Looking for a good mystery that will cost you nothing to own? Then you are in luck — at least for three days and if you are a Kindle reader. The Unforgiving Town, my most recent release, is free Aug. 28-30.

Why in the heck would I give my book away for free? Because I want more people to read what I feel is a compelling mystery and hopefully, generate reviews. Here is the link to The Unforgiving Town.

Like most of my books, this one is set in the fictional hilltowns of Western Massachusetts. I begin it with a jolt — a week after being released from prison, Al Kitchen is found dead on a back country road.

The story goes back to when Al returns home after serving seventeen years for the beating death of a well-liked guy in a botched robbery. He lives with his cousin, Bernie Tucker, an outcast herself, and keeps busy bike riding and painting the house his loyal grandmother left him. Everywhere he goes, Al is confronted by people who hate him.

The story leads up to Al’s death. And then we and the town’s honest police chief get to solve who is responsible. (I love it when readers tell me I fooled them until the end.)

To add a little more depth to this story, I decided to make Al change for the better when he was locked away He spent much of his time reading books from the prison library. Al had plenty of time to feel authentic remorse for not only killing a man but a dark secret he shares with a woman.

However, nobody in the town believes that could have happened. Al would still be the reckless punk who has no boundaries.

Sometimes a story is too good to have only one book. The Unforgiving Town is a sequel to The Sacred Dog. Specifically, I wanted to know what happens to Al, the book’s bad guy, after he gets out of prison. Each book stands on its own although I would be happy if you read them both.

Here again is the link to The Unforgiving Town.

Share

As mentioned before, I am writing Covering a Crime, the ninth book in my Isabel Long Mystery Series. And as I give Isabel another case to solve, I have discovered I need to get a better handle on all of the characters I’ve created, and frankly, there are many.

Number eight, Finding the Source, was published last May. Since then I have been involved with other books and now screenplays. As I pass the one-third point for Covering a Crime, I’ve decided I need to reacquaint myself with the characters from this series and their back stories. Perhaps a character from an earlier book might fit nicely in the one I am writing.

First, there are those characters who have appeared with Isabel Long in all or many of the books in this series. The regulars includes Maria, her 93-year-old mother and partner in crime, that is, solving them; Jack, who owns the Rooster and is a love interest; the Old Farts, those gossipy old me who hang out in the backroom of the general store; Annette Waters, that tough gal who runs a junkyard and hires Isabel in the second book. The list goes on.

Then there are those characters who are one and done, often victims or perps or just minor persons of interest for a particular case although they might get a reference in a subsequent book. Or I could bring them back.

I actually started a character list before writing number eight but didn’t get very far. Some on the list have a good description, others just a name. But a lot are MIA.

Here are typical entries:

LIN PIERCE: Isabel ‘works’ for him starting in no. 2; pays her a buck a day and he gets a cut of what she makes as a P.I.; mostly does personal injury cases; fuddy-duddy; has small farm; sells biz to Bob Montgomery in no. 5; hires her in no. 6 to find his sister who was abducted as a baby in the family’s front yard in Jefferson.

ESTELLE CRANE: victim in no. 4; 59 at the time; gutsy co-owner and editor of The Observer; maiden name Templeton; father Charles Templeton; married Hamilton Crane, kind of a drunk who died in a crash two years before Estelle; when Charles died, Estelle and sister Alice took it over when they couldn’t sell the paper; Estelle had to drop out of grad school.

I include the names of the bands that play at the Rooster. The list so far: Country Bumpkins, Cowlicks, Junkyard Dogs, Hunters and Gatherers, Back Door Men, Country Plowboys, and Wild Fire.

There are pets like Isabel’s cat, Roxanne, and her dog, Maggie. Jack Smith inherited three mutts from his sister who don’t like Isabel: Shirley, Pete and Suzie.

So the other day, I grabbed the stack of Isabel Long paperbacks and started with the first, Chasing the Case.

I skim the paperback, looking for names and jotting down a brief bio in the document on my laptop. Several will need updating as I make my way through the series. Then I will put them in some sort of order so I can reference the list easily.

My goal is one book a day. I will be starting no. 4, Killing the Story, later today, which means I will be adding Isabel’s arch-nemesis Police Chief James Hawthorne to the list. Isabel can’t seem to shake that guy.

HEADS-UP: The Unforgiving Town is a mystery although not part of the Isabel Long Mystery Series. I am making it free for Kindle readers on Friday, Aug. 28 to Sunday, Aug. 30. My goal is to get more readers and reviews. Don’t worry. I will remind you all on Friday.

Share

No, not really, but I wanted to get your attention. Besides, it’s an appropriate title for this post, given that Isabel Long and I are getting deeper into our next case. Covering the Crime will be the ninth in the series after we solve it. I’ve been at it for two months and I am well over the one-third mark, remarkable considering the other writing projects I have going at the same time.

For those new to my series, Isabel Long is a long-time journalist who uses the skills she learned during her prematurely shortened career to solve cold cases in the fictional hilltowns of Western Massachusetts. She has the help of her 93-year-old mystery-loving mother who came to live with her. On Friday nights, you’ll find Isabel behind the bar at the Rooster, which is owned by a local guy, Jack, who is her love interest.

When you get to number nine, it’s important to keep things fresh and lively. I am disappointed when I solve a case before the P.I., cop, or whoever in a mystery I am reading or watching. Fool me to the end please, and it delights me when readers tell me that’s what happened for them.

For me it starts with the victim. Those in my other books have included a junkyard owner, a highway worker who wrote poetry, a book seller, the list goes on. In all but two, the victims are deceased. Their deaths were ruled accidents or a suicide, but a person close to them doesn’t believe that’s what happened. Actually, let me back up and say that no. eight, Finding the Source, has an outright murder that happened many years ago. Those two cases include a baby who was kidnapped from a front yard and a literary agent who survived being shot in the head.

At the start of this one, I mulled having the victim be a small town official who went missing and was found dead a few years later. Edwin Stuart was going to be an ornery guy who liked things in his rural town run his way. He was the town’s postmaster and, oh, he cheated at cribbage.

But as I dug into the story, I dropped that idea. Edwin just wasn’t interesting enough. So, he became a well-known artist who had moved with his wife to the sticks. He went missing, presumably in the woods behind his plush home just before an early November snowstorm. His remains were found three years later just over the border in another town. It was dismissed as a case of an 80-year-old man with early onset dementia getting lost. Who knows how long he had been gone since his wife had been away for several days?

But his grandson, Sean Mooney, who hires Isabel, doesn’t believe it. Sean was an intern at the newspaper where Isabel used to be editor-in-chief, and he has since reported on a couple of her cases. He tried to solve this one on his own, but gave up. He turns over his work so far to Isabel.

