juvies to be sent to at all.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.


About the Author:

CK Volnek was born in Colorado but calls Nebraska home. She grew up loving the wide-open spaces and living in a spot where, as her daughter-in-law told her, "you can see five states from here."

Not surprisingly, CK got hooked on horses and writing after reading the classic, BLACK BEAUTY. She wrote short stories and articles while raising her family, but began getting serious about novel writing seven years ago and hasn't looked back since. See what else she's up to by visiting her blog.




Check out the book trailer!



January 04, 2012

Welcome to Jeffrey Marks, author of the upcoming Erle Stanley Gardner bio

Author Jeffrey Marks has made his "mark" by providing insight into the backgrounds of founding writers in the mystery world via his comprehensive biographies. These include: Atomic Renaissance: Women Mystery Writers of the 1940s/1950s; Who Was That Lady? Craig Rice: The Queen of the Screwball Mystery; and the 2009 Anthony Award-winning, Anthony Boucher: A Bibliography, plus the upcoming bio on Perry Mason author, Erle Stanley Gardner.



His next biography on Erle Stanley Gardner is now in progress, so today we're offering a preview. Erle Stanley Gardner is best known as the author of 80 Perry Mason novels; however, he wrote over 140 books, and 650 short stories and novellas, over his 50-year career. Gardner produced approximately 100,000 words every month, making him one of the most prolific authors of the 20th century. He was a champion of the underdog, and spent many years helping to free unjustly convicted criminals as part of his Court of Last Resort.

Perry Mason has been featured in movies, radio, and a very successful television show, produced by Gardner's production company. Currently, a new Perry Mason film is in the works from Warner Brothers and Robert Downey Jr.

Today, Marks gives us a preview, sharing a bit about the people, and the animals, in Gardner's life.

Erle Stanley Gardner was a champion of the underdog, both literally and metaphorically. He collected strays and treated them better than the humans around him at times. In his legal work, he took on cases of men who had given up hope, men that others would considered beyond legal remedies and created The Court of Last Resort which helped change the legal system in the United States.

Based on his sale to the Saturday Evening Post and the feeling that his growing cadre of secretaries was unhappy with the mountains in winter and the desert in summer, Gardner began to look for a place to settle down. Now that his relationship with Warner Brothers was kaput, he sold his Hollywood home in late 1936 and headed out on the road again. He now had four trailers in his caravan: one for him, one for Jean and Louise Weissberger, a friend from Hawaii, one for a cook and the fourth for another secretary. Honey was not travelling with them at this point, and Peggy had begun working outside the Fiction Factory.

Gardner often credited his dog for finding Temecula, a town of about 250 people at the time. He claimed that Rip, his German shepherd, began barking like never before as soon as they came to Temecula. Gardner stopped and approved of Rip’s decision. He rented a post office box that he provided to his editor, Thayer Hobson, just for their communications. As winter fell, Gardner headed off for his annual trip to New York City, followed by a stop in New Orleans. He left his trailers in Temecula and asked a local friend to look for property in the area. The land that would become his ranch became available during those winter months.

The City of Temecula is located about 15 miles from the Pacific Ocean in southwest Riverside County, just north of the San Diego County line. The San Bernardino Mountains can be seen in the opposite direction. Gardner found it convenient to Los Angeles and his beloved Baja.

Gardner recognized, too, that in order to keep up the pace of two Mason novels a year plus his short stories for the pulps along with the Selby novels, he needed a headquarters to receive mail. Gardner only maintained regular correspondence with a handful of close friends, outside of the publishing world.

Beyond the growing need for a stationary place to receive mail, a bout of pneumonia in the spring of 1937 left Gardner weak and behind in his work. He was living out of the camp trailers and trying to catch up on correspondence and short stories. Something had to give soon. Despite his naturally healthy constitution, Gardner lived at a reckless pace with little sleep and large amounts of self-imposed pressure. The result was that at times, he would develop serious ailments that forced him to slow down. Unfortunately, upon healing, Gardner would again speed up the pace to make up any postponed writing.

To remedy some of those issues, Gardner bought 3,000 acres several miles from Temecula and immediately began converting the land into a home. He dubbed his new purchase, Rancho del Paisano, after one of his short story characters. Gardner wrote to his editor: Recently I’ve found a ranch property which suits me right down to the ground and I’m moving in, lock, stock and barrel with a regular office, plenty of elbow room and my various branches centralized under one roof, and I’m going to be able to turn out more work. I’m going to make headquarters here for the next six or eight months…

Gardner was wrong. He would spend the next 33 years in Temecula, as one of its most famous citizens. Today there are streets, schools, and a mystery weekend there in his honor, held the first weekend of November each year.

December 30, 2011

New story on dog rescue and dog rescuers in Wisconsin



A new story and photo I did on dog rescuers in Wisconsin is now online at Prime Magazine. The story is in the Jan/Feb. 2012 issue.

Story and photo by Christine A. Verstraete

Looking at Rosie the poodle scoot across the carpet or play with her toy, you wouldn’t think she’s different than any other dog.

While it’s not known whether it was genetics or a result of having spent her life in a crate as a breeder at a puppy mill, 6-year-old Rosie’s back legs were atrophied and unusable. After being rescued, both of the dog’s back legs were amputated below the thigh, but that hasn’t stopped her. Rosie is a now a “spokesdog” against puppy mills and a symbol for pet adoption, appearing at local parades and other events.

She also is a member with her owner of Wisconsin Citizens Against Puppy Mills.

“She hops around and runs like any other dog,” says Rosie’s owner, Mary Palmer of Racine, who’s also founder and president of Northcentral Maltese Rescue Inc. (Read Rosie's story.)

See issue for rest of story.

December 27, 2011

New Miniatures Video

Stephanie Kilgast of Petit Plat makes some wonderfully realistic miniature foods, and was recently featured on a German TV program. Check out the fantastic English video here.

December 26, 2011

The Day After Christmas - a Poem....

Too funny! There are a few versions of this poem floating around. Figured everyone can use a chuckle as they wind down, and gear up for - after Christmas sales! Enjoy!


The Day After Christmas
Author Unknown


It's one day after Christmas, I'm crabby and I'm broke.

