Mme Melodie Campbell is today’s featured author on First Person, a regular part of The Globe and Mail.
Find out why Melodie is our Queen of Comedy when you read this hilarious take on eloping – and how your grown kids react!
Here are the links: https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-who-elopes-at-65-we-did-because-well-why-not/
or http://funnygirlmelodie.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-globe-and-mail-by-melodie-campbell.html
Awards, books published and launched, writers’ events, interviews and author readings, a new Kickstarter for a new book, our September story and a series of writer workshops and panels at Toronto Public Library.
Mme Melissa Yi is having a fabulous year!
On August 19th, she won the Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Association’s Aurora Award for Best Poem/Song for her work, Rapunzel in the Desert, published in On Spec Magazine, Issue 122.
The Aurora Awards celebrate the best in Science Fiction and Fantasy.
Melissa’s YA novel, Edan Sze vs The Red Rock Serial Killer, was a finalist for the Killer Nashville Claymore Award for Best Juvenile/YA.
Melissa’s Derringer-winning story, My Two Legs, is nominated for a Macavity Award! Stay tuned as the winner will be announced online soon.
M. H. Callway’s latest book, Snake Oil and Other Tales, published by Carrick Publishing, is available through Amazon and can be pre-ordered on September 1st!
The official release date for all versions: e-book, soft cover and hard cover is September 30th.
The date for the official book launch event in October will be confirmed shortly.
Congrats to Mme Caro Soles and her friend, gothic author, Nancy Kilpatrick, for their success and stamina in hosting their vendor’s book booth at this year’s Fan Expo, August 24 to 27th. The daily crowds were at capacity and eager to make up for the lost COVID years.
Mme Melodie Campbell is busy this month!
Mme Melodie Campbell will be hosting a book event for her fab historical mystery, The Merry Widow Murders (Cormorant, 2023), at A Different Drummer Book Store, 513 Locust St., Burlington on Saturday, September 9th at 1 pm. There will be cake!
On Sunday, Sept. 10, join Melodie at the Hamilton Supercrawl, Music and Arts Festival! The 2023 festival takes place on the weekend of September 8, 9, and 10. Festival hours will be 6 p.m.-1a.m. on Friday, 12 p.m.-12 a.m. on Saturday, and 12 p.m.-8 p.m. on Sunday.
You can catch Melodie in Conversation with Scott Thornley at 1:30 p.m. on Sunday, September 10th in the Author Tent, at 280 James Street North, Hamilton.
On September 25th Melodie is guest author at the Canadian Federation of University Women Oakville’s ‘Crime and Caffeine’. Time and location to be announced.
Crime Writers of Canada have launched Brews and Clues, monthly readings of Canadian mysteries, at 6:30 p.m., every second Thursday, starting September 14th. M. Blair Keetch will be there for the inaugural on September 14th! Enjoy a pint at Stout Irish Pub, 221 Carleton St., Toronto and listen to some great writing. Organized by Des Ryan.
Mme Jayne Barnard’s The Falls Mysteries, and her character with ME/CFS, are highlighted in this great article on post-viral illness.
Jayne will discuss the article, the book, and the illness on the National Online Reading Club on September, 11th at 7 p.m. ET.
Watch this space for a live link closer to the time.
Mme Melissa Yi’s Kickstarter for Sugar and Vice starts Sept 5th!
Sugar & Vice: A Thriller of Death, Dumplings, and Dragons is a sweet culinary thriller where Hope Sze tastes murder at Montreal’s Dragon Eats Festival of food—and the fantastic.
Submissions for the Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence are open as of September 1st. This year, all submissions must be digital. For all submission details, please visit the CWC website at: https://www.crimewriterscanada.com/awards/submissionrules
Our September 15th free story is Winona and the CHUM Chart by Mme Cathy Dunphy. It was published in our fourth anthology, In the Key of 13, Carrick Publishing, 2019.
Author, publisher, editor, podcaster, mentor to emerging authors – Donna Carrick is our Renaissance person! And, of course, she is the co-founder of the Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem.
Donna is the award-winning author of three novels and a collection of short stories. Through Carrick Publishing she has edited and released several outstanding short fiction anthologies. Her mentoring has helped launch the careers of leading Canadian crime writers.
In her spare time, she holds down a full-time job and looks after her family and two dogs!
“Watermelon Weekend” was published in our first anthology, Thirteen and was a finalist for the CWC Best Short Story Award.
My mother believed in the irrepressible power of love.
Some might have called her a romantic, but that wasn’t the case. When it came to distinguishing between love and romance, she could not have cited the definitions. She wasn’t able to manipulate semantics in that way.
But she knew the meaning of the word.
I was the eldest of four boys raised by Elizabeth “Bessie” Fender.
I appeared on the scene when she was nineteen. At four months pregnant, she married my father, John Fender, for whom I was named. Dad finished high school and enlisted in the Armed Forces to provide for us.
Eighteen months later he was dead. The only mementos I have are a pair of pictures on my nightstand. There’s one of him with my mother, laughing on my grandfather’s porch, and another where he’s in full uniform about to ship out to Cyprus.
Oh, and the story of how he died – that’s mine as well, though I usually keep it to myself. There’s nothing noble in the concept of friendly fire. When his Canadian peace-keeping unit was hit that day, he wasn’t the only casualty. A couple of civvies went down, but they aren’t listed by name in the letter Mom received.
That’s another story, and not one I like to dwell on. I never knew Dad, but I have to give him credit. According to my mother, he was handsome and brave, and, like her, he believed in love.
Because I had no father, Grandpa did his best to step into the role. He taught me to fish and how to fix things. He wasn’t a violent man. I don’t believe I ever saw him angry, not really. Still, he took the time to talk to me about self defense, in the way I imagined my own father would have if he’d lived.
“I don’t go for weapons,” he said. “If your enemy is bigger and stronger than you are, he’s going to take your knife and use it against you.
“If you must fight with a weapon, don’t let go of it no matter what. Consider it an extension of your hand. And don’t hesitate to use it.”
I nodded as if I understood.
“And Johnny,” he added, “never forget: It’s always best to walk away from a fight. A real man doesn’t have to prove himself.”
In my childish mind, I knew he was wrong. A man did have to prove himself.
“If you find yourself in a situation where you have to fight, for God’s sake, fight hard. If you knock a man down, make sure he stays down.”
“Have you ever been in a fight, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Once or twice, son.”
He smiled, pointing at the kitchen cupboard. “Go get me the Phillips screwdriver,” he said. “That hinge is loose. I know your mother. She’ll be nagging us if she sees it.”
It was Friday morning more than twenty years ago, when I was twelve going on thirteen. I could hear my eight-year-old brother, Nicky, crashing around in the bathroom. He was supposed to be brushing his teeth, but it sounded more like he was dismantling the plumbing.
The twins, David and Dale, were five. They were good boys, self-sufficient, although they liked to follow Nicky around at times, to his annoyance.
David was the quiet one, content to be in a room with his family. Dale was more talkative, interested in what was going on around him.
Nicky, for the most part, was a sullen child. He didn’t cause trouble, but I guess you could say he had a chip on his shoulder. He liked to be left alone. The only person he really related to was our mother.
That Friday morning more than twenty years ago, we were packing for a weekend at the cottage. Grandpa owned a place up in Muskoka. Mom had a key and a standing invitation to take us there any time she liked.
We spent many weekends at Grandpa’s cottage. In the old days he used to come with us, doing all the things a father would do. He taught us to play baseball, hauling out his pride and joy: a collectable 1938 Louisville Slugger his father had bought him when he first joined Little League.
He used to kid us, saying we had to be “this tall” before he’d let us hold the bat.
He always relented, to our delight. That’s what Grandpas are for.
By the time I was twelve, Grandpa wasn’t well anymore, and he didn’t come up too often. He still liked to know we were using the place, though.
Mom had recently started dating Phil, a thirty-something salesman who was employed by a drug manufacturing company. No one at the pharmacy where she worked knew they were seeing each other. She’d told us about Phil earlier that week, but warned us not to say a word to Grandpa, at least until she was sure it would work out.
Even though Mom was a knockout at thirty-one, a single mother of four boys doesn’t get many romantic offers, so she was excited to be dating again.
It was to be our first weekend together with Phil. He seemed like a nice enough guy. I could tell Mom was hoping it would get serious.
“Remember,” she confided, “let’s not put any pressure on the relationship. It’s our secret for now. Don’t mention it to Grandpa, or anyone.”
I nodded.
I was glad to see Mom happy.
Not so my brother, Nicky. He’d been in a foul mood all week.
“Come on,” I said, tapping on the bathroom door. “I need in there. The twins are already in the van.”
Nicky didn’t answer. A moment later the door opened and he came out, deliberately bumping into me.
I tended to make allowances for my half-brother. According to Grandpa, who seldom had a hard word for anyone, Nicky’s father was a “no-good womanizing bum gambler”. Steve did time for petty theft and car-jacking. His brief marriage to my mother had ended badly.
A few years later she met Brayden, a handsome musician. He was a nice fellow who paid attention to me and Nicky, which most guys wouldn’t do.
When the ultra-sound revealed Mom was carrying his twins, Brayden screwed off. We have no idea where he went. We haven’t seen him since.
I think the twins have it worse than Nicky does. At least Nicky’s father didn’t disappear. It must really suck to be so low on the totem pole.
Mom said the responsibility was too much for Brayden.
I have my own opinion. There are men who face their duties – men like my father and Grandpa – and there are those who don’t. It’s as simple as that.
I seldom think of Brayden. When I do, I admit it’s with a certain measure of disdain.
“Get your stuff,” I said. “Tell Mom I’ll be right there.”
Nicky grabbed his bag and stomped down the stairs.
So that’s how we ended up in Mom’s minivan on a sunny Friday morning in July. Two adults, four boys and one big hairy dog – our golden retriever, Fanny.