I made Edwin Stuart the kind of person who liked to rub elbows with the locals, especially women. That meant he was familiar to people Isabel knows from her other cases, so she is able to glean info from Annette Waters, that no-holds-barred woman who inherited her father’s junkyard, and Dave Baxter, a bar owner. Of course, there are the Old Farts, those gossipy old men who meet in the back of the general store, although I threw them some drama for this one. Of course, Isabel will meet new people for this case.

And, yes, Edwin Stuart does play cribbage at the local bar. Did he cheat? Isabel will find out. Jack is teaching her how to play so she can sit in on a game.

Often the title comes a close second when I start a new book. Typically, it pops in my head like everything else. In this case, the title was originally Covering a Murder. Eh, as I got into it, I found myself less happy about the title. The word “murder” might get people’s attention, but I preferred a word with a long vowel. Hence, the new title, Covering a Crime.

Over the next four or so months, I will be at it, channeling Isabel as she tries to solve this mystery. Wish us luck.

Interested in reading my Isabel Long books? Here is the link to those and my other books on Amazon:

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: The yellow flowers I planted last year, a gift from a neighbor, that are spreading on the hill that used to be dominated by knotweed beneath our deck. They’ll be back next year.

Share

When I was a girl living near the ocean, I was enamored by what its waves brought to the shore. Of course, I found shells. But I was more interested in sea glass, which the ocean created from what people discarded in its waters. I still am.

My other obsession, pinecones, developed later in life.

Hank and I do collect art, including prints, paintings, and pottery. I have my book collection. But I so love finding and keeping what the natural world leaves behind.

As a girl growing up in an ocean-side town, I spent so much time on its beaches. Walking them, I found bits of glass, sanded so smooth, they couldn’t cut you. Most were likely from soda and beer bottles tossed from boats. Others came from the contents of homes destroyed by hurricanes. Most pieces were green, brown, a light turquoise, and clear with the rarer red or deep blue, plus bits of ceramics.

When I was a college student with a minor in art, I created a large collage of the sea glass I owned then for a class. I called it Eckhart’s Phobia after a friend who had a fear of finding broken glass in his food. I am sorry I gave that collage away.

Later in life, I began collecting sea glass whenever I was on a beach. However, it noticeably has become rarer to find as beverages are now most likely contained in plastic. That’s my collection in the jar above. By the way, I am skeptical of jewelry makers selling pieces supposedly made of sea glass. Most likely, they were created in a tumbler.

Ah, but pinecones remain as plentiful as the trees that make them. My first was a gift from my sister, Christine, who brought back a pinecone when she went to California for a job interview. The gift resonated with me. I loved how the pinecone’s hard, woody plates spiraled around its core stem. I still do.

Over the years, I have collected pinecones of varying shapes and sizes that I’ve found in various parts of our country. I even bought a couple of interesting large ones in secondhand stores.

Like sea glass, I consider pinecones a simple gift from nature to treasure. My question to you: are you a collector?

Share

I was disappointed when the fabric of my favorite sweater was so worn at the elbow, I could see skin. Wool. Soft and gray. It was a Prada, a welcomed castoff from a daughter who bought it at a consignment store. I found a way to mend it, which lasted several years before I told myself “no mas” and recycled it.

The Prada sweater is the second top that has suffered the same fate, which leads me to believe I have sharp elbows. Yes, when I touch them, only a thin sheath of flesh covers bone.

Not so good for clothes, like my prized Prada sweater, but a useful trait if you’re a journalist, as I was for oh-so-many years. Having sharp elbows served me better under those circumstances.

The term using sharp elbows sounds like a person forcing themselves into a situation. You know — get out of my way or you’ll get jabbed. I prefer to think a person will be tough when the situation warrants it.

To back up a little, I was definitely a shy girl when I was younger. I preferred to watch instead of act because I was unsure of myself. I lived a sheltered life. But I had to change when I became a reporter and realized being that way wasn’t going to get me the information I needed for a story.

When I was the hilltown reporter for the Daily Hampshire Gazette, so-called sharp elbows got me a private tour of a nuclear power plant that was on the verge of being shut down. They got me into meetings already pronounced closed. I recall walking through people’s backyards after a tornado hit a town in the Berkshires. I did interviews in prison. I even went to the White House.

There were times I knocked on doors, uncertain whether the person on the other side would let me in for an interview or give me a comment for a story. Or I would corner them at a meeting. Then there were those cold calls I made. My intent was to share all sides of a story. Sometimes the best I could do was to write the person “declined to comment” or “couldn’t be reached for comment.” But at least I tried.

By the way, I called those so-called deep breath phone calls. That’s when you take a deep breath before beginning the call.

In Taos, when I was the editor-in-chief of the newspaper there, I recall going to an event where then-Gov. Susana Martinez was speaking in a hotel’s hall. I wanted to interview her about issues that involved our community, so I asked the governor’s staff members for some time with her. The staff was doubtful, so I stood to the side in the hall as she spoke to the crowd. Guess what? The governor came over to talk. She answered all of my questions.

I left journalism for good three years ago. Now I write novels instead. What I learned as a reporter and editor was to have confidence in myself when I have a goal in mind. There’s no need to jab anybody with those sharp elbows of mine. Just speak up and be heard.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: My late mother painted that genie on the cellar wall of my childhood home. People have asked about it after I mentioned it in a previous post. Voila! Here he is.

Share

With two movie screenplays done, John MacGibbon, my collaborator, and I are onto the next, a movie adaption of another of my hilltown novels, The Sweet Spot. I am excited about the possibility of experiencing the story I created in another way. John and I met Friday morning at the local coffee shop to talk about this project.

First, let me tell you about The Sweet Spot. Edie St. Claire’s rough-sawn family has lived in the hilltown of Conwell forever it seems. Her father runs the town dump. Her aunt, who lives next door, has no brakes on her opinions or mouth. And Edie is usually in the middle of whatever fun there is in this town of about a thousand people — the bar, the local softball team and her in-law’s general store where she works.

But Edie can’t let go of a deep sadness — the death of her husband in Vietnam. Gil was a sweetheart of a guy and together they had a little girl he never met. They were high school sweethearts who married young. Gil was taken by Edie’s fun-loving spirit. She adored his tenderness. They would have had a wonderful future together, except he pulled a low number during the 1969 lottery and had to go to war. The novel is set in 1978.

Edie tries to ease her pain via an affair with his married brother, but when that ends tragically, she attempts to survive the blame with the help of her family and a badly scarred stranger who arrives in town for his fresh start.

I typed the first draft of The Sweet Spot with one hand. It was summer 2004, and I was recuperating after getting hit by a car when I was in a crosswalk. I remember coming home from work and letting the words flow one after the other. I don’t know where this story came from, but there it was, 80,000 words later. I also got quite good at typing with only my right hand.