I'm so full of ham and fruitcake I think I'm gonna croak.

It's nice to see the relatives, I wonder when they'll leave.

They've been camping in my bathroom since early Christmas Eve.

They're eating everything in sight and sleeping in my bed.

I been sacked out in the basement with my spotted beagle, Fred.

The relatives have all gone out and left their screaming brats.

The toilet bowl is all plugged up and I can't find the cat.

It's Christmastime at my house, the relatives are here.

They eat me out of house and home, and drink up all my beer.

I love the decorations, and the sleigh bells in the snow,

But I wish those pesky relatives, would take their kids and go.

Those cookie crunchers fed the dog a twenty pound rib of roast.

His feet are sticking in the air, like skinny old fence posts.

Now they're in a free-for-all, the girls against the boys.

They're fighting over boxes, 'cause they're bored with all their toys.

My mother-in-law is snoring in my favorite TV chair.

Those kids are stringing lights on her and tinseling her hair.

I oughta wake her up before the fireworks begin.

But I wanna see those blue sparks fly, when they plug her in.

December 25, 2011

MERRY CHRISTMAS!



Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and the best in 2012!

(See more of my miniatures)

December 24, 2011

A Christmas Story: Part 2: The Thief of Christmas Present by Robert W. Walker



Part 2: Continued, "The Thief of Christmas Present"
By Robert W. Walker

(** If you missed the beginning, read Part 1 of The Thief of Christmas Present **)

(Photos: Christmas Santa House by C. Verstraete, see more pix at my website; Festive gold and white holiday scenes featuring the miniatures of Lissu, used w/ permission. See more pix and visit her blog)

Today we conclude our original Christmas tale by Robert W. Walker, author of more than 30 novels including his Detective Ransom series, as well as his latest eBook time travel novels, featuring his stories taking place in two time periods, TITANIC 2012 and the recently released, BISMARCK 2013, Hitler's Curse.




TO RECAP: the family are watching the film to see who is stealing the Cluewellens' Christmas from Julia's dollhouse.

Shortly after, Stevie entered the room, asking, "What kinda movie is this?"

"The movie that's gonna prove you stole the Cluewellens' Christmas!"



"I didn't touch that stuff! I didn't do it, mom!"

Joannie came down from her room and asked, "Are you still blaming that on Stevie? He wouldn't do that!"

"We got you on tape this time, Joannie...or Stevie...whichever one of you guys did it, so there!" Julia set her jaw, determined to watch every hour of the unmoving movie frame by frame. "Mom and me...we gotcha good now. Liar."

Joannie came at her sister. "Who're you calling a liar? Me?"

"If the shoe fits!"

"Enough, both of you! Stop it. Either sit down and watch the tape or leave the room, but please, no more accusations, Julia, and no more shouting, Joannie-and you, Stevie, stop crying."

"I didn't do it," he complained through tears. "I always get blamed for everything!"


"All I know is somebody stole the Cluewellens' Christmas tree now!" Julia shot back.

"Hey, what's that?" asked Joannie, pointing at the screen. "I saw movement-a shadow-back of the miniature."

Julia, Stevie, and Mother Waldron stared at the slight squeaking noise, too, and in a moment, they all watched a pair of whiskers and a brown button nose rise over the back of the miniature at the chimney.

"It's Newton, my ferret!" shouted Stevie. "He's escaped again."

Newton lived up to his name, always finding ways to escape his cage, and often, Stevie allowed him 'free run time' but Newton always returned to his cage. Newton had even found a way out of the house one night.

"What's he doing?" asked Julia. "OMG-he's going down the chimney."

"Like Santa," said Stevie.




"No...more like The Grinch," replied Joannie. "There's your Christmas thief, Julia!"

"But...I mean how...why?" she asked. "Why's he terrifying the Cluewellens and destroying their Christmas?"

"You really think Newton is thinking along those lines, Julia?" Joannie couldn't hold back her laughter.

"Shhh...watch him. Look, look," said Mom. "The little thief! He's dragging the entire tree out the front door."

With the tree clear of the door, it snapped closed, and Newton scurried away with the five-inch high tree, ornaments trailing. He truly did look like a miniature version of The Grinch except that he was brown and not green.

"Stevie's pet's the thief...the whole time," Julia muttered in disbelief.

"What's he doing with all the stolen goods?" asked mom. "Shall we find out?"

"I think you're gonna need a ferret whisperer or a pet shrink to figure that out, Mom," replied Joannie, still laughing.



"Nothing funny about that little rat destroying the Cluewellens' Christmas!" countered Julia.

"Why don't we all just go on a scavenger hunt?" began Mom. "To see where Newton is stashing all the decorations and presents."

"And stockings!" added Julia.

The four of them started for Stevie's room where Newton lived in a cage. Everyone in the family had gotten so used to Newton's escapes and escapades about the house that no one took great notice of him of late.

"What's going on?" asked Jack Waldron, their father, who'd caught them gathered at the foot of the stairs as he came through the door, home from the office.

Everyone spoke at once until Anna calmed them and pointed to the still action shot on the TV. "We caught Newton red-handed. "He's Julia's Christmas thief."

"Must be the shiny stuff attracts Newton, eh?" asked Jack.



"But he's never done this before!" Anna replied. "Any rate, we're heading up to Steve's room to see where he's stashing the goods."

"Say, did anyone read that book that came with the ferret when you bought Newton at the pet store?" asked Joannie, who was browsing the book for any clues.

"Who's got time to read?" asked Julia.

They all went for Stevie's room, and looked into Newton's cage, a made-over fish tank. There, amid the usual sawdust and toy shelters and fake greenery, was a stash of Christmas miniatures, from the tree, to the presents and the stockings. All of it lay in a neat, orderly circular design. The look on Newton's face said, "I confess."



Joannie handed the paperback book on ferrets and ferret behavior to her mother. "Take a look at the last section on page sixteen."

She glanced at the page. "Oh, dear...then this means..."

"What is it?" asked Julia. "Nothing in that book could possibly excuse this rodent's behavior, and as for you, Stevie-this is all your-"

"No, Julia!" countered her father, who'd now read page sixteen. "No way is this Stevie's fault!"