Nicky’s mood lifted once we were on our way. He and I played Mario on our Gameboys. Dale fell asleep and David worked on a word search.
“Where do you want to shop?” Phil asked.
We were in Barrie with still a long way to go.
“There’s a Sobeys up ahead,” Mom said. “Do you boys want anything in particular?”
“Watermelon,” Nicky said, smiling at the thought.
“Yes, watermelon,” I agreed.
“Watermelon it is!” Phil said.
David clapped his hands.
Phil grinned at us in the rear view mirror. I wasn’t sure why Mom had let him drive. After all it was our car, and Mom was a good driver.
But he seemed to know his way around, at least so far.
“Do you boys want to come in?” Mom said.
“No, we’ll be all right here,” I said.
“OK. Keep an eye on your brothers. If the car gets too hot, open a door.”
“I’ll stay with the boys,” Phil said.
As soon as Mom went into the store, Phil pushed his seat back and closed his eyes. It could be a tedious drive if you weren’t used to it.
Mom was in the store about a half an hour. When she returned, Nicky let out a low whistle.
“Holy crap!” I said.
Mom had gone all out. The buggy was piled high with food.
Nicky and I helped load the groceries into the van.
At the bottom of the buggy were three big green watermelons.
I should mention, Grandpa’s cottage has a dock where he kept his boat tied up. The water there is deep and not too full of reeds.
That’s where we learned to swim, doing cannon-ball jumps into the cold lake on a hot day.
Some of my best memories involve munching on watermelon with my legs dangling over the edge of that dock.
So yes, we were happy to see the watermelon.
I caught Nicky’s eye. He was smiling for a change.
David fell asleep north of Barrie. I lost interest in playing with the Gameboys. I’d recently been teaching myself to play chess, so I challenged Nicky to a duel.
He was a better sport than I was, losing without complaint.
Before we knew it, we could see Go Home Lake. Within twenty minutes we’d be at the cottage.
What could be more thrilling for a boy than arriving at a crystalline lake with hours of sunlight still ahead and nothing to do but run, swim and play?
We hurried to change into our trunks and headed for the dock.
“Keep an eye on your brothers,” Mom said.
“I will.”
“Dale has trouble climbing out of the water.”
“I know.”
“I’ll bring down some watermelon in half an hour.”
“Hooray!” the twins shouted.
That evening Mom surprised us with a rare treat – six huge steaks on the barbecue. We ate till our stomachs were distended: baked potatoes, sour cream and corn on the cob.
“Anyone want more watermelon?” Phil asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he went to fetch a large bowl from the fridge.
Nicky and I groaned at the sight of the juicy red melon. Still, we couldn’t help ourselves.
“You boys will be awake peeing all night long,” Mom laughed, reaching for a piece.
“Let’s hope not.” Phil winked at Mom.
She giggled.
I bit into another piece of melon.
Nicky and I washed the dishes while Mom and Phil set up the DVD player.
It wasn’t easy finding movies we all liked. Nicky and I would watch just about anything, but the twins got frightened easily. Especially Dale.
Mom finally decided on Mrs. Doubtfire.
“Be careful with that knife,” Mom said.
I glanced at Nicky, who was carrying the big carving knife toward the sink. It was slick with watermelon juice.
Worried he might hurt himself, I reached for it.
He turned the handle toward me and I dipped the knife into the soapy water, careful not to cut myself.
We have a rule in our house: only Mom and I are allowed to handle the sharp knives. Rather than drying it, Nicky left it standing in the rack.
“Who wants popcorn?” Mom asked.
“We do!” my brothers shouted.
It isn’t easy keeping boys fed. Grandpa used to accuse us of having hollow legs.
“Where’d you put your dinner?” he would joke, watching us go back to the stove for seconds.
The movie was a lot of laughs. Even Nicky enjoyed it. By comparison with Steve and Brayden, Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire looked like some kind of Super-Dad.
The northern air was weighing on us, so after the movie Mom ordered us to brush our teeth and get to bed. Nicky and I shared a room near the kitchen, closest to the bathroom. Fanny usually slept on the floor between our single beds. David and Dale had bunk beds in the middle room. The third small room off the living room, farthest from the kitchen, was Grandpa’s.
Mom had the master bedroom off the other sideof the living room. The cottage had been designed by Grandpa back when Grandma was alive. The big room had belonged to them in those days, but Grandpa seldom came up anymore. When he did, he was happy to use the little room.
Being the oldest, I sometimes stayed up late watching movies with Mom, but it was obvious she wanted private time with Phil, so I didn’t argue. Besides I was tired, and Nicky’s mood was getting dicey. I lay awake, listening to adult chatter in the other room. The sound was alien to me, but not unpleasant. Mom and Phil kept the TV volume low. Nicky was asleep in no time and I followed not long after, seduced by the honest fatigue of a day spent in the sunshine.
I don’t know what woke me. Maybe it was some minor twitch of Nicky’s or maybe Fanny rolled over on the floor. Our dog wasn’t much of a talker. When she needed attention, she would give me a look. I don’t think I ever heard her whine, and I could count the times she’d barked on one hand.
For whatever reason, I found myself suddenly awake, long after everyone else had gone to sleep.
Nicky had a tendency to get cranky if he didn’t get his ten hours, so I crept silently out of bed to the kitchen to check the time.
The clock on the stove said 2:15 am.
I turned toward the bathroom and, as I did, I heard a whisper coming from the twins’ room.
I thought I must be imagining it – there was no way either David or Dale would be awake at that hour. I was about to dismiss it when there it was again, the unmistakeable sound of a whisper coming from the middle bedroom.
David normally slept on the top bunk, being the braver of the two, and Dale was on the bottom.
Not sure of what I’d heard, and not wanting to wake them, I tiptoed to the doorway and peeked inside.
The twins had a nightlight, a plastic cartoon image, plugged into the outlet near the baseboard. By its light, and to my shock, I saw Phil stretched out on the bottom bunk beside my little brother.
I couldn’t see his hands.
Dale saw me before Phil did. My brother’s eyes were frightened, and there were tears glistening in the faint light.
Innocent me – I had no idea what was going on. But it didn’t look right.
“Dale, are you sick?” I asked.
Phil stood, knocking his head on the top bunk and waking David.
“Dale was crying,” he answered, too quickly. “I came to check on him.”
“I’ll get Mom.”
“No need. Everything’s all right now.”
Dale still hadn’t said a word.
“Was it your stomach?” I asked. Dale was sometimes prone to gas, which made him whiney.
He shook his head.
“What was it?” I insisted.
“I want to sleep with you and Nicky,” he said.
“Me too,” David chimed in.
Something wasn’t right. I glanced at Phil and was not reassured by what I saw in his eyes. He was wearing a guilty look, the kind Nicky wore when we caught him red-handed eating the last of the cookies.
“I’ll get Mom,” I repeated.
Phil grabbed my shoulder as I turned.
“I said there’s no need to wake your mother. Everything’s all right now.”
I have a real thing about being touched by strangers. The only man I’d ever admired and felt loved by was my Grandpa, and he wasn’t the touchy-feely sort. He was far more likely to hand me a tool and let me work beside him. That was how we expressed our affection.
I shook Phil’s hand off, probably with more force than I intended.
“Hey there,” he said. “Just wait a minute.”
“Leave me alone.”
“What’s going on?” I heard my mother’s sleepy voice calling from the master bedroom. “Is everyone all right? I knew someone would have trouble sleeping after all that watermelon.” She approached the twins’ bedroom, pulling her robe over her shoulders.
“Everything’s all right,” Phil said. “I got up to use the bathroom and heard Dale crying. I came to check on him.”
“I want my Mommy,” Dale said, becoming hysterical at the sound of our mother’s voice.
“There, there, baby. It’s all right. Mommy’s here now.”
“Stay with me, Mommy.”
“Stay with me,” David repeated Dale’s request, minus the tears.
“Is your tummy OK?”
Dale nodded.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
He shook his head.
“Do you have a headache?”
Again, the head shake.
“I think you’ve had a nightmare, sweetheart,” she said, hugging my brother. “You close your eyes now and get back to sleep.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare, Mommy. It was Phil. He scared me.”
My stomach tightened.
By now, Nicky was awake as well. He turned on the light and stood in the kitchen near the counter, a wary look on his face. Fanny was at his side.
“Phil was checking on you, dear,” Mom said to Dale. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“He hurt me. I want to sleep with John and Nicky.”
Mom let go of Dale and stood, her full height falling short of Phil’s by nearly a foot.
“What do you mean, Dale? How did Phil hurt you?”
“He wouldn’t leave me alone.” Dale began to wail uncontrollably. It was obvious we weren’t going to get anything coherent out of him.
“What did you do?” Mom said to Phil, her voice cold in a way I’d never heard before.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bessie, the boy had a bad dream. I was checking on him. You baby them all too much.”
“Mom,” I said, reluctant to interfere, but unable to remain silent, “I saw Phil. He was under the covers with Dale. Dale was crying.”
“What do you mean, under the covers?”
I looked at my feet. My vocabulary would not allow me to elaborate.
“Go.” My mother pointed at the doorway, her eyes fastened on Phil’s face. “Get your clothes on and get out.”
“Where can I go?” Phil said. “We only brought your car.”
“You can sleep in the van for tonight. In the morning, we’ll call you a cab, and you can catch a bus in town.”
“This is ridiculous!” he shouted. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I don’t know whether you did or didn’t,” Mom said, “but I want you out of my house. Do I need to call the police?”
I edged closer to the phone.
“Police?” Phil said, stepping towards our mother. “Are you threatening me?”
Fanny barked – only once. It was such an unusual sound I couldn’t help but jump.
Nicky’s shoulders stiffened. He slid closer to the dish rack. He caught my eye, and I knew what he was thinking.