Share

To prepare for writing this screenplay, I reread the book. It had been a while, but I still enjoyed the story and saw its potential as a film. So did John.

So this week, I will work on a healthy chunk in the program Fade-In, then email it John for his changes, edits, and opinions. We typically meet Friday mornings to discuss, as we did Friday morning, the characters, scenes, what could be expanded or shrunk or eliminated. I learned long ago that what you read in a book might not be in the screen version, and vice versa.

As for the other screenplays, John and I feel they are solid. We have moved onto the next steps that involve other people, that is getting them made into films. Wish us luck.

By the way, here’s the link to The Sweet Spot.

Every time I drive home to North Fairhaven, I pass a notable landmark: the Frates Dairy milk bottle. Located on Acushnet Avenue in New Bedford, this replica of a milk bottle is over 50 feet tall. Now, it is part of a pizza restaurant. But when I was a girl, it sold ice cream — and importantly, it had a role in a family ritual.

Basically, if I — and my younger sister, when she became school age — made the honor roll, the family went to Frates for an ice cream sundae. It was the reward, one that was shared, for doing so well in school. And, yes, I never failed to make the honor roll.

I remember being handed the tall paper cup containing scoops of ice cream, chocolate sauce, maybe nuts, whipped cream, and a cherry on top, which we ate with a long plastic spoon in the car. I ate every bit of it.

I don’t know what inspired this ritual. It certainly wasn’t a part of my parents’ childhood. Both had to drop out of school to work. So, they were happy their children had the educational opportunities they didn’t get.

As I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, ice cream was a big deal for our family. We would get a cone after one of my father’s softball games. My Dad, a big ice cream aficionado, knew which places served the biggest ones. I am guessing my father didn’t get to eat much ice cream when he was a kid.

I read online that the Frates Dairy bottle in New Bedford was one of three built in the 1920s. The other two were in Boston and Raynham. The bottles, designed by Les Labrose, were constructed using a boat-building method that involved steamed boards. They looked like the bottles that milk was sold in then, painted so it appeared cream had separated from the milk below a red paper cap. See the vintage photo I found online, alas, with no credit for the photographer.

These kinds of bottles were familiar to us. When we were kids, we had milk delivered to our door by White’s Dairy in Acushnet. Glass bottles were dropped off in a metal box outside our kitchen door. The milkman would take the washed bottles we were returning. That went on for many years.

The Frates Dairy building in New Bedford is owned by G&S Pizza, which serves ice cream in the warmer months. I haven’t gone back inside although I stopped to take that photo above, which is a bit fuzzy because of the smoke from Canada. The original wording is no longer on the outside. The milk goes all the way to the cap.

Sometime during my childhood, the ice cream sundae ritual stopped. I don’t remember when or why, but I always smile when I drive pass that gigantic bottle, thinking about that sweet reward we got for good grades.

Share

Looking for a mystery set in a place you likely have never been? That’s what Teresa Dovalpage gives readers in her new book, The Novel Detective, when she takes readers to her native Cuba — in pre-Covid 2020 and 40 years earlier when an alleged double suicide involving a teacher and student took place at a school. Full disclosure: Dovalpage is the friend who inspired me to write mysteries because she writes hers so well.

In The Novel Detective, Dovalpage created two books in one as well as two versions of the main character. Instead of relying on flashbacks, she cleverly rotates chapters between the two times throughout the novel.

So we meet the adult Teresa, who now lives in New Mexico where she is a mystery writer. She is contacted by a childhood friend, Estrella, who emigrated to Miami, to return home to solve a mystery that haunts them both still. The teacher appeared to have jumped from a window at the school while the female student, with whom he was having an affair, was found poisoned in another room. But is that what really happened?

Then there is 14-year-old Teresita, a shy girl growing up in heavily communistic Cuba. A fan of fictional detectives like Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, she keenly observes what the people at her school are doing, including an inappropriate relationship between the aforementioned teacher and student.

Now an adult, Teresa relies on her skills as a mystery writer to interview people connected to this case. Her return to Cuba is also an opportunity to experience how much the country has changed since 1980.

In this excerpt, Teresa reflects on her family’s decision to leave Cuba. “I tried to imagine what my life would have been like if my family had stayed in Cuba. I would have gone to college, for sure, and majored in literature or perhaps English, since I already knew a little. Would I have managed to become a writer? And if I had, what kind of books would I have written? Crime novels glorifying State Security? Or I could have been a detective, like in my teenage dreams. Lieutenant Teresita? A real detective, not an amateur.”

Authors often take what they know and have their way with it. That’s the case with Teresa who relies on her experiences growing up in Cuba and then living as an adult in the U.S. Besides creating a mystery that a reader would want to solve along with her, she gives us authentic views of Cuba.

The Novel Detective by Teresa Dovalpage, which has a July 14 release by Soho Press, is available in hard cover, Kindle and audiobook. Here’s the link on Amazon.

Share

Who doesn’t love a good mystery? I surely do, whether it’s in a book, movie or TV show, and even real life. Years ago, I decided I would create my own, and thus the Isabel Long Mystery Series began.

Actually, I didn’t start writing mysteries. First, I wrote poetry and after too long a time when I wasn’t writing at all, I was drawn to what I would call literary fiction. It was after my close friend, Teresa Dovalpage, wrote her first mystery that I told myself to give it a try. And from reading and watching so many mysteries, I believe I figured it out from the get-go with Chasing the Case.

First, an author has to create a mystery worth solving. Often that involves a wrongful death, say one passed off as an accident or a suicide, or an outright murder. It could be about a missing person or a grand theft.

Then someone interesting needs to solve it.

In my series, I let Isabel Long use the transferable skills of her former profession as a journalist to be a private investigator solving cold cases in the rural area where she lives. Isabel is smart, nosy, and a bit sassy, and people who know me would likely say I channel myself a bit through this character. But that’s where the similarities end. She’s a recent widow, mother of three grown kids and grandmother to a little one. She lost her job as editor-in-chief when the newspaper went corporate. Her personal life changes after she starts working as a part-time bartender at the town’s only watering hole and she becomes involved with its owner.

I also gave Isabel an unusual sidekick, her 92-year-old mystery-loving mother who comes to live with her. (My late mother is the inspiration.)

The setting for the series and much of my books is the sticks of Western Massachusetts, which I know well since I’ve lived there much of my life and covered as a reporter.

A mystery needs characters who are complex and interesting. Mine are not based on anyone real, but I feel they could easily live in the setting I’ve created, generally country folk. Among the characters Isabel encounters are a woman who runs a junkyard and garage, a famous poet, drug-dealing brothers, a literary agent, a homeless man, and owner of a small newspaper.