"You owe Stevie and me an apology," Joannie said to Julia, having closed in on her, nose-to-nose. "And all our friends, too!"

"You do owe everyone an apology, Julia," her mother agreed. "In the meantime, Newton is going to need a new name."

"Whataya mean?" asked Julia.

"New name?" asked Stevie.



"Newton is a girl, and she's stealing shiny objects to make a nest, because she's going to have baby ferrets."

"OMG!" replied Julia. "That's it! That explains the mystery."

"But if Newton's not a boy...what're we going to call Newton?" asked Stevie.

"Newtonia?" suggested Joannie, a snicker escaping.

"Why don't we make it Madame Curie," suggested mom. "I think she outsmarted us all. In any event, case closed."

Stevie lifted the flimsy lid and started to reach in to retrieve the Cluewellens' Christmas stuff-his sister's stuff, but Julia stayed his hand. "No, Stevie. She-Madame Curie-she needs it now more than the Cluewellens."

"Aren't you ahhh worried about the Cluewellens?" asked Anna of her daughter.

"They'll understand when I explain it to them," Julia replied and shrugged, "and besides, there's always next year."

Anna hugged Julia and Jack put a hand on his daughter's shoulder, and with the entire family looking on at Newton-now Madame Curie-every one smiled, and if ferrets can smile, Madame Curie smiled back, a knowing glint in her eye.

"I have an idea for the Cluwellens' Christmas," said Stevie.

"What's that? asked Julia.

"Why not give them a front row seat for Christmas?"

"Meaning?"

"Put their house under our tree!"



Everyone agreed it was a wonderful solution, and that Julia had a lot of apologies to make, and that she'd tell and retell Newton's story between now and Christmas quite often indeed.

THE END
(c) 2008-2011 RW Walker, published by http://candidcanine.blogspot.com

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!

December 23, 2011

An Original Christmas Story - The Thief of Christmas Present, Part 1 by Robert W. Walker




Today I have the pleasure of presenting an original Christmas tale by Robert W. Walker, author of more than 30 novels including his Detective Ransom series, and the latest time travel thrillers set in two time periods - TITANIC 2012 and the latest, BISMARCK 2013, Hitler's Curse.



Never fear, this story, which runs in two parts ending tomorrow, Dec. 24th, is rated PG. Merry Christmas!


The Thief of Christmas Present
By Robert W. Walker

(Photos: Christmas Santa House by C. Verstraete, see more at my website.)



Julia rushed into her mother's room, her eleven-year-old arms flapping as she said, "Joannie stole my Christmas presents! I just know it was her!"

"Your big sister wouldn't do that, Julia."

"Then its one of her girlfriends."

"I've talked to Joannie, and she's given the third degree to every friend who has been visiting the house since Thanksgiving."

Julia's eyes filled with tears. "Musta been that boyfriend of hers then!"

"He seems like a nice, respectful boy, and whatever would possess him to steal your miniature Christmas presents from beneath your miniature tree?"

Anna Waldron hugged her daughter to her. "We'll find the stolen goods. They're likely somewhere on a shelf. Thoughtlessly moved by one of your little friends."

"No, no mom! I don't let anyone reach into my dollhouse and take out anything, not the figurines, not the furniture, and certainly not the presents under the tree."

Anna wondered how this could keep happening to her daughter. Julia had put heart and soul into her miniature house this year. In fact, she'd begun creating the tree, the ornaments, lights, stockings hanging over the fireplace, and the presents beneath the tree since last Christmas.

She'd got it in her head that her dollhouse ought to have all the ornaments and decorations of any home, that Mr. and Mrs. Cluewellen and their three children who lived in the miniature house ought to have a wonderful Christmas too.





Julia had worked so hard to make it happen, and now, day-by-day, all her work was coming unraveled. The day before she noticed an ornament missing from the tiny tree. The day before that one of the stockings she'd labored so hard to make was gone from the mantel. Poof. Now two of the tiny presents from beneath the tree-gone. Stolen.

"At this rate," moaned Julia, "by the time Christmas gets here, the Cluewellens won't have anything left."

Anna patted Julia's hand. "And The Christmas Crook of the Present will have won!"

"We can't let that happen, mom!"

"We must act, set a trap."

"A trap?"

"Yeah, we'll wire up a trap that will snap on those sticky fingers."

"Then you think it's Stevie?"

"I hope not, but your little brother is at that age. I sure hope he hasn't lied about this."

"Well...it's not a ghost. I asked the Cluewellens if they'd had any problems with anything like a poltergeist, and they said no."

"You believe them?" Mother Waldron laughed, but Julia stared at her, eyes saying, 'not funny'.

"They don't lie, cheat, or steal, mom."

"Neither does your brother or your sister for that matter, young lady."

"Well I'm not lying about it! Someone's stealing the Cluewellens' Christmas right under our noses."



"You set the trap," suggested Anna. "I'm going to set up a concealed camera, so we can get to the bottom of this before..."

Julia looked up at her mother, wondering why she'd stopped talking. "Before all of the presents and decorations are gone?"

"Before you make your sister and your brother angrier with you than they already are."

"Angry with me? I'm the victim here. Me and the Cluewellens."

"Honey, you have accused both of them of stealing and lying about it. Then you accused their friends."

Julia nodded, and for a moment Anna thought her child understood and agreed, but then Julia said, "It could've been one of Stevie's dumb friends."

"Well now, we're going to find out, aren't we?"

"You think it'll work, mom?"

"At the rate things are disappearing, my hunch is that whoever's behind the theft will be back."

They put the trap into play.

They wisely left the miniature house untouched and unmoved, the same enticement as ever.

An entire day and most of the evening went by with young Julia wanting to check the Cluewellens' living room and tree every hour, while her mother insisted they wait and see. When Anna decided the camera's battery would be in need of help, mother and daughter went into her room to determine if anything had been taken. They found the front door closed. Julia gasped when she looked in through the windows. The entire tiny Christmas tree had been taken! All about the front door and steps, glitter appeared like colored snow. Whoever was behind the theft, cleaning up after him-or herself-wasn't a concern.