Silently, I shook my head. I remembered my grandfather saying a weapon is only as good as the person holding it. If your enemy is bigger and stronger, he will likely take it and use it against you.
It was always better, according to Grandpa, to simply run, and if you couldn’t run, then use your brain.
“Let’s all settle down,” I said in what I hoped was a smooth voice. “Come on, Dale. You’ve had a bad dream. You and David can sleep with me and Nicky tonight.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw the privacy latch my grandfather had attached to our bedroom door. “A boy your age needs to be able to lock the door every now and again,” he said. I figured once the boys were in our room, we could lock it. If necessary, we could use my cell phone to call the cops.
Phil had other plans.
“Settle down?” he mimicked. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” Phil pushed Mom out of the bedroom. She hit her head on the door frame and fell onto the living room floor.
Fanny leapt forward, placing her body between Phil and our mother. Her efforts won her a kick in the ribs. She yelped, but did not move.
“That’s enough,” I said.
Nicky took another step toward the kitchen counter.
David scrambled down from the top bunk and ran to our mother.
“You little shit,” Phil snarled in my direction, his congenial mask now long gone. “I could kill the lot of you and no one would even know I was here.”
Dale let out a fresh howl.
“You hear me? I could start with Dale here, snap him in half with one hand and keep on going till I put every one of you miserable bastards down.”
Phil reached for Dale, pulling him from the bottom bunk. He dug his fingers into Dale’s fragile shoulder and pulled him past our mother into the living room.
“What’s with this brat?” he said. “Doesn’t he ever stop whining?”
He lifted Dale into the air and shook him, yelling, “Shut the fuck up.”
Dale held his breath, doing his best not to cry.
Mom stood up.
“Please, Phil,” she said, in her most reasonable Mom voice, “let’s get some sleep. We’re wound up. It’s probably the watermelon.”
“You stupid cow,” Phil sneered, still holding Dale. “You think you’re going to call the cops on me? A desperate bitch like you with your snivelling litter? Who else would have you?”
Nicky’s hand moved quickly and quietly, lifting the knife from the dish rack. I don’t think Phil noticed.
“I’m sorry, Phil,” Mom said, remaining calm. “I didn’t mean it. Let’s go to bed. We can sort it out in the morning.” She pushed David toward me with one hand. I grabbed him and shoved him behind me, into the kitchen.
Mom stepped towards Phil and Dale, nudging Fanny out of the way. She had to diffuse the situation before it got any more dangerous. She caught my eye. I knew she was counting on me to take care of the boys, get them to safety down the road, once she convinced Phil to join her back in bed.
Then, as if changing her mind, she suddenly stepped past Phil, heading toward Grandpa’s room.
“What are you doing?” Phil shouted.
Mom didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I knew what she was up to.
Grandpa always said a weapon was only as good as the person holding it. He didn’t own a gun. He always said a determined criminal could overpower an honest man every time. A lethal weapon like a gun could be taken and used against you.
That didn’t mean we shouldn’t defend ourselves.
Nicky stepped past David and stood beside me, holding the large kitchen knife. For a second I thought he meant to pass it to me. After all, I was bigger and stronger.
When it came right down to it, though, he was probably tougher than I was. Squaring his shoulders, he prepared for battle.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Phil said. He looked at the knife in Nicky’s hand. Holding Dale in front of him, he said, “I could snap your brother’s neck like a twig. Is that what you want?”
“Nicky,” I said, “give me the knife.”
Reluctantly Nicky stepped back, handing me the weapon.
“That’s more like it,” Phil said. “Now, you boys get on the floor. Face down, side by side.”
Nicky and I stood together, neither of us moving. I could hear David whimpering behind us, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Phil long enough to check on him.
Nicky saw Mom come out of Grandpa’s bedroobedroom. When he realized what she meant to do, I could feel his energy change.
She had the advantage of surprise. With Phil focused on Nicky, me and the knife, she was able to bring up the rear.
She moved swiftly, leaving no chance for Phil to react.
In her hands was the only weapon Grandpa would allow in his house – the 1938 Louisville Slugger, the very one his father had given him. The same one he used when he taught me and Nicky to play ball on those long sun-filled days at his cottage, when he would be the father we never had, laughing and playing until we’d used up the last of his youthful vigour.
Phil never saw it coming.
One strike and he was out.
I ran for Dale, lifting him out of reach of the man we now knew to be a monster.
Phil groaned softly, stirring on the floor.
“Damn,” Mom said.
“I can tie him up,” I said.
“To hell with that.”
She raised the bat once more, with steady surety, pausing for only an instant before bringing down the fatal blow.
Spent, she fell onto the couch. I think she was in shock. Her robe hung loosely, and she shivered. Her face was deadly white.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Nicky brought a blanket from our room and covered her. I lifted her feet onto the couch.
“I’ll be OK,” she said. “Just give me a moment.”
“We have to get him out of here,” Nicky said, nodding at the bleeding mass that had been Phil.
I tried to take control of the situation, assuming my best television persona.
“I’ll check his pulse,” I said.
“Don’t bother,” Mom said, sitting up. “He’s finished.”
I thought she was probably right. His eyes were open, glazed over, staring blindly at the overhead fan.
“Give me the bat,” Nicky said. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Good thinking,” I said.
“I’ll get dressed,” Mom said.
“Me too. We can take him down to the dock.”
“We have to take him further than that,” she said. “We can use Grandpa’s boat.”
“I’ll get the plastic tarp from the shed.” My grandfather kept a couple of tarps, the kind you can tie to four trees to make an awning. We liked to sit under them when it rained, listening to the drops above our heads, all the while cheating nature by remaining outdoors and dry.
“There are rubber boots in the basement. Bring a pair for both of us.”
“OK.”
She headed for the master bedroom to get changed.
On my way to the stairs, I peeked into the bathroom. Nicky was doing a good job of cleaning the bat.
“I’m going to help Mom get rid of him,” I said.
Nicky nodded.
“We’ll leave Fanny with you and the boys. Can you clean the floor while we’re gone?”
He nodded again.
“We can’t leave any blood stains on the wood.”
He knew what I meant. We both watched a lot of television.
“I’ll move the furniture and make sure I get it all.”
“Good. You’d better throw Mom’s nightgown and robe into the washer. Dale and Fanny might need cleaning up, too. We’ll try not to be too long.”
“There’s a deep spot over near where Mr. Branson likes to fish,” Nicky said. “No one swims out that way.”
“I know the spot.”
“And John,” he said, still scouring the bat, “make sure he stays down.”
“I’ll make sure.”
In Grandpa’s shed I found the wheelbarrow, some yellow nylon rope, a good, strong tarp and a cement block that had been broken in half.
I carried the tarp into the house. Nicky helped me roll Phil onto it. The floor under his head was still warm and slick. Then Nicky and Mom took one end of the tarp and I took the other, and together we carried him out to the yard.
We got both parts of the broken cement block into the tarp with Phil, then sealed it firmly with the heavy duty yellow rope before tipping the wheel barrow and rolling what was left of Phil into it. In the dark, we couldn’t be sure we hadn’t allowed any blood to escape, but we had no immediate neighbours. In the morning I’d come out and water the area, making sure to clean the wheel barrow.
“Boys, you mind Nicky while we’re gone,” Mom said to the twins. “Don’t go into your room till you’re clean.”
They nodded.
I pushed the wheel barrow down to the dock. Phil was heavy, especially with the added weight of the cement block.
“That was good thinking,” Mom said.
“Thanks.”
She helped me get him into Grandpa’s boat.
“I’ll row,” she said.
I was already bigger than she was, but I could tell her nerves were shot, so I didn’t argue. Rowing gave her something to do.
We didn’t talk much, at least not that I recall. When we were about half way to Branson’s fishing spot, she paused in her rowing and looked up at the sky.
“Nearly a full moon,” she said, taking care not to raise her voice. Sound carries easily on the water.
I looked to where she was pointing.
“I think it’s supposed to be tomorrow night,” I said.
“Johnny, tell me the truth. Was Phil molesting Dale?”
I looked away, studying the black water.
“I think so,” I said.
“Me, too.”
We found the spot, or near enough to it, and taking care not to tip the boat, we managed to roll him up and over the ledge.
He made a loud splash. It was over in a second. There aren’t many people up that way, and even if anyone was awake, a splashing sound isn’t unusual when you live near a lake.
“Well, that’s that,” Mom said.
“He’ll stay down,” I said.
“Would you mind rowing back? I’m kind of tired.”
She traded spots with me and closed her eyes, turning her pale face up to the moonlight. I’d always thought of her as beautiful, and she was only thirty-one, but in that moment I could see the onset of age – the roots of tiredness spreading in tiny lines around her eyes.
Her blonde hair shone a ghostly silver, and I imagined: This is how she’ll look as an old woman. This is how she’ll be in those last years before she dies.
The thought made me sad.
I got us back as quickly as I could. Nicky was a tough bugger, but I knew the twins would be inconsolable, needing their mother.
I don’t remember the rest of the weekend really. Mom called Grandpa on Saturday morning, spilling the whole story. He reminded her to go over everything with bleach, and he talked to me and the boys, telling us to stay calm.
“Don’t panic,” he said. “Cool heads will always prevail. Make sure you get rid of his belongings.”
We stayed till Sunday night. Mom didn’t want to raise suspicion by heading home early. We didn’t do much – stayed in the cottage, close to Mom.
The drive back was long and quiet. We didn’t make any stops.
We were all different somehow after that night. We went about our business in the usual way, keeping our routines. But a secret like that wears you down. We looked at each other with more knowing eyes.
Grandpa died a few years later. I don’t know how I would’ve endured my teens without him – what kind of man I’d have become without his steady influence.