When I watch or read a mystery, I want to be fooled until nearly the ending. Don’t make the distractions and dead ends obvious. Keep me guessing. I am thrilled when a person tells me that’s what happened when they read one of my books.

I applied the same principals to a mystery I wrote that wasn’t part of the series, The Unforgiving Town, my most recent release. This time I let a small town police chief, Scott Stevens, solve the death of a man found alongside a road a week after he was released from prison. In a change of pace, I bumped off the main character, Al Kitchen, in the first chapter. In the second, it is a week earlier when Al comes home much to the town’s displeasure. We follow what Al does up to his death and after that happens, I let Scott solve it.

Just like Isabel and Scott, I don’t start off knowing whodunnit. It’s as much a mystery to me as it is to them, so we solve it together — an experience I find extremely satisfying.

But in the end, we find the culprit. Mystery solved, onto the next, which is what I am doing now. I am writing the ninth case for Isabel in Covering a Crime. (I decided I didn’t like my original title, Covering a Murder.) I am 15,000 words into it. In this case, the victim is not a likable person although the person who hires Isabel, his grandson, is. Stay tuned.

Curious? Here’s the link to my books.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: I took that shot one night on our street because I felt it looked mysterious.

Share

Nah, I’m not that stupid. So, I do the next best thing. I listen to someone else read a book out loud while I drive. I love reading, but frankly, these days I am too busy writing on my computer to focus on a physical book.

I began listening to books when I lived long ago in Worthington and commuted five days a week to the newsroom in Northampton, where I was an editor. It was a 35-to 45-minute drive depending on the time of day, traffic, and weather. That gave me plenty of time to get through a book pretty quickly.

I borrowed the audiobooks from our town library. The first I checked out was Stewart O’Nan’s The Odds about a couple in financial and marital trouble who go to a casino at Niagara Falls. It took me a bit to get used to the male narrator’s voice, but he kept me entertained, even doing a woman’s voice, during my commute — a successful experiment for certain. It was also better than listening to depressing news and commentary on the radio.

Then I took a long break from listening to books when we moved to New Mexico. I resumed my habit after we returned to Western Mass. and I commuted to newsrooms here. I am talking 60-hour work-weeks. Suffice it to say my reduced free time made me choose between writing books or reading them. Then I thought why not listen to them?

I still do even though I no longer have a commute, mostly in my car, but sometimes when I am so engaged in the story being told, while I cook dinner. During time I had a gym membership, I also listened to books. Of course, the big difference from the early years is that I can download an audiobook to my phone.

Do I love every book I listen to? No. There have been even a few I didn’t finish. It annoys the heck out of me when I use up a credit that way.

Besides being an engaging piece of writing, the voices of the narrators mean a great deal. Most recently my friend, Chelsea, recommended Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt. I was sold when I heard Michael Urie narrate the words by Marcellus the Octopus. (As for the movie version, I was so turned off by whoever was supposed to “play” Marcellus, I stopped watching. Besides Sally Field was not how I envisioned the character Tova, but that’s another story.)

There was also a time when I listened to language courses, including Portuguese, Spanish, and Japanese.

The library on my phone includes: The Dive from Clausen’s Pier by Ann Pachet; Hatchet by Gary Paulsen; several of Allen Eskens’ mysteries; The River is Waiting by Wally Lamb; Greenlights by Matthew McConaughey; Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver; The Nickel Boys by Colons Whitehead; The Women and The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah; James by Percival Everett.

My current book? Lessons in Chemistry by Boonie Garmus, as recommended by Chelsea.

So what about the books I wrote? I did record Professor Groovy and Other Stories with the help of my son, Nate, who has his own recording equipment. That’s the cover above. Only one hour and 11 minutes and 11 seconds, but it was a lot of work. As for my other books, I am working on it.

But in the meantime, have a good recommendation for an audiobook? Send it on. Thanks if you do.

Share Joan Livingston Writes

I’ve been a bit nostalgic as my family prepares to sell our parents’ home, where I grew up in North Fairhaven. That involves keeping, selling or giving away the things they accumulated since 1952, plus giving the interior a good scrubbing.

At last month’s estate sale held inside, the most talked-about feature of those who came was the door that doubled as a bookcase. That’s it in the photo above. I so loved that door because it made me feel the house had a secret passageway. Who wouldn’t want to live in a home with one?

When my industrious parents constructed their Cape-style home, they held off having bedrooms in the attic for years. The door they had built blocking the upstairs wasn’t ordinary, however. It was also a bookcase with paneling at the bottom, and if someone didn’t notice the hinges, they wouldn’t think it was a doorway. Very clever.

I always felt this door was one of the best features of our house — along with my father’s gardens, the player piano in the cellar, and a huge genie my mother painted on the wall beside it.

Eventually, the upstairs was finished with an oversized bedroom that has built-in closets and drawers, a den, and a large storage area when our family expanded to four children. We three girls slept upstairs. Our brother had his own room downstairs. The bookcase door was then moved upstairs to seal off a storage area.

Now, the door is back where it was originally installed on the first floor. Old books filled its shelves until they were donated recently.

My fascination with secret passageways was intensified as a kid when I read Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl. This book wasn’t fiction, but a moving account of how Anne’s family and others attempted to survive the Nazi regime in Amsterdam by hiding in the Secret Annex. That doorway also was disguised as a bookcase. Unfortunately it was not enough to keep Anne and the others safe. Our experiences couldn’t have been more different.

During my childhood, I read Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden and Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, and the entire Wizard of Oz series by L. Frank Baum. There were other books and movies in which people could escape to some place secret and didn’t know what they would find there.

Certainly, such magical realism has inspired my own books for young readers, such as the Twin Jinn Series — the third The Twin Jinn in the Land of Enchantment will be the next release. Then there is The Talking Table, a young adult novel that I’ve been pitching to agents and publishers.

The bookcase door in my parents’ home, alas, didn’t bring me to a magical place each time I opened it. But it certainly kindled my imagination, and I thank them for that.

Share

Lately, I’ve had a craving to write a new book. Specifically, I wanted to solve a mystery with Isabel Long, my savvy, snarky P.I. who investigates cold cases in the fictional hilltowns of Western Mass. Happily, we started our next case this week. The title? Covering a Murder.

It’s not like I haven’t been busy with words since I published my eighth Isabel Long Mystery — Finding the Source — last May. I concentrated on two novels. The Unforgiving Town is a sequel to The Sacred Dog although this one is a mystery. I released that one in early April. Then there’s my young adult book, The Talking Table, which remains unpublished as I query agents and indie publishers because I believe this book deserves a big readership.

Meanwhile, I got into writing screenplays with my collaborator John MacGibbon, an Emmy-award winning documentary filmmaker who lives across the river from me. One is for an animated film based on the Space Cat series written in the fifties. The other is for one of my books, Northern Comfort. Wish us success.