"It's got to be Stevie or one of his goofy friends," Julia said, tears forming. "Maybe Stevie's too chicken to tell on Tad."

"Let's reserve judgment and see what the camera says."

They made popcorn and popped the film into the USB port of the TV and sat down to watch the unfolding events. Unfortunately, during the first hour, nothing unfolded.

"This is a real snore and a bore," Julia complained, tiring of the popcorn as well.

After a while, Julia began making up a storyline to go with the miniature people inside the house on the screen, and it was so vivid that her mom could almost imagine that the little Cluewellen family was as real as Julia believed them to be. She began to see Mrs. Cluewellen move that feather duster in her hand. But clearing her head and eyes, Mother Waldron thought better of saying she'd begun to see the miniature people roaming around inside their miniature house. Maybe the miniature was haunted at that....



(** See Part 2 of the Christmas Story, The Thief of Christmas Present, by Robert W. Walker

(c) 2008-2011 RW Walker published by http://candidcanine.blogspot.com

December 22, 2011

Short Christmas fiction: A Theory of Murder, Part 2 by Dennis Palumbo



Today we conclude our featured short story, A THEORY OF MURDER by author DENNIS PALUMBO. The second crime novel, FEVER DREAM, from Poisoned Pen Press features psychologist Daniel Rinaldi, a trauma expert, who treats victims of violent crime. It follows the acclaimed MIRROR IMAGE.






A THEORY OF MURDER, PART 2 - By Dennis Palumbo (Go back to read Part 1.)

An embarrassed silence filled the room. Then the Commissioner settled into his chair and smiled gamely. “Sorry about the interruption. With children, one does what one can. After that...” He shrugged, then turned his attention to Mina. “So, Inspector, have we taken the young lady’s statement?”

“Yes, Commissioner.” Kruger sniffed. “It was Fraulein Strauss who gave Katie Gossen the locket we found. As a gift.”

Albert cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but how did the police know the locket had originally belonged to Hector?”

Kruger laughed shortly. “Because we are not incompetent, Herr Einstein. The locket is inscribed at the back with a serial number and the name of the maker,Gerd Oberlin, on Marktgasse. He checked his records and declared it had been sold to one Hector Franks, at whose instructions it was sent by post to Fraulein Mina Strauss.”

Albert nodded. “And from whose hands it then passed to the murdered girl. So I don’t see how Herr Franks is further involved.”

“Perhaps he learned his gift had been unappreciated by its recepient,” Burlick said officiously. “That in fact it had been given to another. Driven by jealousy and rage, he stole into the Gossen home to retrieve it. There, surprised in the act, he was forced to...”

“Butcher the entire family?” Albert chuckled.

The Commissoner looked at him sternly. “I have seen stranger things in the course of my career, young man. And I don’t appreciate Jewish impertinence.”

Inspector Kruger seemed embarrassed suddenly, but by what I couldn’t tell. At any rate, he was quick to usher Mina, Albert and myself out of the Commissioner’s office, and into the bustling corridor beyond.

“Am I free to go?” I said to Kruger, trying to sound indignant. I had somewhat found my feet again.

“For now. But keep yourself available to us.” He turned to Mina. “The same for you, Fraulein Strauss.”

Mina nodded, then turned and allowed the matron to escort her briskly down the corridor. She never even glanced in my direction. And I knew, as one knows these things, that I should never see Mina Strauss again.

* * *

That night, I sat in my rooms surrounded by discarded newspapers. The murders had gripped the imagination of the Continent. The killer’s reign of terror was recounted in explicit detail, including wild theories of genetic insanity, religious cults, political anarchists gone amok.

I poured myself an unaccustomed second brandy and sat, sleepless, in my chair by the fire. I couldn’t imagine sleep. Not after what I’d seen that day.
And Mina?...Seeing her again after all these years. Learning what had happened to the locket. How could she have been so callous as to give what I had offered her to another?

I was stewing in this self-pitying broth till almost four in the morning, when a pounding at my door broke me from my reverie. I glanced at the mantel clock. At this hour?

I pulled open the door to find an equally exhausted-looking Albert Einstein, bundled into a thick wool coat.

“My God, Albert, do you know the time?”

“More intimately than most, I promise you.” Then, with uncharacteristic urgency, he brushed past me into the room and began looking about. “You’ll need a warm coat, of course. And boots. You don’t happen to own a revolver?”

“A revolver? What are you talking about?”

“All will be explained.” He stared at me, impatient. “Well, are you coming or not?”

* * *

The pre-dawn chill was like a cloak of ice. It had also snowed again during the night, leaving two-foot-high drifts that impeded our progress toward the boat-house.

Beyond the long, wood-framed structure were the venerable spires of the university, which lay under the gloom as though crouching for warmth. The only sound was the distant tolling of Yuletide church bells for the morning’s first service.

As we carefully approached the silent building, I could now hear the river lapping gently at the dock. Out on the frigid water, silent as ghosts, the rowing team propelled their boat smoothly through the mist.

Albert led us to the near side of the boat-house, and then to a position beneath the single window. We peered through the smudged pane at an empty room, warmed only by the light of a huge cast-iron stove. At the far end of the room stood a large water keg.

I turned to see Albert nodding to himself. “Of course, the drinking water...I wondered how he planned to subdue them. Some kind of soporific in the water. Then he could--”

“I swear, Albert, if you don’t tell me what’s going on--”

“It occurs to me, Hector, that I might be putting you in harm’s way. I did leave a note for Inspector Kruger, but I doubt he’d take me seriously...” He frowned. “Not that I blame him, given my gross stupidity about these murders...”

By this point, I merely stared at him.

“It was so obvious, I couldn’t see it,” Albert went on. “There is a pattern, of course. Prime numbers. Divisible only by themselves and one. Perhaps a mocking reference to his own troubles with mathematics? Who can say with such a man? One who kills so ruthlessly...I recall reading Buhler on the subject of compulsions, Atwood on multiple murderers. Mileva has some interest in psychology, and keeps many books on--”

Flustered, I cut him off. “Wait! Prime numbers..?”

“Yes. 1,2,3,5,7, etcetera. One watch-maker, two old people, three seminarians, a family of five, a rowing team--”

“Of seven!” I exclaimed. “Six oarsmen and the coxswain.”