Nicky was, if possible, even more sullen in the years that followed, although he was a big help to Mom and me with the twins. He didn’t like to leave them on their own – ever vigilant, I suppose – so he stayed close to home in the evenings, especially after I started dating.
Mom reported that a new salesperson from the drug manufacturing company had started calling on the pharmacy where she worked. A chatty young woman by the name of Selina. She and Mom became friends.
According to Selina, the previous salesperson, Phil, had up and disappeared, leaving the company without notice.
When police came around to speak to his co-workers, it was revealed Phil had a questionable history. He’d been accused on two separate occasions of impropriety towards children. In both cases, the victims and their single mothers had recanted. Charges were dropped.
Most likely, he’d been able to silence his previous victims with threats.
Phil met the wrong single mother the day he hooked up with Bessie Fender.
And now, more than twenty years later, I look out over the gathered congregation. Nicky isn’t there. He joined the forces after high school and, like my father, never came back.
Dale and David remained bachelors. They have a house not far from Mom’s. Today they’re sitting in the front pew, together as always, near my wife, Samantha, and our daughter Bessie.
“My mother,” I began, “believed in the irrepressible power of love.”
My eyes sting. I’m not sure I can finish the eulogy.
But I know I must, and so I reach down deep inside myself for the courage to say goodbye…
…to the strongest, most loving person I will ever know.
Mme Melissa Yi’s Edan Sze vs. The Red Rock Serial Killer is a finalist for the Claymore Award for Best First 50 Pages of an Unpublished Manuscript in the BEST JUVENILE / YA category. The winner will be announced on Saturday, August 25, at the 2023 Killer Nashville Conference in Nashville, Tennessee.
Melissa’s Derringer-award-winning story, “My Two Legs” (Published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Sep/Oct 2022) is also nominated for a Macavity Award. The winners will be announced at the San Diego Bouchercon opening ceremonies in late August.
Even during the lazy days of August, our Mesdames are out making tracks. Melissa Yi’s short story is up for an award. And Madeleine and Madona are headed off to Calgary as members of panels for When Words Collide.
Mme Melissa Yi’s Derringer-award-winning story, “My Two Legs” (Published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Sep/Oct 2022) is nominated for a Macavity Award. Established in 1987, this Readers’ Choice award is nominated and voted upon by members of Mystery Readers International. Macavity was the name of the mystery cat in T.S. Elliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.
Mme M. H. Callway revealed the cover for her new book, Snake Oil and Other Tales, Carrick Publishing. To be released in e-book and print in September 2023.
The last When Words Collide multi-genre conference takes place from August 3 to 6. Although the festival is sold out, there are still a few days left to get your name on the waiting list for tickets. Click on the link below for more information.
https://www.whenwordscollide.org/#soldoutblog
Mmes M.H. Callway and Madona Skaff will be on several crime fiction panels. Here’s the schedule:
Fri, Aug. 4, 2 pm M. H. Callway Plotters and Pantsers and Points In-between
Fri, Aug. 4, 4 pm Madona Skaff How do You Create Believable Characters?
Sat, Aug. 5, 10 am M. H. Callway Short vs Long Fiction
Sat, Aug. 5, 2 pm Madona Skaff Why are Zombies Essential to a Writers Group?
Sat. Aug. 5, 4 pm M. H. Callway Who’s Dun It, Wrote a Mystery, that is
Sat, Aug. 5, 4 pm Madona Skaff How to Write a Series Without Losing Your Way (or Your Mind)
Sun, Aug, 6, 11 am M.H. Callway & Madona Skaff 50 Shades of Mystery
Sun, Aug 6, 2 pm Madona Skaff Short vs Long Fiction
Both Madeleine and Madona will be reading from their work at the Saturday Night Readings at 7 pm. Madona will also be helping new writers at the Blue Pencil Café on Friday.
Our featured August story is “Watermelon Weekend” by co-founder and publisher / editor, Mme Donna Carrick. This CWC finalist for Best Short Story was published in our very first anthology, Thirteen, Carrick Publishing, 2013.
There’s lots to look forward to this fall with library talks, book launches and reading/ signing events. STAY TUNED for our September newsletter and find out everything the Mesdames will be up to!
Lisa is the award-winning author of nearly a dozen novels, all defying the limits of genre fiction. Her work embodies elements of speculative fiction, thrillers and mystery.
Lisa’s story, Mad Dog and the Sea Dragon, was inspired by her visit to the Toronto aquarium. She later expanded it to novel form, due to be published in 2024 by Inanna Press.
Her story first appeared in the Mesdames of Mayhem’s third anthology, 13 Claws, Carrick Publishing, 2017.
MAD DOG AND THE SEA DRAGON
By Lisa De Nikolits
We met at an art gallery one lazy afternoon.
“You and me, we could be listening to Frankie singing at The Desert Inn,” he said with a sideways grin. “I always dress like this, what’s your excuse?”
We were standing shoulder to shoulder and I turned to face him. I let it show that I liked what I saw. He was a straight split between Chaz Palminteri and Anthony Mad Dog Esposito, whose stark black and white photograph I had been admiring on the wall.
This man never really left the jungle, the caption under the photograph read. New York Daily News, 1941, picture credit, Weegee.
“He was nuts,” I said, gesturing to Mad Dog.
“Not as much as he would have liked to be. Him and his brother pleaded insanity to try to get off a murder charge, they barked and hit their heads on the table at the trial, they howled and cried and behaved like animals for the whole thing.”
“So that’s why they called him Mad Dog?”
“Nah. The New York police commissioner called him and his brother ‘mad dog killers’ for what they did. They killed a man in an elevator for a few hundred bucks and then they ran out into the street and started shooting everybody. That’s the part that was nuts. William, the younger brother, shot a cop and then a taxi driver tried to save the cop and then he – the taxi driver – got shot in the throat but he lived and the cab company got him a new car for his troubles.”
He paused to take a breath. “The whole Esposito family were hoods, the father had done time, the third brother was in prison, the two sisters were thieves. But the mother was behind the whole thing. Mothers. The root of all evil if you ask me.”
He fell silent and turned to look at Mad Dog Esposito again and I thought I had lost him and I struggled to think of something to say. I panicked. Things had seemed to be going really well but now it had come to a grinding halt. My sister had given me a bunch of lines to use but I couldn’t remember any of them, my mind was a complete blank and I felt close to tears. I was going to ruin this before it even started. To my relief, he picked up the thread of conversation.
“Look at Ma Barker,” he said, turning back to me. “I don’t care what they said, she made her boys and her husband do what they did. She led that gang, I don’t care what anybody said about her being innocent. And Violet Kray, Ronnie and Reggie’s mother. It was all her fault too. She used to dress Reggie and Ronnie up like little girls after her baby girl died. No wonder they were both bisexual paranoid schizophrenics. Violet killed Reggie’s wife, Frances, and made it look like a suicide. Mothers are behind most gang wars and crime. Women. You can’t live with them, you can’t live without them.”
He shot a glance at me and gave a shrug as if he was about to turn and leave and I fired a question to stop him.
“What happened to the Mad Dog brothers?”
“Their pathetic attempts to look crazy didn’t work. Him and his brother were electrocuted in 1942.”
He looked angry about something and once again I felt like I had ruined the great start to our conversation and I frantically fished around for a way to get us back on track.
“I love these photographs,” I said in my most practiced sultry voice and I could see his mood lift again, his shoulders relaxed and he smiled, a halfway twisted smile that I wondered if he practiced in front of the mirror.
“Yeah,” he said. “Weegee. Great photographer. His real name was Arthur Fellig. He got his nickname after the boardgame for his weird way of knowing where to be when a story broke. He said it was just in his blood.”
“You’re a wealth of fascinating information,” I purred. Why couldn’t I remember what my sister had told me? We had practiced often enough. But all I could think of was cigar smoke and Paco Rabanne. Could you even get Paco Rabanne anymore? Obviously, yes.
“Paco Rabanne,” I said and he smiled and he straightened his tie. His suit was charcoal pin-stripe and he had a blue tie and matching folded handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. His shirt was crisp white and he shot his cuffs, giving me a glimpse of gold cufflinks.
“Yeah. So what’s a dame like you doing in a joint like this?”
I smoothed my form-fitting red dress over my hips and made sure my chiffon scarf was draped just so. I was wearing six-inch heels and I was still only eye level with his chest, this man was a linebacker.
“I could ask the same of you,” I said, looking up at him, trying for coy. “You look more like a business man than an art aficionado.” I figured he’d like feisty and he did.
“Well, you gotta love Weegee,” he said. “He used to say the easiest kind of a job to cover was a murder because the stiff would be laying on the ground. He couldn’t get up and walk away or get temperamental. He would be good for at least two hours.” He laughed like this was the funniest thing. “He also said murder is my business. I can relate.”
His last sentence sent chills up my spine but I forced myself to smile, full wattage, trying for Jessica Chastain if she’d been a star in the late 50’s.
He grinned and moved closer to me and I figured I was in. But I didn’t have big boobs. A guy like this, he’d want big boobs and I’m tall, with a good round ass and a tiny waist and long legs with slender calves and a finely turned ankle if I say so myself but there’s no getting away from the fact that my boobs are like teacups. I sighed.
“Bored of me already,” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
I shook my head. “My boobs are too small for a guy like you,” I said and he gave a sharp bark of laughter.
“See, I knew I liked you already,” he said. “You tell it like it is, no beating around the bush. Hey, I wouldn’t worry about it. My wife’s stacked, double D’s and I don’t much care for her.”
His wife. I shut the whole thing down with a look and turned away but he grabbed my elbow.
“Don’t be like that,” he said and he held my hand between both of his. His hands were enormous and slightly damp.
“This is nuts,” I said, my voice breathy like Marilyn’s. “I met you like three seconds ago, what’s with the electricity between us?”
He grinned and pulled me closer.