Then, I edited The Twin Jinn in the Land of Enchantment, third in my middle grade series featuring a family of genies aka jinn. I wrote this book when we lived in New Mexico, which is its setting. I will publish this one myself soon. Right now, it is in the hands of my trusted proofreader, Tim Todd. My son, Ezra, will be creating the cover.

Well before I started Covering a Murder, I decided I needed to channel Isabel Long by reading the last two books, which I did. Then, on Monday, I opened a document on my computer and began writing. Like most of my other Isabel Long titles, this title is a reference to her former job as a journalist, as in covering a story. Also, the details about a murder could have been hidden by a person or persons. I was pleased at the response from readers when I made an announcement on social media.

What is this case about? Isabel is about to find out when she and her mother meet a reporter, Sean Mooney. In the last book, Isabel got a call from him as she wrapped up that case. She was at Rough Waters Garage after fleeing a dangerous situation.

“Isabel, it’s Sean Mooney. Remember me? I was a reporter at the Bugle. I don’t work there anymore.”

Does Sean work for another paper and already found out about what happened? That would be awfully fast.

“Of course, I remember you, Sean. I’ve been trying to reach you. How’s it going?”

“I’m doing okay, but I really could use your help with something.”

“My help? What for?”

“I believe I could have a case for you to solve. Are you available by any chance?”

I glance around at what’s happening at Rough Waters. The police mill about and Jack chats with those he knows. Thorny acts like the little bigshot he thinks he is. And I’m about to tell a man that I’ve solved his case. There can only be one answer.

“Yes, I am.”

As I’ve mentioned before, I aim for 500 words a day, an amount that makes writing a novel an enjoyable experience. Typically, Isabel’s books are in the mid-70s range, so I have a ways to go.

But like Isabel Long, I am game.

Share

It’s time to channel your 11-year-old selves as I share news about my next book, The Twin Jinn in the Land of Enchantment, third in the series. I wrote this book for middle-grade readers when we lived in New Mexico aka the Land of Enchantment. The book has been percolating in my computer, and now, it is getting its final edits and a cover.

The main characters in the Twin Jinn Series are Jute and Fina Jinn, twin brother and sister, who have magical powers I covet such as having the ability to disappear, fly, and cast spells. They are sweet, well-meaning 11-year-olds, who are also competitive and a bit mischievous. The twins and their parents, Elwin and Mira, are magical beings aka jinn or genies.

Before the series started, the family managed to trick their evil master, Dann, into freeing them, and now he is possessed trying to get them back.

In the first book, The Twin Jinn at Happy Jack’s Carnival of Mysteries, the family hides out at a traveling carnival, where they perform a magic act.

In the second, The Twin Jinn and the Alchemy Machine, the family lives in a small town, where the twins attend school to learn more about humans

In The Twin Jinn in the Land of Enchantment, the family visits Cowboy Roy, a friend from the carnival, at his Buena Vista Ranch. The family helps him created a horse refuge. The twins also learn new powers — the ability to see and walk through walls. And as they did in the other books, they help a child be a better human.

In this excerpt from the first chapter, Jute and Fina show off their riding skills to Cowboy Roy as they ride bareback on a horse named Daisy.

Cowboy Roy raised his white ten-gallon hat and whooped. “You twins are natural riders,” he said. “Come on. Show me what else you can do.”

Jute and Fina grinned. The twins being jinn, or genies as many humans called them, could do most anything. Jinn could disappear and reappear. They could get bigger and smaller, fly high in the air, and cast spells. They could do remarkable tricks with ease like ride a bareback horse while standing up and not holding on, which is exactly what Fina decided to do.

Fina bent forward to speak in her brother’s ear.

“Jute, what do you say?”

Her brother glanced around.

“Are Mama and Papa here?” he asked.

“No, it’s okay. Jute, stop being such a baby jinni.”

“Baby jinni! I just don’t want to get in trouble again,” he said. “You heard what Mama and Papa said about using our powers in front of humans. We both know you’re the one who always starts it.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one who came up with the idea to build an alchemy machine for a science fair project,” Fina said. “Remember?”

Jute closed one eye.

“Okay, it was my fault one time. What about all the others? How about when you shrunk the goat, Resa, or stuck that boy, Brian, to his chair?”

“Hey, you stuck his feet to the floor.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Cowboy Roy is the only one here, and he’s our friend even though he doesn’t know who we really are,” Fina said.

Jute thought. Yes, Cowboy Roy always looked out for the twins at the carnival’s midway. He helped their family escape when their former master, Dann, showed up on the last day of the season. Besides, he and Fina were only using a teeny bit of their jinn powers when they rode Daisy.

“All right, what do you want to do?” Jute asked.

“Oh, something like this.”

Fina barely finished her last word when she stood on the horse’s back. She spread her arms as if she needed them to keep her balance. It wasn’t necessary, however. Jinn have perfect balance. Fina could stand on tiptoes and not fall off. She could even do it on one toe. Instead, she waved at Cowboy Roy, who hooted from his spot in the corral.

Jute shook his head. He couldn’t let Fina show off without him.

“Ta-da!” he shouted as he copied his sister.

Jute and Fina rode on Daisy around the corral. The twins had the same round features, browned skin, black hair, and silvery blue eyes. They wore loose black pants and a vest over a white silky top, and curly shoes with bells on the tips.

Fina spoke in her brother’s ear.

“What do you think? One more?”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, I’m going to stand on your shoulders,” Fina said. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Just like that, Fina hopped onto her brother’s shoulders. The bells on her shoes tinkled in Jute’s ears. Her long braid slapped against her back as Daisy pranced in a circle.

“Hold my ankles, Jute, to make it look like we’re human,” she whispered.

Cowboy Roy waved his hat and hollered, “Way to go, buckaroos!”

I plan to share what I have learned first-hand about self-publishing at a conference this fall. Appropriately titled, Self-Publishing 101, this workshop will help writers curious about whether this would be a realistic approach for them.

The workshop will take place Saturday, Oct. 24 at the 2026 WriteAngles Writers Conference at Bay Path University in Longmeadow, Mass. Here’s a link to Straw Dog Writers Guild, which is sponsoring the conference. I am a member.

This is the pitch I offered the conference’s organizers: You’ve written a book you want others to read, but your querying attempts have failed to attract a publisher. Yes, self-publishing is a legitimate option. As a hybrid author who has self-published 15 books, I will share what I’ve learned, including the possibilities, realities, and processes of publishing this way.

Since I started as a wide-eyed, wannabe author 26 years ago, I have had a variety of experiences related to the publishing world. The first thing I learned is there is writing and then there is the business of writing. Frankly, the first is easier.

I queried a gazillion agents — in those days indie publishers were few. I did secure two agents, but they were unable to sell my books. After we parted ways, I paid a talented friend to design three books that I self-published. I also kept writing novels.