He nodded. “Where better to find the necessary seven victims than at his own university? He’s familiar enough with the sport to gamble on it. And there has to be at least one more murderous act for the pretense of a killing spree to be maintained.”

“Pretense?”

“To hide the real motive for the crimes, and the real--and only--intended victim. Katie Gossen. The killer knew her murder would inevitably lead the police to his door...unless it was merely one in a series of brutal, senseless deaths. Part of an insane pattern based on prime numbers.”

A sudden noise from within the boat-house silenced us. Footsteps against creaking floorboards. Muffled, secretive.

Carefully, we once again peered into the shadowy room.A figure in a black overcoat and gloves was leaning over the water keg. On the bench beside him, its blade glinting dully in the half-light, was a thick-handled axe.

I felt Albert’s restraining hand on my arm, but I risked another look. The man was lifting the keg lid, pouring some kind of powder inside. As he bent, his face shone in a pale shaft of light.

I sank back next to Albert, stunned. “But I thought it was--I mean, you saw what kind of creature Hans Pfeiffer is. The way he winked at Mina...”

Albert nodded. “Yes. Coarse, familiar. But how could he not take notice of Mina Strauss? An uncommonly beautiful girl. Yet Jeffrey never gave her a glance. I thought that was odd ...unless he knew her. Unless he purposefully ignored making eye contact. Because Mina knew him--or, at least, of him--from hearing of his unwanted attentions to her friend Katie.”

“How in God’s name do you know of this?”

“I asked around at the campus,” Albert replied. “Jeffrey was hopelessly enthralled by Katie, and she spurned him. I thought something like that might be at the core of this, thinking of how Mina had likewise rebuffed you.”

I stiffened. “Thanks very much.”

He ignored this. “I’m sure his advances were crude and improper. He has a reputation for violence and drink. A loutish, aggressive type, under which lies an even darker, murderous nature. He finds being thwarted in his desires intolerable. Emboldened by his father’s wealth and position, thinking himself above the laws of God and man, he’s driven to murder. But to disguise the motive, he embeds the killing of Katie Gossen in a series of brutal slayings, seemingly the work of a madman, following some absurd, fanciful pattern...”

I struggled to absorb his words. “So you guessed that he needed at least one more to make a convincing picture. The seven members of the rowing team...But how did you know?”

“Imagination, Hector. The unheralded seed-bed of all theory.” A wry smile. “I simply imagined what I would do in his place.”

Another squeak of floorboard from within drew our eyes to the glass. Jeffrey was moving back against the far wall, axe in hand. Melting like a wraith into the lattice of shadow.

“Now all he need do is wait,” Albert whispered. “The team will be returning any moment. After a vigorous workout, they will doubtless drink from the water keg. Jeffrey knew there were too many to handle unless they were incapacitated.”

I nodded. “So after the drug takes effect, he can move in for the kill. Unless...”

Where this sudden flush of courage--or foolishness--came from, I cannot say. But suddenly I was barreling as fast as possible through the snow, around the corner of the low-slung building and through the opened double doors.

“Hector!” Albert called out, but I’d already crossed the threshold into the room.

Jeffrey Burlick had turned at the pounding of my foot- steps, and rushed now from the shadows to confront me. I leapt at him, hands outstretched, a cry bursting from my lips.

We ended up in a heap on the floor, Jeffrey awkwardly trying to bring the axe to bear. I saw the horrible glint as its blade sliced down toward me. I saw my own death.
Then I saw Albert, face red with exertion, struggling with both hands for the axe. But the burly young student merely flung Albert to the floor.

Winded, scrambling to get up on our elbows, we looked up at the glowering face of a demon. Jeffrey hefted the axe as though it were weightless, raising it high.

“You two thought you could stop me?” he cried. “Two penniless patent clerks? No one can stop me!”

“You must stop!” I gasped. “Even you must see, killing these men avails you nothing. You’ve had your revenge on Katie...you’ve ended her life. Why must you end these others?”

“Revenge?...on Katie?” His eyes narrowed to dark slits. “She’s nothing! She means nothing to me. The design is all. The purity, the immutable beauty...”

He paused then, regarding me with bemusement. “Something a man like you could never understand. Bound by your pathetic, bourgeois pieties...”

As, tightening his grip, he raised the great axe once more to strike--

When another voice shot through the room. “Not as pathetic as you, Jeffrey!”

Burlick froze where he stood, as the tall, ramrod figure of Inspector Kruger stepped through the doorway. He held a police revolver pointed at Jeffrey’s chest.

“Put down the weapon, or I’ll be forced to fire.”

Jeffrey wavered, glance darting from us to the Inspector. “I assure you,” Kruger said sharply, “I don’t care who your father is. I will shoot you where you stand.”

A strange, anxious smile played across the young man’s lips. “My father?...with his rules and regulations. So rigid, unbending. The unspeakable hypocrite! You don’t know what he’s really like, what he did to--” His voice caught. “He’s the monster.”

His eyes blazed now as he turned to stare at Albert. “And yet powerless against the march of mathematical inevitability! Surely, Herr Einstein, you must understand. If no one else, surely you...”

Then suddenly, in two brisk strides, Kruger was at the killer’s side, the revolver pressed hard against his ribs. Jeffrey Burlick gave the Inspector the merest look, before letting the axe fall with a clatter to the floor.

Albert rose beside me and smiled at the Inspector. “I see you received my message,” he said. “I’m surprised you gave it any credence.”

“I’m surprised that anything surprises you, Herr Einstein. Not after this.” He nodded at Jeffrey, who, to my utter incomprehension, stood calmly with his arms folded, as though waiting for a train.

“No.” Albert was shaking his head. “I miscalculated. Your arrival here was an unexpected variable. A random occurrance.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think perhaps God plays dice with the universe after all.”


I struggled to my feet, my fear rapidly being replaced by irritation. I hated when Albert talked like this.

“Forget your theories, for the love of heaven!” I snapped at him. “We were almost killed this morning.”

“I wasn’t the one who seemed intent on heroics. Honestly, Hector, that was perhaps the most amazing surprise of all.”