“Maybe it’s Dog Esposito getting me so excited,” I whispered in his ear. “I’ll be honest, I crush on crazy criminals. This is the third time I’ve come to see this exhibit and now you’re here.”
He caressed my palm and I leaned into him, my eyes shut, my breath coming fast.
“Crazy criminals aren’t all they’re made out to be,” he said but I only half heard him. The Paco Rabanne and his touch and the whole situation I was in was making me feel dizzy and I worried for a moment that I was going to faint.
“Oh, we’ll have ourselves some fun, you and me,” he said, and all I could do was nod.
“You want to go someplace?” he asked. I nodded and that’s how it all started. Me, letting him know that I wanted him, with Mad Dog leaning over my shoulder and this man, all big and handsome, and the gallery lighting throwing shadows like cloaks and daggers.
But he was a gentleman. He took me for coffee. The place was deserted except for us.
“Tell me about you,” he said while I dipped my finger into cappuccino foam and licked it clean.
“I was born into the wrong era,” I said. “In my real life, I’m a late night janitor in a high-rise office. Believe me, you’d have a healthy fantasy world if that was your life too. I spend my spare time and money, not that there’s much of either, sifting through thrift stores looking for garments from a better time. I’ve got quite the wardrobe by now, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
“Girl like you should have new clothes,” he said. “Shiny. Styling, yes. But new.”
I shrugged. “It is what it is,” I said. “No use in complaining. And you? Tell me about you.”
He was silent. “I’ve gotta be careful,” he said. “My life’s complicated. My work, my family, it’s all complicated. I’ve got a wife, like I said but let’s not talk about her. She’s a piece of work but let’s not go there. I’ve got a daughter. The apple of my eye.”
He dug out his wallet and showed me a picture of Anne of Green Gables, red-hair, braids, freckles and all.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” he said. “God help the boy who lays a hand on her. She’s only ten years old, so I’m okay for a while. I wish I could lock her up in a tower forever, keep her safe from the world.”
“She’s pretty,” I said. Kid looked like she thought her dad was Santa and the Easter bunny all in one.
“Enough about me,” he said, “I want to know more about you.”
I felt like I had run out of things to say and I hesitated but luckily for me, he looked at his watch. “Oh darn. Listen babe, I gotta run. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“I’m good,” I said. “I’ll catch the streetcar.”
“Nah, let me give you a ride. But listen, come here, you’re driving me nuts. I’m giving you some warning here, I’m going to kiss you, babe, I can’t help myself. It’s kismet that we met like we did.”
“So stop talking already and kiss me,” I said and he did and we were locked into each other when a loud nasal voice broke the moment.
“Get a room people,” the voice said and we broke apart and looked up to see the skinny teenage barista standing there, hands on his hips. “Don’t you think you guys are too old to be deep-throating it in a public place?” He grinned at us, a stupid goofy smile, not a care in the world.
My guy stood up and adjusted his suit and next thing the kid was crumpled on the floor trying to breathe.
“What’s wrong, kid?” my guy growled. “You can’t handle a punch from a geriatric like me, huh? Come on, babe, let’s get out of here.”
We left the guy on the floor and I tottered after my new boyfriend, wondering if I really could handle what I had gotten into.
He gave me a ride home and when I updated my sister, she seemed satisfied.
“I told you,” she said. “We’re gonna land the big fish this time.”
The next time we met, it was at the bar at the Four Seasons hotel and he had booked a room on the fourteenth floor, with a view of the city that stretched for miles.
“I hope you don’t think I’m presumptuous,” he said as we rode up on the elevator. “I have to watch who I am seen in public with, I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” I said but my heart was hammering in my chest like a nail gun.
When we got to the room, he ordered champagne and an array of desserts and pastries.
“My mother watches what I eat like a hawk,” he said, biting down on a cream-filled éclair and washing it down with champagne. “Now my wife, she wouldn’t dare say a word to me but mothers can say whatever they like. You never get out from under the thumb of your mother.”
“Never, ever talk about his mother,” my sister had told me. “Italian matriarch, she’s like the Virgin Mary and the Queen of England all rolled into one. The woman is a saint to him. I met her once. She was like Hannibal Lector in drag. She’s more dangerous than I can tell you. When he talks about her, just nod.”
I nodded.
“You’re not eating, babe?” My guy drew my attention back to the spread in front of us. He was chewing on a custard Danish, crumbs flying everywhere.
“Don’t want to ruin my figure,” I said, running my hands over my waist suggestively. Actually I could eat like a horse and never put on an ounce, something my sister constantly reminded me, as if that was my fault. If she even walked past a muffin, she gained a pound. But I was sick with nerves now and couldn’t eat a thing. I couldn’t even take more than a sip of champagne. What if I didn’t get the sex right? What if he didn’t like me?
“I’m nervous,” I blurted out. “I’m worried you won’t like me or find me attractive. I just want you to like me.”
“Oh honey,” he said and he came over to me and pulled me up out of the chair I had been sitting in. “You have no idea how much I like you already. I haven’t been able to think about anything except you. I can’t concentrate. I can’t think straight. Come here, let me show you just how much I want you.”
And he did. And it turned out the size of my boobs was perfectly fine, thank you very much, and when he cupped my ass in his big hands, it seemed like it was all working out just like we had planned.
I lay on my side as he slept next to me, his arm draped over my waist and I looked out at the stretched out city below and I thought that maybe for once, I really did have the world at my feet.
“I just don’t want to screw it up,” I said to my sister when I was getting ready for a date. “What if he gets bored of me? What if I say something stupid?”
“You can handle it,” my sister said when I told her my concerns. “You just don’t think you can. Why someone with your looks has such low self-esteem is beyond me. Let me tell you, if I had your looks, I’d own the world. Frickin’ own it.” I had lost count of how many times she had told me that in my life. “The mistake you made in the past,” she continued, “was dating good looking losers who folded like cheap tents when it counted. This time, just listen to me, do what I tell you and you’ll come out the winner.”
I nodded. I didn’t agree with her that I had low self esteem. And I was no floozy. I had only fallen in love with one guy and he had let me down badly, that much was true but you couldn’t help who you fell in love with, it just happened.
My sister had always been more like a mother to me than a sister.
When I was five, my father came home and found my mother passed out on the sofa, drunk. He sat down next to her and he looked at me. I was sitting on the floor, waiting for my sister who was making me chocolate milk and toast for supper.
“I can’t take it any more,” my father said to me, and I remember exactly how he said it. He was very matter-of-fact, very calm.
Then he turned back to my mother and he pressed a cushion to her face, pushing down on her while her legs thrashed and flailed and drummed against the arm of the sofa.
I wet my pants and sat there in a puddle while my father killed my mother and my sister made my supper in the kitchen. She didn’t hear a thing.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” my father said and then he got up and left me alone with my mother who was staring straight at me with bloodshot eyes. Not that bloodshot was anything new.
I don’t know how long it was before my sister came in with my supper and when she saw my mother lying there, she dropped the toast and the chocolate milk and the brown puddle spread into my pee and I just looked at my sister and stuck my thumb in my mouth.
“Where’s dad?” she asked urgently and I shook my head.
She ran to the bedroom and she was gone a long time. When she came out, she said she had found him and she needed to phone the cops. He had hanged himself, off the doorknob in the bedroom. I remember I wondered why she had been in there so long with his dead body but I couldn’t ask her because I had forgotten how to speak.
It took me a long time to talk again after the murder suicide and that’s when my sister became my mother, my best friend and my guardian angel. We went to live in a bunch of foster homes and I escaped into books, reading anything I could get my hands on. I loved Wuthering Heights best of all and when I met Joey at one of the homes, I thought he was my Heathcliff forever. He was the love of my life. I was sixteen and my life finally seemed good. I was even happy for a while but a couple of years later, Joey got arrested for armed robbery and that was the end of that. I never stopped loving him, not for a moment but my sister never let me see him again. I would have visited him in prison but she wouldn’t let me.
So I made up this fantasy world where I was a big movie star with elegance, grace and style and I spent hours in thrift stores, finding the right garments that a real star would wear. I practiced talking in a slow and famous way, keeping my voice lazy and even. I pictured myself on a big screen wherever I went, like the world was watching me with all my grace and loveliness and I never let myself slip. My name was Vickie but I changed it to Jessica, after Jessica Lange. I thought I looked a lot like her. And no one was allowed to call me Jess or Jessie. I was Jessica.
My sister’s name is Glennis. And she told me all the time that I had ruined her life. But it wasn’t me who ruined her life. What ruined my sister’s life is that she’s not like me. She’s not a looker. It’s like she got the opposite of everything I did. I’m tall, she’s short, I’m willowy, she’s a dumpling, I’ve got tiny tits, she’s loaded. When looks were being handed out, she came out on the short end and there isn’t one thing about her that is pretty and if you ask me, that’s why she was so mean to me all the time. And I felt bad for her, how would I feel if I looked like she did? I’d be angry with life too and my heart broke for her when I saw how people looked at her.
“Life’s not fair and that’s just the way it goes,” she often said but she would look at me accusingly, like it was all my fault that she wasn’t pretty and she’d never had a man to love her.
Apart from Joey, and he didn’t count anymore, my sister was the only person in my life.
“Why do you need friends when you’ve got me?” she asked me when I made plans with schoolmates and after a few tries, I just gave up. It was easier that way.
“Do what I tell you,” she said again, when I told her I was worried I was going to screw things up with my guy. “I’ll make sure you land this man, get him in the bag, hook, line and sinker.”
And she did well. I paid attention to what she said and I worked hard and not even a month later, my guy made me give up my job and he moved me into a brand new condo with a view of the lake. He’d never been to my place, I’d told him I shared a basement apartment with another janitor but he hadn’t cared about those kinds of details about my life.