Then in 2017, shortly after we moved from New Mexico to Western Mass., I hooked up with an indie publisher, Crooked Cat/darkstroke books based in France, which published 11 of my books. It was a very rewarding experience, but in 2024, the publisher closed shop.

Bloodhound Books in the UK reached out to publish the first in my Isabel Mystery Series, but, alas, no more. What to do? I pledged this time not to query aka beg even with the large increase in indie publishers willing to take on writers without an agent.

Like so much in my life, I decided to do it myself, including handling the formatting and promotion. Crooked Cat/darkstroke handed over the covers free plus formatting guidelines, so I got started.. Using my laptop and software I already have, I republished eight books and then published four new ones. You can see them in the photo above. I admit being lucky to have an artist son Ezra who creates covers for me.

Curious? Here’s the link to my books on Amazon.

What will I offer at this workshop at the WriteAngles Writers Conference? Basically, it will be the nuts and bolts of self-publishing. And those who attend can decide if this is the way to go for them. I will write another post closer to the conference.

So much to teach in 75 minutes, but I will do my best in Self-Publishing 101.

Share

So sad to say my parents are no longer with us. Antone and Algerina Medeiros were so involved and interested in Fairhaven whether it was their church, local sports teams, or town events. They loved its history and finding interesting objects to keep. And that showed as their home is being cleaned and readied for sale.

My parents built the house in 1952, doing a lot of the work themselves. Over the years, they changed the interior, giving it that Colonial look they so liked and finishing the second floor when the family grew to have four kids.

Certainly, there were items that meant something to us four siblings. But, alas, that leaves so much more to sell or give away.

A bulk of the work has fallen on my brother Tony and his wife Patty, who live in that neighborhood. Both have a booth in a flea market, so they are familiar with that kind of business. Early on we decided to hold an estate sale to raise money to cover such costs as a dumpster, getting rid of mattresses, etc.

I live about three hours away, depending on the traffic, so I came when I could like the day we sorted and cleaned the cellar. Among the objects there were the antique bottles, enough to fill a wall, my parents dug out of a town dump before it was closed. I was there for dumpster day when we carried what wasn’t fit to be sold into a big metal box.

I came early last Saturday to help with the estate sale. Each room had items organized and priced, thanks to Patty. As I walked among them, I recalled the memories they held.

There was the old Singer sewing machine my seamstress mother used to create special articles of clothing like my prom gowns and the wedding dress from my first marriage. She relied on her sewing wizardry to make oh-so-many costumes for the shows St. Mary’s Church used to hold— more in a little while. A basket held tools my mother used to create scrimshaw. There were the religious statues my devout father collected. The tools he used to tend his vegetable garden were displayed on the lawn outside.

I remembered where each piece of furniture had been.

I did find two things I wanted to keep — a pine needle basket my mother asked me to make for her and a quilt rack Hank built her from redwood.

About those costumes. St. Mary’s Church used to have fundraising shows with themes. People sang and did routines. I was in the first, a minstrel show, when I was a teenager. My father, who loved being in the spotlight, was always one of the stars. He’d dress as Napoleon, Elvis, Uncle Sam, King Kamehameha, the list goes on. Dad also wore those costumes to town functions. I laughed when I saw the dress my mother created so Dad could pretend he was Shirley Temple. There were two life-sized ostriches and a shark costume.

Patty handled the payments. Tony and I hung out in various part of the house, greeting people and talking about the stories behind the objects they were interested in perhaps buying. The second day, everything was half price. As I write this piece, Saturday, May 30, the sale continues. I am not attending this one.

So many times, I heard people say with a sympathetic voice how they had to clean out a relative’s home. It’s made me look hard at what we own although moving 2,400 miles twice within 11 years has helped to keep our belongings slim.

What doesn’t sell will be donated. And then Patty and I have chosen which day she and I will spend scrubbing the home clean. But no matter how hard we work, the house on Jesse Street will never be rid of the wonderful memories it holds.

Share

Nearly two years ago, I wrote about my plan to eliminate the Japanese Knotweed growing so abundantly on the large slope beside our bungalow. No chemicals. Just labor on my part, cutting and cutting the plants until hopefully they gave up.

Then I got a better idea. Give it competition. Grow grass.

Knotweed aka Reynoutria japonica is an invasive and fast-growing weed from Asia that looks like bamboo, but it isn’t. The plants grow tall and flower. Their roots move horizontally, so you need to keep them away from foundations.

The plant was brought to the U.K. in the early 1800s before it came to the U.S. I was never aware of Knotweed until we moved into our current home, and now, I see it everywhere — along highways and roadsides, empty lots, people’s yards, basically anywhere the soil has been disturbed and the seeds landed. I bet Knotweed took over part of our yard when an addition and a garage were built by previous owners around 1990.

What to do?

Our son, Zack, got two goats to tackle the knotweed growing near the old mill he bought. They love eating the plants, but I wasn’t about to own goats. Trying to smother the Knotweed with a heavy swimming pool cover didn’t last long as the plants just cleverly traveled around it. Besides, it looked like heck.

I read that if you keep cutting Knotweed, say over many years, it would eventually give up. So, that’s what I decided to do, starting in early spring 2024, using my weed whacker with two extension cords to cut the Knotweed every two weeks until the first frost. The photo above shows what the slope looked like during the process — and how thick the Knotweed was growing.

This was a lot of work and frankly, I didn’t see a significantly diminished crop of Knotweed. It was our son, Ezra, who suggested I try fighting the invasive weed with another — grass.

So, last year before the Knotweed emerged, I raked the ground, and then spread the West County Mix grass seed I bought at the local Shelburne Farm and Garden. I don’t have a faucet for a hose in that part of our yard, so I counted on the rain to water the land.

The seed turned to grass, which turned into a lawn of sorts. I continued to use my weed whacker every two weeks. My neighbor gave me yellow cone flower plants she said would spread easily. So, I planted them near the perennials growing near the garage. Ferns, growing naturally in a thick row at the top of the slope, help as well.

By fall, the Knotweed was still there, but the plants were noticeably thinner and fewer.

Maybe I was onto something.

This spring, Knotweed hill looked more like a sloping lawn. You can see it in the top photo. It’s not golf course perfect, but I give it a passing grade. When I made my first mow, I only found plants here and there. The grass was noticeably thicker.

Yesterday, when I inspected the area, I found Knotweed sneaking in. The plants must have perked up during that warm weather we had the other day. But so did the grass seed I scattered earlier in the barer spots. In a few days, I will be out there with my weed whacker. (I am pondering a mower although there are a few stumps to contend with on the hill.)

The Knotweed isn’t gone, but it appears I am making progress. Wish me luck that I win this one.