In a matter of minutes, a police van had arrived, and Jeffrey was bundled away in restraints by two stout officers. Inspector Kruger followed them out.

Alone with Albert in the eerie stillness of the boat-house, I gave voice to my thoughts. “Young Burlick must suffer from a diseased mind...it’s the only explanation...”

Albert looked off, in that way I’d become accustomed to.“No, he’s not mad. He knows the difference between right and wrong. I saw that clearly. He just...doesn’t care.”

“But that’s unthinkable! To butcher innocent people without remorse? Without a conscience? Believe me, Albert,

I doubt there’s a word for such pathology in your wife’s scholarly books.”

“Perhaps not,” he replied with a sad smile. “But I fear one day soon there will be.”

* * *

Outside, another gentle flurry of snow had begun to fall, and I realized with a start that tomorrow was Christmas Day. Though, admittedly, such holiday thoughts were far from my mind at that moment.

Albert and I stood with Kruger, watching as the rowing team, oblivious, began making their way to shore. From the dock, I could hear the sounds of another pair of policemen, dumping the keg of drugged water into the river.

Another sound, that of boots scraping heavily against frozen earth, made us turn. Jeffrey Burlick, shackled hand and foot, was being led to the rear of a police van. As the door was held open for him, he paused and looked directly, nakedly, at us. Then, showing a small, tight smile, he turned and stepped into the van. As it rumbled away in the blur of morning light, Albert looked gravely at Kruger.

“He’s the Commissioner’s son. This will cause a scandal.”

“Not my concern.”

Their eyes locked. “I am curious why you believed me,” Albert said quietly.

“Let’s just say, not all of us share the Commissioner’s prejudices, Herr Einstein.”

Then, with a curt bow, Kruger went to join his men.

Albert watched him go, before brushing himself off and heading in the opposite direction. I followed.

“That’s quite enough adventure for me,” he said. “Now it’s back to my physics papers.”

“No,” I said. “It’s back to the office, and the Beringer patents. We work until six, even on Christmas Eve. Or Hoffmann will dock your pay.”

He grimaced. “And Mileva will be furious.”

Then, smiling, Albert Einstein put his arm around my shoulder. “Ah, Hector, the mathematics of love. Compared to it, physics is but child’s play.”

On the way back to work, we stopped for a sausage roll.

THE END

(c) 2010-11 D. Palumbo - reprinted with permission, Candid Canine, http://candidcanine.blogspot.com

December 21, 2011

A Christmas Short Mystery: A Theory of Murder by Dennis Palumbo



Today's Christmas treat is a short story by author and former screenwriter, DENNIS PALUMBO, which was featured here last year.



Palumbo's story, A THEORY OF MURDER, features Albert Einstein and originally appeared in The Strand Magazine, and then was part of the short story collection, From Crime to Crime (Tallfellow Press). Palumbo's credits include being a staff writer for the ABC TV series, Welcome Back, Kotter (remember that?)

FEVER DREAM, his second crime novel from Poisoned Pen Press features psychologist Daniel Rinaldi, a trauma expert, who treats victims of violent crime. It follows the acclaimed MIRROR IMAGE.



Palumbo's short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, The Strand, Written By and elsewhere. He provides articles and reviews for The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, The Lancet, and many others. His column, “The Writer’s Life,” appeared monthly for six years in Written By, the magazine of the Writers Guild of America. He’s also done commentary for NPR’s “All Things Considered,” and blogs regularly for The Huffington Post.

** Go to Part 2.


A THEORY OF MURDER - By Dennis Palumbo - Part 1

My friend Albert Einstein unwrapped his sausage roll, then looked up at me with those frank, dark eyes. “Tell me, Hector, what is the secret to living in harmony with a woman?”

I shrugged in my thick overcoat. It was cold out here in the dawn mist, beneath the wintry mantle of holiday snow. We sat, as we did every morning before work, on a bench overlooking the Aare River.

“I know less about women than you do,” I answered, sipping my tea. “At least you’ve managed to marry one.”

“I prefer to think that Mileva married me. For my money, perhaps?”

“It can’t be for your looks,” I said.

He smiled, then bit into his steaming roll, chewing as carelessly as he did most things.

Below us, the river flowed stubbornly around islands of scrabbly ice. Traversing its treacherous surface was a sleek racing scull being rowed by the university team, undaunted by the frigid conditions. I could just make out the half-dozen broad-shouldered students, encased in thick coats and heavy blankets, urged on by their coxswain.

We ate in a familiar, comfortable silence. Then I became aware of the rolling of cart-wheels on icy cobblestones, the flap of shop windows opening to the new day. Cool morning light poked through the haze, revealing the shapes of old, weathered buildings--relics of a past that young men like Albert and I had long since shrugged off.

We were the new generation, like those students on the water. The men of the future. It was the year 1904.

We finished our meager breakfasts and trundled down the snow-draped streets. It was two days before Christmas, and we passed several small clusters of religious folk, in gaily-colored mufflers and hats, ringing their bells and collecting for the poor. As usual, guilt made me dig into my own relatively poor pockets for some change.

Albert had said little as we made our way through the growing, early-morning throng. He’d seemed quite distracted these past months, though whether due to marital problems or his struggles with his arcane physics papers I couldn’t be sure. Whenever I asked about them, he’d merely say they weren’t ready for publication yet. I confess I doubted whether they might ever be.

At last, Albert and I arrived at the patent office. Inside, we found our employer, Herr Hoffmann, his thick mustache stained with coffee. A copy of this morning’s Gazette was in his hand.

“Have you heard the news?” he said, more agitated than usual. “Have you?”

“Are the planets still holding to their prescribed parabolas?” Albert asked mildly.

“Are they what--? Honestly, Herr Einstein--”

Hoffman shook his head, and raised the folded newspaper like a flag.

“The most horrible of all,” he said gravely. “Just last night...not five blocks from this very room. And during Christmas, for the love of God.”

“More murders?” I said, stunned. “Like before?...”

“Worse. An entire family. Husband, wife, three children. Murdered in their beds. Slaughtered like cattle.”

I took the paper he offered, my hands trembling as I read the horrible details.

“You must see this, Albert,” I said. “It’s unnatural. A crime unlike any in history.”