“You don’t need to be handling anybody’s garbage,” he said. “You’re my girl now and I’ll take care of you. Thing is, I got some rules. First off, you don’t get to talk about my wife. Ever. Next, you do not step out on me. Thirdly, you tell me where you are, twenty four seven. Fourth. Do not steal from me. If you need money for something, you just got to ask me. You wear my gifts, you do not sell them. Number Five. You always gotta look like a million bucks and smell like a peach. I don’t want to turn up and find you in your pj’s with your hair from yesterday. One more thing. You’re only out if I say you’re out. Out of this – you and me. Never think you can skip town on me, you got that? Wait. One more thing. Don’t ever ask me what I do for a living. Any questions?”
“I got it,” I said. “ But I will ask one thing of you and if you agree, then you’ve got yourself a deal.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“I want a leafy sea dragon,” I said. “It won’t be cheap. It won’t be easy to get. And it will cost you about ten grand.”
“A leafy sea dragon,” he repeated and he smiled.
“There’s one at the aquarium,” I said, “I can show you.”
“I know what a leafy sea dragon is,” he said. “Looks like a fancy long seahorse in a wedding dress. They’re special, just like you, babe, beautiful and delicate. Sure, I’ll get you one.”
“How do you know what it is?” I asked.
“I take my kid to the aquarium a lot,” he said. “She loves them too. You’ve got good taste.”
I wasn’t sure why I asked for a leafy sea dragon. Maybe it was because I thought there was no way he could get me one and that my asking would shut down this crazy thing once and for all.
I was glad I never told my sister about me asking for the leafy sea dragon because she would have killed me. She would have said I was self-sabotaging and ruining everything.
Now, here’s the thing. My sister has worked for my guy for ten years. Ten years and he still can’t remember her name. She works in the accounts department, faithfully handling all kinds of stuff and no matter how many hours she logs, or how much money she saves him or how many secrets she keeps, he can never remember her name. He calls her doll or cookie but in ten years, he has never once said her name and finally, one day, she had enough and that’s when she got the idea for us to work him over.
She had realized that the girlfriend on the side was no longer in the picture and that it was time for him to get himself a newbie. It was all her idea. She knew all about previous girlfriends, all Jessica Rabbit look-alikes that he’d kept in gilded cages. Clothes, cash, jewelry – my sister said we could collect a real good stash and head to Florida. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, she said. And I didn’t have to do anything except look pretty.
“Nice work if you can get it,” she said and she sounded bitter like always and I wondered if she had a crush on my guy and that was the real reason she wanted to get me in to score the big bucks. Maybe it was her way of getting revenge. But wasn’t she putting me in the line of danger? But would she do that?
“If they all had it so good, why did they leave?” I asked and my sister gave me an even look.
“Who says they left? You’ll have to be careful. But don’t worry, I know how his timing works, I’ll get you out when the time comes. And who knew, all your bargain basement fifties clothes will actually be good for something. All this time, I thought your obsession with dressing like a vintage calendar girl was a waste of time and money but it’s going to turn out to be perfect for what we need.”
Her admission didn’t make up for her nasty comments every time I had brought home a new five dollar gem of a dress or a pair of shoes that fit me just so but I held my tongue. If this scored us the big time, it wasn’t worth arguing about.
As luck would have it, she heard him talking about the WeeGee exhibit and she knew exactly when he was going to the gallery. So we came up with the plan, I got all dolled up, and next thing, Bob’s your uncle, I was sitting in my gilded cage and Daisy the leafy sea dragon was happily waving her lacy little fins at me and floating around her five hundred gallon tank.
My guy had no idea that I had only seen a leafy sea dragon because of him. He’d had to cancel a trip to the aquarium with his daughter and he had given the tickets to my sister because he had chewed her head off about something and then he couldn’t go with his kid and even although he couldn’t remember my sister’s name, he gave her the tickets.
The aquarium bored me but when we found the sea dragon, I fell in love. There was this perfectly beautiful little creature, with her lacy fins spinning and waving, and that perfect tiny horse face looking me, only at me.
And there was me looking at her. I could see my reflection in the glass. I was lovely too, exotic even, with my careful coiffure and my perfect red lipstick and what did I have to show for it? Nothing. The sea dragon was stuck in her cage and I was stuck in mine. My life was a cage. So what if I was beautiful? It’s not like it ever got me anything except my sister’s quiet rage and my own heart broken.
Which is why, when my sister told me about her cockamamie plan, I agreed to do it. I wanted to try to be something more than a late night janitor with thrift store dress-up dreams. Maybe I wanted to prove to my sister that I was worth something. Or maybe I was tired of being poor. It sounded nice to have a guy look after me and not have to worry about money all the time and it would be nice to not have to live with my sister. And to be honest, the whole thing made me feel like I was the star of the show, like I was playing a role in a Dashiell Hammett book, with shady gangsters with names like Whistler, and beautiful women who wore dresses made of Crêpe de Chine.
And then when my guy asked popped the big question about setting me up for real, the leafy sea dragon popped into my head and I asked for her on a whim and my guy said sure, it wouldn’t be easy but for me, anything.
I settled into a routine pretty quickly and it wasn’t too bad at first. I got to buy all the books I wanted and I read for all the hours of the day and night. And I can’t say I minded the fancy jewelry boxes that came filled with glittering gems or the envelopes of cash that elevated my wardrobe to that of a real star.
But I wasn’t in love with him and I couldn’t even find a way to like him and sometimes when we were having sex, I felt like I was a custard Danish he was chewing on. And it was horrible, never knowing when he was going to show up. I had to be ready, on call all the time and when I heard the sound of the key turning in the lock, my stomach clenched. He liked to surprise me by coming at all kinds of different hours like he was testing me and after a while, I couldn’t even concentrate on my books, I was listening for that sound, that grinding sound that told me it was time to sit up and look happy like a good puppy dog.
And now, it’s six months later. I am sitting here in my prison, dressed to the nines, waiting for my guy and Daisy is looking at me inquisitively, like she wants to know what’s going to happen next. “I don’t know,” I whisper to her. “I don’t know.”
I try to stop myself from picking at my cuticles because my guy hates it, he says only poor drug addicts pick at themselves until they bleed. But I get a release from the pain, it helps me focus my worry and fear.
“When will it be time to get out?” I asked my sister the last time I had seen her. We met once a week in the hats and glove section of the department store and we talked like spies do, side by side, facing forwards, pretending to be strangers who just happen to be muttering at each other, like that’s not obviously weird or anything.
“Not yet,” she said, trying on a pair of lambs’ wool gloves.
“When is yet?” I asked. “My life is killing me.”
“Poor baby,” my sister said. “Living in the penthouse, being treated like a queen. Suitcases of cash to spend on whatever you want. Sex with a gorgeous man. Yeah, you’ve really got it tough.”
Sex with a gorgeous man? I swung around to face her, not caring who might see us arguing.
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” I asked. “You’ve always been in love with him.” I saw the hatred flare in her eyes as she looked at me.
“But why set me up with him?” I asked when I saw she wasn’t going to answer me. “What good would that do you? Is it the money? You know I am saving as much as I can, for you and me, just like we planned.”
She was struggling for words, I could see she was thinking half a dozen things and that she wanted to say something but she couldn’t find the right words.
“You and him. You deserve each other,” she finally said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Talk to me. I don’t get it.”
“He thinks you love him,” she laughed. “So stupid. I like to look at him and think to myself, buddy, you’ve got no idea how you are being played, played by me! Nameless, faceless me! What would he think he if knew?”
I felt dizzy and the department store lights seemed to swell like crazy faces and I nearly stopped breathing.
“Do you plan to tell him somehow?” I asked, hardly able to talk. “He’ll kill me. And he’ll kill you.”
“Like I’ve got so much to live for,” she said. “I’m nothing but a blob. No one sees me. I don’t matter to anyone. I’ll never be happy. I’ve never been happy, not once, not my whole life.”
“You’ve got me,” I said. “We’ve got each other. We’ve always have had each other. Through everything. You’re just upset now. Think about our lives in Florida, how we’ll live in the sunshine and never have to worry again. We’ll be happy then, we will be.”
But would we be happy? Who was I kidding? My sister was right. She would never be happy. And me? I didn’t think I could find a way to be happy either, not even with all the money in the world.
I was silent and we turned away from each other and starting touching the gloves again, picking up random pairs.
“Maybe,” she finally said, “his mother fill find out. If you ask me, you should be worried about her, not him. I get the feeling she doesn’t approve of him having fancy girls on the side. But you know what? I like her. She stopped by the office and we got chatting. What do they call people like her? Salt of the earth, that’s it. Salt of the earth.”
“Tell me,” I said, struggling to get the words out, the words that had been stuck in my throat for over twenty years, “what were you doing in the bedroom all that time with dad’s dead body?”
She stared at me. “You’re asking me that now? Why now?”
“I always wondered,” I said.
She shrugged. “I was letting him finish the job. He could never get anything right, our father. So I stood there and I made sure he did it right, for once.”
Then she left me. She didn’t say another word, she just turned and left. And I didn’t know what to do. Would she tell my guy? Could I even go back to my apartment? But where else could I go? What else could I do? So I went home and I watched Daisy float this way and that, and I tried to figure out what to do.
I can’t tell Daisy what I am really thinking because I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that my guy has the place bugged. So I press my face to the glass of her tank and I know that Daisy knows. She knows that I have no choice. I’ll have to kill my guy. And I’ll need to be packed and ready. I’ll take all my fancy clothes and all my jewels and my stash of money and I’ll leave and I won’t go to Florida, I’ll go somewhere glamorous like Las Angeles and maybe I’ll try my hand at acting. I’ll become a star and then it will serve them right, both of them. I try to think but my head hurts and the glass of Daisy’s tank is cool and soothing against my forehead.