Share

It’s time to return to Taos and the stories that living there inspired. In this post, I write about being hired as the editor-in-chief of The Taos News — a rewarding and lively experience. Lively? Oh, yes.

When we moved to Taos in 2006, I worked part-time in a fine arts gallery but sales were a challenge given we were rolling toward a recession. I started freelance writing for The Taos News. Writing news and feature stories was imbedded in me. After all, I worked for a newspaper back east for 21 years as a reporter, columnist, and editor.

A year later, I was hired as a full-time copy editor in what I would call a Taos moment. On the same day I was offered two other jobs — at Red Wing Books, which publishes books about alternative healing, and Millicent Rogers Museum, which interestingly has a link to my hometown of Fairhaven, Mass.

The Taos News may be a weekly, but it covered the heck out of Taos and the surrounding area. Over the years, it has won many state and national awards. I credit the paper’s owner, Robin Martin, who emphasizes strong coverage. She also owns the Santa Fe New Mexican and at the time, Sangre de Cristo Chronicle. Robin was The Taos News editor when her father, the late Robert Moody McKinney, owned the paper. Chris Baker was and is still The Taos News’ publisher.

The editorial department had a dozen full-time employees. As the paper’s only copy editor, my job was to put a pair of eyes on every darn story before the paginators designed the pages.

My desk was in a large cubicle I shared with the sports reporter and Jerry Padilla, the paper’s Spanish editor. The sports reporter was often busy covering games, so it was typically Jerry with me. He would check stories to see if I had properly included accents that were part of the unique Norteño dialect of Spanish spoken in Northern New Mexico. Jerry was obsessed about that and other things.

I was named assistant editor in July 2008 and a few weeks later, Gerald Garner announced he was leaving. I knew I could do the job, so I applied. Robin gave me three weeks as the interim editor to show what I could do.

I recall being on deadline to put the paper to bed on the third week when Jerry began bugging me about an alleged Big Foot siting in a Southern state. The man was fixed on Big Foot and chupacabras, believing they existed. Finally, I told Jerry, “Unless they find Big Foot in Taos, I’m not interested.” Disappointed, he left me alone. But we made deadline.

The big day for the interview with Robin and Chris arrived. I understood the choice was down to an editor flying in that day from Florida and me. It turned into one of those days that seemed to have magical elements. Robin’s car had a mechanical problem, so we were to meet at her home closer to Santa Fe instead of her coming to Taos. First, we would have lunch at a restaurant.

Chris drove. I recall him passing several cars on a straightway, so we wouldn’t be late. At the restaurant, I maybe had two bites as I answered oh-so-many questions. Then we went to Robin’s home, where I was greeted by the many peacocks she had on her land. More questions. Previously, I had to mark up three editions of the paper for possible improvements. I recall her telling me the other finalist had been much tougher. The pages practically bled red ink.

As for the other finalist, his plane was forced to turn around because a passenger got seriously ill on the flight. So, he arrived much later for his interview.

In the news story about my hiring, Chris Baker said the paper had over 250 applicants from as far as Japan, Brazil, the United Kingdom, Canada and all over the U.S., but he and Robin were excited about hiring from within. “Joan Livingston has a big range of experience with her previous paper, plus she ‘gets’ it, she understands how Taos works.”

Being the top editor for The Taos News was a wonderful experience largely because Northern New Mexico is such an interesting place to cover. I was expected to write hard-hitting editorials, one of Robin’s requirements, that often prompted open displeasure from those I criticized. You’ll get to read a lot more about that in future En Taos posts — plus observations and experiences about this special place.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: That is an untouched photo I took one day of our home in Taos. Yes, I will be writing about that.

Share

Like most authors, I want to know what readers think about the books I write. Positive reviews, ratings, and remarks encourage me. Questions and comments are also welcome.

I am especially grateful when an author whose books I enjoy writes a lengthy review. That’s what happened recently when Angela Wren posted the review below about my latest release, The Unforgiving Town, on her website, James et Moi. She and I once shared a publisher, darkstroke books.

Angela, who is also as an actor and director for a theater, lives in the UK. Her Jacques Forêt crime series is set in France, where she spends a great deal of time. Meyrueis, number seven, will be released May 11.

Here’s Angela’s review for The Unforgiving Town.

Read on to find out more about this brilliant story ...

Joan Livingston, a fellow author, is a great writer of crime stories. I have thoroughly enjoyed her Isabel Long mystery series, and Joan has kindly supplied posts for this blog, too. So, it was a great pleasure to pick up the second book in her Hilltown Crime Series to read as soon as it was published.

The Unforgiving Town is the sequel to The Sacred Dog, and both books are set in a New England hilltown. As, Joan states in her introduction to the series at the back of book 2, ‘Crime in a small town can get personal – sometimes with deadly consequences.’ I knew as soon as I opened the book that I was in for a roller-coaster of a read.

Al Kitchen returns to his home town following 18 years in jail for beating a man to death during a botched robbery. He has nowhere to go except the old house his grandmother was living in, which is being cared for by his cousin, Bernie. There’s no job for Al to come back to, and the occupation he originally had, as a truck driver, is now beyond him because he has no driving license and his truck needs fixing.

After serving his time, his future seems hopeless, and no one in Holden is going to cut him any slack except his cousin. Scott, the local police chief, of course, realises the situation could be difficult and is trying to keep a lid on the situation.

Add into the mix the death of Al whilst out riding his bike, and you’ve got a page-turning mystery that will keep you glued to your seat.

There are a lot of characters in this book, but they are all distinct, and some are more likeable than others. But that’s how it is in any small, provincial town the world over.

I really enjoyed reading about small-town America, and Joan presents the scenarios and characters with great depth and empathy. The dynamics between some of the principal characters fizz with tension, and the culprit behind the death is well-hidden in plain sight.

The narrative reads exceptionally well, as does the dialogue. As Scott’s investigation into Al’s death ramps up to an unexpected conclusion, I was left considering murder (or was it?) in small-town America and a plot that kept me guessing to the end.

NOTE TO BARGAIN HUNTERS: The Kindle version of The Unforgiving Town is currently 99 cents on Amazon. I will be upping the price to $3.99 on Sunday.

Share

.

I am in a querying mood these days, but then I have a new book, The Talking Table, I believe deserves more attention and a bigger readership than I could do on my own. That means reaching out to agents, who have access to the big-time publishers, and publishing houses that don’t require one, plus doing research on their requirements before I send out my pretty please query.

Let me back up a little and tell you about The Talking Table, which is a light fantasy Young Adult book I believe adults might want to read as well. What’s it about? One publisher challenges querying authors to write a three-sentence synopsis. Here’s mine.