“Now that, dear Hector, I sincerely doubt. I trust you’ve heard of the Boer War. The massacres on the African coasts. Certain penal colonies in the Australian continent...”

“Yes, yes,” I said irritably. Truly, Albert could be maddening at times. In such moments, I didn’t envy Mileva her choice of husbands.

“My point, Albert,” I went on cooly, “is that a monster is afoot in Berne.”

“Exactly!” Hoffmann sputtered. “We have a Jack the Ripper in our midsts.”

Albert opened his eyes, at once penetrating and leavened with sadness. “Yet one far less discriminating. The Ripper chose his victims from among the women of the streets. This killer chooses them...at random? That, I suppose, is the great bafflement. How he chooses his victims, or why.”

Hoffmann nodded. “That’s what the police say. There appears to be no motive.” He pointed to the paper in my hands. “You see, they’ve listed the deaths so far. The watch-maker, stabbed in his shop. The knifing of the elderly couple. Three seminary students, hacked to pieces. Now this poor family.”

“No recurring pattern,” Albert mused. “So unlike the universe, when you think about it. Or the habits of most men.”

“Except for one thing,” I said. “He always uses a blade of some kind. A scissors for the watch-maker, a knife for the old couple, a thick cleaver for the students. Appalling.”

“And inefficient,” Albert said. “Unless the killer’s trying different approaches to discern the most effective. Trial and error. Hypothesis and experimentation. The scientific method.”

I stared at him. “The man’s obviously deranged! And you talk of methods...?”

Hoffmann clucked his tongue. “Sometimes, Herr Einstein, I worry about you.”

“I’m touched, Herr Hoffmann.”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m worried about.” Hoffmann laughed at his own wit and shuffled over to his desk by the front door. “However, should you feel inclined to join the rest of us in the real world, I’d appreciate the schematics of the Beringer application by first post.”

As I turned to my own work, I caught sight of Albert once again leaning back in his chair. He seemed to be staring at a spot on the ceiling. Or perhaps through the ceiling, and the sky beyond, to the very edge of the universe.

I hated to agree with Hoffmann, but Albert’s mind did usually seem everywhere except in this real world of brick and soil and sausage rolls, of yearning and sorrow and sudden, horrible death.

My odd friend Albert. So secretive about his as-yet unpublished physics papers, yet so casually sure that they’d stun the world. At times as playful as a child, at others sober and introverted.

Especially today, since hearing the gruesome news about the murdered family. Albert and I had exchanged not a word, cloaked in a thick silence broken only by the shuffle of drafting papers, the scratching of pens, the muffled ticking of the wall clock.

Until lunch-time arrived...along with an Inspector Kruger of the local police, who entered stamping snow from his boots.

Herr Hoffmann stood, mouth agape, as the tall, slender Kruger pulled his gloves from his hands and saluted.

“Just routine police work,” Kruger assured us. “We have these murders, you see. The whole Department is engaged.”

“Of course.” Hoffmann rubbed his hands nervously. “It’s a comfort, knowing our police are on the job. Berne is a peaceful town. We’ve never known such brutal events before.”

Kruger smiled. “Calm yourself, Herr Hoffmann. Men must be strong. It is our duty.” He turned to me. “Actually, I’m here to ask Herr Franks to come with me. To headquarters.”

“Me?” Like an idiot, I actually pointed to myself.

Albert rubbed his nose inoffensively. “Is Hector a suspect in these killings, ludicrous as that sounds?”

Kruger tightened his jaw. “I can’t say more.”

I looked over at Albert, whose own jaw tightened. He’d never handled authority very well, he told me once. I could plainly see that now.

“I suggest I accompany you, Hector,” he said at last. “As your second.”

Kruger looked as though he were about to respond, but then merely shrugged. He ushered us out the door.
* * *

The police wagon, wheels rattling, turned onto Aar-strasse. I frowned at Kruger, wedged between Albert and myself in the rear. “This is not the way to police headquarters.”

Kruger shrugged. “We must make one stop first.”

We pulled to the curb before a rambling, two-storied house shadowed by ancient firs thick with snow. A squad of uniformed policemen milled out on the lawn, hugging themselves against the cold, smoking brown cigarettes. As we climbed out of the wagon, the men came quickly to attention.

Beside me, Kruger merely grunted his displeasure and led me up the icy porch steps and into the foyer of the somber house. I heard Albert’s steady shuffle behind us.

The first horror awaited us in the drawing room. Splashes of dried blood covered the carpet, the arms of chairs, the gilt-edged picture frames—-even the still-hanging Christmas tinsel and carefully-wrapped presents under the tree.

The Inspector pointed at an obscene black stain near the hearth. “Herr Gossen and his wife were killed there.”

I couldn’t find words, but I heard Albert’s quiet voice behind me. “The children?”

Kruger nodded to the staircase. “Upstairs.”

He led the way up the velvet-lined steps and into the first of two bedrooms. Toys, stuffed animals, and colorful downy blankets attested to the ages of the former occupants. Twin boys, I recalled from the Gazette, not yet five.

Kruger drew our attention to the little beds. Blood-soaked. Sheets a tangle. “Murdered as they slept,” he said. “Perhaps it was a blessing.”

I found my voice. “But why are you showing this to us? To me? I don’t understand--”

Kruger stirred. “You will. In the girl’s room.”

He led us to the second bedroom, evidently that of a girl in her teens. Soft, feminine. I thought I saw the glint of a blond hair in the afternoon sun, where it adhered to a blood-stained pillow.

I took a breath, then felt Albert’s reassuring grasp on my arm. It was he who questioned the Inspector this time.

“I don’t see the reason for bringing us here,” he said.

In reply, Kruger took a folded cloth from his pocket. Within lay a heart-shaped gold locket, smeared with blood.

“It was found clutched in the dead girl’s hand,” Kruger explained. “Which was severed from her body, and lay a few feet away from it on the floor.”

“No!!” I cried. It took both of them to keep me upright as I swayed, gasping. “It...it can’t be...”

“So you recognize the locket?” Kruger stared at me.