I’ll make sure you’re looked after, I tell her silently. Don’t worry. I’ll never let you down.
I don’t have a phone. I’m not allowed one. I am too afraid to buy one. I think about trying to call my sister from a pay phone. My sister hasn’t met me for our drive-by hello after that terrible conversation. I walked around the hats and gloves for hours on our appointed meet-up day, picking things up and putting them down but she never showed. I was sure she would come back and say she was sorry, that she had never meant to say the things she had said, that she loved me and our plan was a good one and she had just been tired that day. Maybe my guy had been rude to her and she had taken it out on me. I was so sure she would show up and tell me everything was going to be okay. But she didn’t and that’s when the real terror began.
It was time to face the facts. Life’s not fair and that’s just the way it goes. My sister watched my father die. I watched my mother being murdered. And now I’d have to rely on myself to get out of this.
I don’t want to die. So I sit and watch Daisy and I know that one day, I’ll come up with a plan. I will kill my guy and I’ll make my great escape. I just don’t have that part figured out yet.
And now I’m not sure how much time has passed. I have the terrible urge to suck my thumb but I sit on my poor picked-at hands instead. All I do know is that I can’t remember the last time I ate and I need to take a bath. Nerves have left me fragrant as a marathon runner’s old shoes and my hair passed yesterday’s sell-by-date by a long shot. Why hasn’t my guy come? And he was supposed to bring the fellow who cleans Daisy’s tank which is looking worrying cloudy. The apartment is filled with dead air and I can’t explain the silence.
There’s a knock at the door and I jump up in fright. Why is my guy knocking when he’s got the key? But then my heart fills with joy – it’s my sister, she’s come to say she’s sorry, she’s come to rescue me. We’ll make our big getaway together and go and live our lives in the sun.
I rush to the door and pull it open. The big wide smile on my face is killed by what I see.
I’ve never met the woman before in my life but I know who she is. I am looking up at my guy’s mother. She’s tall like him and just about as wide and the expression on her face doesn’t reassure me.
“I thought it was time we had a little visit,” she said, pulling on a pair of gloves which alarmed me even more. “Step aside dearie and let me in.”
Enjoy the Summer, Dear Readers!
Another published story from Mme Melissa, a book being readied for publication by Mme Madeleine. Mme Lisa is back from the heady experience of the Shetland Noir conference and Mmes Madeleine and Madona are looking westward towards When Words Collide.
Congrats to Mme Melissa Yi for her story, “Brain Candy”, published in the July/August issue of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. And she’s listed as an author on the cover!
Melissa Yi
Mme M. H. Callway announces her new book, Snake Oil and Other Tales, a collection of ten of her published stories and novellas. Published by Carrick Publishing. Tentative date, October 2023. Stand by for the cover reveal soon!
Looking forward to When Words Collide conference to be held August 3rd to 6th in Calgary, Alberta. Mmes M. H. Callway and Madona Skaff are participating on several crime fiction panels.
Although the Festival is currently sold out you can still get on the waiting list for passes and there are some free events open to the public that don’t require a pass. Here is the link to get more information and to get on the waiting list.
https://www.whenwordscollide.org/#soldoutblog
Look for full details on the festival in our August MoM. whenwordscollide.org/documents/WWC2023 Quick Guide.pdf
Mme Lisa de Nikolits had a marvellous time at Shetland Noir, the conference created by leading crime writer, Ann Cleeves, OBE.
Pictured: Ann Cleeves and Lisa de Nikolits
Judy Penz Sheluk announced that a new Superior Shores anthology will be published in 2024. Stand by for more news about the theme. Submissions slated to open in October 2023.
For more information check out Judy’s update on the anthology.
We’re delighted that the Mmes free story in July is by Mme Lisa de Nikolitis. “Mad Dog and the Sea Dragon” was first published in 13 Claws, Carrick Publishing, 2017. Lisa expanded the story into a novel to be published by Inanna Press in 2024.
Melodie Campbell’s story, “The Kindred Spirits Detective Agency” is now up on the Mesdames of Mayhem website. This light-hearted thriller appeared in in our latest anthology, In the Spirit of 13, (Carrick Publishing, 2022.)
Also please take note: the launch of Melodie’s latest book, The Merry Widow Murders, which was to take place this Saturday, June 17th has been rescheduled for Saturday, September 9th, at A Different Drummer bookstore, Burlington, Ontario.
Melodie Campbell, our Queen of Comedy, is the author of more than 15 novels and 40 short stories. She is the winner of 10 awards, including the Derringer and CWC Award of Excellence.
Melodie got her start writing comedy and she writes in several genres, including fantasy and YA. She just launched her the first book in her new crime fiction series, The Merry Widow Murders. Maureen Jennings, author of the Murdoch series, called it “delightful, not to be missed”.
We’d love to see more of Mike and Pammy of the Kindred Spirits Detective Agency, too! It’s the first story in In the Spirit of 13, (Carrick Publishing, 2022.)
“We have a client, darling!” I placed the phone down on the desk in front of me.
Mike groaned from behind his newspaper. “What is it this time? Not another classic haunted house booking for Halloween?”
I sympathized. Pickings were slim for two spirits on the lam. Well, not so much on the lam as in the ether, and, yes, I said spirits. Many years ago, I regretfully crashed my brand-new 1926 Packard Roadster into Mike’s Model T after a night of too many Prohibition cocktails. Two funerals later, we’d made the best of our ghostly presences, and together, we started the Kindred Spirits Detective Agency. It helped that Mike had been a cop in his past life. It also helped that we made a good team, in and out of bed.
But this was a real job, and I could feel myself getting excited. “Better than that! A stalker!”
“Well done, Pammy,” Mike said. He let the newspaper slip from his hand and tipped the worn fedora at me. “It’s been a while, and you know how I feel about getting rusty. Smart of you to put that ad in the paper.”
I tilted my head, happy for praise. “A lot of women are shy about going to detective agencies.”
“Let alone, your excuse for not meeting clients in person.”
I smiled, and crossed one stockinged leg over the other. “If they don’t know what we look like, they can’t inadvertently give us away when we’re working. Amazing how many people go, ‘That makes sense!’”
Our clients can see us if we want them to. Spirits have the ability to manifest, if they’ve been kicking around a while. You learn the ropes. And Mike and I have been together in this state since the Great Depression. I still can’t kick the stockings habit.
But sometimes, keeping your unique abilities under cover, so to speak, can be an advantage.
“So who’s the client?”
I referred to the laptop screen in front of me. “Katie Hampstead, 20-year-old college student. Sounded very frightened. Honey-blond hair, hazel eyes, rather short. I’m looking at her photos up on Facebook. Cheerleader type. Cute rather than stunning.”
“Not gorgeous like you, my raven-haired temptress.”
I kicked a stockinged foot at him. “You smooth talker , you.”
“I merely know upon which side my bread is buttered, old girl.”
“And the pickings are few,” I drawled.
He barked a laugh. “You don’t hear me complaining. I’ve got what I want. Who’s the perp?”
I looked down at my notes. “College student by the name of Brad Bannister. They were a thing in first year, but she began to feel smothered by his attention, and then plain scared. She broke it off this summer when she went home to Vancouver. But now they’re back at school, and he won’t leave her alone. Follows her around relentlessly, turns up whenever he can find her alone. Leaves angry messages on the phone…confronts her friends. You know the sort of thing.”
“Bounder of the first order, in other words,” Mike said. “Can’t stand to be rejected.”
I leaned back in my office chair. “I’ll never understand why men think getting angry will make us want to be with them again.”
“Caveman complex. Good thing she contacted us. This kind of thing often escalates.” Mike knew what he was talking about. He worked major crime in the metro force for years before the accident. Lots of missing women, almost all of them young and pretty, like our client.
“So where do you want to start?” I said.
“How about using my new toy? That cab-thing we bought.”
“You mean the Uber car.” I had to smile. Mike left modern technology and terminology to me.
“But how to get him to order us?” Mike said, frowning.
“Easy peasy,” I said. “We mail him a coupon for a free trial, and then wait by the phone.”
Mike looked at me with intense admiration. “That pretty head of yours still astounds me.”
“After all these years,” I said, smiling.
“After all these years.” The way he vaulted up from the chair told me his ardor hadn’t diminished one bit.
#
It worked like a charm. No trouble finding the address…we are a detective agency, after all. And the very next night, we had our call.
It was nearly nine when we pulled up in front of an old Victorian two-story. In keeping with our plan, Mike made himself visible in the driver’s seat. I sat in the passenger seat, a ghostly presence beside him. No one would ever know there were two of us in the car. We worked well together this way.
I scanned the darkness for our target. A dark-haired young man of average height was standing on the steps waiting impatiently. Some might have considered him good-looking, but he had a face that reminded me of a weasel.
I wasn’t surprised when he bounded down the stairs, pulled open the back door of the car, and jumped in.
Brad got straight to the point. “I have a coupon. This is free, right? The first time.”
“Yes, sir. Where to?” Mike said from the driver’s seat.
Our target said, “66 Sloan Street.” His order had a tone I didn’t like. Privilege, with a side order of whine. And I knew that address. It was our client’s.
“I don’t think so,” I said from the passenger seat, in a particularly sultry voice. Female, of course.
“What?” Our passenger turned to Mike. “What did you say?”
“It’s not a good idea for you to go there anymore,” I said, this time with more syrup in my voice.
The target gasped. “Who’s saying that?”
“She is.” Mike pointed to my empty seat.
“There’s no one there!” said the target. “Are you a ventriloquist?”
“No, darling. Not that,” I trilled.
The fellow whipped his head around. “This is a scam, right? There’s a mic in here. You recording this for some fucking reason?”
“Tch, tch,” I mouthed.
“Language,” Mike scolded. “There’s a lady present. But let me talk to you about the young woman you’ve been stalking. Not the done thing, old chap. You will cease and desist immediately.”