Fifteen-year-old Vivien Winslow is on a quest to find her father, a troubled author famous for one great book, when help comes from an unusual source — a spirit named Phoebe — in THE TALKING TABLE, a light fantasy Young Adult novel. Vivien lives with her mother and brother in a trailer park on a seacoast town, which is all they can afford. A lonely girl, Vivien’s situation changes when she befriends Lucy Franz and her family, who let her join their conversations with Phoebe, whose communications are as simple as a table rising and falling on two legs for yes-or-no answers or automatic writing for more complex ones — including information about her father.

Having an agent doesn’t guarantee a publisher will take your book. I learned that when I had two consecutive agents. Instead I signed with two publishers, darkstroke books, which unfortunately closed in 2024, and Bloodhound Books, which has the first three books of my Isabel Long Mystery Series. I published the rest on my own, even doing the formatting, so I am a hybrid author. It’s time to reach out for a publisher that takes on YA books.

So, I researched which agents and publishers who are open to submissions and what they would need from me. Most want a query letter and a certain amount of pages, say 5 to 25 pages in the body of the email. A few ask that the full manuscript be attached and a couple, comparable titles. Some use Query Tracker or have electronic forms on their website.

Then there are those who want a full synopsis, and outside of writing the book, this requires serious work.

I looked online about formatting and word count — no more than a thousand. That’s a challenge considering The Talking Table weighs in at 71,000 words.

So, I dropped the full query synopsis into a Word doc and worked from there, being as concise as possible, yet trying to make it an enjoyable read. I printed the synopsis and got out my red pen — oh, so many times until I was finally satisfied. The synopsis has 889 words. Yes, I was able to shrink this book. It took several days but I did it.

I began querying last week. I have two more submissions to go. In all there are a dozen.

Now, the waiting game begins. I declined to query the ones that say it would take months for a response or “if you don’t hear from us, consider it a no.” Ugh, no thanks. Most say it might take a few weeks although I have already received two rejections. Alas, they weren’t the right ones.

In the meantime, I will continue to promote my most recently published mystery thriller, The Unforgiving Town. I plan to finish the third Twin Jinn book, this one set in New Mexico, and work with John MacGibbon on our screenwriting projects, including one for my novel, Northern Comfort. Yes, I like being busy.

Wish me success.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: Querying is little like trying to catch fish — hence, the photo I took of small orange carp swimming in a contained pool at an old mill in my village that was converted into artist and office spaces. You can see its windows reflected in the water.

Share

My new book, The Unforgiving Town, takes place more than 17 years after its prequel, The Sacred Dog, so it has characters who were only babies in the first one. Now teenagers, they’ve heard stories about how a well-liked man — the father of one of them — was killed during a botched robbery. Naturally, they are curious when the man responsible, Al Kitchen, comes home after serving a lengthy sentence in prison.

Jared Hooker is the son of Frank Hooker, the man who was killed. He was born after his father’s death, and so that loss is a big part of him. A sweet kid, Jared has the strong support of his mother, his older sister Crystal, and family friends like Early Stevens who pays him to do chores around his farm. His high school buddies are Toby Smith and Luke Dabrowski who live in the same town.

Toby Smith, the youngest of five, has the same reckless tendencies as his father, Jerry, whose wife finally gave up on him after he spent more time in a bar than home. His brother, who owns the only bar in town, sells him beer even though he’s under the legal age to drink. Toby often acts fast without thinking — a real concern for Jared’s mother.

Luke Dabrowski’s parents are among those city-dwellers who decide to move to the country. He’s a smart student who will be going to college and the kind of kid you’d want yours to hang around with because he does the right thing. Luke’s big assets to the trio are his driver’s license and a pickup truck.

Did I base these boys on any I know? No, but having raised six kids in the sticks, I have a good feeling for what these boys would be like.

Naturally, the trio is nosy as heck when Al Kitchen returns to his grandmother’s home, where he lives with his cousin, Bernie. On Al’s first night home, the boys sneak through the woods to spy on him. They’ve heard the stories and want to see Al themselves.

Their curiosity about Al continues through the book. He’s the main topic of their conversations — along with girls. I created scenes with the boys hanging by a river, camping out. and driving around — including the night Al is found dead alongside the road. Hmm, could they somehow be involved? You will have to read The Unforgiving Town to find out.

Here’s that scene when the boys spy on Al.

Jared walked deliberately with light feet behind Toby. Enough space was between the branches they could see inside. Toby pointed toward the window. A woman sat on the couch, watching TV. A man was beside her with space between them. It wasn’t the best view but enough of one that he was sure the man was Al Kitchen.

“That guy inside’s gotta be him,” Toby whispered.

“Yeah, it has to be.”

Jared raised a finger to his lips, so they didn’t continue talking. He studied Al, who lifted a beer to his mouth. He laughed at something the woman said. Then Al got to his feet. He headed toward the front door. It was time for them to leave. They couldn’t get caught. Who knows what Al would do if he found out they were spying on him.

Jared jabbed Toby’s arm.

“We gotta go,” he said.

The two of them moved fast and quiet to where Luke was waiting. They were already between the trees when the front door opened, and Al walked outside. He sat on the front steps, his head up as if he was studying the stars.

“What are we gonna do?” Toby whispered.

“Nothin’,” Jared whispered back. “I wanted to see what he looked like in person. I’ve only seen pictures.”

“Aw, come on,” Toby said. “We didn’t come all this way just for that.”

Luke raised both hands in protest.

As Toby took a step forward, his sneaker snapped a dry branch on the ground. He froze as Al turned in their direction, staring into the woods.

“Somebody out there?” Al asked.

Jared felt his heart pick up speed as he grabbed Toby’s arm. His mother was right. Toby was the kind of kid who didn’t think things through before he acted. Jared was ready to run if he had to, but he stayed still to see what Al would do next.

Just then a pickup truck sped up the road. Two men were in the front seat, and the driver yelled, “Hey, asshole,” as he threw a bottle, just missing the Jeep. Al watched as the pickup continued along the dirt section, this time moving faster after the driver gunned the engine.

When the truck was gone for good, Al stood and fetched the bottle from the grass. He glanced around, his eyes studying the part of the woods where the three boys stayed hidden, but he didn’t say a word before he went inside the front door.

“Let’s get out of here,” Luke said. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Okay, you sissy,” Toby said.

The boys moved through the woods toward the road. With Al back inside his house, they didn’t care how loud they talked. The pickup truck was long gone.

“You see who was in that pickup?” Luke asked.

“Kinda looked like my brother, Andy’s friends,” Toby said.

They were on the dirt road again. Jared walked with his head down. He had seen what Al looked like. That was all he wanted to do tonight.

Here’s the link to buy The Unforgiving Town. Kindle is 99 cents for now and Paperback is $14.99 on Amazon. Thanks for buying, and I hope you enjoy it enough to leave a review.

Share