I nodded dumbly. How could I not? It had once been mine.
* * *

“It was a cruel act,” Albert was saying to Kruger, as we sat in the Commissioner’s office at police headquarters. “And unnecessarily theatrical.”

“Perhaps.” Kruger’s bald head shone in the wintry light from the windows. “But I thought it might be effective.”

“For what? Extracting a confession from Herr Franks? You can’t possibly suspect Hector of these heinous crimes?”

I sat in silence on a padded bench at the far end of the large, wood-paneled room. I felt disembodied. Adrift in a nightmare from which I couldn’t awaken.

Until I was startled from my melancholy by the arrival of a slender young girl, in the company of a police matron.

“Mina!” I said, leaping from my seat. Upon seeing me, Mina froze in her tracks, face turning pale as chalk.

She was as beautiful as I remembered, luminous eyes now red-rimmed from recent tears.

Kruger rose, and turned to Albert.“This is Fraulein Mina Strauss,” he explained. “She was a school-mate of the late Fraulein Gossen.”

Mina’s voice quavered. “Poor Katie. She was my best, my truest friend. We...” She burst into tears, hands covering her face. The stoic matron idly handed her a handkerchief.

“Fraulein Strauss is also known to Herr Franks,” Kruger said, finally looking at me. “Isn’t that so?”

“Yes. I...we...” I looked at the floor. “I loved her once. Some few years ago.”

“Love?” Mina’s eyes found mine. “It was an infatuation, Hector. I was only sixteen, and even I had the wit to know that.” She turned to Kruger. “Hector worked for a summer for my father. He...flattered me with his attentions. But I never returned his affections. Even after he sent me the locket.”

Kruger pointed to the gold locket on the table next to us, still nested in the folded cloth. “This locket?”

Mina nodded, miserable. “I shouldn’t have kept it, I know. But it was so pretty. Perhaps I’m vain. Perhaps...” Her smile back at me was kind. “I’m sorry, Hector.”

Albert took a step forward, hands in the pockets of his loose trousers. Old pipe ash flecked his sweater.

“Might I ask how the locket came into the possession of Fraulein Gossen?”

Mina gazed warily at Albert’s careless appearance. I could sense that she found him...unimpressive.

“I gave it to Katie,” she said carefully. “As a token of our friendship, our bond. We shared a special kinship...a...” She looked at me for a long moment, then away, as though having decided I wouldn’t understand. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Now my world is over. Finished.”

I found her words perplexing, and glanced over at Albert. But his expression was unreadable.

Suddenly, a heavy tread sounded in the doorway. It was the large, imposing figure of Commissioner Otto Burlick. In his wake came a sturdy-looking young man wearing rimless glasses and a crisp college uniform beneath his winter coat. He had the same thick, dark features as the Commissioner.

Behind him, lounging in the doorway, was another college youth. Though he had the sullen look of a street ruffian.

Burlick lumbered over to his desk, rumaging hastily through the top drawer until he pulled out a check-book.

“Won’t be a minute,” he said to the room, exasperated. “My son Jeffrey is in need of a loan.”

“It is a loan,” Jeffrey, the first boy, protested. He glanced neither at me, Mina, nor the Inspector. “I’ll pay it back.”

“Don’t grovel, Jeffrey,” said the boy in the doorway. “It’s disgusting.”

Jeffrey whirled at this, face reddening. “Do shut up, Hans. If it wasn’t for you, egging me on...”

Hans laughed sourly. “So now it’s my fault you bet on the wrong boat?”

Burlick looked up from his desk, bristling. “Hans Pfeiffer? I’ve heard Jeffrey speak of you. You think you’re some kind of tough character. No doubt you’d benefit from a good hiding.” He turned to his son. “As for you, Jeffrey. Gambling on athletic events? Is this what they encourage at your university? I shall have to speak to the Chancellor...”

Jeffrey gasped, mortified. “Father, don’t!”

Burlick returned to his check-book. Jeffrey, seemingly at a loss, swept the room with his eyes. Then, with a forced casualness: “Hello, Herr Einstein.”

Albert registered a mild surprise. “Do I know you?”

“I’ve seen you around the campus,” Jeffrey said easily. “A real scholar, I’m told. Not like me. You wouldn’t want to hear about my difficulties with mathematics.”

Albert gave him a rueful smile. “I can assure you, young sir, mine are far worse.”

The sound of Commissioner Burlick ripping a check from his book drew our collective gaze. He gave it to Jeffrey, glowering. “Now go! And, by God, look to your studies.”

Jeffrey nodded, stuffed the check in his pocket and sauntered out. Hans turned to follow, but not before giving Mina a leering wink that made her look away.

* Go to Part 2.

(c) 2010-11 D. Palumbo reprinted in Candid Canine, http://candidcanine.blogspot.com

December 19, 2011

Miniatures Monday: Christmas flowers




Finally made some poinsettias I like! I realized the secret is making a shorter layer in the center....

Be sure to come back beginning Wednesday for part one of the first of two annual Christmas stories!

December 15, 2011

Help Cats for Christmas - New Book, Dark Things II: Cat Crimes



Author Patty G. Henderson is behind a new anthology aimed at helping homeless cats.


DARK THINGS II: Cat Crimes: Tales of Feline Mayhem and Murder (Volume 2) features more than 21 stories where the cat is the culprit, or at least the suspect.

Proceeds will go to various cat shelters and organizations helping homeless cats.

Coming soon in e-book....

Authors:
Mary V. Welk, Patricia Harrington, Jim Silvestri, Patty G. Henderson, Peter Medeiros, Kelli A. Wilkins, David Perlmutter, MJ Williamz, Edward DeGeorge, Shanna Germain, G. Elmer Munson, Fred Skolnik, James S. Dorr, Marian Allen, Jodi S. Watts, Margaret Phillips, Nat Burns, Ken Goldman, Anna Sykora and J.D. Revezzo, with an intro by Robert W. Walker.

Blurb:
A collection of tales featuring feline mayhem, murder and dastardly deeds. Vampire cats. Scoundrel cats. Daring cats. Killer cats. Cats you don't want in your worst nightmares and cats you might want on your side against evil. All proceeds from sales go to several cat sanctuaries across the USA. Enjoy over twenty-one cat tails and support a cat charity!