“Mind your own business!” he yelled.
“This is our business,” Mike said. “And it will remain our business until you behave like a gentleman, and leave the poor girl alone.”
“Don’t forget to say or else,” I said.
“Or else,” Mike said. “Thank you, darling.”
“And don’t forget to engage the child locks,” I reminded him.
CLICK.
“Who’s saying that?” Our passenger tried to force the door open. “This is a trick! Who put you up to this? Katie? Go fuck yourself!”
“Technically impossible, in our condition,” Mike said, sighing. “But, since you mention it, I have other tricks up my sleeve.”
I took the hint. It was time to ramp things up.
I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, grabbed a butane lighter from the console, and prepared to light it. Snap went the flint wheel.
“Oooo, I do like a smoke,” I said, waving the cig around. That’s all that Brad could see, of course. A cigarette sweeping through the air.
I heard a gasp from the backseat.
“A distinct advantage of being dead, sweet cheeks,” Mike said. “No cancer to worry about.”
“I’m getting out of here.” Brad was clawing the door now, desperate to escape.
“Look again at the driver,” I said, blowing smoke. “I believe he’s becoming a shadow of his former self.”
At those words, Mike withdrew his physical body.
The target screamed.
“You’re all mad!”
“Nonsense, darling,” I said. “We’re merely ghosts.”
“Ghosts, trying to earn an honest living, as detectives,” Mike continued. “Kindred spirits, you might say, out for hire. And we’ve been hired to haunt you, until you leave Katie Hampstead alone for good.”
“What the fuck is happening?”
“You’ve been a naughty boy,” I said, pointing the cigarette at him. “Katie said she didn’t want to see you anymore. And yet you persisted. You pestered and stalked her, tried to scare her to half to death. Made her life miserable. That isn’t love. That’s revenge, pure and simple.”
“So, here’s what you’ll do.” Mike’s voice lowered to a growl. “You’ll leave this car, and never see her again. Never call her. Never go within a city block of her. For this haunting will continue for as long as you persist on bullying young women. We won’t give up. You see, we have all the time in the world!”
My laugh was a tinkle. “And I do get a kick out of driving creeps like you out of your minds. Don’t I, darling?”
Mike gave me a fond look. “Remember the time we followed that licentious bank clerk around his office, and kept removing the chairs every time he tried to sit down?”
I smiled. “Falling down on the job! He didn’t last long at that company.”
I snuck a look at the backseat. Brad appeared to be hiding his eyes and holding his head in his hands. My voice sobered. “But we really didn’t intend for that spoiled frat boy to jump off that bridge. I felt bad about that.”
“He would persist,” said Mike, always the rational one of us. “So easy, you see, for me to simply show up anywhere, manifest at any time, and step in front of someone. Any time, any place…no matter who you’re with…for years and years to come—”
“All right!” the voice from the backseat screamed. “Leave me alone!”
“We will, if you leave her alone,” said Mike.
“Okay! I’ll do anything! Let me out of here!”
“Unlock the door for the poor man, Michael. I think he’s got the idea.”
CLICK.
Brad dove for the car door. It swung open so quickly, he almost fell out headfirst . I watched with keen interest as he recovered and righted himself, then took off up the same steps upon which he had been waiting. Without a look back, he bounded onto the porch, pushed open the door, and disappeared into the old Victorian building.
Mike reached back with his long arm to close the car door. Then he put the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb.
“Well,” I said, primly. “Job done. I think that takes care of that.” I extinguished my cigarette in the car ashtray.
“And if it doesn’t, we’ll simply start haunting him in public places,” Mike said. “That’s always good for a few laughs. Pity no one wears a hat anymore.” Mike can make a crowd scene turn into quite a jovial experience, flicking hats off people.
“Brilliant idea, buying an old cab, darling,” I said. “Just think! If the detective business ever fails, we can always become real Uber drivers.”
“We aim to please, old girl.” Mike sounded smug.
I was used to the old girl. It was regularly interspersed with sweet cheeks and gorgeous, so I took it in stride.
Mike wasn’t finished, however. “Which reminds me. I’ve proposed 347 times now, Pamela Ricci. Isn’t it about time you said yes and married me? After all, it’s been nearly 100 years. You know you’re the only girl for me.”
I chuckled and put my hand on his arm. “That’s getting old, darling.”
He reached for my hand and kissed it. “So it is, my love. So it is.”
June is a hot month for the Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem! We have several exciting events happening, including MOTIVE and Shetland Noir where we have star power.
We’re continuing our mission to promote Canadian crime fiction through a month-long lecture series as well as attending exciting book launches. See you there, Readers!
Toronto’s open-air book festival, Word on the Street, just wrapped up on May 27/28th. The weather cooperated with glorious sunshine and big crowds. Great to be back at Queen’s Park Crescent. The Mesdames and Messieurs sold lots of books, reconnected with fellow authors and met new readers, including celebrities.
Here’s Toronto mayor candidate, Olivia Chow, at our booth with Mme Lynne Murphy!
Many thanks for Mme Caro Soles and friend, Nancy Kilpatrick, for organizing and to M. H. Callway, Lisa De Nikolits, Blair Keetch, Rosemary McCracken, Lynne Murphy and Sylvia Warsh.
Catch the Mesdames and Messieurs from June 2nd to June 4th, at MOTIVE Crime and Mystery Festival in Toronto. There’s a packed schedule of events!
On Friday June 2 at 6 PM, Mme Melodie Campbell will be interviewed by Canadian crime fiction icon, Maureen Jennings, creator of the world-famous Murdoch series. Afterwards there’s the launch of Melodie’s 17th book, the first in her new crime fiction series, The Merry Widow Murders.
On Saturday June 3rd at 11:30 am Mme Lisa de Nikolitis will interview award-winning Canadian crime writers Dietrich Kalteis and Sam Wiebe at the Lakeside Terrace at Harbourfront Center.
On Sunday June 4 at 11:00 AM at the Lakeside Terrace at Harbourfront Centre, Mme Melodie Campbell joins Jonathan Whitelaw and Sam Shelstad for the panel discussion: Comic Crime Capers.
Then at 1-2:30 PM you can join Melodie again in the Main Loft in Harbourfront Center for her Masterclass: Comedy In Crime.
Love humorous crime novels and/or want to add humour to your own stories? Join award-winning author Melodie Campbell as she shows you how she does it with examples, and breaks down the various types of humour you can include in your own work, or merely enjoy in your reading. A fun, relaxing 90-minute workshop with “Canada’s Queen of Comedy” (Toronto Sun). All writing levels welcome.
The above are ticketed events. You can attend MOTIVE using a Day or Weekend Pass. For more information on tickets and pricing, visit the website here.
June 3rd and 4th the Mesdames and Messieurs will be well-represented in the Crime Writers of Canada booth by Blair Keetch, Lynne Murphy, Rosemary McCracken and Sylvia Warsh.
During the day, they’ll be selling and signing their books at the CWC booth from 11 am to 4 pm. Later on they’ll be reading from their work. Readings begin on Friday, June 2nd at 5 pm. On Saturday and Sunday, readings begin at 4:30 pm.
This part of MOTIVE is free and open to the public.
Mme Lisa de Nikolitis will be part of the Shetland Noir conference to be held on the – you guessed it – Shetland Islands from June 15th – 18th. Her journey there includes a 12 hour ferry ride from Aberdeen!
Lisa will be moderating the panel, When you don’t know who to trust.
Shetland Noir was founded by legendary writer, Ann Cleeves, creator of the Vera Stanhope, Jimmy Lopez and Matthew Venn series. The conference has a program packed full of internationally known writer events, workshops, panel discussions and outings. It also includes film, music, live performance, as well as other “noir” related content.
Lisa will be interviewing Dietrich Kalteis at his book launch on Saturday June 3rd from 3:00 to 5:00 PM at the Supermarket, 268 Augusta Street in Toronto’s Kensington Market.
In his new book, The Get, anti-hero, Lenny Ovitz, has problems: he’s up to his eyes in debt and his wife wants a divorce. He comes up with a scheme to solve all his problems.
On Saturday, June 17th, 2 pm, Mme Melodie Campbell will host the public launch of her new book, The Merry Widow Murders.
The launch will be at A Different Drummer Bookstore, 513 Locust St., Burlington.
Mme Lynne Murphy is heading up a 4-week lecture series, Crime Writing in a Cold Climate, about Canadian crime fiction for Senior Adult Services.
Dates are every Friday at 2 pm, beginning June 2nd. This is a ticketed virtual event. For more information on how to register, visit the SAS website here.
Every week, Lynne will have a guest presenter. From L to R, June 2nd, Lynne and M. H. Callway discuss police procedurals. On June 9th, she and Rosemary McCracken analyze amateur sleuths. On June 16th, Lynne and Melodie Campbell examine thrillers and historicals. And at the final session, Lynne and guest, Lorna Poplak, discuss the enduring popularity of true crime.
Tuesday, June 13th, Mmes J.E. Barnard and Therese Greenwood join Erik D’Souza and Ludvica Boota from Crime Writers of Canada on Facebook Live. They will demystify the CWC awards judging process, discuss the upcoming 2023 awards, and encourage both entries and potential jurors. Time for the event TBD.
Mme Melissa Yi’s fantasy story, “Rapunzel in the Desert”, has been nominated for an Aurora Award. It was published in Issue 122 of On Spec magazine.
Melissa also has a piece in Crime Reads about creating believable Asian characters.
“That’s the first secret: think of your character as a human being...“
June’s story is by our Queen of Comedy, Melodie Campbell. In her light-hearted romantic thriller, “The Kindred Spirits Detective Agency”, ghosts from the 1930s stick around to help the living.
Melodie’s story will go live on Thursday, June 15th.
Mesdames of Mayhem 